OF  THE 

U N I VERS  I T Y 
Of  ILLINOIS 


821 

B99 

189- 

WSNt  OfTE. 


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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 


LORD  BYRON 


©onijjlctc  in  #ne  Volume 


COLLECTED  AND  ARRANGED  WITH  ILLUSTRATIVE  NOTES 


BY 

THOMAS  MOORE 
LORD  JEFFREY 
SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 
BISHOP  HEBER 
SAMUEL  ROGERS 

Etc 


P.  P.  COLLIER,  Publisher, 
NEW  YORK. 


PROFESSOR  WILSON 
J.  G.  LOCKHART 
GEORGE  ELLIS 
THOMAS  CAMPBELL 
REV.  H.  H.  MILMAN 


Etc.,  Etc. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


/ 


https://archive.org/details/poeticalworksofl00byro_0 


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1 Ofc* 


■JL 

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CONTENTS 


OHILOE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE— 

Proface  — -.  - 

To  Ianthe 

Canto  I.  ...  

Canto  II 

Canto  II I 

Canto  IV 

Epistle  to  John  Hohhouse,  Esq.  

THE  GIAOUR  

THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS— 

Canto  I 

Canto  II 

THE  CORSAIR— 

Dedication  to  T.  Moore,  Esq 

Canto  I.  ...  ..  ...  

Canto  II 

Canto  III.  ...  

LARA— 

Canto  I 

Canto  II 

THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH 

PARISIN  A 

THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON  

BEPPO  

MAZEPPA  

THE  ISLAND— 

Canto  L 

Canto  II.  ...  ...  

Canto  III 

Canto  IV 

MANFRED  

MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  OF  VENICE  

HEAVEN  AND  EARTH  

SARDANAPALUS  

THE  TWO  FOSCARI 

THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED  

CAIN  

WERNER:  OR,  THE  INHERITANCE  

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS  

On  the  Death  of  a Young  Lady  

To  E ... 

To  D 

Epitaph  on  A Friend  

A Fragment 

On  leaving  Newstead  Abbey  

Lines  written  in  “ Letters  to  an  English  Nun,”  &c.  ... 

Adrian's  Address  to  his  Soul  when  Dying  

v Translation  from  Catullus : Ad  Lesbiam  

u Translation  of  the  Epitaph  on  Virgil  and  Tibullus,  by 

Domitius  Marsus  

Imitation  of  Tibullus  

%j  Translation  from  Catullus,  “ Lugete,  Veneres,  Cupidi- 

^ nesque,”  &c 

C ’ Imitated  from  Catullus.  To  Ellen 

Translation  from  Horace,  “ Justum  et  Tenacem,”  &c. 
From  Anacreon : “I  wish  to  Tune  my  quivering 
Lyre”  

£ 


114 

120 

131 

138 

142 

153 

161 

164 

169 

171 

175 

193 

232 

244 

277 

300 

316 

341 

375 

376 

377 
377 

377 

378 

378 

379 
379 
379 

379 

379 

379 

379 

380 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS — continued. 

From  Anacreon  : “ 'Twas  now  the  Hour  when  Night 

had  driven”  ...  

From  the  Prometheus  Vinctus  of  ASschylus 

To  Emma  

To  M.  S.  G.  

To  Caroline  

To  the  same  

To  the  same  

Stanzas  to  a Lady,  with  the  Poems  of  Camoens 
The  First  Kiss  of  Love 

On  a Change  of  Masters  at  a great  Public  School 

To  the  Duke  of  Dorset  

Fragment  written  shortly  after  the  Marriage  of  Mis.- 

Chaworth  - — 

Granta ; a Medley  ...  — 

On  a Distant  View  of  the  Village  and  School  of 
Harrow-on-the-Hill 

To  M 

To  Woman 

To  M.  S.  G.  

To  Mary,  on  receiving  her  Picture  

To  Lesbia  

Lines  addressed  to  a Young  Lady  

Love’s  Last  Adieu 

Damaetas  

To  Marion 

To  a Lady  who  presented  the  Author  witli  a Lock  of 

Hair  

Oscar  of  Alva  

The  Episode  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus  

Translation  from  the  Medea  of  Euripides  

Thoughts  suggested  by  a College  Examination  ... 

To  a Beautiful  Quaker  , 

The  Cornelian  • 

An  Occasional  Prologue  

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Fox  

The  Tear  

Reply  to  some  Verses  of  J.  M.  B.  Pigot,  Esq. 

To  the  Sighing  Strephon - 

To  Eliza  ...  •« 

Lacliin  y Gair  — 

To  Romance 

Answer  to  some  elegant  Vc-rses  sent  oy  a Friend  t» 

the  Author  

Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey  

Childish  Recollections  

Answer  to  a beautiful  Poem,  entitled  “ Tne  Common 

Lot”  _ — 

To  a Lady,  who  presented  the  Author  with  a Velvet 

Band  which  bound  her  Tresses  

Remembrance  

Lines  addressed  to  the  Rev.  J.  T Beciier 

The  Death  of  Calmar  and  Orla 

L’Amitie  est  1’ Amour  sans  Ailes  

The  Prayer  of  Nature  - 

To  Edward  Noel  Long,  Esq - 


380 
380- 

381 
381 

381 

382 
382 

382 

383 

383 
333 

384 
383 

380 

386 

387 
387 
387 

387 

388 

385 

389 

389 

3«9 

390 
393 

396 

397 

397 

398 

398 

399 

399 

400 
400 

400 

401 
401 

401 

402 
404 

4 09 

HO 

410 

410 

411 

412 
41 J 

414 


CONTENTS. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS-rora/'inwgd. 

To  a Lady 415 

I would  I were  a Careless  Child  ...  415 

When  I roved  a Young  Highlander  ...  ...  ...  416 

To  George,  Earl  Delawarr  417 

To  the  Earl  of  Clare  417 

Lines  written  beneath  an  Elm  in  the  Churchyard  of 

Harrow  418 

Article  from  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  January,  1808  418 

ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS  ...  420 

HINTS  FROM  HORACE  436 

THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA 452 

THE  WALTZ  ...  455 

ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE  ...  ...  ...  459 

HEBREW  MELODIES— 

She  walks  in  Beauty  462 

The  Harp  the  Monarch  Minstrel  swept  462 

If  that  high  World  462 

The  Wild  Gazelle 463 

Oh,  weep  for  those  463 

On  Jordan’s  Banks  463 

Jephtha’s  Daughter  463 

Oh,  snatch’d  away  in  Beauty’s  Bloom  463 

My  Soul  is  dark  463 

1 saw  thee  weep  ...  ...  464 

Thy  Days  are  done  464 

Song  of  Saul  before  his  Last  Battle  464 

Saul 464 

“ All  is  Vanity,  saith  the  Preacher  ” ..  465 

When  Coldness  wraps  this  suffering  Clay  ...  ...  465 

Vision  of  Belshazzar  ...  ...  ...  465 

Sun  of  the  Sleepless  465 

Were  my  Bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem’st  it  to  be  ...  466 

Herod’s  Lament  for  Mariamne 466 

On  the  Day  of  the  Destruction  of  Jerusalem  by  Titus  466 
By  the  Rivers  of  Babylon  we  sat  down  and  wept  ...  466 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib  466 

A Spirit  passed  before  me  467 

DOMESTIC  PIECES,  1816- 

Fare  thee  well  ...  467 

A Sketch  468 

Stanzas  to  Augusta  ...  46') 

Stanzas  to  the  same  469 

Epistle  to  Augusta  469 

Lines  on  hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was  ill  ...  ...  471 

MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RIGHT  HON. 

R.  B.  SHERIDAN  472 

THE  DREAM  * ...  473 

THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO 4 75 

ODE  ON  VENICE  479 

THE  MORGANTE  MAGGIORE  OF  PULCI  481 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE  496 

FRANCESCA  OF  RIMINI  504 

THE  BLUES ; A LITERARY  ECLOGUE  506 

THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT  511 

THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE  526 

OCCASIONAL  PIECES,  1807 — 1824  : — 

The  Adieu 534 

To  a Vain  Lady  535 

To  Anne  535 

To  the  same  536 

To  the  Author  of  a Sonnet,  beginning  “ Sad  is  my 

Verse,”  &c.  536 

On  finding  a Fan 536 

Farewell  to  the  Muse  536 

To  an  Oak  at  Newstead 537 

On  revisiting  Harrow  537 

Epitaph  on  John  Adams,  of  Southwell  537 

To  my  Son 537 

Farewell,  if  ever  fondest  Prayer  ...  538 

Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  Soul 538 

When  we  two  parted  5?8 

To  a Youthful  Friend  538 

Lines  inscribed  upon  a Cup  formed  from  a Skull  ...  539 

Well,  thou  art  happy  539 

Inscription  on  the  Monument  of  a Newfoundland  Dog  540 

To  a Lady,  on  being  asked  my  reason  for  quitting 

England  in  the  Spring 540 

Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not  540 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES — continued. 

There  was  a time  I need  not  name  ... 

And  wilt  thou  weep  when  I am  lowf 

Fill  the  Goblet  again  

Stanzas  to  a Lady  on  leaving  England  

Lines  to  Mr.  Hodgson  

Lines  written  in  an  Album  at  Malta  

To  Florence  ...  ...  ...  ...  ... 

Stanzas  composed  during  a Thunder-storm  ... 
Stanzas  written  in  passing  the  Ambracian  Gulf 
The  Spell  is  broke,  the  Charm  is  flown 
Written  after  Swimming  from  Sestos  to  Abydos 
Lines  written  in  the  Travellers’  Book  at  Orchomenus 
Maid  of  Athens  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ... 

Translation  of  the  Nurse’s  Dole  in  the  Medea  of 

Euripides  ... 

My  Epitaph  

Substitute  for  an  Epitaph,  * 

Lines  written  beneath  a Picture  

Translation  of  Greek  War  Song  

Translation  of  Romaic  Song  

On  Parting  ...  ...  

Epitaph  for  Joseph  Blackett  

Farewell  to  Malta 

To  Dives ; a Fragment  

On  Moore’s  last  Operatic  Farce,  or  Farcical  Opera  ... 

Epistle  to  a Friend  

To  Thyrza 

Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  Woe  ...  ... 

One  Struggle  more,  and  I am  free  , 

Euthanasia ^ 

And  art  thou  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

If  sometimes  in  the  Haunts  of  Men  ...  

On  a Cornelian  Heart  which  was  Broken  

From  the  French 

Lines  to  a Lady  Weeping 

The  Chain  I gave 

Lines  written  on  a Blank  Leaf  of  the  “ Pleasures  of 

Memory  ” 

Address  spoken  at  <-he  Opening  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre 

Parenthetical  Address  by  Dr.  Plagiary  

Verses  found  in  a Summer-House  at  Hales  Owen  ... 

Remember  Thee,  remember  Thee  

To  Time  

Translation  of  a Romaic  Love  Song  

Thou  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  fickle  

On  being  asked  what  was  the  “ Origin  of  Love  ” 

Remember  him  whom  Passion’s  power  

On  Lord  Tharlow’s  Poems  

To  Lord  Thurlow 

To  Thomas  Moore,  written  before  his  Visit  to  Mr. 

Leigh  Hunt  in  Horsemonger  Lane  Gaol  

Impromptu  in  reply  to  a Friend  

Sonnet  to  Genevra  

Sonnet  to  the  same  

From  the  Portuguese  “ Tu  Mi  Chamas”  

The  Devil’s  Drive 

Windsor  Poetics  

Stanzas  for  Music 

Address  intended  to  be  recited  at  the  Caledonian 

Meeting  ...  

Fragment  of  an  Epistle  to  Thomas  Moore  

Condolatory  Address  to  Sarah,  Countess  of  Jersey  ... 

To  Belshazzar  

Elegiac  Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Peter  Parker,  Bart. 
Stanzas  for  Music:  “There’s  not  a Joy  the  World 

can  give ' 

Stanzas  for  Music : “ There  be  none  of  Beauty’s 

Daughters  ” 

On  Napoleon’s  Escape  from  Elba  

Ode  from  the  French  

From  the  French 

On  the  Star  of  “ The  Legion  of  Honour  ” 

Napoleon’s  Farewell  

Endorsement  to  the  Deed  of  Separation  in  the  April 

of  1816  

Darkness  ...  ...  

Churchill’s  Grave 

Prometheus  


541 

541 

542 

542 

543 

544 
544 

544 

545 
545 

545 

546 
546 

546 

547 
547 
547 
547 

547 

548 
548 

548 

549 
549 

549 

550 

550 

551 
551 

551 

552 

552 
55j 
55  c 

553 

553 

553 

554 
055 

555 
555 

555 

556 
556 

556 

557 
557 


558 

558 

558 

558 

559 
559 

559 

560 
560 

560 

561 


562 

562 

562 

563 

563 

564 

564 

564 

565 

563 


CONTENTS. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES  - continued. 

A Fragment  566 

Sonnet  to  Lake  Leman  ...  ...  5G6 

Romance  muy  doloroso  del  Sitio  y Toma  de  Albania  5 67 
A very  Mournful  Ballad  on  the  Siege  and  Conquest  of 

Alhama  567 

Sonetto  di  Vittorelli  per  Monaca  569 

Translation  from  Vittorelli : on  a Nun  569 

Stanzas  for  Music : “ Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  Soul”  569 

To  Thomas  Moore  569 

Stanzas  for  Music:  “ They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness”  569 

On  the  Bust  of  Helen,  by  Canova  569 

Song  for  the  Luddites  570 

To  Thomas  Moore 570 

So  we’ll  go  no  more  a roving  570 

Versicles  570 

To  Mr.  Murray  570 

Epistle  from  Mr.  Murray  to  Dr.  Polidori  570 

Epistle  to  Mr.  Murray  ...  571 

To  Mr.  Murray  571 

On  the  Birth  of  John  William  Rizzo  Hoppner  ...  572 

Stanzas  to  the  Po 572 

Sonnet  to  George  the  Fourth  573 

Epigram,  from  the  French  of  Rulhieres  573 

Stanzas  573 

On  my  Wedding-Day  574 

Epitaph  for  William  Pitt 574 

Epigram — Cobbett  and  Paine  574 

Stanzas  574 

Epigram  on  John  Bull  574 

The  Charity  Ball ...  574 

Epigram  on  my  Wedding-Day 575 

On  my  Thirty-third  Birthday  575 

Epigram  on  the  Braziers’  Company  575 

From  Martial,  Lib.  I.  Epig.  1 575 

Bowles  and  Campbell  575 

Epigrams  on  Castlereagh  575 

John  Keats 575 

The  Conquest  575 

To  Mr.  Murray  276 

The  Irish  Avatar 576 

Stanzas  written  on  the  road  between  Florence  and  Pisa  577 

Stanzas  to  a Hindoo  Air 578 

Impromptu 578 

To  the  Countess  of  Blessington 578 

On  this  Day  I complete  my  Thirty-third  Year  ...  578 

DON  JUAN— 

Critical  Testimonies  *.  ...  579 

Dedication 588 

Canto  I tja  t 

Canto  II.  ...  . 610 

Canto  III 629 

Canto  IV  640 

Canto  V 652 

Canto  VI 668 

Canto  VII 6 77 

Canto  VIII.  685 

Canto  IX 697 

Canto  X 704 

Canto  XI.  ...  ...  ...  ...  711 

C<±r.tc  XII.  M M m.  719 


DON  JUAN — continued. 

Canto  XIII.  ... 

Canto  XIV 

Canto  XV.  ...  

Canto  XVI 

APPENDIX— 

Battle  of  Talavera  

Removal  of  Works  of  Art  from  Athens 

Albania  and  the  Albanians  

Specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout  Dialect  of  the 
Illyric 

Thoughts  on  the  Present  State  of  Greece 
On  the  Present  State  of  Turkey  and  the  Turks 

Open  Air  Worship 

Clarens  

State  Dungeons  of  Venice 

Songs  of  the  Gondoliers  ...  ...  

The  Lion  and  Horses  of  St.  Mark’s  

Submission  of  Barbarossa  to  Pope  Alexander  III. 

Henry  Dandolo  

The  War  of  Chioza  

Venice  under  the  Government  of  Austria 

Laura  

Petrarch  

Tasso  

Ariosto  

Ancient  Superstitions  respecting  Lightning  ... 

The  Venus  of  Medicis  

Madame  de  Stael 

A1  fieri  

Machiavelli ... 

Dante  

Tomb  of  the  Scipios  ... 

Petrarch's  Crown  

Boccaccio  

The  Medici 

The  Battle  of  Thrasimene  ... 

Statue  of  Pompey 

The  Bronze  Wolf 

Julius  Caesar  ... 

Egeria  ...  

The  Roman  Nemesis  

Gladiators  

The  Alban  Hill  

Eustace’s  Classical  Tour ... 

Story  of  Marino  Faliero 

Petrarch  on  the  Conspiracy  of  Marino  Faliero 
Venetian  Society  and  Manners  ...  ...  ... 

The  Two  Foscari 

Remarks  on  the  Romaic,  or  Modern  Greek  Languag 

with  Specimens  and  Translations  

Don  Juan — Letter  to  the  Editor  of  my  Grandmothe 

Review  ..  

Some  Observations  upon  an  Article  in  Blackwooc 

Magazine,  No.  XXIX.  

Lord  Bacon’s  Apophthegms  

Conversations  of  Lord  Byron,  as  related  by  Thom 
Medwin,  Esq.  compared  with  a portion  cf  his  Lore 

ship’s  Correspondence 

INDEX  .. 


V 

P&GH 

726 

735 

743 

751 


76  i 

761 

762 

763 
753 

766 

767 

767 

768 
768 
770 

770 

771 
771 

771 

772 

773 

773 

774 
774 

774 

775 

775 

776 

776 

777 

777 

778 

778 

779 

780 

781 

781 

782 

782 
rt>  3 

783 

784 

786 

787 
787 

739 

794 

796 

803 


804 

009 


CHRONOLOGY  OF  LORD  BYRON’S  LIFE  AND  WORKS. 


Jan.  22 


>1  ay  19. 


Oct. 


Jan. 

Nov. 


March. 

Oct. 


Jan.  1 
Aug.  J 
Sept. 


Jan.  22. 
Mar.  13. 
16. 

May. 
June  11. 
30. 

July  2. 

7. 

Aug.  (3. 
Sept  1. 


Oct.  1. 


1788. 

Born,  in  Holies  Street,  London. 

1790— (aetat.  2). 

Taken  by  his  mother  to  Aberdeen. 

1798—  (10). 

Succeeds  to  the  family  title. 

Made  a ward  of  chancery. 

Removed  from  Aberdeen  to  Newstead  Abbey. 

Placed  under  the  care  of  an  empiric  at  Nottingham  for 
the  cure  of  his  lameness. 

1799—  (11). 

Removed  to  London,  and  placed  under  the  care  of 
Dr.  Baillie. 

Becomes  the  pupil  of  Dr.  Glennie,  at  Dulwich. 

1800—  (12). 

Is  sent  to  Harrow  School. 

1803— (15). 

Passes  the  vacation  at  Nottingham  and  Annesley. — And 
forms  an  attachment  to  Miss  Chaworth. 

1805— (17). 

Leaves  Harrow  for  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 


Nov.  3.  Proceeds  by  sea  to  Prevesa. — 10.  Driven  on  the  coast  of 
Suli. — 12.  Writes,  in  passing  the  Ambracian  gulf, 
‘ Through  cloudless  skies,  in  silvery  sheen.’ — 13.  Sails 
down  the  gulf  of  Arta. — 14.  Reaches  Utraikey. — 15. 
Traverses  Acarnania. — 21.  Reaches  Missolonghi. — 
And,  25.  Patras. 

Dec.  4.  Leaves  Patras. — 14.  Passes  across  the  gulf  of  Lepanto — • 
18.  Visits  Mount  Parnassus,  Castri,  and  Delphi.— 
22.  Thebes. — 25.  Arrives  at  Athens. 


1810 — (ffitat.  22). 

/ Spends  ten  weeks  in  visiting  the  monuments  of  Athens ; 

Jan  I making  occasional  excursions  to  several  parts  of  At- 

pek  < tica. — Writes,  ‘ The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown  P 

I — 4 Lines  in  the  Travellers’  Book  at  Orchomenus.’ — 

V And  4 Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part.’ 

March  5.  Leaves  Athens  for  Smyrna. — 7.  Visits  the  ruins  of 
Ephesus. — 28.  Concludes,  at  Smyrna,  the  second  canto 
of  4 Childe  Harold.’ 

April  11.  Leaves  Smyrna  for  Constantinople. — Visits  the  Troad. 

May  9.  Writes  4 Lines  after  swimming  from  Sestos  to  Abydos.’ — 
14.  Arrives  at  Constantinople. 

June.  Makes  an  excursion  through  the  Bosphorus  to  the  Black 
Sea  and  Cyanean  Symplegades. 

July  14.  Departs  from  Constantinople. — 19.  Reaches  Athens. — 
Visits  Corinth. 


1806— (18). 

Prepares  a collection  of  his  Poems  for  the  press.? 

Prints  a volume  of  his  Poems;  but,  at  the  entreaty  of  a 
friend,  destroys  the  edition. 

1807—  (19). 

Publishes  4 Hours  of  Idleness.’  See  Fac  Similes,  No.  I. 

Begins  an  epic,  to  be  entitled  4 Bosworth  Field.’ — And 
writes  part  of  a novel. 

1808—  (20). 

Passes  his  time  between  the  dissipations  of  Cambridge 
and  London. 

Takes  up  his  residence  at  Newstead. — Forms  the  design 
of  visiting  India. — Engaged  in  preparing  4 English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers  ’ for  the  press. 

1809— (21). 

His  coming  of  age  celebrated  at  Newstead. 

Takes  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

Publishes  4 English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.’ 

Engaged  in  preparing  a second  edition  of  4 English 
Bards  ’ for  the  press. 

Leaves  London  on  his  travels,  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Hobhouse. 

Writes,  on  board  the  Lisbon  packet,  4 Huzza!  Hodgson, 
we  are  going!’ 

Sails  from  Falmouth. 

Lands  at  Lisbon. — 17.  Leaves  Lisbon  for  Seville  and 
Cadiz. 

Arrives  at  Gibraltar.— 19.  Takes  his  departure  for  Malta. 

Lands  at  Malta.— 14.  Writes  4 As  o’er  the  cold  sepul- 
chral stone.’— 4 Oh,  Lady ! when  I left  the  shore.’— 
21.  Leaves  Malta. — 29.  Lands  at  Prevesa. 

Proceeds  to  Solara,  Arta,  and  Joannini.  — 9.  Leaves 
Joannini  for  Zitza. — Composes,  during  a thunder- 
storm, ‘Chill  and  mirk  is  the  nightly  blast.’ — H. 
Reaches  Tepaleen.— 12.  Is  introduced  to  Ali  Pacha.— 
Jdl.  Returns  to  Joannini— 31.  Begins  the  first  canto 
of  4 Childe  Harold.’ 


Makes  a tour  of  the  Morea,  and  visits  Velay  Pacha.— 
Returns  to  Athens. 


1811— (23). 

Takes  up  his  residence  at  the  Franciscan  Convent, 
Athens. — Writes,  4 Dear  object  of  defeated  care  ! ’ 
Writes,  ‘Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise!’ — 4 I enter  thy  gar- 
den of  roses.’ — And  4 Remarks  on  the  Romaic  or 
Modern  Greek  Language.’ 

Marcn  12.  Writes,  ‘Hints  from  Horace.’ — 17.  ‘The  Curse  of  Mi- 
nerva ’ — And  4 Lines  on  Parting.’ 

May.  Leaves  Athens  for  Malta. — 16.  Writes  4 Epitaph  for 
Joseph  Blackett.’ — And,  26.  4 Farewell  to  Malta.’ 

July.  Returns  to  England. 

Aug.  1.  Death  of  his  mother. 

Oct.  11.  Writes  Epistle  to  a Friend,  'Oh'  banish  care — such 
ever  be.’ — And  Stanzas  to  Thyrza,  4 Without  a stone 
to  mark  the  spot.’ 

Dec.  6.  Writes,  4 Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  woe!’ 

1812  — (24). 

Jan,  Writes,  4 One  struggle  more  and  I am  free.’ — 4 When 
time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring.* — 4 And  thou  art 
dead,  as  young  as  fair.’ 

Feb.  27.  Makes  his  first  speech  in  the  House  of  Lords. — 29.  Pub- 
lishes the  two  first  cantos  of  4 Childe  Harold.’ 

March.  Commits  a new  edition  of  4 English  Bards,’  &c.  to  the 
flames. — Writes, 4 If  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men.’ 
— 4 On  a Cornelian  Heart  which  was  broken.’ — 4 Liiv.s 
to  a Lady  weeping.’ — And,  4 The  Chain  I gave.’ 

April  19.  Writes  4 Lines  on  a blank  leaf  of  The  Pleasures  of 
Memory.’ 

Sept.  Writes  4 Address  on  the  Opening  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre 

Oct.  Writes  4 The  Waltz;  an  Apostrophic  Hymn.’ — And,  4 A 
Parenthetical  Address  by  Dr.  Plagiary.’ 

Nov.  Writes  ‘AadrtoS  to  Time.’ — And,  ‘Thou  art  not  false 
but  thou  art  fickle  !’ 


Aug.  -j 
Sept.  [ 
Oct.  ) 


Jan. 


Feb. 


CHRONOLOGY. 


1913— (letat.  25). 

Jan.  Writes  ‘ Remember  him  whom  passion’s  power.’ 

March.  Publishes  ‘ The  Waltz  ’ anonymously. 

May.  Publishes  ‘The  Giaour.’  See  Fac  Similes , No.  II. 

July.  ' Projects  a journey  to  Abyssinia. 

Sept.  Writes  * When  from  the  Heart  where  Sorrow  sits.’ 

Nov.  Is  an  unsuccessful  suitor  for  the  hand  of  Miss  Milbanke. 

Dec.  2.  Publishes  ‘ The  Bride  of  Abydos.’— 13.  Writes  ‘ The 
Devil’s  Drive.’ — 17.  And ‘Two  Sonnets  to  Genevra.’ 
— 18.  Begins  ‘The  Corsair.’ — 31.  Finishes  ‘The 
Corsair.’ 

1814—  (26). 

Feb.  Writes  ‘ Windsor  Poetics.’ 

April  10.  Writes  ‘ Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte.’ — Resolves  to 
write  no  more  poetry,  and  to  suppress  all  he  had 
ever  written. 

May.  Begins  * Lara.’ — Writes  ‘ I speak  not,  I trace  not.’ — And 
‘ Address  to  be  recited  at  the  Caledonian  Meeting.’ 

Aug.  Publishes  ‘Lara.’ — Writes  ‘Condolatory  Verses  to  Lady 
Jersey.’ 

Sept  Makes  a second  proposal  for  the  hand  of  Miss  Milbanke, 
and  is  accepted. 

Oct.  Writes  ‘ Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Peter  Parker.’ — And 
‘ Lines  to  Belshazzar.* 

Dec.  Writes  ‘ Hebrew  Melodies.’ 

1815—  (27). 

Jan.  2.  Marries  Miss  Milbanke.  See  Fac  No.  II. 

Feb.  Writes  ‘ There  be  hone  of  Beauty’s  Daughters.’ 

March.  Writes  ‘Lines  on  Napoleon  Buonaparte’s  Escape  from 
Elba.’ 

July.  Begins  ‘The  Siege  of  Corinth.’ — And  writes  ‘There’s 
not  a Joy  the  World  can  give.’ — And  ‘ We  do  not 
curse  tnee,  Waterloo.’ 

Aug.  Writes  ‘Must  thou  go,  my  glorious  Chief? ’— ‘ Star  of 
the  Brave.’ — And  ‘ Napoleon’s  Farewell.’ 

Dec.  IQ.  Birth  of  his  daughter,  Augusta  Ada. 


1816— (28). 

Jan.  Publishes  * The  Siege  of  Corinth.’ 

Feb.  Publishes  ‘ Parisina.’ — Lady  Byron  adopts  the  resolution 
of  separating  from  him. 

March  17.  Writes  ‘Fare  thee  well!  and  if  for  ever.’ — And,  29.  A 
Sketch,  ‘Born  in  the  garret.’ 

April  16.  Writes  ‘ When  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark.’ 

25.  Takes  a last  leave  of  his  native  country. — .Proceeds 
through  Flanders  and  by  the  Rhine,  to  Switzerland. 

May.  Begins  the  third  canto  of  * Childe  Harold.’ 

June.  Writes  ‘The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,’  at  Ouchy,  near  Lau- 
sanne.— Takes  up  his  abode  at  the  Campagne  Diodati, 
near  Geneva. 

July.  Finishes  the  third  canto  of  ‘ Childe  Harold.’ — Writes 
‘ Monody  on  the  Death  of  Sheridan.’ — Stanzas  to 
Augusta,  ‘ Though  the  Day  of  my  Destiny.’ — ‘ The 
Dream.’  — * Darkness.’  — ‘ Churchill’s  Grave.’ — ‘ Pro- 
metheus.’— ‘ Could  I remount.’ — Epistle  to  Augusta, 
‘ My  Sister,  my  sweet  Sister.’ — And,  ‘ Sonnet  to  Lake 
Leman.’ 

Sept.  Makes  a tour  of  the  Bernese  Alps. — Writes  ‘ Lines  on 
hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was  ill.’ — And  begins 
* Manfred.’ 

Oct.  Leaves  Switzerland  foi  Italy. 

Nov.  Takes  up  his  residence  at  Venice. — Translates  ‘ Romance 

Muy  Doloroso,’  &c. ; and  ‘Sonetto  di  Vittorelli.* — 
Writes  ‘Lines  on  the  Bust  of  Helen  by  Canova.’ — 
‘ Bright  be  the  Place  of  my  Soul.’ — And  • They  say 
that  Hope  is  Happiness.’  — Studies  the  Armenian 
language. 


1817— (29). 

Fob.  Finishes  * Manfred.’ 

March.  Translates,  from  the  Armenian,  a Correspondence  be- 
tween St.  Paul  and  the  Corinthians. 


April. 

May. 

June. 

Oct. 


July. 

Sept. 

Oct. 

Dec.  13. 


Jan.  20. 
April. 

Aug. 

Nov. 

Dec. 


Jan. 

Feb. 

March. 


April  4. 
July  16. 
Oct.  16. 
Nov.  20. 


Jan.  13. 
Feb.  7. 

Mar.  25. 
May  17. 
June  11. 
July  10. 

Sept.  9. 

Oct. 

Nov, 


Jan.  20. 
Feb. 

Aug. 

Sept. 


Jan. 

Feb. 

April. 

May. 


July  14 
Aug.  I 
Dec.  / 


Jan.  5. 


Feb.  15. 
April  9. 
„ 19. 


Visits  Ferrara  for  a day. — 20.  Writes  ‘ The  Lament  ol 

Tasso.’ 

Visits  Rome  for  a few  days. — 5.  Writes  there  a ren 

third  act  to  ‘ Manfred.’ 

Begins,  at  Venice,  the  fourth  canto  of  ‘Childe  Harold 
Writes  ‘ Beppo.’ 

1818 — (cetat.  30). 

Writes  ‘ Ode  to  Venice  ’ 

Finishes  the  first  canto  of  ‘ Don  Juan.’ 

Finishes  ‘ Mazeppa.’ 

Begins  the  second  canto  of  ‘ Don  Juan.’ 

1819—  (31). 

Finishes  the  second  canto  of  ‘ Don  Juan.’ 

Commences  an  acquaintance  with  the  Countess  Guic* 
eioli. — Writes  ‘ Stanzas  to  the  Po.’ 

Writes  * I.etter  to  the  Editor  of  My  Grandmother’s  Re- 
view.’— And,  ‘ Sonnet  to  George  the  Fourth.’ 

Finishes  the  third  and  fourth  cantos  of  ‘ Don  Juan.’ 
Removes  to  Ravenna. 

1820—  (32). 

Is  domesticated  with  the  Countess  Guiccioli 
Translates  the  first  canto  of  ‘ Morgante  Maggiore.’ 
Writes  ‘ The  Prophecy  of  Dante.’ — Translates  ‘ Francesca 
of  Rimini.’ — And  writes  ‘Observations  upon  an  Ar- 
ticle in  Blackwood’s  Magazine.’ 

Begins  ‘Marino  Faliero.’ 

Finishes  ‘ Marino  Faliero.’ 

Begins  the  fifth  canto  of  ‘ Don  Juan.’ 

Finishes  the  fifth  canto  of  ‘ Don  Juan.’ — And  writes 
‘ The  Blues;  a Literary  Eclogue.’ 

1821—  (33). 

Begins  ‘ Sardanapalus.’ 

Writes  ‘ Letter  to  John  Murray,  Esq.,  on  Bowles’s  Stno 
tures  upon  Pope.’ 

Writes  ‘ Second  Letter  to  John  Murray,  Esq.,’  &c. 
Finishes  ‘ Sardanapalus.’ 

Begins  ‘ The  Two  Foscari.’ 

Finishes  ‘The  Two  Foscari.’ — 16.  Begins  ‘Cain;  6 
Mystery.’ 

Finishes  ‘ Cain.’ — Writes  ‘Vision  of  Judgment.* 

Writes  ‘Heaven  and  Earth;  a Mystery.’ 

Removes  to  Pisa — 18.  Begins  ‘ Werner,’ — And  ‘ The 
Deformed  Transformed.’ 

1822—  (34).  / 

Finishes  * Werner.’ 

Writes  the  sixth,  seventh,  and  eighth  cantos  of  ‘ Don 
Juan.’ 

Finishes  ‘ The  Deformed  Transformed.’ — Writes  the 
ninth,  tenth,  and  eleventh  cantos  of  ‘ Don  Juan.’ 
Removes  to  Genoa. 

1823—  (35). 

Writes  ‘ The  Age  of  Bronze.’ 

Writes  ‘ The  Island.’ — And  more  cantos  of  * Don  Juan.' 
Turns  his  views  towards  Greece. 

Receives  a communication  from  the  Greek  Committee 
sitting  in  London. 

Sails  for  Greece 

Reaches  A'gostoli. — Makes  an  excursion  to  Ithaca.— 
Waits  at  Cephalonia  the  arrival  of  the  Greek  fleet. 

1824—  (36). 

Arrives  at  Missolonghi. — 22.  Writes  ‘ Lines  on  com 
pleting  my  Thirty-sixth  Year.’ — 30.  Is  appointed  com 
mander-in-chief  of  an  expedition  against  Lepanto. 

Is  seized  with  a convulsive  fit.  See  Fac  Simitcs,  No.  IT 
His  last  Illness. 

His  Death. 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

LORD  BYRON. 


©f)fltie  ^arolB’s  $t'Igrtmage: 

A ROMATJNT. 


L’ltniler.  est  une  espAce  de  livre,  dont  on  n’a  lu  que  la  premiere  page  quand  on  n’a  vu  que  son  paya.  * es 
ai  feuillete  lm  assez  grand  nombre,  que  j’ai  trouv6  Agalement  mauvaises.  Cet  examen  ne  m’a  point  6te  infructucux. 
Je  ha'issais  ma  patrie.  Toutes  les  impertinences  des  peuples  divers,  parmi  lesquels  j’ai  v6cu,  m’ont  reconcile  avec 
elle.  Quanl  je  n’aurais  tire  d’autre  benAfice  de  mes  voyages  que  celui-14,  je  n’en  regretterais  ni  les  frais  ni  les 
fatigues.  Le  Cosmopolite.' 


PREFACE 

[_TO  THE  FIRST  AND  SECOND  CANTOS]. 

The  following  poem  was  written,  for  the  most  part, 
amidst  the  scenes  which  it  attempts  to  describe.  It 
was  begun  in  Albania;  and  the  parts  relative  to 
Spain  and  Portugal  were  composed  from  the  author’s 
observations  in  those  countries.2  Thus  much  it  may 
be  necessary  to  state  for  the  correctness  of  the  de- 
scriptions. The  scenes  attempted  to  be  sketched  are 
in  Spain,  Portugal,  Epirus,  Acamania,  and  Greece. 
There,  for  the  present,  the  poem  stops  -.  its  reception 
will  determine  whether  the  author  may  venture  to 
conduct  his  readers  to  the  capital  of  the  East,  through 
Ionia  and  Phrygia : these  two  Cantos  are  merely 
experimental. 

A fictitious  character  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of 
giving  some  connection  to  the  piece  ; which,  however, 
maxes  no  pretensions  to  regularity.  It  has  been 
suggested  to  me  by  friends,  on  whose  opinions  I set  a 
high  value,  that  in  this  fictitious  character,  “ Childe 
Harold,”  I may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  in- 
tended some  real  personage : this  I beg  leave,  once 
for  all,  to  disclaim — Harold  is  the  child  of  imagina- 
tion, for  the  purpose  I have  stated.  In  some  very 
trivial  particulars,  and  those  merely  local,  there 
might  be  grounds  for  such  a notion ; but  in  the  main 
points,  I should  hope,  none  whatever. 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  mention  that  the  ap- 
pellation “ Childe,”  as  “ Childe  Waters,”  “ Childe 


(1)  [Par  M.  de  Montbron,  Paris,  1798.  Lord  Byron  some- 
where calls  it  “an  amusing  little  volume,  full  of  French 
flippancy.”] 


Childers,”  &c.,  is  used  as  more  consonant  with  the 
old  structure  of  versification  which  I have  adopted. 
The  “ Good  Night,”  in  the  beginning  of  the  first 
canto,  was  suggested  by  “ Lord  Maxwell’s  Good 
Night,”  in  the  Border  Minstrelsy,  edited  by  Mr. 
Scott. 

With  the  different  poems  which  have  been  pub- 
lished on  Spanish  subjects,  there  may  be  found 
some  slight  coincidence  in  the  first  part,  which  treats 
of  the  Peninsula,  but  it  can  only  be  casual ; as,  with 
the  exception  of  a few  concluding  stanzas,  the  whole 
of  this  poem  was  written  in  the  Levant. 

The  stanza  of  Spenser,  according  to  one  of  our 
most  successful  poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Dr. 
Beattie  makes  the  following  observation  : — “Not 
long  ago,  I began  a poem  in  the  style  and  stanza  of 
Spenser,  in  which  I propose  to  give*  full  scope  to  my 
inclination,  and  be  either  droll  or  pathetic,  descrip- 
tive or  semimental,  tender  or  satirical,  as  the  humour 
strikes  me ; for,  if  I mistake  not,  the  measure  which 
I have  adopted  admits  equally  of  all  these  kinds  of 
composition.”  3 — Strengthened  in  my  opinion  by 
such  authority,  and  by  the  example  of  some  in  the 
highest  order  of  Italian  poets,  I shall  make  no  apo- 
logy for  attempts  at  similar  variations  in  the  following 
composition ; satisfied  that,  if  they  are  unsuccessful 
their  failure  must  be  in  the  execution,  rather  than  in 
the  design,  sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  Ariosto, 
Thomson,  and  Beattie. 

London,  February,  1812. 


(2)  [“  Byron,  Joannini  in  Albania.  Begun  Oct.  31st,  1809.  Cctv 
eluded  Canto  2d,  Smyrna,  March  2Sth,  1810.  Byron.”— MS.] 
i (3)  Beattie’s  Letter*. 

1 B 


2 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ADDITION  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

I have  now  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical 
journals  have  distributed  their  usual  portion  of  cri- 
ticism. To  the  justice  of  the  generality  of  their 
criticisms  I have  nothing  to  object : it  would  ill 
become  me  to  quarrel  with  their  very  slight  degree 
of  censure,  when,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been  less 
kind  they  had  been  more  candid.  Returning,  there- 
fore, to  all  and  each  my  best  thanks  for  their  libe- 
rality, on  one  point  alone  shall  I venture  an  ob- 
servation. Amongst  the  many  objections  justly  urged 
to  the  very  indifferent  character  of  the  “ vagrant 
Childe,*’  (whom,  notwithstanding  many  hints  to  the 
contrary,  I still  maintain  to  be  a fictitious  personage,) 
it  has  been  stated,  that,  besides  the  anachronism,  he 
is  very  unknightly , as  the  times  of  the  Knights  were 
times  of  Love,  Honour,  and  so  forth.  Now,  it  so 
happens  that  the  good  old  times,  when  “ l’amour  du 
bon  vieux  terns,  l’amour  antique  ” flourished,  were 
the  most  profligate  of  all  possible  centuries.  Those 
who  have  any  doubts  on  this  subject  may  consult 
Sainte-Palaye,  passim , and  more  particularly  vol.  ii. 
p.  69.1  The  vows  of  chivalry  were  no  better  kept 
than  any  other  vows  whatsoever ; and  the  songs  of 
the  Troubadours  were  not  more  decent,  and  certainly 
were  much  less  refined,  than  those  of  Ovid.  The 
“ Cours  d’amour,  parlemens  d’amour,  ou  de  courtesie 
et  de  gentilesse,  had  much  more  of  love  than  of 
courtesy  or  gentleness.  See  Roland  on  the  same 
subject  with  Sainte-Palaye.  Whatever  other  objection 
may  be  urged  to  that  most  unamiable  personage 
Childe  Harold,  he  was  so  far  perfectly  knightly  in  his 
attributes — “No  waiter,  but  a knight  templar.”2 
By  the  by,  I fear  that  Sir  Tristrem  and  Sir  Lancelot 
jrere  no  better  than  they  should  be,  although  very 
poetical  personages  and  true  knights,  “ sans  peur,” 
though  not  “ sans  reproche.”  If  the  story  of  the 
institution  of  the  “ Garter  ” be  not  a fable,  the 
knights  of  that  order  have  for  several  centuries 
borne  the  badge  of  a Countess  of  Salisbury,  of  in- 
different memory.  So  much  for  chivalry.  Burke 
need  not  have  regretted  that  its  days  are  over, 
though  Marie-Antoinette  was  quite  as  chaste  as  most 
of  those  in  whose  honours  lances  were  shivered,  and 
knights  unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of 
Sir  Joseph  Banks,  (the  most  chaste  and  celebrated  of 
ancient  and  modern  times)  few  exceptions  will  be 
found  to  this  statement ; and  I fear  a little  investiga- 
tion will  teach  us  not  to  regret  these  monstrous 
mummeries  of  the  middle  ages. 

I now  leave  “ Childe  Harold  ” to  live  his  day,  such 
as  he  is ; it  had  been  more  agreeable,  and  certainly 


(1)  [“  Qti'on  lise  dans  l’auteur  du  roman  de  Gerard  de  Rous- 
sillon, en  Provengal,  les  details  tr^s-circonstancies  dans  lesquels  il 
entre  sur  la  reception  faite  par  le  Comte  Gerard  a l’ambassadeur 
du  roi  Charles;  on  y verra  des  particularity  singuli^res,  qui 
donnent  une  etrange  id6e  des  moeurs  et  de  la  politesse  de  ces 
si^cles  aussi  corroinpus  qu’ignorans.” — Memoires  sur  V Ancicunt 
Chevalerie,  par  M.  de  la  Curne  de  Sainte-Palaye,  Paris,  1781, 
loe.  eit  ] 

(2)  The  Rovers,  or  the  Double  Arrangement. — [By  Canning  and 
Frere;  first  published  in  the  Anti-jacobin,  or  Weekly  Examiner.] 

(3)  [In  one  of  his  early  poems— “ Childish  Recollections,”  Le.-d 
Byron  compares  himself  to  the  Athenian  misanthrope,  of  whose 
bitter  apophthegms  many  are  upon  record,  though  no  authentic 

particulars  o»  his  lire  have  come  down  to  us  : — 

“ Weary  ot  love,  of  life,  devoured  with  spleen, 

I rest  a perfect  Timon,  not  nineteen,”  &c.] 


more  easy,  to  have  drawn  an  amiable  character.  It 
had  been  easy  to  varnish  over  his  faults,  to  make  him 
do  more  and  express  less ; but  he  never  was  intended 
as  an  example,  further  than  to  show,  that  early  per- 
version of  mind  and  morals  leads  to  satiety  of  past 
pleasures  and  disappointment  in  new  ones,  and  that 
even  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  stimulus  ot 
travel,  (except  ambition,  the  most  powerful  of  all 
excitements,)  are  lost  on  a soul  so  constituted,  or 
rather  misdirected.  Had  I proceeded  with  the  poeia. 
this  character  would  have  deepened  as  he  drew  tA 
the  close  ; for  the  outline  which  I once  meant  to  lill 
up  for  him  was,  with  some  exceptions,  the  sketch  01 
a modern  Timon,3 *  perhaps  a noetical  Zeluco.-* 

London , 1813. 


TO  IANTHE.5 

Not  in  those  climes  where  I have  late  been  straying, 
Though  Beauty  long  hath  there  been  matchless 
deem’d ; 

Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dream’d, 
Hath  aught  like  thee  in  truth  or  fancy  seem’d : 

Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I vainly  seek 
To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they  beam  a — - 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak  ; 

To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could  they 
speak  ? 

Ah  ! may’st  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art. 

Nor  unbeseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring. 

As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart, 

Love’s  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing, 

And  guileless  beyond  Hope’s  imagining ! 

And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening. 
Beholds  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years, 

Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disappears. 

Young  Peri 6 of  the  West ! — ’tis  well  for  me 
My  years  already  doubly  number  thine  ; 

My  loveless  eyes  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee. 

And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine  ; 
Happy,  I ne’er  shall  see  them  in  decline ; 

Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall  bleed. 
Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  assign 
To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed,  [decreed. 
But  mix’d  with  pangs  to  Love’s  even  loveliest  hours 


(4)  [It  was  Dr.  Moore’s  object,  in  this  powerful  romance  (now 
mjustly  neglected),  to  trace  the  fatal  effects  resulting  from  a fond 
mother’s  unconditional  compliance  with  the  humours  and  passions 
of  an  only  child.  With  high  advantages  of  person,  birth,  fortune, 
and  ability,  Zeluco  is  represented  as  miserable,  through  every 
scene  of  life,  owing  to  the  spirit  of  unbridled  self-indulgence  thus 
pampered  in  infancy.] 

(5)  [The  Lady  Charlotte  Harley,  second  daughter  of  Edward 
fifth  Earl  of  Oxford  (now  Lady  Charlotte  Bacon),  in  the  autumnal 
1812,  when  these  lines  were  addressed  to  her,  had  not  completed 
her  eleventh  year.  Mr.  Westall’s  portrait  of  the  juvenile  beauty, 
painted  at  Lord  Byron’s  request,  is  engraved  in  “ Finden’s  Illustra- 
tions of  the  Life  and  Works  of  Lord  Byron.”] 

L Peri,  the  Persian  term  for  a beautiful  intermediate  order 
of  beings,  is  generally  supposed  to  be  another  form  of  our  ow® 
word  Fairy.] 


CAKTO  1. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


3 


Oh ! let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  Gazelle’s,1 * 
Now  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy, 

Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells, 

Glance  o’er  this  page,  nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  fot  which  my  breast  might  vainly  sigh, 
Could  I to  thee  be  ever  more  than  friend : 

This  much,  dear  maid,  accord  ; nor  question  why 
To  one  so  young  my  strain  I would  commend, 

But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily  blend. 

Such  is  thy  name  with  this  my  verse  entwined ; 
And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a look  shall  cast 
On  Harold’s  page,  Ianthe’s  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  be  first  beheld,  forgotten  last : 

My  days  once  number’d,  should  this  homage  past 
Attract  thy  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
Of  him  who  hail’d  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast, 
Such  is  the  most  my  memory  may  desire ; 

Though  more  than  Hope  can  claim,  could  Friendship 
less  require  ? 


GWltie  p^nroItTs  pilgrimage. 


CA^TO  TIIE  FIRST. 


I. 

Ok,  thou ! in  Hellas  deem’d  of  heavenly  birth, 

Muse ! form’d  or  fabled  at  the  minstrel’s  will ! 

Since  shamed  full  oft  by  later  lyres  on  earth, 

Mine  dares  not  call  thee  from  thy  sacred  hill : 

Yet  there  I’ve  wander’d  by  thy  vaunted  rill ; 

Yes ! sigh’d  o’er  Delphi’s  long  deserted  shrine,8 
Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still ; 

Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a tale — this  lowly  lay  of  mine.3 

n. 

Whilome  in  Albion’s  isle  there  dwelt  a youth, 

Who  ne  in  virtue’s  ways  did  take  delight ; 

But  spent  his  days  in  riot  most  uncouth, 

And  vex’d  with  mirth  the  drowsy  ear  of  Night. 

Ah,  me ! in  sooth  he  was  a shameless  wight, 

Sore  given  to  revel  and  ungodly  glee  ; 

Few  earthly  things  found  favour  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie, 

And  flaunting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  degree. 

(1)  [A  species  of  the  antelope.  “You  have  the  eyes  of  a 
gazelle,”  is  considered  all  over  the  East  as  the  greatest  compli- 
ment that  can  be  paid  to  a woman.] 

(2)  The  little  village  of  Castri  stands  partly  on  the  site  of  Delphi. 
Along  the  path  of  the  mountain,  from  Chrysso,  are  the  remains  of 
sepulchres  hewn  in  and  from  the  rock.  “ One,”  said  the  guide, 
" of  a king  who  broke  his  neck  hunting.”  His  majesty  had  cer- 
tainly chosen  the  fittest  spot  for  such  an  achievement.  A little 
above  Castri  is  a cave,  supposed  the  Pythian,  of  immense  depth ; 
the  upper  part  of  it  is  paved,  and  now  a cowhouse.  On  the  other 
side  of  Castri  stands  a Greek  monastery ; some  way  above  which 
is  the  cleft  in  the  rock,  with  a range  of  caverns  difficult  of  ascent, 
and  apparently  leading  to  the  interior  of  the  mountain;  probably 
to  the  Corycian  Cavern  mentioned  by  Pausanias.  From  this 
part  descend  the  fountain  and  the  “ Dews  of  Castalie.”  [“  We 
were  sprinkled,”  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  “ with  the  spray  of  the  im- 
mortal rill,  and  here,  if  any  where,  should  have  felt  the  poetic 
inspiration;  we  drank  deep,  too,  of  the  spring;  but  — (I  can 


III. 

Childe  Harold4  was  lie  liigkt : — but  whence  his  namt 
And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say ; 

Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame, 

And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day ; 

But  one  sad  losel  soils  a name  for  aye, 

However  mighty  in  the  olden  time ; 

Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffin’d  clay, 

Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honied  lies  of  rhyme, 

Gan  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a crime. 

IV. 

Childe  Harold  bask’d  him  in  the  noontide  sun, 
Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly, 

Nor  deem’d  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 

But  long  ere  scarce  a third  of  his  pass’d  by, 

Worse  than  adversity  the  Childe  befell ; 

He  felt  the  fulness  of  satiety : 

Then  loathed  lie  in  his  native  land  to  dwell, 

Which  seem’d  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite’s  sad  cell 

v. 

For  he  through  Sin’s  long  labyrinth  had  run; 

Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss, 

Had  sigh’d  to  many  though  he  loved  but  one. 

And  that  loved  one,  alas ! could  ne’er  be  his. 

Ah,  happy  she ! to'  ’scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste  ; 

Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss, 

And  spoil’d  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  waste, 

Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deign’d  to  taste. 

VI. 

And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at  heart, 

And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee  ; 

’Tis  said,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 

But  Pride  congeal’d  the  drop  within  his  ce : 

Apart  he  stalk’d  in  joyless  reverie, 

And  from  his  native  land  resolved  to  go, 

And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea ; 

With  pleasure  drugg’d,  he  almost  long’d  for  woe, 
And  e’en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades 
below.5 * * 

VII. 

The  Childe  departed  from  his  father’s  hall ; 

It  was  a vast  and  venerable  pile ; 

So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fall, 

Yet  strength  was  pillar’d  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome ! condemn’d  to  uses  vile  i 
Where  Superstition  once  had  made  her  den 
Now  Paphian  girls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile 
And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come  agen, 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 

answer  for  myself) — without  feeling  sensible  of  any  extraordinary 

effect.”] 

(3)  [This  stanza  is  not  in  the  original  MS.] 

(4)  [“  Childe  Buron.”— MS.] 

(5)  [In  these  stanzas,  and  indeed  throughout  his  works,  we 
must  not  accept  too  literally  Lord  Byron’s  testimony  against 
himself— he  took  a morbid  pleasure  in  darkening  every  shadow 
of  his  self-portraiture.  His  interior  at  Newstead  had,  no  doubt, 
been,  in  some  points,  loose  and  irregular  enough;  but  it  ceitainly 
never  exhibited  any  thing  of  the  profuse  and  Satanic  luxury  which 
the  language  in  the  text  might  seem  to  indicate.  In  fact,  the  nar- 
rowness of  his  means  at  the  time  the  verses  refer  to  would  alone  have 
precluded  this.  His  household  economy,  while  he  remained  at  tho 
abbey,  is  known  to  have  been  conducted  on  a very  moderate  scale 
and,  besides,  his  usual  companions,  though  far  from  being  averse  to 

convivial  indulgences,  were  not  only,  as  Mr.  Moore  says, ' of  habit* 

and  tastes  too  intellectual  for  mere  vulgar  debauchery,”  but  assuredly 

quite  incapable  of  playing  the  parts  of  flatterers  and  parasites.} 


4 


LORD  .BYRON’S  WORKS. 


n Air  to  i. 


VIII. 

Yet  oft-times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood 
Strange  pangs  would  flash  along  Childe  Harold’s  brow. 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk’d  below  : 

But  this  none  knew,  nor  haply  car’d  to  know ; 

For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow, 

Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Wliate’er  this  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could  not  control. 

IX. 

And  none  did  love  him — though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gather’d  revellers  from  far  and  near. 

He  knew  them  flatt’rers  of  the  festal  hour ; 

The  heartless  parasites  of  present  cheer. 

Yea  ! none  did  love  him — not  his  lemans  dear — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman’s  care. 

And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a feere ; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare, 

And  Mamm  on  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs  might  despair. 

x. 

Childe  Harold  had  a mother — not  forgot, 

Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun ; 

A sister,  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun : 

If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 

Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a breast  of  steel : 1 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  ’tis  to  dote  upon 
A few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal, 

XI. 

His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands, 

The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight,2 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hands, 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 

And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite ; 

His  goblets  brimm’d  with  every  costly  wine. 

And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 

Without  a sigh  he  left  to  cross  the  brine,  [line.3 
And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth’s  central 

XII. 

The  sails  were  fill’d,  and  fair  the  light  winds  blew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home ; 

And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view, 

And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam : 

And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  sate  and  wept. 

And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept. 


(1)  [“  Yet  deem  him  not  from  this  with  breast  of  steel.” — MS.] 

(2)  [“  His  house,  his  home,  his  vassals,  and  his  lands, 

The  Dalilahs,”  fec.-MS.] 

(3,  [Lord  Byron  originally  intended  to  visit  India.] 

(4)  [See  “ Lord  Maxwell’s  Good  Night,”  in  Scott’s  Minstrelsy  of 
the  Scottish  Border.  Poetical  Works,  vol.  ii.  p.  141,  ed.  1S34. — 
“ Adieu,  madam,  my  mother  dear,”  &c. — MS.] 

(5)  [This  “ little  page”  was  Robert  Rushton,  the  son  of  one  of 
Lord  Byron’s  tenants.  “ Robert  I take  with  me,”  says  the  poet,  in 
a letter  to  his  mother:  “ I like  him,  because,  like  myself,  he 
seems  a friendless  animal : tell  his  father  he  is  well,  and  doing 
well.”] 

(6)  [“  Our  best  goss-hawk  can  hardly  fly 

So  merrily  along.” — MS.] 

(7)  [“  Oh,  master  dear  1 I do  not  cry 

From  fear  of  waves  or  wind.” — MS.] 

(8)  [Seeing  that  the  boy  was  “ sorrowful  ” at  the  separation  from 

his  parents,  Lord  Byron,  on  reaching  Gibraltar,  sent  him  back 
to  England  under  the  care  of  his  old  servant  Joe  Murray.  “ Pray,” 


XIII. 

But  when  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  lie  at  times  could  si  ring, 
And  strike,  albeit  with  untaught  melody, 

When  deem’d  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening ; 

And  now  his  fingers  o’er  it  he  did  fling, 

And  tun’d  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight. 

While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing, 

And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sight,  [Night.”4 
Thus  to  the  elements  he  pour’d  his  last  “ Good 

“ Adieu,  adieu  ! my  native  shore 
Fades  o’er  the  waters  blue ; 

The  Night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar. 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 

Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 
We  follow  in  his  flight; 

Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee. 

My  native  Land — Good  Night ! 

" A few  short  hours,  and  he  wdl  rise 
To  give  the  morrow  birth ; 

And  I shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 

Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate  ; 

Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

“ Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page ! 5 6 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail  ? 

Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billow’s  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 

• But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye ; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong : 

Oar  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 
More  merrily  along.0 

* Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I fear  not  wave  nor  wind : 7 
Yet  marvel  not,  Sir  Childe,  that  I 
Am  sorrowful  in  mind ; 8 
For  I have  from  my  father  gone, 

A mother  whom  I love, 

And  have  no  friends,  save  these  alone, 

But  thee — and  One  above. 

‘ My  father  bless’d  me  fervently, 

Yet  did  not  much  complain  ; 

But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 
Till  I come  back  again.’ — 

“ Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad ! 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye  ; 

If  I thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry.9 


he  says  to  his  mother,  “ shew  the  lad  every  kindness,  as  he  is  my 
great  favourite.”  He  also  wrote  a letter  to  the  father  of  the  boy 
which  leaves  a most  favourable  impression  of  his  thoughtfulness 
and  kindliness.  “ I have,”  he  says,  “ sent  Robert  home,  because) 
the  country  which  I am  about  to  travel  through  is  in  a state  which 
renders  it  unsafe,  particularly  for  one  so  young.  I allow  you  to 
deduct  from  your  rent  five- and -twenty  pounds  a year  for  his 
education,  for  three  years,  provided  I do  not  return  before  that 
time,  and  I desire  he  may  be  considered  as  in  my  service.  He  has 
behaved  extremely  well.”] 

(9)  [Here  follows  in  the  MS. : — 

“ My  mother  is  a high-born  dame, 

And  much  misliketh  me; 

She  saith  my  riot  bringeth  shame 
On  all  my  ancestry : 

I had  a sister  once  I ween, 

Whose  tears  perhaps  will  flow ; 

But  her  fair  face  I have  not  seen 
For  three  long  years  and  moe.”] 


*4XT0  I. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


5 


" Come  liitlier,  liitber,  my  staunch  yeoman,1 
Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale? 

Or  dost  thou  dread  a French  foeman? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ? ” — 

* Deem'st  thou  I tremble  for  my  life  P 

Sir  Childe,  I’m  uot  so  weak ; 

But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 
Will  blanch  a faithful  cheek. 

* My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall, 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 

And  when  they  on  their  father  call, 

What  answer  shall  she  make  ? 5 — 

“ Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 

Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay ; 

But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood. 

Will  laugh  to  flee  away.2 

“For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 
Of  wife  or  paramour  ? 

Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 
We  late  saw  streaming  o’er.3 
For  pleasures  past  I do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perils  gathering  near; 

My  greatest  grief  is  that  I leave 
No  thing  that  claims  a tear.4 

“ And  now  I’m  in  the  world  alone. 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea : 

But  why  should  I for  others  groan. 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me  ? 

Perchance  my  dog5  will  whine  in  vain. 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands ; 

But  long  ere  I come  back  again 
He’d  tear  me  where  he  stands.6 


(1)  [William  Fletcher,  the  faithful  valet;— who,  after  a service  of 
twenty  years,  (“  during  which,”  he  says,  “ his  Lord  was  more  to  him 
than  a father,”)  received  the  Pilgrim's  last  words  at  Missolonghi,  and 
did  not  quit  his  remains,  until  he  had  seen  them  deposited  in  the 
family  vault  at  Hucknall.  This  unsophisticated  “ yeoman”  was  a 
constant  source  of  pleasantry  to  his  master : — e.  g.  “ Fletcher,”  he 
says,  in  a letter  to  his  mother,  “is  not  valiant;  he  requires  com- 
forts that  I can  dispense  with,  and  sighs  for  beer,  and  beef,  and 
tea,  and  his  wife,  and  the  devil  knows  what  besides.  We  were  one 
night  lost  in  a thunder-storm,  and  since,  nearly  wrecked.  In  both 
cases  he  was  sorely  bewildered;  from  apprehensions  of  famine  and 
banditti  in  the  first,  and  drowning  in  the  second  instance.  His 
eyes  were  a little  hurt  by  the  lightning,  or  crying,  I don’t  know 
which.  I did  what  I could  to  console  him,  but  found  him  incor- 
rigible. He  sends  six  sighs  to  Sally.  I shall  settle  him  in  a farm ; 
for  he  has  served  me  faithfully,  and  S.tlly  is  a good  woman.” 
After  ail  his  adventures  by  flood  and  field,  short  commons  included, 
this  humble  Achates  of  the  poet  has  now  established  himself  as 
the  keeper  of  an  Italian  warehouse,  in  Charles  Street,  Berkeley 
Square,  where,  if  he  does  not  thrive,  every  one  who  knows  any 
thing  of  his  character  will  say  he  deserves  to  do  so.] 

(2)  [“  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 

All  this  is  well  to  say; 

But  if  I in  thy  sandals  stood, 

I’d  laugh  to  get  away.” — MS.] 

t)  V'  For  who  would  trust  a paramour, 

Or  e’en  a wedded  freere, 

Tnough  her  blue  eyes  were  streaming  o’er, 

And  torn  her  yellow  hair?  ” — MS.] 

(4)  [“  I leave  England  without  regret — I shall  return  to  it  without 
pleasure.  I am  like  Adam,  the  first  convict  sentenced  to  transpor- 
tation ; but  I have  no  Eve,  and  have  eaten  no  apple  but  what  was 
sour  as  a crab.” — Lord  B.  to  Mr.  Hodgson .] 

(5)  [From  the  following  passage  in  a letter  to  Mr.  Dallas,  it 
would  appear  that  that  gentleman  had  recommended  the  suppres- 
sion or  alteration  of  this  stanza : — “ I do  not  mean  to  exchange  the 
ninth  verse  of  the  ‘ Good  Night.’  I have  no  reason  to  suppose  my 
dog  better  than  his  brother  brutes,  mankind;  and  Argus,  we  know 
to  be  a fable.”] 

f(i)  [Here  follows,  in  the  original  MS.: — 


“ With  thee,  my  bark,  I’ll  swiftly  go 
Athwart  the  foaming  brine ; 

Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear’st  me  to. 

So  not  again  to  mine. 

Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark  blue  waves ! 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 

Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  caves ! 

My  native  Land — Good  Night  1 ”7 

XIV. 

On,  on  the  vessel  flies,  the  land  is  gone, 

And  winds  are  rude,  in  Biscay’s  sleepless  bay. 

Four  days  are  sped,  but  with  the  fifth,  anon, 

New  shores  descried  make  every  bosom  gay; 

And  Cintra’s  mountain  greets  them  on  their  way, 
And  Tagus  dashing  onward  to  the  deep, 

His  fabled  golden  tribute  bent  to  pay ; 

And  soon  on  board  the  Lusian  pilots  leap, 

And  steer ’twixt  fertile  shores  where  yet  few  rustics  reap 

xv. 

Oh,  Christ ! it  is  a goodly  sight  to  see 
What  Heaven  hath  done  for  this  delicious  land ! 
What  fruits  of  fragrance  blush  on  every  tree  ! 
What  goodly  prospects  o’er  the  hills  expand ! 

But  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious  hand  : 
And  when  the  Almighty  lifts  his  fiercest  scourge 
’Gainstthose  who  most  transgress  his  high  command. 
With  treble  vengeance  will  his  hot  shafts  urge 
G«ul’s  locust  host,  and  earth  from  fellest  foemen  purge.® 

XVI. 

What  beauties  doth  Lisboa9  first  unfold ! 

Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide, 

Which  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold,10 
But  now  whereon  a thousand  keels  did  ride 


“ Methinks  it  would  my  bosom  glad, 

To  change  my  proud  estate,. 

And  be  again  a laughing  lad 
With  one  belov’d  playmate. 

Since  youth  1 scarce  have  pass'd  an  hour 
Without  disgust  or  pain, 

Except  sometimes  in  Lady’s  bower, 

Or  when  the  bowl  I drain.”] 

(7)  [Originally,  the  “ little  page”  and  the  “ yeoman”  ware  l&tna. 
duced  in  the  following  stanzas : — 

“ And  of  his  train  there  was  a henchman  page. 

A peasant  boy,  who  served  his  master  weU  . 

And  often  would  his  pranksome  prat  - „r.gage 
Childe  Harold’s  ear,  when  his  p^uu  heart  did  swell 
With  sable  thoughts  that  disdain’d  to  tell. 

Then  would  he  sm.il®  in  him,  and  Alwin  smiled, 

When  angr..  rrom  his  young  lips  archly  fell 
The  gloomy  film  from  Harold’s  eye  beguiled; 

And  pleased  for  a glimpse  appear’d  the  woeful  Childe: 

Him  and  one  yeoman  only  did  he  take 
To  travel  eastward  to  a far  countrie ; 

And,  though  the  boy  was  griev’d  to  leave  the  lake 
On  whose  fair  banks  he  grew  from  infancy, 

Eftsoons  his  little  heart  beat  merrily 
With  hope  of  foreign  nations  to  behold, 

And  many  things  right  marvellous  to  see. 

Of  which  our  vaunting  voyagers  oft  have  told, 

In  many  a tome  as  true  as  Mandeville’s  of  old.”] 

(8)  [“  These  Lusian  brutes,  and  earth  from  worst  of  wretches 

purge.” — MS.] 

(9)  [“  A friend  advises  Ulissipont;  but  Lisboa  is  the  Portuguese 
word,  consequently  the  best.  Ulissipont  is  pedantic ; and  as  I had 
lugged  in  Hellas  and  Eros  not  long  before,  there  would  have  be*Q 
something  like  an  affectation  of  Greek  terms,  which  I wished  to 
avoid.  On  the  submission  of  Lusitania  to  the  Moors,  they  changed 
the  name  of  the  capital,  which  till  then  had  been  Ulisipo,  or 
Lispo ; because,  in  tbe  Arabic  alphabet,  the  letter  p is  not  u&ed. 
Hence,  I believe,  Lisboa;  whence  again,  the  French  Lisbonne, 
and  our  Lisbon. — God  knows  which  the  earlier  corruption  1 ” — 
Byron,  MS.] 

(10)  [“  Which  poets,  prone  to  lie,  have  paved  with  gold  " — MS.] 


6 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  I 


Of  mighty  strength,  since  Albion  was  allied, 

And  to  the  Lusians  did  her  aid  afford : 

A nation  swoln  with  ignorance  and  pride, 

Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  hand  that  waves  the  sword 
To  save  'them  from  the  wrath  of  Gaul  s unsparing 
lord/ 

XVII. 

But  whoso  entereth  within  this  town, 

That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  be, 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 

’Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  ee;1 2 
For  hut  and  palace  show  like  filthily: 

The  dingy  denizens  are  rear’d  in  dirt ; 

No  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surtout  or  shirt, 
though  shent  with  Egypt’s  plague,  unkempt,  un- 
wash’d; unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Boor,  paltry  slaves!  yet  born  ’midst  noblest  scenes — 
Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such  men  ? 

Do  ! Cintra’s3  glorious  Eden  intervenes, 

In  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 

Ah,  me ! what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen, 

To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates 
Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal  ken 
Than  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard  relates, 
Who  to  the  awe-struck  world  unlock’d  Elysium’s  gates  ? 

XIX. 

The  horrid  crags,  by  toppling  convent  crown’d, 

The  cork-trees  hoar  that  clothe  the  shaggy  steep, 
The  mountain-moss  by  scorching  skies  imbrown’d. 
The  sunken  glen,  whose  sunless  shrubs  must  weep, 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unruffled  deep, 

The  orange  tints  that  gild  the  greenest  bough, 

The  torrents  that  from  cliff  to  valley  leap, 

The  vine  on  high,  the  willow  branch  below, 

Mix’d  in  one  mighty  scene,  with  varied  beauty  glow. 


(1)  [By  comparing  this  and  the  thirteen  following  stanzas  with 
the  account  of  his  progress  which  Lord  Byron  sent  home  to  his 
mother,  the  reader  will  see  that  they  are  the  exact  echoes  of  the 
thoughts  which  occurred  to  his  mind  as  he  went  over  the  spots  de- 
scribed.— Moore.] 

(2)  [“  ’Mid  many  things  that  grieve  both  nose  and  ee.” — MS.] 

(3)  [“  To  make  amends  for  the  filthiness  of  Lisbon,  and  its 
still  filthier  inhabitants,  the  village  of  Cintra,  about  fifteen  miles 
from  the  capital,  is,  perhaps,  in  every  respect  the  most  delightful  in 
Europe.  It  contains  beauties  of  every  description,  natural  and 
artificial:  palaces  and  gardens  rising  in  the  midst  of  rocks, 
cataracts,  and  precipices;  convents  on  stupendous  heights ; a dis- 
tant view  of  the  sea  and  the  Tagus ; and,  besides,  (though  that  is 
a secondary  consideration),  is  remarkable  as  the  scene  of  Sir  Hew 
Dalrymple’s  convention.  It  unites  in  itself  all  the  wildness  of  the 
western  Highlands  with  the  verdure  of  the  south  of  France.” — B. 
to  Mrs  Byron,  1809.] 

(4)  The  convent  of  “Our  Lady  of  Punishment,”  Nossa  Senora 
de  Pena,  on  the  summit  of  the  rock.  Below,  at  some  distance,  is 
the  Cork  Convent,  where  St.  Honorius  dug  his  den,  over  which  is 
his  epitaph.  From  the  hills,  the  sea  adds  to  the  beauty  of  the 
view. — Note  to  1 at  Edition. — Since  the  publication  of  this  poem,  I 
have  been  informed  of  the  misapprehension  of  the  term  Nossa 
Senora  de  Pena.  It  was  owing  to  the  want  of  the  tilde  or  mark 
over  the  n,  which  alters  the  signification  of  the  word  : with  it, 
Pena  signifies  a rock ; without  it,  Pena  has  the  sense  I adopted.  I 
do  not  think  it  necessary  to  alter  the  passage;  as,  though  the  com- 
mon acceptation  affixed  to  it  is  “Our  Lady  of  the  Rock,”  I may 
well  assume  the  other  sense  from  the  severities  practised  there. — 
Note  to  2d  Edition. 

(5)  It  is  a well-known  .act,  Uiat  in  the  year  1809,  the  assassina- 

tions in  the  streets  of  Lisbon  and  its  vicinity  were  not  confined  by 

the  Portuguese  to  their  countrymen;  but  that  Englishmen  were 
daily  butchered : and  so  far  from  redress  being  obtained,  we  were 
requested  not  to  interfere  if  we  perceived  any  compatriot  defending 
himself  against  his  allies.  I was  once  stopped  in  the  way  to  the 


XX. 

Then  slowly  climb  the  many-winding  way. 

And  frequent  turn  to  linger  as  you  go, 

From  loftier  rocks  new  loveliness  survey, 

And  rest  ye  at  “ Our  Lady’s  house  of  woe;  ”4 
Where  frugal  monks  their  Jittle  relics  show, 

And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  tell : 

Here  impious  men  have  punish’d  been,  and  lo ! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  Honorius  long  did  dwell, 

In  hope  to  merit  Heaven  by  making  earth  a hell. 

xxi. 

And  here  and  there,  as  up  the  crags  you  spring, 
Mark  many  rudc-carved  crosses  near  the  path : 

Yet  deem  not  these  devotion’s  offering — 

These  are  memorials  frail  of  murderous  wrath : 

For  wheresoe’er  the  shrieking  victim  hath 
Pour’d  forth  his  blood  beneath  the  assassin’s  knife. 
Some  hand  erects  a cross  of  mouldering  lath ; 

And  grove  and  glen  with  thousand  such  are  rife 
Throughout  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not 
life.5 

XXII. 

On  sloping  mounds,  or  in  the  vale  beneath, 

Are  domes  where  whilome  kings  did  make  repair; 
But  now  the  wild  flowers  round  them  only  breathe; 
Yet  ruin’d  splendour  still  is  lingering  there, 

And  yonder  towers  the  Prince’s  palace  fair : 

There  thou  too,  Yatliek!6  England’s  wealthiest  son, 
Once  form’d  thy  Paradise,  as  not  aware 
When  wanton  Wealth  her  mightiest  deedshath  done, 
Meek  Peace  voluptuous  lures  was  ever  wont  to  shun.7 

XXIII. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure  plan, 
Beneath  yon  mountain’s  ever  beauteous  brow; 

But  now,  as  if  a thing  unblest  by  Man, 

Thy  fairy  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou  S 


theatre  at  eight  o’clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  streets  were  not 
more  empty  than  they  generally  are  at  that  hour,  opposite  to  an 
open  shop,  and  in  a carriage  with  a friend : had  we  not  fortunately 
been  armed,  I have  not  the  least  doubt  that  we  should  have 
“ adorned  a tale,”  instead  of  telling  one.  The  crime  of  assassina- 
tion is  not  confined  to  Portugal:  in  Sicily  and  Malta  we  ate 
knocked  on  the  head  at  a handsome  average  nightly,  and  not  a 
Sicilian  or  Maltese  is  ever  punished  1 

(6)  [“  Vathek”  (says  Lord  Byron,  in  one  of  his  diaries,)  “ was 
one  of  the  tales  I had  a very  early  admiration  of.  For  correctness 
of  costume,  beauty  of  description,  and  power  of  imagination,  it  far 
surpasses  all  European  imitations;  and  bears  such  marks  ot 
originality,  that  those  who  have  visited  the  East  will  find  some 
difficulty  in  believing  it  to  be  more  than  a translation.  As  an  eas- 
tern tale,  even  Rasselas  must  bow  before  it;  his  ‘ happy  valley’  will 
not  bear  a comparison  with  the  ‘Hall  of  Eblis.’” — [William 
Beckford,  Esq.,  son  of  the  once  celebrated  alderman,  heir  to 
his  enormous  wealth,  published,  at  the  early  age  of  eighteen, 
“ Memoirs  of  extraordinary  Painters;”  and  in  the  year  after,  the 
romance  thus  eulogised.  After  sitting  for  Hindon  in  several  par- 
liaments, this  gifted  person  was  induced  to  fix,  for  a time,  his 
residence  in  Portugal,  where  the  memory  of  his  magnificence  was 
fresh  at  the  period  of  Lord  Byron's  pilgrimage.  Returning  to 
England,  he  realised  all  the  outward  shows  of  Gothic  grandeur  in 
his  unsubstantial  pageant  of  Fonthill  Abbey ; and  has  more 
recently  been  indulging  his  fancy  with  another,  probably  not  more 
lasting,  monument  of  architectural  caprice,  in  the  vicinity  of  Bath. 
It  is  much  to  be  regretted,  that,  after  a lapse  of  fif’  years,  M*. 
Beckford’s  literary  reputation  should  continue  to  rest  entirely  on 
his  juvenile,  however  remarkable,  performances.  It  is  said,  how- 
ever, that  he  has  prepared  several  works  for  posthumous  pub- 
lication.] 

(7)  [“  When  Wealth  and  Taste  the»r  worst  and  best  have  done, 

Meek  Peace  pollution’s  lure  voluptuous  still  must 
shun.” — MS.] 


CANTO  I. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


7 


Here  giant  weeds  a passage  scarce  allow  * 

To  halls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide ; 

Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunces  on  earth  supplied ; 

Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time’s  ungentle  tide ! 

XXIV. 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened ! 1 * 
Oh ! dome  displeasing  unto  British  eye  ! 

With  diadem  hight  foolscap,  lo ! a fiend, 

A little  fiend  that  scoffs  incessantly. 

There  sits  in  parchment  robe  array’d,  and  by 
His  side  is  hung  a seal  and  sable  scroll, 

Where  blazon’d  glare  names  known  to  chivalry, 

And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll, 

Whereat  the  tjrchin  points,  and  laughs  with  all  his  soul.* 

XXV. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foil’d  the  knights  in  Marialva’s  dome  : 

Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
•And  turn’d  a nation’s  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 

Here  Folly  dash’d  to  earth  the  victor’s  plume. 

And  Policy  regain’d  what  arms  had  lost : 

For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels  bloom ! 

Woe  to  the  conqu’ring,  not  the  conquer’d  host. 
Since  baffled  Triumph  droops  on  Lusitania’s  coast ! 

XXVI. 

And  ever  since  that  martial  synod  met, 

Britannia  sickens,  Cintra ! at  thy  name  : 

And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret. 

And  fain  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could,  for  shame. 
How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim ! 

Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nations  sneer, 

To  view  these  champions  cheated  of  their  fame, 

By  foes  in  fight  o’erthrown,  yet  victors  here, 

Where  Scorn  her  finger  points  through  many  a coming 
year? 


(1)  The  Convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palace  of  the 
Marchese  Marialva. — [“  The  armistice,  the  negotiations,  the  con- 
vention itself,  and  the  execution  of  its  provisions,  were  all 
commenced,  conducted,  and  concluded,  at  the  distance  of  thirty 
miles  from  Cintra,  with  which  place  they  had  not  the  slightest 
connection,  political,  military,  or  local;  yet  Lord  Byron  has 
gravely  asserted,  in  prose  and  verse,  that  the  convention  was 
signed  at  the  Marquis  of  Marialva’s  house  at  Cintra;  and  the 
author  of  ‘ The  Diary  of  an  Invalid,’  improving  upon  the  poet’s 
discovery,  detected  the  stains  of  the  ink  spilt  by  Junot  upon  the 
occasion.” — Napier's  History  of  the  Peninsular  War.] 

(2)  The  passage  stood  differently  ir.  the  original  MS.  Some 
verses  which  the  poet  omitted  at  the  entreaty  of  his  friends  can 
now  ofiend  no  one,  and  may  perhaps  amuse  many : — 

In  golden  characters  right  well  design’d, 

First  on  the  list  appeareth  one  “ Junot;  ” 

Then  certain  other  glorious  names  we  find, 

Which  rhyme  compelleth  me  to  place  below; 

Dull  victors ! baffled  by  a vanquish’d  foe, 

Wheedled  by  conynge  tongues  of  laurels  due, 

Stand,  worthy  of  each  other,  in  a row  — 

Sir  Arthur,  Harry,  and  the  dizzard  Hew 
Dalrymple,  seely  wight,  sore  dupe  of  t’  other  tew. 

Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foil’d  the  knights  in  Marialva’s  dome: 

Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 

And  turn’d  a nation’s  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 

For  well  I wot,  when  first  the  news  did  come. 

That  Vimiera’s  field  by  Gaul  was  lost, 

For  paragraph  ne  paper  scarce  had  room, 

Such  Pseans  teemed  for  our  triumphant  host, 
la  Courier,  Chronicle,  and  eke  in  Morning  Post: 

But  when  Convention  sent  his  handy-work, 

Tens,  tongues,  feet,  hands,  combined  in  wild  uproar; 
Mayor,  aldermen,  laid  down  the  uplifted  fork ; 

Thn  Bench  of  Bishops  half  forgot  to  snore ; 

Ster  l Cobbctt,  who  for  one  whole  week  forbore 


XXVII. 

So  deem’d  the  Cliilde,  as  o’er  the  mountains  he 
Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise : 

Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee. 
More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies  • 
Though  here  awhile  he  learn’d  to  moralize, 

For  Meditation  fix’d  at  times  on  him  ; 

And  conscious  Reason  whisper’d  to  despise 
His  early  youth  misspent  in  maddest  whim ; 

But  as  he  gazed  on  truth  his  aching  eyes  grew  dim. 

XXVIII. 

To  horse  ! to  horse  ! 3 he  quits,  for  ever  quits 
A scene  of  peace,  though  soothing  to  his  soul : 
Again  he  rouses  from  his  moping  fits, 

But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowl. 

Onward  he  flies,  nor  fix’d  as  yet  the  goal 
Where  he  shall  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage ; 

And  o’er  him  many  changing  scenes  must  roll. 

Ere  toil  his  thirst  for  travel  can  assuage. 

Or  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay, 

Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusians’  luckless  queen ; 4 
Auci  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  array. 

And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  seen ; 

Lordlings  and  freres — ill-sorted  fry  I ween ! 

But  here  the  Babylonian  whore  hath  built 5 
A dome,  where  flaunts  she  in  such  glorious  sheen, 
That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath  spilt, 
And  bow  the  knee  to  pomp  that  loves  to  varnish  guilt. 

XXX. 

O’er  vales  that  teem  with  fruits,  romantic  hills, 
(Oh,  that  such  hills  upheld  a freeborn  race  !) 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 

Cliilde  Harold  wends  through  many  a pleasant  place. 


To  question  aught,  once  more  with  transport  leapt, 

And  bit  his  devilish  quill  agen,  and  swore 
With  foe  such  treaty  never  should  be  kept, 

Then  burst  the  blatant  * beast,  and  roar’d,  and  raged,  and— 
slept  1 

Thus  unto  Heaven  appeal’d  the  people : Heaven, 

Which  loves  the  lieges  of  our  gracious  King, 

Decreed,  that,  ere  our  generals  were  forgiven, 

Inquiry  should  be  held  about  the  thing. 

But  Mercy  cloak’d  the  babes  beneath  her  wing; 

And  as  they  spared  our  foes,  so  spared  we  them; 

(Where  wa3  the  pity  of  our  sires  for  Byng  ? +) 

Yet  knaves,  not  idiots,  should  the  law  condemn  • 

Then  live,  ye  gallant  knights ! and  bless  your  judges’  phlegm  1 

(3)  [“  After  remaining  ten  days  in  Lisbon,  we  sent  our  baggage 
and  part  of  our  servants  by  sea  to  Gibraltar,  and  travelled  oh 
horseback  to  Seville ; a distance  of  nearly  four  hundred  miles. 
The  horses  are  excellent:  we  rode  seventy  miles  a-day.  F.ggs  and 
wine,  and  hard  beds,  are  all  the  accommodation  we  found,  and,  in 
such  torrid  weather,  quite  enough.”  B.  Letters,  1809.J 

'*(4)  “ Her  luckless  Majesty  went  subsequently  mad;  and  Dr. 
Willis,  who  so  dexterously  cudgelled  kingly  pericraniums,  could 
make  nothing  of  hers.” — Byron  MS.  [The  queen  laboured  under 
a melancholy  kind  of  derangement,  from  which  she  never  re- 
covered. She  died  at  the  Brazils,  in  1816.] 

(5)  The  extent  of  Mafra  is  prodigious:  it  contains  a palace, 


* “ Blatant  beast  ” — a figure  for  the  mob,  I think  first  used  by 
Smollett,  in  his  “ Adventures  of  an  Atom.”  Horace  has  the  “ bellua 
multorum  capitum  : ” in  England,  fortunately  enough,  the  illustrious 
mobility  have  not  even  one. 

t By  this  query  it  is  not  meant  that  our  foolish  generals  should 
have  been  shot,  but  that  Byng  might  have  been  spared,  though  the 
one  suffered  and  the  others  escaped,  probably  for  Candide's  reason, 
“ pour  encourager  les  autres.”  [See  Croker’s  “ Boswell,”  vol.  i. 
p.  298. ; and  the  Quarterly  Review,  vol.  xxvii.  p.  2o7,  where  the 
question,  whether  the  admiral  was  or  was  not  a political  martyr,  is 
treated  at  large.] 


8 


LOUD  MliON’S  WORKS. 


CAVIO  * 


Though  sluggards  deem  it  but  a foolish  chase, 

And  marvel  men  should  quit  their  easy  chair. 

The  toilsome  way,  and  long,  long  league  to  trace. 
Oh  ! there  is  sweetness  in  the  mountain  air, 

And  life,  that  bloated  Ease  can  never  hope  to  share. 

XXXI. 

More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede, 

And),  less  luxuriant,  smoother  vales  extend ; 
Immense  horizon-bounded  plains  succeed ! 

Ear  as  the  eye  discerns,  withouten  end, 

Spain’s  realms  appear  whereon  her  shepherds  tend 
Flocks,  whose  rich  fleece  right  well  the  trader 
knows — 

Now  must  the  pastor’s  arm  his  lambs  defend : 

For  Spain  is  compass’d  by  unyielding  foes, 

And  all  must  shield  their  all,  or  share  Subjection’s  woes. 

XXXII. 

Where  Lusitania  and  her  Sister  meet. 

Deem  ye  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide  ? 

Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  greet, 

Doth  Tayo  interpose  his  mighty  tide  ? 

Or  dark  Sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride  ? 

Or  fence  of  art,  like  China’s  vastv  wall  ? — 

Ne  barrier  wall,  lie  river  deep  and  wide, 

Ne  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall, 

Rise  like  the  rocks  that  part  Hispania’s  land  from  Gaul : 

XXXIII. 

But  these  between  a silver  streamlet  glides, 

And  scarce  a name  distinguished  the  brook, 
Though  rival  kingdoms  press  its  verdant  sides. 

Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd  on  his  crook. 

And  vacant  on  the  rippling  waves  doth  look, 

That  peaceful  still  ’twixt  bitterest  foemen  flow ; 

For  proud  each  peasant  as  the  noblest  duke  : 

Well  doth  the  Spanish  liind  the  difference  know 
Twixt  him  aud  Lusian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low.1 

XXXIV. 

But  ere  the  mingling  bounds  have  far  been  pass’d, 
Dark  Guadiana  rolls  his  power  along2 
In  sullen  billows,  murmuring  and  vast, 

So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among.3 4 
Whilome  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 


convent,  and  most  superb  church.  The  six  organs  are  the  most 
beautiful  I ever  beheld,  in  point  of  decoration : we  did  not  hear 
them,  but  were  told  that  their  tones  were  correspondent  to  their 
splendour.  Mafra  is  termed  the  Escurial  of  Portugal.  [“  About  ten 
miles  to  the  right  of  Cintra,”  says  Lord  Byron  in  a letter  to  his 
mother,  “ is  the  palace  of  Mafra.  the  boast  of  Portugal,  as  it  might 
be  of  any  country,  in  point  of  magnificence,  without  elegance. 
There  is  a convent  annexed:  the  monks,  who  possess  large 
revenues,  are  courteous  enough,  and  understand  Latin  ; so  that  we 
had  a long  conversation.  They  have  a large  library,  and  asked 
me  if  the  English  had  any  books  in  their  country.” — Mafra  was 
erected  by  John  V.,  in  pursuance  of  a vow,  made  in  a dangerous 
fit  of  illness,  to  found  a convent  for  the  use  of  the  poorest  friary  in 
the  kingdom.  Upon  inquiry,  this  poorest  was  found  at  Mafra: 
where  twelve  Franciscans  lived  together  in  a hut.  There  is  a 
magnificent  view  of  the  existing  edifice  in  “ Finden’s  Illustrations.”] 

(1)  As  I found  the  Portuguese,  so  I have  characterised  them. 
That  they  are  since  improved,  at  least  in  courage,  is  evident. 
The  late  exploits  of  Lord  Wellington  have  effaced  the  follies  of 
Cintra.  He  has,  indeed,  done  wonders : he  has,  perhaps,  changed 
the  character  of  a nation,  reconciled  rival  superstitions,  and  baffled 
an  enemy  who  never  retreated  before  his  predecessors. — 1812. 

(2)  [“  But  ere  the  bounds  of  Spain  have  far  been  pass’d, 

For  ever  famed  in  many  a noted  song.”— MS.] 

(8)  [Lord  Byron  seems  to  hava  thus  early  acquired  enough  of 
Spanish  to  understand  and  appreciate  the  grand  body  of  ancient 


Of  Moor  and  Kniglit  in  mailed  splendour  chest : 
Here  ceased  the  swift  their  race,  here  sunk  the  strong; 
The  Paviiim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 
Mix’d  on  the  bleeding  stream,  by  lloating  hosts  oppress’d. 

XXXV. 

Oh,  lovely  Spain ! renown’ d,  romantic  land ! 

Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore. 

When  Cava’s  traitor-sire  first  call’d  the  band 
That  dyed  thy  mountain  streams  with  Gotliic  gore  ?* 
Where  are  those  bloody  banners  which  of  yore 
Waved  o’er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale, 

And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  their  shore  ? 

Red  gleam’d  the  cross,  and  waned  the  crescent  pale, 
WhileAfric’s  echoes  thrill’d  with  Moorish  matrons’  wail 

XXXVI. 

Teems  not  each  ditty  with  the  glorious  tule  ? 

Ah ! such,  alas  ! the  hero’s  amplest  fate ! 

When  granite  moulders,  and  when  records  fail, 

A peasant’s  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 

Pride  ! bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  estate, 
See  how  the  mighty  shrink  into  a song ! 

Can  Volume,  Pillar,  Pile,  preserve  thee  great? 

Or  must  thou  trust  Tradition’s  simple  tongue, 
When  Flattery  sleeps  with  thee,  and  History  does  thee 
wrong  ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake,  ye  sons  of  Spain ! awake ! advance ! 

Lo  ! Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddess,  cries ; 

But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lance. 

Nor  shakes  her  crimson  plumage  in  the  skies : 

Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies, 

And  speaks  in  thunder  through  yon  engine’s  roar  ! 
In  every  peal  she  calls — “ Awake ! arise !” 

Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yore, 

When  her  war-song  was  heard  on  Andalusia’s  shore  ? 

XXXVIII. 

Hark  ! heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note  P 
Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath  ? 

Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote ; 

Nor  saved  your  brethren  ere  they  sank  beneath 
Tyrants  and  tyrants’  slaves  ? — the  fires  of  death, 
The  bale-fires  flash  on  high  :-#-frmn  rock  to  rock 
Each  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe ; 
Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc,5 
Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  shock. 


popular  poetry, — unequalled  in  Europe, — which  must  ever  form  the 

pride  of  that  magnificent  language.  See  his  beautiful  version  of 

one  of  the  best  of  the  ballads  of  the  Granada  war — the  “ Romance 
muy  doloroso  del  sitio  y toma  de  Alhama.”] 

(4)  Count  Julian’s  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spain.  Pelagius 
preserved  his  independence  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Asturias,  and 
the  descendants  of  his  followers,  after  some  centuries,  completed 
their  struggle  by  the  conquest  of  Grenada. — [“  Almost  all  the 
Spanish  historians,  as  well  as  the  voice  of  tradition,  ascribe  the 
invasion  of  the  Moors  to  the  forcible  violation  by  Roderick  upon 
Florinda,  called  by  the  Moors  Caba,  or  Cava.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  Count  Julian,  one  of  the  Gothic  monarch’s  principal  lieutenants, 
who,  when  the  crime  was  perpetrated,  was  engaged  in  the  defence 
of  Ceuta  against  the  Moors.  In  his  indignation  at  the  ingratitude 
of  his  sovereign,  and  the  dishonour  of  his  daughter,  Count  Julian 
forgot  the  duties  of  a Christian  and  a patriot,  and.  forming  an 
alliance  with  Musa,  then  the  Caliph’s  lieutenant  in  Africa,  ho 
countenanced  the  invasion  of  Spain  by  a body  of  Saracens  and 
Africans,  commanded  by  the  celebrated  Tarik  ; the  issue  of  which 
was  the  defeat  and  death  of  Roderick,  and  the  occupation  of  almost 
the  whole  peninsula  by  the  Moors.  The  Spaniards,  in  detestation 
of  Florinda’s  memory,  are  said,  by  Cervantes,  never  to  bestow  that 
name  upon  any  human  female,  reserving  it  for  their  dogs.” — Si  a 
Walter  Scott.] 

(5)  [ “ from  rock  to  rock 

Blue  columns  soar  aloft  in  sulphurous  wreath, 

Fragments  on  fragments  in  confusion  knock.” — MS.] 


CAN1 J L 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


9 


XXXIX. 

Lo ! 'where  f lie  Giant  on  the  mountain  stands. 

His  blood-red  tresses  deep’ning  in  the  sun, 

With  death-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands, 

And  eye  that  scorchcth  all  it  glares  upon ; 

J testless  it  rolls,  now  fix’d,  and  now  anon 
Plashing  afar, — and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers,  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done; 
For  on  this  morn  three  potent  nations  meet, 

To  shed  before  liis  shrine  the  blood  lie  deems  most  sweet. 

XL. 

By  heaven ! it  is  a splendid  sight  to  see 
(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother  there) 
Their  rival  scarfs  of  mix’d  embroidery, 

Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air ! 

What  gallant  war-hounds  rouse  them  from  their  lair, 
And  gnash  their  fangs,  loud  yelling  for  the  prey ! 

All  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share ; 

The  Grave  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prize  away, 

Anri  Havoc  scarce  for  joy  can  number  their  array. 

XLI. 

Three  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice  ; 

Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high ; 

Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies  ; 
The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  Victory  ! 

The  foe,  the  victim,  and  the  fond  ally 
That  fights  for  all,  but  ever  fights  in  vain, 

Are  met — as  if  at  home  they  could  not  die — 

To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera’s  plain, 

And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  +o  gain.1 

XIII. 

There  shall  they  rot — Ambition’s  honour’d  fools  !2 
Yes,  Honour  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ! 
Vain  Sophistry ! in  these  behold  the  tools, 

The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 
By  myriads,  when  they  dare  to  pave  their  way 
With  hufhan.  hearts — to  what  ? — a dream  alone. 

Can  despots  compass  aught  that  hails  their  sway  ? 
Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own, 

Save  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone? 

XLIII. 

Oh,  Albuera,  glorious  field  of  grief ! 

As  o’er  thy  plain  the  Pilgrim  prick’d  his  steed, 

Who  could  foresee  thee,  in  a space  so  brief, 

A scene  where  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed! 
Peace  to  the  perish’d  ! may  the  warrior’s  meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolong! 

Till  others  fall  where  other  chieftains  lead, 

Thy  name  shall  circle  round  the  gaping  throng, 

And  shine  in  worthless  lays,  the  theme  of  transient 
song.3 


(1)  See  Appendix,  Note  A. 

(2)  [“  There  let  them  rot — while  rhymers  tell  the  fools 

How  honour  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  I 
Liars,  avaunt!’’ — MS.] 

(3)  [This  stanza  is  not  in  the  original  MS.  It  was  written  at 
hewstead,  in  August,  1811,  shortly  after  the  battle  of  Albuera.] 

(4)  [“  At  Seville  we  lodged  in  the  house  of  two  Spanish  un- 
married ladies,  women  of  character,  the  eldest  a fine  woman, 
the  youngest  pretty  The  freedom  of  manner,  which  is  general 
here,  astonished  me  not  a little;  and,  in  the  course  of  further 

observation,  1 find  that  reserve  is  not  the  characteristic  of  Spanish 

belles.  The  eldest  honoured  your  unworthy  son  with  very  par- 
ticular attention,  embracing  him  with  great  tenderness  at  parting 
(I  was  there  but  three  days),  after  cutting  off  a lock  of  his  hair, 
and  presenting  him  with  one  of  her  own,  about  three  feet  in  length, 
which  I send,  and  beg  you  will  retain  till  my  teturn.  Her  last 


XLIV. 

Enough  of  Battle’s  minions  ! let  them  play 
Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for  fame : 
Fame  that  will  scarce  re-animate  their  clay. 

Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single  name. 

In  sooth  ’twere  sad  to  thwart  their  noble  aim 
Who  strike,  blest  hirelings!  tor  their  country’s  good, 
And  die,  that  living  might  have  proved  her  shame ; 
Perish’d,  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud, 

Or  in  a narrower  sphere  wild  Rapine’s  path  pursued. 

XLV. 

Full  swiftly  Harold  wends  his  lonely  way 
Where  proud  Sevilla4  triumphs  unsubdued: 

Yet  is  she  free — the  spoiler’s  wished-for  prey ! 

Soon,  soon  shall  Conquest’s  fiery  foot  intrude. 
Blackening  her  lovely  domes  with  traces  rude. 
Inevitable  hour ! ’Gainst  fate  to  strive 
Where  Desolation  plants  her  famish’d  brood 
Is  vain,  or  Ilion,  Tyre  might  yet  survive, 

And  Virtue  vanquish  all,  and  Murder  cease  to  thrive. 

XLYI. 

But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  doom, 

The  feast,  the  song,  the  revel  here  abounds ; 

Strange  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  consume, 
Nor  bleed  these  patriots  with  their  country’s  wounds; 
Nor  here  War’s  clarion,  but  Love’s  rebeck5  sounds; 
Here  Folly  still  his  votaries  inthralls ; [rounds  : 
And  young-eyed  Lewdness  walks  her  midnight 
Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  Capitals, 

Still  to  the  last  kind  Vice  clings  to  the  tott’ring  walls. 

XLVII. 

Not  so  the  rustic — with  his  trembling  mate 
He  lurks,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar, 

Lest  he  should  view  his  vineyard  desolate, 

Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  brcatli  of  war. 

No  more  beneath  soft  Eve’s  consenting  stai 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  castanct : 

Ah,  monarchs  ! could  ye  taste  the  mirth  ye  mar, 
Not  in  the  toils  of  Glory  would  ye  fret ; [yet ! 
The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  Man  be  happy 

XLVIII. 

How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer  ? 

Of  love,  romance,  devotion  is  his  lay, 

As  whilome  he  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheer, 

His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way  P 
No  ! as  he  speeds,  he  chants  “ Viva  el  ltey  !”6 
And  checks  Ids  song  to  execrate  Godov, 

The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
When  first  Spain’s  queen  beheld  the  black-eyed  boy, 
And  gore-faced  Treason  sprung  from  her  adulterate 

joy= 


words  were,  * Adios,  tuhermoso!  me  gusto  mucho.’  ‘ Adieu,  you 
pretty  fellow!  you  please  me  much.’” — Lord  £ to  his  Mother 
Aug.  1809.] 

(5)  [A  kind  of  fiddle,  with  only  two  strings,  played  rn  by  a bow 
said  to  have  been  brought  by  the  Moors  into  Spain.] 

(6)  “ Viva  el  Rey  Fernando!”  Long  live  King  Ferdinand ! is 
the  chorus  of  most  of  the  Spanish  patriotic  songs.  They  are 
chiefly  in  dispraise  of  the  old  king  Charles,  the  Queen,  and  the 
Prince  of  Peace.  I have  heard  many  of  them ; some  of  the  airs 
are  beautiful.  Don  Manual  Godoy,  the  Principe  de  In  Paz, 
of  an  ancient  but  decayed  family,  was  born  at  Badajoz,  on  the 
frontiers  of  Portugal,  and  was  originally  in  the  ranks  of  the 
Spanish  guards;  till  his  person  attracted  the  queen’s  eyes,  and 
raised  him  to  the  dukedom  of  Alcudia,  & c.  &c.  It  is  to  thu 
man  that  the  Spaniards  universally  impute  the  ruin  of  their 
country. 


C 


10 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


llJTTO  l 


XLIX. 

Oil  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crown’d 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets  rest, 
Wide  scatter’d  hoof-marks  dint  the  wounded  ground; 
And,  scathed  by  fire,  the  greensward’s  darken’d  vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia’s  guest : 

Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host, 
Here  the  bold  peasant  storm’d  the  dragon’s  nest ; 
Still  does  lie  mark  it  with  triumphant  boast, 

Aid  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were  won  and 
lost. 

L. 

And  whomsoe’er  along  the  path  you  meet 
Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue, 

Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet : 1 
Woe  to  the  man  that  walks  in  public  view 
Without  of  loyalty  this  token  true  : 

Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  stroke ; 

And  sorely  would  the  Gallic  foeman  rue, 

If  subtle  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloke, 
f'ould  blunt  the  sabre’s  edge,  or  clear  the  cannon’s 
smoke. 

LI. 

At  every  turn  Morena’s  dusky  height 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery’s  iron  load; 

And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight, 

The  mountain-howitzer,  the  broken  road, 

The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o’erflow’d, 

The  station’d  bands,  the  never-vacant  watch. 

The  magazine  in  rocky  durance  stow’d, 

The  bolster’d  steed  beneath  the  shed  of  thatch, 

Che  ball-piled  pyramid,2 3  the  ever-blazing  match, 

HI. 

Portend  the  deeds  to  come  : — but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway, 

A moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod ; 

A little  moment  deigneth  to  delay : 

Soon  will  his  legions  sweep  through  these  their  way; 
The  West  must  own  the  Scourger  of  the  world. 

Ah  ! Spain ! how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day, 
When  soars  Gaul’s  Vulture,  with  his  wings  unfurl’d, 
And  thou  slialt  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hades  hurl’d. 

HI  I. 

And  must  they  fall  ? the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave, 
To  swell  one  moated  Chief’s  unwholesome  reign  ? 
No  step  between  submission  and  a grave? 

The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain  ? 

And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  suppliant’s  appeal  ? 

Is  all  fhat  desperate  Valour  acts  in  vain  ? 

And  Counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  Zeal, 
flie  Veteran’s  skill,  Youth’s  fire,  and  Manhood’s  heart 
of  steel ? 


( 1)  The  red  cockade,  with  Fernando  VII.”  in  the  centre. 

t'2)  All  who  have  seen  a battery  will  recollect  the  pyramidal 
form  in  which  shot  and  shells  are  piled.  The  Sierra  Morena  was  far- 
tif.cd  in  every  defile  through  which  I passed  in  my  way  to  Seville. 

(3)  Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragoza,  who  by 
her  valour  elevated  herself  to  the  highest  rank  of  heroines.  When 
the  author  was  at  Seville,  she  walked  daily  on  the  Prado,  deco- 
rated with  medals  and  orders,  by  command  of  the  Junta.— [The 
exploits  of  Augustina,  the  famous  heroine  of  both  the  sieges  of 
Saragoza,  are  recorded  at  length  in  Southey’s  History  of  the 
Peninsular  War.  At  the  time  who  i she  first  attracted  notice,  by 
mounting  a battery  where  her  lover  had /alien,  and  working  a gun 
in  his  loom,  she  was  in  her  twenty-second  year,  exceedingly 
pretty,  and  it  a soil  feminine  style  of  beauty.  She  has  further  had 


LIV. 

Is  it  for  this  the  Spani-sh  maid,  aroused, 

Hangs  on  the  willow  her  unstrung  guitar, 

And,  all  unsex’d,  the  auiace  hath  espoused, 

Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of  war? 
And  she,  whom  once  the  semblance  of  a scar 
Appall’d,  an  owlet’s  larum  chill’d  with  dread, 

Now  views  the  column  scattering  bay’nct  jar, 

The  falchion  flash,  and  o’er  the  yet  warm  dead 
Stalks  with  Minerva’s  step  where  Mars  might  quake 
to  tread. 

LV. 

Ye  who  shall  marvel  when  you  hear  her  tale, 

Oh  ! had  you  known  her  in  her  softer  hour, 

Mark’d  her  black  eye  that  mocks  her  coal-black  veil, 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  Lady’s  bower, 

Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  the  painter’s  power. 
Her  fairy  form,  with  more  than  female  grace, 

\ Scarce  would  you  deem  that  Saragoza’ s tower 

Beheld  her  smile  in  Danger’s  Gorgon  face,  [chase. 
Thin  the  closed  ranks,  and  lead  in  Glory’s  fearful 

LVI. 

Her  lover  sinks — she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear; 

Her  chief  is  slain— she  fills  his  fatal  post ; 

Her  fellows  flee — she  checks  their  base  career; 

The  foe  retires — she  heads  the  sallying  host ; 

Who  can  appease  like  her  a lover’s  ghost  ? 

Who  can  avenge  so  well  a leader’s  fall? 

What  maid  retrieve  when  man’s  flush’d  hope  is  lost  * 
Who  hang  so  fiercely  on  the  flying  Gaul, 

Foil’d  by  a woman’s  hand,  before  a batter’d  wall?* 

LYIT. 

Yet  are  Spain’s  maids  no  race  of  Amazons, 

But  form’d  for  all  the  witching  arts  of  love 
Though  thus  in  arms  they  emulate  her  sons. 

And  in  the  horrid  phalanx  dare  to  move, 

’Tis  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  the  dove. 

Pecking  the  hand  that  hovers  o’er  her  mate  : 

In  softness  as  in  firmness  far  above 
Remoter  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate  ; 

Her  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  charms  perchance  as 
great". 

LVIII. 

The  seal  Love’s  dimpling  finger  hath  impress’d 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his  touch:4 
Her  lips,  whose  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest, 

Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  such  : 

Her  glance  how  wildly  beautiful ! how  much 
Hath  Phoebus  woo’d  in  vain  to  spoil  her  cheek, 
Which  glows  yet  smoother  from  his  amorous  clutch ! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would  seek  ? 
IIow  poor  their  forms  appear ! how  languid,  wan,  and 
weak ! 


the  honour  to  be  painted  by  Wilkie,  and  alluded  to  in  "Words- 
worth's Dissertation  on  the  Convention  (misnamed)  of  Cintra; 
where  a noble  passage  concludes  in  these  words: — “ Saragoza  has 
exemplified  a melancholy,  yea,  a dismal  truth, — yet  '•onsolatory 
and  full  of  joy,— that  when  a people  are  called  sudden, y to  fight 
for  their  liberty,  and  are  soreiy  pressed  upon,  their  best  field  of 
battle  is  the  floors  uoon  which  their  children  have  played;  the 
chambers  where  the  family  of  each  man  lias  slept;  upon  or  under 
the  roofs  by  which  they  have  been  sheltered;  in  the  gardens  of 
their  recreation ; in  .he  street,  or  in  the  market-place ; before  the 
altars  of  their  temples,  and  among  their  congregated  dwelliags, 
blazing  or  uprooted.”] 

(4)  “ Sigilla  in  mento  impressa  Amoris  digitulo 

Vestigio  demonstrant  molJitudinern.”  Ai/l.  Gib 


CANTO  I. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


LIX. 

Match  me,  ye  climes  ! which  poets  love  to  laud  ; 
Match  me,  ye  harams  of  the  land ! where  now 1 
I strike  my  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  ev’n  a cynic  must  avow  ;2 
Match  me  those  Hourics,  whom  ye  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gale  lest  Love  should  ride  the  wind, 
With  Spain’s  dark-glancing  daughters  3 — deign  to 
know, 

There  your  wise  Prophet’s  paradise  we  find. 

His  black-eyed  maids  of  Heaven,  angelically  kind. 

LX. 

Oh,  thou  Parnassus ! 4 whom  I now  survey, 

Not  iD  the  phrensy  of  a dreamer’s  eye. 

Not  in  the  fabled  landscape  of  a lay, 

But  soaring  snow-clad  through  thy  native  sky, 

In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain  majesty ! 

What  marvel  if  I thus  essay  to  sing  ? 

The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thine  Echoes  with  his  string, 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse  will  wave 
her  wing. 

LXI. 

Oft  have  I dream’d  of  Thee ! whose  glorious 
name 

Who  knows  not,  knovrs  not  man’s  divincst  lore  : 
And  now  I view  thee,  ’tis,  alas  ! with  shame 
That  I in  feeblest  accents  must  adore. 

When  I recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore 
I tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee ; 

Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar, 

But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
Tn  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  I look  on  Thee ! 5 

LXII. 

Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  been, 
Whose  fate  to  distant  homes  confined  their  lot. 
Shall  I unmoved  behold  the  hallow’d  scene, 

Which  others  rave  of,  though  they  know  it  not  ? 
Though  here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  his  grot, 

And  thou,  the  Muses’  seat,  art  now  their  grave,6 
Some  gentle  spirit  still  pervades  the  spot, 

Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave, 

And  glides  with  glassy  foot  o’er  yon  melodious 
wave.7 


(1)  This  stanza  was  written  in  Turkey. 

(2)  [“  Beauties  that  need  not  fear  a broken  vow.” — MS.] 

t3)  [“  Long  black  hair,  dark  languishing  eyes,  clear  olive  com- 
plexions, and  forms  more  graceful  in  motion  than  can  be  conceived 
by  an  Englishman,  used  to  the  drowsy,  listless  air  of  his  country- 
women, added  to  the  most  becoming  dress,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
the  most  decent  in  the  world,  render  a Spanish  beauty  irresistible.” 
— B.  to  his  Mother,  Aug.  1809.] 

(4)  These  stanzas  were  written  in  Castri  (Delphos),  at  the  foot  of 
Parnassus,  now  called  \iaxvpa  (Liakura),  Dec.  1809. 

(5)  [“  Upon  Parnassus,  going  to  the  fountain  of  Delphi  (Castri), 
in  1809,  I saw  a flight  of  twelve  eagles  (Hobhouse  says  they  were 
vultures — at  least  in  conversation),  and  I seized  the  omen.  On  the 
day  before,  I composed  the  lines  to  Parnassus  (in  Childe  Harold), 
and  on  beholding  the  birds,  had  a hope  that  Apollo  had  accepted 
my  homage.  I have  at  least  had  the  name  and  fame  of  a poet, 
during  the  poetical  period  of  life  (from  twenty  to  thirty); — whether 
it  will  last  is  another  matter:  but  I have  been  a votary  of  the  deity 
and  the  place,  and  am  grateful  for  what  he  has  done  in  my  behalf, 
leaving  the  future  in  his  hands,  as  I left  the  past.” — B.  Diary, 

1821.] 

(G)  [“  Casting  the  eye  over  the  site  of  ancient  Delphi,  one  cannot 

possibly  imagine  what  has  become  of  the  walls  of  the  numerous 

buildings  which  are  mentioned  in  the  history  of  its  former  magni- 

ficence,— buildings  which  covered  two  miles  of  ground.  With  the 

exception  of  the  few  terraces  or  supporting  walls,  nothing  now 


iX 

Of  thee  hereafter. — Ev’n  amidst  my  strain 
I turn’d  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here  ; 

Forgot  the  land,  the  sons,  the  maids  of  Spain ; 

Her  fate,  to  every  freeborn  bosom  dear ; 

And  hail’d  thee,  not  perchance  without  a tear. 

Now  to  my  theme — but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Let  me  some  remnant,  some  memorial  bear ; 

Yield  me  one  leaf  of  Daphne’s  deathless  plant,8 
Nor  let  thy  votary’s  hope  be  deem’d  an  idle  vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But  ne’er  didst  thou,  fair  Mount ! when  Greece 
was  young, 

Sec  round  thy  giant  base  a brighter  choir, 

Nor  e’er  did  Delphi,  when  her  priestess  sung 
The  Pythian  hymn  with  more  than  mortal  fire, 
Behold  a train  more  fitting  to  inspire 
The  song  of  love  than  Andalusia’s  maids, 

Nurst  in  the  glowing  lap  of  soft  desire : 

All ! that  to  these  were  given  such  peaceful  shades 
As  Greece  can  still  bestow,  though  Glory  fly  her 
glades. 

LXV. 

Fair  is  proud  Seville ; let  her  country  boast 
Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient 
days ; 9 

But  Cadiz,  rising  bn  the  distant  coast, 

Calls  forth  a sweeter  though  ignoble  praise. 

Ah,  Vice ! how  soft  are  thy  voluptuous  ways  ! 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling,  who  can  ’scape 
The  fascination  of  thy  magic  gaze  ? 10 
A Cherub-hydra  round  us  dost  thou  gape, 

And  mould  to  every  taste  tliy  dear  delusive  shaoe 

LX  VI. 

When  Paphos  fell  by  Time — accursed  Time  ! 

The  Queen  who  conquers  all  must  yield  to 
thee — 

The  Pleasures  fled,  but  sought  as  warm  a clime ; 
And  Venus,  constant  to  her  native  sea, 

To  nought  else  constant,  hither  deign’d  to  flee ; 
And  fix’d  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of  white ; 
Though  not  to  one  dome  circumscribeth  she 
Her  worship,  but,  devoted  to  her  rite, 

A thousand  altars  rise,  for  ever  blazing  bright.11 


appears.  The  various  robberies  by  Sylla,  Nero,  and  Constantine, 
are  inconsiderable;  for  the  removal  of  the  statues  of  bronze,  and 
marble,  and  ivory,  could  not  greatly  affect  the  general  appearance 
of  the  city.  The  acclivity  of  the  hill,  and  the  foundations  being 
placed  on  rock,  without  cement,  would  no  doubt  render  them 
comparatively  easy  to  be  removed  or  hurled  down  into  the  vale 
below ; but  the  vale  exhibits  no  appearance  of  accumulation  of 
hewn  stones;  and  the  modern  village  could  have  consumed  but 
few.  In  the  course  of  so  many  centuries,  the  debris  from  the 
mountain  must  have  covered  up  a great  deal,  and  even  the  rubbish 
itself  may  have  acquired  a soil  sufficient  to  conceal  many  nobl<* 
remains  from  the  light  of  day.  Yet  we  see  no  swellings  or  risings 
in  the  ground,  indicating  the  graves  of  the  temples.  All  therefore 
is  mystery,  and  the  Greeks  may  truly  say,  ‘ Where  stood  the  walla 
of  our  fathers?  scarce  the  mossy  tombs  remain  I’” — IT.  IV.  Wil- 
liams's Travels  in  Greece,  vol.  ii.  p.  254.] 

(7)  [“  And  walks  with  glassy  steps  o'er  Aganippe’s  wave.’  — 
MS.] 

(8)  [”  Some  glorious  thought  to  my  petition  grant.”— MS.) 

(9)  Seville  was  the  Hispalis  of  the  Romans. 

(10)  [“  The  lurking  lures  of  thy  enchanting  gaze.” — MS.) 

'll)  [“  Cadiz,  sweet  Cadiz!— it  is  the  first  spot  in  the  creation. 
The  beauty  of  its  streets  and  mansions  is  only  excelled  by  the 
liveliness  of  its  inhabitants.  It  is  a complete  Cythera,  full  of  the 
finest  women  in  Spain;  the  Cadiz  belles  being  th?  I.an  i-ashliv 
witches  of  their  land.” — Lord  B.  to  his  Mother,  1809  j 


12 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  L. 


LXVII. 

F^m  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  startled  Morn 
Peeps  blushing  on  the  revel’s  laughing  crew, 

The  song  is  heard,  the  rosy  garland  worn ; 

Devices  quaint,  and  frolics  ever  new, 

Tread  on  each  other’s  kibes.  A long  adieu 
He  bids  to  sober  joy  that  here  sojourns  : 

Height  interrupts  the  riot,  though  in  lieu 
Of  true  devotion  monkish  incense  burns, 

And  love  and  prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour  by  turns.1 

LXVIII. 

The  Sabbath  comes,  a day  of  blessed  rest ; 

What  hallows  it  upon  this  Christian  shore  ? 
i Lo  ! it  is  sacred  to  a solemn  feast : 

Hark  ! heard  you  not  the  forest-monarch’s  roar  ? 
Crashing  the  lance,  he  snuffs  the  spouting  gore 
Of  man  and  steed,  o’erthrown  beneath  his  horn ; 

The  throng’d  arena  shakes  with  shouts  for  more  ; 
Yells  the  mad  crowd  o’er  entrails  freshly  torn, 

Nor  shrinks  the  female  eye,  nor  ev’n  affects  to  mourn. 

LXIX. 

The  seventh  day  this ; the  jubilee  of  man. 

London  i right  well  thou  know’st  the  day  of  prayer : 
Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  wash’d  artisan, 

And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air  : 

Thy  coach  of  hackney,  whiskey,  one-horse  chair, 

And  humblest  gig  through  sundry  suburbs  whirl ; 

To  Hampstead,  Brentford,  Harrow,  make  repair ; 
Till  the  tired  jade  the  wheel  forgets  to  hurl, 
Provoking  envious  gibe  from  each  pedestrian  churl.2 

LXX. 

3ome  o’er  thy  Thamis  row  the  ribbon’d  fair, 

Others  along  the  safer  turnpike  fly ; 

Some  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  Ware, 
And  many  to  the  steep  of  Highgate  hie. 

Ask  ye,  Boeotian  shades  ! the  reason  why  ? 3 
’Tis  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  Horn, 

Grasp’d  in  the  holy  hand  of  Mystery, 

In  whose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids  are  sworn, 
A d consecrate  the  oath4  with  draught,  and  dance 
till  morn.3 

LXXI. 

All  have  their  fooleries — not  alike  are  thine, 

Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o’er  the  dark  blue  sea ! 

Soon  as  the  matin  bell  prodaimeth  nine, 

Thy  saint  adorers  count  the  rosary ; 

Much  is  the  Virgin  teased  to  shrive  them  free 
(Well  do  I ween  the  only  virgin  there) 

From  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  beadsmen  be  ; 
Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare  : 

Young,  old,  high,  low,  at  once  the  same  diversion  share. 


(1)  [ “ monkish  temples  share 

The  hours  misspent,  and  all  in  turns  is  love  and  prayer." — MS.] 

(2)  [“  And  droughty  then  alights,  and  roars  for  Roman  purl.’’ — 

MS.] 

(3)  This  was  written  at  Thebes,  and  consequently  in  the  best 
situation  for  asking  and  answering  such  a question ; not  as  the 
birthplace  of  Pindar,  but  as  the  capital  of  Bceotia,  where  the  tirst 
riddle  was  propounded  and  solved. 

(4)  [Lord  Byron  alludes  to  a ridiculous  custom  which  formerly 
prevailed  at  the  public-houses  in  Highgate,  of  administering  a bur- 
lesque oath  to  all  travellers  of  the  middling  rank  who  stopped  there. 
The  party  was  sworn  on  a pair  of  horns,  fastened,  “ never  to  kiss 
the  maid  when  he  could  the  mistress ; never  to  eat  brown  bread 
when  he  could  get  white;  never  to  drink  small  beer  when  he  could 

ot  strong."  with  many  other  injunctions  of  the  like  kind, — to  ail 
whjc'a  was  added  the  saving  clause, unless  you  like  it  best.  'J 


LXXI  I. 

The  lists  are  oped,  fKe  spacious  area  clear’d, 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated  round; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  trumpet’s  note  is  heard, 
Neyacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  found : 

HerVuons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  dames  abound, 
Skill’d  in  the  ogle  of  a roguish  eye, 

Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound ; 

None  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doom’d  to  die, 
As  moon-struck  bards  complain,  by  Love’s  sad  archery 

LXXIII. 

Hush’d  is  the  din  of  tongues — on  gallant  steeds, 
With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light-pois’d 
Four  cavaliers  prepare  for  venturous  deeds,  [lance, 
And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance ; 

Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  featly  prance : 

If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day, 

The  crowd’s  loud  shout  and  ladies’  lovely  glance, 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away, 

And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e’er  gain  their  toils  repay. 

LXXIV. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  array’d, 

But  all  afoot,  the  liglit-limb’d  Matadore 

Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 

The  lord  of  lowing  herds  ; but  not  before 

The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  travers’d  o’er, 

Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed : 

His  arms  a dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 

Can  man  achieve  without  the  friendly  steed — • 

/Vlas ! too  oft  condemn’'!  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed 

LXXV. 

Thrice  sounds  the  clarion ; lo  ! the  signal  falls, 

The  den  expands,  and  Expectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle’s  peopled  walls. 
Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty  brute. 
And,  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  foot, 

The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe  : 

Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front,  to  suit 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  ana  fro 
His  angry  tail ; red  rolls  his  eye’s  dilated  glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden  he  stops ; his  eye  is  fix’d  : away, 

Away,  thou  heedless  boy  ! prepare  the  spear  : 

Now  is  thy  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 

With  well-timed  croupe0  the  nimble  coursers  veer; 
On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  lie  goes ; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  clear : 
Pie  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes  ; 
Dart  follows  dart ; lance,  lance ; loud  bellowings  speak 
his  woes. 


(5)  [“  In  thus  mixing  up  the  light  with  the  solemn,  it  was  the 
intention  of  the  poet  to  imitate  Ariosto.  But  it  is  far  easier  to 
rise,  with  grace,  from  the  level  of  a strain  generally  familiar,  into 
an  occasional  short  burst  of  pathos  or  splendour,  than  lo  interrupt 
thus  a prolonged  tone  of  solemnity  by  any  descent  into  the  ludi- 
crous or  burlesque.  In  the  former  case,  the  transition  may  have 
the  effect  of  softening  or  elevating;  while,  in  the  latter,  it  almost 
ir.  -ariably  shocks;— for  the  same  reason,  perhaps,  that  a trait  of 
pathos  or  high  feeling,  in  comedy,  has  a peculiar  charm;  while 
the  intrusion  of  comic  scenes  into  tragedy,  however  sanctioned 
among  us  by  habit  and  authority,  rarely  fails'  to  offend.  The  poet 
was  himself  convinced  of  the  failure  of  the  experiment,  and  in 
none  of  the  succeeding  cantos  of  Childe  Harold  repeated  it."— 
Moork.] 

(G)  [“  The  croupe  is  a particular  leap  taught  in  the  manege. 
MS.] 


■UATT,  SMILE  170  T AT  ¥T  SUTLER  BROW, 

ALAS  ! I CARROT  SMITH  AGAIH ; 

TET  HEATER  AVERT  THAT  EVER  THOU 

SHOULD  ST  WEEP  AND  HAPLY  WEEP  IR  VAIR 


I. 


CHLLDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


13 


LXXVII. 

Again  lie  comes ; nor  dart  nor  lance  avail, 

Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  horse; 
Though  man  and  man’s  avenging  arms  assail. 

Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force. 

One  gallant  steed  is  stretch’d  a mangled  corse ; 

A notiler,  hideous  sight ! unseam’d  appeal’s, 

His  gory  chest  unveils  life’s  pauting  source ; 
Though  death-struck,  still  liis  feeble  frame  he  rears  ; 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharmed  he 
Bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foil’d,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the  last, 

Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 

Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast, 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray  : 

And  now  t he  Matadores  around  him  play, 

Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand : 
Once  more  through  all  lie  bursts  his  thundering 
way — 

Vain  rage ! the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand, 
Wraps  his  fierce  eye — ’tis  past — he  sinks  upon  the 
sand  ? * 

LXXIX. 

Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine, 
Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies. 

He  stops — he  starts — disdaining  to  decline : 

Slowly  he  falls,  amidst  triumphant  cries, 

Without  a groan,  without  a struggle  dies. 

The  decorated  car  appears — on  high 
The  corse  is  piled — sweet  sight  for  vulgar  eyes 2 — 
Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy, 
Huil  the  dark  bulk  along,  scarce  seen  in  dashing  by. 

LXXX. 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 
The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Spanish  swain. 
Nurtured  in  blood  betimes,  his  heart  delights 
In  vengeance,  gloating  on  another’s  pain. 

What  private  feuds  the  troubled  village  stain ! 
Though  now  one  phalanx’ d host  should  meet  the  foe, 
Enough,  alas  ! in  humble  homes  remain, 

To  meditate  ’gainst  friends  the  secret  blow, 

For  some  slight  cause  of  wrath,  whence  life’s  warm 
stream  must  flow.3 

LXXXI. 

Lut  Jealousy  has  fled : his  bars,  his  bolts. 

His  wither’d  centiuel,  Duenna  sage ! 

And  all  whereat  the  generous  soul  revolts, 

Which  the  stern  dotard  deem’d  he  coidd  encage, 
Have  pass’d  to  darkness  with  the  vanish’d  age. 

Who  late  so  free  as  Spanish  girls  were  seen, 

(Ere  War  uprose  in  his  volcainc  rage,) 

With  braided  tresses  bounding  o’er  the  green, 
While  on  the  gay  dance  shone  Night’s  lover-loving 
Queen  ? 


(1)  [The  reader  will  do  well  to  compare  Lord  Byron’s  animated 
picture  of  the  popular  “ sport”  of  the  Spanish  nation,  with  the 
very  circumstantial  details  contained  in  the  charming  “ Letters  of 
Don  Leucadio  Doblado,”  (i.  c.  the  Rev.  Blanco  White,)  published 
in  1822.  So  inveterate  was,  at  one  time,  the  rage  of  the  people  for 
this  amusement,  that  even  boys  mimicked  its  features  in  their  play. 
In  the  slaughter-house  itself  the  professional  bull -fighter  gave 
public  lessons;  and  such  was  the  force  of  depraved  custom,  that 
ladies  of  the  highest  rank  were  not  ashamed  to  appear  amidst  the 
filth  and  horror  of  the  shambles.  The  Spaniards  received  this  sport 
from  the  Moors,  among  whom  it  was  celebrated  with  great  pomp 
and  splendour. — See  various  Notes  to  Mr.  Lockhart's  Collection  of 
Ancient  Spanish  Ballads.  1822.] 


LXXXII. 

Ob ! many  a time,  a id  oft,  Bad  Haroid  loved. 

Or  dream’d  lie  loved,  since  rapture  is  a dream 
But  now  liis  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved. 

For  not  yet  had  lie  drunk  of  Lethe’s  stream; 

And  lately  had  lie  learn’d  with  truth  to  deem 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  liis  wings : 

How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft  soe’er  he  seem,, 

Full  from  the  fount  of  Joy’s  delicious  springs4 5 
Some  bitter  o’er  the  flowers  its  bubbling  venom  flings. 

LXXXI  II. 

Yet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blind, 
Though  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the  wise ; 
Not  that  Philosophy  on  such  a mind 
E’er  deign’d  to  bend  her  chastely-awfid  eyes : 

But  Passion  raves  itself  to  rest,  or  flies ; 

And  Vice,  that  digs  her  own  voluptuous  tomb, 

Had  biu’ied  long  his  hopes,  no  more  to  rise  ; 
Pleasure’s  pall’d  victim ! life-abhorring  gloom 
Wrote  on  his  faded  brow  curst  Cain’s  unresting  doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng ; 

But  view’d  them  not  with  misanthropic  hate : 

Fain  would  he  now  have  join’d  the  dance,  the  song ; 
But  avIio  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate  ? 
Nought  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate : 

Yet  once  he  struggled  ’gainst  the  demon’s  sway, 
And  as  in  Beauty’s  bower  he  pensive  sate, 

Pour’d  forth  this  unpremeditated  lay, 

To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  soothed  his  happier  day. 

TO  INEZ. 

1. 

Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow; 

Alas  ! I cannot  smile  again : 

Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain. 

2. 

And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 
I bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth  ? 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 
A pang,  ev’n  thou  must  fail  to  soothe  ? 

3. 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 

Nor  low  Ambition’s  honours  lost, 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state, 

And  fly  from  all  I prized  the  most : 

4. 

It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 
From  all  1 meet,  or  hear,  or  see : 

To  me  no  pleasure  Beauty  brings ; 

Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a charm  for  me. 


(2)  [“  The  trophy  corse  is  reared — disgusting  prize.” — 

Or, 

“ The  corse  is  reared — sparkling  the  chariot  flies.” — MS.] 

(3)  [“  The  Spaniards  are  as  revengeful  as  ever.  At  Santa  Otell* 
I heard  a young  peasant  threaten  to  stab  a woman,  (an  old  one,  to 
be  sure,  which  mitigates  the  offence,)  and  was  told,  on  expressing 
some  small  surprise,  that  this  ethic  was  by  no  means  uncommon. 
—MS.] 

(4)  “ Medio  de  fonte  leporum, 

Surgit  amari  aliquid  quod  in  ipsis  floribus  angat.” — Luc. 

(5)  ["  Some  bitter  bubbles  up.  ard  e’en  oi\  roses  stings.” — MP  ] 


u 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  c 


5. 

Ct.  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom 
The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore ; 

L’hat  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 

But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 

6. 

What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee  ? 1 
To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote. 

Still,  still  pursues,  where’er  I be, 

The  blight  of  life — -the  demon  Thought.2 

7. 

Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 

And  taste  of  all  that  I forsake ; 

Oh ! may  they  still  of  transport  dream. 

And  ne’er,  at  least  like  me,  awake  ! 

8. 

Through  many  a clime  ’tis  mine  to  go. 

With  many  a retrospection  curst ; 

And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Wliate’er  betides,  I’ve  known  the  worst. 

9. 

What  is  that  worst?  Nay  do  not  ask — 

In  pity  from  the  search  forbear : 

Smile  on — nor  venture  to  unmask 
Man’s  heart,  and  view  the  Hell  that ’s  there.3 

LXXXV. 

Adieu,  fair  Cadiz  ! yea,  a long  adieu  ! 

Who  may  forget  how  well  thy  walls  have  stood  ? 


(1)  [“  What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee? 

To  other  zones,  howe’er  remote, 

Still,  still  pursuing  clings  to  me 

The  blight  of  life — the  demon  Thought." — MS.] 

(2)  [“  Written  January  25,  1810.” — MS.] 

(3)  In  place  of  this  song,  which  was  written  at  Athens,  January 
25,  1810,-  and  which  contains,  as  Moore  says,  “ some  of  the  drea- 
riest touches  of  sadness  that  ever  Byron’s  pen  let  fall,”  we  find,  in 
the  first  draught  of  the  Canto,  the  following : — 

1. 

Oh  never  talk  again  to  me 
Of  northern  climes  and  British  ladies, 

It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see, 

Like  me,  the  lovely  girl  of  Cadiz. 

Although  her  eye  be  not  of  blue, 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  English  lasses. 

How  far  its  own  expressive  hue 
The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses  ! 

2. 

Prometheus- like,  from  heaven  she  stole 
The  fire,  that  through  those  silken  lashes 
In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes : 

And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthen'd  flow  her  rav’.n  tresses, 

You’d  swear  each  clustering  lock  could  feel. 

And  curl’d  to  give  her  neck  caresses. 

3. 

Our  English  maids  are  long  to  woo, 

And  frigid  even  in  possession ; 

And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view, 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love’s  confession  : 

But,  born  beneath  a brighter  sun, 

For  love  ordain’d  the  Spanish  maid  is. 

And  who, — when  fondly,  fairly  won, — 

Enchants  you  like  the  girl  of  Cadiz? 

4. 

The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette, 

Nor  joys  to  see  a lover  tremble, 

And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate, 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 

Her  heart  can  ne’er  be  bought  or  sold — 

Howe’er  it  beats,  it  beats  sincerely ; 

And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

’Twill  love  you  long  and  love  you  dearly. 

5. 

The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 
Ne’er  taunts  you  with  a mock  denial, 

For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 
Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 

When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain, 

She  dares  tire  deed  and  shares  the  danger; 


When  all  were  changing  thou  alone  well  true> 
Eirst  to  be  free  and  last  to  be  subdued : 

And  if  amidst  a semie,  a shock  so  rude, 

Some  native  blood  vas  seen  thy  streets  to  dye ; 

A traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud : 4 
Here  all  were  noble,  save  Nobility; 

None  hugg’d  a conqueror’s  chain,  save  fallen  Chivalry 

LXXXVI. 

Such  be  the  sons  of  Spain,  and  strange  her  fate ! 
They  fight  for  freedom  who  were  never  free; 

A Kingless  people  for  a nerveless  state, 

Her  vassals  combat  when  their  chieftains  flee, 

True  to  the  veriest  slaves  of  Treachery ; 

Eond  of  a land  which  gave  them  nought  but  life, 
Pride  points  the  path  that  leads  to  liberty : 

Back  to  the  struggle,  baffled  in  the  strife, 

War,  war  is  still  the  cry,  “War  even  to  the  knife  P ' 

LXXXVII. 

Ye,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  kuor 
Go,  read  what  e’er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife : 
Whate’er  keen  Vengeance  urged  on  foreign  foe 
Can  act,  is  acting  there  against  man’s  life : 

Erom  flashing  scimitar  to  secret  knife, 

War  mouldeth  there  each  weapon  to  his  need — 

So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife, 

So  may  he  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed. 

So  may  such  foes  deserve  the  most  remorseless  deed  1 


And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain, 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love’s  avenger. 

6. 

And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star, 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero, 

Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 
Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero, 

Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairy  hand 
Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hesper, 

Or  joins  devotion’s  choral  bund, 

To  chaunt  the  sweet  and  hallow’d  vesper 

In  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 
Of  all  who  venture  to  behold  her; 

Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove 
Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder : 

Through  many  a clime  ’tis  mine  to  roam 
Where  many  a soft  and  melting  maid  is, 

But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

May  match  the  dark-eyed  girl  of  Cadiz. 

(4)  Alluding  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the  governoi 
of  Cadiz,  in  May,  1 80;). 

(5)  “ YVar  to  the  knife.”  Palafox’s  answer  to  the  French  general 
at  the  siege  of  Saragoza.  [In  his  proclamation,  also,  he  stated, 
that,  should  the  French  commit  any  robberies,  devastations,  and 
murders,  no  quarter  should  be  given  them.  The  dogs  by  whom 
he  was  beset,  he  said,  scarcely  left  him  time  to  clean  his  sword  from 
their  blood,  but  they  still  found  their  grave  at  Saragoza.  All  hi* 
addresses  were  in  the  same  spirit.  “ His  language,”  says  Mr. 
Southey,  “ had  the  high  tone,  and  something  of  the  inflation  c i 
Spanish  romance,  suiting  the  character  of  those  to  whom  it  was 
directed.”  See  History  of  the  Peninsular  War,  vol.  iii.  p.  152.] 

(6)  The  Canto,  in  the  original  MS.,  closes  with  the  following 
stanzas : — 

Ye,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know. 

Sights,  Saints,  Antiques,  Arts,  Anecdotes,  and  War, 

Go!  hie  ye  hence  to  Paternoster  Row — 

Are  they  not  written  in  the  Book  of  Carr,* 

Green  Erin’s  Knight,  and  Europe’s  wandering  star  I 
Then  listen,  Readers,  to  the  Man  of  Ink, 

Hear  what  lie  did,  and  sought,  and  wrote  afar; 

All  these  are  coop’d  within  one  Quarto’s  brink, 

This  borrow,  steal, — don’t  buy,— and  tell  us  what  you  think. 


* Porphyry  said,  that  the  prophecies  of  Daniel  were  written 
after  their  completion,  and  such  may  be  my  fate  here ; but  u 
requires  no  second  sight  to  foretell  a tome:  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
knignt  was  enough.  [In  a letter  written  from  Gibraltar,  August  t, 
1801),  to  his  friend  Hudson,  Lord  Byron  says — “ I have  seen  Sir 
John  Carr  at  Seville  and  Cadiz ; and,  like  Swift's  barber,  have 
been  down  on  my  knees  to  beg  he  would  not  put  me  into  blade 
and  white.”] 


fVNTO  I. 


CRILDE  HA  FOLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


15 


LXXXYIII. 

Flows  tncrc  a tear  of  pity  for  the  dead  ? 

Look  o’er  the  ravage  of  the  recking  plain ; 

Look  on  the  hands  with  female  slaughter  red  ; 

Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain, 

Then  to  the  vulture  let  each  corse  remain ; 

Albeit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird’s  maw,  [stain, 
Let  their  bleach’d  bones,  and  blood’s  unblcaching 
Long  mark  the  battle-field  with  hideous  awe : 

Thus  only  may  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes  we  saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor  yet,  alas  ! the  dreadful  work  is  done ; 

Fresh  legions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees : 

It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun, 

Nor  mortal  eye  the  distant  end  foresees. 

Fall’ll  nations  gaze  on  Spain ; if  freed,  she  frees 
A lore  than  lie/ fell  Pizarros  once  enchain’d  : 

Strange  retribution  ! now  Columbia’s  ease  . 
Repairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito’s  sons  sustain’d, 
While  o’er  the  parent  clime  prowls  Murder  unre- 
strain’d. 

xc. 

Not  all  the  blood  at  Talavera  shed, 

Not  all  the  marvels  of  Barossa’s  fight. 

Not  Albuera  lavish  of  the  dead, 

Have  won  for  Spain  her  wcll-asscrtcd  right. 

A V hen  shall  her  Olive-Branch  be  free  from  blight? 
"When  shall  she  breathe  her  from  the  blushing  toil  ? 
How  many  a doubtful  day  shall  sink  in  night, 

Ere  ihe  Frank  robber  turn  him  from  his  spoil, 

And  Freedom’s  strauger-tree  grow  native  ot  the  soil ! 


There  may  you  read,  with  spectacles  on  eyes, 

How  many  Wellesleys  did  embark  for  Spain, 

As  if  therein  they  meant  to  colonize, 

How  many  troops  y-cross’d  the  laughing  main 
That  ne’er  beheld  the  said  return  again : 

How  many  buildings  are  in  such  a place, 

How  many  leagues  from  this  to  yonder  plain, 

How  many  relics  each  cathedral  grace, 

And  where  Giralda  stands  on  her  gigantic  base. 

There  may  you  read  (Oh,  Phoebus,  save  Sir  John! 

That  these  my  words  prophetic  may  not  err,) 

All  that  was  said,  or  sung,  or  lost,  or  won,^ 

By  vaunting  Wellesley  or  by  blundering  Irere,^ 

He  that  wrote  half  the  “ Needy  Knife-Grinder.”* 

Thus  poesy  the  way  to  grandeur  paves— 

Who  would  not  such  diplomatists  prefer  ? 

But  cease,  my  Muse,  thy  speed  some  respite  craves; 

Leave  Legates  to  their  house,  and  armies  to  their  graves. 

Yet  here  of  Vulpes  mention  may  be  made, 

Who  for  the  Junta  modell’d  sapient  laws, 

Taught  them  to  govern  ere  they  were  obey’d: 

Certes,  fit  teacher  to  command,  because 
His  soul  Socratie  no  Xantippe  awes; 

Blest  with  a dame  in  Virtue’s  bosom  nurst, — 

With  her  let  silent  admiration  pause  ! — 

True  to  her  second  husband  and  her  first: 

On  such  unshaken  fame  let  Satire  do  its  worst. 

(])  The  Honourable  John  W’ingfield,  of  the  Guards,  who  died  of 
afe'rer  at  Coimbra  (May  14,  1811).  I had  known  him  ter.  years, 
the  better  half  of  his  life,  and  the  happiest  part  of  mine.  In  the 
short  space  of  one  month,  1 have  lost  her  who  gave  me  being,  and 
most  of  those  who  had  made  that  being  tolerable.  Tome  the  lines 
of  Y oung  are,  no  fiction : — 

“ Insatiate  archer!  could  not  one  suffice? 

Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain, 

And  thrice  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  fill’d  her  horn.” 
f should  have  ventured  a verse  to  the  memory  of  the  late  Charles 
Skinner  Matthews,  Fellow  of  Downing  College,  Cambridge,  were 
he  not  too  much  above  all  praise  of  mine.  His  powers  of  mind, 
suown  in  the  attainment  of  greater  honours,  against  the  ablest 
candidates,  than  those  of  any  graduate  on  record  at  Cambridge, 


* [The  “ Needy  Knife-grinder,”  in  the  Anti-jacobin,  was  a joint 
production  of  Messrs.  Frere  and  Canning.] 


XCI. 

And  tliou,  my  friend !*  1 * — since  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the  strain 
Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low, 

Pride  might  forbid  e’en  Friendship  to  comp. am  : 

But  thus  unlaurcl’d  to  descend  in  vain, 

By  all  forgotten,  save  the  lonely  breast, 

And  mix  unbleeding  writh  the  boasted  slain, 

While  Glory  crowns  so  many  a meaner  crest ! 

What  hadst  thou  done  10  sink  so  peacefully  to  rest  r 

XCII. 

Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteem’d  the  most  1 3 
Dear  to  a heart  where  nought  was  left  so  dear ! 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  lost, 

In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here  ! 

And  morn  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 
Of  Consciousness  awaking  to  her  woes, 

And  Fancy  hover  o’er  thy  bloodless  bier, 

Till  my  frail  frame  return  to  whence  it  rose, 

I And  mourn’d  and  mourner  lie  united  in  repose. 

XCIII. 

Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold’s  pilgrimage  : 

Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know, 

Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a future  page. 

If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribble  moe. 

Is  this  too  much  ? stern  Critic  ! say  not  so  : 
Patience  ! and  ye  shall  hear  what  lie  beheld 
In  other  lands,  where  he  was  doom’d  to  go  : 

Lands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld, 

Ere  Greece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands  were 
quell’d.3 


have  sufficiently  established  his  fame  on  the  spot  where  it  wa.- 
acquired  ; while  his  softer  qualities  live  in  the  recollection  of  friend* 
who  loved  him  too  well  to  envy  his  superiority. — [This  and  the 
following  stanza  were  added  in  August,  1811.  In  one  of  his  school 
boy  poems,  entitled  “ Childish  Recollections,”  Lord  Byron  ha.~ 
thus  drawn  the  portrait  of  young  Wingfield 

“ Alonzo!  best  and  dearest  of  my  friends, 

Thy  name  ennobles  him  who  thus  commends : 

From  this  fond  tribute  thou  canst  gain  no  praise; 

The  praise  is  his  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 

Oli ! in  the  promise  of  thy  early  youth, 

If  hope  anticipates  the  words  of  tiuth, 

Some  loftier  bard  shall  sing  thy  glorious  name, 

To  build  his  own  upon  thy  deathless  fame. 

Friend  of  my  heart,  and  foremost  of  the  list 
Of  those  with  whom  1 lived  supremely  blest, 

Oft  have  we  drained  the  fount  of  ancient  lore, 

Though  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  still  for  more  , 

Yet  when  confinement’s  lingering  hour  was  done, 

Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  were  one. 

In  every  element,  unchanged,  the  same, 

All,  all  that  brothers  should  be,  but  the  name.” 

Matthews,  the  idol  of  Lord  Byron  at  college,  was  drowned, 
while  bathing  in  the  Cam,  on  the  2d  of  August.  The  following 
passage  of  a letter  from  Newstead  to  his  friend  Serope  Davies, 
written  immediately  after  the  event,  bears  tire  impress  of  strong 
and  even  agonized  feelings “ M y dearest  Davies;  some  curse 
hangs  over  me  and  mine.  My  mother  lies  a corpse  in  the  house  ; 
one  of  my  best  friends  is  drowned  in  a ditch.  What  can  I say,  or 
think,  or  do  ? I received  a letter  from  him  the  day  before  yesterday. 
My  dear  Serope,  if  you  can  spare  a moment,  do  come  down  to  me — 

I want  a friend.  Matthews’s  last  letter  was  written  on  Friday,— on 
Saturday  lie  was  not.  In  ability,  who  was  like  Matthews!  How 
did  we  all  shrink  before  him  ! You  io  me  but  justice  in  saying  I 
would  have  risked  my  paltry  existed  e to  have  preserved  his.  This 
very  evening  did  I mean  to  write,  inviting  him,  as  I invite  yon,  my 
very  dear  friend,  to  visit  me.  What  will  our  poor  Hobhouse  feel  ? 
His  letters  breathe  but  of  Matthews.  Come  to  me,  Serope,  I am 
almost  desolate— left  almost  alone  in  the  world  I ’’—Matthews  was 
the  son  of  John  Matthews,  Esq.,  (the  representative  of  II erefordsh.  tv, 
in  the  parliament  of  1802 — G,)  and  brother  of  the  aut'ior  of  “ "JNc 
Diary  of  an  Invalid,”  also  untimely  snatched  away.] 

(2)  [“  Beloved  the  most.” — MS.J 

(3)  [«  Dec.  30th,  1809.”— MS.l 


16 


LGlU)  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  IT 


&tRl&e  ^aroto’s  ipigrtmngc. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


I. 

Come,  blue-eyed  maid  of  lieaven ! — but  thou,  alas ! 
Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire — 

Goddess  of  Wisdom ! here  thy  temple  was, 

And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire,1 
And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire  : 

But  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  ages  slow, 

Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 
^ Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polish’d  breasts 
bestow. 


II. 

Ancient  of  days  ! august  Athena ! 2 where, 

Where  are  thy  men  of  might  ? thy  grand  in  soul  ? 
Gone — glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things 
that  were : 

First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory’s  goal, 

They  won,  and  pass’d  away — is  this  the  whole  ? 

A schoolboy’s  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour  ! 

The  warrior’s  weapon  and  the  sophist’s  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o’er  each  mouldering 
tower, 

Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of 
power. 


(1)  Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion  of  a 
magazine  during  the  Venetian  siege. — [On  the  highest  part  of 
Lycabettus,  as  Chandler  was  informed  by  an  eye-witness,  the 
Venetians,  in  1687,  placed  foxr  mortars  and  six  pieces  of  cannon, 
when  they  battered  the  Acropolis.  One  of  the  bombs  was  fatal  to 
some  of  the  sculpture  on  the  west  front  of  the  Parthenon.  “ In 
1667,”  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  “every  antiquity  of  which  there  is  now 
any  trace  in  the  Acropolis,  was  in  a tolerable  state  of  preservation. 
This  great  temple  might,  at  that  period,  be  called  entire; — having 
been  previously  a Christian  church,  it  was  then  a mosque,  the 
most  beautiful  in  the  world.  At  present,  only  twenty-nine  of  the 
Doric  colums,  some  of  which  no  longer  support  their  entablatures, 
and  part  of  the  left  wall  of  the  cell,  remain  standing.  Those  of  the 
north  side,  the  angular  ones  excepted,  have  all  fallen.  The  portion 
yet  standing,  cannot  fail  to  fill  the  mind  of  the  indifferent  spectator 
with  sentiments  of  astonishment  and  awe  , and  the  same  reflections 
arise  upon  the  sight  even  of  the  enormous  masses  of  marble  ruins 
which  are  spread  upon  the  area  of  the  temple.  Such  scattered 
fragments  will  soon  constitute  the  sole  remains  of  the  Temple  of 
Minerva.”] 

(2)  We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with  which  the 
ruins  of  cities,  once  the  capitals  of  empires,  are  beheld:  the 
reflections  suggested  by  such  objects  are  too  trite  to  require  re- 
capitulation. Hut  never  did  the  littleness  of  man,  and  the  vanity 
of  his  very  best  virtues,  of  patriotism  to  exalt,  and  of  valour  to 
defend  his  country,  appear  more  conspicuous  than  in  the  record  of 
what  Athens  was,  and  the  certainty  of  what  she  now  is.  This 
theatre  of  contention  between  mighty  factions,  of  the  struggles  of 
orators,  the  exaltation  and  deposition  of  tyrants,  the  triumph  and 
punishment  of  generals,  is  now  become  a scene  of  petty  intrigue 
and  perpetual  disturbance,  between  the  bickering  agents  of 
certain  British  nobility  and  gentry.  “ The  wild  foxes,  the 
owls  and  serpents  in  the  ruins  of  Babylon,”  were  surely  less 
degrading  than  such  inhabitants.  The  Turks  have  the  plea  of 
conquest  for  their  tyranny,  and  the  Greeks  have  only  suffered  the 
fortune  of  war,  incidental  to  the  bravest;  but  how  are  the  mighty 
fallen,  when  two  painters  contest  the  privilege  of  plundering  the 
Parthenon,  and  triumph  in  turn,  according  to  the  tenor  of  each 
Lticceeding  firman  ! Sylla  could  but  punish,  Philip  subdue,  and 
Xerxes  burn  Athens;  but  it  remained  for  the  paltry  antiquarian, 
and  his  despicable  agents,  to  render  her  contemptible  as  himself 
an  l his  pursuits.  The  Parthe.non.  before  its  destruction,  in  part 
bj  lire  during  the  Venetian  sitge,  had  been  a temple,  aehurch,  and 


III. 

Soil  of  the  morning,  rise  1 approach  you  acre  ! 
Come — But  molest  not  yon  defenceless  urn: 

Look  on  this  spot — ru  nation’s  sepulchre ! 

Abode  of  gods,  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn. 

Even  gods  must  yield — religions  take  their  turn  : 
’Tvvas  Jove’s — ’tis  Mahomet’s — and  other  creeds 
Will  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds ; 

Poor  child  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  built 
on  reeds.3 


iv. 

Bound  to  the  earth,  lie  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven — 
Is’t  not  enough,  unhappy  thing!  to  know 
Thou  art  ? is  this  a boon  so  kindly  given, 

That;  being,  thou  wouldst  be  again’  and  go, 

Thou  know’st  not,  rcck’st  not  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies  ? 
Still  wilt  thou  dream4  on  future  jov  and  woe? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  "it  flics  : 

That  little  urn  saitli  more  than  thousand  homilies. 


T. 

Or  burst  the  vanish’d  Hero’s  lofty  mound  ; 

Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps  ; 5 
He  fell,  and  falling  nations  mourn’d  around  , 

But  now  not  one  of  saddening  t housands  weeps. 
Nor  warlike  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appear’d,  as  records  tell. 

Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scatter’d  heaps  : 

Is  that  a temple  where  a God  may  dwell  ? 

Why  ev’n  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shatter’d  cell 1 


a mosque.  In  each  point  of  view  it  is  an  object  of  regard : it 
changed  its  worshippers ; but  still  it  was  a place  of  worship  thrice 
sacred  to  devotion : its  violation  is  a triple  sacrilege.  But — 

“ Man,  proud  man, 

Brest  in  a little  brief  authority, 

Plays  such  fantastic  trick*  before  high  heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep.” 

(3)  [In  the  original  MS.  we  find  the  following  note  to  this  and 
the  five  following  stanzas,  which  had  been  prepared  for  publication, 
but  was  afterwards  withdrawn,  “from  a fear,”  says  the  poet,  “ that 
it  might  he  considered  rather  as  an  attack,  than  a defence  of 
religion  : ” — “ In  this  age  of  bigotry,  when  the  puritan  and  priest 
have  changed  places,  and  the  wretched  Catholic  is  visited  with  the 
‘ sins  of  his  fathers,’  even  unto  generations  far  beyond  the  pale  of 
the  commandment,  the  cast  of  opinion  in  these  stanzas  will,  doubt- 
less, meet  with  many  a contemptuous  anathema.  But  let  it  be 
remembered,  that  the  spirit  they  breathe  is  desponding,  not  sneering, 
scepticism  ; that  he  who  has  seen  the  Greek  and  Moslem  supersti- 
tions contending  for  mastery  over  the  former  shrines  of  Polytheism 
— who  has  left  in  his  own,  ‘ Pharisees,  thanking  God  that  they  are 
not  like  publicans  and  sinners,’  and  Spaniards  in  theirs,  abhorring 
the  heretics,  who  have  liolpen  them  in  their  need, — will  be  not 
a little  bewildered,  and  begin  to  think,  that  as  only  one  of  them 
can  1 e right,  they  may,  most  of  them,  he  wrong.  With  regard  to 
morals,  and  the  effect  of  religion  on  mankind,  it  appears,  from  all 
historical  testimony,  to  have  had  less  effect  in  making  them  love 
their  neighbours,  than  inducing  that  cordial  Christian  abhorrence 
between  sectaries  and  schismatics.  The  Turks  and  Quakers  are 
the  most  tolerant;  if  an  Infidel  pays  his  heratch  to  the  former,  he 
may  pray  how,  when,  and  where  he  pleases ; and  the  fnild  ‘enets, 
and  devout  demeanour  of  the  latter,  make  then  lives  the  truest 
commentary  on  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.”] 

(4)  [“  Still  wilt  thou  harp.” — MS.] 

(5)  It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  burn  their 
dead;  the  greater  Ajax,  in  particular,  was  interred  entire.  Almost 
all  the  chiefs  became  gods  after  their  decease;  and  he  was  indeed 
neglected,  who  had  not  annual  games  near  his  tomb,  or  festivals 
in  honour  of  his  memory  by  his  countrymen,  as  Achilles,  Erasidas 
&c.,  and  at  last  even  Antinous,  whose  death  was  as  heroic  as  his 
life  was  infamous 


CANTO  II. 


CH1LDE  II AHOLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


17 


VI. 

Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruin’d  wall, 

Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul : 

Yes,  this  was  once  Ambition’s  airy  hall. 

The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  Soul : 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre,  eyeless  hole, 

The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  of  Wit 
And  Passion’s  host,  that  never  brook’d  control : 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 

People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit  ? 

VII. 

Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena’s  wisest  son ! 

“ All  that  Ave  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known.” 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  Avliat  we  cannot  shun? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  groan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pursue  what  Chance  or  Fate  proclaimeth  best ; 
Peace  Avaits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron : 

There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest, 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  of  e\  >r  Avelcome  rest. 

VIII. 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deem’d,  there  be 
A land  of  souls  beyond  that,  sable  shore, 

To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore; 

Hoav  sweet  it  Avere  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  avIio  made  our  mortal  labours  light ! 

To  hear  eacli  voice  Ave  fear’d  to  hear  no  more ! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveal’d  to  sight, 

The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  avIio  taught  the 
right  l* 1 

IX. 

There,  thou  ! — whose  love  and  life  together  fled, 
Have  left  me  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain— 

Twined  Avitli  my  heart,  and  can  I deem  thee  dead, 
When  busy  memory  flashes  on  my  brain  ? 

Well — I Avill  dream  that  Ave  may  meet  again, 

And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  breast : 

If  aught  of  youhg  Remembrance  then  remain, 

Be  as  it  may  Futurity’s  behest, 

For  me  Ywere  bliss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest  !2 


(1)  [In  the  original  MS.,  for  this  magnificent  stanza,  we  fine' 
what  follows  : — 

“ Frown  not  upon  me,  churlish  Priest ! that  I 
Look  not  for  life,  where  life  may  never  be ; 

I am  no  sneerer  at  thy  phantasy  ; 

Thou  pitiest  me, — alas ! I envy  thee, 

Thou  bold  discoverer  in  an  unknown  sea, 

Of  happy  isles  and  happier  tenants  there ; 

I ask  thee  not  to  prove  a Sadducee ; 

Still  dream  of  Paradise,  thou  know’st  not  where, 

But  lov’st  too  well  to  bid  thine  erring  brother  share.”] 

(2)  [Lord  Byron  wrote  this  stanza  atNewstead,  in  October,  1811, 
on  hearing  of  the  death  of  his  Cambridge  friend,  young  Eddlestone  ; 
“ making,”  he  says,  “ the  sixth,  within  four  months,  of  friends  and 
relations  th.tt  l have  lost  between  May  and  the  end  of  August.” 

S ee  post,  Hours  of  Idleness,  “The  Cornelian.”] 

(3)  [“  The  thought  and  the  expression,”  says  Professor  Clarke,  in 
a letter  to  Lord  Byron,  “ are  here  so  truly  Petrarch’s,  that  I would 
ask  you  whether  you  ever  read, — 

‘ Poi  quando  ’1  vero  sgombra 
Quel  dolce  error  pur  li  medesmo  assido, 

Me  freddo,  pietra  morta  in  pietra  viva; 

In  guisa  d’  uom  ehd  pensi  e piange  e scriva  ; ’ 

• Thus  rendered  by  Wilmot, — 

‘ But  when  rude  truth  destroys 
The  1 <veu  illusion  of  the  dreamed  sweets, 

/ sit  me  down  on  the  cold  rugged  stone. 

Less  cold  less  dead  titan  I and  think  and  weep  alone.”’] 


X. 

Here  let  me  sit  upon  this  massy  stone,3 
The  marble  column’s  yet  unshaken  base ; 

Here,  son  of  Saturn  ! Avas  thy  fav’rite  throne:4 
Mightiest  of  many  such  ! Hence  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 

It  may  not  be  : nor  ev’n  can  Fancy’s  eye 
Restore  Avliat  Time  hath  labour’d  to  deface. 

Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing  sigh  ; 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek  carols  bj, 

XI. 

But  avIio,  of  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  fane 
On  high,  where  Pallas  linger’d,  loth  to  flee 
The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign ; 

The  last,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  avIio  was  he  ? 
Blush,  Caledonia ! such  thy  son  could  be ! 

England  ! I joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine  : 

Thy  free-born  men  should  spare  what  once  was  free  * 
Yet  they  could  violate  each  saddening  shrine, 

And  bear  these  altars  o’er  the  long-reluQtant  brine.5 

XII. 

But  most  the  modern  Piet’s  ignoble  boast, 

To  rive  Avliat  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hatn 
spared  : 

Cold  as  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast,6 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard, 

Is  he  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hands  prepared, 
Aught  to  displace  Athena’s  poor  remains : 

Her  sons  too  Aveak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard, 

Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother’s  pains,7 
Auduevcr  kneAV,  till  then,  theAveightof  Despot’s  chains. 

XIII. 

What ! shall  it  e’er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 
Albion  was  happy  in  Athena’s  tears? 

Though  in  thy  name  the  slaves  her  bosom  wrung. 
Tell  not  the  deed  to  blushing  Europe’s  ears  ; 

The  ocean  queen,  the  free  Britannia,  bears 
The  last  poor  plunder  from  a bleeding  land : 

Yes,  she,  Avhose  gen’rous  aid  her  name  endears, 
Tore  doAvn  those  remnants  with  a harpy’s  hand, 
Which  envious  Eld  forbore,  and  tyrants  left  to  stand." 


(4)  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympias,  of  which  sixteen  columns, 
entirely  of  marble,  yet  survive  : originally  there  were  one  hundred 
and  fifty.  These  columns,  however,  are  by  many  supposed  to  have 
belonged  to  the  Pantheon. 

(5)  See  Appendix  to  this  canto  [A],  for  a note  too  long  to  b« 
placed  here.  The  ship  was  wrecked  in  the  Archipelago. 

(6)  [“  Cold  and  accursed  as  his  native  coast.” — MS.] 

(7)  I cannot  resist  availing  myself  of  the  permission  of  my  friend 
Dr.  Clarke,  whose  name  requires  no  comment  with  the  public,  but 
whose  sanction  will  add  tenfold  weight  to  my  testimony,  to  insert 
the  following  extract  from  a very  obliging  letter  of  his  to  me,  as  a 
note  to  the  above  lines: — “When  the  last  of  the  metopes  was  taken 
from  the  Parth  :non,  and,  in  moving  of  it  great  part  of  the  super- 
structure with  one  of  the  triglyphs  was  thrown  down  by  the  work- 
men win  m L(  rd  Elgin  employed,  the  Disdar,  who  beheld  the 
mischief  done  to  the  building,  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
dropped  a tear,  and,  in  a supplicating  tone  o.  voice,  said  to  Lusieri, 
TeXov  ! — I was  present.”  The  Disdar  alluded  to  was  the  father  of 
the  present  Disdar- 

(8)  After  stanza  xiii.  the  original  MS.  has  the  following:  — 

“ Come,  then,  ye  classic  Thanes  of  each  degree, 

Dark  Hamilton  and  sullen  Aberdeen, 

Come  pilfer  all  the  Pilgrim  loves  to  see, 

All  that  yet  consecrates  the  fading  scene: 

Oh  ! better  were  it  ye  had  never  been. 

Nor  ye,  nor  Elgin,  nor  that  lesser  wignt, 

The  victim  sad  of  vase-collecting  spleen, 

House-furnisher  withal,  one  Thomas  hight, 

Than  ye  should  bear  one  stone  from  wrong’d  Athena’s  site 

D 


18 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO 


XIV. 

Where  was  thine  JEgis,  Pallas  ! that  appall’d 
Stem  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way  F1 
Where' Peleus’  son?  whom  Hell  in  vain  enthrall’d, 
His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day 
Bursting  to  light  in  terrible  array  ! 

What ! could  not  Pluto  spare  the  chief  once  more, 
To  scare  a second  robber  from  his  prey  ? 

Idly  he  wander’d  on  the  Stygian,  shore, 

Nor  now  preserved  the  walls  he  lovt  d to  shield  before. 

xv. 

Cold  is  the  heart,  fair  Greece ! that  looks  on  thee, 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o’er  the  dust  they  loved; 

Hull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see 
Thy  Avails  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shnnes  removed 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  bthoved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne’er  to  be  rcstor  '.d. 

Curst  be  the  hour  when  from  their  isle  they  roved, 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored, 

And  snatch’d  thy  shrinking  Gods  to  north  tm  climes 
abhorr’d ! 

XVI. 

But  where  is  Harold  ? shall  I then  forget 
To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o’er  the  wave  ? 

Little  reck’d  he  of  all  that  men  regret ; 

No  loved-one  now  in  feign’d  lament  could  rave ; 

No  friend  the  parting  hand  extended  gave, 

Ere  the  cold  stranger  pass’d  to  other  climes  : 

Hard  is  his  heart  whom  charms  may  not  enslave; 
But  Harold  felt  not  as  in  other  times, 

And  left  without  a sigh  the  land  of  war  and  crimes. 

XVII. 

He  that  has  sail’d  upon  the  dark  blue  sea 
Has  view’d  at  times,  I ween,  a full  fair  sight ; 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may  be,  • 
The  white  sail  set,  the  gallant  frigate  tight ; 

Masts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right, 

The  glorious  main  expanding  o’er  the  bow. 

The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  in  their  flight, 
The  dullest  sailer  wearing  bravely  now, 

ISo  gaily  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing  prow 

XVIII. 

And  oh,  the  little  warlike  world  within ! 

The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy,2 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  din, 
When,  at  a word,  the  tops  are  mann’d  on  high : 
Hark,  to  the  Boatswain’s  call,  the  cheering  cry ! 
While  through  the  seaman’s  hand  the  tackle  glides; 
Or  schoolboy  Midshipman  that,  standing  by. 

Strains  his  shrill  pipe  as  good  or  ill  betides, 

And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilful  urchin  guides. 


“ Or  will  the  gentle  Dilettanti  crew 
Now  delegate  the  task  to  digging  Cell, 

That  mighty  limner  of  a bird’s-eye  view, 

How  like  to  Nature  let  his  volumes  tell ; 

Who  can  with  him  the  folio’s  limits  swell 
With  all  the  Author  saw,  or  said  he  saw? 

Who  can  topegraphize  or  delve  so  well? 

No  ooaster  he,  nor  impudent  and  raw, 

His  pencil,  | en,  acd  shade,  alike  without  a flaw.”] 


XIX. 

White  is  the  glassy  deck,  w fcliout  a stain, 

Where  on  the  watch  the  staid  Lieutenant  walks  : 
Look  on  that  part  which  sacred  doth  remain 
Eorthe  lone  chieftain,  who  majestic  stalks, 

Silent  and  fear’d  by  all — not  oft  he  talks 
With  aught  beneath  him,  if  he  would  preserve 
That  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  balks 
Conquest  and  Eame  : but  Britons  rarely  swerve 
Prom  law,  however  stern,  which  tends  their  strength 
to  nerve.3 

X7L 

Blow ; swiftly  blow,  thou  keel- compelling  gale  ! 

Till  the  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray  ; 
Then  must  the  pennant-bearer  slacken  sail, 

That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazy  way. 

All ! grievance  sore,  and  listless  dull  delay, 

To  waste  on  sluggish  bulks  the  sweetest  breeze  ! 
What  leagues  are  lost,  before  the  dawn  of  day,  . 
Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas, 

The  flapping  sail  haul’d  down  to  halt  for  logs  like 
these ! 

XXI. 

The  moon  is  up  ; by  Heaven  a lovely  eve ! 

Long  streams  of  light  o’er  dancing  waves  expand  ; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  maids  believe : 
Such  be  our  fate  when  we  return  to  land! 
Meantime  some  rude  Arion’s  restless  band 
Wakes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love ; 4 5 
A circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand. 

Or  to  some  well-known  measure  featly  move, 
Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  free  to  rove. 

XXII. 

Through  Calpe’s  straits  survey  Hie  steepy  shore; 
Europe  and  Afric  on  each  other  gaze  ! 

Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  Maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate’s  blaze : 

How  softly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays, 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown, 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  pbase  • 
But  Mauritania’s  giant-shadows  frown, 

From  mountain-cliff  to  coast  descending  sombre  down. 

XXIII. 

’Tis  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end : 

The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffled  zeal, 

Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  bad  a friend.® 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend. 
When  Youth  itself  survives  young  Love  and  Joy  ? 
Alas  ! when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend. 

Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy  ! 

Ah ! happy  years ! once  more  who  would  not  be  a 
boy?6 


Alaric  from  the  Acropolis  ; but  others  relate  that  the  Gothic,  king 
was  nearly  as  mischievous  as  the  Scottish  peer. — Set'  Chandler. 

(2)  To  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  falling  on  deck  during 
action. 

(3)  [“  From  Discipline’s  sterr.  law,”  &c. — MS.] 

(4)  [“  Plies  the  brisk  instrument  that  sailors  love.” — MS.] 

(5)  [“  Bleeds  the  lone  heart,  once  boundless  in  its  zeal, 

And  friendless  now,  yet  dreams  it  had  a friend.” — MS.] 

(G)  [“  Ah  1 happy  years  1 I would  I were  once  more  a boy.”—- 
MS.] 


• 1 ) According  to  Zosimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  frightened 


£AVTO  II 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


19 


XXIV. 

Thus  bending  o’er  the  vessel’s  laving  side, 

To  gaze  on  Dian’s  wave-reflected  sphere, 

The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  Hope  and  Pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o’er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear. 

Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possess’d 
A thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a tear ; 

A flashing  pang ! of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 

XXV. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o’er  flood  and  fell, 

To  slowly  trace  the  forest’s  shady  scene, 

Where  tilings  that  own  not  man’s  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne’er  or  rarely  been ; 

To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 

With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a fold ; 

Alone  o’er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean ; 

This  is  n >t  solitude ; ’t  is  but  to  hold 
Converse  wilh  Nature’s  charms,  and  view  her  stores 
unroll’d. 

XXVI. 

Put  ’midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men, 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess. 

And  roam  along,  the  world’s  tired  denizen, 

With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless ; 
Minions  of  splendour  shrinking  from  distress  ! 

None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 

If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flatter’d,  follow’d,  sought,  and  sued ; 
Tiiis  is  to  be  alone ; this,  this  is  solitude ! 

XXVII. 

More  blest  the  life  of  godly  eremite, 

Such  as  on  lonely  Athos  may  be  seen,1 * 
Watching  at  eve  upon  the  giant  height, 

Which  looks  o’er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so  serene, 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  bath  been 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  hallow’d  spot ; 

Then  slowly  tear  him  from  the  ’witching  scene. 

Sigh  forth  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot, 
Then  turn  to  hate  a world  he  had  almost  forgot. 

XXVITI. 

Pass  we  the  long,  unvarying  course,  the  track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a trace  behind ; 

Pass  we  the  calm,  the  gale,  the  change,  the  tack, 
And  each  well-known  caprice  of  wave  and  wind ; 
Pass  we  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find, 

Coop’d  in  their  winged  sea-girt  citadel ; 

The  foul,  the  fair,  the  contrary,  the  kind, 

As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swell, 

Till  on  some  jocund  morn — lo,  land ! and  all  is  well. 


(1)  [One  of  Lord  Byron’s  chief  delights  was,  as  he  himself  states 
in  one  of  his  journals,  after  bathing  in  some  retired  spot,  to  seat 
himself  on  a high  rock  above  the  sea,  and  there  remain  for  hours, 
gazing  upon  the  sky  and  the  waters.  “ He  led  the  life,”  says  Sir 
Egerton  Brydges,  “ as  he  wrote  the  strains,  of  a true  poet.  He 
could  sleep,  and  very  frequently  did  sleep,  wrapped  up  in  his  rough 
great-coat,  on  the  hard  boards  of  a deck,  while  the  winds  and  the 
waves  were  roaring  round  him  on  every  side,  and  could  subsist  on 
a crust  and  a glass  of  water.  It  would  be  difficult  to  persuade  me, 
that  he  who  is  a coxcomb  in  his  manners,  and  artificial  in  his 
habits  of  life,  could  write  good  poetry.”] 

(2)  Goza  is  said  to  have  been  the  island  of  Calypso. — [“  The 
Identity  of  the  habitation  assigned  by  poets  to  the  nymph  Calypso, 
has  occasioned  much  discussion  and  variety  of  opinion.  Some 
place  it  at  Malta,  and  some  at  Goza.” — Hoare's  Classical  Tour.] 

*8)  [Foi  an  account  of  this  accomplished  but  eccentric  lady, 


XXIX. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  Calypso’s  isles,* 

The  sister  tenants  of  the  middle  deep ; 

There  for  the  weary  still  a haven  smiles, 

Though  the  fair  goddess  long  hath  ceased  to  weep, 
And  o’er  her  cliffs  a fruitless  watch  to  keep 
Eor  him  who  dared  prefer  a mortal  bride  : 

Here,  too,  his  boy  essay’d  the  dreadful  leap 
Stern  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonder  tide ; 
While  thus  of  both  bereft,  the  nymph-queen  doubly 
sighed. 

XXX. 

Her  reign  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone : 

But  trust  not  this  ; too  easy  youth,  beware  ! 

A mortal  sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne, 
And  thou  may’st  find  a new  Calypso  there. 

Sweet  Florence  ! could  another  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  thine : 
But  check’d  by  every  tie,  I may  not  dare 
To  cast  a worthless  offering  at  thy  shrine, 

Nor  ask  so  dear  a breast  to  feel  one  pang  for  mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus  Harold  deem’d,  as  on  that  lady’s  eye 
He  look’d,  and  met  its  beam  without  a thought. 
Save  Admiration  glancing  harmless  by : 

Love  kept  aloof,  albeit  not  far  remote 
Who  knew  his  votary  often  lost  and  caught, 

But  knew  him  as  his  worshipper  no  more, 

And  ne’er  again  the  boy  his  bosom  sought : 

Since  now  he  vainly  urged  him  to  adore. 

Well  deem’d  the  little  god  his  ancient  sway  was  o’er. 

XXXII. 

Fair  Florence 3 found,  in  sooth  with  some  amaze, 
One  who,  ’twas  said,  still  sigh’d  to  all  lie  saw, 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze, 

Which  others  hail’d  with  real  or  mimic  awe, 

Their  hope,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  their  law ; 
All  that  gay  Beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims  : 
And  much  she  marvell’d  that  a youth  so  raw 
Nor  felt,  nor  feign’d  at  least,  the  oft-told  flames. 
Which,  though  sometimes  they  frown,  yet  rarely  anger 
dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble  heart, 

Now  mask’d  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pride. 

Was  not  unskilful  in  the  spoiler’s  art,4 

And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  wide ; 5 

Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  turn’d  aside. 

As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue : 

But  Harold  on  such  arts  no  more  relied ; 

And  had  he  doted  on  those  eyes  so  blue. 

Yet  never  would  he  join  the  lover’s  whining  crew. 


whose  acquaintance  the  poet  formed  at  Malta,  see  Miscellaneous 

Poems,  September,  1S09,  “ To  Florence.”  “ In  one  so  imaginative 

as  Lord  Byron,  who,  while  he  infused  so  much  of  his  life  into  his 
poetry,  mingled  also  not  a little  of  poetry  with  his  life,  it  is  diffi- 
cult,” says  Moore,  “ in  unravelling  the  texture  of  his  feelings,  to 
distinguish  at  all  times  between  the  fanciful  and  the  real.  His 
description  here,  for  instance,  of  the  unmoved  and  ‘ loveless  heart,’ 
with  which  he  contemplated  even  the  charms  of  this  attractive 
person,  is  wholly  at  variance  with  the  statements  in  many  of  his 
letters;  and,  above  all,  with  one  of  the  most  graceful  of  his  lesser 
poems,  addressed  to  this  same  lady,  during  a thunder-storm  on  his 
road  to  Zitza.”] 

(4)  [Against  this  line  it  is  sufficient  to  set  the  poet’s  own  decla- 
ration, in  1821  : — “ I am  not  a Joseph,  nor  a Scipio,  but  I can 
safely  affirm,  that  I never  in  my  life  seduced  any  woman.”] 

(5)  [“  We  have  here  another  instance  of  his  propensity  tc 


20 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  n. 


XXXIV. 

Not  much  lie  kens,  I ween,  of  woman’s  breast, 
Who  thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by  sighs ; 
What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  possess’d  ? 
Do  proper  homage  to  thine  idol’s  eyes ; 

But  not  too  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 

Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes  ; 

Disguise  ev’n  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise ; 

Brisk  Confidence  1 still  best  with  woman  copes ; 
L’ique  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon  Passion  crowns 
thy  hopes. 

XXXV. 

’Tis  an  old  lesson ; Time  approves  it  true, 

And  those  who  know  it  best,  deplore  it  most ; 
When  all  is  won  that  all  desire  to  woo, 

The  paltry  prize  is  hardly  worth  the  cost : 

Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honour  lost, 

These  are  thy  fruits,  successful  Passion ! these ! 

If,  kindly  cruel,  early  Hope  is  crost, 

Still  to  the  last  it  rankles,  a disease, 

Not  to  be  cured  when  Love  itself  forgets  to  please. 

xxxvi. 

Away  ! nor  let  me  loiter  in  my  song, 

For  we  have  many  a mountain-path  to  tread, 

And  many  a varied  shore  to  sail  along, 

By  pensive  Sadness,  not  by  Fiction,  led — 
dimes,  fair  withal  as  ever  mortal  head 
Imagined  in  its  little  schemes  of  thought ; 

Or  e’er  in  new  Utopias  were  ared, 

To  teach  man  what  he  might  be,  or  he  ought ; 

If  that  corrupted  thing  could  ever  such  be  taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  mother  still, 

Though  alway  changing,  in  her  aspect  mild ; 

From  her  bare  bosom  let  me  take  my  fill, 

Her  never-wean’d,  though  not  her  favour’d  child. 
Oh  ! she  is  fairest  in  her  features  wild, 

Where  nothing  polish’d  dares  pollute  her  path  : 

To  me  by  day  or  night  she  ever  smiled, 

Though  I have  mark’d  her  when  none  other  hath, 
And  sought  her  more  and  more,  and  loved  her  best 
in  wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land  of  Albania ! where  Iskander  rose, 

Theme  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the  wise, 

And  he  his  namesake,  whose  oft-baffled  foes 
Shrunk  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  emprize : 

Land  of  Albania ! 2 let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men  ! 

The  cross  descends,  thy  minarets  arise, 

And  the  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 

Through  many  a cypress  grove  within  each  city’s  ken. 


self  misrepresentation.  However  great  might  have  been  the  irre- 
gularities of  his  college  life,  such  phrases  as  ‘the  spoiler’s  art,’  and 
' spreading  snares,’  were  in  nowise  applicable  to  them.” — Moore.] 

(1)  [“  Brisk  impudence,”  &c. — MS.] 

(2)  See  Appendix  to  this  Canto,  Note  [B]. 

(3)  Ithaca.—  [“  Sept.  24th,”  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  “we  were  in 
the  channel,  with  Ithaca,  then  in  the  hands  of  the  French,  to  the 
vest  of  us.  We  were  close  to  it,  and  saw  a few  shrubs  on  a brown 
beathy  land,  two  little  towns  in  the  hills,  scattered  amongst  trees, 
and  a windmill  or  two,  with  a tower  on  the  heights.  That  Ithaca 
was  not  very  strongly  garrisoned,  you  will  easily  believe,  when  I 
tell,  that  a month  afterwards,  when  the  Ionian  Islands  were 
invested  by  a British  squadron,  it  was  surrendered  into  the  hands 
of  a sergeant  and  seven  men.”  For  a very  curious  account  of  the 


XXXIX. 

Cliilde  Harold  sail'd,  and  pass’d  tl  e barren  spot. 
Where  sad  Penelope  o’crlook’d  the  wave  ; 3 
And  onward  view’d  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot, 

The  lover’s  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian’s  grave. 

Dark  Sappho  ! could  not  verse  immortal  save 
That  breast  imbued  with  such  immortal  fire  P 
Could  she  not  live  who  life  eternal  gave  ? 

If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyre, 

That  only  Heaven  to  which  Earth’s  children  may  aspire. 

XL. 

’Twas  on  a Grecian  autumn’s  gentle  eve 
Childe  Harold  hail’d  leucadia’s  cape  afar;4 
A spot  he  long’d  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave : 

Oft  did  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vanish’d  war, 
Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar ; 5 
Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
(Born  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 

In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight, 

But  loathed  the  bravo’s  trade,  and  laughed  at  martial 
wight. 

XLI. 

But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia’s  far-projecting  rock  of  woe, 

And  hail’d  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love, 

He  felt,  or  deem’d  he  felt,  no  common  glow  : 

And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount. 

He  watch’d  the  billows’  melancholy  flow, 

And,  sunk  albeit  in  thought  as  lie  was  wont, 

More  placid  seem’d  his  eye,  and  smooth  his  pallid 
front.6 

XLII. 

Morn  dawns ; and  with  it  stern  Albania’s  hills, 
Dark  Suli’s  rocks,  and  Pindus’  inland  peak, 

Robed  half  in  mist,  bedew’d  with  snowy  rills, 
Array’d  in  many  a dun  and  purple  streak, 

Arise ; and,  as  the  clouds  along  them  break, 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer : 

Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  eagle  whets  his  beak. 
Birds,  beasts  of  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear, 

And  gathering  storms  around  convulse  the  closing  year. 

XLIII. 

Now  Harold  felt  himself  at  length  alone, 

And  bade  to  Christian  tongues  a long  adieu ; 

Now  he  adventured  on  a shore  unknown, 

Which  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view : 

His  breast  was  arm’d  ’gainst  fate,  his  wants  were  few; 
Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne’er  shrank  to  meet : 

The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was  new  ; 

This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet. 

Beat  back  keen  winter’s  blast,  and  welcomed  summer’s 
heat. 


state  of  the  kingdom  of  Ulysses  in  1816,  see  Williams’s  Travels, 

vol.  ii.  p.  427  ] 

(4)  Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.  From  the  promontory  (the 
Lover’s  Leap)  Sappho  is  said  to  have  thrown  herself. — [“  Sept.  28th, 
we  doubled  the  promontory  of  Santa  Maura,  and  saw  the  precipice 
which  the  fate  of  Sappho,  the  poetry  of  Ovid,  and  the  rocks  so 
formidable  to  the  ancient  mariners,  have  made  for  ever  memorable.’* 
— Hobiious.^.1 

(5)  Actium  and  Trafalgar  need  no  further  mention.  The  battle 
of  Lepanto,  equally  bloody  and  considerable,  but  less  known,  w.u 
fought  in  the  Gulf  of  Patras.  Here  the  author  of  Don  Quixoto 
lost  his  left  hand. 

(6)  [“  And  roused  him  more  from  thought  than  he  was  wont. 
While  Pleasure  almost  seemed  to  smooth  his  placid  front* 

-MS.] 


64HT0  Ii 


CH1LDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


2] 


XLIV. 

Here  the  red  cross,  for  still  the  cross  is  here, 
Though  sadly  scoff’d  at  by  the  circumcised, 
Forgets  that  pride  to  pamper’d  priesthood  dear ; 
Churchman  and  votary  alike  despised. 

Fold  Superstition ! howsoe’er  disguised, 

Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross. 

For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized, 

Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  loss  ! 

Who  from  true  worship’s  gold  can  separate  thy  dross  ? 

XLV. 

Ambracia’s  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing  ! 

In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  many  a Roman  chief  and  Asian  king1 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring  : 

Look  where  the  second  Caesar’s  trophies  rose ! 2 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  rear’d  them,  withering ; 
Imperial  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes  ! 

God  ! was  thy  globe  ordain’d  for  such  to  win  and 
lose  ? 


XLVI. 

From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 

Ev’n  to  the  centre  of  Illyria’s  vales, 

Childe  Harold  pass’d  o’er  many  a mount  sublime, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales ; 

Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  lovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seen ; nor  can  fair  Tempe  boast 
A charm  they  know  not ; loved  Parnassus  fails, 
Though  classic  ground  and  consecrated  most, 

To  match  some  spots  that  lurk  within  this  lowering 
coast. 


XLVII. 

He  pass’d  bleak  Pindus,  Acherusia’s  lake,3 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land, 

And  onwards  did  his  further  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania’s  chief,4  whose  dread  command 
Is  lawless  law ; for  with  a bloody  hand 
He  sways  a nation,  turbulent  and  bold : 

Yet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold.5 * 


(1)  It  is  said,  that  on  the  day  previous  to  the  battle  of  Actium, 
Antony  had  thirteen  kings  at  his  levee. — [“  To-day”  (Nov.  12), 
“ I saw  the  remains  of  the  town  cf  Actium,  near  which  Antony 
lost  the  world,  in  a small  bay,  where  two  frigates  could  hardly 
manoeuvre:  a broken  wall  is  the  sole  remnant.  On  another  part 
of  the  gulf  stand  the  ruins  of  Nicopolis,  built  by  Augustus,  in 
honour  of  his  victory.” — Lord  Byron  to  his  Mother,  1809.] 

(2)  Nicopolis,  whose  ruins  are  most  extensive,  is  at  some  dis- 
tance from  Actium,  where  the  wall  of  the  Hippodrome  survives  in 
a few  fragments.  These  ruins  are  large  masses  of  brickwork,  the 
bricks  of  which  are  joined  by  interstices  of  mortar,  as  large  as  the 
bricks  themselves,  and  equally  durable. 

(,  ) According  to  Pouqueville,  the  lake  of  Yanina:  but  Pouque- 
vill : is  always  out. 

(4 ) The  celebrated  Ali  Pacha.  Of  this  extraordinary  man  there 
is  an  incorrect  account  in  Pouqueville’s  Travels.—  [“  I left  Malta 
in  the  Spider  brig-of-war,  on  the  21st  ol  September,  and  arrived 
in  eight  days  at  Prevesa.  I thence  have  traversed  the  interior  of 
the  province  of  Albania,  on  a visit  to  the  Pacha,  asfarasTepaleen, 
his  highness’s  country  palace,  where  1 stayed  three  days.  The 

name  of  the  Pacha  is  Ali.  and  he  is  considered  a man  of  the  fir?t 
abilities  : he  governs  the  wh^le  of  Albania  (the  ancient  Illyricum,) 

Epirus,  and  part  of  Macedonia.” — B.  to  his  Mother .] 

b)  Five  thousand  Suiiotes,  among  the  rocks  and  in  the  castle  of 
Suli,  withstood  thirty  thousand  Albanians  for  eighteen  years ; the 
castle  at  last  was  taken  by  bribery.  In  this  contest  there  were 
several  acts  performed  not  unworthy  of  the  better  days  of  Greece. 

(C)  The  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  four  hours’  journey 

from  Joannina,  or  Yanina,  the  capital  of  the  Pachalick.  In  the 


XLVIII. 

Monastic  Zitza ! c from  thy  shady  brow, 

Thou  small,  but  favour’d  spot  of  holy  ground  ! 
Where’er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below, 

What  rainbow  tints,  what  magic  charms  are  found! 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound, 

And  bluest  skies  that  harmonise  the  whole  : 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent’s  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll 
Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet  please 
the  soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tufted  hill, 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  stiLl, 

Might  well  itself  be  deem’d  of  dignity, 

The  convent’s  white  walls  glisten  fair  on  high : 

Here  dwells  the  caloyer,7  nor  rude  is  he, 

Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer  ; the  passer  by 
Is  welcome  still ; nor  heedless  will  he  flee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  Nature’s  sheen  to  see. 

L. 

Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest, 

Fresh  is  the  green  beneath  those  aged  trees ; 

Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his  breast, 
From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze  : 

The  plain  is  far  beneath — oh  ! let  him  seize 
Pure  pleasure  while  he  can ; the  scorching  ray 
Here  pierceth  not,  impregnate  with  disease : 

Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay, 

And  gaze,  untired,  the  morn,  the  noon,  the  eve  awa* 

LI. 

Dusky  and  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight, 

Nature’s  volcanic  amphitheatre,8 
Chimsera’s  alps  extend  from  left  to  right : 

Beneath,  a living  valley  seems  to  stir ; [flv 

Flocks -play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  mountain- 
Nodding  above ; behold  black  Acheron  ! 9 
Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchre. 

Pluto  ! if  this  be  hell  I look  upon,  [none.19 

Close  shamed  Elysium’s  gates,  my  shade  shall  seek  for 


valley  the  river  Kalamas  (once  the  Acheron)  flows,  and,  not  far 
from  Zitza,  forms  a fine  cataract.  The  situation  is  perhaps  the 
finest  in  Greece,  though  the  approach  to  Delvinachi  and  parts  of 
Acarnania  and  jEtolia  may  contest  the  palm.  Delphi,  Parnassus, 
and,  in  Attica,  even  Cape  Colonna  and  Port  Raphti,  are  very 
inferior;  as  also  every  scene  in  Ionia,  or  the  Troad  : I am  almost 
inclined  to  add  the  approach  to  Constantinople;  but,  from  the  dif- 
ferent features  of  the  last,  a comparison  can  hardly  be  made. 
[“  Zitza,”  says  the  poet’s  companion,  “ is  a village  inhabited  by 
Greek  peasants.  Perhaps  there  is  not  in  the  world  a more  romantic 
prospect  than  that  which  is  viewed  from  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
The  foreground  is  a gentle  declivity,  terminating  on  every  side  in 
an  extensive  landscape  of  green  hills  and  dale,  enriched  with  vine- 
yards, and  dotted  with  frequent  flocks.”] 

(")  The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. — [“  We  went  into  the 
monastery,”  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  “ after  some  parley  with  one  of 
the  monks,  through  a small  door  plated  with  iron,  on  which  the 
marks  of  violence  were  very  apparent,  and  which,  before  the 
country  had  been  tranquillised  under  the  powerful  government  oi 
Ali,  had  been  battered  in  vain  by  the  troops  of  robbers  then,  by 
turns,  infesting  every  district.  The  prior,  a humble,  meek-man- 
nered man,  entertained  us  in  a warm  chamber,  with  grapes,  and  a 
pleasant  white  wine,  not  trodden  out,  as  he  told  us,  by  the  fee» , 
but  pressed  from  the  grape  by  the  hand  ; and  we  were  so  web 
pleased  with  every  thing  about  us,  that  we  agreed  to  lodge  with 
him  on  our  return  from  the  Vizier.”] 

(8)  The  Chimariot  mountains  appear  to  have  been  volcanic. 

(9)  Now  called  Kalamas. 

(10)  [“  Keep  heaven  for  better  souls,  my  shade,”  &C.--MS.] 


22 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


canto  n 


LET. 

Ne  city’s  towers  pollute  the  lovely  view ; 

Unseen  is  Yanina,  though  not  remote, 

Ycil’d  by  the  screen  of  hills  : here  men  arc  few, 
Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  cot ; 

But,  peering  down  each  precipice,  the  goat 
Browseth ; and,  pensive  o’er  liis  scatter’d  flock, 

The  little  shepherd  in  his  white  capote  1 
Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  along  the  rock, 

Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempest’s  short-lived  shock. 

LIII. 

Oh  ! where,  Dodona ! is  thine  aged  grove, 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine  ? 

What  valley  echoed  the  response  of  Jove  ? 

What  trace  remaineth  of  the  Thunderer’s  shrine  ? 
All,  all  forgotten — and  shall  man  repine 
That  his  frail  bonds  to  fleeting  life  are  broke  ? 
Cease,  fool ! the  fate  of  gods  may  well  be  thine  : 
Wouldst  thou  survive  the  maiblc  or  the  oak  ? 
When  nations,  tongues,  and  worlds  must  sink  beneath 
the  stroke ! 

LIV. 

Epirus’  bounds  recede,  and  mountains  fail ; 

Tired  of  up-gazing  still,  the  wearied  eye 
Reposes  gladly  on  as  smooth  a vale 
As  ever  Spring  yclad  in  grassy  die  : 

Ev’n  on  a plain  no  humble  beauties  lie, 

Where  some  bold  river  breaks  the  long  expanse, 
And  woods  along-  the  banks  are  waving  high, 
Whose  shadows  in  the  glassy  waters  dance, 

Or  with  the  moonbeam  sleep  in  midnight’s  solemn 
trance. 

LV. 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit,2 
And  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  roaring  by  ; 3 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet, 
Wrhen,  down  the  steep  banks  winding  warily, 

Childe  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  *in  the  sky, 

The  glittering  minarets  of  Tcpalcn, 

Whose  walls  o’erlook  the  stream ; and  drawing  nigh, 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior-men  [glen.4 
Swelling  the  breeze  that  sigh’d  along  the  lengthening 

LVI. 

He  pass’d  the  sacred  Haram’s  silent  tower. 

And  underneath  the  wide  o’cr-arching  gate 
Survey’d  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  power, 

Where  all  around  proclaim’d  his  high  estate. 


(1)  Albanese  cloak. 

(2)  Anciently  Mount  Tomarus. 

(3)  The  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  passed  it;  and, 
immediately  above  Tepaleen,  was  to  the  eye  as  wide  as  the  Thames 
at  Westminster;  at  least  in  the  opinion  of  the  author  and  his 
fellow-traveller.  In  the  summer  it  must  be  much  narrower.  It 
certainly  is  the  finest  river  in  the  Levant;  neither  Achelous, 
Alpheus,  Acheron,  Scamander,  nor  Cayster,  approached  it  in 
breadth  or  beauty. 

(4)  [“  Ali  Pacha,  hearing  that  an  Englishman  of  rank  was  in  his 
dominions,  left  orders,  in  Yanina,  with  the  commandant,  to  pro- 
vide a house,  and  supply  me  with  every  kind  of  necessary,  gratis. 
1 rode  out  on  the  vizier’s  horses,  and  saw  the  palaces  of  himself 
and  grandsons.  I shall  never  forget  the  singular  scene  on  entering 
Tepaleen,  at  five  in  the  afternoon  (Oct.  11),  as  the  sun  was  going 
down.  It  brought  to  my  mind  (with  some  change  of  dress,  how- 
ever,) Scott’s  description  of  Branksome  Castle  in  his  Lay,  and  the 

feudal  system.  The  Albanians  in  their  dresses  (the  most  mag- 
nificent in  the  world,  consisting  of  a long  white  kilt,  gold-worked 
cloak,  crimson  velvet  gold  laced  jacket  and  waistcoat,  silver- 
mounted  pistols  and  daggers);  the  Tartars,  with  their  high  caps; 
the  Turks  in  their  vast  pelisses  and  turbans;  the  soldiers  and 

alack  ‘ laves  with  the  horses,  the  former  in  groups,  in  an  immense 


Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sate. 

While  busy  preparation  shook  the  court, 

Slaves,  eunuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  santons  wait 
Within,  a palace,  and  without,  a fort : 

Here  men  of  every  clime  appear  to  make  resort. 

LVII. 

Richly  caparison’d,  a ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a warlike  store, 

Circled  the  wide-extending  court  below  ; 

Above,  strange  groups  adorn’d  the  corridore ; 

And  oft-times  through  the  area’s  echoing  door, 
Some  high-capp’d  Tartar  spurr’d  his  steed  away  : 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  and  the  Moor, 
Here  mingled  in  their  many-hued  array,  [of  day 
While  the  deep  war-drum’s  sound  announced  the  dost 

LVIII. 

The  wild  Albanian  kirtled  to  his  knee, 

With  shawl-eirt  head  and  ornamented  gun, 

And  gold-embroider’d  garments,  fair  to  see  : 

The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedon  ; 

The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on, 

And  crooked  glaive;  the  lively,  supple  Greek; 

And  swarthy  Nubia’s  mutilated  son; 

Tne  bearded  Turk,  that  rarely  deigns  to  speak, 
Master  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek, 

LIX. 

Are  mix’d  conspicuous ; some  recline  in  groups, 
Scanning  the  motley  scene,  that  varies  round ; 
There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  stoops, 

And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are 
found ; 

Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground  ; 
Half-whispering  there  the  Greek  is  heard  to  prate  ; 
Hark  ! from  the  mosque  the  nightly  solemn  sound, 
The  Muezzin’s  call  doth  shake  the  minaret, 

“ There  is  no  god  but  God  ! — to  prayer — lo ! God 
is  great !” 5 

LX. 

Just  at  this  season  Ramazani’s  fast6 
Through  the  long  day  its  penance  did  maintain: 
But  when  the  lingering  twilight  hour  was  past. 
Revel  and  feast  assumed  the  rule  again  : 

Now  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board  within ; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seem’d  made  in  vain, 

But  from  the  chambers  came  the  mingling  din, 

As  page  and  slave  anon  were  passing  out  and  in. 


large  open  gallery  in  front  of  the  palace,  the  latter  placed  in  a kind 
of  cloister  below  it;  two  hundred  steeds  ready  caparisoned  to  move 
in  a moment;  couriers  entering  or  passing  out  with  despatches; 
the  kettle-drums  beating;  boys  calling  the  hour  from  the  minaret 
of  the  mosque  ; — altogether,  with  the  singular  appearance  of  the 
building  itself,  formed  a new  and  delightful  spectacle  to  a stranger. 
I was  conducted  to  a very  handsome  apartment,  and  my  health 
inquired  after  by  the  vizier’s  secretary,  ‘a  la  mode  Turque.’” — 
B.  Letters .] 

(5)  [“  On  our  arrival  at  Tepaleen,  we  were  lodged  in  the  palace. 
During  the  night,  we  were  disturbed  by  the  perpetual  carousa. 
which  seemed  to  be  kept  up  in  the  g.illery,  and  by  the  drum,  anu 
the  voice  of  the  ‘ Muezzin,’  or  chanter,  calling  the  Turks  to 
prayers  from  the  minaret  or  the  mosck  attached  tc  the  palace. 
The  chanter  was  a boy,  and  he  sang  out  his  hymn  in  a sort  01 
loud  melancholy  recitative.  He  was  a long  time  repeating  the 
purport  of  these  few  words  : ‘ God  most  high  ! I bear  witness.  that 
there  is  no  god  but  God,  and  Mahomet  is  his  prophet:  come  to 
prayer;  come  to  the  asylum  of  salvation;  great  God!  there  is  no 
god  but  God  !’  ” — Hobhouse.] 

(6)  [“  We  were  a little  unfortunate  in  the  time  we  chose  for 
travelling,  for  it  was  during  the  Ramazan,  or  Turkish  Lent,  which 
fell  this  year  in  October,  and  was  hailed  at  the  rising  of  the  no> 


CANTO  II. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


23 


LXI. 

Here  woman’s  voice  is  never  heard  : apart, 

And  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  veil’d  to  move, 

She  yields  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart, 

Tamed  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a wish  to  rove  : 

For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master’s  love, 

And  joyful  in  a mother’s  gentlest  cares, 

Blest  cares  ! all  other  feelings  far  above  ! 

Herself  more  sweetly  rears  the  babe  she  bears, 
fFho  never  quits  the  breast,  no  meaner  passion  shares. 

LXII. 

In  marble-paved  pavilion,  where  a spring 
Of  living  water  from  the  centre  rose, 

Whose  bubbling  did  a genial  freshness  fling, 

And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose, 

Ali  reclined,  a man  of  war  and  woes  : 1 
Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace, 

While  Gentleness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Along  that  aged  venerable  face,  [disgrace. 

The  deeds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him  with 

LXIII. 

It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
111  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth  :2 
Love  conquers  age — so  Hafiz  hath  averr’d, 

So  sings  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth — 

But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  ruth, 
Beseeming  all  men  ill,  but  most  the  man 
In  years,  have  marked  him  with  a tiger’s  tooth  : 
Blood  follows  blood,  and,  through  their  mortal  span, 
In  bloodier  acts  conclude  those ' who  with  blood 
began.3 

LXIV. 

’Mid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  and  eye 
The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet, 

And  gazed  around  on  Moslem  luxury,4 
Till  quickly  wearied  with  that  spacious  seat 
Of  Wealth  and  Wantonness,  the  choice  retreat 
Of  sated  Grandeur  from  the  city’s  noise : 

And  were  it  humbler  it  in  sooth  were  sweet ; 

But  Peace  abhorreth  artificial  joys, 

And  Pleasure,  leagued  with  Pomp,  the  zest  of  both 
destroys. 


-noon,  on  the  evening  of  the  8th,  by  every  demonstration  of  joy  : 
out  although,  during  this  month,  the  strictest  abstinence  is  ob- 
served in  the  daytime,  yet  with  the  setting  of  the  sun  the  feasting 
commences : then  is  the  time  foi  paying  and  receiving  visits,  and 
for  tlip  amusements  of  Turkey,  puppet-shows,  jugglers,  dancers, 
and  ktory -tellers.” — Hob  house.] 

(1)  [“  On  the  12th,  I was  introduced  to  Ali  Pacha  I was 
dressed  in  a full  suit  of  staff  uniform,  with  a very  magnificent 
sabre,  &c.  The  vizier  received  me  in  a large  room  paved  with 
marble  ; a fountain  was  playing  in  the  centre  ; the  apartment  was 
surrounded  by  scarlet  ottomans.  He  received  me  standing,  a 
wonderful  compliment  from  a Mussulman,  and  made  me  sit  down 
on  his  right  hand.  His  first  question  was.  why,  at  so  early  an  age, 
I left  my  country  1 He  then  said,  the  English  minister,  Captain 
Leake,  had  told  him  I was  of  a great  family,  and  desired  his 
respects  to  my  mother;  which  I now,  in  the  name  of  Ali  Pacha, 
present  to  you.  He  said  he  was  certain  I was  a man  of  birth, 
because  I had  small  ears,  curling  hair,  and  little  white  hands. 
He  told  me  to  consider  him  as  a father  whilst  I was  in  Turkey,  and 
said  he  looked  on  me  as  his  own  son.  Indeed,  he  treated  me  like 
a child,  sending  me  almonds  and  sugared  sherbet,  fruit,  and  sweet- 
meats. twenty  times  a day.  I then,  after  coffee  and  pipes,  retired.” 
— B.  to  his  Mother.] 

2)  [“  Delights  to  mingle  with  the  lip  of  youth.” — MS.] 

Mr.  Ilobhouse  describes  the  vizier  as  “ a short  man,  about  five 
feet  five  inches  in  height,  and  very  fat;  possessing  a very  pleasing 
face,  fair  and  round,  with  blue  quick  eyes,  not  at  all  settled  into  a 
Turkish  gravity.”  Dr.  Holland  hanpily  compares  the  spirit  which 


LXV. 

Fierce  are  Albania’s  children,  yet  they  lack 
Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  mature. 
Where  is  the  foe  that  ever  saw  their  back  ? 

Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure  ? 

Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure 
Than  they  in  doubtful  time  of  troublous  need  : 
Their  wrath  how  deadly  ! but  their  friendship  sure, 
When  gratitude  or  valour  bids  them  bleed, 
Unshaken  rushing  on  where’er  their  chief  may  lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain’s  tower, 
Thronging  to  war  in  splendour  and  success ; 

And  after  view’d  them,  when,  within  their  power, 
Himself  awhile  the  victim  of  distress ; 

That  saddening  hour  when  bad  men  hotlier  press  : 
But  these  did  shelter  him  beneath  their  roof. 

When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheer’d  him  less, 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof 5 — 

In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstand  the 
proof ! ' 

LXVII. 

It  chanced  that  adverse  winds  once  drove  his  barx 
Full  on  the  coast  of  Suli’s  shaggy  shore, 

When  all  around  was  desolate  and  dark ; 

To  land  was  perilous,  to  sojourn  more  ; 

Yet  for  awhile  the  mariners  forbore, 

Dubious  to  trust  where  treachery  might  lurk : 

At  length  they  ventured  forth,  though  doubting  sore 
That  those  who  loathe  alike  the  Frank  and  Turk 
Might  orice  again  renew  their  ancient  butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain  fear ! the  Suliotes  stretch’d  the  welcome  hand, 
Led  them  o’er  rocks  and  past  the  dangerous  swamp, 
Kinder  than  polish’d  slaves  though  not  so  bland, 
And  piled  the  hearth,  and  wrung  their  garments 
damp. 

And  fill’d  the  bowl,  and  trimm’d  the  cheerful  lamp, 
And  spread  their  fare ; though  homely,  all  they  had 
Such  conduct  bears  Philanthropy’s  rare  stamp — 
To  rest  the  weary  and  to  soothe  the  sad,  [bad. 
Doth  lesson  happier  men,  and  shames  at  least  the 


lurked  under  Ali’s  usual  exterior,  to  “ the  fire  of  a stove,  burning 
fiercely  under  a smooth  and  polished  surface.”  When  the  doctor 
returned  from  Albania,  in  1813,  he  brought  a letter  from  the 

Pacha  to  Lord  Byron.  “ It  is,”  says  the  poet,  “ in  Latin,  and 
begins  * Excellentissime,  necnon  Carissime,’  and  ends  about  a 
gun  he  wants  made  for  him.  He  tells  me  that,  last  spring,  he 
took  a town,  a hostile  town,  where,  forty-two  years  ago,  his  mother 
and  sisters  were  treated  as  Miss  Cunegunde  was  by  the  Bulgarian 
cavalry.  He  takes  the  town,  selects  all  the  survivors  of  the 
exploit — children,  grandchildren,  &c..  to  the  tune  of  six  hundred, 
and  has  them  shot  before  his  face.  So  much  for  ‘ dearest  friend.’”] 

(3)  [The  fate  of  Ali  was  precisely  such  as  the  poet  anticipated. 
For  a circumstantial  account  of  his  assassination,  in  February, 
1822,  see  Walsh’s  Journey.  His  head  was  sent  to  Constantinople, 
and  exhibited  at  the  gates  of  the  seraglio.  As  the  name  of  Ali  had 
made  a considerable  noise  in  England,  in  consequence  of  his  nego- 
tiations with  Sir  Thomas  Maitland,  and  still  more,  perhaps,  these 
stanzas  of  Lord  Byron,  a merchant  of  Constantinople  thought  it 
would  be  no  bad  speculation  to  purchase  the  i ead  and  consign  it 
to  a London  showman  ; but  this  scheme  was  defeated  by  the  piety 
of  an  old  servant  of  the  Pacha,  who  bribed  the  executioner  with  « 
higher  price,  and  bestowed  decent  sepulture  on  the  relic.] 

(4)  [“  Childe  Harold  with  the  chief  held  colloquy, 

Yet  what  they  spake  it  boots  net  to  repeat: 

Converse  may  little  charm  strange  ear  or  eye. 

Albeit  he  rested  on  that  spacious  seat 
Of  Moslem  luxury,”  &c. — MS.] 

(5)  Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall. 


24 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  II 


LXIX. 

It  came  to  pass,  that  when  lie  did  address 
Himseii  to  quit  at  length  this  mountain-land, 
Combin’d  marauders  half-way  barr’d  egress, 

And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand  ; 
And  therefore  did  he  take  a trusty  band 
To  traverse  Acarnania’s  forest  wide. 

In  war  well  season’d,  and  with  labours  tann’d, 

Till  he  did  greet  white  Aehelous’  tide, 

And  from  his  further  bank  AStolia’s  wolds  espied. 

LXX. 

Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove, 

And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest, 

How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hill’s  grove, 
Nodding  at  midnight  o’er  the  calm  bay’s  breast, 

As  winds  come  whispering  lightly  from  the  west, 
Kissing,  not  ruffling,  the  blue  deep’s  serene  : — 
Here  Harold  was  received  a welcome  guest; 

Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene,  [glean.. 
For  many  a joy  could  he  from  Night’s  soft  presence 
LXXI. 

On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-fires  brightly  blazed, 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast,1 
And  he  that  unawares  had  there  ygazed 
With  gaping  wonderment  had  stared  aghast ; 

For  ere  night’s  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past, 

The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began  ; 

Each  Palikar 2 his  sabre  from  him  cast, 

And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  link’d  to  man, 
Veiling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  daunced  the  kirtled 
clan.3 

LXXII. 

Childe  Harold  at  a little  distance  stood, 

And  view’d,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie, 

Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  however  rude  : 

In  sooth,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  barbarous,  yet  their  not  indecent,  glee : 

And,  as  the  flames  along  their  faces  gleam’d,  / 

Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing  free, 

The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles  stream’d, 
While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sang,  half 
scream’d  :4 — 

1. 

Tambourgi  ! Tambourgi ! 5 tliy’Iarum  afar 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  and  promise  of  war ; 

All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 
Chimariot,  Illyrian,  and  dark  Suliote  ! 6 


(1)  The  Albanian  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from  wine,  and, 
indeed,  very  lew  of  the  others. 

(2)  Palikar.  shortened  when  addressed  to  a single  person,  from 
fluAjKnpi,  a general  name  for  a soldier  amongst  the  Greeks  and 
Albanese  who  speak  Romaic:  it  means,  properly,  “ a lad.” 

(3)  [The  following  is  Mr.  Ilobhouse’s  animated  description  of 
this  scene: — “In  the  evening  the  gates  were  secuied,  and  pre- 
parations were  made  for  feeding  our  Albanians.  A goat  was  killed 
and  roasted  whole,  and  four  fires  were  kindled  in  the  yard,  round 
which  the  soldiers  seated  themselves  in  parties.  After  eating  and 
drinking,  the  greatest  part  of  them  assembled  around  the  largest  of 
*he  fires,  and,  whilst  ourselves  and  the  elders  of  the  party  were 
seated  on  the  ground,  danced  round  the  blaze,  to  their  own  songs, 
with  astonishing  energy.  All  their  songs  were  relations  of  some 
tobbing  exploits.  One  of  them,  which  detained  them  more  than 
an  hour,  began  thus  : — ‘ When  we  set  out  from  Parga,  there  were 
sixty  of  us  :'  then  came  the  burden  of  the  verse, — 

* Robbers  all  at  Parga  1 
Robbers  all  at  Parga ! ’ 

4 KAe</>Teiv  nore  Ilap7a! 

K A e^iTeir  wore  riap7a  !’ 

and  as  they  roared  out  this  stave,  they  whirled  round  the  fire, 
dropped,  and  rebounded  from  their  knees,  and  again  whirled 
round,  as  the  chorus  was  again  repeated.  The  rippling  of  the 


2. 

Oli ! who  is  more  brave  than  a dark  Suliote, 

In  his  snowy  camese  and  h’s  shaggy  capote? 

To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild  flock, 
And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from  the  rock 

3. 

Shall  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a friend,  bid  an  enemy  live  ? 

Let  those  guns  so  unerring  such  vengeance  forrgt.  * 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breast  of  a foe  ? 

4. 

Macedonia  sends  forth  her  invincible  race  , 

For  a time  they  abandon  the  cave  and  the  chase : 

But  those  scarfs  of  blood-red  shall  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheathed  and  the  battle  is  o’er. 

5. 

Then  the  pirates  of  Parga  that  dwell  by  the  waves. 
And  teach  the  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves, 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  long  galley  and  oar, 

And  track  to  his  covert  the  captive  on  shore. 

6. 

I ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supply, 

My  sabre  shall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy ; 

Shall  win  the  young  bride  with  her  long  flowing  hair 
And  many  a maid  from  her  mother  shall  tear. 

7. 

I love  the  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth, 

Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  her  music  shall  sooth ; 

Let  her  bring  from  her  chamber  the  many-toned  lyre, 
And  sing  us  a song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 

8. 

Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell,7 
The  shrieks  of  the  conquer’d,  the  conquerors’  yell ; 
The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared, 
The  wealthy  we  slaughter’d,  the  lovely  we  spared. 

9. 

I talk  not  of  mei  cy,  I talk  not  of  fear ; 

He  neither  must  know  who  would  serve  the  Vizier : 
Since  the  days  of  our  prophet  the  Crescent  ne’er  saw 
A chief  ever  glorious  like  Ali  Pasliaw. 

10. 

Dark  Muchtar  his  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped, 

Let  the  yellow-hair’d8  Giaours9 10  view  his  horse-tail 1C 
with  dread;  [banks. 

When  his  Delhis11  come  dashing  in  blood  o’er  the 
How  few  shall  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks  ! 


waves  upon  the  pebbly  margin  where  we  were  seated,  filled  up  the 
pauses  of  the  song  with  a milder  and  not  more  monotonous  music. 

The  night  was  very  dark ; but,  by  the  Hashes  of  the  fires,  we  caught 
a glimpse  of  the  woods,  the  rocks,  and  the  lake,  which,  together 

with  the  wild  appearance  of  the  dancers,  presented  us  with  a >ceno 
that  would  have  made  a fine  picture  in  the  hands  of  such  an  artist 
as  the  author  of  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  As  we  were  acquainted 
with  the  character  of  the  Albanians,  it  did  not  at  all  diminish  our 
pleasure  to  know,  that  every  one  of  our  guard  had  been  robbers 
and  some  of  them  a very  short  time  before.  It  was  eleven  o'clock 
before  we  had  retired  to  our  room,  at  which  time  the  Albanians, 
wrapping  themselves  up  in  thei*-  capotes,  went  to  sleep  round  tl  b 
fires.”] 

(4)  [For  a specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout  dialect  of  the 
Illyric,  see  Appendix  to  this  Canto,  Note  [C].] 

(5)  Drummer. 

(G)  These  stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different  Albanese  sonjs*. 
as  far  as  I was  able  to  make  them  out  by  the  exposition  of  ih' 
Albanese  in  Romaic  and  Italian. 

(7)  It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French. 

C8)  Yellow  is  the  epithet  givep  *n  the  Russians 

(9)  Infidel. 

(10)  The  insignia  of  a P.  ha. 

(11)  Horsemen,  answerifig  to  • forlorn  hopo. 


C* : Jb  a 


OILILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


25 


11. 

SeiiGar  ! 1 unsheathe  then  our  chiefs  scimitar : 
TacAourgi ! thy  Tarum  gives  promise  of  war. 

Yt  mountains,  that  see  us  descend  to  the  shore, 

Sti ad  view  us  as  victors,  or  view  ns  no  more  ! 

LXXIII. 

Pair  Greece  ! sad  relic  of  departed  worth  ! 2 
Immortal,  though  no  more  ; though  fallen,  great ! 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scatter'd  children  forth, 
And  long  accustom’d  bondage  uncreate  9 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilome  did  await, 

The  hopeless  warriors  of  a willing  doom, 

In  bleak  Thermopylae’s  sepulchral  strait — 

Oh  ! who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 

Leap  from  Eurotas’  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit  of  Preedom  ! when  on  Phyle’s  brow 3 
Thou  sat’st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 

Couldst  thou  forbode  the  dismal  hour  which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain  ? 

Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain, 

But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o’er  thy  land  ; 

Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 

Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand, 
Prom  birth  till  death  enslaved;  in  word,  in  deed, 
unmann’d. 

LXXV. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed ! and  who 
That  marks  the  fire  still  sparkling  in  each  eye. 

Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burn’d  anew  • ■ ' 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  Liberty  ! 

And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  back  their  fathers’  heritage  : 

Por  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh, 

Nor  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage,  [page. 

< )r  tear  theii  name  defiled  from  Slavery’s  mournful 

IXXVI. 

Hereditary  bondsmen ! know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought  ? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye  ? no  ! 

True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low, 

But  not  for  you  will  Preedom’s  altars  flame. 

Shades  of  the  Helots ! triumph  o’er  your  foe  ! 
Greece  ! change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same ; 
Tliy  glorious  day  is  o’er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 


< 1 ) Sword-bearer. 

l2)  See  some  Thoughts  on  the  present  State  of  Greece  and 
Turkey  in  the  Appendix  to  this  Canto.  Notes  [D]  and  [E]. 

(3)  Phvle,  which  commands  a beautiful  view  of  Athens,  has  still 
considerable  remains : it  was  seized  by  Thrasybulus,  previous  to 
the  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 

(4)  When  taken  by  the  Latins,  and  retained  for  several  years. 

(.')]  Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time  ago  by  the  Walia- 

bees,  a sect  yearly  increasing. 

(G)  [Of  Constantinople  Lord  Byron  says, — “I  have  s,  sen  the 
nr.ns  of  Athens,  of  Ephesus,  and  Delphi  : 1 have  traversed  great 
part  of  Turkey,  and  many  other  parts  of  Europe,  and  some  of  Asia ; 
kut  1 never  beheld  a work  of  nature  or  art  which  yielded  an 
mpression  like  the  prospect  on  each  side,  frpm  the  Seven  Towers 
•o  the  end  of  the  Golden  Horn.”] 

(7)  [“The  view  of  Constantinople,”  says  Mr.  Rose,  “which 
ippeared  intersected  by  groves  of  cypress  [for  such  is  the  effect  of 

ts  great  burial-grounds  planted  with  ther,#  trees),  its  gilded  domes 
“id  minarets  reflecting  the  first  rays  of  Ue  sun ; the  deep  blue  sea 

iu  which  it  glassed  itself,’  and  th  sea  covered  with  beautiful 


LXXVII. 

The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 

The  Giaour  from  Othman’s  race  again  may  \v  'est : 
And  the  Serai’s  impenetrable  tower 
Receive  the  fiery  Prank,  her  former  guest ; 4 
Or  Wahab’s  rebel  brood,  who  dared  divest 
The  prophet’s  5 * tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, 

May  wind  their  path  of  blood  along  tiie  West , 

But  ne’er  will  freedom  seek  this  fated  soil, 

But  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless  toil 

LXXVIII. 

Yet  mark  their  mirth — ere  lenten  days  begin, 

That  penance  which  their  holy  rites  prepare 
To  shrive  from  man  his  weight  of  mortal  sin, 

By  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer  ; 

But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  Repentance  wear, 

Some  days  of  joyaunce  are  decreed  to  all, 

To  take  of  pleasaunce  each  his  secret  share, 

In  motley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  ball, 

And  join  the  mimic  train  of  merry  Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  than  thine, 
Oh  Stamboul ! 0 once  the  empress  of  their  reign  ? 
Though  turbans  now  pollute  Sophia’s  shrine, 

And  Greece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain  : 

(Alas  ! her  woes  will  still  pervade  my  strain  !) 

Gay  were  her  minstrels  once,  for  free  her  throng, 
All  felt  the  common  joy  they  now  must  feign, 

Nor  oft  I’ve  seen  such  sight,  nor  heard  such  song, 
As  woo’d  the  eye,  and  thrill’d  the  Bosphorus  along.7 * 
LXXX. 

Loud  was  the  lightsome  tumult  on  the  shore, 

Ofk  Music  changed,  but  never  ceased  her  tone, 
Aiidttimely  echo’d  back  the  measured  oar, 

And  rippling  waters  made  a pleasant  moan  : 

The  (aueen  of  tides  on  high  consenting  shone. 

And  jrhen  a transient  breeze  swept  o’er  the  wave, 
’Tv,  3,  as  if  darting  from  her  heavenly  throne, 

A ! lighter  glance  her  form  reflected  gave,  [lave. 
Till  sparkling  billows  seem’d  to  light  the  banks  they 

LXXXI. 

Glanced  many  a light  caique  along  the  foam, 
Danced  on  the  shore  the  daughters  of  the  land, 

Ne  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home, 
While  many  a languid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 
Exchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand, 

Or  gently  prest,  return’d  the  pressure  still : 

Oh  Love  ! young  Love  ! bound  in  thy  rosy  band, 
Let  sage  or  cynic  prattle  as  he  will, 

These  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  Life’s  years  of  ili  ! 


boats  and  barges  darting  in  every  direction  in  perfect  silence,  amid 
sea-fowl,  wlto  sat  at  rest  upon  the  waters,  altogether  conveyed  such 
an  impression  as  I had  never  received,  and  probably  never  shall 
again  receive,  from  the  view  of  any  other  place.”  The  following 
sonnet,  by  the  same  author,  has  been  so  often  quoted,  that,  but  for 
its  exquisite  beauty,  we  should  not  have  ventured  to  reprint  it  here  : — 
“ A glorious  form  (hy  shining  city  wore, 

’Mid  cypress  thickets  of  perennial  green, 

With  minaret  and  golden  dome  between, 

While  thy  sea  softly  kiss’d  its  grassy  shore  : 

Darting  across  whose  blue  expanse  was  seen 
Of  sculptured  barques  and  galley  j many  a score  ; 

Whence  noise  was  none  save  thafi  of  plashing  oar ; 

Nor  word  was  spoke,  to  break  the  calm  serene. 

Unheard  is  whisker’ d boatman’s  hail  or  joke  ; 

Who,  mute  as  Sinbad’s  man  of  c<  pper,  rows, 

And  only  intermits  the  sturdy  stroke, 

When  fearless  gull  too  nigh  his  pinnace  goes. 

I,  hardly  conscious  if  I dream’d  or  woke, 

Mark’d  that  strange  piece  of  action  and  repose.”] 

E 


36 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  EL 


LXXXII. 

But,  midst  the  throng-  in  merry  masquerade, 

Lurk  there  no  hearts  that  throb  with  secret  pain, 
Even  through  the  closest  searment  half  betray’d  ? 
To  such  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  main 
Seem  to  re-echo  all  they  mourn  in  vain ; 

To  such  the  gladness  of  the  gamesome  crowd 
Is  source  of  wayward  thought  and  stern  disdain : 
How  do  they  loathe  the  laughter  idly  loud, 

A.nd  long  to  change  the  robe  of  revel  lor  the  shroud  ! 


LXXXIII. 

This  must  he  feel,  1 he  true-born  son  of  Greece, 

If  Greece  one  true-born  patriot  still  can  boast : 

Not  such  as  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace, 

The  bondsman’s  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  lost, 
Yet  with  smooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  accost, 

And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword : 

All!  Greece  ! they  love  thee  least  who  owe  thee  most; 
JTheir  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  horde ! 

LXXXIV. 

When  risetli  Lacedaemon’s  hardihood. 

When  Thebes  Epaminondas  rears  again, 

When  Athens’  children  are  with  hearts  endued. 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men, 
Then  may’st  thou  be  restored ; but  not  till  then. 

A thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  form  a state  ; 

An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust : and  when 
Can  man  its  shatter’d  splendour  renovate, 
decall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time  and  Fate  ? 

LXXXV. 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  aBe  of  woe, 

Land  wf  lost  gods  and  godlike  men  ! art  thou  ! 

Thy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hills  of  snow,1 * 
Proclaim  thee  Nature’s  varied  favourite  now ; 

Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  surface  bow, 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth, 

Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough  : 

So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth, 
b perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth  ; 


( ' On  many  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura,  the  snow 
ne\  o entirely  melted,  notwithstanding  the  intense  heat  of  the 
suit*  • r;  but  I never  saw  it  lie  on  the  plains,  even  in  winter. 

(2)  *f  Mount  Pentelicus,  from  whence  the  marble  was  dug  that 
consb  <*ed  the  public  edifices  of  Athens.  The  modern  name  is 
Moun1  '^-endeli.  An  immense  cave,  formed  by  the  quarries,  still 
reman-  and  will  till  the  end  cf  time. 

(3)  1.  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens  itself  and  Marathon,  there  is 
no  scene  r.ore  interesting  than  Cape  Colonna.  To  the  antiquary 
and  artis  . sixteen  columns  a/e  an  inexhaustible  source  of  observa- 
tion and  'HT.ign  ; to  the  phi’.os.opner,  the  supposed  scene  of  some  of 
Plato’s  o ~ versa tions  will  not  he  unwelcome;  and  the  traveller 
will  be  s^ic-ck  with  the  baa'ity  of  the  prospect  over  “ Isles  that 
crown  th'’  Egean  deep  . ” but,  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna  has 
yet  an  add)'  ional  intercut,  as  the  actual  spot  of  Falconer’s  Ship- 
wreck. Pi.  '.vs  and  PIrzo  are  forgotten,  in  the  recollection  of 
Falconer  an  i Campbell : — 

“ H -re  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna’s  steep, 

T*  v seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep.” 

This  temple  of  Minerva  may  be  seen  at  sea  from  a great  distance. 
In  two  journeys  which  I made,  and  one  voyage  to  Cape  Colonna, 
the  view  from  either  side,  by  land,  was  less  striking  than  the 
approach  fr«  m the  isles.  In  our  second  land  excursion,  we  had  a 
narrow  escape  from  a party  of  Mainotes,  concealed  in  the  caverns 
beneath.  We  were  told  afterwards,  by  one  of  their  prisoners, 
subsequently  ransomed,  that  they  were  deterred  from  attacking  us 
by  the  appearance  of  my  two  Albanians:  conjecturing  very 

sagaciously,  but  falsely,  that  vii  had  a complete  guard  of  these 


LXXXVI. 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave ; * 

Save  where  Tritonia’s  airy  shrine  adorns 
Colonna’s  cliff,3  and  gleams  along  the  wave : 

Save  o’er  some  warrior’s  half-forgotten  grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave, 

W liile  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass, 
Lingering  like  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,  and  sigh  “Alas 

LXXXVII. 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild ; 

Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled, 

And  still  his  honied  wealth  Hymettus  yields  ; 

There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air ; 

Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds, 

Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli’s  marbles  glare  ; 

Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair,4 

LXXXVIII. 

Where’er  we  tread  ’tis  haunted,  holy  ground  ; 

No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould, 

But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 

And  all  the  Muse’s  tales  seem  truly  told, 

Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon  : 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold 
Defies  the  power  which  crush’d  thy  temples  gone  . 
Age  shakes  Athena’s  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same ; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord — 
Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  boundless  fame, 

The  Battle-field,  where  Persia’s  victim  horde 
First  bow’d  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas’  sword. 

As  on  the  mom  to  distant  glory  dear, 

When  Marathon  became  a magic  word  ; 5 
Which  utter’d,  to  the  hearer’s  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  conqueror’s  Career, 


Arnaouts  at  hand,  they  remained  stationary,  and  thus  saved  our 
party,  which  was  too  small  to  have  opposed  any  effectual  resistance. 
Colonna  is  no  less  a resort  of  painters  than  of  pirates  ; there 

“ The  hireling  artist  plants  his  paltry  desk, 

And  makes  degraded  nature  picturesque.” 

(See  Hodgson’s  Lady  Jane  Grey,  &c.) 

But  there  Nature,  with  the  aid  of  Art,  has  done  that  for  herself 
I was  fortunate  enough  to  engage  a very  superior  German  artist , 
and  hope  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with  this  and  many  other 
Levantine  scenes,  by  the  arrival  of  his  performances. 

(4)  [The  following  passage  in  Harris’s  Philosophical  Inquiries, 
contains  the  pith  of  this  stanza: — “ Notwithstanding  the  various 
fortunes  of  Athens  as  a city,  Attica  is  still  famous  for  olives,  and 
Mount  Hymettus  lor  honey.  Human  institutions  perish,  but 
Nature  is  permanent.”  I recollect  having  once  pointed  out  this 
coincidence  to  Lord  Byron,  but  he  assured  me  that  he  had  never 
even  seen  this  work  of  Harris’s. — Moore.] 

(5)  “ Siste  Viator — heroa  calcas ! ” was  the  epitaph  on  the 
famous  Count  Merci: — what  then  must  be  our  feelings,  when 
standing  on  the  tumulus  of  the  two  hundred  (Greeks)  who  fell  on 
Marathon  ? The  principal  barrow  has  recently  been  opened  by 
Fauvel : few  or  no  relics,  as  vases,  &c.  were  found  by  the  excavator 
The  plain  of  Marathon  was  offered  to  me  for  sale  at  the  sure 
of  sixteen  thousand  piastres,  about  nine  hundred  pounds  1 Alas! — 
'•  Expende — quot  libras  in  duce  summo — invenies  ! ”— was  the 
dust  of  Miltiades  worth  no  more?  It  could  scairi-py  Mve  Cetc&.>!  Vsse 
if  sold  by  weight 


CANTO  II. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


A i 


xc. 

The  flying  Mcue,  his  shaftless  broken  bow; 

The  fiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing  spear ; 

Mountains  above,  Earth’s,  Ocean’s  plain  below ; 
Death  in  the  front,  Destruction  in  the  rear ! 

Such  was  the  scene — what  now  remaineth  here  F 
What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallow’d  ground, 
Recording  Ereedom’s  smile  and  Asia’s  tear  ? 

The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound,  [around. 

The  dust  thy  courser’s  hoof,  rude  stranger!  spurns 

xci. 

Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendour  past 
Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng ; 
Long  shall  "he  voyager,  with  th’  Ionian  blast, 

Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song ; 

Long  shall  thL-j  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Pill  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a shore ; 
Boast  of  the  aged  ! lesson  of  the  young ! 

Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore, 

As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 

xcn. 

The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home, 

If  aught  that’s  kindred  cheer  the  welcome  hearth ; 
He  that  is  lonely,  hither  let  him  roam, 

And  gaze  complacent  on  congenial  earth. 

Greece  is  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth ; 

But  he  whom  Sadness  sootheth  may  abide, 

And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth, 

When  wandering  slow  by  Delphi’s  sacred  side, 

Or  gazing  o’er  the  plains  where  Greek  and  Persian 
died.1 

xcm. 

Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land, 

And  pass  in  peace  along  the  magic  waste  : 

But  spare  its  relics — let  no  busy  hand 
Deface  the  scenes,  already  how  defaced  ! 

Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  placed  : 
Revere  the  remnants  nations  once  revered  : 

So  may  our  country’s  name  be  undisgraced, 

So  may’st  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth  was  rear’d, 
By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endear’d  ! 

xciv. 

Eor  thee,  who  thus  in  too  protracted  song 
Hast  soothed  thine  idlesse  with  inglorious  lays, 

Soon  shall  thy  voice  be  lost  amid  the  throng 
Of  louder  minstrels  in  these  later  days  : 

To  such  resign  the  strife  for  fading  bays — 


(1 ) [The  original  MS.  closes  with  this  stanza.  The  rest  was  added 
while  the  canto  was  passing  through  the  press.] 

(2)  [This  stanza  was  written  October  11,  1811  ; upon  which  day 
the  poet,  in  a letter  to  a triend,  says, — “ 1 have  been  again  shocked 
with  a death,  and  have  lost  one  very  dear  to  me  in  happier  times ; 
but  ‘ I have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  grief,’  and  ‘ supped  full  of 
horrors,’  till  I have  become  callous  ; nor  have  I a tear  left  tor  an 
event  which,  five  years  ago,  would  have  bowed  down  my  head  to 
the  earth.  It  seems  as  though  I were  to  experience  in  my  youth 
the  greatest  misery  of  age.  My  friends  fall  around  me,  and  1 shall 


111  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  mere 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  partial  praise  ; 
Since  cold  each  kinder  heart  that  might  approve. 
And  none  are  left  to  please  when  none  are  left  to  love. 

xcv. 

Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one  ! 
Whom  youth  and  youth’s  affections  bound  to  me  ; 
Who  did  for  me  what  none  beside  have  done, 

Nor  shrank  from  one  albeit  unworthy  thee. 

What  is ’-my  being  ? thou  hast  ceased  to  be  ! 

Nor  staid  to  welcome  here  thy  wanderer  home, 
Who  mourns  o’er  hours  which  we  no  more  shall 
see — 

W oula  they  had  never  been,  or  were  to  come  ! 
Would  he  had  ne’er  return’d  to  find  fresh  cause  tn 
roam ! 

xcvi. 

Oh ! ever  loving,  lovely,  and  beloved ! 

How  selfish  Sorrow  ponders  on  the  past. 

And  clings  to  thoughts  now  better  far  removed ! 
But  Time  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me  last. 

All  thou  couldst  have  of  mine,  stern  Death  ! thou 
hast ; 

The  parent,  friend,  and  now  the  more  than  friend : 
Ne’er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  flew  so  fast, 

And  grief  with  grief  continuing  still  to  blend, 

Hath  snatch’d  the  little  joy  that  life  had  yet  to  lend. 

XCVII. 

Then  must  1 plunge  again  into  the  crowd, 

And  follow  all  that  Peace  disdains  to  seek  P 
"Where  Revel  calls,  and  Laughter,  vainly  loud. 

False  to  the  heart,  distorts  the  hollow  cheek, 

To  leave  the  flagging  spirit  doubly  weak; 

Still  o’er  the  features,  which  perforce  they  cheer 
To  feign  the  pleasure  or  conceal  the  pique ; 

Smiles  form  the  channel  of  a future  tear, 

Or  raise  the  writhing  lip  with  ill-dissembled  sneer. 

XCYIII. 

What  is  the  worst  of  woes  that  wait  on  age  ? 

What  stamps  the  wrinkle  deeper  on  the  brow  ? 

To  view  eacli  loved  one  blotted  from  life’s  page, 

And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  I am  now.2 
Before  the  Chastener  humbly  let  me  bow, 

O’er  hearts  divided  and  o’er  hopes  destroy’d  : 

Roll  on,  vain  days  ! full  reckless  may  ye  flow, 

Since  Time  hath  reft  whate’er  my  soui  enjoy’d, 

And  with  the  ills  of  Eld  mine  earlier  years  a’loy’d. 


be  left  a lonely  tree  before  I am  withered.  Othr.  men  can  always 
take  refuge  in  their  families . I have  no  resource  but  my  own 
reflections,  and  they  present  no  prospect  here  or  hereafter,  except 
the  selfish  satisfaction  of  surviving  my  friends.  1 am  indeed  very 
wretched,  and  you  will  excuse  my  saying  so,  as  you  know  I am  not 
apt  to  cant  of  sensibility.”  In  reference  to  this  stanza,  “ Surely,” 
said  Professor  Clarke  to  the  author  of  the  Pursuits  of  Literature 
“ Lord  Byron  cannot  have  expert-need  such  keen  anguish  as  thest 
exquisite  allusions  to  what  older  men  may  have  felt  seem  t* 
denote.” — “ I fear  he  has,”  '.nswered  Matthias  he  could  art 
otherwise  have  written  su<  h a poem.”] 


28 


LORD  B I RON’S  WORKS. 


canto  iii, 


f^arofti’s  ^tlgrtmage. 

" Afin  quo  cctte  application  vous  format  de  penser  k autre  chose; 
I.  n’y  a en  verite  de  remade  que  celui-la  et  le  temps.” — Lettre  du 
h :i  de  Prtissc  d D'Alembert,  Se.t.  7,  17/6. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 


I. 

Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother’s,  my  fair  child  ! 

Ada1  ! sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart  ? 
When  last  I saw  thy  young  blue  eyes  they  smiled, 
And  then  we  parted, — not  as  now  we  part, 

But  with  a hope. — 

Awaking  with  a start, 

The  waters  heave  around  me ; and  on  high 
The  winds  lift  up  their  voices  : I depart, 

Whither  I know  not2 ; but  the  hour’s  gone  by, 
When  Albion’s  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad 
mine  eye.3 

n. 

Once  more  upon  the  waters  ! yet  once  more  ! 

And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a steed 
That  knows  his  rider.4  Welcome  to  their  roar ! 
Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe’er  it  lead ! 
Though  the  strained  mast  should  quiver  as  a reed, 
And  the  rent  canvass  fluttering  strew  the  gale,5 
Still  must  I on ; for  I am  as  a weed, 

Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean’s  foam,  to  sail 
Where’er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest’s  breath 
prevail. 

iii. 

In  my  youth’s  summer  /id  did  sing  of  One, 

The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind  ; 
Again  I seize  the  theme,  then  but  begun, 

And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  rushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards  : in  that  Tale  I find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a sterile  track  behind. 

O’er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a flower  appears. 

IV. 

Since  my  young  days  of  passion — joy,  or  pain, 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a string, 
And  both  may  jar;  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I would  essay  as  I have  sung  to  sing. 


(1)  [In  a hitherto  unpublished  letter,  datedVerona,  November  6, 
1816,  Lord  Byron  says — “ By  the  way,  Ada's  name  (which  I found 
in  our  pedigree,  under  king  John’s  reign),  is  the  same  with  that  of 
the  sister  of  Charlemagne,  as  I redde,  the  other  day,  in  a book 
treating  of  the  Rhine.”] 

(2)  [Lord  Byron  quitted  England,  for  the  second  and  last  time,  on 
the  25th  of  April,  1816,  attended  by  William  Fletcher  and  Robert 
Ruahton.  the  “yeoman"  and  “page”  of  Canto  I. ; his  physician, 
Dr.  Polidori ; and  a Swiss  valet.] 

(8)  [ — —“could  grieve  or  glad  my  gazing  eye.” — MS.] 

(4)  [In  the  “Two  Noble  Kinsmen”  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
we  find  the  following  passage  : — 

“ Oh,  never 

Shall  we  two  exercise,  like  twins  of  Honour, 

Our  arms  again,  and  feel  our  fiery  horses 
Like  proud  seas  under  us.’’ 

Out  of  this  somewhat  forced  simile,  by  a judicious  transposition  of 
the  comparison,  and  by  the  substitution  of  the  more  definite  word 
“ waves’*  for  “ seas,”  Lord  Byron’s  clear  and  noble  thought  has 
seen  produced.— Moohe.] 

(6)  [‘  And  the  rent  canvass  tattering.  ’ — MS.1 


Yet,  though  a dreary  strain,  lo  this  I cling. 

So  that  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  selfish  grief  or  gladness — so  it  fling 
Forgetfulness  around  me — it  shall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a not  ungrateful  t.ie:ne, 

v. 

He,  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  woe, 

In  deeds,  not  years,  piercing  the  depths  of  life, 

So  that  no  wonder  waits  him  ; nor  below 
Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife. 

Cut  to  his  heart  again  with  the  keen  knife 
Of  silent,  sharp  endurance  : he  can  tell 
Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yet  rile 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  which  dwell 
Still  unimpair’d,  though  old,  in  the  soul’s  haunted  ceil. 

VI. 

’Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 
A being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 
With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 
The  life  we  image,  even  as  I do  now. 

What  am  I ? Nothing  : but  not  so  art  thou, 

Soul  of  my  thought ! with  whom  I traverse  earth, 

Invisible  but  gazing,  as  I glow 

Mix’d  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth, 

And  feeling  still  with  thee  in  my  crush’d  feelings’ 
dearth. 

VII. 

Yet  must  I think  less  wildly  : — I have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 

In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o’erwrought, 

A whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame  : 

And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame. 

My  springs  of  life  were  poison’d.  ’Tis  too  late ! 
Yet  am  I changed ; though  still  enough  the  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  can  not  abate. 

And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  Fate. 

VIII. 

Something  too  much  of  this  : — but  now  ’tis  past. 
And  the  spell  closes  with  its  silent  seal. 

Long  absent  Harolt  re-appears  at  last ; 

He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would  feel, 
Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but  ne’er 
Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  alter’d  him  [heal ; 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age  :6  years  steal 
Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigour  from  the  limb ; 

And  life’s  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 


(6)  [The  first  and  second  cantos  of  “ Cliilde  Harold’s  Pilgrimage’ 
produced,  on  their  appearance  in  1812,  an  effect  upon  the  public,  at 
least  equal  to  any  work  which  has  appeared  within  this  or  the  las* 
century,  and  placed  at  once  upon  Lord  Byron’s  head  the  garland 
for  which  other  men  of  genius  have  toiled  long,  and  which  they 
have  gained  late.  He  was  placed  pre-eminent  among  the  literary 
men  ot  his  country,  by  general  acclamation.  It  was  amidst  such 
feelings  of  admiration  that  he  entered  the  public  stage.  Every 
thing  in  his  manner,  person,  and  conversation,  tended  to  maintain 
the  charm  which  his  genius  had  flung  around  him;  and  those  ad- 
mitted to  his  conversation,  far  from  finding  that  the  inspired  poet 
sunk  into  ordinary  mortality,  felt  themselves  attached  to  him,  not 
only  by  many  noble  qualities,  but  by  the  interest  of  a mysterious, 
undefined,  and  almost  painful  curiosity.  A countenance  exquisitely 
modelled  to  the  expression  of  feeling  and  passion,  and  exhibiting 
the  remarkable  contrast  of  very  dark  hair  and  eyebrows  with  light 
and  expressive  eyes,  presented  to  the  physiognomist  the  most  in- 
teresting subject  for  the  exercise  of  his  art.  The  predominating 
expression  was  that  of  deep  and  habitual  thought,  which  gave  way 
to  the  most  rapid  play  of  features,  when  he  engaged  in  interesting 
discussion;  so  that  a brother  poet  compared  them  to  the  sculpture 


c*sio  :ii.] 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


29 


IX. 

His  had  been  quaff'd  too  quickly,  and  lie  found 
The  dregs  were  wormwood ; but  he  fill’d  again. 

And  from  a purer  fount,  on  holier  ground. 

And  deem’d  its  spring  perpetual ; but  in  vam  ! 

Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a chain 
Which  gall’d  for  ever,  fettering  though  unseen. 

And  heavy  though  it  clank’d  not ; worn  with  pain, 
Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  keen. 
Entering  with  every  step  he  took  through  many  a 
scene. 

x. 

Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  he  had  mix’d 
Again  in  fancied  safety  with  his  kind, 

And  deem’d  his  spirit  now  so  firmly  fixed 
And  sheathed  with  an  invulnerable  mind, 

That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurk’d  behind ; 

And  he,  as  one,  might  midst  the  many  stand 
Unheeded,  searching  through  the  crowd  to  find 
Kit  speculation  ; such  as  in  strange  land 
He  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature’s  hand. 

XI. 

But  who  can  view  the  ripen’d  rose,  nor  seek 
To  wear  it  ? who  can  curiously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty’s  cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old  ? 

Who  can  contemplate  Eame  through  clouds  unfold 
The  star  which  rises  o’er  her  steep,  nor  climb  ? 
Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  roll’d 
On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time, 

Yet  with  a nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth’s  fond  prime. 

XII. 

But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man  ; with  whom  he  held 
Little  in  common  ; untaught  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was  quell’d 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts  ; still  uncompell’d, 
He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebell’d  ; 

Proud  though  in  desolation ; which  could  find 
A life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

XITI. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were 
friends  ; 

Where  roll’d  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home  ; 
Where  a blue  sky,  and  glowing  clime  extends, 

He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam ; 


The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker’s  foam, 

Were  unto  him  companionship  ; they  spake 
A mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Of  his  land’s  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forsake 
For  Nature’s  pages  glass’d  by  sunbeams  on  the  Lake. 

XIV. 

Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars, 

Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams  ; and  earth,  and  earth-born  jai 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite  : 

Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 
He  had  been  happy ; but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  wliich  woos  us  to  its 
brink. 

xv. 

But  in  Man’s  dwellings  he  became  a thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stern  and  wearisome. 
Droop’d  as  a wild-born  falcon  with  dipt  wing. 

To  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home : 

Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o’ercome, 

As  eagerly  the  barr’d-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so.  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat 

xvi. 

Self-exiled  Harold1  wanders  forth  again, 

With  nought  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom. 
The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain, 

That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb, 

Had  made  Despair  a smilingness  assume, 

Which,  though  ’twere  wild,— as  on  the  plunder’d 
wreck 

When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their  doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  de:>,— 
Did  yet  inspire  a cheer,  winch  ns  loroore  to  check.2 

XVII. 

Stop  . — for  fny  tread  is  on  an  Empire’s  dust ! 

An  Earthquake’s  spoil  is  sepulchred  below  ! 

Is  the  spot  mark’d  with  no  colossal  bust  ? 

Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show  ? 

None ; but  the  moral’s  truth  tells  simpler  so, 

As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be  ; 

How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gain’d  by  thee, 

Thou  first  and  last  of  fields  ! king-making  'Victory 


of  a beautiful  alabaster  vase,  only  seen  to  perfection  when  lighted 
up  from  within.  The  flashes  of  mirth,  gaiety,  indignation,  or  sa- 
tirical dislike,  which  frequently  animated  Lord  Byron’s  counte- 
nance. might,  during  an  evening’s  conversation,  be  mistaken,  by  a 
stranger,  for  the  habitual  expression,  so  easily  and  so  happily  was 
, :t  formed  for  them  all ; but  those  who  had  an  opportunity  of  study- 
ing his  features  for  a length  of  time,  and  upon  various  occasions, 
i both  of  rest  and  emotion,  will  agree  that  their  proper  language  was 
that  of  melancholy.  Sometimes  shades  of  this  gloom  interrupted 
even  his  gayest  and  most  happy  moments.  — Sir  Walter 
Fcott.] 

(1)  [In  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold  there  is  much  inequality. 
The  thoughts  and  images  are  sometimes  laboured;  but  still  they 
are  a very  great  improvement  upon  the  first  two  cantos.  Lord 
Byron  here  speaks  in  his  own  language  and  character,  not  in  the 
1 tone  of  others;  he  is  describing,  not  inventing;  therefore  he  has 
; rot,  and  cannot  have,  the  freedom  with  which  fiction  is  composed. 
Sometimes  he  has  a conciseness  which  is  very  powerful,  but  almost 
abrupt.  From  trusting  himself  alone,  and  working  out  his  own  deep- 
buried  thoughts,  he  now,  perhaps,  fell  into  a habit  of  labouring, 
even  whore  there  was  no  occasion  to  labour.  In  the  first  sixteen 
| stanzas  there  is  yet  a mighty  but  a groaning  burst  of  dark  and  ap- 


alling  strength.  It  was  unquestionably  the  unexaggerated  pie- 
are  of  a most  tempestuous  and  sombre,  but  magnificent  soul . 

*(21  [These  stanzas, — in  which  the  author,  adopting  more  dis- 
inctly  the  character  of  Childe  Harold  than  in  the  original  poem, 
ssigns  the  cause  why  he  has  resumed  his  Pilgrim  s staff,  when  it 
ras  hoped  he  had  sat  down  for  life  a denizen  of  his  native  country, 
-abound  with  much  moral  interest  ana  poetical  beauty.  I he  com- 
lentary  through  which  the  meaning  of  this  melancholy  tale  is  ren- 
ered  obvious,  is  still  in  vivid  remembrance;  for  the  errors  of  those 
/ho  excel  their  fellows  in  gifts  and  accomplishments  are  not  soon 
orgotten.  Those  scenes,  ever  most  painful  to  the  bosom,  wei* 
endered  yet  more  so  by  public  discussion;  and  it  is  at  least  possi 
de  that  amongst  those  who  exclaimed  most  loudly  on  this  unhappy 
iccasion,  were  some  in  whose  eyes  literary  superiority  exaggerated 
,ord  Bs  ron’s  offence.  The  scene  may  be  described  in  a few  words  . 
-the  wise  condemned— the  good  regretted— the  multitude,  idly  or 
naliciously  inquisitive,  rushed  from  place  to  place,  gathering  gossip, 
vhich  they  mangled  and  exaggerated  while  they  repeated  it . and 
mpudence.  ever  ready  to  hitch  itselfinto  J* 

•"al staff  enjoins  Bardolph,  blustered,  bullied,  and  talked  of  plead 
ng  a cause  ” and  taking  a side.”— Sir  Walter  Scott.] 


30 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  ui 


XVIII. 

And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls, 

The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo  ! 

' How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave  annuls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fame  as  fleeting  too ; 

In  “ pride  of  place” 1 here  last  the  eagle  flew. 

Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain,2 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through  ; 
Ambition’s  life  and  labours  all  were  vain ; 
fie  wears  the  shatter’d  links  of  the  world’s  broken 
chain. 

XIX. 

Fit  retribution ! Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fetters ; — but  is  Earth  more  free  ? 

Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  submit ; 

Or  league  to  teach  all  kings  true  sovereignty  ? 

What ! shall  reviving  Thraldom  again  be 
The  patch’d-up  idol  of  enlighten’d  days  ? 

Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage  ? proffering  lowly  gaze 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones?  No;  prooe  before  ye 
praise ! 

xx. 

If  not,  o’er  one  fallen  despot  boast  no  more  ! 

In  vain  fair  cheeks  were  furrow’d  with  hot  tears 
For  Europe’s  flowers,  long  rooted  up  before 
The  trampler  of  her  vineyards ; in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  bondage,  fears. 

Have  all  been  borne,  and  broken  by  the  accord 
Of  roused-up  millions : all  that  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  the  myrtle  wreathes  a sword 
Such  as  Iiarmodius3  drew  on  Athens’  tyrant  lord. 

XXI. 

There  was  a sound  of  revelry  by  night,4 
And  Belgium’s  capital  had  gather’d  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamp  shone  o’er  fair  women  and  brave  'men ; 

A thousand  hearts  beat  happily ; and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 

Soft  eyes  look’d  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 

And  all  went  merry  as  a marriage-bell  ;5 * 
But  hush  ! hark ! a deep  sound  strikes  like  a rising 
knell! 


(1)  ‘ Pride  of  place”  is  a term  of  falconry,  and  means  the  highest 
pitch  of  flight.  See  Macbeth,  &c. 

“ An  eagle  towering  in  his  pride  of  place,”  &c. 

(2)  fin  the  original  draught  of  this  stanza,  (which,  as  well  as  the 
preceding  one,  was  written  after  a visit  to  the  field  of  Waterloo,) 
the  lines  stood — 

“ Here  his  last  flight  the  haughty  eagle  flew, 

Then  tore  with  bloody  beak  the  fatal  plain.” 

On  seeing  these  lines,  Mr.  Reinagle  sketched  a spirited  chained 
eagle,  grasping  the  earth  with  his  talons.  The  circumstance  being 
mentioned  to  Lord  Byron,  he  wrote  thus  to  a friend  at  Brussels, — 
“ Reinagle  is  a better  poet  and  a better  ornithologist  than  I am  : 
eagles,  and  all  birds  of  prey,  attack  with  their  talons,  and  not  with 
their  beaks ; and  I have  altered  the  line  thus  : — 

* Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain.’ 

This  is,  I think,  a better  line,  besides  its  poetical  justice.”] 

(3)  See  the  famous  song  on  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton.  The 
twist  English  translation  is  in  Bland’s  Anthology,  by  Mr.  (now  Lord 
Chief  Justice)  Denman, — 

“ With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I wreathe,”  &c. 

(4)  [There  can  be  no  more  remarkable  proof  of  the  greatness  of 

L.ird  Byron’s  genius,  than  the  spirit  and  interest  he  has  contrived 

to  communicate  to  his  picture  of  the  often-drawn  and  difficult  scene 

of  the  breaking  up  from  Brussels  before  the  great  Battle.  It  is  a 


XXII. 

Did  ye  not  bear  it  ? — No ; ’twas  but  the  wind, 

Or  the  car  rattling  o’er  the  stony  street ; 

On  with  the  dance  ! let  joy  be  unconfined  ; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 

But,  hark  ! — that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 

Arm ! arm ! it  is — it  is — the  cannon’s  opening  roar  ! 

XXIII. 

Within  a window’d  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick’s  fated  chieftain ; he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 

And  caught  its  tone  with  Death’s  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem’d  it  near. 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch’d  his  father  on  a bloody  bier,0 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell : 
He  rush’d  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell.7 

XXIV. 

Ah ! then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush’d  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press ' 

The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne’er  might  be  repeated;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 

Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise 

XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  : the  steed. 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 

And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 

And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 

And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 

While  throng’d  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 

Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — “The  foe!  Thev 
come  ! they  come ! ” 


trite  remark,  that  poets  generally  fail  in  the  representation  of  great 
events,  where  the  interest  is  recent,  and  the  particulars  are  conse- 
quently clearly  and  commonly  known.  It  required  some  courage 
to  venture  on  a theme  beset  with  so  many  dangers,  and  deformed 
with  the  wrecks  of  so  many  former  adventures.  See,  however,  with 
what  easy  strength  he  enters  upon  it,  and  with  how  much  grace  he 
gradually  finds  his  way  back  to  his  own  peculiar  veip  of  sentiment 
and  diction! — Jeffrey.] 

(5)  On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said  that  a ball  was 
given  at  Brussels. — [The  popular  error  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
having  been  surprised , on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  at  a 
ball  given  by  the  Duchess  of  Richmond  at  Brussels,  was  first  cor- 
rected on  authority,  in  the  History  of  Napoleon  Buonaparte,  which 
forms  a portion  of  the  “ Family  Library.”  The  Duke  had  received 
intelligence  of  Napoleon’s  decisive  operations,  and  it  was  intended 
to  put  off  the  ball ; but,  on  reflection,  it  seemed  highly  important 
that  the  people  of  Brussels  should  be  kept  in  ignorance  as  to  the 
course  of  events,  and  the  Duke  not  only  desired  that  the  ball  should 
proceed,  but  the  general  officers  received  his  commands  to  appear 
at  it — each  taking  care  to  quit  the  apartment  as  quietly  as  possible 
at  ten  o’clock,  and  proceed  to  join  his  respective  division  en  route.] 

(6)  [The  father  of  the  Duke  of  Brunswick,  who  fell  at  Quatre 
Bras,  received  his  death-wound  at  Jena.] 

(7)  [This  stanza  is  very  grand,  even  from  its  total  unadornment. 
It  is  only  a versification  of  the  common  narratives  : but  here  may 
well  be  applied  a position  of  Johnson,  that  “where  truth  is  suf- 
ficient to  fill  the  mind,  fiction  is  worse  than  useless.” — Brvuuri  ] 


CANTO  III. 


CIIILDE  H AHOLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


31 


XXVI. 

And  wild  and  liigli  the  “ Cameron’s  gathering”  rose ! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn’s  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes : — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill ! But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
Tlie  stirring  memory  of  a thousand  years, 

And  Evan’s,  Donald’s1  fame  rings  in  each  clansman’s 
ears ! 

XXVII. 

And  Ardennes 2 waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature’s  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e’er  grieves, 

Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas  ! 

Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour,  rolling  on  the  foe, 

And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and 
low. 

XXVIII. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 

Last  eve  in  Beauty’s  circle  proudly  gay, 

The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle’s  magnificently-stern  array ! 

The  thunder-clouds  close  o’er  it,  which  when  rent 
The  earth  is  cover’d  thick  with  other  clay, 

Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap’d  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial 
blent!3 

XXIX. 

Their  praise  is  hymn’d  by  loftier  harps  than  mine  ; 
Yet  one  I would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 

And  partly  that  I did  his  sire  some  wrong,4 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song ; 

And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower’d 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn’d  files  along, 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war’s  tempest  lower’d. 
They  reach’d  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young, 
gallant  Howard ! 5 


(1)  Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Donald,  the  “ gentle 
Lochiel”  of  the  “ forty-five.” 

(2)  The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a remnant  of  the 
forest  of  Ardenres,  famous  in  Boiardo’s  Orlando,  and  immortal  in 
Shakspeare’s  As  you  like  it.”  It  is  also  celebrated  in  Tacitus, 
as  being  me  spot  of  successful  defence  by  the  Germans  against 
the  Roman  encroachments.  I have  ventured  to  adopt  the  name 
connected  with  nobler  associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 

(3)  [Childe  Harold,  though  he  shuns  to  celebrate  the  victory  of 
Waterloo,  gives  us  here  a most  beautiful  description  of  the  evening 
which  preceded  the  battle  of  Quatre  Bras,  the  alarm  which  called 
out  the  troops,  and  the  hurry  and  confusion  which  preceded  their 
march.  I am  not  sure  that  any  verses  in  our  language  surpass,  in 
vigour  and  in  feeling,  this  most  beautiful  description. — Sir 
Walter  Scott.] 

(4)  [See  post,  note  to  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.] 

(5)  [“  In  the  late  battles,  like  all  the  world,  I have  lost  a con- 
nexion— poor  Frederick  Howard,  the  best  of  his  race.  I had 
little  intercourse  of  late  years  with  his  family ; but  I never  saw  or 
heard  but  good  of  him.” — Lord  B.  to  Mr.  Moore.] 

(6)  My  guide  from  Mont  St.  Jean  over  the  field  seemed  in- 
telligent and  accurate.  The  place  where  Major  Howard  fell  was 

not  far  from  two  tall  and  solitary  trees  (there  was  a third,  cut 
down,  or  shivered  in  the  battle),  which  stand  a few  yards  from  each 
other  at  a pathway’s  side.  Beneath  these  he  died  and  was  buried. 


XXX. 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee, 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I such  to  give ; 

But  when  1 stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree. 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live. 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive. 

With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 

I turn’d  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not 
bring.6 

XXXI. 

I turn’d  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 
Eorgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake ; 

The  Archangel’s  trump,  not  Glory’s,  must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for ; though  the  sound  of 
Eame 

May  for  a moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honour’d  but  assumes  a stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

XXXII. 

They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length ; and,  smiling, 
mourn : 

The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall ; 

The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn ; 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness  ; the  ruin’d  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  are  gone ; 
The  bars  survive  tlie  captive  they  enthral ; [sun ; 
The  day  drags  through  though  storms  keep  out  the 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on  : 

XXXIII. 

Even  as  a broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragment  multiplies  ; and  makes 
A thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 

The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks ; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 
Living  in  shatter’d  guise,  and  still,  and  cold, 

And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches, 

Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 

Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold.7 


The  body  has  since  been  removed  to  England.  A small  hollow 
for  the  present  marks  where  it  lay.  but  will  probably  soon  be 
effaced ; the  plough  has  been  upon  it,  and  the  grain  is.  After 
pointing  out  the  different  spots  where  Picton  and  other  gallant 
men  had  perished,  the  guide  said,  “ Here  Major  Howard  iay  : 
1 was  near  him  when  wounded.”  I told  him  my  relationship,  ai>J 
he  seemed  then  still  more  anxious  to  point  out  the  particular  spot 
and  circumstances.  The  place  is  one  of  the  most  marked  in  the 
field,  from  the  peculiarity  of  the  two  trees  above  mentioned.  I 
went  on  horseback  twice  over  the  field,  comparing  it  with  my 
recollection  of  similar  scenes.  As  a plain,  Waterloo  seems  marked 
out  for  the  scene  of  some  great  action,  though  this  may  be  mere 
imagination ; I have  viewed  with  attention  those  of  Platea,  Troy, 
Mantinea,  Leuctra,  Chaeronea,  and  Marathon ; and  the  field 
around  Mont  St.  Jean  and  Hougoumont  appears  to  want  little  but 
a better  cause,  and  that  undefinable  but  impressive  halo  which  the 
lapse  of  ages  throws  around  a celebrated  spot,  to  vie  in  interest 
with  any  or  all  of  these,  except,  perhaps,  the  last  mentioned. 

(7)  [There  is  a richness  and  energy  in  this  passage,  which  is 
peculiar  to  Lord  Byron,  among  all  modern  poets, — a throng  of 
glowing  images,  poured  forth  at  once,  with  a facility  and  profusion, 
which  must  appear  mere  wastefulness  to  more  economical  writers, 
and  a certain  negligence  and  harshness  of  diction  which  can 
belong  only  to  an  author  who  Js  oppressed  with  the  exuberance 
and  rapidity  of  his  conceptions. — Jeffrey.] 


32 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CAN  Tti  m 


XXXIV. 

There  is  a very  life  in  our  despair, 

Vitality  of  poison, — a quick  root 
Which  feeds  these  deadly  branches ; for  it  were 
As  nothing  did  we  die ; but  Life  will  suit 
Itself  to  Sorrow’s  most  detested  fruit, 

Like  to  the  apples  1 on  the  Dead  Sea’s  shore, 

All  ashes  to  the  taste : did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o’er 
Sue!  hours  ’gainst  years  of  life, — say,  would  he  name 
threescore  F 

XXXV. 

The  Psalmist  number’d  out  the  years  of  man : 

They  are  enough ; and  if  thy  tale  be  true , 

Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  even  that  fleeting  span, 
More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Waterloo  ! 

Millions  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 
Their  children’s  lips  shall  echo  them,  and  say — 

“ Here,  where  the  sword  united  nations  drew, 

Our  countrymen  were  warring  on  that  day  !” 

And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  away. 

xxxvi. 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men, 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mixt 
One  moment  of  the  mightiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fixt, 

Extreme  in  all  things  ! hadst  thou  been  betwixt, 
Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never  been ; 

For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall : thou  seek’st 
Even  now  to  re-assume  the  imperial  mien, 

And  shake  again  the  world,  the  Thunderer  of  the  scene ! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou  ! 

She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne’er  more  bruited  in  men’s  minds  than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of  Fame, 

Who  woo’d  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A god  unto  thyself ; nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  ail  inert, 

Who  deem’d  thee  for  a time  whate’er  thou  didst  assert. 

XXXVIII. 

Oh,  more  or  less  than  man — in  high  or  low, 
Battling  with  nations,  flying  from  the  field ; 

Now  making  monarchs’  necks  thy  footstool,  now 
More  than  thy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield : 

An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild, 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor, 

However  deeply  in  men’s  spirits  skill’d, 

Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of  war, 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  Fate  will  leave  the  loftiest  star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brook’d  the  turning  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy, 

Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride, 

Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy 


(1)  The  (fabled)  apples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  Asphaltes 
were  said  to  be  fair  without,  and,  within,  ashes.  Vide  Tacitus, 
Ilistor.  lib.  v.  7. 

(2)  The  great  error  of  Napoleon,  “ if  we  have  writ  our  annals 
true,”  was  a continued  obtrusion  on  mankind  of  his  want  of  all 
community  of  feeling  for  or  with  them;  perhaps  more  offensive 
to  human  vanity  than  the  active  cruelty  of  more  trembling  and 


When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  bv, 

To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast  smiled 
With  a sedate  and  all-enduring  eye  ; — 

When  Fortune  fled  her  spoil’d  and  favourite  child, 
He  stood  unbow’d  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  piled. 

XL. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes ; for  in  them 
Ambition  steel’d'  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn,  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts ; ’twas  wise  to  feel,  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  thy  lip  and  brow, 

And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  turn’d  unto  thine  overthrow ; 

’Tis  but  a worthless  world  to  win  or  lose ; 

So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who  choose. 

XLI. 

If,  like  a tower  upon  a headlong  rock, 

Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  fall  alone. 

Such  scorn  of  man  had  help’d  to  brave  the  shod  ; 
But  men’s  thoughts  were  the  steps  which  paved  t y 
throne, 

Their  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone  ; 

The  part  of  Philip’s  son  was  thine,  not  then 
(Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 

Like  stern  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men ; 

For  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a den.2 

XIII. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  is  a hell, 

And  there  hath  been  thv  bane ; tlicre  is  a fire 
And  motion  of  the  soul  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire; 

And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 

Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest ; a fever  at  the  core, 

Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

XLIII. 

This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made  men  mad 
By  their  contagion;  Conquerors  and  Kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  things 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul’s  secret  springs, 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool ; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable  ! what  stings 
Are  theirs ! One  breast  laid  open  were  a school 
Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  01 
rule : 

XIIV. 

Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  life 
A storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last, 

And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigoted  to  strife, 

That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past, 

Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineness,  and  so  die; 

Even  as  a flame  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a sword  laid  by, 

Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriousiy. 


suspicious  tyranny.  Such  were  his  speeches  to  public  assemblies 
as  well  as  individuals;  and  the  single  expression  which  he  is  said 
to  have  used  on  returning  to  Paris  after  the  Russian  whiter  had 
destroyed  his  army,  rubbing  his  hands  over  a fire,  “ This  is 
pleasanter  than  Moscow,”  would  probably  alienate  more  favour 
from  his  cause  than  the  destruction  and  reverses  which  led  to  the 
remark. 


l.kVTO  111. 


CHILDE  HAKOLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


33 


XLV. 

He  wlio  ascends  to  mountain-tops,  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow ; 
He  wlio  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind, 

Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 

Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow, 

And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 

Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head, 

- And  thus  reward  tre  toils  which  to  those  summits  led.1 

XLVI. 

Away  with  these  ! true  Wisdom’s  world  will  be 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine, 

Maternal  Nature ! for  who  teems  like  thee, 

Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhine  ? 

There  Harold  gazes  on  a work  divine, 

A blending  of  all  beauties  ; streams  and  dells, 
Eruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  mountain,  v le, 
And  chiefless  castles  breathing  stern  farewells 
I From  gray  but  leafy  walls,  where  Ruin  greenly  dwells. 

XL  VII. 

And  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a lofty  mind, 

Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd, 

All  tenantless,  save  to  the  crannying  wind, 

Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 

There  was  a day  when  they  were  young  and  proud, 
Banners  on  high,  and  battles  pass’d  below ; 

But  they  wlio  fought  are  in  a bloody  shroud, 

And  those  which  waved  are  shredless  dust  ere  now, 

1 And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow 

XLVIII. 

Beneath  these  battlements,  within  those  walls, 
Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions  ; in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls. 

Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a longer  dAm 
What  want  these  outlaws  2 conquerors  should  have, 
But  History’s  purchased  page  to  call  them  great  ? 
A wider  space,  an  ornamented  grave  ? [brave. 
( Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full  as 

XLIX. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields, 

What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died  ! 

And  Love,  which  lent  a blazon  to  their  shields, 
With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride, 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would  glide ; 
But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction  near  allied, 

And  many  a tower  for  some  fair  mischief  won, 

Saw  the  discolour’d  Rhine  beneath  its  ruin  run. 

L. 

But  Thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river ! 

Making  thy  waves  a blessing  as  they  flow 
Through  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  for  ever, 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creation  so, 


(1)  [This  is  certainly  splendidly  written,  but  we  trust  it  is  not 
true.  From  Macedonia’s  madman  to  the  Swede — from  Nimrod 
to  Buonaparte, — the  hunters  of  men  have  pursued  their  sport 
with  as  much  gaiety,  and  as  little  remorse,  as  the  hunters 
of  other  animals ; and  have  lived  as  cheerily  in  their  days  of 
action,  and  as  comfortably  in  their  repose,  as  the  followers  of 
better  pursuits.  It  would  be  strange,  therefore,  if  the  other  active 
but  more  innocent  spirits,  whom  Lord  Byron  has  here  placed  in 
the  same  predicament,  and  who  share  all  their  sources  of  enjoy- 


Nor  its  fair  promise  fiom  the  surface  mow 
With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conflict, — then  to  see 
Thy  valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth  paved  like  Heaven ; and  to  seem  such  to  me. 
Even  now  what  wants  thy  stream  ? — that  it  should 
Lethe  be. 

LI. 

A thousand  battles  have  assail’d  thy  banks, 

But  these  and  half  their  fame  have  pass’d  away, 

And  Slaughter  heap’d  on  high  his  weltering  ranks ; 
Their  very  graves  are  gone,  and  what  are  they  ? 

Thy  tide  wash’d  down  the  blood  of  yesterday, 

And  all  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
Glas.  ’d  with  its  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray  ; 

But  o’er  the  blacken’d  memory’s  blighting  dream 
Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweeping  as  thev 
seem. 

LII. 

Thus  Harold  inly  said,  and  pass’d  along. 

Yet  not  insensibly  to  all  which  here 
Awoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song 
In  glens  which  might  have  made  even  exile  dear : 
Though  on  his  brow  were  graven  lines  austere, 

And  tranquil  sternness  which  had  ta’en  the  place 
Of  feelings  fierier  far  but  less  severe, 

Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  nis  face  [trace. 
But  o’er  it  in  such  scenes  would  steal  with  transient 

LIII. 

Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him,  tnougli  his  days 
Of  passion  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust. 

It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 
On  such  as  smile  upon  us  ; the  heart  must 
Leap  kindly  back  to  kindness,  though  disgust 
Hath  wean’d  it  from  all  worldlings  : thus  he  felt, 
For  there  was  soft  remembrance,  and  sweet  trust 
In  one  fond  breast,  to  which  his  own  would  melt, 
And  in  its  tenderer  hour  on  that  his  bosom  dwelt. 

LIV. 

And  he  had  learn’d  to  love, — I know  not  why, 

For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  strange  of  mood, — 
The  helpless  looks  of  blooming  infancy, 

Even  in  its  earliest  nurture  ; what  subdued, 

To  change  like  this,  a mind  so  far  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to  know ; 

But  thus  it  was  ; and  though  in  solitude 
Small  power  the  nipp’d  affections  have  to  grow, 

In  him  this  glow’d  when  all  beside  had  ceased  to  glow 

LV. 

A.:d  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said, 
Which  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
Than  the  church  links  withal ; and,  though  unwed 
That  love  was  pure,  and,  far  above  disguise, 

Had  stood  the  test  of  mortal  enmities 
Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 
By  peril,  dreaded  most  in  female  eyes ; 

But  this  was  firm,  and  from  a foreign  shore  [pour ! 
Well  to  that  heart  might  his  these  absent  greetings 


ment,  w'.thout  the  guilt  and  the  hardness  which  they  cannot  fail  of 
contracting,  should  be  more  miserable  or  more  unfriended  than 
those  splendid  curses  of  their  kind:  and  it  would  be  passing 
strange,  and  pitiful,  if  the  most  precious  gifts  of  Providence  should 
produce  only  unhappiness,  and  mankind  regard  with  hostility  their 
greatest  benefactors. — Jeffrey.] 

(2)  “ What  wants  that  knave  that  a king  should  have  " was 
King  James’s  question  on  meeting  Johnny  Armstrong  and  hia 
followers  in  full  accoutrements.— See  the  Ballad. 

F 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  111. 


31 


1. 

The  castled  crag  of  Draclienfels  1 
, Frowns  o’er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine. 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom’d  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine. 
And  scatter’d  cities  crowning  these, 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strew 'd  a scene,  which  I should  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me. 

2. 

And  peasant  girls,  with  deep  blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers. 

Walk  smiling  o’er  this  paradise  ; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 
And  many  a rock  which  steeply  lowers, 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 

Look  o’er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers  ; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine, — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine  ! 

3. 

[ send  the  lilies  given  to  me  ; 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 

I know  that  they  must  wither’d  be, 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such ; 

For  I have  cherish’d  them  as  dear, 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 

And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 

When  thou  behold’ st  them  drooping  nigh. 
And  know’st  them  gather’d  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offer’d  from  my  heart  to  thine ! 

4. 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 

And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 
Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round  : 

The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 
Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here ; 

Nor  could  on  earth  a spot  be  found 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 

Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine  ! 

LVI. 

By  Coblentz,  on  a rise  of  gentle  ground, 

There  is  a small  and  simple  pyramid, 

Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound  ; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes’  ashes  hid, 


(1)  The  castle  of  Drachenfels  stands  on  the  highest  summit  of 
“ the  Seven  Mountains,”  over  the  Rhine  banks ; it  is  in  ruins 
and  connected  with  some  singular  traditions  : it  is  the  first  in  view 
on  the  road  from  Bonn,  but  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river:  on 
this  bank,  nearly  facing  it,  are  the  renr  tins  of  another,  called  the 
Jew  s Castle,  and  a large  cross  commen  orative  of  the  murder  of  a 
chief  by  his  brother.  The  number  of  castles  and  cities  along  the 
course  of  the  Rhine  on  both  sides  is  very  great,  and  their  situations 
remarkably  beautiful.  [These  verses  were  written  on  the  banks  of 
the  Rhine,  in  May.  The  original  pencilling  is  before  us.  It  is 
needless  to  observe  that  they  were  addressed  to  his  Sister.] 

(2)  The  monument  of  the  young  and  lamented  General  Marceau 
(killed  by  a rifle-ball  at  Alterkirchen,  on  the  last  day  of  the  fourth 
year  of  the  French  republic)  still  remains  as  described.  The  in- 
scriptions on  his  monument  are  rather  too  long,  and  not  required: 
his  name  was  enough;  France  adored,  and  her  enemies  admired; 
both  wept  over  him.  His  funeral  was  attended  by  the  generals 
and  detachments  from  both  armies.  In  the  same  grave  General 
Hoche  is  interred,  a gallant  man  also  in  every  sense  of  the  word ; 
but  though  he  distinguished  himself  greatly  in  battle,  he  had  not 
the  good  fortune  to  die  there  ; his  death  was  attended  by  suspicions 


Our  enemy’s,— but  let  not  that  foibid 
Honour  to  Marceau  ! o’er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush’d  from  the  rough  soldier’s  lid, 
„ Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a doom, 

Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume, 

LYII. 

Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career, — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  foes 
And  fitly  may  the  stranger  lingering  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit’s  bright  repose ; 

For  he  was  Freedom’s  champion,  one  of  those, 

The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  cf  erstept 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  bestows 
On  such  as  wield  her  weapons  ; lie  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o’er  him 
wept.2 

LYin. 

Here  Ehrenbreitstein,3  with  her  shatter’d  wall 
Black  with  the  miner’s  blast,  upon  her  height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and  ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  strength  did  light : 

A tower  of  victory ! from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baffled  foes  was  watch’d  along  the  plain : 

But  Peace  destroy’d  what  War  could  never  blight, 
And  laid  those  proud  roofs  bare  to  Summer’s  rain — 
On  which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had  pour’d  in  vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine  ! How  long  delighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way ! 

Thine  is  a scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  might  stray ; 

And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  self-condemning  bosoms,  it  were  here. 

Where  Nature,  nor  too  sombre  nor  too  gay, 

Wild  but  not  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere, 

Is  to  the  mellow  Earth  as  Autumn  to  the  year. 

LX. 

Adieu,  to  thee  again  ! a vain  adieu  ! 

There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thine ; 

The  mind  is  colour’d  by  thy  every  hue  ; 

And  if  reluctantly  the  eyes  resign 
Their  cherish’d  gaze  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine  ! 4 
’Tis  with  the  thankful  glance  of  parting  praise  ; 
More  mighty  spots  may  rise — more  glaring  shine, 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft, — the  glories  of  old  days, 


of  poison.  A separate  monument  (not  over  his  body,  which  is 

buried  by  Marceau’s.)  is  raised  for  him  near  Andernach,  opposite 
to  which  one  of  his  most  memorable  exploits  was  performed,  in 
throwing  abridge  to  an  island  on  the  Rhine.  The  shape  and  style 
are  different  from  that  of  Marceau’s,  and  the  inscription  more  simple 
and  pleasing  : — “ The  Army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse  to  its  Com- 
mander-in-Chief,  Hoche.”  This  is  all,  and  as  it  should  be.  Hoche 
was  esteemed  among  the  first  of  France’s  earlier  generals,  before 
Buonaparte  monopolised  her  triumphs.  He  was  the  destined 
commander  of  the  invading  army  of  Ireland. 

(3)  Ehrenbreitstein,  i.  e.  “ the  broad  stone  of  honour,”  one  of  the 
strongest  fortresses  in  Europe,  was  dismantled  and  blown  up  by 
the  French  at  the  truce  of  Leoben.  It  had  been,  and  could  only 
be,  reduced  by  famine  or  treachery.  It  yielded  to  the  former,  aided 
by  surprise.  After  having  seen  the  fortifications  of  Gibraltar  and 
Malta,  it  did  not  much  strike  by  comparison  ; but  the  situation  is 
commanding.  General  M arceau  besieged  it  in  vain  for  some  time, 
and  I slept  in  a room  where  I was  shown  a window  at  which  he  is 
said  to  have  been  standing  observing  the  progress  of  the  siege  by 
moonlight,  when  a ball  struck  immediately  below  it. 

(4)  [On  taking  Hockheim,  the  Austrians,  in  one  part  of  the 


‘.ANTO  III. 


CHILD E HAROLD’S  PILGR  IMAGE 


LXV 


35 


LXI. 

The  negligently  grand,  the  fruitful  bloom 
Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city’s  sheen, 

The  rolling  stream,  the  precipice’s  gloom, 

The  forest’s  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  between, 

The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 
In  mockery  of  man’s  art ; and  these  withal 
A race  of  faces  happy  as  the  scene, 

Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all, 

Still  springing  o’er  thy  banks,  though  Empires  near 
them  fall. 

LXII. 

But  these  recede.  Above  me  are  the  Alps, 

The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 

And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche— the  thunderbolt  of  snow ! 

All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals. 

Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show  [below. 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain  man 

LXIII. 

But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I dare  to  scan. 
There  is  a spot  should  not  be  pass’d  in  vain, — 
Morat ! the  proud,  the  patriot  field  ! where  man 
May  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slain, 

Nor  blush  for  those  who  conquer’d  on  that  plain ; 
Here  Burgundy  bequeath’d  his  tombless  host, 

A bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain, 

Themselves  their  monument ; — the  Stygian  coast 
LJnsepulchred  they  roam’d  and  shriek’d  each  wander- 
ing ghost.* 1 

LXIV. 

While  Waterloo  with  Cannae’s  carnage  vies, 

Morat  and  Marathon  twin  names  shall  stand  ; 

They  were  true  Glory’s  stainless  victories. 

Won  by  the  unambitious  heart  and  hand 
Of  a proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  band, 

All  unbought  champions  in  no  princely  cause 
Of  vice-entail’ d Corruption  ; they  no  land 
Doom’d  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 
Making  kings’  rights  divine,  by  some  Draconic  clause. 


engagement,  got  to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  whence  they  had  their  first 
view  of  the  Rhine.  They  instantly  halted— not  a gun  was  fired— 
not  a voice  heard : but  they  stood  gazing  on  the  river  with  those 
feelings  which  the  events  of  the  last  fifteen  years  at  once  called  up. 
Prince  Schwartzenberg  rode  up  to  know  the  cause  of  this  sudden 
stop ; then  they  gave  three  cheers,  rushed  after  the  enemy,  and 
drove  them  into  the  water.] 

(1)  The  chapel  is  destroyed,  and  the  pyramid  of  bones  diminish- 
ed to  a small  number  by  the  Burgundian  legion  in  the  service  of 
France;  who  anxiously  effaced  this  record  of  their  ancestors’ less 
successful  invasions.  A few  still  remain,  notwithstanding  the  pains 
taken  by  the  Burgundians  for  ages  (all  who  passed  that  way 
removing  a bone  to  their  own  country),  and  the  less  justifiable  lar- 
cenies of  the  Swiss  postilions,  who  carried  them  off  to  sell  for 
knife-handles;  a purpose  for  which  the  whiteness  imbibed  by  the 
bleaching  of  years  had  rendered  them  in  great  request.  Of  these 
relics  I ventured  to  bring  away  as  much  as  may  have  made  a quar- 
ter of  a hero,  for  which  the  sole  excuse  is,  that  if  I had  not,  the 
next  passer-by  might  have  perverted  them  to  worse  uses  than  the 
careful  preservation  which  I intend  for  them. 

(2)  Aventicum,  near  Morat,  was  the  Roman  capital  of  Helvetia, 
where  Atenclies  now  stands. 

(3)  Julia  Alpinula,  a young  Aventian  priestess,  died  soon  after  a 
vain  endeavour  to  save  her  father,  condemned  to  death  as  a traitor 

by  A ulus  Caecina.  Her  epitaph  was  discovered  many  years  ago; — 

* is  thus; — ‘-'Julia  Alpinula:  Hie  jaceo.  Infelicis  patris  infelix 


By  a lone  wall,  a lonelier  column  rears 
A gray  and  grief-worn  aspect  of  old  days; 

’Tis  tiie  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  years, 

And  looks  as  with  the  wild-bewilder’d  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze, 

Yet  still  with  consciousness;  and  there  it  stands 
Making  a marvel  that  it  not  decays, 

When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 

Levell’d  Aventicum,2  hath  strew’d  her  subject  lands. 

LXVI. 

And  there — oh  i sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name  ! — 
Julia — the  daugnter,  the  devoted — gave 
Her  youth  to  heaven ; her  heart,  beneath  a claim 
Nearest  to  Heaven’s,  broke  o’er  a father’s  grave. 
Justice  is  sworn  ’gainst  tears,  and  hers  would  crave 
The  life  she  lived  in ; but  the  judge  was  just, 

And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 

Their  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a bust, 

And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  one  heart,  one 
dust.3 


LXVII. 

But  these  are  deeds  which  should  not  pass  away, 
And  names  that  must  not  wither,  though  the  earth 
Eorgets  her  empires  with  a just  decay,  [birth  ; 
The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  tlieir  death  and 
The  liigli,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe, 

And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun’s  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,4 
Imperishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

LX  VIII. 

Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face,5  _ 

The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 
Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue : 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through 
With  a fit  mind  the  might  which  I behold ; 

But  soon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cberisli’d  than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  berd  had  pemi’d  me  in  their 


proles.  Deae  Aventiae  Sacerdos.  Exorare  patris  necem  non  potui : 
Male  mori  in  fatis  ille  erat.  Vixi  annos  xxm.” — I know  of  no 
human  composition  so  affecting  as  this,  nor  a history  of  deeper 
interest.  These  are  the  names  and  actions  which  ought  not  to 
perish,  and  to  which  we  turn  with  a true  and  healthy  tenuerness, 
from  the  wretched  and  glittering  detail  of  a confused  mass  of  con- 
quests and  battles,  with  which  the  mind  is  roused  for  a time  to  a 
false  and  feverish  sympathy,  from  whence  it  recurs  at  length  with 
all  the  nausea  consequent  on  such  intoxication. 

(4)  This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc  (June  3d,  1816), 
which  even  at  this  distance  dazzles  mine.— (July  20th.)  1 this  day 
observed  lor  some  time  the  distinct  reflection  of  Mont  Blanc  and 
Mont  Argentiere  in  the  calm  of  the  lake,  which  I was  crossing  in 
my  boat;  the  distance  of  these  mountains  from  their  mirror  is  sixty 
miles. 

(5)  in  the  exquisite  lines  which  the  poet,  at  this  time,  addressed 
to  his  sister,  there  is  the  following  touching  stanza  :— 

“ I did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  lake, 

By  the  old  hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 

Leman’s  is  fair ; but  think  not  I forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a dearer  shore : 

Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before ; 

Though,  like  all  things  which  I have  loved,  *hey  «r* 
Resign'd  for  ever,  or  divided  far.” 


36 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  DL 


LXIX. 

To  dy  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind  : 

Ah  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toi], 

Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in  its  fo'intain,  lest  it  overboil 
In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the  spoil 
Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil, 

In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong 
’Midst  a contentious  world,  striving  where  none  are 
strong. 

LXX. 

There,  in  a moment,  we  may  plunge  our  yea-s 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul,  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears, 

And  colour  things  to  come  with  hues  of  N iglit ; 

The  race  of  life  becomes  a hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness  : on  the  sea, 

The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite, 

But  there  are  wanderers  o’er  Eternity  [be. 

Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchored  ne’er  shall 

LXXI. 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone. 

And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake : 

By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone,1 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake. 

Which  feeds  it  as  a mother  who  doth  make 
A fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care, 

Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake; — 

Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear, 

Ilian  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom’d  to  inflict  or  bear  r 

LXXII. 

L live  not  in  myself,  but  I become 
Portion  of  that  around  me  : and  to  me 
High  mountains  are  a feeling,2  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  torture  ; I can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A link  reluctant  in  a fleshly  chain. 

Class’d  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 

And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 
O:  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

LXXIII. 

And  thus  I am  absorb’d,  and  this  is  life  : 

I look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past, 

As  on  a place  of  agony  and  strife, 

Where,  for  some  sin,  to  Sorrow  I was  cast, 

To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 


(1)  The  colour  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva  is  blue,  a depth  of  tint 
which  1 have  never  seen  equalled  in  water,  salt  or  rresli,  except  in 
liie  Mediterranean  and  Archipelago. — [See  Don  Juan,  c.  xiv.  st.  87, 
Cor  a beautiful  comparison 

“ There  was  no  great  disparity  of  years, 

Though  much  in  temper:  but  they  never  clash’d: 

They  moved  like  stars  united  in  their  spheres, 

Or  like  the  R.hone  by  Leman’s  waters  wash’d, 

Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  appears 
The  river  from  the  lake,  all  bluely  dash’d 
Through  the  serene  and  placid  glassy  deep, 

Which  fain  would  lull  its  river  child  to  sleep.’’] 

(2)  [“  Mr.  Hobhouseand  myself  are  just  returned  from  a journey 
of  lakes  and  mountains.  We  have  been  to  the  Grindelwald,  and 
the  Jungfrau,  and  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  Wengen  Alp;  and 
seen  torrents  of  900  feet  in  fall,  and  glaciers  of  all  dimensions;  we 
liavO  heard  shepherds’  pipes,  and  avalanches,  and  looked  on  the 
clouds  foaming  up  from  the  valleys  below  us  like  the  spray  of  the 
ocean  of  hell.  Chamouni,  and  that  which  it  inherits,  we  saw  a 
month  ago  ; but.  though  Mont  Blanc  is  higher,  it  is  not  equal  in 
wildness  to  the  Jungfrau,  the  Eighers,  the  Shreckhorn  and  the  Rose 
Giaciers  — B.  Letters,  Sept.  1816.] 


With  a fresh  pinion ; which  I feel  to  spring, 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous,  as  the  blast. 
Which  it  would  cope  with,  on  delighted  wing. 
Spurning  the  clay-cold  bonds  which  round  our  being 
cling. 

LXXIV. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all  it'st 
Erom  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  ferrn. 

Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm, — 

When  elements  to  elements  conform, 

And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I not 
Eeel  all  I see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 

The  bodiless  thought?  the  Spirit  of  each  spot? 

Of  which,  even  now,  I share  at  times  the  immortal  lot? 

LXXV. 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a part 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I of  them  ? 

Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 
With  a pure  passion  ? should  I not  contemn 
All  objects,  if  compared  with  these  ? and  stem 
A tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 
Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worldly  phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turn’d  below, 

Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  wliich  dare 
not  glow  ? 

LXX  VI. 

But  this  is  not  my  theme ; and  I return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn, 

To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  fire, 

A native  of  the  land  where  I respire 
The  clear  air  for  a while — a passing  guest. 

Where  he  became  a being, — whose  desire 
W as  to  be  glorious ; ’t  was  a foolish  quest, 
he  which  to  gain  and  keep,  he  sacrificed  all  rest. 

LXXVII. 

Here  the  self-torturing  sopliist,  wild  Rousseau,3 
The  apostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched  ; yet  he  kneu 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful,  and  cast 
O’er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a heavenly  hue  4 
Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  past 
The  eyes,  which  o’er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  ana 
fast. 


(3)  [“  I have  traversed  all  Rousseau’s  ground  with  the  ‘ Hfcloise’ 
before  me,  and  am  struck  to  a degree  that  I cannot  express  with 
the  force  and  accuracy  of  his  descriptions,  and  the  beauty  of  their 
reality.  Meillerie,  Clarens,  and  Vevay,  and  the  Chateau  deChillon, 
are  places  of  which  I shall  say  little : because  all  I could  say  must 
fall  short  of  the  impressions  they  stamp.” — £.  Letters .] 

(4)  [“  It  is  evident  that  the  impassioned  parts  of  Rousseau’s 
romance  had  made  a deep  impression  upon  the  feelings  of  the  noble 
poet.  The  enthusiasm  expressed  by  Lord  Byron  is  no  small  tribute 
to  the  power  possessed  by  Jean  Jacques  over  the  passions:  and,  to 
say  truth,  we  needed  some  such  evidence;  for,  though  almost 
ashamed  to  avow  the  truth,— still,  like  the  barber  of  Midas,  we 
must  speak  or  die, — we  have  never  been  able  to  feel  the  interest  or 
discover  the  merit  of  this  far-famed  performance.  That  there  is 
much  eloquence  in  the  letters,  we  readily  admit:  there  lay  Rous- 
seau’s strength.  But  his  lovers,  the  celebrated  St.  Preux  and  Julie, 
have,  from  the  earliest  moment  we  have  heard  the  tale  (which  we 
well  remember),  down  to  the  presenthour,  totally  failed  to  interest  us. 
There  might  be  some  constitutional  hardness  of  heart;  but,  like 
Launce’s  pebble-hearted  cur,  Crab,  we  remained  dry-eyed  while  all 
wept  around  us.  And  still,  on  resuming  the  volume,  even  now, 


canto  m 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


37 


LXXVIII. 

His  love  was  passion’s  essence — as  a tree 
On  fire  by  lightning;  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted  ; for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamour’d,  were  in  him  the  same. 

But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 

Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 

But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o’erflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distemper’d  though  it  seems. 

LXXIX. 

This  breathed  itself  to  life  in  Julie,  this 
Invested  her  with  all  that’s  wild  and  sweet ; 

This  hallow’d,  too,  the  memorable  kiss 1 
Which  every  morn  his  fever’d  lip  woidd  greet. 
Prom  hers,  who  but  with  friendship  his  woidd  meet ; 
But  to  that  gentle  touch,  through  brain  and  breast 
Plash’d  the  thrill’d  spirit’s  love-devouring  heat ; 

In  that  absorbing  sigli  perchance  more  blest 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek  possest.2 

LXXX. 

His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought  foes. 

Or  friends  by  him  self-banish’d  ; for  his  mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion’s  sanctuary,  and  chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice  the  kind, 

’Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange  and  blind. 
But  he  was  plirensied, — wherefore,  who  may  know  ? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could  never  find  ; 
But  he  was  plirensied  by  disease  or  woe  [show. 
To  that  worst  pitch  of  all,  which  wears  a reasoning 

LXXXI. 

For  then  he  was  inspired,  and  from  him  came, 

As  from  the  Pythian’s  mystic  cave  of  yore, 

Those  oracles  which  set  the  world  in  flame, 

Nor  ceased  to  bum  till  kingdoms  were  no  more  : 
Did  he  not  this  for  Prance  ? which  lay  before 
Bow’d  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years  F 
Broken  and  trembling  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 

Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers, 

Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath,  which  follows  o’er- 
grown  fears  ? 

LXXXII. 

They  made  themselves  a fearful  monument ! 

The  wreck  of  old  opinions — things  which  grew, 
Breathed  from  the  birth  of  time  : the  veil  they  rent, 
And  what  behind  it  lay,  all  earth  shall  view. 

But  good  with  ill  they  also  overthrew, 

Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 
Upon  the  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  same  hour  re-RU’d 
As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-will’d. 


we  can  see  little  in  the  loves  of  these  two  tiresome  pedants  to  in- 
terest our  feelings  for  either  of  them.  To  state  our  opinion  in 
language  (see  Burke’s  Reflections)  much  better  than  our  own,  we 
are  unfortunate  enough  to  regard  this  far-famed  history  of  philoso- 
phical gallantry  as  an  ‘ nnfashioned,  indelicate,  sour,  gloomy, 
ferocious  medley  of  pedantry  and  lewdness;  of  metaphysical 
speculations,  blended  with  the  coarsest  sensuality.”' — Sir  Walter 
Scott.] 

(1)  This  refers  to  the  account  in  his  “Confessions”  of  his  pas 
•ion  for  the  Comtesse  d’Houdetot  (the  mistress  of  St.  Lambert), 
and  his  long  walk  every  morning,  for  the  sake  of  the  single  kiss 
which  was  the  common  salutation  of  French  acquaintance.  Rous- 
•eau’s  description  of  his  feelings  on  this  occasion  may  be  considered 
as  the  most  passionate,  yet  not  impure,  description  and  expression 
of  love  that  ever  kindled  into  words;  which,  after  all,  must  be  felt, 


LXXXIIJ. 

But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured  ! 

Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made  it  felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  new  vigour,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another  ; pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  once  natural  charities.  But  they, 

Who  in  oppression’s  darkness  caved  had  dwelt, 
They  were  not  eagles,  nourish’d  with  the  day ; 
What  marvel  then,  at  times,  if  they  mistook  their  prey  ? 

LXXXIV. 

What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a scar  ? 

The  heart’s  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it  ; and  they  who  war  [bear 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquish  d, 
Silence,  but  not  submission : in  his  lair 
FixM  Passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  years ; none  need  despair : 

It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will  come, — the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive — in  one  we  shall  be  slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear,  placid  Leman ! thy  contrasted  lake, 

With  the  wild  world  I dwelt  in,  is  a thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth’s  troubled  waters  for  a purer  spring. 

This  quiet  sail  is  as  a noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction ; once  I loved 
Torn  ocean’s  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a Sister’s  voice  reproved, 

That  I with  stern  delights  should  e’er  have  been  sc 
moved. 

LXXXVI. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow’d  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 

Save  darken’d  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep  ; and  drawing  near, 

There  breathes  a living  fragrance  from  the  shore. 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ; on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 

Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more ; 

LXXXVII. 

H e is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 

At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a moment,  then  is  still. 

There  seems  a floating  whisper  on  the  hill. 

But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 

Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature’s  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues.3 


from  their  very  force,  to  be  inadequate  to  the  delineation : a paint- 
ing can  give  no  sufficient  idea  of  the  ocean. 

(2)  [“Lord  Hyron’s  character  of  Rousseau  is  drawn  with  great 
force,  great  power  of  discrimination,  and  great  eloquence.  I 
know  not  that  he  says  any  thing  which  has  not  been  said  before; 
— but  what  he  says  issues,  apparently,  from  the  recesses  of  his  own 
mind.  It  is  a little  laboured,  which,  possibly,  may  be  caused  by 
the  form  of  the  stanza  into  which  it  was  necessary  to  throw  it : but 
it  cannot  be  doubted  that  the  poet  felt  a sympathy  for  the  enthu- 
siastic tenderness  of  Rousseau’s  genius,  which  he  could  not  have 
recognised  with  such  extreme  fervour,  except  from  a consciousness 
of  having  at  least  occasionally  experienced  similar  emotions. 
Sir  E Brydges.] 

(3)  [During  Lord  Byron’s  stay  in  Switzerland,  he  took  up  his  re- 
sidence at  the  Campagne-Diodati,  in  the  village  of  Coligny.  It 


38 


,ORD  B IRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  III 


LXXXVIII. 

Ye  siars  ! which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven  ! 

Jf  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, — ’t  is  to  be  forgiven, 

That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 

Our  destinies  o’erleap  their  mortal  state, 

And  claim  a kindred  with  you  ; lor  ye  are 
A beauty  and  a mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 

That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  them- 
selves a star. 

LXXXIX. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 

And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep  : — - 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still : From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull’d  lake  and  mountain-coast, 

All  is  concenter’d  in  a life  intense, 

Where  not  a beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 

F ut  hath  a part  of  being,  and  a sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

xc. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone ; 

A truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt, 
And  purifies  from  self : it  is  a tone, 

The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a charm, 

Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea’s  zone, 

Binding  till  things  with  beauty  ; — ’t  would  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 

xci. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o’ergazing  mountains*  1 and  thus  take 
A fit  and  unwall’d  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  honour  shrines  are  weak, 
Uprear’d  of  human  hands.  Come,  and  compare 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 

With  Nature’s  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  pray’r! 

xcir. 

The  sky  is  changed ! — and  such  a change ! Oh 
night, 

And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a dark  eye  in  woman  ! Far  along, 


stands  at  the  top  of  a rapidly  descending  vineyard ; the  windows 
comrtianding,  one  way,  a noble  view  of  the  lake  and  of  Geneva  ; the 
other,  up  the  lake.  Every  evening,  the  poet  embarked  on  the 
lake ; and  to  the  feelings  created  by  these  excursions  we  owe  these 
delightful  stanzas.  Of  his  mode  of  passing  a day,  the  following, 
from  his  Journal,  is  a pleasant  specimen: — 

“ Septemper  18.  Called.  Got  up  at  five.  Stopped  at  Vevay 
two  hours.  View  from  the  churchyard  superb;  within  it  Ludlow 
(the  regicide’s'/  monument — black  marble — long  inscription  ; Latin, 
but  simple.  Near  him  Broughton  (who  read  King  Charles’s  sen- 
tence to  Charles  Stuart)  is  buried,  with  a uucer  and  rather  canting 
inscription.  Ludlow’ s house  shown.  Walked  down  to  the  l ike 
side ; servants,  carriages,  saddle-horses, — all  set  off,  and  left  us 
plantrs  la,  by  some  mistake.  Hobhouse  ran  on  before,  and  over- 
took them.  Arrived  at  Clarens.  Went  to  Chillon  through  scenery 
worthy  of  I know  not  whom;  went  over  the  castle  again.  Met  an 
English  party  in  a carriage  ; a lady  in  it  fast  asleep— fast  asleep  in 
the  most  anti-narcotic  spot  in  the  world, — excellent!  After  a slight 
and  short  dinner,  visited  the  Chdteau  de  Clarens.  Saw  all  worth 
seeing,  and  then  descended  to  the  ‘ Bosquet  de  Julie,’  &c.  &c. : our 
guide  full  of  ltousseau,  whom  he  is  eternally  confounding  with  St. 
Preux,  and  mixing  the  man  and  the  book.  Went  again  as  far  as 


F rom  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  ! Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a tongue, 

And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 

Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

xcm. 

And  this  is  in  the  night; — Most  glorious  night ! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  ! let  me  be 
A sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 

A portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  ! 2 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a phosphoric  sea, 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 

And  now  again ’t  is  black, — and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o’er  a young  earthquake’s  birth.3 

xciv. 

Now  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted  ; 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other 
thwarted. 

Love  wl  die  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which  blighted  cheir  life’s  bloom,  and  then  de- 
parted : — 

Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to  wage, 

xcv. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta’en  his  stand  : 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 

And  fling  their  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to  baud, 
Flashing  and  cast  around  : of  all  the  band, 

The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fork’d 
His  lightnings, — as  if  he  did  understand, 

That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work’d, 

There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein 
lurk’d. 

xcvi. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings  ! ye  ! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ; the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I rest.4 
But  where  of  ye,  oh  tempests  ! is  the  goal  ? 

Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 

Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 


Chillon,  to  revisit  the  little  torrent  from  the  hill  behind  it.  The 
corporal  who  showed  the  wonders  of  Chillon  was  as  drunk  as 
Blucher,  and  (to  my  mind)  as  great  a man  : he  was  deaf  also;  and, 
thinking  every  one  else  so,  roared  out  the  legends  of  the  castle  so 
fearfully,  that  Hobhouse  got  out  of  humour.  However,  we  saw 
things,  from  the  gallows  to  the  dungeons.  Sunset  reflected  in  the 
lake.  Nine  o’clock— going  to  bed.  Have  to  get  up  at  five  to- 
morrow.”] 

(1)  See  Appendix,  Note  [F]. 

(2)  The  thunder-storm  to  which  these  lines  refer  occurred  on 
the  13th  of  June,  1816,  at  midnight.  I have  seen,  among  the 
Acroeeraunian  mountains  of  Chimari,  several  more  terrible,  but 
none  more  beautiful. 

(3)  [“  This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  of  the  poem. 
The  ‘ fierce  and  far  delight’  of  a thunder-storm  is  here  described  in 
verse  almost  as  vivid  as  its  lightnings.  The  live  thunder  ‘ leaping 
among  the  rattling  crags’ -the  voice  of  mountains,  as  if  shouting 
to  each  other — the  plashing  of  the  big  rain — the  gleaming  of  the 
wide  lake,  lighted  like  a phosphoric  sea — present  a picture  of  sub- 
lime terror,  yet  of  enjoyment,  often  attempted,  but  never  so  well, 
certainly  never  better,  brought  out  in  poetry.” — Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

(4)  [The  Journal  of  bis  Swiss  tour,  which  Lord  Byron  kep< 


UVTO  III. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


39 


XCVII. 

Could  I embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 
All  that  I would  have  sought,  and  all  I seek, 

Rear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe — into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I would  speak ; 
But  as  it  is,  I live  and  die  unheard, 

With  a most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a sword. 

XCVIII. 

The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  mom, 

With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn. 

And  living  as  if  earth  contain’d  no  tomb, — 

And  glowing  into  day : we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence : and  thus  I, 

Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman  ! may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder’d  fittingly. 

xeix. 

Clarens ■ sweet  Clarens,1  birthplace  of  deep  Love  ! 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate  thought ; 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  Love ; the  snows  above 
The  very  Glaciers  have  his  colours  caught, 

And  sun-set  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly : the  rocks. 

The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  of  Love,  who  sought 
In  them  a refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks, 

Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  woos, 
then  mocks. 

c. 

Clarens ! by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod, — • 
Undying  Love’s,  who  here  ascends  a throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains ; where  the  god 
Is  a pervading  life  and  light, — so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest ; o’er  the  flower 
His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender  power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate 
hour.2 

ci. 

All  things  are  here  of  him  ; from  the  black  pines, 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the  shore, 
IV  here  the  bow’d  waters  meet  him,  and  adore, 


for  his  sister,  closes  with  the  following  mournful  passage : — “ In 
the  weather,  for  this  tour,  of  thirteen  flays,  I have  been  very  for- 
tunate— fortunate  in  a companion”  (Mr.  Kobhouse) — “fortunate 
in  our  prospects,  and  exempt  from  even  tne  little  petty  accidents 
and  delays  which  often  render  journeys  in  a less  wild  country  dis- 
appointing. I was  disposed  to  be  pleased.  I am  a lover  of  nature, 
and  an  admirer  of  beauty.  I can  bear  fatigue,  and  welcome 
privation,  and  have  seen  some  of  the  noblest  views  in  the  world. 
But  in  all  this, — the  recollection  of  bitterness,  and  more  especially 
of  recent  and  more  home  desolation,  which  must  accompany  me 
through  life,  has  preyed  upon  me  here ; and  neither  the  music  of 
the  shepherd,  the  crashing  of  the  avalanche,  nor  the  torrent,  the 
mountain,  the  glacier,  the  forest,  nor  the  cloud,  have  for  one 
moment  iigb*.  ned  the  weight  upon  my  heart,  nor  enabled  me  to 
lose  my  own  wretehed  identity,  in  the  majesty,  and  the  power,  and 
the  glory,  around,  above,  and  beneath  me.”] 

(1)  [Stanzas  xeix.  to  cxv.  are  exquisite.  They  have  every 
thing  which  makes  a poetical  picture  of  looai  and  particular 


Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs ; and  the  wood, 

The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks  all  hoar. 

But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood, 
Offering  to  him,  and  his,  a populous  solitude, 

cn. 

A populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds, 

And  fairy-formed  and  many-colour’d.  things, 

Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than 
•voids, 

And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings, 

Tearless  and  full  of  life  : the  gush  of  springs, 

And  fall  of  lofty  mountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 

cm. 

He  who  hath  loved  not,  here  would  learn  that  lore, 
And  make  his  heart  a spirit ; he  who  knows 
That  tender  mystery,  will  love  the  more, 

Tor  this  is  Love’s  recess,  where  vain  men’s  woes, 
And  the  world’s  waste,  have  driven  him  far  from 
those, 

For  ’tis  his  nature  to  advance  or  die ; 

He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity ! 

civ. 

’Twas  not  for  fiction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot. 
Peopling  it  with  affections  ; but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind’s  purified  beings ; ’twas  the  ground 
Where  early  Love  his  Psyche’s  zone  unbound, 

And  hallow’d  it  with  loveliness  ; ’tis  lone, 

And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a sound, 

And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness ; here  the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a couch,  the  Alps  have  rear'd  a 
throne. 

cv. 

Lausanne  ! and  Eerney ! ye  have  been  the  abodes 
Of  names  which  unto  you  bequeath’d  a name ; 3 
Mortals,  who  sought  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads, 
A path  to  perpetuity  of  fame  : 

They  were  gigantic  minds,  and  their  steep  aim 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thunder,  and  the 
flame 

Of  Heaven,  again  assail’d,  if  Heaven  the  while 
On  man  and  man’s  research  could  deign  do  more 
than  smile. 


scenery  perfect.  They  exhibit  a miraculous  brilliancy  and  force 
of  fancy ; but  the  very  fidelity  causes  a little  constraint  and  labour 
of  language.  The  poet  seems  to  have  been  so  engrossed  by  the 
attention  to  give  vigour  and  fire  to  the  imagery,  that  he  both 
neglected  and  disdained  to  render  himself  more  harmonious  by 
diffuser  words,  which,  while  they  might  have  improved  the  effect 
upon  the  ear,  might  have  weakened  the  impression  upon  the  mind. 
This  mastery  over  new  matter— this  supply  of  powers  equal  not 
only  to  an  untouched  subject,  but  that  subject  one  of  peculiar  and 
unequalled  grandeur  and  beauty — was  sufficient  to  occupy  tne 
strongest  poetical  faculties,  young  as  the  author  was,  without 
adding  to  it  all  the  practical  skill  of  the  artist.  The  stanzas,  too, 
on  Voltaire  and  Gibbon  are  discriminative,  sagacious,  and  just. 
They  are  among  the  proofs  of  that  very  great  variety  of  taien' 
which  this  Canto  of  Lord  Byron  exhibits. — Sir  E.  Brydges.} 

(2)  See  Appendix,  Note  [G], 

(3)  Voltaire  and  Gibbon. 


40 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  111 


CVI. 

The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a child, 

Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  in  mind 

A*  wit  as  various, — gay,  grave,  sage,  or  wild, — ■ 

Historian,  bard,  philosopher,  combined; 

Ho  multiplied  himself  among  mankind, 

The  Proteus  of  their  talents  : But  his  own 
Breathed  most  in  ridicule, — which,  as  the  wind, 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone, — 
Now  to  o’erthrow  a fool,  and  now  to  shake  a throne. 

cvn. 

The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thought, 

And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year, 

In  meditation  dwelt,  with  learning  wrought, 

And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe, 
Sapping  a solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer ; 

The  lord  of  irony, — that  master-spell, 

Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from  fear, 
And  doom’d  him  to  the  zealot’s  ready  Hell, 

Which  answers  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  well. 

cvm. 

Yet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes, — for  by  them. 

If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid ; 

It  is  not  ours  to  judge, — far  less  condemn ; 

The  hour  must  come  when  such  things  shall  be  made 
Known  unto  all, — or  hope  and  dread  allay’d 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow, — in  the  dust, 

Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  decay’d  ; 
And  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 

’Twill  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is  just. 

cix. 

But  let  me  quit  man’s  works  again  to  read 
His  Maker’s,  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I feed, 

Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 

The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 

And  I must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whale’ er 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steos  1 bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region,  where 
The  earth  to  her  embrace  compels  the  powers  of  air. 

cx. 

Italia!  too,  Italia!  looking  on  thee, 

Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages, 

Since  the  fierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee. 

To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages, 


(1)  “ If  it  be  thus, 

For  Banquo’s  issue  have  I fled,  my  mind.” — Macbeth. 

(2)  It  i."  said  by  ltochefoucault,  that  “ there  is  always  some- 
thing in  the  misfortunes  of  men’s  be^t  friends  not  displeasing  to 
them.” 

(3)  [“  It  is  not  the  temper  and  talents  of  the  poet,  but  the  use 
to  which  he  puts  them,  on  which  his  happiness  or  misery  is 
grounded.  A powerful  and  unbridled  imagination  is  the  author 
and  architect  of  its  own  disappointments.  Its  fascinations,  its 
exaggerated  pictures  of  good  and  evil,  and  the  mental  distress  to 
wl  ich  they  give  rise,  are  the  natural  and  necessary  evils  attending 
on  that  quick  susceptibility  of  feeling  and  fancy  incident  to  the 
po  itical  temperament.  But  the  Giv  er  of  all  talents,  while  he  has 
qualified  them  each  with  its  separate  and  peculiar  alloy,  has 
endowed  the  owner  with  the  power  of  purifying  and  refining  them. 
But.  as  if  to  moderate  the  arrogance  of  genius,  it  is  justly  and 
wisely  made  requisite,  that  he  must  regulate  and  tame  the  fire  of 
his  fancy,  and  descend  from  the  heights  to  which  she  exalts  him, 
in  order  to  obtain  ease  of  mind  and  tranquillity.  The  materials 
of  happiness,  that  is,  of  such  degree  of  happiness  as  is  consistent 
with  our  present  state,  lie  around  us  in  profusion.  But  the  man 
of  talents  must  stoop  to  gather  them,  otherwise  they  would  be 
neyoixf  <be  reach  of  the  mass  of  society,  for  whose  benefit,  as  well 


Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages ; 

Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires  ; still, 
The  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
^ Her  thirst  of  knowledge,  quailing  there  her  fill, 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome’s  imperial  hill 

CXI. 

Thus  far  have  I proceeded  in  a theme 
Renew’d  with  no  kind  auspices : — to  feel 
We  arc  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be, — and  to  steel 
The  heart  against  itself ; and  to  conceal, 

With  a proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught, — 
Passion  or  feeling,  purpose,  grief,  or.  zeal, — 

Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought, 

Is  a stern  task  of  soul -No  matter,— it  is  taught. 

CXII. 

And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song, 

It  may  be  that  they  are  a harmless  wile, — 

The  colouring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along, 
Which  I would  seize,  in  passing,  to  beguile 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a while. 

Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth, — but  I am  not 
So  young  as  to  regard  men’s  frown  or  smile, 

As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a glorious  lot ; 

1 stood  and  stand  alone, — remember’d  or  forgot. 

cxm. 

I have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me ; 

I have  not  flatter’d  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow’d 
To  its  idolatries  a patient  knee, — 

Nor  coin’d  my  cheek  to  smiles, — nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo ; in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such ; I stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them  ; in  a shroud 
Of  though ts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  ant 
still  could, 

Had  I not  filed  1 my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued, 
cxiv. 

I have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me, — 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes ; I do  believe, 

Though  I have  found  them  not,  that  there  mav  be 
Words  wniuh  are  things, — hopes  which  will  not 
deceive, 

And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing ; I would  also  deem 
O’er  others’  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve ; 2 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem, — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream.3 


as  for  his,  Providence  has  created  them.  There  is  no  royal  and 
no  poetical  path  to  contentment  and  heart’s-ease : that  by  whiel. 
they  are  attained  is  open  to  all  classes  of  mankind,  and  lies  within 
the  most  limited  range  of  intellect.  To  narrow  our  wishes  am. 
desires  within  the  scope  of  our  powers  of  attainment;  to  consider 
our  misfortunes,  however  peculiar  in  their  character,  as  our 
inevitable  share  in  the  patrimony  of  Adam ; to  bridle  those 
irritable  feelings,  which  ungoverned  are  sure  to  become  governors; 
to  shun  that  intensity  of  galling  and  seif-wounding  reflection  which 
our  poet  has  so  forcibly  described  in  his  own  burning  language : — 

* I have  thought 

Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became, 

In  its  Own  eddy,  boiling  and  o’erwrought, 

A whirling  gulf  of  phantasy  and  flame' 

— to  stoop,  in  short,  to  the  realities  of  life;  repent  if  we  have 
offended,  and  pardon  if  we  have  been  tresp.  ssed  against;  to  look 
on  the  world  less  as  our  foe  than  as  a doubtful  and  capricious  friend, 
whose  applause  we  ought  as  far  as  possible  to  deserve,  but  neilhe. 
to  court  nor  contemn — such  seem  the  most  obvious  and  ee;  Hiiu 
means  of  keeping  or  regaining  mental  tranquillity, 

Semita  certe 

Tranquilla*  per  virtutem  patet  unica  vitae.’” — 

Sin  v\'a • tkr  Scott  ? 


CANTO  IV. 


CHLLDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


41 


cxv. 

My  daughter ! with  thy  name  this  song  begun — 
My  daughter ! with  thy  name  thus  much  shall  end — 
I see  thee  not, — I hear  thee  not, — but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee ; thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  extend : 

Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  should’st  behold. 

My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blend, 

And  reach  into  thy  heart, — when  mine  is  cold, — 

A token  and  a tone,  even  from  thy  father’s  mould. 

CXVI. 

To  aid  thy  mind’s  development, — to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  joys, — to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth, — to  view  thee  catch 
Knowledge  of  objects, — wonders  yet  to  thee  ! 

To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a gentle  knee, 

And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a parent’s  kiss, — 

This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  me ; 

Yet  this  was  in  my  nature  : — as  it  is, 
i know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something  like  to  this. 

CXVII. 

Yet,  though  dull  Hate  as  duty  should  be  taught, 

1 know  that  thou  wilt  love  me  ; though  my  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a spell  still  fraught 
With  desolation, — and  a broken  claim  : [same, 

Though  the  grave  closed  between  us, — ’twere  the 
I know  that  thou  wilt  love  me ; though  to  drain 
My  blood  from  out  thy  being  were  an  aim 
And  an  attainment, — all  would  be  in  vain, — 

Still  thou  would’st  love  me,  still  that  more  than  life 
retain. 

CXVIII. 

The  child  of  love, — though  born  m bitterness, 

And  nurtured  in  convulsion.  Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements. — and  thine  no  less. 

As  yet  such  are  around  thee, — but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more  temper’d,  and  thy  hope  far  higher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers  ! O’er  the  sea, 

And  from  the  mountains  where  I nowT  respire, 

Fain  woidd  I waft  such  blessing  upon  thee,  [me  ! 1 
As,  with  a sigh,  I deem  thou  might’st  have  been  to 

— ♦ — 

l&arolti’s  pilgrimage. 

CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 


Visto  Tio  Toscana,  Lombardia,  Romagna, 
Quel  Monte  che  divide,  e quel  ehe  serra 
Italia,  e un  mare  e i’  altro,  clie  le  bagna. 

Ariosto,  Satira  iii. 


TO  JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ.  A.M.  F.B..S.  &c. 

Venice , J amtary  2,  1818. 

My  hear  Hoehouse, 

After  an  interval  of  eight  years  between  the  com- 
position of  the  first  and  last  cantos  of  Childe  Harold, 
the  conclusion  of  the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitted 
the  public.  In  parting  with  so  old  a friend,  it  is 


not  extraordinary  that  I should  recur  to  one  still  older 
and  better, — to  one  who  has  beheld  the  birth  and 
death  of  the  other,  and  to  whom  I am  far  more  in- 
debted for  the  social  advantages  of  an  enlightened 
friendship,  than — though  not  ungrateful — I can,  or 
could  be,  to  Childe  Harold,  for  any  public  favour 
reflected  through  the  poem  on  the  poet, — to  one, 
whom  I have  known  long,  and  accompanied  far 
whom  I have  found  wakeful  over  my  sickness  ana 
kind  in  my  sorrow ; glad  in  my  prosperity  and  firm 
in  my  adversity ; true  in  counsel  and  trusty  in  peril ; 
— to  a friend  often  tried  and  never  found  wanting ; 
— to  yourself. 

In  so  doing,  I recur  from  fiction  to  truth ; and  in 
dedicating  to  you,  in  its  complete  or  at  least  concluded 
state,  a poetical  work  which  is  the  longest,  the  most 
thoughtful  and  comprehensive  of  my  compositions,  I 
wish  to  do  honour  to  myself  by  the  record  of  many 
years’  intimacy  with  a man  of  learning,  of  talent,  of 
steadiness,  and  of  honour.  It  is  not  for  minds  like 
ours  to  give  or  to  receive  flattery ; yet  the  praises  of 
sincerity  have  ever  been  permitted  to  the  voice  of 
friendship  ; and  it  is  not  for  you,  nor  even  for  others, 
but  to  relieve  a heart  which  has  not  elsewhere,  or 
lately,  been  so  much  accustomed  to  the  encounter 
of  good-will  as  to  withstand  the  shock  firmly,  that  1 
thus  attempt  to  commemorate  your  good  qualities, 
or  rather  the  advantages  which  I have  derived  from 
their  exertion.  Even  the  recurrence  of  the  date  of 
this  letter,  the  anniversary  of  the  most  unfortunate 
day  of  my  past  existence,  but  which  cannot  poison 
my  future  while  I retain  the  resource  of  your  friend- 
ship, and  of  my  own  faculties,  will  henceforth  have  a 
more  agreeable  recollection  for  both,  inasmuch  as  it 
will  remind  us  of  this  my  attempt  to  thank  you  for 
an  indefatigable  regard,  such  as  few  men  have  ex- 
perienced, and  no  one  could  experience  without 
thinking  better  of  his  species  and  of  himself. 

It  has  been  our  fortune  to  traverse  together,  at 
various  periods,  the  countries  of  chivalry,  history, 
and  fable, — Spain,  Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Italy  ; 
and  what  Athens  and  Constantinople  were  to  us  a 
few  years  ago,  Venice  and  Rome  have  been  more 
recently.  The  poem  also,  or  the  pilgrim,  or  both, 
have  accompanied  me  from  first  to  last ; and  perhaps 
it  may  be  a pardonable  vanity  which  induces  me  to 
reflect  with  complacency  on  a composition  which  in 
some  degree  connects  me  with  the  spot  where  it  was 
produced,  and  the  objects  it  would  fain  describe  ; and 
however  unworthy  it  may  be  deemed  of  those  magical 
and  memorable  abodes,  however  short  it  may  fall  of 
our  distant  conceptions  and  immediate  impressions, 
yet  as  a mark  of  respect  for  what  is  venerable,  and 
of  feeling  for  what  is  glorious,  it  has  been  to  me  a 
source  of  pleasure  in  the  production,  and  I part  with 
it  with  a kind  of  regret,  which  I hardly  suspected  that 
events  could  have  left  me  for  imaginary  objects. 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there 
will  be  found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the 
preceding,  and  that  little  slightly,  if  at  all,  separated 
from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own  person.  The 
fact  is,  that  I had  become  weary  of  drawing  a line 
which  every  one  seemed  determined  not  to  perceive  : 
like  the  Chinese  in  Goldsmith’s  “ Citizen  of  the 
World,”  whom  nobody  would  believe  to  be  a Chinese, 
it  was  in  vain  that  I asserted,  and  imagined  that  I 
had  drawn,  a distinction  between  the  author  and  the 
pilgrim ; and  the  very  anxiety  to  preserve  tliis  dif 
G 


'H  [“  Byron,  July  4,  1816.  Diodati.” — MS.] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


canto  n 


42 

ference,  and  disappointment  at  finding  it  unavailing, 
so  far  crushed  my  efforts  in  the  composition,  that  I 
determined  to  abandon  it  altogether — and  have  done 
so.  , The  opinions  which  have  been,  or  may  be, 
formed  on  that  subject,  are  now  a matter  of  indiffer- 
ence ; the  work  is  to  depend  on  itself,  and  not  on  the 
writer ; and  the  author,  who  has  no  resources  in  his 
own  mind  beyond  the  reputation,  transient  or  per- 
manent, which  is  to  arise  from  his  literary  efforts, 
deserves  the  fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my 
intention,  either  in  the  text  or  in  the  notes,  to  have 
touched  upon  the  present  state  of  Italian  literature, 
and  perhaps  of  manners.  But  the  text,  within  the 
limits  I proposed,  I soon  found  hardly  sufficient  for 
the  labyrinth  of  external  objects,  and  the  consequent 
reflections ; and  for  the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting 
a few  of  the  shortest,  I am  indebted  to  yourself,  and 
these  were  ^necessarily  limited  to  the  elucidation  of 
the  text. 

It  is  also  a delicate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to 
dissert  upon  the  literature  and  manners  of  a nation  so 
dissimilar ; and  requires  an  attention  and  impartiality 
which  would  induce  us — though  perhaps  no  inat- 
tentive observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the  language  or 
customs  of  the  people  amongst  whom  we  have  recently 
abode — to  distrust,  or  at  least  defer  our  judgment, 
and  more  narrowly  examine  our  information.  The 
state  of  literary,  as  well  as  political  party,  appears  to 
run,  or  to  have  run,  so  high,  that  for  a stranger  to 
steer  impartially  between  them  is  next  to  impossible. 
It  may  be  enough,  then,  at  least  for  my  purpose,  to 
quote  from  their  own  beautiful  language — “ Mi 
pare  che  in  un  paese  tutto  poetico,  che  vanta  la  lin- 
gua la  piu  nobile  ed  insieme  la  piu  dolce,  tutte  tutte 
le  vie  diverse  si  possono  tentare,  e che  sinche  la 
patria  di  Alfieri  e di  Monti  non  ha  perduto  1’  antico 
valore,  in  tutte  essa  dovrebbe  essere  la  prima.”  Italy 
has  great  names  still : Canova,  Monti,  Ugo  Foscolo, 
Pindemonte,  Visconti,  Morelli,  Cicognara,  Albrizzi, 
Mezzophanti,  Mai,  Mustoxidi,  Aglietti,  and  Vacca, 
will  secure  to  the  present  generation  an  honourable 
place  in  most  of  the  departments  of  Art,  Science, 
and  Belles  Lettres ; and  in  some  the  very  highest. 
Europe — the  World — has  but  one  Canova. 

It  has  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfieri,  that  “ La 
pianta  uomo  nasce  piu  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qua- 
lunque  altra  terra — e che  gli  stessi  atroci  delitti  che 
vi  si  commettono  ne  sono  una  prova.”  Without  sub- 
scribing to  the  latter  part  of  his  proposition,  a dan- 
gerous doctrine,  the  truth  of  which  may  be  disputed 
on  better  grounds,  namely,  that  the  Italians  are  in  no 
respect  more  ferocious  than  their  neighbours,  that 
man  must  be  wilfully  blind,  or  ignorantly  heedless, 
who  is  not  struck  with  the  extraordinary  capacity  of 
this  people,  or,  if  such  a word  be  admissible,  tneir 
capabilities , the  facility  of  their  acquisitions,  the  ra- 
pidity of  their  conceptions,  the  fire  of  their  genius, 
their  sense  of  beauty,  and,  amidst  all  the  disadvantages 
of  repeated  revolutions,  the  desolation  of  battles,  and 
the  despair  of  ages,  their  still  unquenched  “ longing 
after  immortality,” — the  immortality  of  independ- 
ence. And  when  we  ourselves,  in  riding  round 
the  walls  of  Rome,  heard  the  simple  lament  of  the 


labourers’ chorus,  “Roma!  Roma!  Roma!  Roma 
non  e piu  come  era  prima,”  it  was  difficult  not  to 
contrast  this  melancholy  dirge  with  the  bacchanal 
roar  of  the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled  from  the 
London  taverns,  over  the  carnage  of  Mont  St.  Jean, 
and  the  betrayal  of  Genoa,  of  Italy,  of  Prance,  and 
of  the  world,  by  men  whose  conduct  you  yourself 
have  exposed  in  a work  worthy  of  the  better  days  of 
our  history.  Por  me, — 

“ Non  movero  mai  corda 
Ove  la  turba  di  sue  ciance  assorda.” 


What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  late  transfer  of  na- 
tions, it  were  useless  for  Englishmen  to  inquire,  tih 
it  becomes  ascertained  that  England  has  acquired 
something  more  than  a permanent  army  and  a sus- 
pended Habeas  Corpus  : it  is  enough  for  them  to  'ook 
at  home.  Por  what  they  have  done  abroad,  and  espe- 
cially in  the  South,  “ Verily  they  will  have  their  re- 
ward,” and  at  no  very  distant  period. 

Wishing  you,  my  dear  Hobhouse,  a safe  and  ag  °,e- 
able  return  to  that  country  whose  real  welfare  car  be 
dearer  to  none  than  to  yourself,  I dedicate  to  you  f ”s 
poem  in  its  completed  state ; and  repeat  once  nr  v 
how  truly  I am  ever. 

Your  obliged 

And  affectionate  friend, 

BYRON. 


i. 

I stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 1 
A palace  and  a prison  on  each  hand : 

I saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter’s  wand  : 

A thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a dying  Glory  smiles 
O’er  the  far  times,  when  many  a subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion’s  marble  piles,  [isles  ! 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred 


She  looks  a sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean,2 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 

A ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers  : 

And  such  she  was ; — her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
Prom  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Pour’d  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 

In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarch s partook,  and  deem’d  their  dignity  increased. 

m. 

In  Venice  Tasso’s  echoes  are  no  more,3 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier : 

Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 

And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear  : 

Those  days  are  gone — but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade— but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 

The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 

The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy  ! 


(1)  See  Appendix,  “Historical  Notes,”  No.  i. 

(2)  Sabellicus,  describing  the  appearance  of  Venice,  has  made 

of  the  above  image,  which  would  not  be  poetical  were  it 


not  true. — “ Quo  fit  ut  qui  superne  urbem  contempletur,  turritan 
telluris  imaginem  medio  Oceano  figuratam  se  putet  inspicere.” 

(3)  See  Appenuix,  Historical  Notes.”  No.  11. 


CANTO  IT. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


43 


IV. 

But  unto  ns  she  hath  a spell  oeyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  dogeless  city’s  vanish’d  sway  : 

Ours  is  a trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  llialto  ; Shy  lock  and  the  Moor, 

And  Pierre,  can  not  be  swept  or  worn  away — 

The  keystones  of  the  arch  ! though  all  were  o’er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 

v. 

The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay ; 

Essentially  immortal,  they  create 

And  multiply  in  us  a brighter  ray 

And  more  beloved  existence  : that  which  Eate 

Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 

Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied, 

Eirst  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate  ; 

Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
And  with  a fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void. 

VI. 

Such  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age, 

The  first  from  Hope,  the  last  from  Vacancy; 

And  this  wor»  feeling  peoples  many  a page, 

And,  may  he,  that  which  grows  beneath  mine  eye ; 
Yet  there  i c,  tilings  whose  strong  reality 
Outshines  cor  fairy-land;  in  shape  and  hues 
More  ber.r  tiful  than  our  fantastic  sky, 

And  th^  strange  constellations  which  the  Muse 
O’er  her  uild  universe  is  skilful  to  diffuse : 

VII. 

I saw  or  dream’d  of  such, — but  let  them  go, — 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappear’d  like  dreams ; 
And  whatsoe’er  they  were — are  now  but  so ; 

I could  replace  them  if  I would ; still  teems 
My  mind  with  many  a form  which  aptly  seems 
Such  as  I sought  for,  and  at  moments  found ; 

Let  these  too  go — for  waking  Reason  deems 
Such  over-weening  phantasies  unsound, 

Ahd  other  voices  speak,  and  other  sights  surround. 

VIII. 

I’ve  taught  me  other  tongues — and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a stranger ; to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise ; 

Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,  nor  hard  to  find 
A country  with — ay,  or  without  mankind ; 

Yet  was  I born  where  men  are  proud  to  be, 

Not  without  cause;  and  should  I leave  behind 
The  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free, 

And  seek  me  out  a home  by  a remoter  sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps  I loved  it  well : and  should  I lay 
My  ashes  in  a soil  which  is  not  mine, 

My  spirit  shall  resume  it — if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a sanctuary.  I twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remember’d  in  my  line 
With  my  land’s  language  : if  too  fond  and  far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline, — 

If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are, 

Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 


(1)  The  answer  of  the  mother  of  Brasidas,  the  Lacedaemonian 
joneral,  to  the  strangers  who  praised  the  memory  of  her  son. 

(J,  3,  4,  5)  See  Appendix,  *'  Historical  Notes,”  Nos.  in  IV 

V Ti. 


X. 

My  name  from  out  the  temnle  wheie  ihe  dead 
Are  honour’d  by  the  nations — let  it  be — 

And  light  the  laurels  on  a loftier  head ! 

And  be  the  Spartan’s  epitaph  on  me — 

“ Sparta  hath  many  a worthier  son  than  he.” 1 
Meantime  I seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need  ; 

The  thorns  wliich  I have  reap’d  are  of  the  tree 
1 planted, — they  have  torn  me, — and  I bleed : 

I should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  frcaj 
such  a seed. 

XI. 

The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord  ; 

And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renew’d. 

The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored. 

Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood  ! 

St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood2 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  wither’d  power, 

Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued, 

And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was' a queen  with  an  unequall’d  dower. 

XII. 

The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns — 3 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt ; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities  ; nations  melt 
From  power’s  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosen’d  from  the  mountain’s  belt : 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo  ! 4 
Th’  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium’s  conquering  foe. 

XIII. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  biass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun ; 

But  is  not  Doria’s  menace  come  to  pass  ? 5 
Are  they  not  bridled  ! — Venice  lost  and  won, 

Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  Freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a sea-weed,  into  whence  she  rose  ! 
Better  be  whelm’d  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction’s  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 

From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 

XIV. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory, — a new  Tyre, — 

Her  very  by-word  sprung  from  victory, 

The  “ Planter  of  the  Lion,” 0 which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o’er  subject  earth  and  sea ; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free, 

And  Europe’s  bulwark  ’gainst  the  Ottomite. 
Witness  Troy’s  rival,  Candia!  Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto’s  fight ! 

For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight 

xv. 

Statues  of  glass — all  shiver’d — the  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust ; 

But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  ?Lf 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  trust ; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger : empty  halls, 

Thin  streets  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals,6 7 
Have  flung  a desolate  cloud  o’er  Venice’  lovely  walk 


(6)  That  is,  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  ihe  standard  of  the  republic, 
which  is  the  origin  of  the  word  Pantaloon — Piantaleoi  e,  Pantaloon 
Pantaloon. 

(7)  See  Appendix,  “Historical  Notes.”  No.  vii 


44 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


canto  nr. 


XVI. 

When  Athens’  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 

And  fetter’d  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war. 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse,1 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar : 

See  ! as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  the  o’ermaster’d  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands — his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  his"  belt — he  rends  his  captive’s  chains, 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and  his 
strains. 

XVII. 

Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine. 
Were  all  thy  proud  historic  deeds  forgot. 

Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine, 

Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants  ; and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations, — ifiost  of  all, 

Albion ! to  thee : the  Ocean  queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean’s  children ; in  the  fall 
Of  V enice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  wall. 

XVIII. 

I loved  her  from  my  boyhood — she  to  me 
Was  as  a fairy  city  of  the  heart, 

Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 

Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth  the  mart ; 

And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakspeare’s  art,2 
Had  stamp’d  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so. 
Although  I found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 

Than  when  she  was  a boast,  a marvel,  and  a show. 

XIX. 

I can  repeople  with  the  past — and  of 

The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought, 

And  meditation  chasten’d  down,  euough, 

And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I hoped  or  sought; 

And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 
Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 
From  thee,  fair  Venice  ! have  their  colours  caught : 
There  are  some  feelings  Time  can  not  benumb, 

Nor  Torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and 
dumb. 

XX. 

But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow 3 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least-sheltcr’d  rocks, 
Rooted  in  barrenness,  where  nought  below 
Or  soil  supports  them  ’gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
Of  eddying  storms ; yet  springs  the  trunk,  and  mocks 
The  howling  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Are  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose  blocks 
Of  bleak,  gray  granite,  into  life  it  came, 

And  grew  a giant  tree  ; — the  mind  may  grow  the  same. 

XXI. 

Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sufferance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms  : mute 
The  camel  labours  with  the  heaviest  load, 

And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence, — not  bestow’d 


(!)  The  story  to  told  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Nicias. 

(2)  Venice  Preserved;  Mysteries  of  Udolpho;  the  Ghost-Seer,  or 

Armenian;  the  Merchant  of  Venice ; Otheilo. 

Tunnen  is  the  plural  of  tanne,  a species  of  fir  peculiar  to 
tl « Alps,  which  only  thrives  in  very  rocky  parts,  where  scarcely 
soil  sufficient  for  its  nourishment  can  be  found.  On  these  spots 
It  ({rows  to  a greater  height  than  any  other  mountain  tree. 


In  vain  should  such  example  bo ; if  they. 

Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood, 

Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear, — it  is  but  for  a day. 

XXII. 

All  suffering  doth  destroy,  or  is  destroy’d, 

Even  by  the  sufferer ; and,  in  each  event, 

Ends. — -Some,  with  hope  replenish’d  and  rebuo;j’J, 
Return  to  whence  they  came — with  like  intent, 

And  weave  their  web  again ; some,  bow’d  and  bent* 
Wax  gray  and  ghastly,  withering  ere  their  time. 
And  perish  with  the  reed  on  which  they  leant ; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  crime, 
According  as  their  souls  were  form’d  to  sink  or  climb 

XXIII. 

But  ever  and  anon  of  griefs  subdued 
There  comes  a token  like  a scorpion’s  sting, 

Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued  ; 

And  sligl^t  withal  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  for  ever  : it  may  be  a sound — 

A tone  of  music — summer’s  eve — or  spring — 

A flower — the  wind — the  ocean — which  shall  wound. 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly 
bound ; 

XXIV. 

And  how  and  why  we  know  not,  nor  can  trace 
Home  to  itn  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind. 

But  feel  the  shock  renew’d,  nor  can  efface 
The  blight  and  blackening  which  it  leaves  behind. 
Which  out  of  things  familiar,  undesign’d, 

When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to  view 
The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind, 

The  cold — the  changed — perchance  the  dead — anew. 
The  mourn’d,  the  loved,  the  lost — too  many  ! — yet 
how  few ! 

XXV. 

But  my  soul  wanders  ; I demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  and  stand 
A ruin  amidst  ruins  ; there  to  track 
Eall’n  states  and  buried  greatness,  o’er  a land 
Which  was  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 

And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The  master-mould  of  Nature’s  heavenly  hand, 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  tree, 

The  beautiful,  the  brave — the  lords  of  earth  and  sea, 

XXVI. 

The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of  Rome  ! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  lair  Italy  ! 

Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  4 can  decree  ; 

Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee  ? 

Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 
More  rich  than  other  climes’  fertility  ; 

Thy  wreck  a glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  can  not  be  defaced. 


(4)  [The  whole  of  this  canto  is  rich  in  description  of  Nature. 
The  love  of  Nature  now  appears  as  a distinct  passion  in  Lord 
Byron’s  mind.  It  is  a love  that  does  not  rest  in  beholding,  nor  is 
satisfied  with  describing,  what  is  before  him.  It  has  a power  and 
being,  blending  itself  with  the  poet’s  very  life.  Though  Lord 
Byron  had,  with  his  real  e\es,  perhaps,  seen  more  of  Nature  thaa 
ever  was  before  permitted  to  any  great  poet,  yet  he  never  before 


CANTO  IV 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


45 


XXVII. 

The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night — 

Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her- — a sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli’s  mountains  ; heaven  is  free 
From  clouds,  but  of  all  colours  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  W est. 

Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity  ; 

While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air—  an  island  of  the  blest ! * 

XXVIII. 

A single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o’er  half  the  lovely  heaven  ; but  still 
on  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Roll’d  o’er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhsetian  hill. 

As  Day  and  Night  contending  were,  until 
Nature  reclaim’d  her  order  : — gently  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a new-born  rose, 

Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass’d  within  it 
glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill’d  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar. 
Comes  down  upon  the  waters ; all  its  hues. 

From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star. 

Their  magical  variety  diffuse : 

And  now  they  change  ; a pal  A’  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o’er  the  mountains  : parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin,  whom  each  pang  imbues 
Witli  a new  colour  as  it  gasps  away, 

The  last  still  loveliest,  till — ’tis  gone — and  all  is  gray. 

xxx. 

There  is  a tomb  in  Arqua ; — rear’d  in  air. 

Pillar’d  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura’s  lover  : here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes. 

The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.  He  arose 
To  raise  a language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes  : 

Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady’s  name* 1 2 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

XXXI. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died  ; 3 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years  ; and  ’tis  their  pride — 
An  honest  pride — and  let  it  be  their  praise, 

To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger’s  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre  ; both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Ilian  if  a pyramid  form’d  his  monumental  fane. 


seemed  to  open  his  whole  heart  to  her  genial  impulses.  But  in  this 
he  is  changed;  and  in  this  Canto  of  Childe  Harold,  he  will  stand  a 
comparison  with  the  best  descriptive  poets,  in  this  age  of  descrip- 
tive poetry. — Wilson.] 

(1)  The  above  description  may  seem  fantastical  or  exaggerated 
to  those  who  have  never  seen  an  Oriental  or  an  Italian  sky,  yet  it 
is  but  a literal  and  hardly  sufficient  delineation  of  an  August  even- 
ing (the  eighteenth),  as  contemplated  in  one  of  many  rides  along 

Ihe  banks  of  the  Brenta,  near  La  Mira. 

(2,  3)  See  Appendix,  “ Historical  Notes,”  Nos.  vm.  and  ix. 

(4)  [“  Half  way  up 

He  built  his  house,  whence  as  by  stealth  he  caught, 

Among  the  hills,  a glimpse  of  busy  life 
That  soothed,  not  stirred.” — Rogers.] 

(5)  The  struggle  is  to  the  full  as  likely  to  be  with  demons  as  with 

our  better  thoughts.  Satan  chose  the  wilderness  for  the  temptation 


XXXII. 

And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwe*t4 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 

And  sought  a refuge  from  their  hopes  decay’d 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a green  hill’s  shade, 

Which  shows  a distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  display’d, 

For  they  can  lure  no  further ; and  the  ray 
Of  a bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday, 

XXXIII. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  flowers, 

And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-by. 

Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 

If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 

’Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die ; 

It  hath  no  flatterers ; vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid ; alone — man  with  his  God  must  strive : 

XXXIV. 

Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair 5 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  their  pre^ 
In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 
Of  moody  texture  from  their  earliest  day. 

And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay, 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a doom 
Which  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away ; 

Making  the  sun  like  blood,  the  earth  a tomb. 

The  tomb  a hell,  and  hell  itself  a murkier  gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara ! 6 in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets. 
Whose  symmetry  was  not  for  solitude, 

There  seems,  as  ’twere  a curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  witliin  thy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impell’d,  of  those  who  wrore 
The  wreath  which  Dante’s  brow  alone  had  worn  before. 

xxxvi. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame. 

Hark  to  his  strain ! and  then  survey  his  cell ! 

And  see  how  dearly  earn’d  Torquato’s  fame, 

And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell : 

The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 
The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and  blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.  Glory  without  end 
Scatter’d  the  clouds  away — and  on  that  name  attend 


of  our  Saviour.  And  our  unsullied  John  Locke  preferred  the  pre- 
sence of  a child  to  complete  solitude. 

(6)  [In  April,  1817,  Lord  Byron  visited  Ferrara,  went  over  the 
castle,  cell,  &c.  and  wrote,  a few  days  after,  the  Lament  of  Tasso. 
— “ One  of  the  Ferrarese  asked  me,”  he  says,  in  a letter  to  a friend, 
“If  I knew  ‘Lord  Byron,’  an  acquaintance  of  his,  now  at  Naples. 
I told  him  ‘No  !’  which  was  true  both  ways,  for  I knew  not  the 
impostor;  and,  in  the  other,  no  one  knows  himself  He  stared, 
when  told  that  I was  the  real  Simon  Pure.  Another  asked  me, 
if  I had  not  translated  Tasso.  You  see  what  Fame  is  ! how  accu 
rate  1 how  boundless ! I don’t  know  how  others  feel,  but  I am 
always  the  lighter  and  the  better  looked  on  when  i have  goc  rid  ut 
mine.  It  sits  on  me  like  armour  on  the  Lord  Mayor’s  champion ; 
and  I got  rid  of  all  the  husk  of  literature,  and  the  attendant  bau- 
ble, by  answering  that  I had  not  translated  Tasso,  but  a namesake 
had;  and,  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven,  1 looked  so  little  like  a poet, 
that  every  body  believed  me.”] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  IV 


46 

XXXVII. 

The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time ; while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion — in  the  sink 
O'f  worthless  dust,  which  from  thy  boasted  line 
]s  shaken  into  nothing;  but  the  link 
Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn. 

Alfonso  ! how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 
"From  thee ! if  in  another  station  born, 

Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  him  thou  mad’st  to  mourn : 

XXXVIII. 

Thou  ! form’d  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die. 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty  : 

He  ! with  a glory  round  his  furrow’d  brow, 

Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now, 

In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire, 

And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow  1 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country’s  creaking  lyre. 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth — monotony  in  wire  ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace  to  Torquato’s  injured  shade  ! ’twas  his 
In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 
Aim’d  with  her  poison’d  arrows  ; but  to  miss. 

Oh,  victor  unsurpass’d  in  modern  song  ! 

Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions  ; but  how  long 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on, 

And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 
Compose  a mind  like  thine  F though  all  in  one 
Condensed  their  scatter’d  rays,  they  would  not  form  a 
sun. 

XL. 

Great  as  thou  art,  yet  parallel’d  by  those, 

Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  born  to  shine, 

The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chivalry  : first  rose 
The  Tuscan  father’s  comedy  divine  ; 

Then,  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine 

The  southern  Scott,2  the  minstrel  who  call’d  forth 

A new  creation  with  his  magic  line, 

And,  like  the  Ariosto  of  the  North,3 
Sang  ladye-love  and  war,  romance  and  knightly  worth. 

XLI. 

The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto’s  bust 4 
The  iron  crown  of  laurel’s  mimic’ d leaves ; 

Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust, 

For  the  true  laurel -wreath  which  Glory  weaves 


(1)  See  Appendix,  “ Historical  Notes,”  No.  x. 

(2)  [‘’Scott,”  says  Lord  Byron,  in  his  MS.  Diary  for  1821,  “is 
certainly  the  most  wonderful  writer  of  the  day.  His  novels  are  a 
new  literature  in  themselves,  and  his  poetry  as  good  as  any — if  not 
better  (only  on  an  erroneous  system), — and  only  ceased  to  be  so 
popular,  because  the  vulgar  were  tired  of  hearing  ‘ Aristides  called 
the  Just,’  and  Scott  the  Best,  and  ostracized  him.  I know  no  read- 
ing to  winch  I fall  with  such  alacrity  as  a work  of  his  I love  him, 
too,  for  his  manliness  of  character,  for  the  extreme  pleasantness  of 
his  conversation,  and  his  good-nature  towards  myself  personally. 

May  he  prosper!  for  he  deserves  it."  In  a letter  written  to  Sir 

Walter,  from  Pisa,  in  1822,  he  says — “ I owe  to  you  far  more  than 
the  usual  obligation  for  the  courtesies  of  literature  and  common 
frendghip;  for  you  went  out  of  your  way,  in  1817,  to  do  me  a ser- 
vice, when  it  required  not  merely  kindness,  but  courage,  to  do  so  ; 
to  have  been  recorded  by  you  in  such  a manner,  would  have  been 
a proud  memorial  at  any  time;  but  at  such  a time,  when  ‘ All  the 

world  and  his  wife,’  as  the  proverb  goes,  were  trying  to  trample 

upon  me,  was  something  still  higher  to  my  self-esteem.  Had  it 

N:en  a common  criticism,  however  eloquent  or  panegyrical,  I should 
have  felt  pleased  and  grateful,  but  not  to  the  extent  which  the  ex- 

traordinary good-heartedness  of  the  whole  proceeding  must  induce 
in  any  mind  capable  of  such  sensations.”] 


Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  Cx-eavcs,5 
And  the  false  semblance  but  disgraced  ltis  brow  ; 
Yet  still,  if  fondly  Superstition  grieves. 

Know,  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below  6 * 
Whate’er  it  strikes ; — yon  head  is  doubly  sacred  now 

XLII. 

Italia  ! oh  Italia ! thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past, 

On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough’d  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 

Oh,  God ! that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress  , 

XLIII. 

Then  might’ st  thou  more  appal ; or,  less  desired, 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms;  then,  still  untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour’d 
Down  the  deep  Alps  ; nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nation’d  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  blood  and  water  ; nor  the  stranger’s  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 

Victor  or  vanquish’d,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering  in  youth,  I traced  the  path  of  him,8 
The  Roman  friend  of  Rome’s  least-mortal  mind. 
The  friend  of  Tully  : as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue  waters  with  a fanning  wind, 

Came  Megara  before  me,  and  behind 
iEgina  lay,  Piraeus  on  the  right, 

And  Corinth  on  the  left ; I lay  reclined 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
In  ruin,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight ; 

XLV. 

For  Time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  uprear’d 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shatter’d  site, 

Which  only  make  more  mourn’d  and  more  endea:  d 
The  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scatter’d  light, 

And  the  crush’d  relics  of  their  vanish’d  might. 

The  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age 
These  sepulchres  of  cities,  which  excite 
Sad  wonder,  and  liis  yet  surviving  page 
The  moral  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage. 


(3)  [“  I do  not  know  whether  Scott  will  like  it,  but  I have  called 
him  ‘ the  Ariosto  of  the  North’  in  my  text.  If  he  should  not,  say 
so  in  time.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray,  Aug.  1817.] 

(4,  5,  6)  See  Appendix,  “ Historical  Notes,”  Nos.  xi.  xii.  xnx. 

(7)  The  two  stanzas  xlii.  and  xliii.  are,  with  the  exception  of  a 
line  or  two,  a translation  of  the  famous  sonnet  of  Filicaja : — “ Italia, 
Italia,  O tu  cui  feo  la  sorte  !” 

(8)  The  celebrated  letter  of  Servius  Sulpicius  to  Cicero,  on  the 
death  of  his  daughter,  describes  as  it  then  was,  and  now  is,  a path 
which  I often  traced  in  Greece,  both  by  sea  and  land,  in  different 
journeys  and  voyages.  “ On  my  return  from  Asia,  as  I was  sailing 
from  jEgina  towards  Megara,  I began  to  contemplate  tire  prospect 
of  the  countries  around  me  : ASgina  was  behind,  Megara  before  me  , 
Piraeus  on  the  right,  Corinth  on  the  left;  all  which  towns,  once 
famous  and  flourishing,  now  lie  overturned  and  buried  in  their 
ruins.  Upon  this  sight,  I could  not  but  think  presently  within 
myself.  Alas ! how  do  we  poor  mortals  fret  and  vex  ourselves  it 
any  of  our  friends  happen  to  die  or  be  killed,  whose  life  is  yet 
so  short,  when  the  carcasses  of  so  many  noble  cities  lie  here 
exposed  before  me  in  one  view.” — See  Middleton 's  Cicero,  vol.  ii. 
p.  371. 


INTO  iv 


OHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


47 


XLVI. 

1 hat  page  is  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
His  country’s  ruin  added  to  tlie  mass 
Of  perish’d  states  he  mourn’d  in  their  decline, 

And  I in  desolation : all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  is ; and  now,  alas  ! 

Home — Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the  storm, 
in  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form,1 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  are  warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet,  Italy  ! through  every  other  land 
i’hy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side ; 
Mother  of  Arts  ! as  once  of  arms  ; thy  hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide ; 
Parent  of  our  Religion  ! whom  the  wide 
Rations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven ! 
Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide, 

Shall  yet  redeem  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven, 
Roll  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 

XLVIII. 

Rut  Amo  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls, 

Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  keeps 
A softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 

Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 

Her  com,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 

To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 

Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 
Was  modem  Luxury  of  Commerce  born. 

And  buried  Learning  rose,  redeem’d  to  a new  mom. 

XLIX. 

There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills 2 
The  air  around  with  beauty ; we  inhale 
The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instils 
Part  of  its  immortality ; the  veil 
Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn ; within  the  pale 


(1)  It  is  Poggio,  who,  looking  from  the  Capitoline  hill  upon 
ruined  Rome,  breaks  forth  in  the  exclamation,  “ Ut  nunc  omni 
dccore  nudata,  prostrata  jacet,  instar  gigantei  cadaveris  corrupti 
atque  undique  exesi.” 

(2)  See  Appendix,  “ Historical  Notes,”  No.  xiv. 

(3)  [In  1817,  Lord  Byron  visited  Florence,  on  his  way  to  Rome. 
“I  remained,”  he  says,  “ but  a day;  however,  I went  to  the  two 
galleries,  from  which  one  returns  drunk  with  beauty.  The  Venus 
is  more  for  admiration  than  love ; but  there  are  sculpture  and  paint- 
ing, which,  for  the  first  time,  at  all  gave  me  an  idea  of  what  people 
mean  by  their  cant  about  those  two  most  artificial  of  the  arts. 
What  struck  me  most  were,  the  mistress  of  Raphael,  a portrait;  the 
mistress  of  Titian,  a portrait;  a Venus  of  Titian  in  the  Medici 
Gallery;  the  Venus;  Canova’s  Venus,  also,  in  the  other  gallery: 

Titian’s  mistress  is  also  in  the  other  gallery  (that  is,  in  the  Pitti 
Palace  gallery);  the  Parcae  of  Michael  Angelo,  a picture;  and  the 
Antinous,  the  Alexander,  and  one  or  two  not  very  decent  groups  in 
marble ; the  Genius  of  Death,  a sleeping  figure,  & c.  &c.  I also 
went  to  the  Medici  chapel.  Fine  frippery  in  great  slabs  of  various 
expensive  stones,  to  commemorate  fifty  rotten  and  forgotten  car- 
casses. It  is  unfinished,  and  will  remain  so.”  We  find  the  follow- 
ing note  of  a second  visit  to  the  galleries  in  1821,  accompanied  by 
the  author  of  “ The  Pleasures  of  Memory ;” — “ My  former  im- 
pressions were  confirmed ; but  there  were  too  many  visitors  to 
allow  me  to  feel  any  thing  properly.  When  we  were  (about  thirty 
or  forty)  all  stuffed  into  the  cabinet  of  gems  and  knick-knackeries, 
in  a corner  of  one  of  the  galleries,  I told  Rogers  that  ‘ it  felt  like 
being  in  the  watch-house.’  I heard  one  bold  Briton  declare  to  the 
woman  on  his  arm,  looking  at  the  Venus  of  Titian,  ‘Well,  now, 
that  is  really  very  fine  indeed!’ — an  observation  which,  like  that  of 
the  landlord  in  Joseph  Andrews,  on  ‘the  certainty  of  death,’  was 
*as  the  landlord’s  wife  observed)  ‘extremely  true.’  In  the  Pitti 

Palace,  I did  not  omit  Goldsmith’s  prescription  for  a connoisseur, 


We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold 
What  Mind  can  make,  when  Nature’s  self  would 
fail; 

And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 
Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a soul  could  mould  : 

L 

We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  know  not  where. 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart 3 
Reels  with  its  fulness  ; there — for  ever  there — 
Chain’d  to  the  chariot  of  triumphal  Art, 

We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart. 

Away  ! — there  need  no  words,  no  terms  precise. 

The  paltry  jargon  of  the  marble  mart, 

Where  Pedantry  gulls  Polly — we  have  eyes  : 

Blood — pulse  — and  breast,  confirm  the  Dardan 
Shepherd’s  prize. 

LI. 

Appear’dst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise  ? 

Or  to  more  deeply  blest  Anchises  ? or, 

In  all  thy  perfect  goddess-ship,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  vanquish’d  Lord  of  W ar  ? 

And  gazing  in  thy  face  as  toward  a star, 

Laid  on  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn, 

Deeding  on  thy  sweet  cheek  ! 4 while  thy  lips  are 
With  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  burn. 

Shower’d  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  and  mouth,  as  from  as 
urn ! 5 

m. 

Glowing,  and  circumfused  in  speechless  love, 

Their  full  divinity  inadequate 
That  feeling  to  express,  or  to  improve, 

The  gods  become  as  mortals,  and  man’s  fate 
Has  moments  like  their  brightest ; but  the  weight 
Of  earth  recoils  upon  us  ; let  it  go  ! 

We  can  recall  such  visions,  and  create. 

Prom  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things  which  grow 
Into  thy  statue’s  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 


viz.  ‘ that  the  pictures  would  have  been  better  if  the  painter  had 
taken  more  pains,  and  to  praise  the  works  of  Peter  Perugino.’  ”] 

(4)  O(J)0a\iJiovs  eaTtav. 

“ Atque  oculos  pascat  uterque  suos.”— Ovid.  Amor.  lib.  ii. 

(5)  [The  delight  with  which  the  pilgrim  contemplates  the  ancient 
Greek  statues  at  Florence,  and  afterwards  at  Rome,  is  such  as  might 
have  been  expected  from  any  great  poet,  whose  youthful  mind  had, 
like  his,  been  imbued  with  those  classical  ideas  and  associations 
which  afford  so  many  sources  of  pleasure,  through  every  period 
of  life.  He  has  gazed  upon  these  masterpieces  of  art  with  a more 
susceDtible,  and.  in  spite  of  his  disavowal,  with  a more  learned  eye, 
than  can  be  traced  in  the  effusions  of  any  poet  who  had  previously 
expressed,  in  any  formal  manner,  his  admiration  of  their  beauty. 
It  may  appear  fanciful  to  say  so ; — but  we  think  the  genius  of 
Byron  is,  more  than  that  of  any  other  modern  poet,  akin  to  that 
peculiar  genius  which  seems  to  have  been  diffused  among  all  the 
poets  and  artists  of  ancient  Greece ; and  in  whose  spirit,  above  all 
its  other  wonders,  the  great  specimens  of  sculpture  seem  to  have 
been  conceived  and  executed.  His  creations,  whether  of  beauty  or 
of  strength,  are  all  single  creations.  He  requires  no  grouping  to 
give  effect  to  his  favourites,  or  to  tell  his  story.  His  heroines  are 
solitary  symbols  of  loveliness,  which  require  no  foil ; his  heroes 
stand  alone  as  upon  marble  pedestals,  displaying  the  naked  power 
of  passion,  or  the  wrappedup  and  reposing  energy  of  grief.  The 
artist  who  would  illustrate,  as  it  is  called,  the  works  of  any  of  our 
other  poets,  must  borrow  the  mimic  splendours  of  the  pencil.  He 
who  would  transfer  into  another  vehicle  the  spirit  of  Byron,  must 
pour  the  liquid  metal,  or  hew  the  stubborn  rock.  What  he  loses 
in  ease,  he  will  gain  in  power.  He  might  draw  from  Medora, 
Gulnare,  Lara,  or  Manfred,  subjects  for  relievos,  worthy  of  enthu- 
siasm almost  as  great  as  Harold  has  himself  displayed  on  tne  con 
templation  of  the  loveliest  and  sternest  relics  of  thf  inimitable 
genius  of  the  Greeks. — Wilson.] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANT0  11. 


18 


LlII. 

J leave  to  learned  fingers,  and  wise  hands, 

The  aidist  and  his  ape,*  1 to  teach  and  tell 
How  well  his  connoisseurship  understands 
The  graceful  bend,  and  the  voluptuous  swell : 

Let  these  describe  the  undescribable  : 

I would  not  their  vile  breath  should  crisp  the  stream 
Wherein  that  image  shall  for  ever  dwell ; 

The  unruffled  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 
That  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 

LIV. 

In  Santa  Croce’s  holy  precincts  lie  2 
\ Dies  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
liwen  in  itself  an  immortality. 

Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this, 

The  particle  of  those  sublimities 

Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos  : — here  repose 

Angelo’s,  Alfieri’s  bones,  and  his,3 

The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes  ; 

Here  Machiavelli’s  earth  return’d  to  whence  it  rose.4 

LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 
Might  furnish  forth  creation : — Italy  ! [rents 

Time,  which  hath  wronged  thee  with  ten  thousand 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny, 

And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 

Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin  : — thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity, 

Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray  ; 

Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 

LVI. 

But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three — 

Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 

The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit ! he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love — where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distinguish’d  from  our  common  clay 
In  death  as  life  ? Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 

And  have  their  country’s  marbles  nought  to  say  ? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust  ? 

Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  entrust  ? 
LVII. 

Ungrateful  Elorence ! Dante  sleeps  afar,5 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore  ; 6 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  children’s  children  would  in  vain  adore 
W itli  the  remorse  of  ages  ; and  the  crown 7 
Which  Petrarch’s  laureate  brow  supremely  wore, 
UDon  a far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown,  [own. 
His  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled — not  thine 

LVI1I. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeath’d'8 
His  dust, — and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among, 

With  many  a sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O’er  him  who  form’d  the  Tuscan’s  siren  tongue  ? 


(1)  [Only  a week  before  the  poet  visited  the  Florence  gallery, 
he  wrote  thus  to  a friend  : — “ I know  nothing  of  painting.  Depend 
»pon  it,  of  all  the  arts  it  is  the  most  artificial  and  unnatural,  and 
that  by  which  the  nonsense  of  mankind  is  most  imposed  upon, 

i never  yet  saw  the  picture  or  the  statue  which  came  a league 

within  my  conception  or  expectation  ; but  1 have  seen  many 

mountains,  and  seas,  and  rivers,  and  views,  and  two  or  three 

women,  who  went  as  far  beyond  it.” — Byron  Letters.] 

(2,3,4)  See  Appendix,  “Historical  Notes,”  Nos.  xv.  xvi. 

xvn.  [“The  church  of  Santa  Croce  contains  much  illustrious 

nothing.  The  tombs  of  Machiavelli,  Michael  Angelo,  Galileo,  and 

Alfieri,  make  it  the  Westminster  Abbey  of  Italy.  I did  not  admire 

any  of  these  tombs  — beyond  their  contents.  That  of  Alfieri  is 


That  music  in  itself,  whose  souiiuo  .......  g, 

The  poetry  of  speech?  No  ; — even  his  tomb 
Uptorn,  must  bear  the  hyaena  bigot’s  wrong, 

No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 

Nor  claim  a passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  who-*  ' 
LI  X. 

And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 

Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Caesar’s  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus’  bust, 

Did  but  of  Rome’s  best  Son  remind  her  more  : 
Happier  Ravenna  ! on  thy  hoary  shore, 

Portress  of  falling  empire  ! honour'd  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile ; — Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps,  [weeps. 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banish’d  dead,  and 

LX. 

What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones  ? 9 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  gem  and  marble,  to  encrust  the  bones 
Of  merchant-dukes  ? the  momentary  dews 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  dead, 
Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  Muse, 

Are  gently  prest  with  far  more  reverent  tread 
Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely  Lmtu 

LXI. 

There  be  more  things  to  greet  the  heart  and  eyes 
In  Amo’s  dome  of  Art’s  most  princely  shrine, 

W here  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow  sister  vies  ; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet — but  not  for  mine ; 

For  I have  been  accustom’d  to  entwine 
My  thoughts  with  Nature  rather  in  the  fields, 

Than  Art  in  galleries  : though  a work  divine 
Calls  for  my  spirit’s  homage,  yet  it  yields 
Less  than  it  feels,  because  the  weapon  which  it  wields 

LXII. 

Is  of  another  temper,  and  I roam 
By  Thrasimene’s  lake,  in  the  defiles 
Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home  ; 

For  there  the  Carthaginian’s  warlike  wiles 
Come  back  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 
The  host  between  the  mountains  and  the  shore, 
Where  Courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files. 

And  torrents,  swoll’n  to  rivers  with  their  gore,  [o'er, 
Reek  through  the  sultry  plain,  with  legions  scattered 

LXIII. 

Like  to  a forest  fell’d  by  mountain  winds  ; 

And  such  the  storm  of  battle  on  this  day, 

And  such  the  frenzy,  whose  convulsion  blinds 
To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray. 

An  earthquake  reel’d  unheededly  away  ! 10 
None  felt  stern  Nature  rocking  at  his  feet, 

And  yawning  forth  a grave  for  those  who  lay 
Upon  their  bucklers  for  a winding  sheet ; [meet  ' 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  warring  nations 


heavy  : and  all  of  them  seem  to  be  overloaded.  What  is  necessary 
but  a bust  and  name?  and  perhaps  a date?  the  last  for  the  une lim- 
nological, of  whom  1 am  one.  But  all  your  ...legory  and  eulogy  «* 
infernal,  and  worse  than  the  long  wigs  of  English  numskulls  upon 
Roman  bodies,  in  the  statuary  of  the  reigns  of  Charles  the  Second, 
William,  and  Anne."’ — Byron  Letters , 1817.] 

(5,  6,  7,  8)  See  Appendix,  “Historical  Notes,"  Nos.  xvm.  x:x 
xx.  and  xxi. 

(9)  See  Appendix,  “ Historical  Notes,”  No.  xxil. 

(10)  See  Appendix,  “Historical  Notes,”  No.  xxm. — [An  earth 
quake  which  shook  all  Italy  occurred  during  the  battle,  and  w.-.r 
unfelt  by  any  of  the  combatants.] 


caxto  rv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  TIlGRIMAGE. 


49 


LXIV. 

The  Earth  to  them  was  as  a rolling  bark 
Which  bore  them  to  Eternity ; they  saw 
The  Ocean  round,  but  had  no  time  to  mark 
The  motions  of  their  vessel ; Nature  s law, 

In  them  suspended,  reck’d  not  of  the  awe 
Which  reigns  when  mountains  tremble,  and  the  birds 
Plunge  in°the  clouds  for  refuge  and  withdraw 
Prom  their  down-toppling  nests;  and  bellowing 
herds  [words. 

Stumble  o’er  heaving  plains,  and  man’s  (head  hath  no 

LXV. 

Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now  ; 

Hei  lake  a sheet  of  silver,  and  her  plain 
Rent  by  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough  ; 

Her  aged  trees  rise  thick  as  once  the  slain 

Lay  where  their  roots  are ; but  a brook  hath  ta  en — 

A little  rill  of  scant  y stream  and  bed — 

A name  of  blood  from  that  day’s  sanguine  rain ; 
And  Sanguinetto  tells  ye  where  the  dead  [red.1 
Made  the  earth  wet,  and  turn’d  the  unwilling  waters 

LX  VI. 

But  thou,  Clitumnus  ! in  thy  sweetest  wave 2 
Of  the  most  living  crystal  that  was  e’er 
The  haunt  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes  ; the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters  ! 

And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear  ; 

Surely  that  stream  was  unprofaned  by  slaughters — 
A mirror  and  a bath  for  Beauty’s  youngest  daughters ! 

LX VI  I. 

And  on  thy  happy  shore  a Temple 3 still, 

Of  small  and  delicate  proportion,  keeps, 

Upon  a mild  declivity  of  hill, 

Its  memory  of  thee  ; beneath  it  sweeps, 

Thy  current’s  calmness ; oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales, 

Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps  ; 

While,  chance,  some  scatter’d  water-lily  sails 
Down  where  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bub 
bling  tales. 


(1)  [“  The  lovely  peaceful  mirror  reflected  the  mountains  of 
Monte  Pulciana,  and  the  wild  fowl  skimming  its  ample  surface, 
touched  the  waters  with  their  rapid  wings,  leaving  circles  and 
trains  of  light  to  glitter  in  gray  repose.  As  we  moved  along,  one 
set  of  interesting  features  yielded  to  another,  and  every  change 
excited  new  delight.  Yet,  was  it  not  among  these  tranquil  scenes 
that  Hannibal  and  Flaminius  met?  Was  not  the  blush  of  blood 
upon  the  silver  lake  of  Thrasimene?” — H.  W.  Williams.] 

(2)  Vo  book  of  travels  has  omitted  to  expatiate  on  the  temple  of 
the  Clitumnus,  between  Foligno  and  Spoleto ; and  no  site,  or  scenery, 
even  in  Italy  is  more  worthy  a description.  For  an  account  of  the 
dilapidation  of  this  temple,  the  reader  is  referred  to  “Historical 
Illustrations  of  the  Fourth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold,”  p.  35. 

(3)  [“  This  pretty  little  gem  stands  on  the  acclivity  of  a bank 
overlooking  its  crystal  waters,  which  have  their  source  at  the  dis- 
tance of  some  hundred  yards  towards  Spoleto.  The  temple,  front- 
ing the  river,  is  of  an  oblong  form,  in  the  Corinthian  order.  Four 
columns  support  the  pediment,  the  shafts  of  which  are  covered  in 
spiral  lines,  and  in  forms  to  represent  the  scales  of  fishes : the  bases, 
too,  are  richly  sculptured.  Within  the  building  is  a chapel,  the 
walls  of  which  are  covered  with  many  hundred  names ; but  we  saw 
none  whieh  we  could  recognise  as  British.  Can  it  be  that  this 
classical  temple  is  seldom  visited  by  our  countrymen,  though  cele- 
brated by  Dryden  and  Addison?  To  future  travellers  from  Britain 
it  will  surely  be  rendered  interesting  by  the  beautiful  lines  of  Lord 
Bvron,  flowing  as  sweetly  as  the  lovely  stream  which  they  describe.” 
— H.  W.  Williams.] 

(4)  [Perhaps  there  are  no  verses  in  our  language  of  happier  de- 
scriptive power  than  the  two  stanzas  which  characterize  the  Cli- 

tumnus  In  general  poets  find  it  so  dilficirit  to  leave  an  interesting 


IAVITI. 

Pass  not  unblest  the  Genius  of  the  place  ! 

If  through  the  air  a zephyr  more  serene 
Win  to  the  brow,  ’tis  his  ; and  if  ye  trace 
Along  his  margin  a more  eloquent  green, 

If  on  the  heart  the  freshness  of  the  scene 
Sprinkle  its  coolness,  and  from  the  dry  dust 
Of  weary  life  a moment  lave  it  clean 
With  Nature’s  baptism— ’tis  to  him  ye  must 
Pay  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust.4 

LXIX. 

The  roar  of  waters  ! — from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice; 

The  fall  of  waters  ! rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams,  shaking  the  abyss ; 

The  hell  of  waters  ! where  they  howl  and  hiss. 

And  boil  in  endless  torture ; while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegetlibn,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 

LXX. 

And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  wliicli  round. 

With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain. 

Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground, 

Making  it  all  one  emerald  : — how  profound 
The  gulf ! and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound, 
Crushing  the  cliffs,  which,  downward  worn  and  rent 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a fearful  vent 

LXXI. 

To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 
More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 
Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 
Of  a new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 
Parents  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly. 

With  many  windings,  through  the  vale : — Look  back ! 
Lo  ! where  it  comes  like  an  eternity, 

As  if  to  sweep  down  all  tilings  in  its  track, 
Charming  the  eye  with  dread, — a matchless  cataract,5 


subject,  that  they  injure  the  distinctness  of  the  description  by  load- 
ing it  so  as  to  embarrass,  rather  than  excite,  the  fancy  of  the  reader ; 
or  else,  to  avoid  that  fault,  they  confine  themselves  to  cold  and  ab- 
stract generalities.  Byron  has,  in  these  stanzas,  admirably  steered 
his  course  betwixt  these  extremes:  while  they  present  the  out- 
lines of  a picture  as  pure  and  as  brilliant  as  those  of  Claude  Lor- 
raine, the  task  of  filling  up  the  more  minute  particulars  is  judiciously 
left  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader;  and  it  must  be  dull  indeed, 
if  it  does  not  supply  what  the  poet  has  left  unsaid,  or  but  generally 
and  briefly  intimated.  While  the  eye  glances  over  the  lines,  we 
seem  to  feel  the  refreshing  coolness  of  the  scene— we  hear  the  bub- 
bling tale  of  the  more  rapid  streams,  and  see  the  slender  propor- 
tions of  the  rural  temple  reflected  in  the  crystal  depth  of  the  calm 
pool. — Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

(5)  I saw  the  Cascata  del  Marmore  of  Terni  twice,  at  different 
periods ; once  from  the  summit  of  the  precipice,  and  again  from 
the  valley  below.  The  low'er  view  is  far  to  be  preferred,  if  the 
traveller  has  time  for  one  only ; but  in  any  point  of  view,  either 
from  above  or  below,  it  is  worth  all  the  cascades  and  torrents  of 
Switzerland  put  together:  theStaubacli,  Rcichenbach,  Pisse  Vache, 
fall  of  Arpenaz,  &c.  are  rills  in  comparative  appearance.  Of  the 
fall  cf  Schaffhausen  I cannotspeak,  not  yet  having  seen  it. — [“  The 
stunning  sound,  the  mist,  uncertainty,  and  tremendous  depth,  be- 
wildered the  senses  for  a time,  and  the  eye  had  little  rest  from  the 
impetuous  and  hurrying  waters,  to  search  into  the  mysterious  and 
whitened  gulf,  which  presented,  through  a cloud  of  spray,  the  ap- 
paritions, as  it  were,  of  rocks  and  overhanging  wood.  The  wind, 
however,  would  sometimes  remove  for  an  instant  this  misty  veil, 
and  display  such  a seene  of  havoc  as  appalled  the  soul.”— H.  W. 
Williams.] 

H 


50 


LOUD  .BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  IY. 


LXXII. 

Horribly  beautiful ! but  on  the  verge, 

1 rora  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn, 

An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge,1 
Like  Hope  upon  a death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  Lues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn  ; 
Resembling,  ’mid  the  torture  of  the  scene, 

Love  watcliing  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once  more  upon  the  woody  Apennine, 

The  infant  Alps,  which — had  I not  before 
Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the  pine 
Sits  on  more  shaggy  summits,  and  where  roar 2 
The  thundering  lauwine  — might  be  worshipp’d 
But  I have  seen  the  soaring  Jungfrau  rear  [more ; 
Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 
Glaciers  of  bleak  Mont  Blanc  both  far  and  near, 
And  in  Chiinari  heard  the  thunder-hills  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

Tli’  Acroceraunian  mountains  of  old  name ; 

And  on  Parnassus  seen  the  eagles  fly 
Like  spirits  of  the  spot,  as  ’twere  for  fame, 

For  still  they  soar’d  unutterably  high  : 

I’ve  look’d  on  Ida  with  a Trojan’s  eye  ; 

Athos,  Olympus,  iEtna,  Atlas,  made 
These  hills  seem  things  of  lesser  dignity, 

All,  save  the  lone  Soracte’s  height,  display’d 
Mot  ?ioio  in  snow,  which  asks  the  lyric  Roman’s  aid 

LXXV. 

For  our  remembrance,  and  from  out  the  plain 
Heaves  like  a long-swept  wave  about  to  break. 

And  on  the  curl  hangs  pausing : not  in  vain 
May  he,  who  will,  his  recollections  rake. 

And  quote  iu  classic  raptures,  and  awake 
The  hills  with  Latian  echoes  ; I abhorr’d 
Too  much,  to  conquer  for  the  poet’s  sake, 

The  drill’d  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  by  word 3 
In  my  repugnant  youth,  with  pleasure  to  record 


(1)  Of  the  time,  place,  and  qualities  of  this  kind  of  iris,  the 
reader  will  see  a short  account,  in  a note  to  Manfred.  The  fall 
looks  so  much  like  “ the  hell  of  waters,”  that  Addison  thought  the 
descent  alluded  to  by  the  gulf  in  which  Alecto  plunged  into  the 
infernal  regions.  It  is  singular  enough,  that  two  of  the  finest  cas- 
cades in  Europe  should  be  artificial — this  of  the  Velino,  and  the 
one  at  Tivoli.  The  traveller  is  strongly  recommended  to  trace  the 
Velino,  at  least  as  high  as  the  little  lake,  called  Pie’  di  Lup.  The 
Reatine  territory  was  the  Italian  Tempe  (Cicer.  Epist.  ad  Attic,  xv. 
lib.  iv.),  and  the  ancient  naturalists  (Plin.  Hist.  Nat.  lib.  ii.  cap. 
lxii.),  amongst  other  beautiful  varieties,  remarked  the  daily  rain- 
bows of  the  lake  Velinus.  A scholar  of  great  name  has  devoted  a 
treatise  to  this  district  alone.  See  Aid.  Manut.  de  Reatina  Urbe 
Agroque,  ap.  eiallengre,  Thesaur.  tom.  i.  p.  773. 

(2)  In  the  greater  part  of  Switzerland,  the  avalanches  are  known 
by  the  name  of  lauwine 

(3)  These  stanzas  may  probably  remind  the  reader  of  Ensign 
Northerton’s  remarks : “ I) — n Homo,”  &c. ; but  the  reasons  for 
our  dislike  are  not  exactly  the  same.  I wish  to  express,  that  we 
become  tired  of  the  task  before  we  can  comprehend  the  beauty; 
that  we  learn  by  rote  before  we  can  get  by  heart ; that  the  fresh- 
es is  worn  away,  and  the  future  pleasure  and  advantage  dead- 
ened and  destroyed,  by  the  didactic  anticipation,  at  an  age  when 
w«  can  neither  feel  nor  understand  the  power  of  compositions 
which  it  requires  an  acquaintance  with  life,  as  well  as  Latin  and 
Greek,  to  relish,  or  to  reason  upon.  For  the  same  reason,  we 
never  can  be  aware  of  the  fulness  of  some  of  the  finest  passages  of 
Shakspeare  (“  To  be,  or  not  to  be,”  for  instance),  from  the  habit 
of  having  them  hammered  into  us  at  eight  years  old,  as  an  exercise, 
not  of  mind,  but  of  memory  ; so  that  when  we  are  old  enough  to 
enjoy  them,  the  taste  is  gone,  and  the  appetite  palled.  In  some 
parts  of  the  continent,  young  persons  are  taught  from  more  com- 


LXXVi. 

Aught  that  recalls  the  daily  drug  which  turn’d 
My  sickening  memory;  and,  though  Time  hath 
My  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  learn’d,  [taught 
Yet  such  the  fix’d  inveteracy  wrought 
By  the  impatience  of  my  early  thought, 

That,  with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 
My  mind  could  relish  what  it  might  have  sought, 

11  free  to  choose,  I cannot  now  restore 
Its  health ; but  what  it  then  detested,  still  abhor. 

LXXVII. 

Then  farewell,  Horace  ; whom  I hated  so,4 
Not  for  thy  faults,  but  mine ; it  is  a curse 
To  understand,  not  feel  thy  lyric  flow, 

To  comprehend,  but  never  love  thy  verse, 

Although  no  deeper  Moralist  rehearse 
Our  little  life,  nor  Bard  prescribe  his  art, 

Nor  livelier  Satirist  the  conscience  pierce, 
Awakening  without  wounding  the  touch’d  heart, 
Yet  fare  thee  well — upon  Soracte’s  ridge  we  part. 

LXXVIII. 

Oh  Rome  ! my  country ! city  of  the  soul ! 

The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 

Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  ! and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 

What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ? Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O’er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Ye  * 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a day — 

A world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

LXXIX. 

The  Niobe  of  nations ! there  she  stands,5 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe  , 

An  empty  urn  within  her  wither’d  hands, 

Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter’d  long  ago ; 

The  Scipios’  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now  ; 6 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers  : dost  thou  flow, 

Old  Tiber  ! through  a marble  wilderness  ? 

Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 


mon  authors,  and  do  not  read  the  best  classics  till  their  maturity 

I certainly  do  not  speak  on  this  point  from  any  pique  or  aversion 
towards  the  place  of  my  education.  I was  not  a slow,  though  an 
idle  boy  ; and  1 believe  no  one  could,  or  can  be,  more  attached  to 

Harrow  than  I have  always  been,  and  with  reason; — a part  of  the 
time  passed  there  was  the  happiest  of  my  life  ; and  my  preceptor, 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Joseph  Drury,  was  the  best  and  worthiest  friend  I 
ever  possessed,  whose  warnings  I have  remembered  but  too  well, 
though  too  late  when  I have  erred, — and  whose  counsels  I have  but 
followed  when  I have  done  well  or  wisely.  If  ever  this  imperfect 
record  of  my  feelings  towards  him  should  reach  his  eyes,  let  it  re- 
mind him  of  one  who  never  thinks  of  him  but  with  gratitude  and 
veneration — of  one  who  would  more  gladly  boast  of  having  been  his 
pupil,  if,  by  more  closely  following  his  injunctions,  he  could  reflect 
any  honour  upon  his  instructor. 

(4)  [Lord  Byron’s  prepossession  against  Horace  is  not  without  a 
parallel.  It  was  not  till  released  from  the  duty  of  reading  Virgil  as 
a task,  that  Gray  could  feel  himself  capable  of  enjoying  the  beauties 
of  that  poet. — Moore.] 

(5)  [“  I have  been  some  days  in  Rome  the  Wonderful.  I am 
delighted  with  Rome.  As  a whole — ancient  and  modern, — it  beats 
Greece,  Constantinople,  every  thing  —at  least  that  I have  ever  seen. 
But  I can’t  describe,  because  my  first  impressions  are  always  strong 
and  confused,  and  my  memory  selects  and  reduces  them  to  order, 
like  distance  in  the  landscape,  and  blends  them  better,  although 
they  may  be  less  distinct.  I have  been  on  horseback  most  of  the  day, 
all  days  since  my  arrival.  I have  been  to  Albano,  its  lakes,  and 
to  the  top  of  the  Alban  Mount,  and  to  Frescati,  Aricia,  &c.  As  for 
the  Coliseum,  Pantheon,  St.  Peter’s,  the  Vatican,  Palatine,  &c.  &c. 
— they  are  quite  inconceivable,  and  must  be  .seen.” — Byron’s  Letters, 
May,  1817.] 

(6)  For  a comment  on  this  and  the  two  following  stanzas,  the 
reader  may  consult  “ Historical  Illustrations,”  p.  46. 


CANTO  IV. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


51 


LXXX. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and  Eire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  sevcn-kilTd  city’s  pride ; 

She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 

And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarcns  ride, 

Where  the  car  climb’d  the  capitol ; far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a site : — 
Chaos  of  ruins  ! who  shall  trace  the  void, 

O’er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a lunar  light, 

And  say,  “here  was,  or  is,”  where  all  is  doubly  night  ? 

LXXXI. 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 

Night’s  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  round  us  ; we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 

The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 

And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o’er  recollections  ; now  we  ciap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  “Eureka !”  it  is  clear — 

Ulien  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas  ! the  lofty  city ! and  alas  ! 

The  trebly  hundred  triumphs  ! 1 and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger’s  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror’s  sword  in  bcaring'famc  away  ! 

Alas,  for  Tully’s  voice,  and  Virgil’s  lay, 

And  Livy’s  pictured  page  ! — but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection ; all  beside — decay. 

Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was 
free ! 

LXXXIII. 

Oh  thou,  whose  chariot  roll’d  on  Eortune’s  wheel, 
Triumphant  Sylla ! Thou,  who  didst  subdue 
Thy  country’s  foes  ere  thou  wouldst  pause  to  feel 
The  wrat  h of  thy  own  wrongs,  or  reap  the  due 
Of  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O’er  prostrate  Asia ; — thou,  who  with  thy  frown 
Annihilated  senates — Roman,  too, 

With  all  thy  vices,  for  thou  didst  lay  down 
With  an  atoning  smile  a more  than  earthly  crown — 

LXXXIV. 

The  dictatorial  wreath,2 — couldst  thou  divine 
To  what  would  one  day  dwindle  that  which  made 
Thee  more  than  mortal  ? and  that  so  supine 
By  auLht  than  Romans  Rome  should  thus  be  laid  ? 
She  who  was  named  Eternal,  and  array’d 
Her  warriors  but  to  conquer — she  who  veil’d 
Earth  with  her  haughty  shadow,  and  display’d, 
Until  the  o’er-canopied  horizon  fail’d, 

Iler  rushing  wings  — Oh  ! she  who  was  Almighty 
hail’d  ! 


(1)  Orosius  gives  320  for  the  number  of  triumphs.  He  is  fol- 
owed  by  Panvinius;  and  Panvinius  by  Mr.  Gibbon  and  the  modern 
writers. 

(2)  Certainly,  were  it  not  for  these  two  traits  in  the  life  of  Sylla, 
alluded  to  in  this  stanza,  we  should  regard  him  as  a monster  unre- 

deemed by  any  admirable  quality.  The  atonement  of  his  voluntary 
resignation  of  empire  may  perhaps  be  accepted  by  us,  as  it  seems 

to  have  satisfied  the  Romans,  who  if  they  had  not  respected  must 

have  destroyed  him.  There  could  be  no  mean,  no  division  of 
opinion  ; they  must  have  all  thought,  like  Eucrates,  that  what  had 
appeared  ambition  was  a lovt  of  glory,  and  that  what  had  been  nris- 


LXXXV. 

Sylla  was  first  of  victors  ; but  our  own 
The  sagest  of  usurpers,  Cromwell ; lie 
Too  swept  off’  senates  while  he  hew’d  the  throne 
Down  to  a block — immortal  rebel ! See 
What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a moment  free 
And  famous  through  all  ages ! but  beneath 
His  fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny; 

Ilis  day  of  double  victory  and  death  Tbreath. 

Beheld  him  win  two  realms,  and,  happier,  yield  his 

LXXX  VI. 

The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former  course 
Had  all  but  crown’d  him,  on  the  selfsame  day 
Deposed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force, 

And  laid  him  with  the  earth’s  preceding  clay.3 
And  sliow’d  not  Fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway, 
And  all  wre  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous  way, 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb  ? 

Were  they  but  so  in  man’s,  how  different  were  his 
doom ! 

lxxxvii. 

And  thou,  dread  statue  ! yet  existent  in4 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty, 

Thou  who  beheldcst,  ’mid  the  assassins’  din. 

At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Caesar  lie. 

Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity, 

An  offering  to  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of  gods  and  men,  great  Nemesis  ! did  he  die, 

Ana  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey  ? have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a scene  F 

LXXXVIII. 

And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome  ! 5 
She-wolf ! whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  within  the  dome 
Where,  as  a monument  of  antique  art, 

Thou  slandest : — Mother  of  the  mighty  heart, 
'Which  the  great  founder  suck’d  from  thy  wild  teat, 
Scorch’d  by  the  Roman  Jove’s  etherial  dart, 

And  thy  limbs  black  with  lightning — dost  thou  yet 
Guard  thine  immortal  cubs,  nor  thy  fond  charge 
forget  ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou  dost ; — but  all  thy  foster-babes  are  dead — 
The  men  of  iron  ; and  the  world  hath  rear’d 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres  : men  bled 
In  imitation  of  the  things  they  fear’d,  [steer’d, 
And  fought  and  conquer’d,  and  the  same  course 
At  apish  distance;  but  as  yet  none  have, 

Nor  could,  the  same  supremacy  have  near’d, 

Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave, 

But,  vanquish’d  by  himself,  to  his  owrn  slaves  a 
slave — 


taken  for  pride  was  a real  grandeur  of  soul. — [“  Seigneur,  vous 
ehangez  toutes  mes  idees  de  la  fa^on  dont  je  vous  vois  agir.  Je 
croyais  que  vous  aviez  de  l’ambition,  mais  aucunc  amour  pour  la 
gloire:  je  voyais  bien  que  votre  ame  etait  haute  ; mais  je  ne  soup- 
£onnais  pas  qu’elle  fut  grande.” — Dialogues  de  Sylla  el  d'Eucrale.] 

(3)  On  the  3d  of  September  Cromwell  gained  the  victory  of  Dun- 
bar; a year  afterwards  he  obtained  “ his  crowning  mercy”  of  Wor- 
cester; and  a few  years  after,  on  the  same  day,  which  he  had  ever 
esteemed  the  most  fortunate  for  him,  died. 

(4,  5)  See  Appendix.  “ Historical  Notes,”  Nos.  xxiv.  xiv. 


library 

university  of  iLums 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  IV. 


r.  o 

O ju 

xc. 

The  fool  of  false  dominion — and  a kind 
Of  bastard  Caesar,  following  him  of  old 
With  steps  unequal;  for  the  Roman’s  mind 
Was  modell’d  in  a less  terrestrial  mould,1 
With  passions  fiercer,  yet  a judgment  cold, 

And  an  immortal  instinct  which  redeem’d 
The  frailties  of  a heart  so  soft,  yet  bold. 

Alcides  with  the  distaff  now  he  seem’d 
At  Cleopatra’s  feet, — and  now  himself  he  beam’d, 

xci. 

And  came — and  saw — and  conquer’d  ! But  the  man 
Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to  flee, 

Like  a train’d  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van, 

Which  he,  in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory, 

With  a deaf  heart  which  never  seem’d  to  be 
A listener  to  itself,  was  strangely  framed ; 

With  but  one  weakest  weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish  in  ambition — still  he  aim’d — 

At  what  ? can  he  avouch — or  answer  what  he  claim’d  F 

XCII. 

And  would  be  all  or  nothing — nor  could  wait 
For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him  ; few  years 
Had  fix’d  him  with  the  Caesars  in  his  fate. 

On  whom  we  tread : For  this  the  conqueror  rears 
The  arch  of  triumph  ! and  for  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  have  flow'd, 

An  universal  deluge,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man’s  abode, 

And  ebbs  but  to  reflow ! — Renew  thy  rainbow,  God ! 

xcm. 

What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap  ? 

Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail,2 
Life  short,  and  truth  a gem  which  loves  fhe  deep, 
And  all  things  weigh’d  in  custom’s  falsest  scale ; 
Opinion  an  omnipotence, — whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
And  wrong  are  accidents,  and  men  grow  pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become  too  bright, 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth  have  too 
much  light. 

xciv. 

And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery, 

Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age, 

Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  so  die. 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rage 
To  the  new  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wage 
War  for  their  chains,  and  rather  than  be  free, 

Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  arena  where  they  see 
Their  fellows  fall  before,  like  leaves  of  the  same  tree. 

xcv. 

I speak  not  of  men’s  creeds — they  rest  between 
Man  and  his  Maker — but  of  things  allow’d, 

Averr’d,  and  known, — and  daily,  hourly  seen — 

The  yoke  that  is  upon  us  doubly  bow’d, 

And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avow’d. 


()'  See  Appendix,  “ Historical  Notes,”  No.  xxvi. 

I'i)  - “ Omnes  pene  veteres  ; qui  nihil  cognosci,  nihil 

percepi,  nihil  sciri  posse  dixerunt;  angustos  sensus;  imbocillos 
animos,  brevia  curricula  vitae ; in  profundo  veritatein  demersam  ; 
opiniocibu*  et  institutis  omnia  teneri  ; nihil  veritati  rclinqui : dein- 
ceps  omnia  tenebris  circumfusa  esse  dixerunt.”  Academ.  1.  13. 


The  edict  of  Earth’s  rulers,  who  are  grown 
The  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  the  proud, 

And  shook  them  from  their  slumbers  on  the  throne  ; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  his  mighty  arm  had  done. 

XCVI. 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquer’d  be, 

And  Freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  arise  when  she 
Sprung  forth  a Pallas,  arm’d  and  undefded  F 
Or  must  such  minds  be  nourish’d  in  the  wild. 

Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest.,  ’midst  the  roar 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infant  Washington  F Has  Earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe  no  such 
shore  F 

XCV1I. 

But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom’s  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime  ; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen. 

And  vile  Ambition,  that  built  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall, 

And  the  base  pageant  la:t  upon  the  scene, 

Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 
Which  nips  life’s  tree,  and  dooms  man’s  worst — hi* 
second  fall.. 

XCVIII. 

Yet,  Freedom  ! yet  thy  banner,  tom,  but  flying, 
Streams  like  the  thunder-storm  against  the  wind  , 
Thy  trumpet  voice,  though  broken  now  and  dying. 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind ; 

Thy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind, 
Chopp’d  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little  worth. 
But  the  sap  lasts, — and  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  North  : 

So  shall  a better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring  fortn 

xeix. 

There  is  a stem  round  tow’er  of  other  days/ 

Firm  as  a fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone. 

Such  as  an  army’s  ballled  strength  delays. 

Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 

And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 

The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave 
The  green  leaves  over  all  by  time  o’erthrown ; — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strength  F within  its  cave 
What  treasure  lay  so  lock’d,  so  hid  F — A woman’.-* 
grave. 

c. 

But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 

Tomb’d  in  a palace  F Was  she  chaste  and  fair  F 
Worthy  a king’s — or  more — a Roman’s  bed  F 
What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear  F 
What  daughter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heir  F 
How  lived — how  loved — how  died  she  F Was  flie 
So  honour’d — and  conspicuously  there,  [not 

Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot, 

Placed  to  commemorate  a more  than  mortal  lot  F 


The  eighteen  hundred  years  which  have  elapsed  since  Cicero  wrote 
this,  have  not  removed  a.iy  of  the  imperfections  of  humanity;  and 
the  complaints  of  the  ancient  philosophers  may,  without  injustice 
or  affectation,  be  transcribed  in  a poem  written  yesterday. 

(3)  Alluding  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella,  called  Capo  Bcve. 
See  "Historical  Illustrations,”  p.  200 


;a.nto  iv. 


CH1LDL  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CJ. 

Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or  they 
Wlio  love  the  lords  of  others  ? such  have  been 
Even  in  the  olden  time,  Rome’s  annals  say. 

Was  she  a matron  of  Cornelia’s  mien, 

Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt’s  graceful  queen. 

Profuse  of  joy — or  ’gainst  it  did  she  war, 

Inveterate  in  virtue  ? Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 
Love  from  amongst  her  griefs  ? — for  such  the  affections 
are. 

cn. 

Perchance  she  died  in  youth  : it  may  be,  bow’d 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  ponderous  tomb 
That  weigh’d  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a cloud 
Might  gather  o’er  her  beauty,  and  a gloom 
In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  its  favourites — early  death ; yet  shed 1 
A sunset  charm  around  her,  and  illume 
With  hectic  light,  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead, 

Of  her  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  red. 

CHI. 

Perchance  she  died  in  age — surviving  all. 

Charms,  kindred,  children — with  the  silver  gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  might  yet  recall. 

It  may  be,  still  a something  of  the  day 
When  they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and  eyed 
By  Rome — -But  whither  would  Conjecture  stray  ? 
Thus  much  alone  we  know — Metella  died, 

The  wealthiest  Roman’s  wife : Behold  his  love  or 
pride ! 

CIV. 

I know  not  why — but  standing  thus  by  thee, 

It  seems  as  if  1 had  thine  inmate  known, 

Thou  Tomb ! and  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind  ; 

Yet  could  I seat  me  by  this  ivied  stone 
Till  I had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind 
Forms  from  the  floating  wreck  which  Ruin  leaves 
behind;2 

cv. 

And  from  the  planks,  far  shatter’d  o’er  the  rocks. 
Built  me  a little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  ilie  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  ou  the  solitary  shore 


(I)  "o,  o\  Oec.t  <pi\ov<riv,  airoOvrjcrKtt  i 'for' 

To  7<«p  (Jui/cm/  oi/K  aitrxpov,  u\\'  a'tcrxp'i’f  Ouve tv. 

Rich.  Franc.  Phil.  Brunck.  Poetae  Gnomici,  p.  231.  ed.  1784. 

2)  [Four  words,  and  two  initials,  compose  the  whole  of  the  in- 
scription which,  wftatever  was  its  ancient  position,  is  now  placed 
in  front  of  this  towering  sepulchre:  Cjecili^:  . (i . Crktici  . F. 
Meteila;  . Crassi.  It  is  more  likely  to  have  been  the  pride  than 
the  love  of  Crassus,  which  raised  so  superb  a memorial  to  a wile, 
whose  name  is ‘not  mentioned  in  history,  unless  she  be  supposed  to 
be  that  lady  whose  intimacy  with  Dolabella  was  so  offensive  to 
Tullia,  the  daughter  of  Cicero;  or  she  who  was  divorced  by  Lentu- 
lus  Splnther;  or  she,  perhaps  the  same  person,  from  vyhose  ear  the 
Son  of  iFsopus  transferred  a precious  jewel  to  enrich  his  daughter. 
— Hobiiouse.] 

(3)  The  Palatine  is  one  mass  of  ruins,  particularly  on  the  side 
towards  the  Circus  Maximus.  The  very  soil  is  formed  of  crumbled 
brickwork.  Nothing  has  been  told,  nothing  can  be  told,  to  satisfy 

the  belief  of  any  but  a Roman  antiquary.  See  “ Historical  Illus- 
trations,” p.20»5. — [“The  voice  of  Marius  could  not  sound  more 
deep  and  solemn  among  the  ruined  arches  of  Carthage,  than  the 


5B 

Where  all  lies  founder’d  that  was  ever  dear : 

But  could  I gather  from  the  wave- worn  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I steer? 
There  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  what  is 
here. 

cvi. 

Then  let  the  winds  howl  on ! their  harmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlets’  cry, 

As  I now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
Dim  o’er  the  bird  of  darkness’  native  site. 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 

With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray  and  bright. 
And  sailing  pinions. — Upon  such  a shrine 
What  are  our  petty  griefs  ? — let  me  not  number  mine. 

CVII. 

Cypress  and  ivy,  weed  and  wallflower  grown 
Matted  and  mass’d  together,  hillocks  heap’d 
On  what  were  chambers,  arch  crush’d,  column  strown 
In  fragments, ' ehoked-up  vaults,  and  frescos  steep’d 
In  subterranean  damps,  .where  the  owl  peep’d, 
Deeming  it  midnight : — Temples,  baths,  or  halls  ? 
Pronounce  who  can  ; for  all  that  Learning  reap’d 
Erom  her  research  hath  been,  that  these  are  walls — • 
Behold  the  Imperial  Mount ! ’t  is  thus  the  mighty 
falls.3 

CVIII. 

There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales  ;4 
’Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past, 

First  Freedom,  and  then  Glory — when  that  fails, 
Wealth,  vice,  corruption, — barbarism  at  last. 

And  History,  with  all  her  volumes  vast, 

Hath  but  one  page, — ’t  is  better  written  here, 

Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  hath  thus  amass’d 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear, 

Heart,  soul  could  seek,  tongue  ask — Away  with  words ! 
draw  near, 

cix. 

Admire,  exult — despise — laugh,  weep, — for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling  : — Man ! 

Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a smile  and  tear, 

Ages  and  realms  are  crowded  in  this  span, 

Tli is  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled, 

Of  Glory’s  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 
Till  the  sun’s  rays  with  added  flame  were  fill’d ! 
Where  are  its  golden  roofs  ? where  those  who  darca 
to  build? 


strains  of  the  Pilgrim  amid  the  broken  shrines  and  fallen  statues  of 
her  subduer.” — Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

(4)  The  author  of  the  Life  of  Cicero,  speaking  of  the  opinion 
entertained  of  Britain  by  that  orator  and  his  contemporary  Romans, 
has  the  following  eloquent  passage  : — “ From  their  railleries  of  this 
kind,  on  the  barbarity  and  misery  of  our  island,  one  cannot  help 
reflecting  on  the  surprising  fate  and  revolutions  of  kingdoms  ; how 
Rome,  once  the  mistress  of  the  world,  the  seat  of  arts,  empire,  and 
glory,  now  lies  sunk  in  sloth,  ignorance,  and  poverty,  enslaved  to 
the  most  cruel  as  well  as  to  the  most  contemptible  of  tyrants,  super- 
stition and  religious  imposture  : while  this  remote  country,  an- 
ciently the  jest  and  contempt  of  the  polite  Romans,  is  become  the 
happy  seat  ofliberty,  plenty,  and  letters;  flourishing  in  all  the  arts 
and  refinements  of  civil  life  ; yet  running  perhaps  the  same  course 
which  Rome  itself  had  run  before  it,  from  virtuous  industry  to 
wealth;  from  wealth  to  luxury;  from  luxury  to  an  impatience  of 
discipline,  and  corruption  of  morals  ; till,  bv  a total  degeneracy  and 
loss  of  virtue,  being  grown  ripe  for  destruction,  it  fall  a prey  at  last 
to  some  hardy  oppressor,  and,  with  the  loss  of  liberty,  losing  every 
thing  that  is  valuable,  sinks  gradually  again  into  its  original  bar- 
barism.” (See  History  of  the  Life  of  M.  Tullius  Cicero,  sect,  vi. 
— >1  :i.  p.  1C2.) 


54 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


canto  it. 


cx. 

Tuljy  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thou, 

Thou  nameless  column  with  the  buried  base ! 

What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Cscsar’s  brow  ? 

Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  dwelling-place. 

Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 

Titus  or  Trajan’s  ? No — ’t  is  that  of  Time  : 
Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace 
Scoffing ; and  apostolic  statues  climb 
To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime,1 

CXI. 

Buried  in  air,  the  deep  blue  sky  of  Rome, 

And  looking  to  the  stars : they  had  contain’d 
A spirit  which  with  these  would  find  a home, 

The  last  of  those  who  o’er  the  whole  earth  reign’d, 
The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sustain’d, 

But  yielded  back  his  conquests : — he  was  more 
Than  a mere  Alexander,  and,  unstain’d 
With  household  blood  and  wine,  serenely  wore 
His  sovereign  virtues — still  we  Trajan’s  name  adore.2 

CXII. 

Where  is  the  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high  place 
Where  Rome  embraced  her  heroes?  where  the  steep 
Tarpeian  ? fittest  goal  of  Treason’s  race, 

The  promontory  whence  the  Traitor’s  Leap 
Cured  all  ambition.  Did  the  conquerors  heap 
Their  spoils  here  ? Yes  ; and  in  yon  field  below, 

A thousand  years  of  silenced  factions  sleep — 

The  Forum,  where  the  immortal  accents  glow, 

And  still  the  eloquent  air  breathes  — burns  with 
Cicero ! 

CXIII. 

The  field  of  freedom,  faction,  fame,  and  blood : 

Here  a proud  people’s  passions  were  exhaled, 

From  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when  further  worlds  to  conquer  fail’d ; 

But  long  before  had  Freedom’s  face  been  veil’d, 
And  Anarchy  assumed  her  attributes  ; 

Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assail’d 
Trod  on  the  trembling  senate’s  slavish  mutes, 

O-  raised  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 

CXIV. 

Then  turn  we  to  her  latest  tribune’s  name, 

From  her  ten  thousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee. 
Redeemer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame — 

The  friend  of  Petrarch — hope  of  Italy — 

Ricnzi ! last  of  Romans  !3  While  the  tree 
Of  freedom’s  wither’d  trunk  puts  forth  a leaf, 

Even  for  thy  tomb  a garland  let  it  be — 

The  forum’s  champion,  and  the  people’s  chief — 
Her  uew-born  Numa  thou — wit  h reign,  alas  ! too  brief. 


(])  The  column  of  Trajan  is  surmounted  by  St.  Peter:  that  of 
Aurelius  by  St.  Paul.  See  “ Historical  Illustrations,”  p.  214. 

(2)  Trajan  was  proverbially  the  best  of  the  Roman  princes 
(F.utrop.  1.  viii.  c.  5.);  and  it  would  be  easier  to  find  a sovereign 
uniting  exactly  the  opposite  characteristics,  than  one  possessed  of 
,vl  the  happy  qualities  ascribed  to  this  emperor.  “ When  he 
mounted  the  throne,”  says  the  historian  Dion,  “ he  was  strong  in 

nody.  he  was  vigorous  in  mind  ; ago  had  impaired  none  of  his 
faculties;  he  was  altogether  free  from  envy  and  from  detraction; 

ce  honoured  all  the  good,  and  he  advanced  them  ; and  on  this  ac- 
count they  could  not  be  the  objects  or  his  fear,  or  of  his  hate ; he 


cxv. 

Egcria  ! sweet  creation  of  some  heart4 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast ; whate’er  thou  art 
Or  wert, — a young  Aurora  of  the  air, 

The  nympholepsy  of  some  fond  despair ; 

Or,  it  might  be,  a beauty  of  the  earth, 

Who  found  a more  than  common  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring  ; whatsoe’er  thy  birth, 

Thou  wert  a beautiful  thought,  and  softly  bodiec* 
forth. 

CXVI. 

The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops  ; the  face 
Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinklcd. 
Reflects  the  meek -eyed  genius  of  the  place, 

Whose  green,  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art’s  works  ; nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prison’d  in  marble,  bubbling  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a gentle  leap 
The  rill  runs  o’er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  and  Ny 
creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically  tangled : the  green  hills 
Arc  clothed  with  early  blossoms,  through  the  grass 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass  ; 

Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class, 
Implore  the  pausing  step,  and  with  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a fairy  mass ; 

The  sweetness  of  the  violet’s  deep  blue  eyes, 

Kiss’d  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  colour’d  bj  ir? 
skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  in  this  enchanted  cover, 
Egcria ! thy  all  heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover ; 

The  purple  Midnight  veil’d  that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befell  ? 

This  cave  was  surely  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  eiiamour’d  Goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  Love — the  earliest  oracle ! 

cxix. 

And  didst  thou  not,  thy  breast  to  his  replying, 
Blend  a celestial  with  a human  heart ; 

And  Love,  which  dies  as  it  was  born,  in  sighing, 
Share  with  immortal  transports  ? could  thine  art 
Make  them  indeed  immortal,  and  impart 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys, 

Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart — 

The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys — 

And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which 
cloys  ? 


never  listened  to  informers  ; he  gave  not  way  to  his  anger ; he  ab- 
stained equally  from  unfair  exactions  and  unjust  punishments;  he 
had  rather  be  loved  as  a man  than  honoured  as  a sovereign;  he  was 
affable  with  his  people,  respectful  to  the  senate,  and  universally 
beloved  by  both;  he  inspired  none  with  dread  but  the  enemies  of 
his  country.” — Hist.  Rom.  1.  lxiii.  c-  6,  7. 

(3)  The  name  and  exploits  of  Rienzi  must  he  familiar  to  the 
reader  of  Gibbon.  Some  details  and  unedited  manuscripts,  rela- 
tive to  this  unhappy  hero,  will  be  seen  in  the  Historical  Illustra- 
tions of  the  Fourth  Canto,”  p.  248. 

(4)  See  Appendix,  * Historical  Notes,”  No  xxvn. 


CAXTO  IV 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


55 


cxx. 

Alas  ! oar  young  affections  run  to  waste. 

Or  water  but  the  desert ; whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste, 

Rank  at  the  core,  though  tempting  to  the  eyes, 
Flowers  whose  wild  odours  breathe  but  agonies, 
And  trees  whose  gums  are  poison ; such  the  plants 
Which  spring  beneath  her  steps  as  Passion  flics 
O’er  the  world’s  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 
For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 

CXXI. 

Oh  Love ! no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art — 

An  unseen  seraph,  wc  believe  in  thee, 

A faith  whose  martyrs  arc  the  broken  heart, 

But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e’er  shall  see 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be ; 

The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  peopled  heaven, 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 

And  to  a thought  such  shape  and  image  given. 

As  haunts  the  unquench’d  soul— parch’d — wearied — 
wrung — and  riven. 

CXXII. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased, 

And  fevers  into  false  creation : — where. 

Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor’s  soul  hath  seized  ? 
In  him  alone.  Can  Nature  show  so  fair  ? 

Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men, 

The  unreach’d  Paradise  of  our  despair, 

W hich  o’er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 

And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom  again  ? 

CXXIII. 

Who  loves,  raves — ’t  is  youth’s  frenzy — but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still ; as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
Which  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind’s 
Ideal  shape  of  such ; yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on, 

Reaping  the  whirlwind  from  the  oft-sown  winds  ; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun,  [undone. 
Seems  ever  near  the  prize,  — wealthiest  when  most 

CXXIV. 

We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away — 

Sick — sick ; unfound  the  boon — unslaked  the  thirst, 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay, 

Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first — 
But  all  too  late, — so  are  we  doubly  curst. 

Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice — ’t is  the  same, 

Each  idle — and  all  ill — and  none  the  worst — 

For  all  are  meteors  with  a different  name, 

And  Death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame. 

exxv. 

Few — none — find  what  they  love  or  could  have  loved. 
Though  accident,  blind  contact,  and  the  strong 
Necessity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Antipathies — but  to  recur,  ere  long, 


(1 ) “At  all  events,”  says  the  author  of  the  Academical  Questions, 
“ i trust,  whatever  may  be  the  fate  of  my  own  speculations,  that 
philosophy  will  regain  that  estimation  which  it  ought  to  possess. 
The  free  and  philosophic  spirit  of  our  nation  has  been  the  theme  of 
admiration  to  the  world.  This  was  the  proud  distinction  of  English- 
men, and  the  luminous  source  of  all  their  glory.  Shall  we  then 
forget  the  manly  and  dignified  sentiments  of  our  ancestors,  to  prate 
in  the  language  of  the  mother  or  the  nurse  about  our  good  old  pre- 


Envenom’d  with  irrevocable  w~  c ng 
And  Circumstance,  that  unspiritual  god 
And  rniscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  coming  evils  with  a crutch-like  rod, 

Whose  touch  turns  Hope  to  dust, — the  dust  wc  all 
have  trod. 

exxvi. 

Our  life  is  a false  nature — ’t is  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things, — this  hard  decree, 

This  uneradicable  taint  of  sin, 

This  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree, 

Whose  root  is  earth,  whose  leaves  and  branches  be 
The  skieswhich  rain  their  plagues  on  men  like  dew — 
Disease,  death,  bondage — all  the  woes  we  see — 
And  worse,  the  woes  we  see  not  — which  throb 
through 

The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new. 
c XXVII. 

Yet  let  us  ponder  boldly — ’t is  a base  1 
Abandonments  of  reason  to  resign 
Our  right  of  thought — our  last  and  only  place 
Of  refuge  ; this,  at  least,  shall  Mill  be  mine  : 
Though  from  our  birth  the  faculty  divine 
Is  chain’d  and  tortured — cabin’d,  cribb’d,  confined, 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should  shine 
Too  brightly  on  the  unprepared  mind,  [blind. 
The  beam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will  couch  the 

cxxvm. 

Arches  on  arches ! as  it  were  that  Rome, 

Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 

Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 

Tier  Coliseum  stands  ; the  moonbeams  shine 
As  ’twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustlcss  mine 
Of  contemplation ; and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven, 
Floats  o’er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 

And  shadows  forth  its  glory.  There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hatli  bent, 

A spirit’s  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a power 
And  magic  in  the  ruin’d  battlement, 

For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its  dowei 

exxx. 

Oh  Time  ! the  beautifier  of  the  dead, 

Adorner  of  the  ruin,  comforter 

And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled — • 

Time  ! the  corrector  where  our  judgments  err, 

The  test  of  truth,  love, — sole  philosopher, 

For  all  beside  are  sophists,  from  thy  thrift, 

Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer — 

Time,  the  avenger  ! unto  thee  I lift  [gift : 

My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart,  and  crave  of  thee  a 


judices  ? This  is  not  the  way  to  defend  the  cause  t f truth.  It  was 
not  thus  that  our  fathers  maintained  it  in  the  brilliant  periods  of 
our  history.  Prejudice  may  be  trusted  to  guard  the  outworks  for 
a short  space  of  time,  while  reason  slumbers  in  the  citadel ; but  if 
the  latter  sink  into  a lethargy,  the  former  will  quickly  erect  a stand- 
ard for  herself.  Philosophy,  wisdom,  and  li.,erty  support  each 
other:  he  who  will  not  reason  is  a bigot;  he  who  cannot,  is  a fool 
and  he  who  dares  not,  is  a slave.”  Vol.  i.  pref.  pp.  14, 15. 


50 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


cantg  rr 


CXXXI. 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a shrine 
And  temple  more  divinely  desolate, 

Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine. 

Ruins  of  years — though  few,  yet  full  of  fate  : — 

If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate, 

Hear  me  not ; but  if  calmly  I have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
This  iron  in  my  soul  in  vain — shall  they  not  mourn  ? 

CXXXIT. 

And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
Left  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis  ! 1 2 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long — 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  Buries  from  the  abyss, 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
Bor  that  unnatural  retribution — just, 

Had  it  but  been  from  hands  less  near — in  this 
Thy  former  realm,  I call  thee  from  the  dust ! [must. 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart  ? — Awake ! thou  shalt,  and 

» CXXXIII. 

It  is  not  that  I may  not  have  incurr’d 
Bor  my  ancestral  faults  or  mine  the  wound 
I bleed  withal,  and,  had  it  been  conferr’d 
With  a just  weapon,  it  had  flow’d  unbound  ; 

But  now  my  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the  ground  ; 

To  thee  I do  devote  it — thou  shalt  take 

The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought  and  found, 

Which  if  / have  not  taken  for  the  sake 

But  let  that  pass — I sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet  awake. 

cxxxiv. 

And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  ’tis  not  that  now 
1 shrink  from  what  is  suffer’d  : let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow, 

Or  seen  my  mind’s  convulsion  leave  it  weak ; 

But  in  this  page  a record  will  I seek. 

Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse, 
Though  I be  ashes  ; a far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse, 

And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  curse  ! 

cxxxv. 

That  curse  shall  be  Borgiveness. — Have  I not — 
Hear  me,  mv  mother  Earth  ! behold  it,  Heaven! — 
1 lave  I not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot  ? 

Have  I not  suffer’d  things  to  be  forgiven? 

Have  I not  had  my  brain  sear’d,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapp’d,  name  blighted,  Life’s  life  lied  away  ? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven, 

Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom  I survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy 

Have  I not  seen  what  human  things  could  do  ? 


(1)  See  Appendix,  “ Historical  Notes,”  No.  xxvin. 

(2)  [Between  stanzas  cxxxv.  and  cxxxvi.  we  find  in  the  original 
MS  the  following: — 

'*  If  to  >orgive  be  heaping  coals  of  fire — 

As  God  hath  spoken — on  the  heads  of  foes, 

Mine  should  be  a volcano,  and  rise  higher 
Than,  o’er  the  Titans  crush’d,  Olympus  rose. 

Or  Athos  soars,  or  blazing  Etna  giows  : — 

True,  they  who  stung  were  creeping  things ; but  what 
Than  serpents’  teeth  inflicts  with  deadlier  throes? 

The  Lion  may  be  goaded  by  the  Gnat. — 

Who  sucks  the  slumberer’s  blood? — The  Eagle?—  No:  the 
Bat.”] 


Brom  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry  few. 

And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew, 

The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  seem  true, 

And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  sigh, 
Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  obloquy.3 * 

CXXXVII. 

But  I have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  in  vain  : 

My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  lire, 

And  my  frame  perish  even  in  conquering  pain  ; 

But  there  is  that  within  me  which  shall  lire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  wheii  I expire ; 
Sometliing  unearthly,  which  they  deem  not  of 
Like  the  remember’d  tone  of  a mute  lyre, 

Shall  on  their  soften’d  spirits  sink,  ana  move 
In  hearts  all  rocky  now  the  late  remorse  of  love. 

CXXXVIII. 

The  seal  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power  ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk’st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear : 

Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a sense  so  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a part  of  what  has  been, 

And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 

In  murmur’d  pity,  or  loud-roar’d  applause, 

As  man  was  slaughter’d  by  his  fellow  man. 

And  wherefore  slaughter’d  ? wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  Circus’  genial  laws, 

And  the  imperial  pleasure. — Wherefore  not  ? 

What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot  ? 

Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

CXL. 

I see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie  : 

He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 

And  his  droop’d  head  sinks  graduSly  low — 

And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
Brom  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 

Like  the  first  of  a thunder-shower  ; and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone,  [who  won. 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hail’d  the  wretch 

CXLI. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away ; 3 
bJe  reck’d  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 

But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 


(3)  Whether  the  wonderful  statue  which  suggested  this  image  ue 
a laquearian  gladiator,  which,  in  spite  of  Winkelmann’s  criticism, 
lias  been  stoutly  maintained;  or  whether  it  be  a Greek  herald,  as 
that  great  antiquary  positively  asserted;*  or  whether  it  is  to  be 


* Either  Polifontes,  herald  of  Laius,  killed  by  CEdipus;  or 
Cepreas,  herald  of  Euritheus,  killed  by  the  Athenians  when  he 
endeavoured  to  drag  the  Heraclidae  from  the  altar  of  mercy,  and  in 
whose  honourtthey  instituted  annual  games,  continued  to  the  time 
of  Hadrian;  or  Anthemoeritus,  the  Athenian  herald,  killed  hv  the 
Megarenses,  who  never  recovered  the  impiety.  See  Storia  deli* 
Arti,  & c.  tom.  ii.  pp.  203—207.  lib  ix.  cap.  li. 


canto  jv. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Oi 


There  were  liis  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 

There  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butcher’d  to  make  a Roman  holiday  1 — 

All  this  rush’d  with  his  blood — Shall  he  expire 
And  unavenged  ? — Arise  ! ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire! 

CXLII. 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roar’d  or  murmur’d  like  a mountain  stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays  ; 

Here,  where  the  Roman  million’s  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a crowd,2 
My  voice  sounds  much — and  fall  the  stars’  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void — seats  crush'd — walls  bow’d— 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely 
loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet  what  ruin  ! from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear’d ; 

Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 

And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appear’d. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder’d,  or  but  clear’d  ? 

Alas  ! developed,  opens  the  decay, 

When  the  colossal  fabric’s  form  is  near’d : 

It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 

Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft 
away. 

CXLIV. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there ; 

When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 

Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Csesar’s  head ; 3 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead  : 

Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — ’t  is  on  their  dust  ye 
tread. 

CXLV. 

“ While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand ; 4 
“ When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 

“ And  when  Rome  falls — the  W orld.”  Erom  our 
own  land 

Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o’er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ; and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter’d  all ; 


thought  a Spartan  or  barbarian  shield-bearer,  according  to  the 
opinion  of  his  Italian  editor  : it  must  assuredly  seem  a copy  of  that 
masterpiece  of  Ctesilaus  which  represented  “a  wounded  man 
dying,  who  perfectly  expressed  what  there  remained  of  life  in  him.” 
Montfaucon  and  MafTei  thought  it  the  identical  statue ; bufc  that 
statue  was  of  bronze.  The  Gladiator  was  once  in  the  Villa 
Ludovizi,  and  was  bought  by  Clement  XII.  The  right  arm  is  an 
entire  restoration  of  Michael  Angelo. 

(1,  2)  See  Appendix,  “ Historical  Notes,”  Nos.  xxix.  xxx. 

(3)  Suetonius  informs  us  that  Julius  Caesar  was  particularly 
gratified  by  that  decree  of  the  senate  which  enabled  him  to  wear 
a wreath  of  laurel  on  all  occasions.  He  was  anxious,  not  to  show 
that  he  was  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  but  to  hide  that  he  was 
bald.  A stranger  at  Rome  would  hardly  have  guessed  at  the 
motive,  nor  should  we  without  the  help  of  the  historian. 

(4)  This  is  quoted  in  the  “ Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 

Empire,”  as  a proof  that  the  Coliseum  was  ei^ire  when  seen 

by  the  Anglo-Saxon  pilgrims  at  the  end  of  the  seventh,  or  the 

beginning  of  the  eighth  century.  A notice  on  the  Coliseum  may  be 
•een  in  the  “ Historical  Illustrations.”  p.  263. 


Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Rcdcmpf  ion’s  skill, 

The  World,  the  same  wide  den — of  thieves,  or  what 
ye  will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime — 

Shrine  of  all  saints  and  temple  of  all  gods, 

From  Jove  to  Jesus — spared  and  blest  by  time; 5 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes — glorious  doiim  1 
Shalt  thou  not  last  ? Time’s  scythe  and  tyrants’ 
rods 

Shiver  upon  thee — sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety — Pantheon ! — pride  of  Rome  ! 

CXLVII. 

Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts  ! 

Despoil’d  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts — 

To  art  a model ; and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture  ; to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads ; 

And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honour’d  forms,  whose  busts  aro  iso 
them  close.6 

CXLVIII. 

There  is  a dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light 7 
What  do  I gaze  on  ? Nothing  : Look  again  ! 

Two  forms  are  slowly  shadow’d  on  my  sight — 

Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain  : 

It  is  not  so  ; I see  them  full  and  plain — 

An  old  man,  and  a female  young  and  fair, 

Fresh  as  a nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar : — but  what  doth  she  there, 
With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and  bare  ? 

CXLIX. 

Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life, 
Where  on  the  heart  and  from  the  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife, 

Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look, 

Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves — 

What  may  the  fruit  be  yet  ? — I know  not — Cain  was 
Eve’s. 


(5)  “ Though  plundered  of  all  its  brass,  except  the  ring  whieh 
was  necessary  to  preserve  the  aperture  above;  though  exposed  to 
repeated  fires  ; though  sometimes  flooded  by  the  river,  and  always 
open  to  the  rain,  no  monument  of  equal  antiquity  is  so  well 
preserved  as  this  rotundo.  It  passed  with  little  alteration  from  the 
Pagan  into  the  present  worship ; and  so  convenient  were  its  niches 
for  the  Christian  altar,  that  Michael  Angelo,  ever  studious  of 
ancient  beauty,  introduced  their  design  as  a model  in  the  Catholic 
church.” — Forsyth’s  Italy,  p.  137.  2d  edit. 

(6)  The  Pantheon  has  been  made  a receptacle  for  the  busts  of 
modern  great,  or,  at  least,  distinguished,  men.  The  flood  of  light 
which  once  fell  through  the  large  orb  above  on  the  whole  circle  oi 
divinities,  now  shines  on  a numerous  assemblage  of  mortals,  some 
one  or  two  of  whom  have  been  almost  deified  by  the  veneration  of 
their  countrymen.  For  a notice  of  the  Pantheon,  see  “ Historical 
Illustrations,”  p.  287. 

(•7)  This  and  the  three  next  stanzas  allude  to  the  story  of  the 
Roman  daughter,  which  is  recalled  to  the  traveller  by  the  site,  ot 
pretended  site,  of  that  adventure,  now  shown  at  the  church  of  St 
Nicholas  in  Carcere.  The  difficulties  attending  the  full  belief  oi 
the  tale  are  stated  in  “ Historical  Illustrations,”  p.  295. 

1 


63 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  IV 


CL. 

But  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food, 

-The  milk  of  his  own  gift : — it  is  her  sire 
To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
Bom  with  her  birth.  No  ; he  shall  not  expire 
W.iile  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  lire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature’s  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt’s  river  : — from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and  live,  old  man  ! Heaven’s  realm  holds 
no  such  tide. 

CLI. 

The  starry  fable  of  the  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  story’s  purity  ; it  is 
A constellation  of  a sweeter  ray, 

And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worlds  : — Oh,  holiest  nurse ! | 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire’s  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
With  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 

cm. 

Turn  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  rear’d  on  high,1 
Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt’s  piles, 

Colossal  copyist  of  deformity, 

Whose  travell’d  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile’s 
Enormous  model,  doom’d  the  artist’s  toils 
To  build  for  giants,  and  for  his  vain  earth, 

His  shrunken  ashes,  raise  this  dome  : How  smiles 
The  gazer’s  eye  with  philosophic  mirth,  [birth  ! 
To  view  the  huge  design  which  sprung  from  such  a 

CLIII. 

Buf  lo ! the  dome — the  vast  and  wondrous  dome,2 
To  which  Diana’s  marvel  was  a cell — 

Christ’s  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr’s  tomb ! 

I have  beheld  the  Ephesian’s  miracle — 

Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hyarna  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade ; 

I have  beheld  Sophia’s  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i’  the  sun,  and  have  survey’d 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  pray’d ; 

CLIV. 

But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 

Standest  alone — with  nothing  like  to  thee — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 

Since  Zion’s  desolation,  when  that  He 
Eorsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be, 

Of  earthly  structures,  in  his  honour  piled, 

Of  a sublimer  aspect  ? Majesty, 

Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are  aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 


(])  The  castle  ofSt.  Angelo.  See  “ Historical  Illustrations.” 

(2)  [This  and  the  six  next  stanzas  have  a reference  to  the  church 
of  St.  Peter.  For  a measurement  of  the  comparative  length  of 
this  basilica  and  the  other  great  churches  of  Europe,  see  the 
pavement  of  St.  Peter’s,  and  the  Classical  Tour  through  Italy, 
vol.  ii.  p.  125,  et  seq.  ch.  iv.] 

(3)  [“  I remember  very  well,”  says  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  “ my 
own  disappointment  when  I first  visited  the  Vatican  ; but  on  con- 
fusing my  feelings  to  a brother  student,  of  whose  ingenuousness  I 
Had  a high  opinion,  he  acknowledged  that  the  works  of  Raphael  had 
the  same  effect  on  him,  or  rather  that  they  did  not  produce  the 
effect  which  he  expected.  This  was  a great  relief  to  my  mind ; 
and,  on  inquiring  further  of  other  students,  I found  that  those 
persons  only  who,  from  natural  imbecility,  appeared  to  be  in- 
capable of  relishing  those  divine  performances,  made  pretensions 
to  instantaneous  raptures  on  first  beholding  them. — My  not  relish- 


CLV. 

Enter : its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not ; 3 
And  why  ? it  is  not  lessen’d  ; but  thv  nmia, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot,  ‘ 

Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined, 

Sec  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  his  brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou  movest — but  increasing  with  the  advance, 
Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  rise. 
Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance  ; 

Vastness  which  grows — but  grows  to  harmonise — 
All  musical  in  its  immensities  ; [flame 

Rich  marbles  — richer  painting  — shrines  where 
The  lamps  of  gold — and  haughty  dome  which  vies 
In  air  with  Earth’s  cliief  structures,  though  their 
frame  [must  claim. 

Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground — and  this  the  clouds 

CL  VII. 

Thou  seest  not  all ; but  piecemeal  thou  must  break. 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole ; 

And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 

That  ask  the  eye — so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part, 

The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart, 

CLVIII. 

Not  by  its  fault — but  thine  : Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp — and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  faint  expression  ; even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o’erwhelming  edifice 
Eools  our  fond  gaze,  and  greatest  of  the  great 
Defies  at  first  our  Nature’s  littleness, 

Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then  pause,  and  be  enlighten’d  ; there  is  more 
In  such  a survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would  adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  time,  nor  skill,  nor  thought  could  plan , 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  displays 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptions  can. 


ing  them  as  I was  conscious  I ought  to  have  done,  was  one  of  the 
most  humiliating  circumstances  that  ever  happened  to  me ; I found 
myself  in  the  midst  of  works  executed  upon  principles  with  which 
1 was  unacquainted:  I felt  my  ignorance,  and  stood  abashed.  All 
the  indigested  notions  of  painting  which  I had  brought  with  me 
from  England,  where  the  art  was  in  the  lowest  state  it  had  ever 
been  in,  were  to  be  totally  done  away  and  eradicated  from  my 
mind.  It  was  necessary,  as  it  is  expressed  on  a very  solemn 
occasion,  that  I should  become  as  a little  child.  Notwithstanding 
my  disappointment,  I proceeded  to  copy  some  of  those  excellent 
works.  I viewed  them  again  and  again  : I even  affected  to  feel 
their  merit  and  admire  them  more  than  I really  did.  In  a short 
time,  a new  t^ste  and  a new  perception  began  to  dawn  upon  me, 
and  I was  convinced  thatl  hadoriginally  formed  afalse  opinion  of  the 
perfection  of  the  art,  and  that  this  great  painter  was  well  entitled  to 

flw*  LLrVi  rank  whinlt  bo  hrtlrlc  in  tVwa  ArlmirAtirtn  rtf  nrrtrlrl 


CANTO  IT. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


59 


CLX. 

Or,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 
Laocoon’s  torture  dignifying  pain — 

A father’s  love  and  mortal’s  agony 
With  an  immortal’s  patience  blending  : — Vain 
'The  struggle ; vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon’s  grasp, 

The  old  man’s  clench;  the  long-envcnom’d  chain 
Rivets  the  living  links, — the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gasp. 

CLXT. 

Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow. 

The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light — 

The  Sun  in  human  limbs  array’d,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight ; 

The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot — the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortal’s  vengeance  ; in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  and  might 
And  majesty,  flash  their  full  lightnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

CLXII. 

But  in  his  delicate  form — a dream  of  Love, 

Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Long’d  for  a deathless  lover  from  above, 

And  madden’d  in  that  vision — are  exprest 

All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  bless’d 

The  mind  within  its  most  unearthly  mood, 

When  each  conception  was  a heavenly  guest — 

A ray  of  immortality — and  stood, 

Starlike,  around,  until  they  gather’d  to  a god  ! 

CLXIII. 

And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  array’d 
With  an  eternal  glory — which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought ; 

Ar^  Time  himself  hath  hallow’d  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust — nor  hath  it  caught 
A.  tinge  01  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which 
’t  was  wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song, 

The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the  past  ? 
Methinks  he  cometh  late  and  tames  long. 

He  is  no  more — these  breathings  are  his  last ; 

His  wanderings  done,  his  visions  ebbing  fast. 

And  he  himself  as  nothing : — if  he  was 
Aught  but  a phantasy,  and  could  be  class’d 
With  forms  which  live  and  suffer — let  that  pass — 
EL's  shadow  fades  away  into  Destruction’s  mass, 

CLXV. 

Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  all 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud, 

A.nd  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall  [cloud 
Through  which  all  things  grow  phantoms;  and  the 
Between  us  sinks  and  all  which  ever  glow’d, 

Till  Glory’s  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A melancholy  halo  scarce  allow’d 


(1)  The  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  has  been  a shock 
even  here  (Venice),  and  must  have  been  an  earthquake  at  home. 
The  fate  of  this  poor  girl  is  melancholy  in  every  respect;  dying  at 
twenty  or  so,  in  childbed — af  a boy  too,  a present  princess  and 


To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness  ; rays 
Sadder  than  saddest  night,  for  they  distract  the  gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss, 

To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
I ts  wretched  essence  ; and  to  dream  of  fame, 

And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear, — but  never  more, 

Oh,  happier  thought ! can  we  be  made  the  same  : 

It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore  [was  gore. 
These  fardels  of  the  heart — the  heart  whose  sweat 

CLXVIT. 

Hark  ! forth  from  the  abyss  a voice  proceeds, 

A long,  low,  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 

JSuch  as  arises  when  a nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound; 

Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending 
ground, 

The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown’d, 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou  ? 
Pond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead? 

Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head  ? 

In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled, 

The  mother  of  a moment,  o’er  thy  boy, 

Death  hush’d  that  pang  for  ever : with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  fill’d  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seem’d  to  cloj . 

CLXIX. 

Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety. — Can  it  be, 

Oh  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored ! 

Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee, 
And  Freedom’s  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard 
Her  many  griefs  for  One  ; for  she  had  pour’d 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o’er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris. — Thou,  too,  lonely  lord, 

And  desolate  consort — vainly  wert  thou  wed  ! 

The  husband  of  a year  ! the  father  of  the  dead  ! 

CLXX. 

Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding  garment  made ; 

Thy  bridal’s  fruit  is  ashes : in  the  dust 
The  fair-hair’d  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 

The  love  of  millions  ! How  we  did  entrust 
Futurity  to  her  ! and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deem’d 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  bless’d 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seem’d 
Like  stars  to  shepherds’  eyes : — ’t  was  but  a meteor 
beam’d. 

CLXXI. 

Woe  unto  us,  not  her ; 1 for  she  sleeps  well : 

The  fickle  reek  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle. 

Which  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 


future  queen,  and  just  as  she  began  to  be  happy,  and  to  enjoy  her- 
self, and  the  hopes  which  she  inspired.  I feel  sorry  in  every 
respect.” — Byron  Letters.] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


cantp  rr 


BO 


Its  knell  in  princely  ears,  till  the  o’erstung 
Nations  have  arm’d  in  madness,  the  strange  fate  1 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath  flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a weight 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon  or 
late, — 

CLXXII. 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny ; bu  i no, 

Our  hearts  deny  it : and  so  young,  so  fair, 

Good  without  effort,  great  without  a foe  ; 

But  now  a bride  and  mother — and  now  there! 

How  many  ties  did  that  stern  moment  tear  ! 

Prom  thy  Sire’s  to  his  humblest  subject’s  breast 
Is  link’d  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair, 

Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake’s,  and  opprest 
The  land  which  loved  thee  so  that  none  could  love 
thee  best. 

CLXXIII. 

. jo,  Nemi ! 2 navell’d  in  the  woody  hills 
So  far,  that  the  uprooting  wind  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  which  spills 
The  ocean  o’er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  agains.t  the  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  glassy  lake ; 

And,  calm  as  cherish’d  hate,  its  surface  wears 
A deep  cold  settled  aspect  nought  can  shake, 

All  coil’d  into  itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  the  snake. 

CLXXIV. 

And  near  Albano’s  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a sister  valley ; — and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast  where  sprung  the  Epic  war, 

“ Arms  and  the  Man,”  whose  re-ascending  star 
Rose  o’er  an  empire  : — but  beneath  thy  right 
Tally  reposed  from  Rome ; — and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight 
die  Sabine  farm  was  till’d,  the  weary  bard’s  delight.3 

CLXXV. 

But  I forget. — My  Pilgrim’s  shrine  is  won. 

And  he  and  I must  part, — so  let  it  be — 

His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done  ; 

Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea ; 

The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 

And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  Ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  by  Calpc’s  rock  unfold 
Those  waves,  we  follow’d  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roll’d 

CLXXVI. 

Upon  the  blue  Symplegades  : long  years — 

Long,  though  not  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both ; some  suffering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun : 

Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run, 

We  have  had  our  reward — and  it  is  here; 

That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden’d  by  the  sun, 


(1)  Mary  died  on  the  scaffold ; Elizabeth  of  a broken  heart; 
Charles  V.  a hermit;  Louis  XIV.  a bankrupt  in  means  and  glory; 
Cromwell  of  anxiety;  and,  “ the  greatest  is  behind,”  Napoleon 
lives  a prisoner.  To  these  sovereigns  a long  but  superfluous  list 
might  be  added  of  names  equally  illustrious  and  unhappy. 

(2)  The  village  of  Nemi  was  neat  the  Arician  retreat  of 
Egeria,  and,  from  the  shades  which  embosomed  the  temple  of 

Ciana,  has  preserved  to  this  day  its  distinctive  appellation  ol  The 


And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  a ear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 

' CLXXVTI. 

Oh  ! that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 

With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister. 

That  I might  all  forget  the  human  race. 

And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her ! 

Ye  Elements ! — in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I feel  myself  exalted — Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a being  ? Do  I err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a spot  ? 

Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There  is  a pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 

There  is  a rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 

There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 

By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 

I love  not  man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 

Erom  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I steal 
Erom  all  I may  be,  or  have  been  before, 

To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I can  ne’er  express,  yet  can  not  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll  l 
Ten  thousand  fleets  swTeep  over  thee  in  vain ; 

Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A shadow  of  man’s  ravage,  save  his  own, 

When,  for  a moment,  like  a drop  of  rain, 

He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a grave,  unknell’d,  uncoffm’d,  and  unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee ; the  vile  strength  Lt 
wields 

Eor  earth’s  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 

And  send’st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 

And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  : — there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 

And  monarch  s tremble  in  their  capitals, 

The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; 

These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 

They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada’s  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 


Grove.  Nemi  is  but  an  evening’s  ride  from  the  comfortable  inn  of 
Albano. 

(3)  The  whole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of  unrivalled  beauty, 
and  from  the  convent  on  the  highest  point,  which  has  succeeded 
to  the  temple  of  the  Latian  Jupiter,  the  prospect  embraces  all  the 
objects  alluded  to  in  this  stanza;  the  Mediterranean;  the  whole 
scene  of  the  latter  half  of  the  jEneid,  and  the  coast  from  beyond 
the  mouth  of  the  Tiber  to  the  headland  of  Circaeum  and  the 
Cape  of  Terraci'na. — See  Appendix,  “ Historical  Notes,'  No.  xxxt- 


61 


CANTO  IV. 


CHILDE  HAROLD’S  PILGRIMAGE. 


clxxxii. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee— 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  r 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  fiee. 

And  many  a tyrant  since ; their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  ; their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts : — not  so  thou. 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  wraves  play 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 

Such  as  creation’s  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

clxxxiii. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty’s  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests ; in  all  time. 

Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving  ; — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ; even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ; each  zone 
Obeys  thee ; thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I have  loved  thee,  Ocean  ! 2 and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward : from  a boy 
I wanton’d  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 


(1)  [When  Lord  Byron  wrote  this  stanza,  he  had,  no  doubt,  the 
following  passage  in  Boswell’s  Johnson  floating  on  his  mind.  - 
“ Dining  one  day  with  General  Paoli,  and  talking  of  his  projected 
journey  to  Italy,—*  A man,’  said  Johnson,  * who  has  not  been  in 
Italy,  is  always  conscious  of  an  inferiority,  from  his  not  hating 
seen  what  it  is  expected  a man  should  see.  The  grand  object  of 
all  travelling  is  to  see  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  On  those 
shores  were  the  four  great  empires  of  the  world;  the  Assyrian,  the 
Tersian,  the  Grecian,  and  the  Roman.  All  our  religion,  almost  all 
our  law,  almost  all  our  arts,  almost  all  that  sets  us  above  savages, 
has  come  to  us  from  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.’  The 
General  observed,  that  ‘The  Mediterranean’  would  be  a noble 
subject  for  a poem.” — Life  of  Johnson,  vol.  v.  p.  145.  ed.  18.15.] 

(2)  [“  This  passage  would,  perhaps,  he  read  without  emotion, 
if  we  did  not  know  that  Lord  Byron  was  here  describing  his  actual 
feelings  and  habits,  and  that  this  was  an  unaffected  picture  of  his 
propensities  and  amusements  even  from  childhood,  when  he 
listened  to  the  roar,  and  watched  the  bursts  of  the  northern  ocean 
on  the  tempestuous  shores  of  Aberdeenshire.  It  was  a fearful  and 
violent  change  at  the  age  of  ten  years  to  be  separated  from  this 
congenial  solitude,— this  independence  so  suited  to  his  haughty  and 
contemplative  spirit,— this  rude  grandeur  of  nature,— and  thrown 
among  the  mere  worldly-minded  and  selfish  ferocity,  the  affected 
polish  and  repelling  coxcombry,  of  a great  public  school.  How 
many  thousand  times  did  the  moody,  sullen,  and  indignant  boy 
wish  himself  back  to  the  keen  air  and  boisterous  billows  that  broke 
lonely  upon  the  simple  and  soul-invigorating  haunts  of  his  child- 
hood 1 How  did  he  prefer  some  ghost-story ; some  tale  of  second- 
sight;  some  relation  of  Robin  Hood’s  feats;  some  harrowing 
narrative  of  buccaneer-exploits,  to  all  of  Horace,  and  Virgil,  and 
Homer,  that  was  dinned  into  his  repulsive  spirit ! To  the  shock  of 
this  change  is,  I suspect,  to  be  traced  much  of  the  eccentricity  of 


Were  a delight ; and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a terror— ’t  was  a pleasing  fear, 

For  I was  as  it  were  a child  of  thee, 

And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 

And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane— as  I do  here. 

CLXXXV. 

My  task  is  done 3 — my  song  hath  ceased — my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo ; it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguish’d  which  hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamp— and  what  is  writ,  is  writ, — 
'Would  it  were  worthier ! but  I am  not  now 
That  which  I have  been — and  my  visions  flit 
Less  palpably  before  me — and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  fluttering,  faint,  and  low. 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell ! a word  that  must  he,  and  hath  been 
A sound  which  makes  ns  linger ; — yet— farewell ! 
Ye  ! who  have  .traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A thought  which  once  was  liis,  if  on  ye  swell 
A single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon,  and  scallop-shell ; 
Farewell ! with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain, 

If  such  there  were — with  you , the  moral  of  his  strain  . 


Lord  Byron’s  future  life.  This  fourth  Canto  is  the  fruit  of  a mind 
which  had  stored  itself  with  great  care  and  toil,  and  had  digested 
with  profound  reflection  and  intense  vigour  what  it  had  lear ned . 
the  sentiments  are  not  such  as  lie  on  the  surface,  but  could  only  be 
awakened  by  long  meditation.  Whoever  reads  it,  and  is  not  im- 
pressed with  the  many  grand  virtues  as  well  as  gigantic  powers  of 
the  mind  that  wrote  it,  seems  to  me  to  afford  a proof  boU  of  in- 
sensibility of  heart,  and  great  stupidity  of  intellect.  —SIR  is. 

It  was  a thought  worthy  of  the  great  spirit  of  Byron, 
after  exhibiting  to  us  his  Pilgrim  amidst  all  the  most  striking 
scenes  of  earthly  grandeur  and  earthly  decay,— after  teaching  us, 
like  him,  to  sicken  over  the  mutability,  and  vanity,  and  emptiness 
of  human  greatness,  to  conduct  him  and  us  at  last  to  the  borders  of 
« the  Great  Deep.’  It  is  there  that  we  may  perceive  an  image  of 
the  awful  and  unchangeable  abyss  of  eternity,  into  whose  bosom  so 
much  has  sunk,  and  and  all  shall  one  day  sink,— of  that  eternity 
wherein  the  scorn  and  the  contempt  of  man,  and  the  melancholy 
of  great,  and  the  fretting  of  little  minds,  shall  he  at  rest  for  ever 
No  one  but  a true  poet  of  man  and  of  nature,  would  have  dared  to 
frame  such  a termination  for  such  a Pilgrimage.  The  image  of 
the  wanderer  may  well  be  associated,  ior  a time,  with  the  rock  of 
Caine,  the  shattered  temples  of  Athens,  or  the  gigantic  fragments 
of  Rome;  but  when  we  wish  to  think  of  this  dark  personification 
as  of  a thing  which  is,  where  can  we  so  well  imagine  him  to  have 
his  daily  haunt  as  by  the  roaring  of  the  waves?  It  was  thus  that 
Homer  represented  Achilles  in  his  moments  of  ungovernable  and 
inconsolable  grief  for  the  loss  of  Patroclus.  It  was  thus  he  chose 
to  depict  the  paternal  despair  of  Cliriseus— 

]in  b'  uKecov  ffapu  0iVa  vo\v<p\oi«3oto  6*Xdecitt. 

— WlMOX.} 


Zi)t  Giaour ; 

A.  FRAGMENT  OF  A TURKISH  TALE.1 


14  Ore  fatal  remembrance — one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o’er  our  joys  and  our  woes — 

To  which  Life  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring, 

For  which  joy  hath  no  balm— and  affliction  no  sting.” 

Moore. 


to 

SAMUEL  ROGERS,  ESQ. 

At  A SLIGHT  BUT  MOST  SINCERE  TOKEN  OF  ADMIRATION  FOR  HIS  GENIUS, 
RESPECT  FOR  HIS  CHARACTER,  AND  GRATITUDE  FOR  HIS  FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS  PRODUCTION  IS  INSCRIBED 


London,  May , 1813. 


BY  HIS  OBLIGED  AND  AFFECTIONATE  SERVANT, 

BYRON. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  tale  which  these  disjointed  fragments  present, 
is  founded  upon  circumstances  now  less  common  in 
the  East  than  formerly ; either  because  the  ladies 
are  more  circumspect  than  in  the  “ olden  time,”  or 
because  the  Christians  have  better  fortune,  or  less 
enterprise.  The  story,  when  entire,  contained  the 
adventures  of  a female  slave,  who  was  thrown,  in 
the  Mussulman  manner,  into  the  sea,  for  infidelity, 
and  avenged  by  a young  Venetian,  her  lover,  at  the  j 
time  the  Seven  Islands  were  possessed  by  the  Re- 
public of  Venice,  and  soon  after  the  Arnauts  were 
beaten  back  from  the  Morea,  which  they  had  ravaged 
for  some  time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  invasion. 
The  desertion  of  the  Mainotes,  on  being  refused  the 
plunder  of  Misitra,  led  to  the  abandonment  of  that 
enterprise,  and  to  the  desolation  of  the  Morea, 
during  which  the  cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides  was 
unparalleled  even  in  the  annals  of  the  faithful.2 


(1)  [The  “ Giaour”  was  published  in  May  1813,  and  abundantly 
sustained  the  impression  created  by  the  two  first  cantos  of  Childe 
Harold.  It  is  obvious  that  in  this,  the  first  of  his  romantic 
narratives,  Lord  Byron’s  versification  reflects  the  admiration  he 
always  avowed  for  Mr.  Coleridge’s  “ Christabel,” — the  irregular 
rhythm  of  which  had  already  been  adopted  in  the  “ Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel.”  The  fragmentary  style  of  the  composition  was 
suggested  by  the  then  new  and  popular  “ Columbus  ” of  Mr.  Rogers. 
As  to  the  subject,  it  was  not  merely  by  recent  travel  that  the  author 
had  familiarised  himself  with  Turkish  history.  “ Old  Knolles,” 
he  said  at  Missolonghi,  a few  weeks  before  his  death,  “ was  one 
of  the  first  books  that  gave  me  pleasure  when  a child  ; and  I believe 
it  had  much  influence  on  my  future  wishes  to  visit  the  Levant,  and 
gave,  perhaps,  the  oriental  colouring  which  is  observed  in  my 
poetry.”  In  the  margin  of  his  copy  of  Mr.  D’lsraeli’s  Essay  on  the 
Literary  Character,  we  find  the  following  note: — “Knolles,  Can- 
temir,  De  Tott,  Lady  M.  W.  Montague,  Hawkins’s  translation  from 
Mignot’s  History  of  the  Turks,  the  Arabian  Nights — all  travels  or 
histories,  or  books  upon  the  East,  I could  meet  with,  1 had  read, 
as  well  as  lticaut,  before  I was  ten  years  old .”] 

(2)  [An  event,  in  which  Lord  Byron  was  personally  concerned, 
undoubtedly  supplied  the  groundwork  of  t'rfis  tale;  but  for  the 
story,  so  circumstantially  put  forth,  of  his  having  himself  been  the 
lover  of  this  female  slave,  there  is  no  foundation.  The  girl  whose 
life  the  poet  naved  at  Athens  was  not,  we  are  assured  by  Sir  John 


®f)e  (Siaour. 

No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian’s  grave, 
That  tomb3  which,  gleaming  o’er  the  cliff. 
First  greets  the  homeward  veering  ski.'f, 
High  o’er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain ; 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again  ? 

* * * * * 

Fair  clime ! 4 where  every  season  smiles 
Benignant  o’er  those  blessed  isles, 

Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna’s  height, 
Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight. 
And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 

There  mildly  dimplmg,  Ocean’s  check 
Reflects  the  tints  of  many  a peak 
Caught  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave : 


Ilobliouse,  an  object  of  his  Lordship’s  attachment,  but  of  that  of 

his  Turkish  servant.  For  the  Marquis  of  Sligo’s  account  of  th« 
aflair,  s*e  Moore’s  Notices.] 

(3)  A tomb  above  the  rocks  on  the  promontory,  by  some  sup- 
posed the  sepulchre  of  Themistocles. — [“  There  are,”  says  Cumber- 
land, in  his  Observer,  “ a few  lines  by  Plato,  upon  the  tomb  of 
Themistocles,  which  have  a turn  of  elegant  and  pathetic  simplicity 
in  them,  that  deserves  a better  translation  than  I can  give : — 

‘ By  the  sea’s  margin,  on  the  watery  strand, 

Thy  monument,  Themistocles,  shall  stand : 

By  this  directed  to  thy  native  shore, 

The  merchant  shall  convey  his  freighted  store; 

And  when  our  fleets  are  summoned  to  the  fight, 

Athens  shall  conquer  with  thy  tomb  in  sight.’  ”] 

(4)  [“  Of  the  beautiful  flow  of  Byron's  fancy,”  says  Moore, 
“ when  its  sources  were  once  opened  on  any  subject,  the  Giaour 
affords  one  of  the  most  remarkable  instances  : this  poem  having 
accumulated  under  his  hand,  both  in  printing  and  through 
successive  editions,  till  from  four  hundred  lines,  of  which  it  con- 
sisted in  its  first  copy,  it  at  present  amounts  to  fourto^u  hundred. 
The  plan,  indeed,  which  he  had  adopted,  of  a series  of  fragments, — 
a set  of  ‘orient  pearls  at  random  strung’ — left  him  free  to  in 
troduce,  without  reference  to  more  than  the  general  complexion  of 


TILE  GIAOUR. 


63 


And  if  at  times  a transient  breeze 
Break  the  blue  crystal  of  the  seas, 

Or  sweep  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 

How  welcome  is  each  gentle  air 
That  wakes  and  wafts  the  odours  there ! 

Bor  there — the  Hose  o’er  crag  or  vale. 
Sultana  of  the  Nightingale,1 
The  maid  for  whom  his  melody, 

His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high. 
Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover’s  tale  : 

His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose, 
Unbent  by  winds,  unchill’d  by  snows, 

Bar  from  the  winters  of  the  west. 

By  every  breeze  and  season  blest, 

Returns  the  sweets  by  nature  given 
In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven ; 

And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 
Her  lairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. 

And  many  a summer  flower  is  there, 

And  many  a shade  that  love  might  share. 
And  many  a grotto,  meant  for  rest, 

That  holds  the  pirate  for  a guest ; 

W hose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 
Lurks  for  the  passing  peaceful  prow, 

Till  the  gay  mariner’s  guitar 2 
Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star  ; 

Then  stealing  with  the  muillea  oar. 

Bar  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore, 

Rush  the  night-prowlers  on  the  prey, 

And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 

Strange — that  where  Nature  loved  to  trace, 
As  if  for  Gods,  a dwelling-place, 

And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mix’d 
Within  the  paradise  she  fix’d, 

There  man,  enamour’d  of  distress, 

Should  mar  it  into  wilderness. 

And  trample,  brute-like,  o’er  each  flower 
That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour; 

Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 
To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land, 


his  story,  whatever  sentiments  or  images  his  fancy,  in  its  excur- 
sions, could  collect ; and,  how  little  fettered  he  was  by  a<ny  re- 
gird to  connexion  in  these  additions,  appears  from  a note  which 
accompanied  his  own  copy  of  this  paragraph,  in  which  he  says, — 

• I have  not  yet  fixed  the  place  of  insertion  for  the  following  lines, 
hut  will,  when  I see  you — as  I have  no  copy.’  Even  into  this 
new  passage,  rich  as  it  was  at  first,  his  fancy  afterwards  poured 
a fresh  infusion.” — The  value  of  these  after  touches  of  the  master 
may  be  appreciated  by  comparing  the  following  verses,  from  his 
original  draft  of  this  paragraph,  with  the  form  which  they  now 
wear  : — 

“ Fair  clime  ! where  ceaseless  summer  smiles, 

Benignant  o’er  those  blessed  isles, 

Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna’s  height, 

Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight, 

And  give  to  loneliness  delight. 

There  shine  the  bright  abodes  ye  seek, 

Like  dimples  upon  Ocean's  cheek, 

So  smiling  round  the  waters  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  eastern  wave. 

Or  if,  at  times,  the  transient  breeze 
Break  the  smooth  crystal  of  the  seas, 

Or  brush  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 

How  grateful  is  the  gentle  air 

That  waves  and  wafts  the  fragrance  there.” 

The  whole  of  this  passage,  from  line  7.  down  to  line  167.,  “Who 
heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve,”  was  not  in  the  first  edition.] 

(1)  The  attachment  of  the  nightingale  to  the  rose  is  a well-known 
Persian  fable.  If  I mistake  not,  the  “ Bulbul  of  a thousand 
tales”  is  one  of  his  appellations.  [Thus,  Mesihi,  as  translated  by 
Sir  William  Jones  : — 

“ Come,  charming  maid  ! and  hear  thy  poet  sing, 

Thyself  the  rose,  and  he  the  bird  of  spring: 

Love  bids  him  sing,  and  Love  will  be  obey’d. 

Be  gay  : too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade.”] 


But  springs  as  to  preclude  bis  care, 

And  sweetly  woos  him — but  to  spare ! 
Strange — that  where  ail  is  peace  beside, 
There  passioii  riots  in  her  pride, 

And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign 
To  darken  o’er  the  fair  domain. 

It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevail’d 
Against  the  seraphs  they  assail’d, 

And,  fix’d  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 
The  freed  inheritors  of  hell ; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  form’d  for  joy. 

So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy  ! 


He  who  hath  bent  him  o’er  the  dead 3 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 

The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness. 

The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 

(Before  Decay’s  effacing  fingers 

Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers,) 

And  mark’d  the  mild  angelic  air, 

The  rapture  of  repose  that’s  there,4 
The  fix’d  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek, 

And — but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye, 

That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now. 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow. 
Where  cold  Obstruction’s  apathy 5 
Appals  the  gazing  mourner’s  heart. 

As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 

The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon : 

Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone, 

Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour. 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant’s  power; 

So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal’d, 

The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal’d  ! 6 
Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore  ; 

’Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more ! 7 
So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 


(2)  The  guitar  is  the  constant  amusement  of  the  Greek  sailor  by 
night:  with  a steady  fair  wind,  and  during  a calm,  it  is  accom- 
panied always  by  the  voice,  and  often  by  dancing. 

(3)  [If  once  the  public  notice  is  drawn  to  a poet,  the  talents 
he  exhibits  on  a nearer  view,  the  weight  his  mind  carries  with  it  in 
his  every-day  intercourse,  somehow  or  other,  are  reflected  around 
on  his  compositions,  and  co-operate  in  giving  a collateral  force  to 
their  impression  on  the  public.  To  this  we  must  assign  some  part 
of  the  impression  made  by  the  “Giaour.”  The  thirty-five  lines 
beginning  “ He  who  hath  bent  him  o’er  the  dead”  are  so  beautitul, 
so  original,  and  so  utterly  beyond  the  reach  of  any  one  whose 
poetical  genius  was  not  very  decided,  and  very  rich,  that  they 
alone,  under  the  circumstances  explained,  were  sufficient  to  secure 
celebrity  to  this  poem.— Sir  E.  Brydges.] 

(4)  [“  And  mark’d  the  almost  dreaming  air 

Which  speaks  the  sweet  repose  that’s  there.” — MS.] 

(5)  “ Ay,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where, 

To  lye  in  cold  obstruction  ? ” — 

Measure  for  Measure,  act  iii.  sc.  2. 

(6)  I trust  that  few  of  my  renders  have  ever  had  an  opportunity 
of  witnessing  what  is  here  attempted  in  description ; but  those 
who  have  will  probably  retain  a painful  remembrance  of  that  sin- 
gular beauty  which  pervades,  with  few  exceptions,  the  features  of 
the  dead,  a few  hours,  and  but  for  a few  hours,  after  “ the  spirit  is 
not  there.”  It  is  to  be  remarked  in  cases  of  violent  deatli  by  gun- 
shot wounds,  the  expression  is  always  that  of  languor,  whatever 
the  natural  energy  of  the  sufferer’s  character:  but  in  death  from  a 
stab  the  countenance  preserves  its  traits  of  feeling  or  ferocity,  and 
the  mind  its  bias,  to  the  last. 

(7)  [In  Dallaway’s  Constantinople,  a* * book  which  Lord  Byron  is 
not  unlikely  to  have  consulted,  I find  a passage  quoted  from 
Gillies’s  History  of  Greece,  which  contains,  perhaps,  the  first 
seed  of  the  thought  thus  expanded  into  lull  perfection  by  genius 


64 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath ; 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 

. That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 

Expression’s  last  receding  ray, 

A gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay. 

The  farewell  beam  of  Reeling  past  away ! 
fpark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherish’d  earth !*  1 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 2 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom’s  home  or  Glory’s  grave! 

Shrine  of  the  mighty ! can  it  be, 

That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 

Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave : 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ? 

These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave. 

Oh  servile  offspring  of  the  free — 

Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this  ? 

The  gulf,  the  rock  of  Salamis ! 

These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown. 

Arise,  and  make  again  your  own ; 

Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires ; 

And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a name  of  fear 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear. 

And  leave  his  sons  a hope,  a fame, 

They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame  : 

For  Freedom’s  battle  once  begun, 

Bequeath’d  by  bleeding  Sire  to  Son, 

Though  baffled  oft  is  ever  won. 

Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page. 

Attest  it  many  a deatliless  age  ! 

While  kings,  m dusty  darkness  hid, 

Have  left  a nameless  pyramid, 

Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 

A mightier  monument  command. 

The  mountains  of  their  native  land  ! 

There  points  thy  Muse  to  stranger’s  eye 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die  ! 

’Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  frace. 

Each  step  from  splendour  to  disgrace ; 

Enough — no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell ; 

Yes  ! Self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot  sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore  ? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time. 

No  theme  on  which  the  muse  might  soar 
High  as  thine  own  in  days  of  yore, 


“ The  present  state  of  Greece  compared  to  the  ancient,  is  the  silent 
obscurity  of  the  grave  contrasted  with  the  vivid  lustre  of  active 
life.” — Moore.] 

(1)  [There  is  infinite  beauty  and  effect,  though  of  a painful  and 
almost  oppressive  character,  in  this  extr.iordinary  passage;  in  which 
the  author  has  illustrated  the  beautiful  but  still  and  melancholy 
aspect  of  the  once  busy  and  glorious  shores  of  Greece,  by  an  image 
more  true,  more  mournful,  and  more  exquisitely  finished,  than 
any  that  we  can  recollect  in  the  whole  compass  of  poetry. — 
Jeffrey.] 

(2)  [From  this  line  to  the  conclusion  of  the  paragraph,  the  MS. 
is  written  in  a hurried  and  almost  illegible  hand,  as  if  these  splen- 
did lines  had  been  poured  fyrth  in  one  continuous  burst  of  poetic 
feeling,  which  would  hardly  allow  time  for  the  hand  to  follow  the 
rapid  flow  of  the  imagination.] 

(3)  Athens  is  the  property  of  the  Kislar  Aga  (the  slave  of  the 


When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime 
The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred, 

The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime, 

Now  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 

Slaves — nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a slave,3 

And  callous,  save  to  crime  ; 

Stain’d  with  each  evil  that  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes ; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  blest, 

Without  one  free  or  valiant  breast. 

Still  to  the  neighbouring  ports  they  waft 
Proverbial  wiles,  and  ancient  craft ; 

In  this  the  subtle  Greek  is  found, 

For  this,  and  this  alone,  renown’d. 

In  vain  might  Liberty  invoke 
The  spirit  to  its  bondage  broke, 

Or  raise  the  neck  that  courts  the  yoke : 

No  more  her  sorrows  I bewail, 

Yet  this  will  be  a mournful  tale, 

And  they  who  listen  may  believe, 

Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  grieve. 

* * * * * 

Far,  dark,  along  the  blue  sea  glancing. 

The  shadows  of  the  rocks  advancing 
Start  on  the  fisher’s  eye  like  boat 
Of  island-pirate  or  Mainote  ; 

And  fearful  for  his  light  caique, 

He  shuns  the  near  but  doubtful  creek : 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil, 

And  cumber’d  with  his  scaly  spoil. 

Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  oar. 

Till  Port  Leone’s  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  light 
That  best  becomes  an  Eastern  night. 

* * * * * 

Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest  steed/ 
With  slacken’d  bit  and  hoof  of  speed  ? 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron’s  sound 
The  cavern’d  echoes  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound ; 

The  foam  that  streaks  the  courser’s  side 
Seems  gather’d  from  the  ocean-tide  : 

Though  weary  waves  are  sunk  to  rest, 
There’s  none  within  his  rider’s  breast ; 

And  though  to-morrow’s  tempest  lower, 

’Tis  calmer  than  tliv  heart,  young  Giaour  ’ * 
I know  thee  not,  I loathe  thy  race, 

But  in  thy  lineaments  I trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  efface : 
Though  young  and  pale,  that  sallow  front 
Is  scathed  by  fiery  passion’s  brunt ; 


seraglio  and  guardian  of  the  women),  who  appoints  the 
A pander  and  eunuch — these  are  not  polite,  yet  true  appc.]*xtio£« 
— now  governs  the  governor  of  Athens  ! 

(4)  [The  reciter  of  the  tale  is  a Turkish  fisherman,  who  has  been 
employed  during  the  day  in  the  gulf  of  jEgina,  and  in  the  evening, 
apprehensive  of  the  Mainote  pirates  who  infest  the  coast  of  Attica, 
lands  with  his  boat  on  the  harbour  of  Port  Leone,  the  ancient 
Pirajus.  lie  becomes  the  eye-witness  of  nearly  all  the  incidents  in 
the  story,  and  in  one  of  them  is  a principal  agent.  It  is  to  his  feel- 
ings, and  particularly  to  his  religious  prejudices,  that  we  are  in- 
debted for  some  of  the  most  forcible  and  splendid  parts  of  the  poem. 
— George  Ellis.] 

(5)  [In  Dr.  Clarke's  Travels,  this  word,  which  means  Infidel , is 
always  written  according  to  its  English  pronunciation,  Djour. 
Lord  Byron  adopted  the  Italian  spelling  usual  among  the  Franks  ol 
the  Levant,  j 


THE  GIAOUR. 


6a 


Though  bent  on  earth  thine  evil  eye, 

As  meteor-like  thou  glidest  by, 

Right  well  I view  and  deem  thee  one 
Whom  Otkman’s  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On— on  lie  hasten’d,  and  he  drew 
My  gaze  of  wonder  as  lie  Hew; 

Though  like  a demon  of  the  night 
He  pass’d,  and  vanish’d  from  my  sight. 

His  aspect  and  his  air  impress’d 
A troubled  memory  on  my  breast, 

And  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser’s  hoofs  of  fear. 

He  spurs  his  steed ; he  nears  the  steep, 

That,  jutting,  shadows  o’er  the  deep  ; 

He  winds  around  ; he  hurries  by ; 

The  rock  relieves  him  from  mine  eye  ; 

Tor  well  I ween  unwelcome  lie 
Whose  glance  is  fix’d  on  those  that  flee ; 

And  not  a star  but  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight, 
lie  wound  along ; but  ere  he  pass’d 
One  glance  he  snatch’d,  as  if  his  last, 

A moment  check’d  his  wheeling  steed, 

A moment  breathed  him  from  his  speed, 

A.  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood — 

Why  looks  he  o’er  the  olive  wood  ? 

The  crescent  glimmers  on  the  hill, 

The  Mosque’s  high  lamps  are  quivering  still : 

Though  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 

In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike,1 

The  flashes  of  each  joyous  peal 

Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem’s  zeal, 

To-night,  set  Rhamazani’s  sun ; 

To-night,  the  Bairam  feast ’s  begun  ; 
To-night — but  who  and  what  art  thou 
Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow  ? 

And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thee, 

That  thou  should’ st  either  pause  or  flee  ? 

He  stood — some  dread  was  on  his  face, 
Soon  Hatred  settled  in  its  place  : 

It  rose  not  with  the  reddening  flush 
Of  transient  Anger’ § hasty  blush,2 3 
But  pale  as  marble  o’er  the  tomb, 

Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloom. 


His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed ; 
lie  raised  his  arm,  aud  fiercely  raised, 

And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high, 

As  doubting  to  return  or  fly  ; 

Impatient  of  his  flight  delay’d,  _ 

Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neigh’d — 

Down  glanced  f hat  hand,  and  grasp’d  his  blade  , 
That  sound  had  burst  his  waking  dream, 

As  Slumber  starts  at  owlet’s  scream. 

The  spur  hath  lanced  his  courser’s  sides ; 

Away  ! away  ! for  life  he  rides  : 

Swift  as  the  hurl’d  on  high  jerreed4 
Springs  to  the  touch  his  startled  steed ; 

The  rock  is  doubled,  and  the  shore 
Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  more  ; 

The  crag  is  won,  no  more  is  seen 
His  Christian  crest  and  haughty  mien.5 * 
’Twas  but  an  instant  he  restrain'd 
That  fiery  barb  so  sternly  rein’d ; c 
’Twas  but  a moment  that  he  stood, 

Then  sped  as  if  by  death  pursued : 

But  in  that  instant  o’er  Ins  soul 
Winters  of  Memory  seem’d  to  roll, 

And  gather  in  that  drop  of  time 
A life  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 

O’er  him  who  loves,  or  hates,  or  fears, 

Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years  : 

What  felt  he  then,  at  once  opprest 
By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast  ? 

That  pause,  which  ponder’d  o’er  his  fate,, 

Oh,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date ! 

Though  in  Time’s  record  nearly  nought, 

It  was  Eternity  to  Thought ! 

Eor  infinite  as  boundless  space 
The  thought  that  Conscience  must  embrace. 
Which  in  itself  can  comprehend 
Woe  without  name,  or  hope,  or  end. 

The  hour  is  past,  the  Giaour  is  gone ; 

And  did  lie  fly  or  fall  alone  ? 7 
Woe  to  that  hour  he  came  or  went ! 

The  curse  for  Hassan’s  sin  was  sent 
To  turn  a palace  to  a tomb : 

He  came,  he  went,  like  the  Simoom,8 
That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom, 


(1)  “ Tophaike,”  musket.— The  Bairam  is  announced  by  the 
cannon  at  sunset ; the  illumination  of  the  Mosques,  and  the  firing 
of  all  kinds  of  small  arms,  loaded  with  ball,  proclaim  it  during  the 
night. 

(2)  [“  Hasty  blush.”— For  hasty,  all  the  editions  till  the  twelfth 
read  “ darkening  blush.”  On  the  back  of  a copy  of  the  eleventh, 
Lord  Byron  has  written,  “ Why  did  not  the  printer  attend  to  the 
solitary  correction  so  repeatedly  made?  I have  no  copy  of  this, 
and  desire  to  have  none  till  my  request  is  complied  with.  ’] 

(3)  [“  Then  turned  it  swiftly  to  his  blade, 

As  load  his  raven  charger  neigh’d.” — MS.] 

(4)  Jerreed,  or  Djerrid,  a blunted  Turkish  javelin,  which  is 
darted  from  horseback  with  great  force  and  precision.  It  is  a 
favourite  exercise  of  the  Mussulmans;  but  I know  not  if  it  can  be 
called  a marly  one,  since  the  most  expert  in  the  art  are  the  Black 
Eunuchs  of  Constantinople.  I think,  next  to  these,  a Mamlouk  at 
Smyrna  was  the  most  skilful  that  came  within  my  observation. 

(5)  [Every  gesture  of  the  impetuous  horseman  is  full  of  anxiety 
and  passion.  In  the  midst  of  his  career,  whilst  in  full  view  of  the 
astonished  spectator,  he  suddenly  checks  his  steed,  and  rising  on 
his  stirrup,  surveys,  with  a look  of  agonizing  impatience,  the  dis- 

tant city  illuminated  for  the  feast  of  Bairam  : then  pale  with  anger, 

raises  liis  arm  as  if  in  menace  of  an  invisible  enemy ; but  awakened 
from  his  trance  of  passion  by  the  neighing  of  his  charger,  again 

hurries  forward,  and  disappears.— George  Ellis.] 


(6)  [“  ’Twas  but  an  instant,  though  so  long 

When  thus  dilated  in  my  song.” — MS.] 


(7)  [“  But  neither  fled  nor  fell  alone.”— MS.] 

(8)  The  blast  of  the  desert,  fatal  to  every  thing  living,  and  often 
alluded  to  in  eastern  poetry.-]  Abyssinian  Bruce  gn:es  perhaps 
the  liveliest  account  of  the  appearance  and  effects  of  the  suffocating 
blast  of  the  Desert “ At  eleven  o’clock,”  he  says,  wline i we  con- 
templated with  great  pleasure  the  rugged  top  of  Chiggrc,  to  which 
we  were  fast  approaching,  and  where  we  were  to  solace  ourselves 
with  plenty  of  good  water,  Idris,  our  guide,  cried  out  with  a loud 
voice,  ‘ Fall  upon  your  faces,  for  here  is  the  simoom.  I saw  from  the 
south-east  a haze  come,  in  colour  like  the  purple  part  of  the  rain- 
bow, but  not  so  compressed  or  thick.  It  did  not 

yards  in  breadth,  and  was  about  twelve  feet  high  from  the  ground. 
It  was  a kind  of  blush  upon  the  air,  and  it  moved  very  rapidlj , ; 
for  1 scarce  could  turn  to  fall  upon  the  ground,  with  my  head  to 
the  northward,  when  I felt  the  heat  of  its  current  plainly  upon  my 
face.  We  all  lay  flat  on  the  ground  as  if  dead,  till  Idris  told  us  it 
was  blown  over.  The  meteor,  or  purple  haze,  which  1 saw  was, 
indeed,  passed,  but  the  light  air,  which  still  blew,  was  of  a heat  to 
threaten  suffocation.  For  my  part,  I found  distinctly  m my  breast 
that  I had  imbibed  a part  of  it;  nor  was  I free  of  an  asthmatic 
sensation  till  I had  been  some  months  in  Italy,  at  the  baths  of 
Poretta,  near  two  years  afterwards.’  —See  Bruce  s Life  and  1 ravels 
p.  470.  edit.  1830.] 


66 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Beneath  whose  widely-wasting  breath 
The  very  cypress  droops  to  death — 

Dark  tree,  still  sad  when  others’  grief  is  fie  i 
The  only  constant  mourner  o’er  the  dead ! 

The  steed  is  vanish’d  from  the  stall ; 

No  serf  is  seen  in  Hassau’s  hall ; 

The  lonely  Spider’s  thin  gray  pall 
Waves  slowly  widening  o’er  the  wall ; 1 
The  Bat  builds  in  his  Haram  bower, 

And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 
The  Owl  usurps  the  beacon-tower ; 

The  wild-dog  howls  o’er  the  fountain’s  brim. 

With  baffled  thirst,  and  famine,  grim  ; 2 
For  the  stream  has  shrunk  from  its  marble  bed, 
Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are  spread. 
*Twas  sweet  of  yore  to  see  it  play 
And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day, 

As  springing  high  the  silver  dew 
In  whirls  fantastically  flew. 

And  flung  luxurious  coolness  round 
The  air,  and  verdure  o’er  the  ground. 

’Twas  sweet,  when  cloudless  stars  were  bright. 

To  view  the  wave  of  watery  light. 

And  hear  its  melody  by  night. 

And  oft  had  Hassan’s  Childhood  play’d 
Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade ; 

And  oft  upon  his  mother’s  breast 
That  sound  had  harmonized  his  rest ; 

And  oft  had  Hassan’s  Youth  along 
Its  bank  been  soothed  by  Beauty’s  song; 

And  softer  seem’d  each  melting  tone 
Of  Music  mingled  with  its  own. 

But  ne’er  shall  Hassan’s  Age  repose 
Along  the  brink  at  twilight’s  close : 

The  stream  that  filled  that  font  is  fled — 

The  blood  that  warm’d  his  heart  is  shed  ! 3 
And  here  no  more  shall  human  voice 
Be  heard  to  rage,  regret,  rejoice. 

The  last  sad  note  that  swell’ d the  gale 
’Was  woman’s  wildest  funeral  wail : 

That  quench’d  in  silence,  ail  is  still, 

But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill : 
Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  rain. 

No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again.4 
On  desert  sands  ’twere  joy  to  scan 
The  rudest  steps  of  fellow  man, 


(1)  [“  The  lonely  spider’s  thin  gray  pall 

Is  curtained  on  the  splendid  wall.” — MS.] 

(2)  [“  The  wild-dog  howls  o’er  the  fountain’s  brink, 

But  vainly  tells  his  tongue  to  drink.” — MS.] 

(3)  [“  For  thirsty  fox  and  jackal  gaunt 

May  vainly  for  its  waters  pant.” — MS.] 

(4)  [This  part  of  the  narrative  not  only  contains  much  brilliant 

and  just  description,  but  is  managed  with  unusual  taste.  The 

fisherman  has,  hitherto,  related  nothing  more  than  the  extraordi- 
nary  phenomenon  which  had  excited  his  curiosity,  and  of  which  it 

is  his  immediate  object  to  explain  the  cause  to  his  hearers;  but 

instead  of  proceeding  to  do  so,  he  stops  to  vent  his  execrations  on 
the  Giaour,  to  describe  the  solitude  of  Hassan’s  once  luxurious 
haram,  and  to  lament  the  untimely  death  of  the  owner,  and  of 
Leila,  together  with  the  cessation  of  that  hospitality  which  they 
had  mrformly  experienced.  He  reveals,  as  it  unintentionally  and 
unconsciously,  the  catastrophe  of  his  story;  but  he  thus  prepares 
his  appeal  to  the  sympathy  of  his  audience,  without  much  dimi- 
nishing their  suspense. — George  Ellis.] 

(3)  [”  I have  just  recollected  an  alteration  you  may  make  in  the 
proof.  Among  the  lines  on  Hassan’s  Serai,  is  this — 

‘ Unmeet  for  Solitude  to  share.* 
to  ohurc  implies  more  than  one,  and  Solitude  is  a single 
I'cntkmao ; it  must  be  thus — 


So  here  the  very  voice  of  Grief 
Might  wake  an  Echo  like  relief — 

At  least  ’twoulcl  say,  “All  are  not  gone; 

There  lingers  Life,  though  but  in  one” — 

For  many  a gilded  chamber’s  there, 

Which  Solitude  might  well  forbear; 5 

Within  that  dome  as  yet  Decay 

Hath  slowly  work’d  her  cankering  way — 

But  gloom  is  gather’d  o’er  the  gate, 

Nor  there  the  Fakir’s  self  will  wait ; 

Nor  there  will  wandering  Dervise  stay. 

For  bounty  cheers  not  his  delay  ; 

Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 
To  bless  the  sacred  “ bread  and  salt.” 6 
Alike  must  Wealth  and  Poverty 
Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by. 

For  Courtesy  and  Pity  died 
With  Hassan  on  the  mountain  side. 

His  roof,  that  refuge  unto  men, 

Is  Desolation’s  hungry  den. 

The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassal  from  labour, 
Since,  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  infid  il’s  sabre ! 7 
***** 

I hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet. 

But  not  a voice  mine  ear  to  greet ; 

More  near — each  turban  I can  scan. 

And  silver-sheathed  ataghan ; 8 * 
The  foremost  of  the  band  is  seen 
An  Emir  by  his  garb  of  green : y 
“ Ho ; who  art  thou  ?”  — “ This  low  salam  10 
Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I am.” — 

“ The  burthen  ye  so  gently  bear 
Seems  one  that  claims  your  utmost  care, 

And,  doubtless,  holds  some  precious  freight. 

My  humble  bark  would  gladly  wait.” 

“ Thou  speakest  sooth ; thy  skiff  unmoor, 

And  waft  us  from  the  silent  shore  ; 

Nay,  leave  the  sail  still  furl’d,  and  ply 
The  nearest  oar  that’s  scatter’d  by, 

And  midway  to  those  rocks  where  sleep 
The  channell’d  waters  dark  and  deep. 

Rest  from  your  task — so — bravely  done, 

Our  course  has  been  right  swiftly  run ; 

Yet  ’tis  the  longest  voyage,  I trow, 

That  one  of—  * * 

* * * * *” 


‘ For  many  a gilded  chamber ’s  there, 

Which  Solitude  might  well  forbesj;’ 
and  so  on.  Will  you  adopt  this  correction?  and  pray  accept  a 
Stilton  cheese  from  me  for  your  trouble. — P.S.  I leave  this  to 
your  discretion  : if  any  body  thinks  the  old  line  a good  one,  or  the 
cheese  a bad  one,  don’t  accept  of  either.” — Byron  Letters,  Stilton, 
Oct.  3,  1813.]  , . . 

(6)  To  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  salt  with  your  host, 
ensures  the  safety  of  the  guest:  even  though  an  enemy,  his  person 
from  that  moment  is  sacred. 

(7)  1 need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality  are  the 
first  duties  enjoined  by  Mahome..;  and  to  say  truth,  very  generally 
practised  by  his  disciples.  The  first  praise  that  can  be  bestowed 
on  a chief,  is  a panegyric  on  his  bounty ; the  next,  on  his  valour. 

(8)  The  ataghan,  a long  dagger  worn  with  pistols  in  the  belt,  in 

a metal  scabbard,  generally  of  silver;  and,  among  the  wealthier, 
gilt,  or  of  gold.  _ , _ , , 

(9)  Green  is  the  privileged  colour  of  the  Prophets  numerous 
pretended  descendants;  with  them,  as  here,  faith  (the  family 
inheritance)  is  supposed  to  supersede  the  necessity  of  good  works: 
they  are  the  worst  of  a very  indifferent  brood. 

(10)  “Salam  aleikoum ! aleikoum  salami”  peace  be  with  you; 
be  with  you  peace— the  salutation  reserved  for  the  faithful to  a 
Christian,  “ Urlarula,”  a good  journey;  or  “ saban  hiresem,  saban 
serula;”  good  morn,  good  even;  and  sometimes,  “may  your  cud 
be  happy ;”  are  the  usual  saluf is. 


THE  GIAOUR. 


67 


Sullen  it  plunged,  and  slowly  sank, 

The  calm  wave  rippled  to  the  bank  ; 

I watch’d ’it  as  it  sank,  metkougkt 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 
Bestirr’d  it  more, — ’twas  but  the  beam 
That  checker’d  o’er  the  living  stream : 

I gazed,  till  vanishing  from  view, 

. Like  lessening  pebble  it  withdrew ; 

Still  less  and  less,  a speck  of  wliite 
! That  gemm’d  the  tide,  then  mock’d  the  sight ; 

And  all  its  hidden  secrets  sleep, 

| Known  but  to  Genii  of  the  deep, 

; Which,  trembling  in  their  coral  caves, 

They  dare  not  whisper  to  the  waves. 

* * * * * 

As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect-queen1  of  eastern  spring, 

O’er  emerald  meadows  of  Kashmeer 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near, 

And  leads  him  on  from  flower  to  flower 
i A weary  chase  and  wasted  hour. 

Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  high, 

With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye  : 

So  Beauty  lures  the  full-grown  cluld, 

! With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild ; 

A chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 

: Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 

If  won,  to  equal  ills  betray’d,2 
Woe  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid ; 

A life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
i From  infant’s  play,  and  man’s  caprice  : 
i The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught, 

[ For  every  touch  that  woo’d  its  stay 
Hath  brush’d  its  brightest  hues  away. 

Till  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 

’Tis  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 

With  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast, 

Ah ! where  shall  either  victim  rest  ? 

Can  this  with  faded  pinion  soar 
From  rose  to  tulip  as  before  ? 
i Or  Beauty,  blighted  hi  an  hour, 

! Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower  ? 

No : gayer  insects  fluttering  by 
[ Ne’er  droop  the  wing  o’er  those  that  die. 

And  lovelier  things  have  mercy  shown 
[ To  every  failing  but  their  own. 

And  every  woe  a tear  can  claim 
Except  an  erring  sister’s  shame. 

****** 

The  Mind,  that  broods  o’er  guilty  woes, 

Is  like  the  Scorpion  girt  by  fire,3 
In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows,4 
The  flames  around  their  captive  close. 


(1)  The  blue-winged  butterfly  of  Kashmeer,  the  most  rare  and 
beautiful  of  the  species. 

(2)  [“  If  caught,  to  fate  alike  betrayed.”— MS.] 

(3)  [Mr.  Dallas  says,  that  Lord  Byron  assured  him  that  the 
paragraph  containing  the  simile  of  the  scorpion  was  imagined 
in  his  sleep.  It  forms,  therefore,  a pendant  to  the  “ psychological 
curiosity,”  beginning  with  those  exquisitely  musical  lines: — 

“ A damsel  with  a dulcimer 
In  a vision  once  I saw ; 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid,”  &c. 

The  whole  of  which,  Mr.  Coleridge  says,  was  composed  by  him 
during  a siesta.] 

(4)  [“  The  gathering  flames  around  her  close.” — MS.] 


Till  inly  search’d  by  thousand  throes, 

And  maddening  in  her  ire, 

One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 

The  sting  she  nourish’d  for  her  foes, 

Whose  venom  never  yet  was  vain, 

Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain, 

And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain : 

So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire. 

Or  live  like  Scorpion  girt  by  fire ; 3 
So  writhes  the  mind  Remorse  hath  riven,® 
Unfit  for  earth,  undoom’d  for  heaven, 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath, 

Around  it  flame,  within  it  death ! 

***** 

Black  Hassan  from  the  Haram  flies. 

Nor  bends  on  woman’s  form  his  eyes  ; 

The  unwonted  chase  each  hour  employs, 

Yet  shares  he  not  the  hunter’s  joys. 

Not  thus  was  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwelt  in  his  Serai. 

Doth  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell  ? 

That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell : 

Strange  rumours  in  our  city  say 
Upon  that  eve  she  fled  away 
When  Rhamazan’s5 6  7 last  sun  was  set. 

And  flashing  from  each  minaret 
Millions  of  lamps  proclaim’d  the  feast 
Of  Bairam  through  the  boundless  East. 
’Twas  then  she  went  as  to  the  bath, 

Which  Hassan  vainly  search’d  in  wrath ; 
For  she  was  flown  her  master’s  rage 
In  likeness  of  a Georgian  page, 

Anri  far  beyond  the  Moslem’s  power 
Had  wrong’d  him  with  the  faithless  Giaour. 
Somewhat  of  this  had  Hassan  deem’d ; 

But  still  so  fond,  so  fair  she  seem’d. 

Too  well  he  trusted  to  the  slave 
Whose  treachery  deserved  a grave  : 

And  on  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque. 

And  thence  to  feast  in  his  kiosk. 

Such  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell, 

Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  vreil; 
But  others  say,  that  on  that  night, 

By  pale  Phingari’s 8 trembling  light, 

Tne  Giaour  upon  his  jet-black  steed 
Was  seen,  but  seen  alone  to  speed 
With  bloody  spur  along  the  shore. 

Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 

***** 

Her  eye’s  dark  charm  ’twere  vain  to  tell, 
But  gaze  on  that  of  the  Gazelle, 

It  will  assist  thy  fancy  well ; 

As  large,  as  languishingiy  dark. 

But  Soul  beam’d  forth  in  every  spark 


(5)  Alluding  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion,  so  placed 
for  experiment  by  gentle  philosophers.  Some  maintain  that  the 
position  of  the  sting,  when  turned  towards  the  head,  is  merely 
a convulsive  movement;  but  others  have  actually  brought  in  the 
verdict  “ 1’elo  de  se.”  The  scorpions  are  surely  interested  in  a 
speedy  decision  of  the  question;  as,  if  once  fairly  established  as 
insect  Catos,  they  will  probably  be  allowed  to  live  as  long  a3 
they  think  proper,  without  being  martyred  for  the  sake  of  an 
hypothesis. 

(6)  [“  So  writhes  the  mind  by  conscience  riven." — MS.] 

(7)  The  cannon  at  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan.  See  an£>'( 
p.  65.  note. 

(8)  Pliingari,  the  moon. 


68 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


That  darted  from  beneath  the  lid, 

Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid.1 
Yea,  Soul,  and  should  our  prophet  say 
That  form  was  nought  but  breathing 'clay, 
By  Alla ! I would  answer  nay ; 

Though  on  Al-Sirat’s 2 arch  I stood, 

Which  totters  o’er  the  fiery  flood, 

With  Paradise  within  my  view, 

And  all  his  Houris 3 beckoning  through. 

Oh ! who  young  Leila’s  glance  could  read 
And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed, 

Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dust, 

A soulless  toy  for  tyrant’s  lust  ? 4 
On  her  might  Muftis  gaze,  and  own 
That  through  her  eye  the  Immortal  shone ; 
On  her  fair  cheek’s  unfading  hue 
The  young  pomegranate’s 5 blossoms  strew 
Their  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new  ; 

Her  hair  in  hyacinthine 6 flow. 

When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below, 

As  midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 
She  stood  superior  to  them  all, 

Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 
Gleam’d  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet 
Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 
It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 

The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water ; 

So  moved  on  earth  Circassia’s  daughter. 

The  loveliest  bird  of  Pranguestan  ! 7 
As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffled  Swan, 

And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride, 
When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 
Along  the. banks  that  bound  her  tide; 
Thus  rose  fair  Leila’s  whiter  neck : — 

Thus  armed  with  beauty  would  she  check 
Intrusion’s  glance,  till  Polly’s  gaze 
ShrunK  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise  : 
Thus  high  and  graceful  was  her  gait ; 

Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate ; 

Her  mate — stern  Hassan,  who  was  he  ? 

Alas  ! that  name  was  not  for  thee  ! 

* * * * 

Stern  Hassan  hath  a journey  ta’en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 

Each  arm’d,  as  best  becomes  a man. 

With  arquebuss  and  ataghan  ; 

The  chief  before,  as  deck’d  for  war, 

Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 


(1)  The  celebrated  fabulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Giamschid,  the 
embellisher  of  Istakhar;  from  its  splendour,  named  Schebgerag, 
“ the  torch  of  night;”  also  “ the  cup  of  the  sun,.”&c.  In  the  first 
edition,  “ Giamschid”  was  written  as  a word  of  three  syllables; 
so  D’Herbelot  has  it;  but  I am  told  Richardson  reduces  it  to  a 
dissyllable,  and  writes  “ Jamshid.”  I have  left  in  the  text  the 
orthography  of  the  one  with  the  pronunciation  of  the  other. — [In 
the  first  edition,  Lord  Byron  had  used  this  word  as  a trisyllable, — 
“ Bright  as  the  gem  of  Giamschid.” — but,  on  my  remarking  to 
him,  upon  the  authority  of  Richardson’s  Persian  Dictionary,  that 
this  was  incorrect,  he  altered  it  to  “ Bright  as  the  ruby  of  Giam- 
schid.” On  seeing  this,  however,  I wrote  to  him,  “ that,  as  the 
comparison  of  his  heroine’s  eye  to  a ruby  might  unluckily  call  up 
the  idea  of  its  being  bloodshot,  he  had  better  change  the  line  to 
‘ Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamschid;’  ” which  he  accordingly  did,  in 
the  following  edition. — Moore.] 

(2)  Al-Sirat,  the  bridge  of  breadth,  narrower  than  the  thread  of 
a famished  spider,  and  sharper  than  the  edge  of  a sword,  over 
which  the  Mussulmans  must  skate  into  Paradise,  to  which  it  is  the 
only  entrance;  but  this  is  not  the  worst,  the  river  beneath  being 
beil  itself,  into  which,  as  may  be  expected,  the  unskilful  and  tender 
« »ot  connive  to  tumble  with  a “ facilis  descensus  Averni,”  not 


Stain’d  with  the  best  of  Arnaut  blood. 

When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood. 

And  few  return’d  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  what  befell  in  Fame’s  vale. 

The  pistols  which  liis  girdle  bore 
Were  those  that  once  a pasha  wore, 

Which  still,  though  gemm’d  and  boss’d  with  gold 
Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 

’Tis  said  he  goes  to  woo  a bride 
More  true  than  her  who  left  his  side ; 

The  faithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower, 

And,  worse  than  faithless,  for  a Giaour  ! 

* * * * * 

The  sun’s  last  rays  are  on  the  hill. 

And  sparkle  in  the  fountain  rill, 

Whose  welcome  waters,  cool  and  clear, 

Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer : 

Plere  may  the  loitering  merchant  Greek 
Pind  that  repose  ’twere  vain  to  seek 
In  cities  lodged  too  near  his  lord, 

And  trembling  for  his  secret  hoard — 

Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see, 

In  crowds  a slave,  m deserts  free ; 

And  with  forbidden  wine  may  stain 
The  bowl  a Moslem  must  not  drain. 

***** 

The  foremost  Tartar’s  in  the  gap, 

Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  cap  ; 

The  rest  in  lengthening  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  through  the  long  defile : 

Above,  the  mountain  rears  a peak, 

Where  vultures  whet  the  thirsty  beak. 

And  theirs  may  be  a feast  to-night, 

Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow’s  I*ight ; 
Beneath,  a river’s  wintry  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer  beam. 

And  left  a channel  bleak  and  bare, 

Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  there  : 

Each  side  the  midway  path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  gray, 

By  time,  or  mountain  light  ning,  riven 
Prom  summits  clad  in  mists  of  heaven  ; 

Por  where  is  he  that  hath  beheld 
The  peak  of  Liakura  unveil’d  F 

* * * * * 


very  pleasing  in  prospect  to  the  next  passenger.  There  is  a shorter 

cut  downwards  for  the  Jews  and  Christians. 

(3)  [The  virgins  of  Paradise,  called  from  their  large  black  eyes, 
Hur  al  oi/nn.  An  intercourse  with  these,  according  to  the  insti- 
tution of  Mahomet,  is  to  constitute  the  principal  felicity  of  the 
faithful.  Not  formed  of  clay,  like  mortal  women,  they  are  adorned 
with  unfading  charms,  and  deemed  to  possess  the  celestial  privi- 
lege of  an  eternal  youth.  See  D’Herbelot,  and  Sale’s  Koran.] 

(4)  A vulgar  error:  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a third  of  Paradise 
to  well-behaved  women;  but  by  far  the  greater  number  of  Mus- 
sulmans interpret  the  text  their  own  way.  and  exclude  their 
moieties  from  heaven.  Being  enemies  to  Platonics,  they  cannot 
discern  “ any  fitness  of  things”  in  the  souls  of  the  other  sex,  con 
ceiving  them  to  be  superseded  by  the  Houris. 

(5)  An  oriental  simile,  which  may,  perhaps,  though  fairly  stolen, 
be  deemed  “ plus  Arabe  qu’en  Arabie.” 

(C)  Hyacinthine,  in  Arabic  “ Sunbul;”  as  common  thought  is 
the  eastern  poets  as  it  was  among  the  Greeks. 

( 7 ) “ Franguestan,”  Circassia. 


THE  GIAOUR. 


6(.) 


They  reach  the  grove  of  pine  at  last : 

“ Bismillah 1 I now  the  peril’s  past ; 

For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 

And  there  we’ll  prick  our  steeds  amain:” 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 

A bullet  whistled  o’er  his  head ; 

The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground ! 2 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein, 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound  ; 

Rut  three  shall  never  mount  again  : 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound. 
The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 

With  steel  unsheathed,  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o’er  their  courser’s  harness  leant, 
Half  shelter’d  by  the  steed  ; 

Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock, 

And  there  await  the  coming  shock. 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  bleed 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen, 

Who  dare  not  quit  their  craggy  screen. 
Stern  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  course. 
Till  fiery  flashes  in  the  van 
Proclaim  too  sure  the  robber-clan 
Have  well  secured  the  o ’y  way 
Could  now  avail  the  promised  prey; 

Then  curl’d  his  very  beard 3 with  ire, 

And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire  : 

“ Though  far  and  near  the  bullets  hiss, 
I’ve  ’scaped  a bloodier  hour  than  this.” 
And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit, 

And  call  his  vassals  to  submit ; 

But  Hassan’s  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword, 

Nor  of  his  little  band  a man 
Resign’d  carbine  or  ataghan, 

Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  Amaun ! 4 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near, 

The  lately  ambush’d  foes  appear, 

And,  issuing  from  the  grove,  advance 
Some  who  on  battle-charger  prance. 

Who  leads  them  on  with  foreign  brand, 
Far  flashing  in  his  red  right  hand? 

“ ’Tis  he ! ’tis  he  ! I know  him  now  ; 

I know  him  by  his  pallid  brow ; 

I kuow  him  by  the  evil  eye  5 
That  aids  his  envious  treachery ; 

I know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb : 
Though  now  array’d  in  Arnaut  garb. 
Apostate  from  his  own  vile  faith, 

It  shall  not  save  him  from  the  death : 

’Tis  he  ! well  met  in  any  hour,  • 

Lost  Leila’s  love,  accursed  Giaour !” 

As  rolls  the  river  into  ocean, 

In  sable  torrent  wildly  streaming; 

As  the  sea-tide’s  opposing  motion, 

In  azure  column  proudly  gleaming, 

Beats  back  the  current  many  a rood, 

In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood, 


'1)  Bismillah — “In  the  name  of  God;”  the  commencement  of 
all  the  chapters  of  the  Koran  but  one,  and  of  i rayer  and  thanks- 
giving. 

(2)  [“  Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein, 

The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  plain.” — MS.] 

(3)  A phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angry  Mussulman. 
In  1809,  the  Capitan  Pacha’s  whiskers  at  a diplomatic  audience 
were  no  less  lively  with  indignation  than  a tiger  cat's,  to  the 
horror  of  all  the  dragomans ; the  portentous  mustachios  twisted, 
they  stood  erect  of  their  own  accord,  and  were  expected  every 


While  eddying  whirl,  and  breaking  wave. 
Roused  by  the  blast  of  winter,  rave; 

Through  sparkling  spray,  in  thundering  clash, 
The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 
In  awful  whiteness  o’er  the  shave, 

That  shines  and  shakes  beneatn  ihc  roar ; 
Thus — as  the  stream  and  ocean  greet, 

With  w'aves  that  madden  as  they  meet — 
Thus  join  the  bands,  whom  mutual  wrong, 
And  fate,  and  fury,  drive  along. 

The  bickering  sabres’  shivering  jar ; 

And  pealing  wide  or  ringing  near 
Its  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear, 

The  deathshot  hissing  from  afar ; 

The  shock,  the  shout,  the  groan  of  war, 
Reverberate  along  that  vale, 

More  suited  to  the  shepherd’s  tale  : 
Though  few  the  numbers — theirs  the  strife, 
That  neither  spares  nor  speaks  for  life  ! 6 
Ah  ! fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press, 

To  seize  and  share  the  dear  caress  ; 

But  Love  itself  could  never  pant 
For  all  that  Beauty  sighs  to  grant 
With  half  the  fervour  Hate  bestows 
Upon  the  last  embrace  of  foes, 

When  grappling  in  the  fight  they  fold 
Those  arms  that  ne’er  shall  lose  their  hold : 
Friends  meet  to  part ; Love  laughs  at  faith  ; 
True  foes,  once  met,  are  join’d  till  death ! 

* * * * * 

With  sabre  shiver’d  to  the  hilt, 

Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spilt ; 

Yet  strain’d  within  the  sever’d  hand 
Which  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand  ; 
His  turban  far  behind  him  roll’d, 

And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold ; 

His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn, 

And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  morn 
That,  streak’d  with  dusky  red,  portend 
The  day  shall  have  a stormy  end  ; 

A stain  on  every  bush  that  bore 
A fragment  of  his  palampore,7 
His  breast  with  wounds  unnumber’d  riven. 
His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 

Fall’n  Hassan  lies*— his  unclosed  eye 
Yet  lowering  on  his  enemy, 

As  if  the  hour  that  seal’d  his  fate 
Surviving  left  his  quenchless  hate ; 

And  o’er  him  bends  that  foe  with  brow 
As  dark  as  his  that  bled  below. — 

* * * * * 

“ Yes,  Leila  sleeps  beneath  the  wave, 

But  his  shall  be  a redder  grave ; 

Her  spirit  pointed  well  the  steel 
Which  taught  that  felon  heart  tew  feel. 

He  call’d  the  Prophet,  but  his  power 
Was  vain  against  the  vengeful  Giaour : 


moment  to  change  their  colour,  hut  at  last  condescended  fo 

subside,  which,  probably,  saved  more  heads  than  they  sontamed 

hairs. 

(4)  “ Amaun,”  quarter,  pardon. 

(5)  The  “ evil  eye,”  a common  superstition  in  the  Levant,  and 
of  which  the  imaginary  effects  are  yet  very  singular  on  those  w ho 
conceive  themselves  affected. 

(C)  [“  That  neither  gives  nor  asks  for  life.” — MS.] 

(7)  The  flowered  shawls  generally  worn  by  persons  of  rank. 


70 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


He  call’d  on  Alla — but  the  word 
Arose  unheeded  or  unheard. 

Thou  Paynim  fool!  could  Leila’s  prayer 
’ Be  pass’d,  and  thine  accorded  there  ? 

I watch’d  my  time,  I leagued  with  these. 

The  traitor  in  his  turn  to  seize ; 

My  wrath  is  wreak’d,  the  deed  is  done, 

And  now  I go — but  go  alone.” 

* * * * * 

* * * * * 

The  browsing  camels’  bells  are  tinkling  : 1 
His  Mother  look’d  from  her  lattice  high — 2 
She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkling 
The  pasture  green  beneath  her  eye, 

SJie  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling  : 

“ ’Tis  twilight — sure  his  train  is  nigh.” 3 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower, 

But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest  tower  : 
“ Why  comes  he  not  ? his  steeds  are  fleet, 

Nor  shrink  they  from  the  summer  heat ; 

Why  sends  not  the  Bridegroom  his  promised  gift  ? 
Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or  his  barb  less  swift  ? 

Oh,  false  reproach  ! yon  Tartar  now 
Has  gain’d  our  nearest  mountain’s  brow, 

And  warily  the  steep  descends, 

And  now  within  the  valley  bends ; 

And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle  bow — 

How  could  I deem  his  courser  slow  ? 

Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way.” 

The  Tartar  lighted  at  the  gate, 

But  scarce  upheld  liis  fainting  weight : 4 
His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress, 

But  this  might  be  from  weariness  ; 

His  garb  with  sanguine  spots  was  dyed, 

But  these  might  be  from  his  courser’s  side; 

He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest — 

Angel  of  Death  ! ’tis  Hassan’s  dioven  crest ! 

His  calpac  5 rent — liis  caftan  red — 

“ Lady,  a fearful  bride  thy  Son  hath  wed : 


(1)  [This  beautiful  passage  first  appeared  in  the  fifth  edition. 

‘ If  you  send  more  proofs,”  writes  Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray 
(August  10th,  1813),  “I  shall  never  finish  this  infernal  story. 
Eccc  signum  — thirty-three  more  lines  enclosed  I — to  the  utter 
di.‘  comfiture  of  the  printer,  and,  I fear,  not  to  your  advantage.”] 

'2)  [“The  mother  of  Sisera  looked  out  at  a window,  and  cried 
tb  ough  the  lattice,  Why  is  his  chariot  so  long  in  coming  ? why 
i / rry  the  wheels  of  his  chariot  f” — J udges  v.  28.] 

(3)  [In  the  original  draft — 

“His  mother  look’d  from  the  lattice  high, 

With  throbbing  heart  and  eager  eye  ; 

The  browsing  camel  bells  are  tinkling, 

And  the  last  beam  of  twilight  twinkling, 

* ’Tis  eve  ; his  train  should  now  be  nigh.’ 

She  could  not  rest  in  her  garden  bower, 

And  gazed  through  the  loop  of  his  steepest  tower. 

1 Why  comes  he  not  1 his  steeds  are  fleet, 

And  well  arc  they  train’d  to  the  summer’s  heat.’  ” 

Another  copy  begins — 

“ The  browsing  camel  bells  are  tinkling, 

And  the  first  beam  of  evening  twinkling; 

His  mother  look’d  from  her  lattice  high, 

With  throbbing  breast  and  eager  eye — 

‘ ’Tis  twilight— sure  his  train  is  nigh.’  ”] 

(4)  [“  The  Tartar  sped  beneath  the  gate, 

And  flung  to  earth  his  fainting  weight.” — MS.] 

(5)  The  calpac  is  the  solid  cap  or  centre  part  of  the  head-dress ; 

the  shawl  is  wound  round  it,  and  forms  the  turban. 

(G)  The  turban,  pillar,  and  inscriptive  verse,  decorate  the  tombs 

of  the  Osmanlies,  whether  in  the  cemetery  or  the  wilderness.  In 

the  mountains  you  frequently  pass  similar  mementos  ; and  on  in- 

quiry you  are  informed  that  they  record  some  victim  of  rebellion, 

plunder,  or  revenge. 


Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare, 

But  this  empurpled  pledge  to  bear. 

Peace  to  the  brave  ! whose  blood  is  spilt : 
Woe  to  the  Giaour!  for  his  the  guilt.” 

* * * * * 

A turban6  carved  in  coarsest  stone, 

A pillar  with  rank  weeds  o’ergrown, 

Whereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 
The  Koran  verse  that  mourns  the  dead, 

Point  out  the  spot  where  Hassan  fell 
A victim  in  that  lonely  dell. 

There  sleeps  as  true  an  Osmanlie 
As  e’er  at  Mecca  bent  the  knee ; 

As  ever  scorn’d  forbidden  wine, 

Or  pray’d  with  face  towards  the  shrine, 

In  orisons  resumed  anew 
At  solemn  sound  of  “ Alla  Hu ! ” 7 * 
Yet  died  he  by  a stranger’s  hand, 

And  stranger  in  his  native  land; 

Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood, 

And  unavenged,  at  least  in  blood. 

But  him  the  maids  of  Paradise 
Impatient  to  their  halls  invite, 

And  the  dark  Heaven  of  Houris’  eyes 
On  him  shall  glance  for  ever  bright ; 

They  come — their  kerchiefs  green  they  wave,* 
And  welcome  with  a kiss  the  brave ! 

Who  falls  in  battle  ’gainst  a Giaour 
Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 

* * * * * 

But  thou,  false  Infidel ! shalt  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir’s 9 scythe ; 

And  from  its  torment  ’scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis’  10  throne ; 

And  fire  unquench’d,  unquenchable, 

Around,  within,  thy  heart  shall  dwell ; 

Nor  ear  can  hear  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  bell ! 

But  first,  on  earth  as  Vampire11  sent, 

Thy  corse  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent : 


(7)  “ Alla  Hu!  ” the  concluding  words  of  the  Muezz*  A call  to 
prayer  from  the  highest  gallery  on  the  exterior  of  the  Mir  ret.  On 
a still  evening,  when  the  Muezzin  has  a fine  voice,  whrh  is  fre- 
quently the  case,  the  effect  is  solemn  and  beautiful  beyond  all  the 
bells  in  Christendom. — [Valid,  the  son  of  Aodalmalek,  was  .he  first 
who  erected  a minaret  or  turret;  and  this  he  placed  on  the  grand 
mosque  at  Damascus,  for  the  muezzin,  or  crier,  to  announce  from 
it  the  hour  of  prayer.  The  practice  is  kept  to  this  da/.  See 
D’Herbelot.] 

(8)  The  following  is  part  of  a battle  song  of  the  Turks  : — “I  see 
— 1 see  a dark-eyed  gi/1  of  Paradise,  and  she  waves  a handker- 
chief, a kerchief  of  green ; and  cries  aloud,  ‘ Come,  kiss  me,  for  I 
love  thee,’  ” &c. 

(9)  Monkir  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead,  before 
whom  the  corpse  undergoes  a slight  noviciate  and  preparatory 
training  for  damnation.  If  the  answers  are  none  of  the  clearest, 
he  is  hauled  up  with  a scythe  and  thumped  down  with  a red-hot 
mace  till  properly  seasoned,  with  a variety  of  subsidiary  proba- 
tions. The  office  of  these  angels  is  no  sinecure  ; there  are  but  two, 
and  the  number  of  orthodox  deceased  being  in  a small  proportion 
to  the  remainder,  their  hands  are  always  full.  See  Relig.  Ceremon. 
and  Sale’s  Koran. 

(10)  Eblis,  the  Oriental  Prince  of  Darkness.  — [D’Herbelot 
supposes  this  title  to  have  been  a corruption  of  the  Greek 
Am/3oXo?  According  to  Arabian  mythology,  Eblis  had  suffered 
a degradation  from  his  primeval  rank  for  having  refused  to  wor- 
ship Adam,  in  conformity  to  the  supreme  command;  alleging, 
in  justification  of  his  refusal,  that  himself  had  been  formed  of 
ethereal  fire,  whilst  Adam  was  only  a creature  of  clay.  — See 
Koran.] 

(11)  The  vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the  Levant. 
Honest  Tournefort  tells  a long  story,  which  Mr.  Southey,  in  the 
notes  on  Thalaba,  quotes,  about  these  “ Vroucolochas,”  as  bt 


THE  GIAOUR. 


71 


Then  ghastly  haunt  thy  native  place, 

And  suck  the  blood  of  all  thy  race ; 

There  from  thy  daughter,  sister,  wife, 

At  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life ; 

Yet  loathe  the  banquet  which  perforce 
Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse  : 

Thy  victims  ere  they  yet  expire 
Shall  know  the  demon  for  their  sire, 

As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them, 

TLy  flowers  are  wither’d  on  the  stem. 

Rut  one  that  for  thy  crime  must  fall, 

The  youngest,  most  beloved  of  all, 

Shall  bless  thee  with  a father's  name — 
That  word  shall  wrap  thy  heart  in  flame  ! 
Yet  must  thou  end  thy  task,  and  mark 
Her  cheek’s  last  tinge,  her  eye’s  last  spark, 
And  the  last  glassy  glance  must  view 
Which  freezes  o’er  its  lifeless  blue  ; 

Then  with  unhallow’d  hand  shalt  tear 
The  tresses  of  her  yellow  hair, 

Of  which  in  life  a lock  when  shorn 
Affection’s  fondest  pledge  was  worn. 

But  now  is  br)rne  away  by  thee, 

Memorial  of  thine  agony  ! 

Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drip*  1 
Thy  gnashing  tooth  and  haggard  lip  ; 

Then  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave, 

Go — and  witb  Gouls  and  Afrits  rave ; 

Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  spectre  more  accursed  than  they  ! 2 
* * * * * 

“ How  name  ye  yon  lone  Caloyer  ? 

His  features  I have  scann’d  before 
In  mine  own  land : ’tis  many  a year, 

Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  shore, 

I saw  him  urge  as  fleet  a steed 
As  ever  served  a horseman’s  need. 

But  once  I saw  that  face,  yet  then 
It  was  so  mark’d  with  inward  pain, 

I could  not  pass  it  by  again  ; 

It  breathes  the  same  dark  spirit  now 
As  death  were  stamp’d  upon  his  brow.” 

“ ’Tis  twice  three  years  at  summer  tide 
Since  first  among  our  freres  he  came; 
And  here  it  soothes  him  to  abide 

For  some  dark  deed  lie  will  not  name. 
But  never  at  our  vesper  prayer, 

Nor  e’er  before  confession  chair 
Kneels  he,  nor  recks  he  when  arise 
Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies, 

But  broods  within  his  cell  alone, 

His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 


i lls  them.  The  Romaic  term  is  “ Vardotilacha.”  I recollect  a 
\ lole  family  being  terrified  by  the  scream  of  a child,  which  they 
i i.agined  must  proceed  from  such  a visitation.  The  Greeks  never 
t jntion  the  word  without  horror.  I find  that  “ Broucolokas”  is 
an  old  legitimate  Hellenic  appellation — at  least  is  so  applied  to 
A senius,  who,  according  to  the  Greeks,  was  after  his  death  ani- 
r Sited  by  the  Devil. — The  moderns,  however,  use  the  word  I 
mention. 

(1)  The  freshness  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of  the  lip  with 
blood,  are  the  never-failing  signs  of  a Vampire.  The  stories  told 
in  Hungary  and  Greece  of  these  foul  feeders  are  singular,  and 
some  of  them  most  incredibly  attested. 

(2)  [With  the  death  of  Hassan,  or  with  his  interment  on  the 

place  where  he  tell,  or  with  some  moral  reflections  on  his  fate,  we 
* ay  presume  that  the  original  narrator  concluded  the  talc  of 
irnich  Lord  Byron  has  professed  to  give  us  a fragment.  But  every 


The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  crost, 

And  here  ascended  from  the  coast ; 

Yet  seems  he  not  of  Otliman  race, 

But  only  Christian  in  his  face  : 

I’d  judge  him  some  stray  renegade. 
Repentant  of  the  change  lie  made, 

Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine. 

Nor  tastes  the  sacred  bread  and  wine. 

Great  largess  to  these  walls  he  brought. 

And  thus  our  abbot’s  favour  bought ; 

But  were  I prior,  not  a day 
Should  brook  such  stranger’s  further  stay-, 
Or  pent  within  our  penance  cell 
Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  dwell. 
Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 
Of  maiden  whelm’d  beneath  the  sea  ; 3 
Of  sabres  clashing,  focmen  flying, 

Wrongs  avenged,  and  Moslem  dying. 

On  cliff  he  hath  been  known  to  stand. 

And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand 
Fresh  sever’d  from  its  parent  limb, 

Invisible  to  all  but  him, 

Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave, 

And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wave.” 

* * * * • 
***** 

Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl  * 

That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl : 

The  flash  of  that  dilating  eye 
Reveals  too  much  of  times  gone  by ; 

Though  varying,  indistinct  its  hue, 

Oft  will  his  glance  the  gazer  rue, 

For  in  it  lurks  that  nameless  spell, 

Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 

A spirit  yet  unquell’d  and  high, 

That  claims  and  keeps  ascendancy ; 

And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake. 

But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake, 

Will  others  quail  beneath  his  look, 

Nor  ’scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  brook* 
From  him  the  half-affrighted  Friar 
When  met  alone  would  fain  retire, 

As  if  that  eye  and  bitter  smile 
Transfhrr’d  to  others  fear  and  guile  : 

Not  oft  to  smile  desccndeth  he, 

And  when  he  doth  ’tis  sad  to  see 
That  he  but  mocks  at  Misery. 

How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quiver  ! 

Then  fix  once  more  as  if  for  ever ; 

As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 
Forbade  him  e’er  to  smile  again. 

Well  were  it  so — such  ghastly  mirth 
From  joy aunce  ne’er  derived  its  birth. 


reader,  we  are  sure,  will  agree  with  us  in  thinking  that  the  intuMrt 
excited  by  the  catastrophe  is  greatly  heightened  in  the  modern 
poem;  and  that  the  imprecations  of  the  Turk  against  the  “ as 
cursed  Giaour,”  are  introduced  with  great  judgment,  and  contri- 
bute much  to  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  narrative.  The  remainder 
of  the  poem,  we  think,  would  have  been  more  properly  printed  as 
a second  canto ; because  a total  change  of  scene,  and  * chasm  of 
no  less  than  six  years  in  the  series  of  events,  can  scarcely  fail  to 
occasion  some  little  confusion  in  the  mind  of  the  reader. — Geougk 
Ellis.] 

(3)  [“  Of  foreign  maiden  lost  at  sea.” — MS.] 

(4)  [The  remaining  lines,  about  five  hundred  in  number,  were, 
with  the  exception  of  the  last  sixteen,  all  added  to  the  poem, 
either  during  its  first  progress  through  the  press,  or  in  subsequ*ft 
editions.] 


72 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


But  sadder  still  it  were  to  trace 
IVhat  onue  were  feelings  in  that  face : 

Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  fix’d, 

But  brighter  traits  with  evil  mix’d  ; 

And  there  are  hues  not  always  faded, 

Which  speak  a mind  not  all  degraded 
Even  by  the  crimes  through  which  it  waded  : 

The  common  crowd  but  sec  the  gloom 
Of  wayward  deeds,  and  fitting  doom  ; 

The  close  observer  can  espy 
A noble  soul,  and  lineage  high  : 

Alas  ! though  both  bestow’d  in  vain, 

Which  Grief  could  change,  and  Guilt  could  stain, 
It  was  no  vulgar  tenement 
To  which  such  lofty  gifts  were  lent, 

And  still  with  little  less  than  dread 
On  such  the  sight  is  riveted. 

The  roofless  cot,  decay’d  and  rent, 

Will  scarce  delay  the  passer-by  ; 

The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 

While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement, 

Demands  and  daunts  the  stranger’s  eye ; 

Each  ivied  arch,  and  pillar  lone, 

Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone  ! 

“ His  floating  robe  around  him  folding 

Slow  sweeps  he  through  the  column’d  aisle  ; 
With  dread  beheld,  with  gloom  beholding 
The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 

But  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir, 

And  kneel  the  monks,  his  steps  retire ; 

By  yonder  lone  and  wavering  torch 
His  aspect  glares  within  the  porch ; 

There  will  he  pause  till  all  is  done — • 

And  hear  the  prayer,  but  utter  none. 

Sec — by  the  half-illumined  wall 1 
His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall, 

That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round, 

As  if  the  Gorgon  there  had  bound 
The  sablest  of  the  serpent-braid 
That  o’er  her  fearful  forehead  stray’d  : 

Eor  he  declines  the  convent  oath. 

And  leaves  those  locks  unhallow’d  growth, 

But  wears  our  garb  in  all  beside ; 

And,  not  from  piety  but  pride, 

Gives  wealth  to  walls  that  never  heard 
Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word. 

Lo  ! — mark  ye,  as  the  harmony 
Peals  louder  praises  to  the  sky, 

That  livid  cheek,  that  stony  air 
Of  mix’d  defiance  and  despair  ! 

Saint  Francis,  keep  him  from  the  shrine  ! 

Else  may  we  dread  the  wrath  divine 
Made  manifest  by  awful  sign. 

If  ever  evil  angel  bore 

The  form  of  mortal,  such  he  wore : 

By  all  my  hope  of  sins  forgiven, 

Such  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heaven  ! ” 


<1)  [“  Behold — as  turns  he  from  the  wall.” — MS.] 

i'2)  [“  Must  burn  before  it  smite  or  shine.” — MS.] 

(3)  [Seeing  himself  accused  of  having,  in  this  passage,  too 
Closely  imitated  Crabbe,  Lord  Byron  wrote  to  a friend — “ I have 
rend  the  British  Review,  and  really  think  the  writer  in  most 
points  very  right.  The  only  mortifying  thing  is,  the  accusa- 
tion of  imitation.  Crabbe’s  passage  1 never  saw ; and  Scott  1 no 
further  meant  to  follow  than  in  his  lyric  measure,  which  is  Gray’s, 

Milton’s,  and  any  one’s  who  likes  it.  The  Giaour  is  certainly  a 
bad  character,  but  not  dangerous:  and  I think  his  fate  and  his 
feelings  will  meet  with  few  proselytes.”  The  following  are  ‘he 


To  love  the  softest  hearts  arc  prone. 

But  such  can  ne’er  be  ail  his  own ; 

Toe  timid  in  his  woes  to  share, 

Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair ; 

And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 
The  wound  that  time  can  never  heal 
The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine 
Must  burn  before  its  surface  shine,2 3 
But  plunged  within  the  furnace-flame. 

It  bends  and  melts — though  still  the  same  [ 
Then  temper’d  to  thy  want,  or  will, 

’Twill  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kill ; 

A breast-plate  for  thine  hour  of  need, 

Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed ; 

But  if  a dagger’s  form  it  bear, 

Let  those  who  shape  its  edge,  beware ! 
Thus  passion’s  fire,  and  woman’s  art, 

Can  turn  and  tame  the  sterner  heart ; 

From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta’en. 

And  what  they  make  it,  must  remain, 

But  break — before  it  bend  again. 

***** 

If  solitude  succeed  to  grief. 

Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief ; 

The  vacant  bosom’s  wilderness 
Might  thank  the  pang  that  made  it  less. 
We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share  : 
Even  bliss — ’twere  woe  alone  to  bear ; 

The  heart  once  left  thus  desolate 
Must  fly  at  last  for  ease — to  hate. 

It  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 
The  icy  worm  around  them  steal, 

And  shudder,  as  the  reptiles  creep 
To  revel  o’er  their  rotting  sleep, 

Without  the  power  to  scare  away 
The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay  ! 

It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird,4 

Whose  beak  unlocks  her  bosom’s  stream 
To  still  her  famish’d  nestlings’  scream, 
Nor  mourns  a life  to  them  transferred, 
Should  rend  her  rash  devoted  breast, 

And  find  them  flow  her  empty  nest. 

The  keenest  pangs  the  wretched  find 
Are  rapture  to  the  dreary  void, 

The  leafless  desert  of  the  mind, 

The  waste  of  feelings  unemploy’d. 

Who  would  be  doom’d  to  gaze  upon 
A sky  without  a cloud  or  sun  ? 

Less  hideous  far  the  tempest’s  roar 
Than  ne’er  to  brave  the  billows  more — 
Thrown,  when  the  war  of  winds  is  o’er, 

A lonely  wreck  on  fortune’s  shore, 

’Mid  sullen  calm,  and  silent  bay, 

Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay  ; — 

Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock. 

Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock  ! 

***** 


lines  of  Crabbe  which  Lord  Byron  is  charged  with  havin#  uni 
tated : — * 

“ These  are  like  wax — apply  them  to  the  fire, 

Melting,  they  take  the  impression  you  desire ; 

Easy  to  mould  and  fashion  as  you  please, 

And  again  moulded  with  an  equal  ease  ; 

Like  smelted  iron  these  the  forms  retain, 

But  once  impress’d  will  never  melt  again.” 

Crabbe’s  Works,  vol.  v.  p.  163.  ed.  1834.] 

(4)  The  pelican  is,  I believe,  the  bird  so  libelled,  by  the  input* 
tion  of  feeding  her  chickens  with  her  blood. 


THE  GIAOUR. 


i o 


“ Father ! thy  days  have  pass’d  in  peace, 
’Mid  counted  beads,  and  countless  prayer  ; 
To  bid  the  sins  of  others  cease, 

Thyself  without  a crime  or  care, 

Save  transient  ills  that  all  must  bear, 

Has  been  thy  lot  from  youth  to  age  ; 

Aud  tliou  wilt  bless  thee  from  the  rage 
Of  passions  fierce  and  uncontroll’d, 

Such  as  thy  penitents  unfold, 

Whose  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest 
Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 

My  days,  though  few,  have  pass’d  below 
In  much  of  joy,  but  more  of  woe ; 

Yet  still  in  hours  of  love  or  strife, 

I’ve  ’scaped  the  weariness  of  life  : 

Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foes, 

I loathed  the  languor  of  repose. 

Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate. 

No  more  with  hope  or  pride  elate. 

I’d  rather  be  the  thing  that  crawls 
Most  noxious  o’er  a dungeon’s  walls, 

Than  pass  my  dull,  unvarying  days. 
Condemn’d  to  meditate  and  gaze. 

Yet,  lurks  a wish  within  my  breast 
For  rest — but  not  to  feel  ’tis  rest. 

Soon  shall  my  fate  that  >,ish  fulfil ; 

And  I shall  sleep  without  the  dream 
Of  what  I was,  and  would  be  still, 

Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem  : 1 
My  memory  now  is  Wt  the  tomb 
Of  joys  long  dead;  my  hope,  their  doom  : 
Though  better  to  have  died  with  those 
Than  bear  a life  of  lingering  woes. 

Akr  spirit  shrunk  not  to  sustain 
The  searching  throes  of  ceaseless  pain ; 

Nor  sought  the  self-accorded  grave 
Of  ancient  fool  and  modem  knave  : 

Yet  death  I have  not  fear’d  to  meet ; 

And  in  the  field  it  had  been  sweet, 

Had  danger  woo’d  me  on  to  move 
The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 

I’ve  brav’d  it — not  for  honour’s  boast ; 

I smile  at  laurels  won  or  lost ; 

To  such  let  others  carve  their  way, 

For  high  renown,  or  liireling  pay  : 

Rut  place  again  before  my  eyes 
Aught  that  I deem  a worthy  prize  ; 

The  maid  I love,  the  man  I hate, 

And  I will  hunt  the  steps  of  fate, 

To  save  or  slay,  as  these  require, 

Through  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire  : 

Nor  nced’st  thou  doubt  this  speech  from  one 
Who  would  but  do — what  he  hath  done. 
Death  is  but  vvliat  the  haughty  brave, 

The  weak  must  bear,  the  wretch  must  crave  ; 


(1)  [“  Though  Hope  hath  long  withdrawn  her  beam.” — MS.] 

(2)  This  superstition  of  a second  hearing  (for  l never  met  with 
downright  secoi^-sight  in  the  East)  fell  once  under  my  own 
observation.  On  my  third  journey  to  Cape  Colonna,  early  in  1811, 
as  we  passed  through  the  defile  that  leads  from  the  hamlet  between 
Keratia  and  Colonna,  I observed  Dervish  Tahiri  riding  rather  out 
of  the  path,  and  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  as  if  in  pain.  I 
rode  up  and  inquired.  '*  We  are  in  peril,”  he  answered.  “ What 
peril?  we  are  not  now  in  Albania,  nor  in  the  passes  to  Ephesus, 
Messalunghi,  or  Lepanto;  there  are  plenty  of  us.  well  armed,  and 
the  Choriates  have  not  courage  to  be  thieves.” — “ True,  Affendi. 
but  nevertheless  the  shot  is  ringing  in  my  ears.”—"  The  shotl  not 
a tophaike  has  been  fired  this  morning.” — “ I hear  it,  notwithstand- 
ing— Bom— Bom — a3  plainly  as  1 hear  your  voice.” — “ Pslia!” — 


Then  let  Life  go  to  Him  who  crave : 

I have  not  quail’d  to  danger’s  "brow 
"When  high  and  happy — need  I now  ? 

■%  * ' * * * 

“ I loved  her,  Friar ! nay,  adored — 

Rut  these  are  words  that  all  can  use- 
I proved  it  more  in  deed  than  word ; 

There’s  blood  upon  that  dinted  sword, 

A stain  its  steel  can  never  lose  : 

’Twas  shed  for  her,  who  died  for  me, 

It  warm’d  the  heart  of  one  abhorr’d  : 

Nay,  start  not — no — nor  bend  thy  knee, 

Nor  midst  my  sins  such  act  record  ; 

Thou  wilt  absolve  me  from  the  deed. 

For  be  was  hostile  to  thy  creed  ! 

The  very  name  of  Nazarene 
Was  wormwood  to  his  raynim  spleen. 
Ungrateful  fool ! since  but  for  brands 
Well  wielded  in  some  hardy  bands, 

And  wounds  by  Galileans  given. 

The  surest  pass  to  Turkish  heaven, 

For  him  his  Houris  still  might  wait 
Impatient  at  the  Prophet’s  gate. 

I loved  her — love  will  fincUits  way 
Through  paths  where  wolves  would  fear  to  prey 
And  if  it  dares  enough,  ’twere  hard 
If  passion  met  not  some  reward — 

No  matter  how,  or  where,  or  why, 

I did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh  : 

Yet  sometimes,  with  remorse,  in  vain 
I wish  she  had  not  loved  again. 

She  died — I dare  not  tell  thee  how ; 

But  look — ’tis  written  on  my  brow  ! 

There  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime, 

In  characters  unworn  by  time  : 

Still,  ere  tliou  dost  condemn  me,  pause  ; 

Not  mine  the  act,  though  I the  cause. 

Yet  did  he  but  what  I had  done 
Had  she  been  false  to  more  than  one. 

Faithless  to  him,  he  gave  the  blow; 

But  true  to  me,  I laid  him  low  : 

Howe’er  deserved  her  doom  might  be, 

Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me ; 

To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 
Which  tyranny  can  ne’er  enthrall ; 

And  I,  alas  ! too  late  to  save  ! 

Yet  all  I then  could  give,  I gave, 

’Twas  some  relief,  our  foe  a grave. 

Ilis  death  sits  lightly ; but  her  fate 
Has  made  me — what  thou  well  mav’st  hate. 

His  doom  was  seal’d— he  knew  it  well, 
Warn’d  by  the  voice  of  stern  Tabeer, 

Deep  in  whose  darkly  boding  ear 2 
The  deathshot  peal’d  of  murder  near, 

As  filed  the  troop  to  where  they  fell ! 


“ As  you  please,  Affendi;  if  it  is  written,  so  will  it  be.”— I left  this 
quick-eared  predestinarian,  and  rode  up  to  Basili,  his  Christian 
compatriot,  whose  ears,  though  not  at  all  prophetic,  by  no  means 
relished  the  intelligence.  We  all  arrived  at  Colonna,  remained 
some  hours,  and  returned  leisurely,  saying  a variety  of  brilliant 
things,  in  more  languages  than  spoiled  the  building  of  Babel,  upon 
the  mistaken  seer.  Romaic,  Arnaout,  Turkish,  Italian,  and 
English  were  all  exercised,  in  various  conceits,  upon  the  unfortunate 
Mussulman.  While  we  were  contemplating  the  beautiful  prospect, 
Dervish  was  occupied  about  the  columns.  I thought  he  was 
deranged  into  an  antiquarian,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  become  a 
“ Palao-castro ” man?  “ No,”  said  he,  “ but  these  pillars  will  be 
useful  in  making  a stand  ; ” and  added  other  remarks,  which  at 
least  evinced  his  own  belief  in  his  troublesome  faculty  of  fote- 
L 


74 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


lie  died  too  in  the  battle  broil, 

A time  that  heeds  nor  pain  nor  toil ; 

One  cry  to  Mahomet  for  aid, 

One  prayer  to  Alla  all  he  made  : 

He  knew  and  cross’d  me  in  the  fray — 

I gazed  upon  him  where  he  lay, 

And  watch'd  his  spirit  ebb  away  : 

Though  pierced  like  pard  by  hunters’  s;eel, 
He  felt  not  half  that  now  I feel. 

I search’d,  but  vainly  search’d,  to  find 
The  workings  of  a wounded  mind ; 

Each  feature  of  that  sullen  corse 
Betray’d  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 

Oh,  what  had  Vengeance  given  to  trace 
Despair  upon  his  dying  face  ! 

The  late  repentance  of  that  hour, 

When  Penitence  hath  lost  her  power 
To  tear  one  terror  from  the  grave, 

And  will  not  soothe,  and  cannot  save. 

* * * * * 

“ The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood, 

Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name ; 
But  mine  was  like  a lava  flood 
That  boils  in  JEtna^s  breast  of  flame. 

I cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 
Of  ladye-love,  and  beauty’s  chain : 

If  changing  cheek,  and  scorching  vein,* 1 
Lips  taught  to  writhe,  but  not  complain, 

If  bursting  heart,  and  madd’ning  brain, 
And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel. 

And  all  that  I have  felt,  and  feel. 

Betoken  love — that  love  was  mine, 

And  shown  by  many  a bitter  sign. 

’Tis  true,  I could  not  whine  nor  sigh, 

I knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 

I die — but  first  I have  possess’d, 

And  come  what  may,  I have  been  bless’d. 
Shall  I the  doom  I sought  upbraid  ? 

No — reft  of  all,  yet  undismay’d  2 3 


But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 

Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain, 

So  would  I live  and  love  again. 

I grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide ! 

For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died  : 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  wav? — 

Ah  ! had  she  but  an  earthly  grave, 

This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed.1 
She  was  a form  of  life  and  light, 

That,  seen,  became  a part  of  sight ; 

And  rose,  where’er  I turned  mine  eye, 

The  Morning-star  of  Memory  ! 

" Yes,  Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven ; 4 

A spark  of  that  immortal  fire 
With  angels  shared,  by  Alla  given, 

To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire.5 
Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above, 

But  Heaven  itself  descends  in  love  ; 

A feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 

To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought ; 

A Ray  of  him  who  form’d  the  whole  ; 

A Glory  circling  round  the  soul  1 
I grant  my  love  imperfect,  all 
That  mortals  by  the  name  miscall ; 

Then  deem  it  evil,  what  thou  wilt ; 

But  say,  oh  say,  hers  was  not  guilt  ! 

She  was  my  life’s  unerring  light : 

That  quench’d,  what  beam  shall  break  my  night  ? 
Oh  ! would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still, 

Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill ! 

Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 
This  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 

No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope  ; 

In  phrensy  then  their  fate  accuse  : 

In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 
That  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  woe? 

Alas  ! the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

Hath  nought  to  dread  from  outward  blow  ; 


hearing.  On  our  return  to  Athens  we  heard  from  Leone  (a  prisoner 
set  ashore  some  days  after)  of  the  intended  attack  of  the  Mainotes, 
mentioned,  with  the  cause  of  its  not  taking  place,  in  the  notes  to 
Childe  Harold,  Canto  2d.  I was  at  some  pains  to  question  the  man, 
and  he  described  the  dresses,  arms,  and  marks  of  the  horses  of  our 
party  so  accurately,  that,  with  other  circumstanoes,  we  could  not 
doubt  of  his  having  been  in  “ villanous  company,”  and  ourselves 
in  a bad  neighbourhood.  Dervish  became  a soothsayer  for  life, 
and  I dare  say  is  now  hearing  more  musketry  than  ever  will  be 
fired,  to  the  great  refreshment  of  the  Arnaouts  of  Berat,  and  his 
native  mountains. — I shall  mention  one  trait  more  of  this  singular 
race.  In  March,  1811,  a remarkably  stout  and  active  Arnaout 
came  (I  believe  the  fiftieth  on  the  same  errand)  to  oiler  himself  as 
an  attendant,  which  was  declined : “ Well,  Affendi,”  quoth  he, 
“ may  you  live!— you  would  have  found  me  useful.  I shall  leave 
the  town  for  the  hills  to-morrow,  in  the  winter  I return,  perhaps 
you  will  then  receive  me.” — Dervish,  who  was  present,  remarked 
as  a thing  cf  course,  and  of  no  consequence,  “ in  the  mean  time  he 
will  join  the  Klephtes”  (robbers),  which  was  true  to  the  letter.  If 
not  cut  off,  they  come  down  in  the  winter,  and  pass  it  unmolested 
in  some  town,  where  they  are  often  as  well  known  as  their  exploits. 

(i)  [“  I cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 

Of  bursting  heart  and  maddening  brain. 

And  fire  that  raged  in  every  vein.” — MS.] 

'2)  [“  Even  now  alone,  yet  undismay'd, — 

I know  no  friend  and  ask  no  aid.” — MS.] 

(3)  [These,  in  our  opinion,  are  the  most  beautiful  passages  of 
the  poem ; and  some  of  them  of  a beauty  which  it  would  not  be 
easy  to  eclipse  by  many  citations  in  the  language. — Jeffrey.] 

(4)  [The  hundred  and  twenty-six  lines  which  follow,  down  to  “ Tell 
me  no  more  of  fancy’s  gleam,”  first  appeared  in  the  fifth  edition. 

In  returning  the  proof  to  Mr.  Murray,  Lord  Byron  says: — “ I have, 
but  with  some  difficulty,  not  added  any  more  to  this  snake  of  a 
poem,  which  has  been  lengthening  its  rattles  every  month.  It  is 


now  fearfully  long,  being  more  *han  a canto  and  a half  of  Childe 
Harold.  The  last  lines  Hod/-  «i  likes.  It  is  not  often  he  does, 
and  when  he  don’t,  he  tells  me  vith  great  energy,  and  1 fret,  anc 
alter.  I have  thrown  them  in  to  soften  the  ferocity  of  our  Infidel 
and,  for  a dying  man,  have  given  him  a good  deal  to  say  foi 
himself.  Do  you  know  any  body  who  can  stop — I mean,  point— 
commas,  and  so  forth  f for  I am,  I hear,  a sad  hand  at  youi 
punctuation.’ 

(5)  [Among  the  Giaour  MSS.  is  the  first  draught  oi  this  passage 
which  we  subjoin. — 


“Yes)  [doth  spring') 

Love  indeed  ^ descend  1 from  heaven ; 
If)  (be  born  ) 

[immortal] 

A spark  of  that  -J  eternal  >•  fire, 

I celestial  ) 

To  human  hearts  in  mercy  given, 

To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 

A feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 

To  wean  from  self  sordid  thought; 

Devotion  sends  the  soul  above. 

But  Heaven  itself  descends  to  iove. 

Yet  marvel  not,  if  they  who  love 
This  present  joy,  this  future  hope,  % 
Which  taught  them  with  all  ill  to  cope, 

In  madness,  then,  their  fate  accuse— 

In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

a,,  . t to  add  but  guilt  to  

That  seem|1)Ut  to  aUgment  their  J w 

Alas!  the  that  inly  bleeds. 

Has  nought  to  dread  from  outward  foe.”  S'C.j 

(6)  [“  ’Tis  quench’d,  and  I am  lost  in  night.” — M3.J 


THE  GIAOUR, 


75 


Who  falls  from  all  lie  knows  of  bliss. 
Cares  little  into  what  abyss. 

Pierce  as  the  gloomy  vulture’s  now 
To  thee,  old  man,"  my  deeds  appear : 

I read  abhorrence  on  tliy  brow, 

And  this  too  was  I born  to  bear ! 

’Tis  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey, 
With  havoc  have  I mark’d  my  way : 

But  this  Avas  taught  me  by  the  dove, 

To  die — and  know  no  second  love. 

This  lesson  yet  hath  man  to  learn, 

Taught  by  the  tiling  he  dares  to  spurn 
The  bird  that  sings  within  the  brake, 

The  swan  that  swims  upon  the  lake, 

One  mate,  and  one  alone,  will  take. 

And  let  the  fool  still  prone  to  range,1 
And  sneer  on  all  avIio  cannot  change, 
Partake  his  jest  with  boasting  boys; 

I envy  not  his  varied  joys, 

But  deem  such  feeble,  heartless  man. 
Less  than  yon  solitary  swan ; 

Par,  far  beneath  the  shalloAV  maid 
He  left  believing  and  betray’d. 

Such  shame  at  least  was  never  mine — • 
Leila ! each  thought  Avas  only  thine  ! 

My  good,  my  guilt,  my  weal,  my  woe, 

My  hope  on  high — my  all  beloAV. 

Earth  holds  no  other  like  to  thee, 

Or,  if  it  doth,  in  vain  for  me  : 

Eor  Avorlds  I dare  not  view  the  dame 
Resembling  thee,  yet  not  the  same. 

The  very  crimes  that  mar  my  youth, 

This  bed  of  death — attest  my  truth  ! 

’Tis  all  too  late — thou  wert,  thou  art 
The  cherish’d  madness  of  my  heart ! 

'c  And  she  was  lost — and  yet  I breathed, 
But  not  the  breath  of  human  life  : 

A serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed. 
And  stung  my  every  thought  to  strife. 
Alike  all  time,  abhorred  all  place, 
Shuddering  I shrunk  from  Nature’s  face, 
Where  every  hue  that  charm’d  before 
The  blackness  of  my  bosom  wore. 

The  rest  thou  dost  already  knoAV, 

And  all  my  sins,  and  half  my  woe. 

But  talk  no  more  of  penitence  ; 

Thou  seest  I soon  shall  part  from  hence  : 
And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true, 

The  deed  that’s  done  canst  thou  undo  ? 
Think  me  not  thankless — but  this  grief 
Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief.2 
My  soul’s  estate  in  secret  guess  : 3 
But  wouldst  thou  pity  more,  sav  less. 
When  thou  canst  bid  my  Leila  live. 

Then  will  I sue  thee  to  forgive ; 

Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  high  place 
Where  purchased  masses  proffer  grace. 
Go,  when  the  hunter’s  hand  hath  Avrung 
Prom  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young, 


(1)  [“  And  let  the  light,  inconstant  fool 

That  sneers  his  coxcomb  ridicule.” — MS  ] 


And  calm  the  lonely  lioness  : 

But  soothe  not — mock  not  my  distress  ! 

“ In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours, 

When  heart  witli  heart  delights  tc  blcrd. 
Where  bloom  my  native  valley’s  boAvers  4 
I had — Ah  ! have  I now  ? — a friend  ! 

To  him  this  pledge  I charge  thee  send, 
Memorial  of  a youthful  vow ; 

I would  remind  him  of  my  end : 5 

Though  souls  absorb’d  like  mine  alloAV 
Brief  thought  to  distant  friendship’s  claim, 
Yet  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 

’Tis  strange — he  prophesied  my  doom, 

And  I have  smiled — I then  could  smile — 
When  Prudence  would  his  voice  assume, 
And  warn — I reck’d  not  what — the  while 
But  noAv  remembrance  Avhispers  o’er 
Those  accents  scarcely  mark’d  before. 

Say— that  his  bodings  came  to  pass, 

And  he  will  start  to  hear  their  truth, 

And  wish  his  Avords  had  not  been  sooth : 
Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I Avas, 

Through  many  a busy  bitter  scene 
Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been, 

In  pain,  my  faltering  tongue  had  tried 
To  bless  his  memory  ere  I died ; 

But  Heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  aAvay, 

If  Guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray. 

I do  not  ask  him  not  to  blame, 

Too  gentle  he  to  Avouud  my  name ; 

And  what  have  I to  do  with  fame  ? 

I do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn, 

Such  cold  request  might  sound  like  scorn ; 
And  what  than  friendship’s  manly  tear 
May  better  grace  a brother’s  bier  ? 

But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old, 

And  tell  him — Avhat  thou  dost  behold ! 

The  wither’d  frame,  the  ruin’d  mind, 

The  Avraek  by  passion  left  behind, 

A shrivelled  scroll,  a scatter’d  leaf, 

Sear’d  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief ! 

* * * * ® 

“ Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy’s  gleam, 

No,  father,  no,  ’tAvas  not  a dream  ; 

Alas ! the  dreamer  first  must  sleep, 

I only  Avatch’d,  and  Avish’d  to  weep  •, 

But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
Throbb’d  to  the  very  brain  as  iioav  : 

I Avish’d  but  for  a single  tear, 

As  something  welcome,  new,  and  dejar ; 

I wish’d  it  then,  I wish  it  still ; 

Despair  is  stronger  than  my  will. 

Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair6 
Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayer  : 

I would  not,  if  I might,  be  blest ; 

I want  no  paradise,  but  rest. 

’Twas  then,  I tell  thee,  father  ! then 
I saAv  her ; yes,  she  lived  again ; 

And  shining  in  her  white  symar,7 
As  through  yon  pale  gray  cloud  the  star 


(3)  [ “ but  this  grief 

In  truth  is  not  for  thy  relief, 

My  state  thy  thought  can  never  guess.” — MS.] 

(4)  [“  AVhere  rise  my  native  city’s  towers.” — MS.] 

(5)  [“  I have  no  heart  to  love  him  now, 

And  ’tis  hut  to  declare  my  end."— MS.] 

(6)  [“  Nay,  kneel  not,  father,  rise— despair,”  fee.— MS  ] 

(7)  “ Symar,”  a shroud. 


(2)  The  monk’s  sermon  is  omi'ted.  It  seems  to  have  had  so 
little  effect  upon  the  patient,  that  it  could  have  no  hopes  from 
the  reader.  It  may  he  sufficient  to  say,  that  it  was  of  a customary 
length  (as  may  he  perceived  from  the  interruptions  and  uneasiness 
of  the  patient),  and  was  delivered  in  the  usual  tone  of  all  ortho- 
dox preachers. 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


( 


6 


Which  now  I gaze  on,  as  on  her, 

Who  look’d  and  looks  far  lovelier ; 

Dimly  I view  its  trembling  spark ; 1 
To-morrow’s  night  shall  be  more  dark ; 
And  I,  before  its  rays  appear, 

That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 

I wander,  father  ! for  my  soul 
Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goal. 

I saw  her,  friar ! and  I rose 
Forgetful  of  our  former  woes ; 

And  rushing  from  my  couch,  I dart, 

And  clasp  her  to  my  desperate  heart ; 

I clasp — what  is  it  that  I clasp  ? 

No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp, 

No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine, 

Yet,  Leila  ! yet  the  form  is  thine ! 

And  art  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  much, 
As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch  ? 

Ah ! were  thy  beauties  e’er  so  cold, 

I care  not ; so  my  arms  enfold 
The  all  they  ever  wish’d  to  hold. 

Alas  ! around  a shadow  prest, 

They  shrink  upon  my  lonely  breast ; 

Yet  still  ’tis  there  ! In  silence  stands, 
And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands  ! 
With  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye — 
I knew  ’twas  false — she  could  not  die  ! 
But  he  is  dead  ! within  the  dell 
I saw  him  buried  where  he  fell ; 

He  comes  not,  for  he  cannot  break 
From  earth ; why  then  art  thou  awake  ? 


(1)  [“  Which  now  I view  with  trembling  spark.” — MS.] 

(2)  The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  story  relates  was  not 
very  uncommon  in  Turkey.  A few  years  ago  the  wife  of  Muchtar 
Pacha  complained  to  his  father  of  his  son’s  supposed  infidelity:  he 
asked  with  whom,  and  she  had  the  barbarity  to  give  in  a list  of  the 
twelve  handsomest  women  in  Yanina.  They  were  seized,  fastened 
up  in  sacks,  and  drowned  in  the  lake  the  same  night!  One  of  the 
guards  who  was  present  informed  me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims 
uttered  a cry,  or  showed  a symptom  of  terror  at  so  sudden  a 
“ wrench  from  all  we  know,  from  all  we  love.”  The  fate  of 
Phrosine,  the  fairest  of  this  sacrifice,  is  the  subject  of  many  a 
llomaic  and  Arnaout  ditty.  The  story  in  the  text  is  one  told  of  a 
young  Venetian  many  years  ago,  and  now  nearly  forgotten.  I 
heard  it  by  accident  recited  by  one  of  the  coffee-house  story-tellers 
who  abound  in  the  Levant,  and  sing  or  recite  their  narratives.  The 
additions  and  interpolations  by  the  translator  will  be  easily  dis- 
tinguished from  tne  rest,  by  the  want  of  Eastern  imagery;  and  I 
regret  that  my  memory  has  retained  so  few  fragments  of  the  origi- 
nal. For  the  contents  of  some  of  the  notes  I am  indebted  partly  to 
D’Herbelot,  and  partly  to  that  most  Eastern,  and,  as  Mr.  Weber 
justly  entitles  it,  “ sublime  tale,”  the  “ Caliph  Vathek.”  I do  not 
know  from  what  sonree  the  author  of  that  singular  volume  may 
have  drawn  his  materials ; some  of  his  incidents  are  to  be  found  in 


They  told  me  wild  waves  roll’d  above 
The  face  I view,  the  form  I love ; 

They  told  me — ’twas  a hideous  tale  ! 

I’d  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail : 

If  true,  and  from  thine  ocean-cave 
Thou  com’st  to  claim  a calmer  grave ; 
Oh  ! pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o’er 
This  brow  that  then  will  burn  no  more  ; 
Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart : 
But,  shape  or  shade  ! whate’er  thou  art, 
In  mercy  ne’er  again  depart ! 

Or  farther  with  th.ee  bear  my  soul 
Than  winds  can  waft  or  waters  roll  ! 

* * * * * 

“ Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 
Confessor ! to  thy  secret  ear 
I breathe  the  sorrows  I bewail, 

And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
This  glazing  eye  could  never  shed. 

Then  lay  me  with  the  humblest  dead, 
And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head, 

Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread, 

By  prying  stranger  to  be  read, 

Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim’s  tread.”  2 

He  pass’d — nor  of  his  name  and  race 
Hath  left  a token  or  a trace, 

Save  what  the  father  must  not  say 
W ho  shrived  him  on  his  dying  day : 

This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew  3 
Of  her  he  loved,  or  him  lie  slew.4 


the  “ Bibliotheque  Orientale;”  but  for  correctness  of  costume, 
beauty  of  description,  and  power  of  imagination,  it  far  surpasses  all 

European  imitations ; and  bears  such  marks  of  originality,  that 
those  who  have  visited  the  East  will  find  some  difficulty  iij  be- 
lieving it  to  be  more  than  a translation.  As  an  Eastern  tale,  even 
Rasselas  must  bow  before  it;  his  “ Happy  Valley”  will  not  bear  a 
comparison  with  the  “ Hall  of  Eblis.” 

(3)  [“  Nor  whether  most  he  mourn’d  none  knew, 

For  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew.” — MS.] 

(4)  [In  this  poem,  which  was  published  after  the  two  first  cantos 
of  Childe  Harold,  Lord  Byron  began  to  show  his  powers.  He  had 
now  received  encouragement  which  set  free  his  daring  hands,  and 
gave  his  strokes  their  natural  force.  Here,  then,  we  first  find  pas- 
sages of  a tone  peculiar  to  Lord  Byron ; but  still  this  appearance 
was  not  uniform : he  often  returned  to  his  trammels,  and  reminds 
us  of  the  manner  of  some  favourite  predecessor:  among  these,  I 
think  we  sometimes  catch  the  notes  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  But  the 
internal  tempest — the  deep  passion,  sometimes  buried,  and  some- 
times blazing  from  some  incidental  touch — the  intensity  of  agonizing 
reflection,  which  will  always  distinguish  Lord  Byr«n  from  othe° 
writers  — now  began  to  display  themselves. — Slit  Egertow 
Brydges.] 


Z i)t  33  r !TJ  c of  Iftigtro^ 

A TURKISH  TALE.1 


" Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly, 

Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 

Never  met,  or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne’er  been  broken-hearted.” 

BURNS. 


TO 

FEE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  LORD  HOLLAND, 

THIS  TALE  IS  INSCRIBED, 

WITH  EVERY  SENTIMENT  OF  REGARD  AND  RESPECT, 

BY  HIS  GRATEFULLY  OBLIGED  AND  SINCERE  FRIEND, 

BYRON. 


Grille  of  abjitios.2 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


I. 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 3 
Ai*,  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime, 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime  ? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 

Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine: 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppress’d  with  per- 
fume, 

Wax  faint  o’er  the  gardens  of  Gul 4 m her  bloom  ; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 

And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute : 
Where  the  tmts  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  colour  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie. 

And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye  ; 

Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ? 

’Tis  the  clime  of  the  East ; ’tis  the  land  of  the  Sun 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have 
done  ? 5 


Oh  ! wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers’  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which 
they  tell. 

ii. 

Begirt  with  many  a gallant  slave, 

Apparell’d  as  becomes  the  brave. 

Awaiting  each  his  lord’s  behest 
To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest. 

Old  Giaiflr  sate  hi  liis  Divan  : 

Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye  ; 

And  though  the  face  of  Mussulman 
Not  oft  betrays  to  standers  by 
The  mind  within,  well  skill’d  to  hide 
All  but  unconquerable  pride, 

His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brow 
Did  more  than  he  was  wont  avow. 

hi. 

“ Let  the  chamber  be  clear’d.”— The  tram  dis- 
appear’d— 

“ Now  call  me  the  chief  of  the  Ilaram  guard. 

With  Giaflir  is  none  but  his  only  son. 

And  the  Nubian  awaiting  the  sire’s  award. 

“ Haroun — when  all  the  crowd,  that  wait 
Are  passed  beyond  the  outer  gate, 

(Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 
My  child  Zuleika’s  face  unveil’d  !) 


m [The  “ Eride  of  Abydos”  was  published  in  the  beginning  of 
December,  1813.  The  mood  of  mind  in  which  it  was  struck  oft  is 
thus  stated  by  Lord  Byron,  in  a letter  to  Mr.  Gifford You 
have  been  good  enough  to  look  at  a thing  of  mine  in  MS.  a 
Turkish  story— and  1 should  feel  gratified  if  you  would  do  it  the 
same  favour  in  its  probationary  state  of  printing.  It  was  written, 
1 cannot  say  for  amusement,  nor  ‘ obliged  by  hunger  and  request 
of  friends,'  but  in  a state  of  mind,  from  circumstances  which  occa- 
sionally occur  to  ‘us  youth.’  that  rendered  it  necessary  for  me  to 
apply  my  mind  to  something,  any  thing,  but  reality ; and  under 
this  not  very  brilliant  inspiration  it  was  composed.  Send  it  either 

lo  the  flames,  or  ^ , , , . . 

‘ A hundred  hawkers  load, 

On  wings  of  winds  to  fly  or  fall  abroad.’ 

It  deserves  no  better  than  the  first,  as  the  work  of  a week,  and 
scribbled  ‘stans  pede  in  uno’  (by  the  bye,  the  only  foot  I have  to 
grand  vol;  and  I promise  never  to  trouble  you  again  under  forty 
caaio»,  and  a voyage  between  each  ”1 


(2)  r“  Murray  tells  me  that  Croker  asked  him  why  the  thing  is 
called  the  Bride  of  Abydos  ? It  is  an  awkward  question,  being 
unanswerable  : she  is  not  a bride , only  about  to  be  one.  1 don  t 
wonder  at  his  finding  out  the  Bull , but  the  detection  is  too  late  to 
do  any  good.  1 was  a great  fool  to  have  made  it,  and  am  ashamed 
of  not  being  an  Irishman.” — Byron  Diary , Dec.  6,  1813.J 

(3)  [To  the  Bride  of  Abydos,  Lord  Byron  made  many  additions 
during  its  progress  through  the  press,  amounting  to  about  two  hun- 
dred lines  ; and,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Giaour,  the  passages  so  added 
will  be  seen  to  be  some  of  the  most  splendid  in  the  whole  poem. 
These  opening  lines,  which  are  among  the  new  insertions,  are  sup- 
posed to  have  been  suggested  by  a song  of  Goethe  s— 

“ Kennst  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen  bluhn.”l 

(4)  “ Gul,”  the  rose.  # 

(5)  “ Souls  made  of  fire,  and  children  of  the  Sun, 

With  whom  revenge  is  virtue.”— Young’s  Revenge. 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  l 


IS 

Hence,  lead  my  daughter  from  her  tower; 
Her  fate  is  fix’d  this  very  hour : 

Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought; 

By  me  alone  be  duty  taught ! ” 

c:  Pacha  ! to  hear  is  to  obey.” 

No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say — 

Then  to  the  tower  had  ta’en  his  way, 

But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake, 

First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet  ; 
A.nd  downcast  look’d,  and  gently  spake, 

Still  standing  at  the  Pacha’s  feet : 

Por  son  of  Moslem  must  expire, 

Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire ! 

“ Father ! for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  chide 
My  sister,  or  her  sable  guide, 

Know — for  the  fault,  if  fault  there  be, 

Was  mine,  then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me — ■ 

So  lovelily  the  morning  shone, 

That — let  the  old  and  weary  sleep — 

I could  not ; and  to  view  alone 
The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep, 

With  none  to  listen  and  reply 
To  thoughts  with  which  my  heart  beat  high 
Were  irksome — for  whatc’er  my  mood. 

In  sooth  I love  not  solitude  ; 

I on  Zuleika’s  slumber  broke, 

And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 
Soon  turns  the  haram’s  grating  key. 
Before  the  guardian  slaves  awoke 
We  to  the  cypress  groves  had  flown, 

And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  own  ! 
There  linger’d  we,  beguiled  too  long, 

With  Mejnoun’s  tale,  or  Sadi’s  song; 1 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour 2 
Beat  thy  Divan’s  approaching  hour, 

To  thee,  and  to  my  duty  true, 

Warn’d  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew  : 
But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet  — 

Nay,  Father,  rage  not — nor  forget 
That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 
But  those  who  watch  the  women’s  tower.” 

JV. 

“ Son  of  a slave” — the  Pacha  said — 

“ From  unbelieving  mother  bred. 

Vain  were  a father’s  hope  to  see 
Aught  that  beseems  a man  in  thee. 

Thou,  when  thine  arm  should  bend  the  bow, 
And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 
Thou,  Greek  in  soul  if  not  in  creed, 

Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 

And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow. 

Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 
Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire, 

Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire  ! 
Thou,  who  wouldst  see  this  battlement 
By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent ; 

Nay,  tamely  view  old  Stambol’s  wall 
Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall, 

Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 
Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth  ! 

Go — let  thy  less  than  woman’s  hand 
Assume  the  distaff — not  the  brand. 


But,  Haroun  ' — to  my  daughter  speed  : 

And  hark — of  thine  own  head  take  heed — 

If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing — 

Thou  secst  yon  bow — it  hath  a string  !” 

v. 

No  sound  from  Selim’s  lip  was  heard, 

At  least  that  met  old  Giaflir's  ear, 

But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a Christian  sword. 

“ Son  of  a slave  !— reproach’d  with  fear  ! 
Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear. 

Son  of  a slave  ! — and  who  my  sire  ?” 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career  ; 
And  glances  cv’n  of  more  than  ire 
Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 

Old  Giaffir  gazed  upon  his  son 
And  started  ; for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wrath  had  done  ; 

He  saw  rebellion  there  begun  : 

“ Come  hither,  boy- — what,  no  reply  ? 

I mark  thee — and  I know  thee  too  ; 

But  there  be  deeds  thou  dar’st  not  do  : 

But  if  thy  beard  had  manlier  length, 

And  if  thy  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 

I’d  joy  to  see  thee  break  a lance, 

Albeit  against  my  own  perchance.” 

As  sneeringly  these  accents  fell, 

On  Selim’s  eye  he  fiercely  gazed : 

That  eye  return’d  him  glance  for  glance, 

And  proudly  to  his  sire’s  was  raised, 

Till  Giaffir’s  quail’d  and  shrunk  askance — 
And  why — he  felt,  but  durst  not  tell. 

“ Much  I misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 
Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy : 

I never  loved  him  from  his  birth, 

And — but  his  arm  is  little  worth, 

And  scarcely  in  the  chase  could  cope 
With  timid  fawn  or  antelope, 

Far  less  would  venture  into  strife 
Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life-  — 

I would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone : 

No — nor  the  blood  so  near  my  own. 

That  blood — he  hath  not  heard — no  more — 

I’ll  watch  him  closer  than  before. 

He  is  an  Arab 3 to  my  sight, 

Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight — 

But  hark  ! — I hear  Zuleika’s  voice  ; 

Like  Houris’  hymn  it  meets  mine  ear  : 

She  is  the  offspring  of  my  choice  ; 

Oh  ! more  than  ev’n  her  mother  dear, 

With  all  to  hope,  and  nought  to  fear — 

My  Peri ! ever  welcome  here  ! 

Sweet,  as  the  desert  fountain’s  wave, 

To  lips  just  cool’d  in  time  to  save — 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou ; 

Nor  can  they  waft  to  Mecca’s  shrine 
More  thanks  for  life,  than  I for  thine, 

Who  blest  thy  birth,  and  bless  thee  now.” 

VI. 

Fair,  as  the  first  that  fell  of  womankind, 

When  on  that  dread  yet  lovely  serpent  smiji.g, 


li)  Mejnoun  and  Leila,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  East.  Sadi, 
die  moral  poet  of  Persia. 

(2)  Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunrise,  noon,  and  twilight. 


(3)  The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compliment 
hundred-fold)  even  more  than  they  hate  the  Christians. 


CANTO  I 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


79 


Whose  image  tnen  was  stamp’d  upon  her  mmd — 
But  once  beguiled — and  ever  more  beguiling  ; 
Dazzling,  as  that,  oh  ! too  transcendent  vision 
To  Sorrow’s  phantom-peopled  slumber  given, 
When  heart  meets  heart  again  in  dreams  Elysian, 
And  paints  the  lost  on  Earth  revived  in  Heaven ; 
Soft,  as  the  memory  of  buried  love ; 

Pure,  as  the  prayer  which  Childhood  wafts  above ; 
Was  she — the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  Chief, 

Who  met  the  maid  with  tears — but  not  of  grief. 

Who  hath  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay 1 
To  fix  one  spark  of  Beauty’s  heavenly  ray  ? 

Who  doth  not  feel,  until  his  failing  sight 
Faints  into  dimness  with  its  own  delight, 

His  changing  cheek,  his  sinking  heart  confess 
The  might — the  majesty  of  Loveliness  ? 

Such  was  Zuleika — such  around  her  shone 
The  nameless  charms  unmark’d  by  her  alone ; 

The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace, 

The  mind,  the  Music2  breathing  from  her  face,3 
The  heart  whose  softness  harmonized  the  whole: — 
And,  oh ! that  eye  was  in  itself  a Soul ! 

Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bending 
Across  her  gently-budding  breast ; 

At  one  kind  word  those  arms  extending 
To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  blest 
His  child  caressing  and  carest, 

Zuleika  came — ana  Giaflir  felt 
His  purpose  half  within  him  melt : 

Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 
His  heart  though  stern  could  ever  feel ; 
Affection  chain’d  her  to  that  heart ; 

Ambition  tore  the  links  apart. 

VII. 

“ Zuleika  ! child  of  gentleness  ! 

How  dear  this  very  day  must  tell, 

When  1 forget  my  own  distress, 


In  losing  what  I love  so  well, 

To  bid  thee  with  another  dwell : 

Another ! and  a braver  man 
Was  never  seen  in  battle’s  van. 

We  Moslem  reck  not  much  of  blood 
But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman4 
Unchanged,  unchangeable  hath  stood 
First  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 
That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 
Enough  that  lie  who  comes  to  woo 
1 s kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou  : 

His  years  need  scarce  a thought  employ : 

I would  not  have  thee  wed  a boy. 

And  thou  shalt  have  a noble  dower  : 

And  his  and  my  united  power 
Will  laugh  to  scorn  the  death-firman, 

Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan, 

And  teach  the  messenger5  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait. 

And  now  thou  know’st  thy  father’s  will ; 

All  that  thy  sex  hath  need  to  know  : 

’Twas  mine  to  teach  obedience  still — 

The  way  to  love,  thy  lord  may  show.” 

VIII. 

In  silence  bow’d  the  virgin’s  head  ; 

And  if  her  eye  was  fill’d  with  tears 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed, 

And  changed  her  cheek  from  pale  to  red, 

And  reel  to  pale,  as  through  her  ears 
Those  winged  words  like  arrows  sped, 

. What  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears  ? 

So  bright  the  tear  in  Beauty’s  eye, 

Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry ; 

So  sweet  the  blush  of  Bashfulness, 

Even  Pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less  ! 

Whate’er  it  was  the  sire  forgot ; 

Or  if  remember’d,  mark’d  it  not ; 

Thrice  clapp’d  his  hands,  and  call’d  his  steed,6 
Resign’d  his  gem-adorn’d  chibouque,7 


(1)  [These  twelve  fine  lines  were  added  in  the  course  of 
printing.] 

(2)  This  expression  has  met  with  objections.  I will  not  refer 
to  “ Him  who  hath  not  Music  in  his  soul,”  but  merely  reque.-t 
the  reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  seconds,  the  features  of  the  woman 
whom  he  believes  to  be  the  most  beautiful : and,  if  he  then  does 
not  comprehend  fully  what  is  feebly  expressed  in  the  above  line, 
I shall  be  sorry  for  us  both.  For  an  eloquent  passage  in  the 
latest  work  of  the  first  female  writer  of  this,  perhaps  of  any,  age, 
on  the  analogy  (and  the  immediate  comparison  excited  by  that 
analogy)  between  “ payiting  and  music,”  see  vol.  iii.  cap.  10.  De 
l’Ali  emagke.  And  is  not  this  connexion  still  stronger  with  the 
original  than  the  copy?  with  the  colouring  of  Nature  than  of  Art? 
After  all,  this  is  rather  to  be  felt  than  described ; still  I think  there 
are  some  who  will  understand  it,  at  least  they  would  have  done 
had  they  beheld  the  countenance  whose  speaking  harmony  sug- 
gested the  idea;  for  this  passage  is  not  drawn  from  imagination 
but  memory,  that  mirror  which  Afllicticn  dashes  to  the  earth,  and 
looking  down  upon  the  fragments,  only  beholds  the  reflection 
multiplied! — [“  This  morning,  a very  pretty  billet  from  the  Stael. 
She  has  been  pleased  to  be  pleased  with  my  slight  eulogy  in  the 
note  annexed  to  the  ‘ Bride.’  This  is  to  be  accounted  for  in 
several  ways : — firstly,  all  women  like  all,  or  any  praise ; secondly, 
this  was  unexpected,  because  I have  never  courted  her;  and, 
thirdly,  as  Scrub  says,  those  who  have  been  all  their  lives  regu- 
larly praised  by  regular  critics,  like  a little  variety,  and  are  glad 
when  any  one  goes  out  of  his  way  to  say  a civil  thing;  and, 
f'urtnly,  she  is  a very  good-natured  creature,  which  is  the  best 
reas»r  after  all,  and,  perhaps,  the  only  one.” — B.  Diary,  Dec.  7, 
1813.] 

(3)  [Among  the  imputed  plagiarisms  so  industriously  hunted 

out  in  his  writings,  this  line  has  been,  with  somewhat  more 

plausibility  than  is  frequent  in  such  charges,  included;  the  lyric 

poet  Lovelace  having,  it  seems,  written  “ The  melody  and  music 

of  her  face.”  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  too,  in  his  Ileiigio  Medici, 


says,  “ There  is  music  even  in  beauty.”  The  coincidence,  no 
doubt,  is  worth  observing,  and  the  task  of  “ tracking  thus  a 
favourite  writer  in  the  snow  (as  Dryden  expresses  it)  of  others,  ’ is 
sometimes  not  unamusing;  but  to  those  who  found  upon  such  re- 
semblances a general  charge  of  plagiarism,  we  may  apply  what  Sir 
Walter  Scott  says: — “ It  is  a favourite  theme  of  laborious  dulness 
to  trace  such  coincidences,  because  they  appear  to  reduce  genius 
of  the  higher  order  to  the  usual  standard  of  humanity,  ,and  of 
course  to  bring  the  author  nearer  to  a level  with  his  critics.”  ^ It  is 
not  only  curious,  but  instructive,  to  trace  the  progress  of  this 
passage  to  its  present  state  of  finish.  Having  at  first  written 
“ Mind  on  her  lip  and  music  in  her  face,” 


he  afterwards  altered  it  to — 

“ The^mind  of  music  breathing  in  her  face,” — 
but  this  not  satisfying  him,  the  next  step  of  correction  brought  the 
line  to  what  it  is  at  present. — Moore.] 

(4)  Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osman  Oglou.  is  the  principal 
landowner  in  Turkey;  he  governs  Magnesia:  those  who,  by  a 
kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on  condition  of  service,  are 
called  Timariots : they  serve  as  Spaliis,  according  to  the  extent  of 
territory,  and  bring  a certain  number  into  the  field,  generally 
cavalry. 

(5)  When  a Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the  single 
messenger,  who  is  always  the  first  bearer  of  the  order  for  his 
death,  is  strangled  instead,  and  sometimes  five  or  six,  one  after  the 
other,  on  the  same  errand,  by  command  of  the  refractory  patient : 
if,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  weak  or  loyal,  he  bows,  kisses  tl>o 
•Sultan’s  respectable  signature,  and  is  bowstrung  with  great  com- 
placency. In  1S10,  several  of  these  presents  were  exhibited  in  the 
niche  of  the  Seraglio  gate;  among  others,  the  head  of  the  Pacha 
of  Bagdat,  a brave  young  man,  cut  off  by  treachery,  after  a despe- 
rate resistance. 

(C)  Clapping  of  the  hands  calls  the  servants.  The  Turks  hate  a 
superfluous  expenditure  of  voice,  and  they  have  no  bells. 

(7)  “ Chibouque,”  the  Turkish  pipe,  of  which  the  amber 


CANTO  1 


SO  LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


And  mounting  featly  for  the  mead, 

With  Maugrabee* 1  and  Mamaluke, 

His  way  amid  his  Delis  took,2 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 

The  Kislar  only  and  his  Moors 
Watch  well  the  Haram’s  massy  doors. 

IX. 

His  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand, 

His  eye  look’d  o’er  the  dark  blue  water 
That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 
Between  the  winding  Dardanelles ; 

But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand, 

Nor  even  his  Pacha’s  turban’d  band 
Mix  in  the  game  of  mimic  slaughter. 
Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt3 
With  sabre  stroke  right  sharply  dealt ; 

Nor  mark’d  the  javelin-darting  crowd, 

Nor  heard  their  Ollalis 4 wild  and  loud — • 

He  thought  but  of  old  Giaffir’s  daughter . 

x. 

No  word  from  Selim’s  bosom  broke; 

One  sigh  Zuleika’s  thought  bespoke  : 

Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate, 
Pale,  mute,  and  mournfully  sedate. 

To  him  Zuleika’s  eye  was  turn’d, 

But  little  from  his  aspect  1 earn’d ; 

Equal  her  grief,  yet  not  the  same  ; 

Her  heart  confess’d  a gentler  flame  : 

But  yet  that  heart,  alarm’d  or  weak. 

She  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak. 

Yet  speak  she  must — but  when  essay  ? 

“ How  strange  he  thus  should  turn  away ! 
Not  thus  we  e’er  before  have  met ; 

Not  thus  shall  be  our  parting  yet.” 

Thrice  paced  she  slowly  through  the  room, 
And  watch’d  his  eye — it  still  was  fix’d  : 
She  snatch’d  the  urn  wherein  was  mix’d 
The  Persian  Atar-gul’s5  perfume, 

And  sprinkled  all  its  odours  o’er 
The  pictured  roof 6 and  marble  floor  : 

The  drops  that  through  his  glittering  vest 
The  playful  girl’s  appeal  address’d, 

Unheeded  o’er  his  bosom  flew. 

As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too. 

“ What,  sullen  yet  ? it  must  not  be — 

Oh ! gentle  Selim,  this  from  thee  !” 

She  saw  in  curious  order  set 
The  fairest  flowers  of  eastern  land — ■ 

He  lov’d  them  once  ; may  touch  them  yet. 
If  offer’d  by  Zuleika’s  hand.” 

The  childish  thought  was  hardly  breatned 
Before  the  rose  was  pluck’d  and  wreath’d ; 


mouth-piece,  and  sometimes  the  ball  which  contains  the  leaf  is 
adorned  with  precious  stones,  if  in  possession  of  the  wealthier 
orders. 

(1)  “ Maugrabee,”  Moorish  mercenaries. 

(2)  “ Delis,”  bravos  who  form  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  cavalry, 
and  always  begin  the  action. 

(3)  A twisted  fold  of  felt  is  used  for  scimitar  practice  by  the 
Turks,  and  few  but  Mussulman  arms  can  cut  through  it  at  a 
single  stroke  : sometimes  a tough  turban  is  used  for  the  same 
purpose.  The  jerreed  is  a game  with  blunt  javelins,  animated  and 
graceful. 

(4)  “ Ollahs,”  Alla  il  Allah,  the  “ Leilies,”  as  the  Spanish  poets 

call  them  ; the  sound  is  Ollah ; a cry  of  which  the  Turks,  for  a 

tilent  people,  are  somewhat  profuse,  particularly  during  the  jer- 

*nal,  cr  in  the  chase,  but  mostly  in  battle.  Their  animation  in  the 


The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 
Her  fairy  form  at  Selim’s  feet : 

“ This  rose  to  calm  my  brother’s  cares 
A message  from  the  Bulbul 7 bears  ; 

It  says  to-night  he  will  prolong 
Eor  Selim’s  ear  his  sweetest  song; 

And  though  his  note  is  somewhat  sad. 

He’ll  try  for  once  a strain  more  glad, 

With  some  faint  hope  his  alter’d  lay 
• May  sing  these  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

XI. 

“ What ! not  receive  my  foolish  flower  ? 

Nay  then  I am  indeed  unblest : 

On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower  ? 

And  know’st  thou  not  who  loves  thee  b?s , P 
Oh,  Selim  dear ! oh,  more  than  dearest ! 

Say,  is  it  me  thou  hat’st  or  fearest  ? 

Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 

And  I will  kiss  thee  into  rest, 

Since  words  of  mine,  and  songs  must  fail, 

Ev’n  from  my  fabled  nightingale. 

I knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stern, 

But  this  from  thee  had  yet  to  learn : 

Too  well  I know  he  loves  thee  not ; 

But  is  Zuleika’s  love  forgot  ? 

Ah ! deem  I right  ? the  Pacha’s  plan — ■ 

This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasman 
Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine  • 

If  so,  I swear  by  Mecca’s  shrine, 

If  shrines  that  ne’er  approach  allow 
To  woman’s  step  admit  her  vow, 

Without  thy  free  consent,  command, 

The  Sultan  should  not  have  my  hand ! 

Think’st  thou  that  I couhl  bear  part 
With  thee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart  ? 

Ah ! were  I sever’d  from  thy  side, 

Where  were  thy  friend — ana  who  my  guide  t 
Years  have  not  seen,  Time  shall  not  see 
The  hour  that  tears  my  soul  from  thee  : 

Even  Azrael,8  from  his  deadly  quiver 
When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 

That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  for  ever 
Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust !” 

XII. 

He  lived — he  breathed — he  moved — he  felt ; 
He  raised  the  maid  from  where  she  knelt ; 

His  trance  was  gone — his  keen  eye  shone 
With  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt ; 
With  thoughts  that  burn — in  rays  that  melt. 
As  the  stream  4ate  conceal’d'  • 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willowrs, 

When  it  rushes  reveal’d 
In  the  light  of  its  billows  ; 


field,  and  gravity  in  the  chamber,  with  their  pipes  and  comboloios, 
form  an  amusing  contrast. 

(5)  “ Atar-gul,”  ottar  of  roses.  The  Persian  is  the  finest. 

(C)  The  ceiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls,  of  the  Mussul- 
man apartments  are  generally  painted,  in  great  houses,  with  one 
eternal  and  highly-coloured  view  of  Constantinople,  wherein  the 
principal  feature  is  a noble  contempt  of  perspective  ; below,  arms, 
scimitars,  &c.  are  in  general  fancifully  and  not  inelegantly 
disposed. 

(7)  It  has  been  much  doubted  whether  the  notes  of  this  “ I^iver 
of  the  rose”  are  sad  or  merry;  and  Mr.  Fox’s  remarks  on  the 
subject  have  provoked  some  learned  controversy  as  to  the  opinions 
of  the  ancients  on  the  subject.  I dare  not  venture  a conjecture  on 
the  point,  though  a little  inclined  to  the  “ errare  malleir,,”  & c.  if 
Mr.  Fox  was  mistaken. 

(8)  “ Azrael,”  the  angel  of  death. 


CANTO  I. 


THE  BRIDE  OE  ABYDOS. 


81 


As  the  bolt  bursts  on  high 

Erom  the  black  cloud  that  bound  it, 

Flash'd  the  soul  of  that  eye 
Through  the  long  lashes  round  it. 

A war-horse  at  the  trumpet’s  sound, 

A lion  roused  by  heedless  hound, 

A tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 
By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife, 

Starts  not  to  more  convulsive  life 
Than  he,  who  heard  that  vow,  display’d, 

And  all,  before  repress’d,  betray’d : 

“ Now  thou  art  mine,  for  ever  mine. 

With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign  j 
Now  thou  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath, 

Though  sworn  by  one,  hath  bound  us  both. 
Yes,  fondly,  wisely  hast  thou  done  ; 

That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than  one : 
But  blench  not  thou — thy  simplest  tress 
Claims  more  from  me  than  tenderness  ; 

I would  not  wrong  the  slenderest  hair, 

That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fair, 

For  all  the  treasures  buried  far 
Within  the  caves  of  Istakar.1 
This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lower’d, 
Reproaches  on  my  head  were  shower’d, 

And  Giaffir  almost  call’d  me  coward  ! 

Now  I have  motive  to  be  brave ; 

The  son  of  his  neglected  slave, — 

Nay,  start  not,  ’twas  the  term  he  gave, — 

May  show,  though  little  apt  to  vaunt, 

A heart  his  words  nor  deeds  can  daunt. 

His  son,  indeed ! — yet,  thanks  to  thee, 
Perchance  I am,  at  least  shall  be  ; 

But  let  our  plighted  secret  vow 
Be  only  known  to  us  as  now. 

I know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 
Erom  Giaffir  thy  reluctant  hand  ; 

More  ill-got  wealth,  a meaner  soul 
Holds  not  a Musselim’s 2 control : 

Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo  ? 3 
A viler  race,  let  Israel  show  : 

But  let  that  pass — to  none  be  told 
Our  oath ; the  rest  shall  time  unfold. 

To  me  and  mine  leave  Osman  Bey ; 

I’ve  partisans  for  peril’s  day : 

Think  not  I am  what  I appear  ; 

I’ve  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near.” 
XIII. 

“ Think  not  thou  art  wliat  thou  appearest ! 

My  Selim,  thou  art  sadly  changed  : 

This  morn  I saw  thee  gentlest,  deadest ; 

But  now  thou’rt  from  thyself  estranged. 
My  love  thou  surely  knew’st  before, 

It  ne’er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 

To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay, 

And  hate  the  night  I know  not  why, 

Save  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day  ; 

With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 

I dare  not  to  my  hope  deny  : 

Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss. 

Like  this — and  this — no  more  than  this ; 

For,  Alla  ! sure  thy  lips  are  flame  : 

What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushing  ? 


(1)  The  treasures  of  the  Pre-adamite  Suitan3.  See  D’Herbelot, 
article  Istakar. 

(2)  “ Musselim,”  a governor,  the  next  in  rank  after  a Pacha;  a 
Way w ode  is  the  third;  and  then  come  the  Agas. 


My  own  have  nearly  caught  the  same, 

At  least  I feel  my  cheek  too  blushing. 

To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  health, 
Partake,  but  never  waste  thy  wealth, 

Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by, 

And  lighten  half  thy  poverty ; 

Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye, 

For  that  I could  not  live  to  try  ; 

To  these  alone  my  thoughts  aspire  : 

More  can  I do  ? or  tlion  require  ? 

But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 
We  need  so  much  of  mystery  ? 

The  cause  I cannot  dream  nor  tell, 

But  be  it,  since  thou  say’st  ’tis  well ; 

Yet  what  thou  mean’st  by  ‘ arms’  and  ‘ friends, 
Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 

I meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 
The  very  vow  I plighted  thee ; 

His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word  : 

But  surely  he  would  leave  me  free. 

Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  in  me, 

To  be  what  I have  ever  been  ? 

What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen 
Erom  simple  childhood’s  earliest  hour  ? 

What  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
Than  thee,  companion  of  her  bower. 

The  partner  of  her  infancy  ? 

These  cherish’d  thoughts,  with  life  begun, 

Say,  why  must  I no  more  avow  ? 

Wliat  change  is  wrought  to  make  me  shun 
The  truth  ; my  pride,  and  thine  till  now  ? 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  stranger’s  eyes 
Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies  ; 

Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 
At  such,  our  Prophet’s  will,  repine  : 

No  ! happier  made  by  that  decree ! 

He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 

Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compell’d 
To  wed  with  one  I ne’er  beheld  : 

This  wherefore  should  I not  reveal  ? 

Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal  ? 

I know  the  Pacha’s  haughty  mood 
To  thee  hath  never  boded  good ; 

And  he  so  often  storms  at  nought, 

Allah  ! forbid  that  e’er  he  ought ! 

And  why  I know  not,  but  within 
My  heart  concealment  weighs  like  sin. 

If  then  such  secrecy  be  crime, 

And  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here  ; 

Oh,  Selim  ! tell  me  yet  in  time, 

Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear. 

Ah  ! yonder  see  the  Tchocadar,4 
My  father  leaves  the  mimic  war ; 

I tremble  now  to  meet  his  eye — 

Say,  Selim,  canst  thou  tell  me  why  ?” 

xiv. 

“ Zuleika — to  thy  tower’s  retreat 
Betake  thee — Giaffir  I can  greet : 

And  now  with  him  I fain  must  prate 
Of  firmans,  imposts,  levies,  state. 

There’s  fearful  news  from  Danube’s  banks, 
Our  Vizier  nobly  thins  his  ranks, 

For  which  the  Giaour  may  give  him  thanks ! 


(3)  “Egripo,”  the  Negropont.  According  to  the  proverb,  tu* 
Turks  of  Egripo,  the  Jews  of  S ionica,  and  the  Greeks  cf  Athene 
are  the  worst  of  their  respective  races. 

(4)  “ Tchocadar” — one  of  the  attendants  who  precedes  a zan  erf 
authority. 

M 


82 


LORD  BYKOVS  WORKS. 


c'ANTC  IT 


Our  Sultan  hath  a shorter  way 
Such  costly  triumph  to  repay. 

But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight  drum 
Hath  warn’d  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep, 
Untc  thy  cell  will  Selim  come  : 

Then  softly  from  the  Haram  creep 
Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep  : 

Our  garden-battlements  are  steep ; 

Nor  these  wfll  rash  intruder  climb 
To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time ; 

And  if  he  doth,  I want  not  steel 
Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feel. 
Then  shalt  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 
Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before : 
Trust  me,  Zuieika — fear  not  me  ! 

Thou  know’st  I hold  a haram  key.” 

“ Fear  thee,  my  Selim  ! ne’er  till  now 
Did  word  like  this — ” 

“ Delay  not  thou ; 

I keep  the  key — and  Haroun’s  guard 
Have  some,  and  hope  of  more  reward. 

To  night,  Zuieika,  thou  shalt  hear 
My  tale,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear : 

I am  not,  love  ! what  I appear.” 


W )e  <t3utie  of  &{m&os. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


I. 

The  winds  are  high  on  Helle’s  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos’  daughter. 

Oh ! when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret -torch  was  blazing  high, 

Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam, 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  warn’d  him  home  ; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below, 

With  signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go. 

He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear, 

Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear  ; 

His  eye  but  saw  that  light  of  love, 

The  only  star  it  hail’d  above  ; 

His  ear  but  rang  with  Hero’s  song, 

“ Ye  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long  ! ” — 

That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 

May  nerve  young  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 


(1)  The  wrangling  about  this  epithet,  “the  broad  Hellespont” 
or  the  “ boundless  Hellespont,”  whether  it  means  one  or  the  other, 
or  what  it  means  at  all,  has  been  beyond  all  possibility  of  detail, 
f have  even  heard  it  disputed  on  the  spot;  and  not  foreseeing  a 
speedy  conclusion  to  the  controversy,  amused  myself  with  swim- 
ming across  it  in  the  mean  time  ; and  probably  may  again,  before 
the  point  is  settled.  Indeed,  tne  question  as  to  the  truth  of  “the 
tale  of  Troy  divine”  still  continues,  much  of  it  resting  upon  the 
talismanic  word  “ anetpor:’’  probably  Homer  had  the  same  notion 

ol  distance  that  a coquette  has  of  time;  and  when  he  talks  of 

boundless,  means  half  a mile  ; as  the  latter,  by  a like  figure,  when 
she  says  eternal  attachment,  simply  specifies  three  weeks. 

,21  Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and  crowned  the  altar  with 
laurel,  Sec.  He  was  afterwards  imitated  by  Caracalla  in  his  race. 


II. 

The  winds  are  high,  and  Helle’s  tide 
Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main  ; 

And  Night’s  descending  shadows  hide 
That  Yield  with  blood  bedew’d  in  vain, 

The  desert  of  old  Priam’s  pride  ; 

The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 

All — save  immortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio’s  rocky  isle  ! 

hi. 

Oh  ! yet — for  there  my  steps  have  been 
These  feet  have  press’d  the  sacred  shore, 
These  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne — 
Minstrel ! with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn, 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore, 

Believing  every  hillock  green 
Contains  no  fabled  hero’s  ashes, 

And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 
Thine  own  “ broad  Hellespont” *  1 still  dashes, 
Be  long  my  lot ! and  cold  were  he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee  ! 

IV. 

The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle’s  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida’s  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme  : 

No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam, 

But  conscious  shepherds  bless  it  still. 

Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 
Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan’s  arrow  . 

That  mighty  heap  of  gather’d  ground 
Which  Ammon’s  son  ran  proudly  round,2 
By  nations  rais’d,  by  monarchs  crown’d, 

Is  now  a lone  and  nameless  barrow  ! 

Within — thy  dwelling-place  how  narrow  ! 
Without — can  only  strangers  breathe 
The  name  of  him  that  was  beneath  : 

Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone ; 

But  Thou — thy  very  dust  is  gone  ! 

v. 

Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  cheer 
The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman’s  fear : 

Till  then — no  beacon  on  the  cliff 
May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff ; 

The  scatter’d  lights  that  skirt  the  bay, 

All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away ; 

The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 
Is  glimmering.in  Zuleika’s  tower. 

Yes ! there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber, 

And  o’er  her  silken  Ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber. 

O’er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran ; 3 


It  is  believed  that  the  last  also  poisoned  a friend,  named  Fe.‘tus, 
for  the  sake  of  new  Patroelan  games.  I have  seen  the  sheep  feed- 
ing on  the  tombs  of  /Esietes  and  Antiloch  us : the  first  is  in  the 
centre  of  the  plain. 

(3)  When  rubbed,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a perfume,  which 
is  slight  but  not  disagreeable.  [On  discovering  that,  in  some  of  the 
early  copies,  the  all-important  monosyllable  “ not ” had  been 
omitted,  Lord  Byron  wrote  to  Mr.  Murray, — “There  is  a diabolical 
mistake  which  must  be  corrected;  it  is  the  omission  of  ‘ not’  before 
disagreeable,  in  the  note  on  the  amber  rosary.  This  is  really  hor- 
rible, and  nearly  as  bad  as  the  stumble  of  mine  at  the  threshold — 
I mean  the  misnomer  of  Bride.  Pray  do  not  let  a copy  go  without 
the  ‘ not it  is  nonsense,  and  worse  than  nonsense.  I wish  the 
printer  was  saddled  with  a vampire.”! 


SANTO  V 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


83 


Hear  these,  with  emerald  rays  beset, 

(How  could  slie  thus  that  gem  forget  ?) 

Her  mother’s  sainted  amulet,1 
Whereon  engraved  the  Koorsee  text, 

Could  smooth  this  life,  and  win  the  next ; 

And  by  her  comboloio 2 lies 
A Koran  of  illumined  dyes ; 

And  many  a bright  emblazon’d  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  redeem’d  from  time ; 

And  o’er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute. 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute ; 

And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China’s  mould  ; 

The  richest  work  of  Iran’s  loom, 

And  Sheeraz’  tribute  of  perfume  ; 

All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 
Are  gather’d  in  that  gorgeous  room  : 

But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloom. 

She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sprite, 

What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a night  ? 

VI. 

Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest. 

Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear. 

To  guard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 
As  heaven  itself  to  Selim  dear, 

With  cautious  steps  the  thicket  threading. 

And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 
The  gust  its  hollow  moanings  made, 

Till  on  the  smoother  pathway  treading, 

More  free  ner  timid  bosom  beat, 

The  maid  pursued  her  silent  guide  ; 

And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 

How  could  she  quit  her  Selim’s  side  ? 

How  teach  her  tender  lips  to  chide  ? 

VII. 

They  reach’d  at  length  a grotto,  hewn 
By  nature,  but  enlarged  by  art, 

Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune, 

And  oft  her  Koran  conn’d  apart ; 

And  oft  in  youthful  reverie 

She  dream’d  what  Paradise  might  be  : 

Where  woman’s  parted  soul  snail  go 
Her  Prophet  had  disdain’d  to  show  ; 

But  Selim’s  mansion  was  secure. 

Nor  deem’d  she,  could  he  long  endure 
His  bower  in  other  worlds  of  bliss, 

Without  her,  most  beloved  in  this  ! 

Oh ! who  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell  ? 

W hat  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well  ? 

VIII. 

Since  last  she  visited  the  spc.t 

Some  change  seem’d  wrought  within  the  grot : 

It  might  be  only  that  the  night 

Disguised  tilings  seen  by  better  light : 

That  brazen  lamp  but  dimly  threw 
A ray  of  no  celestial  hue ; 


(1)  The  belief  in  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  or  enclosed  in 
gold  boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the  Koran,  worn  round  the 
neck,  wrist,  or  arm,  is  still  universal  in  the  East.  The  Koorsee 
'.throne)  verse  in  the  second  cap.  of  the  Koran  describes  the 
ittributes  of  the  Most  High,  and  is  engraved  in  this  manner, 
and  worn  by  the  pious,  as  the  most  esteemed  and  sublime  of  all 
sentences. 

(21  “Comboloio” — a Turkish  rosary.  The  MSS.,  particularly 
those  of  the  Persians,  are  richly  adorned  and  illuminated.  The 
Greek  females  are  kept  in  utter  ignorance;  but  many  of  the 
Turkish  girls  are  highly  accomplished,  though  not  actually  qualified 


But  in  a nook  within  the  cell 
Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell. 

There  arms  were  piled,  not  such  as  wield 
The  t urban’d  Delis  in  the  field ; 

But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt. 

And  one  was  red — perchance  with  guilt 
All ! how  without  can  blood  be  spilt  ? 

A cup  too  oil  the  board  was  set 
That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet. 

What  may  this  mean  ? she  turn’d  to  see 
Her  Selim — “ Oh  ! can  this  be  lie  ?” 

IX. 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside, 

His  brow  no  high-crown’ d turban  bore. 

But  in  its  stead  a shawl  of  red, 

Wreathed  lightly  round,  his  temples  woie  : 
That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 
Were  worthy  of  a diadem, 

No  longer  glitter’d  at  his  waist, 

Where  pistols  unadorn’d  were  braced ; 

And  from  his  belt  a sabre  swung, 

And  from  his  shoulder  loosely  hung 
The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 
That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote : 

Beneath — his  golden  plated  vest 
Clung  like  a cuirass  to  his  breast ; 

The  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wound 
With  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and  bound 
But  were  it  not  that  high  command 
Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand, 

All  that  a careless  eye  could  see 
In  him  was  some  young  Galiongee.3 

x. 

“ I said  I was  not  what  I seem’d ; 

And  now  thou  see’st  my  words  were  true  : 
I have  a tale  thou  hast  not  dream’d. 

If  sooth — its  truth  must  others  rue. 

My  story  now  ’twere  vain  to  hide, 

I must  not  see  thee  Osman’s  bride  : 

But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 
How  much  of  that  young  heart  I shared, 

I could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 

In  this  I speak  not  now  of  love  ; 

That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove  : 

But  first — -Oh  ! never  wed  another — 

Zuleika ! I am  not  thy  brother  ! ” 

XI. 

“ Oh ! not  my  brother  ! — yet  unsay — • 

God ! am  I left  alone  on  earth 
To  mourn — I dare  not  curse — the  day 4 
That  saw  my  solitary  birth  ? 

Oh  ! thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more ! 

My  sinking  heart  foreboded  ill ; 

But  know  me  all  I was  before. 


for  a Christian  coterie.  Perhaps  some  of  our  own  “ blues  might 

not  be  worse  for  bleaching.  . 

(3)  “ Galiongee”— or  Galiongi,  a sailor,  that  is,  a Turkish  sailor ; 

the  Greeks  navigate,  the  Turks  work  the  guns.  lhcii  is 

picturesque ; and  I have  seen  the  Capitan  Pacha  more  than  once 
wearing  it  as  a kind  of  incog.  Their  legs,  however,  are  genera^y 
naked.  The  buskins  described  in  the  text  as  sheathed  behind 
with  silver  are  those  of  an  Arnaout  robber,  who  was  my  host  (he 
had  quitted  the  profession)  at  his  Pyrgo,  near  Gastouni  m tne 
Morea  ; they  were  plated  in  scales  one  over  the  other,  like  the  ^»c»ck 
of  an  armadillo. 

(4)  [“To  curse — if  I could  curse— the  day.” — MS.j 


84 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  II 


Thy  sister — friend — Zuleika  still. 

Thou  ledd’st  me  here  perchance  to  kill ; 

If  thou  hast  cause  for  vengeance,  see  ! 
My  breast  is  offer’d — take  thy  fill ! 

Ear  better  with  the  dead  to  be 
Than  live  thus  nothing  now  to  thee : 
Perhaps  far  worse,  for  now  I know 
Why  Giaffir  always  seem’d  thy  foe  ; 

And  I,  alas  ! am  Giaffir’s  child, 

Por  whom  thou  wert  contemn’d,  reviled. 

If  not  thy  sister — would’ st  thou  save 
My  life,  oh ! bid  me  be  thy  slave !” 

XII. 

“ My  slave,  Zuleika  ! — nay,  I’m  thine  : 

But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm. 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  link’d  with  mine ; 

I swear  it  by  our  Prophet’s  shrine, 

And  be  that  thought  thy  sorrow’s  balm. 
So  may  the  Koran  1 verse  display’d 
Upon  its  steel  direct  my  blade, 

In  danger’s  hour  to  guard  us  both. 

As  I preserve  that  awful  oath ! 

The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  prided 
Must  change ; but,  my  Zuleika,  know, 
That  tie  is  widen’d,  not  divided, 

Although  thy  Sire ’s  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giaffir  ali 

That  Selim  late  was  deem’d  to  thee ; 
That  brother  wrought  a brother’s  fall, 

But  spared,  at  least,  my  infancy ; 

And  lull’d  me  with  a vain  deceit 
That  yet  a like  return  may  meet. 

He  rear’d  me,  not  with  tender  help. 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a Cain ; 2 
He  watch’d  me  like  a lion’s  whelp, 

That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  his  chain. 
My  father’s  blood  in  every  vein 
Is  boiling ; but  for  thy  dear  sake 
No  present  vengeance  will  I take  ; 

Though  here  I must  no  more  remain. 
But  first,  beloved  Zuleika  ! hear 
How  Giaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 

XIII. 

“ How  first  their  strife  to  rancour  grew, 

If  love  or  envy  made  them  foes, 

It  matters  little  if  I knew ; 

In  fiery  spirits,  slights,  though  few 
And  thoughtless,  will  disturb  repose. 

In  war  Abdallah’s  arm  was  strong, 
Remember’d  yet  in  Bosniac  song, 


(1)  The  characters  on  all  Turkish  scimitars  contain  sometimes 
the  name  of  the  place  of  their  manufacture,  but  more  generally  a 
text  from  the  Koran,  in  letters  of  gold.  Amongst  those  in  my 
possession  is  one  with  a blade  of  singular  construction  ; it  is  very 
broad,  and  the  edge  notched  into  serpentine  curves  like  the  ripple 
of  water,  or  the  wavering  of  flame.  I asked  the  Armenian  who 
sold  it,  what  possible  use  such  a figure  could  add : he  said,  in 
Italian,  that  he  did  not  know;  but  the  Mussulmans  had  an  idea 
that  those  of  this  form  gave  a severer  wound ; and  liked  it  be- 
cause it  was  “ piu  feroce.”  I did  not  much  admire  the  reason,  but 
bought  it  for  its  peculiarly. 

(2)  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  every  allusion  to  any  thing  or 
personage  in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as  the  Ark,  or  Cain,  is 
equally  the  privilege  of  Mussulman  and  Jew:  indeed,  the  former 
profess  to  be  much  better  acquainted  with  the  lives,  true  and 
fabulous,  of  the  patriarchs,  than  is  warranted  by  our  own  sacred 
writ ; and  not  content  with  Auam,  they  have  a biography  of  Pre- 
Adamites.  Solomon  is  the  monarch  of  all  necromancy,  and  Moses 
a prophet  inferior  only  to  Christ  and  Mahomet.  Zuldika  is  the 


And  Paswan’s  3 rebel  hordes  attest 
How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest : 

His  death  is  all  I need  relate, 

The  stern  effect  of  Giaffir’s  hate ; 

And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 

Whate’er  beside  it  makes,  hath  made  me  free. 

xiv. 

“ When  Paswan,  after  years  of  strife. 

At  last  for  power,  but  first  for  life. 

In  Widin’s  walls  too  proudly  sate. 

Our  Pachas  rallied  round  the  state  ; 

Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command. 

Each  brother  led  a separate  band ; 

They  gave  their  horse-tails 4 to  the  wind, 

And  mustering  in  Sophia’s  plain 
Their  tents  were  pitch’d,  their  post  assign’d ; 

To  one,  alas  ! assign’d  in  vain  ! 

What  need  of  words  ? the  deadly  bowl, 

By  Giaffir’s  order  drugg’d  and  given, 

With  venom  subtle  as  his  soul, 

Dismiss’d  Abdallah’s  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 

He,  when  the  hunter’s  sport  was  up, 

But  little  deem’d  a brother’s  wrath 
To  quench  his  thirst  had  such  a cup  : 

The  bowl  a bribed  attendant  bore ; 

He  drank  one  draught,5  nor  needed  more  ! 

If  thou  my  tale,  Zuleika,  doubt, 

Call  Haroun — he  can  tell  it  out. 

xv. 

“ The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan’s  feud 
In  part  suppress’d,  though  ne’er  subdued, 
Abdallah’s  Pachalick  was  gain’d  : — 

Thou  know’st  not  what  in  our  Divan 
Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man — 
Abdallah’s  honours  were  obtain’d 
By  him  a brother’s  murder  stain’d ; 

’Tis  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drain’d 
His  ill  got  treasure,  soon  replaced. 

Would’ st  question  whence  ? Survey  the  waste. 
And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 
His  gains  repay  his  broiling  brow  ! — 

Why  me  the  stern  usurper  spared, 

Why  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 

I know  not.  Shame,  regret,  remorse. 

And  little  fear  from  infant’s  force ; 

Besides,  adoption  as  a son 

By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none, 

Or  some  unknown  cabal,  caprice, 

Preserved  me  thus ; — but  not  in  peace : 


Persian  name  of  Potiphar’s  wife;  and  her  amour  with  Joseph  con- 
stitutes one  of  the  finest  poems  in  their  language.  It  is,  therefore, 
no  violation  of  costume  to  put  the  names  of  Cain,  or 'Noah,  into 
the  mouth  of  a Moslem. — [Some  doubt  having  been  expressed  by 

Mr.  Murray,  as  to  the  propriety  of  putting  the  name  of  Cain  into 
the  mouth  of  a Mussulman,  Lord  Byron  sent  him  the  preceding 
note — “ for  the  benefit  of  the  ignorant.”  “ I don’t  care  one  lump 
of  sugar,”  he  says,  “ for  my  poetry;  but  for  my  costume,  and  my 
correctness  on  those  points,  I will  combat  lustily.”] 

(3)  Paswan  Oglou,  the  rebel  of  Widin ; who,  for  the  last  years  o) 
his  life,  set  the  whole  power  of  the  Porte  at  defiance. 

(4)  “ Horse-tail,”  the  standard  of  a Pacha. 

(5)  Giaffir,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  or  Scutari,  I am  not  sure 
which,  was  actually  taken  off  by  the  Albanian  Ali,  in  the  manner 
described  in  the  text.  Ali  Pacha,  while  I was  r.  the  country, 
married  the  daughter  of  his  victim,  some  years  after  the  event  had 
taken  place  at  a bath  in  Sophia,  or  Adrirnople.  The  poison  was 
mixed  in  the  cup  of  coffee,  which  is  presented  before  the  sherbet 
by  the  bath-keeper,  after  dressing. 


CANTO  II. 


THE  BRIDE  OE  ABYDOS. 


85 


He  cannot  curb  his  haughty  mood, 

Nor  I forgive  a father’s  blood. 

xvi. 

“ Within  thy  father’s  house  are  foes ; 

Not  all  who  break  his  bread  are  true  : 

To  these  should  I my  birth  disclose, 

His  days,  his  very  hours  were  few  : 

They  only  want  a heart  to  lead, 

A hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 

But  Haroun  only  knows,  or  knew 
This  tale,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh  : 

He  in  Abdallah’s  palace  grew. 

And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 
Which  holds  he  here — he  saw  him  die  : 

But  what  could  single  slavery  do  P 
Avenge  his  lord  ? alas  ! too  late  ; 

Or  save  his  son  from  such  a fate  ? 

He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elate 

With  foes  subdued,  or  friends  betray’d, 
Proud  Giaffir  in  high  triumph  sate, 

He  led  me  helpless  to  his  gate, 

And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essay’d 
To  save  the  life  for  which  he  pray’d. 

The  knowledge  of  my  birth  secured, 

Prom  all  and  each,  but  most  from  me ; 

Thus  Giaffir’s  safety  was  ensured. 

Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 
To  this  our  Asiatic  side, 

Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube’s  tide, 

With  none  but  Haroun,  who  retains 
Such  knowledge — and  that  Nubian  feels 
A tyrant’s  secrets  are  but  chains, 

From  which  the  captive  gladly  steals, 

And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals  : 

Such  still  to  guilt  just  Alla  sends — 

Slaves,  tools,  accomplices — no  friends  ! 

XVII. 

“ All  this,  Zuleika,  harshly  sounds  ; 

But  harsher  still  my  tale  must  be  : 

Howe’er  my  tongue  thy  softness  wounds. 

Yet  I must  prove  all  truth  to  thee. 

I saw  thee  start  this  garb  to  see, 

Yet  is  it  one  I oft  have  worn, 

And  long  must  wear : this  Galiongee, 

To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn. 

Is  leader  of  those  pirate  hordes, 

Whose  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  swords  ; 
To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
Would  make  thy  waning  cheek  more  pale  : 
Those  arms  thou  see’st  my  band  have  brought, 
The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote ; 

This  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

Is  fill’d — once  quaff’d,  they  ne’er  repine  : 
Our  Prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves  ; 

They’re  only  infidels  in  wine. 

XVIII. 

“ What  could  I be  ? Proscribed  at  home, 

A.nd  taunted  to  a wish  to  roam ; 

A.nd  listless  left — for  Giaffir’s  fear 
Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear — 


ti)  The  Turkish  notions  of  almost  all  islands  are  confined  to 
the  Archipelago,  the  3ea  alluded  to. 

(2)  Lambro  Canzani,  a Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts  in  1789-90, 
for  the  independence  of  his  country.  Abandoned  by  the  Russians, 
be  became  a pirate,  and  the  Archipelago  was  the  scene  of  his 


Though  oft — Oh,  Mahomet ! how  eft ! — 

In  full  Divan  the  despot  scoff’d. 

As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 
Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand  : 

He  ever  went  to  war  alone, 

And  pent  me  here  untried— unknown ; 

To  Ilaroun’s  care  with  women  left, 

By  hope  unblcst,  of  fame  bereft. 

While  thou — whose  softness  long  endear’d, 
Though  it  unmann’d  me,  still  had  cheer’d — • 

To  Brusa’s  walls  for  safety  sent, 

Awaitedst  there  the  field’s  event. 

Haroun,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 
Beneath  inaction’s  sluggish  yoke, 

His  captive,  though  with  dread  resigning. 

My  thraldom  for  a season  broke, 

On  promise  to  return  before 

The  day  when  Giaffir’s  charge  was  o’er. 

’Tis  vain— my  tongue  can  not  impart 
My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart, 

When  first  this  liberated  eye 
Survey’d  Earth,  Ocean,  Sun,  and  Sky, 

As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through, 

And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knew  ! 

One  word  alone  can  paint  to  thee 
That  more  than  feeling — I was  Free ! 

E’en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine  ; 

The  World— nay,  Heaven  itself  was  mine ! 

XIX. 

“ The  shallop  of  a trusty  Moor 
Convey’d  me  from  this  idle  shore  ; 

I long’d  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 
Old  Ocean’s  purple  diadem  : 

I sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all ; 1 

But  when  and  where  I join’d  the  crew, 

With  whom  I’m  pledged  to  rise  or  fall, 

When  all  that  we  design  to  do 
Is  done,  ’twill  then  be  time  more  meet 
To  tell  thee,  when  the  tale’s  complete. 

xx. 

“ ’Tis  true,  they  are  a lawless  brood, 

But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  mood  ; 

And  every  creed,  and  every  race, 

With  them  hath  found — may  find  a place  : 

But  open  speech,  and  ready  hand, 

Obedience  to  their  chief’s  command ; 

A soul  for  every  enterprise, 

That  never  sees  with  terror’s  eyes ; 

Friendship  for  each,  and  faith  to  all, 

And  vengeance  vow’d  for  those  who  fall. 

Have  made  them  fitting  instruments 
For  more  than  ev’n  my  own  intents. 

And  some — and  I have  studied  all 
Distinguish’d  from  the  vulgar  rank, 

But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 

The  wisdom  of  the  cautious  Frank — 

And  some  to  higher  thoughts  aspire, 

The  last  of  Lambro’s  2 patriots  there 
Anticipated  freedom  share ; 

And  oft  around  the  cavern  fire 

On  visionarv  schemes  debate,  • 

To  snatch  tne  Rayahs 3 from  their  fate. 


enterprises.  He  is  said  to  be  still  alive  at  Petersburgh.  He  ajid 

Riga  are  the  two  most  celebrated  of  the  Greek  revolutionists. 

(3)  “ Rayahs,” — all  who  pay  the  capitation  tax,  called  tho 
“ Haratch.” 


LORD  BORON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  II 


86 

So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  man  ne’er  knew ; 

I have  a love  for  freedom  too. 

Ay  ! let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriarck  1 roam, 

Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar’s  home  ! 2 
My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea, 

Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  to  me  : 

Borne  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail, 

Across  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale, 

Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb  ! or  glide,  my  prow 
But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer.  Thou  ! 
Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark  ; 

The  Dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  ! 3 
Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 

Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life  ! 

The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away, 

And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray  ! 4 
Blest — as  the  Muezzin’s  strain  from  Mecca’s  wall 
To  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call ; 

Soft — as  the  melody  of  youthful  days, 

That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speechless  praise ; 
Dear — as  his  native  song  to  Exile’s  ears, 

Shall  sound  each  tone  thy  long-loved  voice  endears. 
Por  thee  in  those  bright  isles  is  built  a bower 
Blooming  as  Aden 5 in  its  earliest  hour 
A thousand  swords,  with  Selim’s  heart  and  hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at  thy  command  ! 
Girt  by  my  band,  Zuleika  at  my  side, 

The  spoil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride. 

The  Haram’s  languid  years  of  listless  case 
Are  well  resign’d  for  cares — for  joys  like  these : 

Not  blind  to  fate,  I see,  where’er  I rove, 

Unnumber’d  perils, — but  one  only  love  ! 

Yet  well  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay, 

Though  fortune  frown,  or  falser  friends  betray. 

IIow  dear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill, 

Should  all  be  changed,  to  find  thee  faithful  still ! 

Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim’s,  firmly  shown ; 

To  thee  be  Selim’s  tender  as  thine  own  ; 

L’o  soothe  each  sorrow,  share  in  each  delight, 

Blend  every  thought,  do  all — but  disunite ! 

Once  free,  ’tis  mine  our  horde  again  to  guide  : 
Priends  to  each  other,  foes  to  aught  beside  : 6 
Yet  there  we  follow  but  the  bent  assign’d 
By  fatal  Nature  to  man’s  warring  kind  : 

Mark  ! where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests  cease ! 

He  makes  a solitude,  and  calls  it — peace ! 


(1)  The  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which  the  Mussul- 
mans profess  much  acquaintance. 

(2)  The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Turkomans, 
will  be  found  well  detailed  in  any  book  of  Eastern  travels.  That 
it  possesses  a charm  peculiar  to  itself,  cannot  be  denied.  A young 
French  renegado  confessed  to  Chateaubriand,  that  he  never  found 
himself  alone,  galloping  in  the  desert,  without  a sensation  approach- 
ing to  rapture,  which  was  indescribable. 

(3)  [The  longest,  as  well  as  most  splendid,  of  those  passages, 
with  which  the  perusal  of  his  own  strains,  during  revision,  inspired 
him,  was  that  rich  flow  of  eloquent  feeling  which  follows  the 
couplet, — “Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark,”  &c. — a 
■train  of  poetry,  which,  for  energy  and  tenderness  of  thought,  for 
music  of  versification  and  selectness  of  diction,  has,  throughout 
the  greater  portion  of  it,  but  few  rivals  in  either  ancient  or  modern 
song. — Mjore.] 

fcl)  [Originally  written  thus — 

“ And  tints  to-morrow  with  {^"fancied}  raJ’  ” 

The  following  note  being  annexed: — “Mr.  Murray,  choose  which 
of  tne  two  epithets,  ‘fancied,’  or  'airy,’  may  be  best;  or  if  neither 
will  do,  tell  me,  and  I will  dream  another.”  In  a subsequent 
letter,  le  says  : — “ Instead  of — 

And  tints  to-morrow  with  a fancied  ray,’ 

Print — 

* And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray 


I like  the  rest  must  use  my  skill  or  strength. 

But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre’s  length  : 

Power  sways  but  by  division — her  resource 
The  blest  alternative  of  fraud  or  force  ! 

Ours  be  the  last ; in  time  deceit  may  come 
When  cities  cage  us  in  a social  home  : 

There  ev’n  thy  soul  might  err — how  oft  the  heart 
Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not  part ! 

And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  death  or  woe, 

! Or  even  disgrace,  would  lay  her  lover  low, 

Sunk  in  the  lap  of  luxury  will  shame — 

Away  suspicion  ! — not  Zuleika’s  name  ! 

But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best ; and  here 
No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to  fear : 

Yes,  fear  ! — the  doubt,  the  dread  of  losing  thee, 

By  Osman’s  power,  and  Giaffir’s  stem  decree. 

That  dread  shall  vanish  with  the  favouring  gale, 
Which  Love  to-night  hath  promised  to  my  sail : 

No  danger  daunts  the  pair  his  smile  hath  blest, 

Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest. 

With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet,  each  clime  hath  charms; 
Earth — sea  alike — our  world  within  our  arms  ! 

Ay — let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o’er  the  deck. 

So  that  those  arms  cling  closer  round  my  neck : 

The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be  7 
No  sigh  for  safety,  but  a prayer  for  thee  ! 

The  war  of  elements  no  fears  impart 
To  Love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  Art : 

There  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  can  check  : 

Here  moments  menace — there  are  years  of  wreck  ! 

But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  Horror’s  shape  ! 
This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 

Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close : 

Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from  our  foes  ; 

Yea — foes — to  me  will  Giaffir’s  hate  decline  ? 

And  is  not  Osman,  who  would  part  us,  thine  ? 


XXI. 

“ His  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and  deatli 
Return’d  in  time  my  guard  to  save  ; 

Few  heard,  none  told,  that  o’er  the  wave 
From  isle  to  isle  I roved  the  while  : 

And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band, 
Too  seldom  now  I leave  the  land, 

No  deed  they’ve  done,  nor  deed  shall  do, 
Ere  I have  heard  and  doom’d  it  too  : 


Or — 

‘ And  j^ts}  t^ie  h°Pe  morning  with  its  ray 

Or— 

* And  gilds  to-morrow’s  hope  with  heavenly  ray.’ 

I wish  you  would  ask  Mr.  Gifford  which  of  them  is  best;  or  rather, 
not  worst."] 

(15)  “Jannat  al  Aden,”  the  perpetual  abode,  the  Mussulman 
paradise. 

(6)  [“You  wanted  some  reflections;  and  I send  you,  per  Selim, 
eighteen  lines  in  decent  couplets,  of  a pensive,  if  not  an  ethical , 
tendency,  fine  more  revise — positively  the  last,  if  decently  done — 
at  any  rate,  the  pewultimate.  Mr.  Canning’s  approbation,  1 need 
not  say,  makes  me  proud.*  To  make  you  some  amends  for  eter 
nally  pestering  you  with  alterations.  I send  you  Cobbett, — to  con- 
firm your  orthodoxy.” — Lord  B.  to  Mr.  Murray.] 

(7)  [“  Then  if  my  lip  once  murmurs,  it  must  be.” — MS.] 


* [Mr.  Canning’s  note  was  as  follows  “I  received  the  books, 
and  among  them,  the  ‘ Bride  of  Abydos.’  It  is  very,  very  beautifu'. 
Lord  Byron  isnen  I met  him,  one  day,  at  a dinner  at  Mr.  Ward's) 
was  so  kind  as  to  promise  to  give  me  a copy  of  it.  I mention  this, 
not  to  save  my  purchase,  but  because  I should  be  really  flattered 
by  the  present.”] 


CANTO  II. 


THE  BRIDE  OE  ABYDOS. 


87 


I form  the  plan,  decree  the  spoil, 

’Tis  fit  I oftener  share  the  toil. 

But  now  too  long  I’ve  held  thine  ear ; 

Time  presses,  floats  my  bark,  and  here 
We  leave  behind  but  hate  and  fear. 

To-morrow  Osman  with  his  train 
Arrives — to-night  must  break  thy  chain : 

And  would’st  thou  save  that  haughty  Bey, 
Perchance,  his  life  who  gave  thee  thine, 

With  me,  this  hour  away— away  ! 

But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine, 
Would’st  thou  recall  thy  willing  vow, 

Appall’d  by  truths  imparted  now, 

HCre  rest  I — not  to  see  thee  wed  : 

But  be  that  peril  on  my  head ! ” 

XXII. 

Zuleika,  mute  and  motionless, 

Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress, 

When,  her  last  hope  for  ever  gone. 

The  mother  harden’d  into  stone  ; 

All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 
Was  but  a younger  Niobe. 

But  ere  her  lip,  or  even  her  eye, 

Essay’d  to  speak,  or  look  reply, 

Beneath  the  garden’s  wicket,  porch 
Ear  flash’d  on  high  a blazing  torch  ! 

Another — and  another — and  another— 

“Oh!  fly — no  more  — yet  now  my  more  than 
orother ! ” 

Ear,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread, 

The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red  ; 

Nor  these  alone — for  each  right  hand 
Is  ready  with  a sheathless  brand. 

They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 
With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel ; 

A nd  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 

Stern  Giaffir  in  his  fury  raving  : 

And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave — - 
Oh  ! must  that  grot  be  Selim’s  grave  ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless  he  stood — “ ’Tis  come — soon  past — 

One  kiss,  Zuleika — ’tis  my  last : 

But  yet  my  band  not  far  from  shore 
May  hear  this  signal,  see  the  flash  ; 

Yet  now  too  few — the  attempt  were  rash 
No  matter — yet  one  effort  more.” 

Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  stept ; 

His  pistol’s  echo  rang  on  high, 

Zuleika  started  not,  nor  wept, 

Despair  benumb’d  her  breast  and  eye  ! — 

“ They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 
Their  oars,  ’tis  but  to  see  me  die ; 

That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh. 

Then  forth  my  father’s  scimitar, 

Thou  ne’er  hast  seen  less  equal  war ! 

Farewell,  Zuleika  ! — Sweet ! retire  : 

Yet  stay  within — here  linger  safe. 

At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chafe. 

Stir  not — lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  should  glance. 

Eear’st  thou  for  him  ? — may  I expire 
If  in  this  strife  I seek  thy  sire ! 

No — though  by  him  that  poison  pour’d  : 

No — though  again  he  call  me  coward  ! 

But  tamely  shall  I meet  their  steel  ? 

No — as  each  crest  save  his  may  feel !” 


XXIV. 

One  bound  he  made,  and  gain’d  the  sand : 
Already  at  his  feet  hath  sunk 
The  foremost  of  the  prying  band, 

A gasping  head,  a quivering  trunk : 
Another  falls — but  round  him  close 
A swarming  circle  of  his  foes ; 

From  right  to  left  his  path  he  cleft, 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave  : 

His  boat  appears — not  five  oars’  length — 
His  comrades  strain  with  desperate  strengtl 
Oh  1 are  they  yet  in  time  to  save  ? 

His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave ; 

His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 

Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray ; 

Wet — wild — unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle — now  they  touch  the  land  ! 
They  come — ’tis  but  to  add  to  slaughter — 
His  heart’s  best  blood  is  on  the  water. 

XXV. 

Escaped  from  shot,  unharm’d  by  steel, 

Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  lee l, 

Had  Selim  won,  betray’d,  beset, 

To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met : 

There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land, 

And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand — 
Ah  ! wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 
Eor  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain  ? 

That  pause,  that  fatal  gaze  he  took, 

Hath  doom’d  his  death,  or  fix’d  his  chare. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain, 

How  late  will  Lover’s  hope  remain ! 

His  back  was  to  the  dashing  spray ; 

Behind,  but  close,  his  comrades  lay, 

When,  at  the  instant,  hiss’d  the  ball— 

“ So  may  the  foes  of  Giaffir  fall ! ” 

Whose  voice  is  heard  ? whose  carbine  rang  ? 
Whose  bullet  through  the  night-air  sang, 
Too  nearly,  deadly  aim’d  to  err  ? 

’Tis  thine — Abdallah’s  Murderer ! 

The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate, 

The  son  hath  found  a quicker  fate  : 

East  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubbling, 
The  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troubling — 

If  aught  his  lips  essay’d  to  groan, 

The  rushing  billows  choked  the  tone  ! 

XXVI. 

Morn  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away ; 

Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are  there  : 

The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight-bay 
Are  silent ; but  some  signs  of  fray 
That  strand  of  strife  may  bear, 

And  fragments  of  each  shiver’d  brand  ; 

Steps  stamp’d ; and  dash’d  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a struggling  hand 
May  there  be  mark’d;  nor  far  remote 
A broken  torch,  an  oarless  br  at : 

And  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 
There  lies  a white  capote  ! 

’Tis  rent  in  twain — one  dark-red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o’er  in  vain : 

But  where  is  he  who  wore  ? 

Ye ! who  would  o’er  his  relics  weep, 


88 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  J 1 


Go,  sear,  them  where  the  surges,  sweep 
Their  burthen  round  Sigseum’s  steep 
And  cast  on  Lemnos’  shore: 

The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey, 

O’er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 

As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 

His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow ; 

That  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life, 

Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife. 

Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 

Then  levell’d  with  the  wave 1 — 

What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shall  lie 
Within  a living  grave  ? 

The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robb’d  the  meaner  worm  ; 

The  only  heart,  the  only  eye 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 

Had  seen  those  scatter’d  limbs  composed. 

And  mourn’d  above  his  turban-stone,2 
That  heart  nath  burst — that  eye  was  closed — 

Yea — closed  before  his  own  ! 

XXVII. 

By  Ilelle’s  streamlLthere  is  a voice  of  wail ! 

And  woman’s  eve  is  wet— man’s  cheek  is  nale  : 
Zuleika  ! last  of  Giaffir’s  race, 

Thy  destined  lord  is  come  too  late  : 

He  sees  not — ne’er  shall  see  thy  face  ! 

Can  he  not  hear 

The  loud  Wul-wulleh 3 warn  his  distant  ear  ? 

Thv  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate, 

The  Koran-chanters  of  the  hymn  of  fate, 

The  silent  slaves  with  folded  arms  that  wait, 

Sighs  in  the  hall,  and  shrieks  upon  the  gale, 

Tell  him  thy  tale  ! 

Thou  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  fall ! 

That  fearful  moment  when  he  left  the  cave 
Thy  heart  grew  chill : 

He  was  thy  hope — thy  joy — thy  love — thine  all — - 
And  tnat  last  thought  on  him  thou  could’st  not  save 
Sufficed  to  kill ; 

Burst  forth  in  one  wild  cry — and  all  was  still. 

Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave ! 

Ah  ! happy ! but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst ! 

That  grief — though  deep  — though  fatal  — was  thy 
first ! 

Thrice  happy ! ne’er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 
Of  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge,  remorse  ! 
And,  oh ! that  pang  where  more  than  madness  lies  ! 
The  *worm  that  will  not  sleep — and  never  dies  ; 
Thought  of  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly  night, 

That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  the  light, 
That  winds  around,  and  tears  the  quivering  heart ! 
Ah!  wherefore  not  consume  it — and  deoart ! 

Woe  to  thee,  rash  ana  unrelenting  chief ! 

Vainly  thou  heap’st  the  dust  upon  thy  head, 

Vainly  the  sackcloth  o’er  thy  limbs  dost  spread ; 

By  that  same  hand  Abdallah — Selim  bled. 


(1)  [“While  the  Salsette  lay  off  the  Dardanelles,  Lord  Byron  saw 

the  body  of  a man  who  had  been  executed  by  being  cast  into  the 
sea.  floating  on  the  stream  to  and  fro  wif\  'he  trembling  of  the 
water,  which  gave  to  its  arms  the  effect  ft  aring  away  several 
sea-fowl  that  were  hovering  to  devour.  incident  has  been 

strikingly  depictea  ” — Galt.] 

(2)  A turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  of  men  only. 

(3)  The  death-song  of  the  Turkish  women.  The  “silent  slaves” 


Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief : 

Thy  pride  of  heart,  thy  bride  for  Osman’s  bed, 

She,  whom  thy  sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed, 

Thy  Daughter’s  dead ! 

Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight’s  lonely  beam, 

The  Star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Iielle’s  stream. 
What  quench’d  its  ray?— the  blood  that  thou  hast 
shed ! 

Hark ! to  the  hurried  question  of  Despair  • 

V here  is  my  child  •?  ” — an  Echo  answers  — 
“ Where  ?” 4 

XXVIII. 

Within  the  place  of  thousand  tombs 
That  shine  beneath,  while  dark  above 
The  sad  but  living  cypress  glooms, 

And  withers  not,  though  branch  and  leaf 
Are  stamp’d  with  an  eternal  grief. 

Like  early  unrequited  Love, 

One  spot  exists,  which  ever  blooms, 

Ev’n  in  that  deadly  grove — 

A single  rose  is  shedding  there 
Its  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale  : 

It  looks  as  planted  by  Despair — 

So  white — so  faint — the  slightest  gale 
Might  whirl  the  leaves  on  high  : 

And  yet,  though  storms  and  blight  assail. 

And  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 
May  wring  it  from  the  stem — in  vain — 
To-morrow  sees  it  bloom  again  ! 

The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears. 

And  waters  with  celestial  tears ; 

For  well  may  maids  of  Helle  deem 
That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower, 

Which  mocks  the  tempest’s  withering  hour, 

And  buds  unshelter’d  by  a bower ; 

Nor  droops,  though  spring  refuse  her  shower. 

Nor  woos  the  summer  beam  : 

To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 
A bird  unseen — but  not  remote  : 

Invisible  his  airy  wings. 

But  soft  as  harp  that  Houri  strings 
His  long  entrancing  note  ! 

It  were  the  Bulbul ; but  his  throat, 

Though  mournful,  pours  not  such  a strain : 

For  they  who  listen  cannot  leave 
The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  grieve, 

As  if  they  loved  in  vain  ! 

And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 

’Tis  sorrow  so  un mix’d  with  dread, 

They  scarce  can  bear  the  morn  to  break 
That  melancholy  spell, 

And  longer  yet  wmuld  w-eep  and  wrake, 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well ! 

But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high 
Expires  that  magic  melody. 

And  some  have  been  who  could  believe, 

(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 


are  the  men,  whose  notions  of  decorum  forbid  complaint  in 
public. 

(4)  “ I came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried,  ‘ The  friends  ol 
my  youth,  where  are  they?’  and  an  Echo  answered,  ‘ Where  are 
they?’” — From  an  Arabic  MS.  T.ie  above  quotation  (from  which 
the  idea  in  the  text  is  taken)  must  be  already  familiar  to  every 
reader ; it  is  given  in  the  first  annotation,  p.  67.,  of  “ The  Pleasures 
of  Memory;’’  a poem  so  well  known  as  to  render  a reference  ahi.osl 
superfluous ; but  to  whose  pages  all  will  be  delighted  to  recur. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


89 


let  barsk  be  they  that  blame,) 

Tliat  note  so  piercing  and  profound 
Will  shape  and  syllable  1 its  sound 
Into  Zuleika’s  name.2 
’Tis  from  her  cypress’  summit  heard, 
That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word  : 
’Tis- from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 
That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 
There  late  was  laid  a marble  stone  ; 
Eve  saw  it  placed— tne  Morrow  gone  ! 
Jr.  W£*-s  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 
That  *leep  fixed  pillar  to  the  shore  ; 


For  there,  as  Ilelle’s  legends  tell, 

Next  morn  ’twas  found  where  Selim  fell; 
Lash’d  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 
Denied  his  bones  a holier  grave  : 

And  there  by  night,  reclined,  ’tis  said, 

Is  seen  a ghastly  turban’ d head  : 

And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 

’Tis  named  the  “Pirate-phantom’s  pillow  !” 
Where  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 
Hath  flourish’d  ; flourisheth  this  hour, 
Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale ; 

As  weeping  Beauty’s  cheek  at  Sorrow’s  tale  1 5 


.1 

Zi)t  <£ot*6atr, 

A TALE.4 


I suoi  pensieri  in  lui  dormir  non  ponno.” 

Tasso,  Gerusalemme  Liberata,  canto  x. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE,  ESQ. 


Mr  peak  Mooke, 

i dedicate  to  you  the  last  production  with  which  1 
shall  trespass  on  public  patience,  and  your  indulgence, 
for  some  years ; and  I own  that  I feel  anxious  to  avail 
myself  of  this  latest  and  only  opportunity  of  adorning 
my  pages  with  a name,  consecrated  by  unshaken  public 
principle,  and  the  most  undoubted  and  various  talents. 
While  Ireland  ranks  you  among  the  firmest  of  her 
patriots  ; while  you  stand  alone  the  first  of  her  bards 
in  her  estimation,  and  Britain  repeats  and  ratifies  the 


(1)  “ And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men’s  names.” — Milton. 

For  a belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhabit  the  form  of  birds, 

we  need  not  travel  to  the  East.  Lord  Lyttleton’s  ghost  story,  the 
belief  of  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  that  George  F.  flew  into  her  win- 
dow in  the  shape  of  a raven  (see  Orford’s  Reminiscences),  and 
many  other  instances,  bring  this  superstition  nearer  home.  The 
most  singular  was  the  whim  of  a Worcester  lady,  who,  believing 
her  daughter  to  exist  in  the  shape  of  a singing  bird,  literally  fur- 
nished her  pew  in  the  cathedral  with  cages  full  of  the  kind ; and 
as  she  was  rich,  and  a benefactress  in  beautifying  the  church,  no 
objection  was  made  to  her  harmless  folly.  For  this  anecdote,  see 
Orford’s  Letters. 

(2)  [The  heroine  of  this  poem,  the  blooming  Zuleika,  is  all 
purity  and  loveliness.  Never  was  a faultless  character  more  deli- 
cately or  more  justly  delineated.  Her  piety,  her  intelligence,  her 
strict  sense  of  duty,  and  her  undeviating  love  of  truth,  appear  to 
have  been  originally  blended  in  her  mind,  rather  than  inculcated 
by  education.  She  is  always  natural,  always  attractive,  always 
affectionate ; and  it  must  be  admitted  that  her  affections  are  not 
unworthily  bestowed.  Selim,  while  an  orphan  and  dependant,  is 
never  degraded  by  calamity;  when  better  hopes  are  presented  to 
him,  his  buoyant  spirit  rises  with  his  expectations : he  is  enter- 

! prising,  with  no  more  rashness  than  becomes  his  youth;  and  when 
disappointed  in  the  success  of  a well-concerted  project,  he  meets, 
*ith  intrepidity,  the  fate  to  which  he  is  exposed  through  his  own 
generous  forbearance.  To  us,  “ The  Bride  of  Abydos”  appears  to 
be,  in  every  respect,  superior  to  “The  Giaour,”  though,  in  point  of 
: diction,  it  has  been,  perhaps,  less  warmly  admired.  We  will  not 
j argue  this  point,  but  will  simply  observe,  that  what  is  read  with 
ease  is  generally  read  with  rapidity;  and  that  many  beauties  of 
style  which  escape  observation  in  a simple  and  connected  narrative, 
would  be  forced  on  the  reader’s  attention  by  abrupt  and  perplexing 
transitions.  It  is  only  when  a traveller  is  obliged  to  stop  on  his 
Journey,  that  he  & disposed  to  examine  and  admire  the  prospect. — 
^eorgk  Ellis. j 


decree,  permit  one,  whose  only  regret,  since  our  first 
acquaintance,  has  been  the  years  he  had  lost  before  it 
commenced,  to  add  the  humble  but  sincere  suffrage  of 
friendship,  to  the  voice  of  more  than  one  nation.  It 
will  at  least  prove  to  you,  that  I have  neither  forgotten 
the  gratification  derived  from  your  society,  nor  aban 
doned  the  prospect  of  its  renewal,  whenever  your 
leisure  or  inclination  allows  you  to  atone  to  your 
friends  for  too  long  an  absence.  It  is  said  among 
those  friends,  I trust  truly,  that  you  are  engaged  in 
the  composition  of  a poem  whose  scene  will  be  laid 
in  the  East ; none  can  do  those  scenes  so  much  jus 
tice.  The  wrongs  of  your  own  country,3 4 5  the  magni- 


(3)  [“The  ‘ Bride,’  such  as  it  is,  is  my  first  entire  composite; 
of  any  length  (except  the  Satire,  and  be  d— d to  it),  for  the  ‘ Giaour 
is  but  a string  of  passages,  and  ‘ Cliilde  Harold’  is,  and  I rather 
think  always  will  be,  unconcluded.  It  was  published  on  Thurs 
day,  the  2d  of  December;  but  how  it  is  liked,  I know  not.  Whe- 
ther it  succeeds  or  not,  is  no  fault  of  the  public,  against  whom  I can 
have  no  complaint.  But  I am  much  more  indebted  to  the  tale 
than  1 can  ever  be  to  the  most  important  reader;  as  it  wrung  mv 
thoughts  from  reality  to  imagination ; from  selfish  regrets  to  vivid 
recollections ; and  recalled  me  to  a country  replete  with  the  brightest 
and  darkest,  but  always  most  lively  colours  of  my  mpmory.” — 
Byron  Diary,  Dec.  5,  1813.] 

(4)  [“The  Corsair”  was  begun  on  the  18th,  and  finished  on  the 
31st,  of  December,  1813;  a rapidity  of  composition  which,  taking 
into  consideration  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  the  poem,  is,  per- 
haps, unparalleled  in  the  literary  history  of  the  country.  Lord 
Byron  states  it  to  have  been  written  “cow  amore,  and  very  much 
from  existence."  In  the  original  MS.  the  chief  female  charactei 
was  called  Francesca , in  whose  person  the  author  meant  to  deli- 
neate one  of  his  acquaintance;  but,  while  the  work  was  at  press, 
he  changed  the  name  to  Medora.] 

(5)  [This  political  allusion  having  been  objected  to  by  a friend, 
Lord  Byron  sent  a second  dedication  to  Mr.  Moore,  with  a request 
that  he  would  “ take  his  choice.”  It  ran  as  follows: — 

“ My  dear  Moore,  January  7th,  1814. 

“ I had  written  to  you  a long  letter  of  dedication,  which  l 
suppress,  because,  though  it  contained  something  relating  to  you, 
which  every  one  had  been  glad  to  hear,  yet  there  was  too  much 
about  politics,  and  poesy,  and  all  things  whatsoever,  ending  with 
that  topic  on  which  most  men  are  fluent,  and  none  very  amusing, 
— one's  self.  It  might  have  been  re-written  ; but  to  what  purpose  i 
My  praise  could  add  nothing  to  your  well-earned  and  firmly  esta- 
blished fame;  and  with  my  most  hearty  admiration  of  your  talents, 
and  delight  in  your  conversation,  you  are  already  acquainted,  lo 
N 


90 


L.ORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


. 4.NTO  1. 


ficent  and  fiery  spirit  of  her  sons,  the  beauty  and 
feeling  of  her  daughters,  may  there  be  found ; and 
Collins,  when  he  denominated  his  Oriental  his  Irish 
"Eclogues,  was  not  aware  how  true,  at  least,  was  a 
part  of  his  parallel.  Your  imagination  will  create  a 
warmer  sun,  and  less  clouded  sky;  but  wildness, 
tenderness,  and  originality,  are  part  of  your  national 
claim  of  Oriental  descent,  to  which  you  have  already 
thus  far  proved  your  title  more  clearly  than  the  most 
zealous  of  your  country’s  antiquarians. 

May  I add  a,  few  words  on  a subject  on  which  all 
men  are  supposed  to  be  fluent,  and  none  agreeable  P 
— Self.  I have  written  much,  and  published  more 

than  enough  to  demand  a longer  silence  than  I now 
meditate ; but,  for  some  years  to  come,  it  is  my  in- 
tention to  tempt  no  further  the  award  of  “Gods, 
men,  nor  columns.”  In  the  present  composition  I 
have  attempted  not  the  most  difficult,  but,  perhaps, 
the  best  adapted  meagre  to  our  language,  the  good 
old  and  now  neglected  heroic  couplet.  The  stanza  of 
Spenser  is  perhaps  too  slow  and  dignified  for  narra- 
tive ; though,  I confess,  it  is  the  measure  most  after 
my  own  heart : Scott  alone,* 1  of  the  present  genera- 
tion, has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the  fatal 
facility  of  the  octo-syllabic  verse  ; aud  this  is  not  the 
least  victory  of  his  fertile  and  mighty  genius : in  blank 
verse,  Milton,  Thomson,  and  our  dramatists,  are  the 
beacons  that  shine  along  the  deep,  but  warn  us  from 
the  rough  and  barren  rock  on  which  they  are  kindled. 
The  heroic  couplet  is  not  the  most  popular  measure 
certainly ; but  as  I did  not  deviate  into  the  other 
from  a wish  to  flatter  what  is  called  public  opinion,  I 
shall  quit  it  without  further  apology,  and  take  my 
chance  once  more  with  that  versification,  in  which  I 
have  hitherto  published  nothing  but  compositions 
whose  former  circulation  is  part  of  my  present,  and 
'rill  be  of  my  future,  regret. 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  general,  I 
^ould  have  been  glad  to  have  rendered  my  personages 
more  perfect  and  amiable,  if  possible,  inasmuch  as  I 
nave  been  sometimes  criticised,  and  considered  no  less 
responsible  for  their  deeds  and  qualities  than  if  all 
had  been  personal.  Be  it  so — if  I have  deviated  into 
the  gloomy  vanity  of  “ drawing  from  self,”  the  pic- 
tures are  probably  like,  since  they  are  unfavourable ; 
and  if  not,  those  who  know  me  are  undeceived,  and 
those  who  do  not,  I have  little  interest  in  undeceiving. 
I have  no  particular  desire  that  any  but  my  acquaint- 
ance should  think  the  author  better  than  the  beings 
of  his  imaginings  ; but  I cannot  help  a little  surprise, 
and  perhaps  amusement,  at  some  odd  critical  excep- 
tions in  the  present  instance,  when  I see  several  bards 
(far  more  deserving,  I allow)  in  very  reputable  plight, 
and  quite  exempted  from  all  participation  in  the  faults 
of  those  heroes,  who,  nevertheless,  might  be  found 
with  little  more  morality  than  “ The  Giaour,”  and 
perhaps — but  no — I must  admit  Childe  Harold  to  be 
a very  repulsive  personage ; and  as  to  his  identity, 


Availing  myself  of  your  friendly  permission  to  inscribe  this  poem 
to  you,  I can  only  wish  the  offering  were  as  worthy  your  acceptance, 
as  your  regard  is  dear  to 

“ Yours,  most  affectionately  and  faithfully, 

“ Byron."] 

(1)  [After  the  words  “ Scott  alone,”  Lord  Byron  had  inserted, 
In  a parenthesis — “ He  will  excuse  the  ‘ Mr' — we  do  not  say  Mr. 
Caesar."] 

(2)  [It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  we  are  to  receive  this  passage 
an  adtniaaion  or  a denial  of  the  opinion  to  which  it  refers;  but 


those  who  like  it  must  give  him  whatever  “alias” 
they  please.2 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the 
impression,  it  might  be  of  some  service  to  me,  that 
the  man  who  is  alike  the  delight  of  his  readers  and 
his  friends,  the  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the  idol  of  his 
own,  permits  me  here  and  elsewhere  to  subscribe 
myself. 

Most  truly, 

And  affectionately, 

Iiis  obedient  servant, 

BYRON 

January  2,  1814. 


©be  <£orsatr. 


CAXTO  THE  FIRST, 


‘ nessun  maggior  dolore, 

Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 

Nella  miseria, ” — Daxtb. 


I. 

“ O’er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 

Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 

Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 

Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our  home  ! 

These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway — 

Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 

Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  .change. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  ? not  thou,  luxurious  slave  ! 

Whose  soul  would  sicken  o’er  the  heaving  wrave; 

Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease  ! 

Whom  slumber  soothes  not — pleasure  cannot  please — 
Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 

And  danced  in  triumph  o’er  the  waters  wide, 

The  exulting  sense — the  pulse’s  maddening  play, 

That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 

That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 

And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 

That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal. 
And  where  the  feebler  faint — can  only  feel — 

Feel — to  the  rising  bosom’s  inmost  core, 

Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 

No  dread  of  death — if  with  us  die  our  foes — 

Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose  : 

Come  when  it  will — we  snatch  the  life  of  life — 

When  lost — what  recks  it — by  disease  or  strife  ? 

Let  him  who  crawls  enamour’d  of  decay, 

Cling  to  his  couch,  and  sicken  years  away ; 


Lord  Byron  certainly  did  the  public  injustice,  if  he  supposed  it 
imputed  to  him  the  crimin.tl  actions  with  which  many  of  his  heroes 
were  stained.  Men  no  more  expected  to  meet  in  Lord  Byron  the 
Corsair,  “who  knew  himself  a villain,”  than  they  looked  for  the 
hypocrisy  of  Kehama  on  the  shores  of  the  Derwent  Water,  or  the 
profligacy  of  Marmion  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed. — SiK  Waltek 
Scott.] 

(3)  The  time  in  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  the  oocut- 
rences,  but  the  whole  of  the  Aegean  isles  are  within  a few  hours 
sail  of  the  continent,  and  the  reader  must  be  kind  enough  to  take 
the  wind  as  I have  often  found  U. 


3 AX  TO  I. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


91 


Heave  his  thick  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied  head ; 
Ours — the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 

While  gasp  by  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul, 

Ours  with  one  pang — one  bound — escapes  control. 

His  corse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave. 

And  they  who  loathed  his  life  may  gild  his  grave  : 

O irs  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed, 

Wi'.en  Ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 

Eor  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 
In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory  ; 

And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger’s  day, 

When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey, 

And  cry,  Remembrance  saddening  o’er  each  brow, 
How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  now  ! ” 

II. 

Such  were  the  notes  that  from  the  Pirate’s  isle, 
Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while: 

Suva  were  the  sounds  that  thrill’d  the  rocks  along, 
AijI  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem’d  a song  ! 

In  scatter’d  groups  upon  the  golden  sand, 

They  game — carouse — converse — or  whet  the  brand  ; 
Select  the  arms — to  each  his  blade  assign, 

And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine ; 

Repair  the  boat,  replace  the  helm  or  oar. 

While  others  straggling  muse  along  the  shore  ; 

Eor  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set, 

Or  spread  beneath  the  sun  the  dripping  net ; 

Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a speck  supplies, 

With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  Enterprise  ; 

Tell  o’er  the  tales  of  many  a night  of  toil, 

And  marvel  where  they  next  shall  seize  a spoil : 

No  matter  where — their  chief’s  allotment  this  ; 
Theirs,  to  believe  no  prey  nor  plan  amiss. 

But  who  that  Chief  ? his  name  on  every  shore 
Is  famed  and  fear’d — they  ask  and  know  no  more. 
With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  command ; 

Eew  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  and  hand. 

Ne’er  seasons  he  with  mirth  their  jovial  mess, 

But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 

Ne’er  for  his  lip  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 

That  goblet  passes  him  untasted  still — 

And  for  his  fare — the  rudest  of  his  crew 
Would  that,  in  turn,  have  pass’d  untasted  too  ; 
Earth’s  coarsest  bread,  the  garden’s  homeliest  roots. 
And  scarce  the  summer  luxury  of  fruits. 

His  short  repast  in  humbleness  supply 
With  all  a hermit’s  board  would  scarce  deny. 

But  while  he  shuns  the  grosser  joys  of  sense, 

His  mind  seems  nourish’d  by  that  abstinence. 

“ Steer  to  that  shore ! ” — they  sail.  “ Do  this  ! ’} 
— ’tis  done : 

“ Now  form  and  follow  me!” — the  spoil  is  won. 

Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still, 

And  all  obey  and  few  inquire  his  will ; 

To  such,  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 
Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 

ill. 

“ A sail ! — a sail !” — a promised  prize  to  Hope ! 

Her  nation — flag — how  speaks  the  telescope  ? 

No  prize,  alas  ! — but  yet  a welcome  sail : 

The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 

Yes — she  is  ours — a home-returning  bark — - 
Blow  fair,  thou  breeze ! — she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 
Already  doubled  is  the  cape — our  bay 
Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  spurns  the  spray. 


How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes  ! 

Her  white  wings  flying — never  from  her  foes — ■ 

She  walks  the  waters  like  a thing  of  life. 

And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 

Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire — the  wreck — 

To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck  ? 

IV. 

Hoarse  o’er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings ; 

The  sails  are  furl’d ; and  anchoring  round  she  swings 
And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 
Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stern. 

’Tis  mann’d — the  oars  keep  concert  to  the  strand. 

Till  grates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 

Hail  to  the  welcome  shout ! — the  friendly  speech  ! 
When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach ; 

The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply, 

And  the  heart’s  promise  of  festivity  ! 

v. 

The  tidings  spread,  and  gathering  grows  the  crowd  : 
The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  laughter  loud, 

And  woman’s  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard — 

Eriends’  — husbands’ — lovers’  names  in  each  dear 
word : 

“ Oh  ! are  they  safe  ? we  ask  not  of  success — 

But  shall  we  see  them  F will  their  accents  bless  ? 

Erom  where  the  battle  roars — the  billows  chafe — - 
They  doubtless  boldly  did — but  who  are  safe  ? 

Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surprise, 

And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes ! ” 

VI. 

“ Where  is  our  chief  ? for  him  we  bear  report — 

And  doubt  that  joy — which  hails  our  coming — short ; 
Yet  thus  sincere — ’tis  cheering,  though  so  brief; 

But.,  Juan ! instant  guide  us  to  our  chief : 

Our  greeting  paid,  we’ll  feast  on  our  return, 

And  all  shall  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  learn.” 
Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way. 

To  where  his  watch-tower  beetles  o’er  the  bay, 

By  bushy  brake,  and  wild  flowers  blossoming, 

And  freshness  breathing  from  each  silver  spring. 
Whose  scatter’d  streams  from  granite  basins  burst, 
Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst ; 

Erom  crag  to  cliff  they  mount — Near  yonder  cave. 
What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave  ? 

In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand, 

Not  oft  a resting-staff  to  that  red  hand  ? 

“ ’Tis  he — ’tis  Conrad — here — as  wont — alone  ; 

On — Juan! — on — and  make  our  purpose  known. 

The  bark  he  views — and  tell  him  we  would  greet 
His  ear  with  tidings  he  must  quickly  meet : 

We  dare  not  yet  approach — thou  know’st  his  mood, 
When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude.” 

VII. 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent ; — 

He  spake  not — but  a sign  express’d  assent. 

These  Juan  calls — they  come — to  their  salute 
He  bends  him  slightly,  but  his  lips  are  mute.  > * 

“These  letters,  Chief,  are  from  the  Greek — the  spy, 
Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh  : 

Whate’er  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report 
Much  that” — “ Peace,  peace  !” — he  cuts  their  prating 
short. 

Wondering  they  turn,  abash’d,  while  each  to  each 
Conjecture  whispers  in  his  muttering  speech ; 


92 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


canto  l 


They  watch  his  glance  with  many  a stealing  look, 

To  gather  how  that  eye  the  tidings  took ; 

But,  this  as  if  he  guess’d,  with  head  aside. 

Perchance  from  some  emotion,  doubt,  or  pride, 

He  read  the  scroll — “ My  tablets,  J uan,  hark — 
Where  is  Gonsalvo  ? ” 

“ In  the  anchor’d  bark.” 

“ There  let  him  stay — to  him  this  order  bear — ■ 

Back  to  your  duty— for  my  course  prepare  : 

Myself  this  enterprise  to-night  will  share.” 

“ To-night,  Lord  Conrad?” 

“ Ay ! at  set  of  sun : 

The  breeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 

My  corslet — cloak — one  hour — and  we  are  gone. 
Sling  on  thy  bugle — see  that  free  from  rust, 

My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust ; 

Be  the  edge  sharpen’d  of  my  boarding-brand, 

And  give  its  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 

This  let  the  armourer  with  speed  dispose  ; 

Last  time,  it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes  : 

Mark  that  the  signal-gun  be  duly  fired, 

To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay ’s  expired.” 

VIII. 

They  make  obeisance,  and  retire  in  haste,  . 

Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste  : 

Yet  they  repine  not — so  that  Conrad  guides  ; 

And  who  dare  question  aught  that  he  decides  ? 

That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery, 

Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh ; 
Whose  name  appals  the  fiercest  of  his  crew, 

And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sallower  hue ; 

Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding  art 
That  dazzles,  leads,  yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart. 

What  is  that  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  train 
Confess  and  envy,  yet  oppose  in  vain  ? 

What  should  it  be,  that  thus  their  faith  can  bind  ? 
The  power  of  Thought — the  magic  of  the  Mind  ! 
Link’d  with  success,  assumed  and  kept  with  skill, 
That  moulds  another’s  weakness  to  its  will ; 

Wields  with  their  hands,  but,  still  to  these  unknown, 
Makes  even  their  mightiest  deeds  appear  his  own. 
Such  hath  it  been — shall  be — beneath  the  sun 
The  many  still  must  labour  for  the  one  ! 

'Tis  Nature’s  doom — but  let  the  wretch  who  toils 
Accuse  not,  hate  not  him  who  wears  the  spoils. 


(1)  [In  the  features  of  Conrad,  those  who  have  looked  upon 
Lord  Byron  will  recognise  some  likeness  ; and  the  ascetic  regimen 
which  the  noble  poet  himself  observed,  was  no  less  marked  in  the 
preceding  description  of  Conrad’s  fare.  To  what  are  we  to  as- 
cribe the  singular  peculiarity  which  induced  an  author  of  such 
talent,  and  so  well  skilled  in  tracing  the  darker  impressions  which 
guilt  and  remorse  leave  on  the  human  character,  so  frequently  to 
affix  features  peculiar  to  himself  to  the  robbers  and  corsairs  which 
he  sketched  with  a pencil  as  forcible  as  that  of  Salvator  ? More 
than  one  answer  may  be  returned  to  this  question ; nor  do  we  pre- 
tend to  say  which  is  best  warranted  by  the  facts.  The  practice  may 
arise  from  a temperament  which  radical  and  constitutional  melan- 
choly had,  as  in  the  case  of  Hamlet,  predisposed  to  identify  its 
owner  with  scenes  of  that  deep  and  amazing  interest  which  arises 
from  the  stings  of  conscience  contending  with  the  stubborn  energy 
of  pride,  and  delighting  to  be  placed  in  supposed  situations  of 
guilt  and  danger,  as  some  men  love  instinctively  to  tread  the 
giddy  edge  of  a precipice,  or,  holding  by  some  frail  twig,  to  stoop 
forward  over  the  abyss  into  which  the  dark  torrent  discharges  itself. 
Or,  it  may  be  that  these  disguises  were  assumed  capriciously,  as  a 
man  might  choose  the  cloak,  poniard,  and  dark  lantern  of  a bravo, 
for  his  disguise  at  a masquerade.  Or,  feeling  his  own  powers  in 
painting  the  sombre  and  the  horrible,  Lord  Byron  assumed  in  his 
fervour  the  very  semblance  of  the  characters  he  describes  ; like  an 
actor  who  presents  on  the  stage  at  once  his  own  person  and  the 
tragic  character  with  which  for  the  time  he  is  invested.  Nor,  is  it 
altogether  incompatible  with  his  character  to  believe  that,  in  con- 


Oli ! if  he  knew  the  weight  of  splendid  chains, 

How  light  the  balance  of  his  humbler  pains  ! 

IX. 

Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race, 

Demons  in  act,  but  Gods  at  least  in  face. 

In  Conrad’s  form  seems  little  to  admire, 

Though  his  dark  eyebrow  shades  a glance  of  fire  : 
Robust  but  not  Herculean — to  the  sight 
No  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height ; 

Yet,  in  the  whole,  who  paused  to  look  again, 

Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men ; 1 
They  gaze  and  marvel  how — and  still  confess 
That  thus  it  is,  but  why  they  cannot  guess. 
Sun-burnt  his  cheek,  his  forehead  high  and  pale 
The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil; 

And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals 
The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  conceals. 
Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  general  mien, 
Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  peen  . 
His  features’  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue 
At  times  attracted,  yet  perplex’d  the  view, 

As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 
Work’d  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined  ; 

Such  might  it  be — that  none  could  truly  tell — 

Too  close  inquiry  his  stern  glance  would  quell. 

There  breathe  but  few  whose  aspect  might  defy 
The  full  encounter  of  his  searching  eye  : 

He  had  the  skill,  when  Cunning’s  gaze  would  seek 
To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek, 

At  once  the  observer’s  purpose  to  espy, 

And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny, 

Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 

Some  secret  thought,  than  drag  that  chief’s  to  day. 

There  was  a laughing  Devil  in  his  sneer, 

That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear  ; 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 

Hope  withering  fled — and  Mercy  sigh’d  farewell ! - 

X. 

Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought, 
Within— within — ’twas  there  the  spirit  wrought ! 
Love  shows  all  changes — Hate,  Ambition,  Guile, 
Betray  no  further  than  the  bitter  smile ; 

The  lip’s  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 
Along  the  govern’d  aspect,  speak  alone 


tempt  of  the  criticisms  which,  on  this  account,  had  attended 
“ Childe  Harold,”  he  was  determined  to  show  to  the  public  how 
little  he  was  affected  by  them,  and  how  effectually  it  was  in  his 
power  to  compel  attention  and  respect,  even  when  imparting  a por- 
tion of  his  own  likeness  and  his  own  peculiarities  to  pirates  and 
outlaws.— Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

(2)  That  Conrad  is  a character  not  altogether  out  of  nature,  I 
shall  attempt  to  prove  by  some  historical  coincidences  which  I have 
met  with  since  writing  “ The  Corsair — 

“ Eccelin,  prisonnier,”  dit  Rolandini,  “ s’enfermoit  dans  un 
silence  menafant;  il  fixoit  sur  la  terre  son  regard  feroee.  et  ne 
donnoit  point  d’essor  a sa  profonde  indignation.  De  tout.es  parses 
cependant  les  soldats  et  les  peuples  accouroient ; ils  vouloient  v,*ir 
cat  homme,  jadis  si  puissant,  et  la  joie  universelle  eclatoit  dt  .outes 
partes.  * * * Eccelin  etoit  d’une  petite  taille ; 

mais  tout  l’aspect  de  sa  personne,  tous  ses  mouvemens,  indiquoient 
un  soldat.  Son  langage  etoit  amer,  son  deportement  superbe — et 
par  son  seul  regard,  il  faisoit  trembler  les  plus  hardis.” — Sisnondi, 
tome  iii.  p.  219. 

Again,  “ Gisericus  (Genseric,  king  of  the  Vandals,  the  con- 
queror of  both  Carthage  and  Rome),  statura  mediocris,  et  equi 
casu  claudicans,  animo  profundus,  sermone  rarus,  luxuriae  eon- 
temptor,  ira  turbidus,  habendi  cupidus,  ad  solieitandas  gentes  pro- 
videntissimus,”  &c.  &c. — Jornandes  de  Rebus  Geticis,  c.  33. 

I beg  leave  to  quote  these  gloomy  realities  to  keep  in  countenance 
my  Giaour  and  Corsair. 


CANTO  I. 


THE  CORSAIB. 


93 


Of  deeper  passions ; and  to  judge  tlieir  mien, 

He,  who  would  see,  miist  be  himself  unseen. 

Then — with  the  hurried  tread,  the  upward  eye, 

The  clenched  hand,  the  pause  of  agony, 

That  listens,  starting,  lest  the  step  too  near 
A nproach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear : 
j Then — with  each  feature  working  from  the  heart, 

I With  feelings  loosed  to  strengthen — not  depart : 
That  rise — convulse — contend — that  freeze  or  glow, 
j Elnsh  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  brow  ; 
j Then — Stranger ! if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 
Behold  his  soul — the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot ! 
j Mark — how  that  lone  and  blighted  bosom  sears 
The  scathing  thought  of  execrated  years  ! 

| Behold — but  who  hath  seen,  or  e’er  shall  see, 

Man  as  himself — the  secret  spirit  free  ? 

XI. 

Yet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  Nature  sent 
To  lead  the  guilty— guilt’s  worse  instrument — 
j His  soul  was  changed,  before  his  deeds  had  driven 
Him  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  heaven. 

J Warp’d  by  the  world  in  Disappointment’s  school, 

In  words  too  wise,  in  conduct  there  a fool ; 
j Too  firm  to  yield,  and  far  too  proud  to  stoop, 

|i  Doom’d  by  his  very  virtues  for  a dupe, 

! He  cursed  those  virtues  as  the  cause  of  ill, 

And  not  the  traitors  who  betray’d  him  still  ; 

Nor  deem’d  that  gifts  bestow’d  on  better  men 
; Had  left  him  joy,  and  means  to  give  again. 

: Bear’d  — shumVd  — belied  — ere  youth  had  lost  her 
force, 

He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse, 

And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a sacred  call, 

1 3 pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 

He  knew  himself  a villain — but  he  deem’d 
j The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  he  seem’d  ; 
j And  scorn’d  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid  * 

! Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plainly  did. 

He  knew  himself  detested,  but  he  knew 

The  hearts  that  loathed  him,  crouch’d  and  dreaded  too. 

I Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 
; From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt : 

His  name  could  sadden,  and  his  acts  surprise ; 

But  they  that  fear’d  him  dared  not  to  despise : 

Man.  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 
i Tlte  slumbering  venom  of  the  folded  snake  : 
i The  first  may  turn — but  not  avenge  the  blow ; 

The  last  expires — but  leaves  no  living  foe ; 

Bast  to  the  doom’d  offender’s  form  it  clings, 

And  he  may  crush— not  conquer— still  it  stings  ! 

XII. 

I I if  one  are  all  evil — quickening  round  his  neart, 

One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart ; 

(Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others  as  beguiled 
, Bv  passions  worthy  of  a fool  or  child  ; 

Yet  ’gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove, 

| And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  Love  ! 

Aes,  it  was  love — unchangeable — unchanged, 

Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged ; 

Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye° 

He  shunn  d,  nor  sought,  but  coldly  pass’d  them  by ; 
Though  many  a beauty  droop’d  in  prison’d  bower. 
None  ever  soothed  his  most,  unguarded  hour. 

Yes— it  was  Love — if  thoughts  of  tenderness, 

Tried  in  temptation,  strengthen’d  by  distress, 


Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime, 

And  yet — Oh  more  than  all ! — untired  by  time ; 
Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baffled  wile, 

Could  render  sullen  were  she  near  to  smile, 

Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 
On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent ; 

Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  part, 
Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart ; 
Which  naught  removed,  nor  menaced  to  remove — 

If  there  be  love  in  mortals — this  was  love  ! 

He  was  a villain — ay — reproaches  shower 
On  him — but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power, 

Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone, 

Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one! 

XIII. 

He  paused  a moment — till  his  hastening  men 
Pass’d  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 

“ Strange  tidings  ! — many  a peril  have  I past, 

Nor  know  I why  this  next  appears  the  last ! 

Yet  so  my  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear, 

Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  falter  here. 

’Tis  rash  to  meet,  but  surer  death  to  wait 
Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate  ; 

And,  if  my  plan  but  hold,  and  Fortune  smile. 

We’ll  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral  pile. 

Ay — let  them  slumber — peaceful  be  their  dreams ! 
Morn  ne’er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant  beams 
As  kindle  high  to-night  (but  blow,  thou  breeze  !) 

To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas. 

Now  to  Medora — Oh  ! my  sinking  heart, 

Long  may  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art ! 

Yet  was  I brave — mean  boast  where  all  are  brave  ' 
Ev’n  insects  sting  for  aught  they  seek  to  save. 

This  common  courage  which  with  brutes  we  sha 
That  owes  its  deadliest  efforts  to  despair, 

Small  merit  claims — but  ’twas  my  nobler  hope 
To  teach  my  few  with  numbers  still  to  cope ; 

Long  have  I led  them — not  to  vainly  bleed  : 

No  medium  now — we  perish  or  succeed  ! 

So  let  it  be — it  irks  not  me  to  die  ; 

But  thus  to  urge  them  whence  they  cannot  fly. 

My  lot  hath  long  had  little  of  my  care, 

But  chafes  my  pride  thus  baffled  in  the  snare  : 

Is  this  my  skill  ? my  craft  ? to  set  at  last 
Hope,  power,  and  life,  upon  a single  cast  ? 

Oh,  Fate  ! — accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate — 

She  may  redeem  thee  still — nor  yet  too  late.” 

XIV, 

Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he,  till 
He  reach’d  the  summit  of  his  tower-crown’d  hill : 
There  at  the  portal  paused — for  wild  and  soft 
He  heard  those  accents  never  heard  too  oft : 

Through  the  high  lattice  far  yet  sweet  they  runsr. 

And  these  the  notes  the  bird  of  beauty  sung : 

1. 

“ Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells. 

Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore, 

Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  responsive  swells, 

Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 

2. 

“ There,  in  its  centre,  a sepulchral  lamp 
Bums  the  slow  flame,  eternal — but  unseen; 

Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp. 

Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 


94 


LORD  BY  RON ’lb  WORKS. 


CANTO  L 


3. 

K Remember  me — Oh  ! pass  not  thou  my  grave 
Without  one  thought  whose  relics  there  recline  : 
The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave 
Must  be  to  find  forgetfulness  in  thine. 

4. 

Mv  fondest — faintest — latest  accents  hear : 

Grief  for  the  dead  not  "V irtue  can  reprove  ; 

Then  give  me  all  I ever  ask’d— a tear, 

The  first— last — sole  reward  of  so  much  love  !” 

He  pass’d  the  portal — cross’d  the  corridore, 

And  reach’d  the  chamber  as  the  strain  gave  o’er  : 

“ My  own  Medora  ! sure  thy  song  is  sad — ” 

“ In  Conrad’s  absence  wouldst  thou  have  it  glad  ? 
Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay, 

Still  must  my  song  my  thoughts,  my  soul  betray : 

Still  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit. 

My  heart  unhush’d — although  my  lips  were  mute  ! 

Oh  ! many  a night  on  this  lone  couch  reclined, 

My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  wing’d  the  wind, 
And  deem’d  the  breath  that  faintly  fann’d  thy  sail 
The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale  ; 

Though  soft,  it  seem’d  the  low  prophetic  dirge, 

That  mourn’d  thee  floating  on  the  savage  surge  : 

Still  would  I rise  to  rouse  the  beacon  fire, 

Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blaze  expire ; 

And  many  a restless  hour  outwatch’d  each  star, 

And  morning  came — and  still  thou  wert  afar. 

Oh ! bow  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew, 

And  aay  broke  dreary  on  my  troubled  view. 

And  still  I gazed  and  gazed—  and  not  a prow 
Was  granted  to  my  tears — my  truth — my  vow ! 

At  length — ’twas  noon — I hail’d  and  blest  the  mast 
That  met  my  sight — it  near’d — Alas  ! it  passed  ! 
Another  came — Oh  God  ! ’twas  thine  at  last ! 

Would  that  those  days  were  over  ! wilt  thou  ne’er. 
My  Conrad  ! learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 

Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth,  and  many  a home 
As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam : 

Thou  know’st  it  is  not  peril  that  I fear, 

I only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here  ; 

Then  not  for  mine,  but  that  far  dearer  life, 

Which  flies  from  love  and  languishes  for  strife  — 

How  strange  that  heart,  to  me  so  tender  still, 

Should  war  with  nature  and  its  better  will ! ” 1 

“ Yea,  strange  indeed  — that  heart  hath  long  been 
changed ; 

Worm-iiKe  ’twas  trampled — adder-like  avenged. 
Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love, 

And  scarce  a glimpse  of  mercy  from  above. 

Yet  tne  same  feeling  which  thou  dost  condemn, 

My  very  love  to  thee  is  hate  to  them, 

So  closely  mingling  here,  that  disentwined, 

I cease  to  love  thee  when  I love  mankind : 

Yet  dread  not  this — the  proof  of  all  the  past 
Assures  the  future  that  my  love  will  last : 

But — Oh,  Medora  ! nerve  thy  gentler  heart, 

This  hour  again— but  not  for  long — we  part.” 


(1)  [Lord  Byron  has  made  a fine  use  of  the  gentleness  and  sub- 
mission cf  the  females  of  these  regions,  as  contrasted  with  the 
Uordly  pride  and  martial  ferocity  of  the  men  : and  though  we  sus- 
pect he  has  lent  them  more  soul  than  of  right  belongs  to  them, 
as  well  as  more  delicacy  and  reflection;  yet,  there  is  something 
so  true  to  female  nature  in  general,  in  his  representations  of  this 


“ This  hour  we  part ! — my  heart  foreboded  this  ; 

Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss. 

Tills  hour— it  cannot  be — this  hour  away  ! 

Yon  bark  hath  hardly  anchor’d  in  the  bay ; 

Her  consort  still  is  absent,  and  her  crew 
Have  need  of  rest  before  they  toil  anew  : :t.tecl 

My  love ! thou  mock’st  my  weakness ; and  wouldst 
My  breast  before  the  time  when  it  must  feel ; 

But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distress, 

Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness. 

Be  silent,  Conrad  ! — dearest ! come  and  share 
The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare  ; 

Light  toil ! to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare  ! 

See,  I have  pluck’d  the  fruit  that  promised  best, 

And  where  not  sure,  perplex’d,  but  pleased,  I guess’d 
At  such  as  seem’d  the  fairest ; thrice  the  hill 
My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill; 

Yes  ! thy  sherbet  to  night  will  sweetly  flow, 

See  how  it  sparkles  in  its  vase  of  snow  ! 

The  grapes’  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers  ; 

Thou  more  than  Moslem  when  the  cup  appears  : 
Think  not  I mean  to  chide — for  I rejoice 
What  others  deem  a penance  is  thy  choice. 

But  come,  the  board  is  spread ; our  silver  lamp 
Is  trimm’d,  and  heeds  not  the  sirocco’s  damp  : 

Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along, 

And  join  with  me  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song  ; 

Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov’st  to  hear, 

Shall  soothe  or  lull — or,  should  it  vex  thi  ne  ear, 

We’ll  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told, 

Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old.2 

Why— thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vow 

To  that  lost  damsel,  shouldst  thou  leave  me  now  ; 

Or  even  that  traitor  chief — I’ve  seen  thee  smile, 
When  the  clear  sky  show’d  Ariadne’s  Isle, 

Which  I have  poitited  from  these  cliffs  the  while  : 

And  thus,  half  sportive,  half  in  fear,  I said, 

Lest  Time  should  raise  that  doubt  to  more  than  dread. 
Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  quit  me  for  the  main  : 

And  he  deceived  me — for — he  came  again  !” 

“ Again — again — and  oft  again — mv  love  ! 

If  there  be  life  below,  and  hope  above, 

He  will  return— but  now,  the  moments  bring 
The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing  : 

The  why — the  where — what  boots  it  now  to  tell  ? 
Since  all  must  end  in  that  wild  word — fa, rewell ! 

Yet  would  I fain — did  time  allow — disclose — 

Bear  not — these  are  no  formidable  foes  ; 

And  here  shall  watch  a more  than  wonted  guard, 

Bor  sudden  siege  and  long  defence  prepared  : 

Nor  be  thou  lonely — though  thy  lord’s  away, 

Our  matrons  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee  stcuy  ; 

And  this  thy  comfort — that,  when  we  meet, 

Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet. 

List ! — ’tis  the  bugle” — Juan  shrilly  blew — 

“One  kiss — one  more — another — Oh  ! Adieu  !” 

She  rose — she  sprung — she  clung  to  his  embrace, 

Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  face. 

He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye, 

Which  downcast  droop’d  in  tearless  agony. 


sort,  and  so  much  of  the  Oriental  softness  and  acquiescence  in  his 
particular  delineations,  that,  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  refuse 
picture  the  praise  of  being  characteristic  and  harmonious,  as  **11 
as  eminently  sweet  and  beautiful  in  itself  — Jui’FRKY.J 

(2)  Orlando  Furioso,  Canto  x. 


caicto  i. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


95 


Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating  o’er  his  arms, 

In  all  the  wildness  of  dishe veil'd,  charms ; 

Scarce  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  dwelt 
So  full — that  feeling  seem’d  almost  unfelt ! 

Hark. — peals  tlie  thunder  of  the  signal-gun ! 

It  told  ’twas  sunset — and  he  cursed  that  sun. 

Again — again — that  form  he  madly  press’d, 

YVkicn  nnitely  clasp’d,  imploringly  caress’d  ! 

And  tottering  to  the  couch  his  bride  he  bore. 

One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more ; 

Felt — that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 

Kiss’d  her  cold  forehead — turn’d — is  Conrad  gone  ? 

xv. 

“ And  is  he  gone  ? ” — on  sudden  solitude 
How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude ! 

“ ’Twas  but  an  instant  past — and  here  he  stood  ! 

And  now  ” — without  the  portal’s  porch  she  rush’d, 
And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush’d  ; 

Big — bright— and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell  ; 
But  still  her  lips  refused  to  send — “ Farewell ! ” 

For  in  that  word — that  fatal  word — howe’er 
We  promise — hope— believe — there  breathes  despair. 
O’er  every  feature  of  that  still,  pale  face, 

Had  sorrow  fix’d  what  time  can  ne’er  erase  : 

The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 
Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  oil  vacancy, 

Till— Oh,  how  far ! — it  caught  a glimpse  of  him, 

And  then  it  flow’d — and  phrensied  seem  to  swim, 
Through  those  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes  dew’d 
With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renew’d. 

“ He’s  gone  !” — against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven. 
Convulsed  and  quick — then  gently  raised  to  heaven ; 
She  look’d  and  saw  the  heaving  of  the  main ; 

The  white  sail  set — she  dared  not  look  again ; 

But  turn’d  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate — ■ 

'*  It  is  no  dream — and  I am  desolate  ! ” 1 

XVI. 

From  crag  to  crag  descending — swiftly  sped 
Stern  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turn’d  his  head ; 

But  shrunk  whene’er  the  windings  of  his  way 
Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey, 

His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep, 

That  hail’d  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep : 
And  she — the  dim  and  melancholy  star, 

Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach’d  him  from  afar, 

On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 

There  he  might  rest—  but  on  Destruction’s  brink  : 

Yet  once  almost  he  stopp’d — and  nearly  gave 
f.F.s  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave : 

But  no — it  must  not  be — a worthy  chief 
May  melt,  but  not  betray  to  woman’s  grief. 

He  sees  his  bark,  he  notes  how  fair  the  wind. 

And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind : 

Again  he  hurries  on — and  as  he  hears 
The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears. 

The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore, 

The  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar  ; 

As  marks  his  eye  the  seaboy  on  the  mast. 

The  anchors  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast. 

The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 
That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge ; 

And  more  than  all,  his  blood-red  flag  aloft, 

He  marvell’d  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 


(1)  [We  do  not  know  any  thing  in  poetry  more  beautiful  or 
touching  than  this  picture  of  their  parting. — Jeffrey.] 


Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast. 

He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  posscst ; 

He  bounds — he  flies — until  his  footsteps  reach 
The  verge  where  ends  the  cliff,  begins  the  beach. 
There  checks  his  speed ; but  pauses  less  to  breat  he 
The  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneath, 

Than  there  his  wonted  statelier  step  renew’; 

Nor  rush,  disturb’d  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view  : 

For  well  had  Conrad  learn’ d to  curb  the  crowd. 

By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud ; 

His  was  the  lofty  port,  the  distant  mien, 

That  seems  to  shun  the  sight — and  awes  if  seen  : 

The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye. 

That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy; 

All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent ; 

But  where  he  wish’d  to  win,  so  well  unbent, 

That  kindness  cancell’ d fear  in  those  who  heard, 

And  others’  gifts  show’d  mean  beside  his  word, 

When  echo’d  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own 
His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone  : 

But  such  was  foreign  to  his  wonted  mood, 

Fie  cared  not  what  he  soften’d,  but  subdued ; 

The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 
Him  value  less  who  loved — than  what  obey’d. 

XVII. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard. 

Before  him  Juan  stands — “ Are  all  prepared  ?’* 

“ They  are — nay  more — embark’d  : the  latest  boat 

Waits  but  my  chief ” 

“ My  sword,  and  my  capote.” 
Soon  firmly  girded  on,  and  lightly  slung, 

His  belt  and  cloak  were  o’er  his  shoulders  flung  : 

“ Call  Pedro  here ! ” He  comes — and  Conrad  bend*, 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deign’d  his  friends ; 

“ Receive  these  tablets,  and  peruse  with  cart, 

Words  of  high  trust  and  truth  are  graven  there  ; 
Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo’s  bark 
Arrives,  let  him  alike  these  orders  mark  : 

In  three  days  (serve  the  breeze) ‘the  sun  shall  shine 
On  our  return — till  then  all  peace  be  thine  ! ” 

This  said,  his  brother  Pirate’s  hand  lie  wrung. 

Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung. 
Flash’d  the  dipt  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke. 
Around  the  waves’  phosphoric 2 brightness  broke  : 
They  gain  the  vessel — on  the  deck  lie  stands, — 
Shrieks  the  shrill  whistle — ply  the  busy  hands — 

He  marks  how  well  the  ship  her  helm  obeys, 

How  gallant  all  her  crew — and  deigns  to  praise. 

His  eyes  of  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn — 

Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn  ? 

Alas ! those  eyes  beheld  his  rocky  tower 
And  live  a moment  o’er  the  parting  hour; 

She — his  Medora — did  she  mark  the  prow  ? 

Ah  ! never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now  ! 

But  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  dawn  of  day — 

Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away ; 

Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  bends, 

And  there  unfolds  his  plan — his  means— and  ends  : 
Before  them  burns  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  chart. 
And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art ; 

They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  debate ; 

To  anxious  eyes  what  hour  is  ever  late  ? 

Meantime,  the  steady  breeze  serenely  blew, 

And  fast  and  falcon-like  the  vessel  flew  ; 


(2)  By  night,  particularly  in  a warm  latitude,  every  stroke  if 
the  oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  is  followed  by  a 3U^b\ 
flash  like  sheet  lightning  from  the  water. 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  rt. 


*6 

Pass’d  the  high  headlands  of  each  clustering  isle, 
To  gain  their  port — long — long  ere  morning  smile  : 
And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow  bay 
Discovers  where  the  Pacha’s  galleys  lay. 

Count  they  each  sail — and  mark  how  there  supine 
The  lights  in  vain  o’er  heedless  Moslem  shine. 
Secure,  unnoted,  Conrad’s  prow  pass’d  by, 

And  anchor’d  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie  ! 
Screen’d  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape, 

That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 

Then  rose  his  band  to  duty — not  from  sleep — 
Equipp’d  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep ; 

While  lean’d  their  leader  o’er  the  fretting  flood, 
And  calmly  talk’d — and  yet  he  talk’d  of  blood  ! 

— ♦ 

@Tf)e  (£orsntr. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


" Conosceste  i dubiosi  desiri ! ” — Dante. 


I. 

In  Coron’s  bay  floats  many  a galley  light, 

Through  Coron’s  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright, 

Eor  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a feast  to-niglit : 

A feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 

When  he  shall  drag  the  fetter’d  Rovers  home : 

This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alla  and  his  sword. 

And  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word, 

His  summon’d  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 

And  great  the  gathering  crews,  and  loud  the  boast ; 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize, 

Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise ; 

’Tis  but  to  sail — no  doubt  to-morrow’s  Sun 
Will  see  the  Pirates  bound — their  haven  won  ! 
Meantime  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will. 

Nor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill. 

Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek 
To  flesh  their  glowing  valour  on  the  Greek  ; 

How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban’d  brave — 
To  bare  the  sabre’s  edge  before  a slave ! 

Infest  his  dwelling — but  forbear  to  slay, 

Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-day, 

And  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  may ! 

L1  uless  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow, 

To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 

Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguile, 

And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a head  must  smile; 

Eor  Moslem  mouths  produce  their  choicest  cheer, 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 


ii. 

High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turban’d  Sevd; 
Around— the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 
Removed  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pilaff — 
Forbidden  draughts,  ’tis  said,  he  dared  to  quaff, 


(2)  “ Chibouque,”  pipe. 


(1)  Coffee. 

(3)  Dancing  girls. 

(lj  It  has  been  observed,  that  Conrad’s  entering  disguised  as  a 
spv  is  out  of  nature.  Perhaps  so.  I find  something  not  unlike  it 
in  ’ilatory . — “ Anxious  to  explore  with  his  own  eyes  the  state  of 
the  Vandals,  Majorian  ventured,  after  disguising  the  colour  of  his 


Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry’s  juice,1 
The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslems’  use  : 

The  long  chibouque’s  2 dissolving  cloud  supply, 

While  dance  the  Almas  3 to  wild  minstrelsy. 

The  rising  morn  will  view  the  chiefs  embark  ; 

But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  dari 
And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 
On  silken  couch  than  o’er  the  rugged  deep ; 

Feast  there  who  can — nor  combat  till  they  must, 

And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust ; 

And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  in  his  host 
Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha’s  boast 

in. 

With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate. 

Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait. 

Bows  his  bent  head — his  hand  salutes  the  floor. 

Ere  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore : 

“ A captive  Dervise,  from  the  pirate’s  nest 
Escaped,  is  here — himself  would  tell  the  rest.”  4 
He  took  the  sign  from  Sevd’s  assenting  eye, 

And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh. 

His  arms  were  folded  on  his  dark-green  vest. 

His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  deprest ; 

Yet  worn  he  seem’d  of  hardship  mere  than  years, 

And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from  fears. 
Vow’d  to  his  God — his  sable  locks  he  wore, 

And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o’er : 

Around  his  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown, 

And  wrapt  a breast  bestow’d  on  heaven  alone ; 
Submissive,  yet  with  self-possession  mann’d, 

He  calmly  met  the  curious  eves  that  scann’d ; 

And  question  of  his  coming  fain  would  seek, 

Before  the  Pacha’s  will  allow’d  to  speak. 

IV. 

“ Whence  com’st  thou,  Dervise?” 

“ From  the  outlaw’s  den, 

A fugitive — ” 

“ Thy  capture  where  and  when  ? ” 

“ From  Scalanovo’s  port  to  Scio’s  isle, 

The  Saick  was  bound ; but  Alla  did  not  smile 
Upon  our  course — the  Moslem  merchant’s  gains 
The  Rovers  won  : our  lim’bs  have  worn  their  chain  & 

I had  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast, 

Beyond  the  wandering  freedom  which  I lost ; 

At  length  a fisher’s  humble  boat  by  night 
Afforded  hope,  and  offer’d  chance  of  flight ; 

I seized  the  nour,  and  found  my  safety  here — 

With  thee — most  mighty  Pacha  ! who  can  fear  ?” 

“ How  speed  the  outlaws  ? stand  they  well  prepared, 
Their  plunder’d  wealth,  and  robber’s  rock,  to  guard  ? 
Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  doom’d 
To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion  nest  consumed?” 

“ Pacha  ! the  fetter’d  captive’s  mourning  eye, 

That  weeps  for  flight,  but  ill  can  play  the  spy ; 

I only  heard  the  reckless  waters  roar, 

Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  me  from  the  shore ; 
I only  mark’d  the  glorious  sun  and  sky, 

Too  bright — too  blue — for  my  captivity ; 


hair  to  visit  Carthage  in  the  character  of  his  own  ambassador;  and 
Genseric  was  afterwards  mortified  by  the  discovery,  that  he  .v.id 
entertained  and  dismissed  the  Emperor  of  the  Romans.  Sucn  nr 
anecdote  may  be  rejected  as  an  improbable  fiction ; bat  it  is  a 
fiction  which  would  not  have  been  imagined  unless  in  the  life  of 
a hero.” — See  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  180. 


tANTO  I] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


And  felt — that  all  which  Freedom’s  bosom  cheers, 
Must  break  my  chain  before  it  dried  my  tears. 

This  may’st  thou  judge,  at  least,  from  my  escape, 
They  little  deem  of  aught  in  peril’s  shape ; 

Else  vainly  had  I pray’d  or  sought  the  chance 
That  leads  me  here — if  eyed  with  vigilance  : 

The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly, 

May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh. 

Pacha  ! — my  limbs  are  faint — and  nature  craves 
Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves  : 

Permit  my  absence — peace  be  with  thee  ! Peace 
With  all  around ! — now  grant  repose — release.” 

“ Stay,  Dervise!  I have  more  to  question — stay, 

I do  command  thee — sit — dost  hear  ? — obey  ! 

More  I must  ask,  and  food  the  slaves  shall  bring : 
Thou  shall  not  pine  where  all  are  banqueting  : 

The  supper  done — prepare  thee  to  reply, 

Clearly  and  full — I love  not  mystery.” 

’Twere  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pious  man, 

"Who  look’d  not  lovingly  on  that  Divan ; 

Nor  sliow’d  high  relish  for  the  banquet  prest, 

And  less  respect  for  every  fellow  guest. 

’Twas  but  a moment’s  peevish  hectic  past 
Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquillized  as  fast : 

He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  forsook  : 

The  feast  was  usher’d  in — but  sumptuous  fare  * 

He  shunn’d  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 

For  one  so  long  condemn’d  to  toil  and  fast, 

Methinks  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast. 

“ What  ails  thee,  Dervise  ? eat — dost  thou  suppose 
This  feast  a Christian’s  ? or  my  friends  thy  foes  ? 
Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt  ? that  sacred  pledge, 
Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre’s  edge, 

Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite, 

And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight ! ” 

“ Salt  seasons  dainties — and  my  food  is  still 
The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rill ; 

And  my  stern  vow  and  order’s  1 laws  oppose 
To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes  ; 

It,  may  seem  strange — if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 
That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head ; 

But  for  thy  sway — nay  more — thy  Sultan’s  throne, 

I taste  nor  bread  nor  banquet — save  alone ; 

Infringed  our  order’s  rule,  the  Prophet’s  rage 
To  Mecca’s  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage.” 

“ Well — as  thou  wilt — ascetic  as  thou  art — ■ 

One  question  answer ; then  in  peace  depart. 

How  many  ? — Ha ! it  cannot  sure  be  day  ? 

What  star — what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay  ? 

It  shines  a lake  of  fire ! — away — away  ! 

Ho!  treachery  ! my  guards  ! my  scimitar  ! 

The  galleys  feed  the  flames — and  I afar ! 

Accursed  Dervise  ! — these  thy  tidings — thou 
Some  villain  spy — seize — cleave  him— slay  him  now  !” 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light, 

Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall’d  the  sight : 

Up  rose  that  Dervise— not  in  saintly  garb, 

But  like  a w arrior  bounding  on  his  barb. 


(1 1 The  Dervises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different  orders,  as  the 
monks.  (2)  “ Zatanai,”  Satan. 

(:j)  A common  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Mussulman  anger. 


»7 

| Dash’d  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away — 

Shone  his  mail’d  breast,  and  flash’d  his  sabre’s  ray ! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume, 
More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow’s  sabler  gloom, 
Glared  on  the  Moslems’  eyes  some  Afrit  sprite, 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight. 

The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below  ; 

The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell — 

For  swords  began,  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell — 
Flung  o’er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell ! 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves  ; 

Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha’s  angry  cry, 

They  seize  that  Dervise  ! — seize  on  Zatanai ! 2 
He  saw  their  terror — check’d  the  first  despair 
That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 

Since  far  too  early  and  too  'well  obey’d, 

The  flame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made  ; 

He  saw  their  terror — from  his  baldric  drew 
His  bugle — brief  the  blast — but  shrilly  blew; 

’Tis  answer’d — “ Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew  ! 
Why  did  I doubt  their  quickness  of  career  ? 

And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here  ?” 

Sweeps  his  long  arm — that  sabre’s  whirling  sway 
Sheds  fast  atonement  for  its  first  delay ; 

Completes  his  fury  what  their  fear  begun, 

And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 

The  cloven  turbans  o’er  the  chamber  spread, 

And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  its  head : 
EvenSeyd,  convulsed,  o’erwhelm’d,  with  rage,  surprise 
Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 

No  craven  he — and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow, 

So  much  Confusion  magnifies  his  foe  ! 

His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight, 

He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  fight ; 3 
For  now  the  pirates  pass’d  the  Haram  gate, 

And  burst  within — and  it  were  death  to  wait ; 

Where  wild  Amazement  shrieking — kneeling — 1 brows 
The  sword  aside— in  vain — the  blood  o’erflows  ! 

The  Corsairs  pouring  haste  to  where  within, 

Invited  Conrad’s  bugle,  and  the  din 
Of  groaning  victims,  and  wild  cries  for  life, 
Proclaim’d  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife. 

They  shout  to  find  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 

A glutted  tiger  mangling  in  his  lair  ! 

But  short  their  greeting— shorter  his  reply — 

“ ’Tis  well — but  Seyd  escapes — and  he  must  die — ■ - 
Much  hath  been  done — but  more  remains  to  do — ■ 
Their  galleys  blaze — why  not  their  city  too  ? ” 

V. 

Quick  at  the  word — they  seized  him  each  a torch, 

And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 

A stern  delight  was  fix’d  in  Conrad’s  eye, 

But  sudden  sunk — for  on  his  ear  the  cry 
Of  women  struck,  and  like  a deadly  knell 
Knock’d  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle’s  yell. 

“ Oh  ! burst  the  Haram  —wrong  not,  on  your  lives, 
One  female  form — remember — we  have  wives. 

On  them  such  outrage  Vengeance  will  repay; 

Man  is  our  foe,  and  such  ’tis  ours  to  slay  : 

But  still  we  spared— must  spare  the  weaker  prey. 


See  Prince  Eugene’s  Memoirs,  page  24.  “ The  Seraskier  recei  ved 

a wound  in  the  thigh  , he  plucked  up  his  beard  by  the  root*, 
because  he  was  obliged  to  quit  the  field.” 

Q 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


C A.NTO  II 


98 

On  ! I forgot — but  Heaven  will  not  forgive 
If  at  my  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live  : 

.Follow  who  will — I go — we  yet  have  time 
Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least  a crime.” 

He  climbs  the  crackling  stair — he  bursts  the  door. 
Nor  feels  his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the  floor  ; 

His  breath  choked  gaping  with  the  volumed  smoke, 
But  still  from  room  tb  room  his  way  he  broke. 

They  search — they  And — they  save  : with  lusty  arms 
Each  bears  a prize  of  unregarded  charms  ; 

Calm  their  loud  fears  ; sustain  their  sinking  frames 
With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims  : 

So  well  could  Conrad  tame  their  fiercest  mood, 

And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 

But  who  is  she  ? whom  Conrad’s  arms  convey 
From  reeking  pile  and  combat’s  wreck — away— 

Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed  ? 

The  Haram  queen — but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd  ! 

vi. 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare,1 
Few  words  to  re-assure  the  trembling  fair ; 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch’d  from  war. 

The  foe  before  retiring,  fast  and  far, 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued, 

First  slowlier  fled— then  rallied — then  withstood. 

This  Seyd  perceives,  then  first  perceives  how  few, 
Compared  with  his,  the  Corsair’s  roving  crew. 

And  blushes  o’er  his  error,  as  he  eyes 
The  ruin  wrought  by  panic  and  surprise. 

Alla  il  Alla  ! Vengeance  swells  the  cry — 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die  ! 

And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  blood  must  tell, 

The  tide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flow’d  too  well — 
When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife, 

And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for  life. 

Conrad  beheld  the  danger — he  beheld 

His  followers  faint  by  freshening  foes  repell’d  : 

“ One  effort — one — to  break  the  circling  host ! ” 

They  form — unite — charge — waver — all  is  lost ! 
Within  a narrower  ring  compress’d,  beset, 

Hopeless,  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet — 

Ah  ! now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more, 

Hemm’d  in — cut  off— cleft  down — and  trampled  o’er  ; 
But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home, 

And  sinks  outwearied  rather  than  o’ercome, 

His  last  faint  quittance  rendering  with  his  breath, 

Till  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death  ! 

VII. 

But  first,  ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows, 

And  rank  to  rank,  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 

Gulnare  and  all  her  Haram  handmaids  freed, 

Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed, 

By  Conrad’s  mandate  safely  were  bestow’d, 

And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  fame  that  flow’d : 
And  when  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 
Recall’d  those  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despair. 
Much  did  she  marvel  o’er  the  courtesy 
That  smooth’d  his  accents  ; soften’d  in  his  eye : 

’Twas  strange — that  robber  thus  with  gore  bedew’d, 
Seem’d  gentler  then  than  Seyd  in  fondest  mood. 

The  Pacha  woo’d  as  if  he  deem’d  the  slave 
Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave ; 


(I)  Gulnare,  a female  name;  it  means,  literally,  the  flower  of  the 
pomegranate. 


The  Corsair  vow’d  protection,  soothed  affright, 

As  if  his  homage  were  a woman’s  right. 

“ The  wish  is  wrong — my,  worse  for  female — vain  ; 
Yet  much  I long  to  view  that  chief  again ; 

If  but  to  thank  for,  what  my  fear  forgot, 

The  life— my  loving  lord  remember’d  not !” 

vm. 

And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread, 

But  gather’d  breathing  from  the  happier  dead ; 

Far  from  his  band,  and  battling  with  a hos* 

That  deem  right  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 

Fell’d — bleeding— baffled  of  the  death  he  sought, 

And  snatch’d  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought ; 
Preserved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain, 

While  Vengeance  ponder’d  o’er  new  plans  of  pain, 
And  stanch’d  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again — 

But  drop  for  drop,  for  Seyd’s  unglutted  eye 
W ould  doom  him  ever  dying — ne’er  to  die ! 

Can  this  be  he  ? triumphant  late  she  saw, 

When  his  red  hand’s  wild  gesture  waved,  a law! 

’Tis  he  indeed — disarm’d  but  undeprest, 

His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possest ; 

His  wounds  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that  will, 
Which  would  have  kiss’d  the  hand  that  then  could 
kill. 

Oh  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given, 

To  sencl  his  soul — he  scarcely  ask’d  to  heaven  ? 

Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath, 

Who  more  than  all  had  striven  and  struck  for  death  ! 
He  deeply  felt — what  mortal  hearts  must  feel, 

When  thus  reversed  on  faithless  fortune’s  wheel, 

For  crimes  committed,  and  the  victor’s  threat 
Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt — 

He  deeply,  darkly  felt ; but  evil  pride 
That  led  to  perpetrate — now  serves  to  hide. 

Still  in  his  stern  and  self-collected  mien 
A conqueror’s  more  than  captive’s  air  is  seen, 

Though  faint  with  wasting  toil  and  stiffening  Wound, 
But  few  that  saw — so  calmly  gazed  around  ; 

Though  the  far  shouting  of  the  distant  crowd. 

Their  tremors  o’er,  rose  insolently  loud, 

The  better  warriors  who  beheld  him  near. 

Insulted  not  the  foe  who  taught  them  fear  ; 

And  the  grim  guards  tnat  to  his  durance  led. 

In  silence  eyed  him  with  a secret  dread. 


IX. 

The  Leech  was  sent — but  not  in  mercy — there. 

To  note  how  much  the  life  yet  left  could  bear ; 

He  found  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain, 

And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow’s  evening  sun 
Will  sinking  see  impalement’s  pangs  begun. 

And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  morn 
Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 

Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst, 

Which  adds  all  other  agony  to  thirst, 

That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake, 

While  famish’d  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 

“ Oh  ! water — water  ! ” — smiling  Hate  denies 
The  victim’s  prayer — for  if  he  drinks — he  dies. 

This  was  his  doom the  Leech,  the  guard,  were 
gone, 

And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter’d  and  alone. 


c/JSTO  II. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


99 


x. 

’Twere,  <ain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew— 

It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 

There  is  a war.  a chaos  of  the  mind, 

When  all  its  elements  convulsed — combined — 

Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 

And  gnashing  with  impenitent  Remorse  ; 

That  juggling  fiend — who  never  spake  before- 
But,  cries  “ I warn’d  thee  !”  when  the  deed  is  o’er. 

Vain  voice  ! the  spirit  burning  but  unbent, 

May  writhe— rebel — the  weak  alone  repent ! 

Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels. 

And,  to  itself,  all— all  that  self  reveals, 

No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 
That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought ; 

But  the  wild  prospect  when  the  soul  reviews— 

All  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues. 

Ambition’s  dreams  expiring,  love’s  regret. 

Endanger’d  glory,  life  itself  beset ; 

The  joy  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 
’Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  fate; 

The  hopeless  past,  the  hasting  future  driven 
Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven ; 

Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remember’d  not 
So  keenly  till  that  hour,  but  ne’er  forgot ; 

Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time, 

But  now  to  stern  reflection  each  a crime ; 

The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal’d, 

Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conceal’d — 

All,  in  a word,  from  which  all  eyes  must  start. 

That  opening  sepulchre — the  naked  heart 
Bares  with  its  buried  woes,  till  Pride  awake, 

To  snatch  the  mirror  from  the  soul — and  break. 

Ay — Pride  can  veil,  and  Courage  brave  it  all, 

All — all — before — beyond — the  deadliest  fall. 

Each  has  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays, 

The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise : 

Not  the  loud  recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and  flies ; 
But  he  who  looks  on  death — and  silent  dies. 

So  steel’d  by  pondering  o’er  his  far  career, 

He  half-way  meets  him  should  he  menace  near  ! 

XI. 

In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower 
Sate  Conrad,  fetter’d  in  the  Pacha’s  power. 

His  palace  perish’d  in  the  flame — this  fort 
Contain’d  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court. 

Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame, 

His  foe,  if  vanquish’d,  had  but  shared  the  same : 

Alone  he  sate— in  solitude  had  scann’d 
His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  mann’d  : 

One  thought  alone  he  could  not— dared  not  meet — 

“ Oh,  how  these  tidings  will  Medora  greet  ? ” 

Then — only  then — his  clanking  hands  lie  raised, 

And  strain’d  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he  gazed  : 
But  soon  he  found— or  feign’d— or  dream’ d relief. 

And  smiled  in  self-derision  of  his  grief, 

“ And  now  come  torture  when  it  will— or  may  ; 

More  need  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day  !” 

This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 

And,  whatsoe’er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 

’Twas  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  begun, 

Eor  Conrad’s  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done : 

And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time, 

She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 

One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  he  stemm’d — ■ 
Disguised  — discover’d  — conquering  — ta’en  — con- 
demn’d— 


A chief  on  land — an  outlaw  on  the  deep — 

Destroying — saving — prison’d — and  asleep  ! 

XII. 

He  slept  in  calmest  seeming— for  his  breath 
Was  hush’d  so  deep— Ah  ! happy  if  in  death 
He  slept— Who  o’er  his  placid  slumber  bends  ? 

His  foes  are  gone — and  here  he  hath  no  friends  : 

Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace  ? 

No,  ’tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face  ! 

Its  white  arm  raised  a lamp — yet  gently  hid. 

Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 
Of  that  closed  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain, 

And  once  unclosed— but  once  may  close  again. 

That  form,  with  eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so  fair, 

And  auburn  waves  of  gemm’d  and  braided  hair  . 

With  shape  of  fairy  lightness — naked  foot, 

That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mute 
Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  came  it  tnere  ? 
Ah  ! rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare  ? 

Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Gulnare ! 

She  could  not  sleep — and  while  the  Pacha’s  rest 
In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 

She  left  his  side— his  signet-ring  she  bore, 

Which  oft  in  sport  adorn’d  her  hand  before— 

And  with  it,  scarcely  question’d,  won  her  way 
Through  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  sign  obey. 
Worn°out  with  toil,  and  tired  with  changing  blows, 
Their  eyes  had  envied  Conrad  his  repose  ; 

And  chill  and  nodding  at  the  turret  door, 

They  stretch  their  listless  limbs,  and  watch  nc  more : 
Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring, 

Nor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 

XIII. 

She  gazed  in  wonder,  “ Can  he  calmly  sleep. 

While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep  ? 

And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here 
What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so  dear? 

True — ’tis  to  him  my  life,  and  more,  I owe, 

And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  woe  . 
’Tis  late  to  think— but  soft— his  slumber  breaks — 
How  heavily  he  sighs  ! — he  starts — awakes  ! 

He  raised  his  head— and  dazzled  with  the  light, 

His  eve  seem’d  dubious  if  it  saw  aright : 

He  moved  his  hand— the  grating  of  his  chain 
Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 

“ What  is  that  form  ? if  not  a shape  of  air, 

Methinks,  my  jailor’s  face  shows  wondrous  fair  1 * 

“ Pirate  ! thou  lcnow’st  me  not— but  I am  ons 
Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done  ; 

Look  on  me— and  remember  her,  thy  hand 
Snatch’d  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  feariul  bam!. 
I come  through  darkness  - and  1 scarce  know  why— 
Yet  not  to  hurt— I would  not  see  thee  die.” 

“ If  so,  kind  lady  1 thine  the  only  eye 
That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight ^ 
Theirs  is  the  chance— and  let  them  use  their  npM. 
But  still  I thank  their  courtesy  or  thine, 

That  would  confess  me  at  so  fair  a shrine ! 

Strange  though  it  seem — yet  with  extremes!  v^f 
Is  link’d  a mirth— it  doth  not  bring  renex— 

That  playfulness  of  Sorrow  ne’er  beguiles. 

And  smiles  in  bitterness — but  still  ’.t  smiles  > 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS 


CANTO  U. 


100 

And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 

Till  even  the  scaffold  1 echoes  with  their  jest ! 

Yet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin — 

It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  save  that  within. — 
Whate’er  it  was  that  flash’d  on  Conrad,  now 
A laughing  wildness  half  unbent  his  brow  : 

And  these  his  accents  had  a sound  of  mirth, 

As  if  the  last  lie  could  enjoy  on  earth ; 

Yet  ’gainst  his  nature — for  through  that  short  life, 
Few  thoughts  had  he  to  spare  from  gloom  and  strife. 

xiv.  v 

“ Corsair ! thy  doom  is  named — but  I have  power 
To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 

Thee  would  I spare — nay  more— would  save  thee  now, 
But  this — time— hope — nor  even  thy  strength  allow ; 
But  all  I can,  I will : at  least,  delay 
The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a day. 

More  now  were  ruin— even  thyself  were  loth 
The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both.” 

“ Yes  ! — loth  indeed : — my  soul  is  nerved  to  all, 

Or  fall'n  too  low  to  fear  a further  fall : 

Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril ; me  with  hope 
Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  I could  not  cope  : 

Unfit  to  vanquish — shall  I meanly  fly, 

The  one  of  all  my  band  that  wouid  not  die  ? 

Yet  there  is  one — to  whom  my  memory  clings, 

Till  to  these  eyes  her  own  wild  softness  springs. 

My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I trod  [God  ! 

Were  these — my  bark — my  sword — my  love — my 
The  last  I left  in  youth — he  leaves  me  now — 

And  Man  but  works  Ids  will  to  lay  me  low. 

I have  no  thought  to  mock  his  throne  with  prayer 
Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair ; 

It  is  enough — I breathe — and  I can  bear. 

My  sword  is  shaken  from  the  worthless  hand 
That  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a brand ; 

My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive — but  my  love — 

For  her  in  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above : 

Oh  ! she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind — 

And  this  will  break  a heart  so  more  than  kind. 

And  blight  a form — till  thine  appear’d,  Gulnare  ! 

Mine  eye  ne’er  ask’d  if  others  were  as  fair.” 

“ Thou  lov’st  another  then  ? but  what  to  me 
Is  this — ’tis  nothing — nothing  e’er  can  be  : 

But  yet — thou  lov’st — and — Oh  ! I envy  those 
Whose  hearts  on  hearts  as  faithful  can  repose, 

Who  never  feel  the  void— the  wandering  thought 
That  sighs  o’er  visions — such  as  mine  hath  wrought.” 

“ Lady — methought  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 
This  arm  redeem’d  thee  from  a fiery  tomb.” 

“ My  love  stern  Seyd’s! — Oh— No  -No — not  my  love  — 
Yet  much  this  heart,  that  strives  no  more,  once  strove 
To  meet  his  passion — but  it  would  not  be. 

I felt — I feel— love  dwells  with — with  the  free. 

I am  a slave,  a favour’d  slave  at  best, 

To  share  his  splendour,  and  seem  very  blest ! 

Oft  must  my  soul  the  question  undergo, 

Of  — ‘Dost  thou  love?’  and  burn  to  answer,  ‘No!* 


(1)  In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  the  scaffold,  and 
Anne  Boleyn,  in  the  Tower,  when,  grasping  her  neck,  she  re- 
marked, that  it  “was  too  slender  to  trouble  the  headsman  much.” 
During  ono  part  of  the  French  Revolution,  it  became  a fashion 


Oh  ! hard  it  is  that  fondness  o sustain, 

And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain  ; 

But  harder  still  the  heart’s  recoil  to  bea 
And  hide  from  one — perhaps  another  there. 

He  takes  the  hand  I give  not — nor  withhold — 

Its  pulse  nor  check’d — nor  quicken’d — calmly  cold : 
And  when  resign’d,  it  drops  a lifeless  weight 
From  one  I never  loved  enough  to  hate. 

No  warmth  these  lips  return  by  his  imprest, 

And  chill’d  remembrance  shudders  o’er  the  rest. 

Yes — had  I ever  proved  that  passion’s  zeal, 

The  change  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel : 

But  still — he  goes  unmourn’d — returns  unsought— 
And  oft  when  present — absent  from  my  thought. 

Or  when  reflection  comes — and  come  it  must — 

I fear  that  henceforth  ’twill  but  bring  disgust ; 

I am  his  slave — but,  in  despite  of  pride, 

’Twere  worse  than  bondage  to  become  his  bride. 

Oh  ! that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease  ! 

Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 

But  yesterday — I could  have  said,  to  peace  ! 

Yes — if  unwonted  fondness  now  I feign, 

Remember — captive  ! ’tis  to  break  thy  chain  * 

Repay  the  life  that  to  thy  hand  I owe ; 

To  give  thee  back  to  all  endear’d  below, 

Who  share  such  love  as  I can  never  know. 

Farewell — morn  breaks — and  I must  now  away  . 
’Twill  cost  me  dear — but  dread  no  death  to-day  !’* 

XV. 

She  press’d  his  fetter’d  fingers  to  her  heart. 

And  bow’d  her  head,  and  turn’d  her  to  depart, 

And  noiseless  as  a lovely  dream  is  gone. 

And  was  she  here  ? and  is  he  now  alone  ? 

What  gem  hath  dropp’d  and  sparkles  o’er  his  chain  ? 
The  tear  most  sacred,  shed  for  others’  pain, 

That  starts  at  once — bright — pure — from  Pity’s  mine. 
Already  polish’d  by  the  hand  divine ! 

Oh  ! too  convincing — dangerously  dear — 

In  woman’s  eye  the  unanswerable  tear  ! 

That  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield, 

To  save,  subdue — at  once  her  spear  and  shield : 

Avoid  it — Virtue  ebbs  and  Wisdom  errs, 

Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers  ! 

What  lost  a world,  and  bade  a hero  fly  ? 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra’s  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir’s  fault  forgiven ; 

By  this — how  many  lose  not  earth — but  heaven  1 
Consign  their  souls  to  man’s  eternal  foe, 

And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton’s  woe. 

XVI. 

’Tis  morn — and  o’er  his  alter’d  features  play 
The  beams — without  the  hope  of  yesterday. 

What  shall  he  be  ere  night  ? perchance  a thing. 

O’er  which  the  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing, 

By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  unfelt ; 

While  sets  that  sun,  and  dews  of  evening  melt, 

Chill — wet — and  misty  round  each  stiffen’d  limb, 
Refreshing  earth — reviving  all  but  him  ! — 


to  leave  some  “mot”  as  a legacy;  and  the  quantity  of  facetious 
last  words  spoken  during  that  period  would  lorm  a melancholy 
jest-book  of  a considerable  size. 


CANTO  III. 


THE  CORSaIR. 


101 


OTje  <2Torsatr. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 


“Come  vedi — ancor  non  m’ abbandona.”- -Dante. 

I. 

Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run,1 
Along  Morea’s  hills  the  setting  sun  ; 

Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright. 

But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ! 

O’er  the  hush’d  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 
On  old  JEgina’s  rock,  and  Idra’s  isle, 

The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile ; 

O’er  his  own  regions  lingering,  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer’d  Salamis  ! 

Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse 
More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance. 
And  tcnderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven; 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep. 

Behind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 

When — Athens  ! here  thy  Wisest  look’d  his  last. 
How  watch’d  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 

That  clos’d  their  murder’d  sage’s  2 latest  day  ! 

Not  vet — not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill — - 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 

But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 

And  dark  the  mountain’s  once  delightful  dyes : 
Gloom  o’er  the  lovely  land  he  seem’d  to  pour, 

The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown’d  before  ; 

But  ere  he  sank  below  Cithseron’s  head. 

The  cup  of  woe  was  quaff’d — the  spirit  fled  ; 

The  soul  of  him  who  scorn’d  to  fear  or  fly — 

Who  lived  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die  ! 

But  lo  ! from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain. 

The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.3 
No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 

Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form ; 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moon-beams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
And,  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  beset, 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o’er  the  minaret : 

The  groves  of  olive  scatter’d  dark  and  wide 
Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 

Tne  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 

The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk,4 


(1)  The  opening  lines,  as  far  as  section  ii.,  have,  perhaps,  little 
business  here,  and  were  annexed  to  an  unpublished  (though 
printed)  poem;  but  they  were  written  on  the  spot,  in  the  Spring 
of  JS’t,  and — I scarce  know  why — the  reader  must  excuse  their 
aj  j.tans.nce  here — if  he  can.  [See  post,  “ Curse  of  Minerva.”] 

(2)  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a short  time  before  sunset  (the 
hour  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  his  disciples 
to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 

(3*  The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own 
pou..  » the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of  shorter  ! 
duration. 

(4)  The  kiosl  As  a Turkish  summer-house:  the  palm  is  without  ! 

the  present  wa:  i of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  Theseus.  ' 


And,  dun  and  sombre  ’mid  the  holy  calm, 

Near  Theseus’  fane  yon  solitary  palm. 

All  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye — 

And  dull  were  his  that  pass’d  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  iEgean,  heard  no  more  afar, 

Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war  ; 

Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 

Mix’d  with  the  shades  of  many  a distant  isle, 

That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile.5 

Ii. 

Not  now  my  theme — why  turn  my  thoughts  to  thee  ? 
Oh  ! who  can  look  along  thy  native  sea, 

Nor  dwell  upon  thy  name,  whate’er  the  tale, 

So  much  its  magic  must  o’er  all  prevail  ? 

Who  that  beheld  that  Sun  upon  thee  set, 

Fair  Athens  ! could  thine  evening  face  forget  ? 

Not  he— whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees. 
Spell-bound  within  the  clustering  Cyclades  ! 

Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign  to  his  strain, 

His  Corsair’s  isle  was  once  thine  own  domain — 
Would  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again ! 

ill. 

The  Sun  hath  sunk — and,  darker  than  the  night. 
Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height 
Medora’s  heart — the  third  day’s  come  and  gone — 
With  it  he  comes  not — sends  not — faithless  one  ! 

The  wind  was  fair  though  light ; and  storms  were 
Last  eve  Anselmo’s  bark  return’d,  and  yet  [none. 
His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met ! 

Though  wild,  as  now,  far  different  were  the  tale 
Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 

The  night-breeze  freshens — she  that  day  had  pass’d 
In  watching  all  that  Hope  proclaim’d  a mast ; 

Sadly  she  sate — on  high — Impatience  bore 
At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore. 

And  there  she  wander’d,  heedless  of  the  spray 
That  dash’d  her  garments  oft,  and  warn’d  away  : 

She  saw  not — felt  not  this  — nor  dared  depart, 

Nor  deem’d  it  cold — her  chill  was  at  her  heart ; 

Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense — 

His  very  sight  had  shock’d  from  life  or  sense ! 

It  came  at  last — a sad  and  shatter’d  boat, 

Whose  inmates  first  beheld  whom  first  they  sought ; 
Some  bleeding — all  most  wretched — these  the  few  — 
Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped— this  all  they  knew. 

In  silence,  darkling,  each  appear’d  to  wait 
His  fellow’s  mournful  guess  at  Conrad’s  fate : 
Something  they  would  have  said ; but  seem’d  to  fear 
To  trust  their  accents  to  Medora’s  ear. 

She  saw  at  once,  yet  sunk  not — trembled  not — 
Beneath  that  grief,  that  loneliness  of  lot, 


between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  intervenes. — Cephisus’  stieam 
is  indeed  scanty,  and  llissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 

(5)  [Of  the  brilliant  skies  and  variegated  landscapes  of  Greeos 
every  one  has  formed  to  himself  a general  notion,  from  having 
contemplated  them  through  the  hazy  atmosphere  of  some  prose 
narration  : but,  in  Lord  Byron’s  poetry,  every  image  is  distinct 
and  glowing,  as  if  it  were  illuminated  by  its  native  sunshine ; and, 
in  the  figures  which  people  the  landscape,  we  behold  not  only 
the  general  form  and  costume,  but  the  countenance,  and  the  atti- 
tude, and  the  play  of  features  and  of  gesture  accompanying,  and 
indicating,  the  sudden  impulses  of  momentary  feelings.  The 
magic  of  colouring  by  which  this  is  effected  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
striking  evidence  of  Lord  Byron’s  talent  — George  Ellis.] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  EO. 


102 

Within  that  meek  fair  form,  were  feelings  high, 

That  deem’d  not  till  they  found  their  energy. 

While  yet  was  Hope  — they  soften’d  — flutter’d  — 
wept — 

All  lost — that  softness  died  not — but  it  slept ; 

And  o’er  its  slumber  rose  that  Strength  which  said, 

“ With  nothing  left  to  love — there’s  nought  to  dread.” 
’Tis  more  than  nature’s  ; like  the  burning  might 
Delirium  gathers  from,  the  fever’s  height. 

“ Silent  yon  stand — nor  would  I hear  you  tell 
What — speak  not — breathe  not — for  I know  it  well — 
Yet  would  I ask— almost  my  lip  denies 
The— quick  your  answer — tell  me  where  he  lies.” 

“ Lady ! we  know  not — scarce  with  life  we  fled ; 

But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead  : 

He  saw  him  bound ; and  bleeding — but  alive.” 

She  heard  no  further — ’twas  in  vain  to  strive — 

So  throbb’d  each  vein — each  thought— till  then  with- 
stood ; 

Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued  : 
She  totters— falls — and  senseless  had  the  wave 
Perchance  but  snatch’d  her  from  another  grave ; 

But  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weeping  eyes, 
They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity’s  haste  supplies  : 

Dash  o’er  her  deathlike  cheek  the  ocean  dew, 

Raise — fan — sustain — till  life  returns  anew  ; 

Awake  her  handmaids,  with  the  matrons  leave 
That  fainting  form  o’er  which  they  gaze  and  grieve  ; 
Then  seek  Anselmo’s  cavern,  to  report 
The  tale  too  tedious — when  the  triumph  short. 

IV. 

In  that  wild  council  words  wax’d  warm  and  strange, 
With  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge ; 

All,  save  repose  or  flight : still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad’s  spir  it,  and  forbade  despair ; 
Whate’er  his  fate — the  breasts  he  form’d  and  led, 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 

Woe  to  his  foes  ! there  yet  survive  a few, 

Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 

v. 

Within  the  Haram’s  secret  chamber  sate  1 
Stern  Seyd,  still  pondering  o’er  his  Captive’s  fate ; 
His  thoughts  on  love  and  hate  alternate  dwell, 

Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad’s  cell; 

Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  reclined 
Surveys  his  brow — would  soothe  his  gloom  of  mind  ; 
While  many  an  anxious  glance  her  large  dark  eye 
Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  sympathy, 

His  only  bends  in  seeming  o’er  his  beads,2 
But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

“ Tacha ! the  day  is  thine  ; and  on  thy  crest 
Sits  Triumph — Coprad  taken — fall’n  the  rest ! 

His  doom  is  fix’d — lie  dies : and  well  his  fate 
Was  earn’d — yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate  : 
Metliinks,  a short  release,  for  ransom  told 
With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold ; 

Report  speaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard — 

Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  lord  ! 


O'  [The  whole  of  this  section  was  added  in  the  course  of  print 

ing.l 


While  baffled,  weaken’d  by  this  fatal  fray — 

Watch’d — follow’d — he  were  then  an  easier  prey; 
But  once  cut  off — the  remnant  of  iiis  band 
Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a safer  strand.” 

“ Gulnare ! — if  for  each  drop  of  blood  a gem 
Were  offer’d  rich  as  Stamboul’s  diadem  ; 
if  for  each  hair  of  his  a massy  mine 
Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine ; 

If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 

Of  wealth  were  here — that  gold  should  not  redeem 

It  had  not  now  redeem’d  a single  hour ; 

But  that  I know  him  fetter’d,  in  my  power ; 

And,  thirsting  for  revenge,  I ponder  still 
On  pangs  that  longest  rack,  and  latest  kill.” 

“ Nay,  Seyd ! — I seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage, 

Too  justly  moved  for  mercy  to  assuage  ; 

My  thoughts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee 
His  riches — thus  released,  he  were  not  free  : 
Disabled,  shorn  of  half  his  might  and  band, 

His  capture  could  but  wait  thy  first  command.” 

“ His  capture  could  ! — and  shall  I then  resign 
One  day  to  him — the  wretch  already  mine  ? 

Release  my  foe ! — at  whose  remonstrance  F — thine 
Pair  suitor  ! — to  thy  virtuous  gratitude, 

That  thus  repays  this  Giaour’s  relenting  mood, 
Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spare. 

No  doubt — regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair, 

My  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due — now  hear  i 
I have  a counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear  : 

I do  mistrust  thee,  woman  ! and  each  word 
Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  Suspicion  heard. 

Borne  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  Serai — ■ 

Say,  wert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly  ? 

Thou  need’st  not  answer — thy  confession  speaks. 
Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks  ; 

Then,  iovely  dame,  bethink  thee  ! and  beware : 

’Tis  not  his  life  alone  may  claim  such  care ! 

Another  word  and — nay — I need  no  more. 

Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 

Thee  from  the  flames,  which  better  far — but — no— 

I then  had  mourn’d  thee  with  a lover’s  woe — 

Now  ’tis  thy  lord  that  warns — deceitful  thing  ! 
Know’st  thou  that  1 can  clip  thy  wanton  wing? 

In  words  alone  I am  not  wont  to  chafe  : 

Look  to  thyself — nor  deem  thy  falsehood  safe  1 ’* 

He  rose — and  slowly,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 

Rage  in  his  eye  and  threats  in  his  adieu : 

Ah  ! little  reck’d  that  chief  of  womanhood — 

Which  frowns  ne’er  quell’d,  nor  menaces  subdued; 
And  little  deem’d  he  wdiat  thy  heart,  Gulnare ! 

When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incens’d  could  dare. 
His  doubts  appear’d  to  wrong — nor  yet  she  knew 
How  deep  the  root  from  whence  compassion  grew— 
She  was  a slave — from  such  may  captives  claim 
A fellow-feeling,  differing  but  in  name ; 

Still  half  unconscious — heedless  of  his  wrath, 

Again  she  ventured  on  the  dangerous  path. 

Again  his  rage  repell’d — until  arose 

That  strife  of  thought,  the  source  of  woman’s  woes  ! 


(2)  The  comboloio,  or  Mahometan  rosary;  the*b**<lx  aie  in  i:u:o 
ber  ninety-nire. 


CANTC  III. 


THE  COR  S MR. 


103 


VI. 

Meanwhile — long  anxious — weary — still — the  same 
Roll’d  day  and  night — his  soul  could  never  tame — 
This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread, 

When  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than  dead, 
When  every  step  that  echo’d  by  the  gate 
Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  slake  await , 
When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 
Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear; 

Could  terror  tame — that  spirit  stern  and  high 
Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die  ; 

’Twas  worn — perhaps  decay’d — yet  silent  bore 
That  conflict,  deadlier  far  than  all  before  : 

The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale, 

Leave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail ; 

But  bound  and  fix’d  in  fetter’d  solitude. 

To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood ; 

To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart ; and  meditate 
Irrevocable  faults,  and  coming  fate — 

Too  late  the  last  to  shun — the  first  to  mend — 

To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end, 

With  not  a friend  to  animate,  and  tell 
T©  other  ears  that  deatli  became  thee  well; 

Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie. 

And  blot  life’s  latest  scene  with  calumny ; 

Before  thee  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare, 

Y et  doubts  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may  bear ; 
But  deeply  feels  a single  cry  would  shame, 

To  valour’s  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim ; 

The  life  thou  leav’st  below,  denied  above 
By  jdnd  monopolists  of  heavenly  love  ; 

And  more  than  doubtful  paradise — thy  heaven 
Of  earthly  hope— thy  loved  one  from  thee  riven. 
Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sustain, 
And  govern  pangs  surpassing  mortal  pain : 
xlnd  those  sustain’d  he — boots  it  well  or  ill  ? 
rince  not  to  sink  beneath,  is  something  still ! 

VII. 

The  first  day  pass’d — he  saw  not  her — Gulnare — 
The  second — third — and  still  she  came  not  there ; 
But  what  her  words  avouch’d,  her  charms  had  done, 
Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 

The  fourth  day  roll’d  along,  and  with  the  night 
Came  storm  and  darkness  in  their  mingling  might : 
Oh  ! how  he  listen’d  to  the  rushing  deep, 

That  ne’er  till  now'  so  broke  upon  his  sleep  ; 

And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent, 

Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element ! 

Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave, 

And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gave ; 

And  now  its  dashing  echo’d  on  his  ear, 

A long-known  voice — alas  ! too  vainly  near  ! 

Loud  sung  the  wind  above  ; and,  doubly  loud, 
Shook  o’er  his  turret  cell  the  thunder-cloud  ; 

And  flash’d  the  lightning  by  the  latticed  bar. 

To  him  more  genial  than  the  midnight  star : 

Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragg’d  his  chain, 
And  hoped  that  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain. 


(1  [“  Bv  the  way— I have  a charge  against  you.  As  the  great 

Mr.  Dennis  roared  out  on  a similar  occasion,  ‘ By  G — d that  is 
my  thunder!  ’ — so  do  I exclaim,  ‘ This  is  my  lightning!  ’ I allude 
to  a speech  of  Ivan’s,  in  the  scene  with  Petrownaand  the  Empress, 
where  the  thought,  and  almost  expression,  are  similar  to  Conrad’s 
jn  the  third  canto  of  the  ‘ Corsair.’  I,  however  do  not  say  this  to 
accuse  you,  but  to  except  myself  from  suspicion ; as  there  is  a 
priority  of  six  months’  publication,  on  my  part,  between  the  ap- 
pearance of  that  composition  and  of  your  tragedies.” — Lord  Byron 


He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaver,  and  pray’d 
One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made  : 1 
His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike — 

The  storm  roll’d  onward,  and  disdain’d  to  strike; 

Its  peal  wax’d  fainter — ceased — he  felt  alone, 

As  if  some  faithless  friend  had  spurn’d  his  groan  ! 

VIII. 

The  midnight  pass’d — and  to  the  massy  door 
A light  step  came — it  paused — it  moved  once  more  ; 
Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key : 

’Tis  as  his  heart  foreboded — that  fair  she ! 

Whate’er  her  sins,  to  him  a guardian  saint, 

And  beauteous  still  as  hermit’s  hope  can  paint ; 

Yet  changed  since  last  within  that  cell  she  came, 
More  pale  her  cheek,  more  tremulous  her  frame  : 

On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hurried  eye, 

Which  spoke  before  her  accents — “ Thou  must  die  \ 
Yes,  thou  must  die — there  is  but  one  resource, 

The  last — the  worst — if  torture  were  not  worse.” 

“ Lady  ! I look  to  none — my  lips  proclaim 
What  last  proclaim’d  they — Conrad  still  the  samn . 
Why  shouldst  thou  seek  an  outlaw’s  life  to  spare. 

And  change  the  sentence  I deserve  to  bear  F 
Well  have  I earn’d — nor  here  alone — the  meed 
Of  Seyd’s  revenge,  by  many  a lawless  deed.” 

“ Why  should  I seek  ? because — Oh  ! didst  thou  not 
Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery’s  lot  ? 

Why  should  I seek  ? — hath  misery  made  thee  blind 
To  the  fond  workings  of  a woman’s  mind  ? 

And  must  I say  ? albeit  my  heart  rebel 

With  all  that  woman  feels,  but  should  not  tell — 

Because — despite  thy  crimes — that  heart  is  moved  : 

It  fear’d  thee — thank’d  thee — pitied — madden’d— 
loved. 

Reply  not,  tell  not  now  thy  tale  again, 

Thou  lov’st  another — and  I love  in  vain ; 

Though  fond  as  mine  her  bosom,  form  more  fair, 

I rush  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare. 

If  that  thy  heart  to  hers  were  truly  dear, 

Were  I thine  own — thou  wert  not  lonely  here : 

An  outlaw’s  spouse — and  leave  her  lord  to  roam ! 
What  hath  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home  ? 

But  speak  not  now — o’er  thine  and  o’er  my  head 
Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a single  thread ; 

If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  wouldst  be  free. 
Receive  this  poniard — rise — and  follow  me  ! ” 

“ Ay — in  my  chains  ! my  steps  will  gently  tread. 
With  these  adornments,  o’er  each  slumbering  head 
Thou  hast  forgot — is  this  a garb  for  flight  F 
Or  is  that  instrument  more  fit  for  fight  F” 

“ Misdoubting  Corsair  ! I have  gain’d  the  guard, 
Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  for  reward. 

A single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain  : 

Without  some  aid  how  here  coidd  I remain? 


to  Mr.  Sotheby,  Sept.  25,  1815. — The  following  are  the  line*  in 
Mr.  Sotheby’s  tragedy  : — 

“ And  I hav  e leapt 

In  transport  from  my  flinty  couch,  to  welcome 
The  thunder  as  it  burst  upon  my  roof; 

And  beckon’d  to  the  lightning,  as  it  flash’d 
And  sparkled  on  these  fetters.” 

Notwithstanding  Lord  Byron’s  precaution,  the  coincidence  in  que* 
tion  was  cited  against  him.  some  years  after,  in  a periodical  journal.] 


104 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS.  • 


CANTO  III, 


Weil,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 

If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime  : 

Tile  crime — ’tis  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd. 

That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad — he  must  bleed  ! 

I see  thee  shudder — but  my  soul  is  changed — ■ 

W rong’d,  spurn’d,  revil’d — and  it  shall  be  avenged — 
Accused  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain’d — ■ 

Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain’d. 

Yes,  smile  ! — but  he  had  little  cause  to  sneer, 

I was  not  treacherous  then — nor  thou  too  dear  : 

But  he  has  said  it — and  the  jealous  well, 

Those  tyrants,  teasing,  tempting  to  rebel, 

Deserve  the  fate  their  fretting  lips  foretell. 

I never  loved — he  bought  me — somewhat  high — 
Since  with  me  came  a heart  he  could  not  buy. 

I was  a slave  unmurmuring : lie  hath  said. 

But  for  his  rescue  I with  thee  had  fled. 

’Twas  false  thou  know’st — but  let  such  augurs  rue, 
Their  words  are  omens  Insult  renders  true. 

Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  ray  prayer; 

This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 
New  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 

Mine  too  he  threatens  ; but  his  dotage  still 
Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will : 

When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and  me, 

There  yawns  the  sack — and  yonder  rolls  th : sea  ! 
What,  am  I then  a toy  for  dotard’s  play, 

To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away  ? 

I saw  thee — loved  thee — owe  thee  all — would  save, 

If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a slave. 

But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 

(And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in  strife,) 

I still  had  saved  thee — but  the  Pacha  spared. 

Now  I am  all  thine  own — for  all  prepared  : 

Thou  lov’st  rae  not — nor  know’st — or  but  the  worst. 
Alas  ! this  love — -that  hatred  are  the  first — • 

Oh ! couldst  thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  wouldst  not 
start, 

Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  Eastern  heart ; 

*Tis  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety — now 
It  points  within  the  port  a Mainote  prow  : 

But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead, 

There  sleeps — he  must  not  wake — the  oppressor  Seyd!” 

“ Gulnare — Gulnarc — I never  felt  till  now 
My  abject  fortune,  wither’d  fame  so  low  : 

Seyd  is  mine  enemy : had  swept  my  band 
Erom  earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand, 

And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  bark  of  war, 

To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar  ; 

Such  is  my  weapon — not  the  secret  knife — • 

Who  spares  a woman’s  seeks  not  slumber’s  life. 

Thine  saved  I gladly,  Lady,  not  for  this — 

Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shown  amiss. 

Now  fare  thee  well — more  peace  be  with  thy  breast ! 
Night  wears  apace — my  last  of  earthly  rest !” 

“Rest ! rest ! by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake, 

And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 

I heard  the  order — saw — I will  not  see — ■ 

If  thou  wilt  perish,  I will  fall  with  thee. 

My  life — my  love — my  hatred — all  below 
Arc  on  this  cast— Corsair  ! ’tis  but  a blow ! 

Without  it  flight  were  idle — how  evade 
His  sure  pursuit  ? my  wrongs  too  unrepaid, 

My  youth  disgraced — the  long,  long  wasted  years, 

One  blow  shall  cancel  with  our  future  fears ; 


But  since  the  dagger  suits  thee  less  than  brand, 

1 ’ll  try  the  firmness  of  a female  hand. 

The  guards  are  gain’d — one  moment  all  were  o’er — 
Corsair ! we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more  ; 

If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 
Will  hover  o’er  thy  scaffold,  and  my  shroud  ” 

IX. 

She  turn’d,  and  vanish’d  ere  he  could  reply, 

But  his  glance  followed  far  with  eager  eye  ; 

And  gathering,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 
His  form,  to  curl  their  length,  and  curb  their  sound, 
Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  preclude, 

He,  fast  as  fetter’d  limbs  allow,  pursued. 

’Twas  dark  and  winding,  and  he  knew  not  where 
That  passage  led  ; nor  lamp  nor  guard  were  there : 
He  sees  a dusky  glimmering — shall  he  seek 
Or  shun  that  ray  so  indistinct  and  weak  ? 

Chance  guides  his  steps — a freshness  seems  to  bear 
Full  on  his  brow,  as  if  from  morning  air — 

He  reach’d  an  open  gallery — on  his  eye 
Gleam’d  the  last  star  of  night,  the  clearing  sky  : 

Yet  scarcely  heeded  these — another  light 
From  a lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sight. 

Towards  it  he  moved ; a scarcely  closing  door 
Reveal’d  the  ray  within,  but  nothing  more. 

With  hasty  step  a figure  outward  past,  [laM  ! 

Then  paused — and  turn’d — and  paused — ’tis  She  of. 
No  poniard  in  that  hand — nor  sign  of  ill — 

“ Thanks  to  that  softening  heart — she  could  not  kill  ! ’* 
Again  he  look’d,  the  wildness  of  her  eye 
Starts  from  the  day  abrupt  and  fearfully. 

She  stopp’d — threw  back  her  dark  far-floating  hair. 
That  nearly  veil’d  her  face  and  bosom  fair  : 

As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head 
Above  some  jbjeot  of  her  doubt  or  dread. 

They  meet— -upon  her  brow — unknown! — forgot — 
Her  hurrying  hand  had  left — ’twas  but  a spot — 

Its  hue  was  all  he  saw,  and  scarce  withstood — 

Oh  ! slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime — ’tis  blood  I 

x. 

He  had  seen  battle — he  had  brooded  lone 
O’er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown ; 
Tie  had  been  tempted — chastened — and  the  chain 
Yet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain  : 

But  ne’er  from  strife — captivity — remorse — 

From  all  his  feelings  in  their  inmost  force — 

So  thrill’d — so  shudder’d  every  creeping  vein, 

As  now  they  froze  before  that  purple  stain. 

That  spot  of  blood,  that  light  but  guilty  streak, 

Had  banish’d  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek ! 

Blood  he  had  view’d  — could  view  unmoved  — b** 
then 

It  flow’d  in  combat,  or  was  shed  by  men ! 

XI. 

“ ’Tis  done — he  nearly  waked — but  it  is  done. 

Corsair ! he  perish’d— thou  art  dearly  won. 

All  words  would  now  be  vain — away — away  ! 

Our  bark  is  tossing — ’tis  already  day. 

The  few  gain’d  over,  now  are  wholly  mine, 

And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join: 

Anon  my  voice  shall  vindicate  my  hand, 

When  once  our  sail  forsakes  this  hated  strand.* 


CANTO  III. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


105 


XII. 

She  clapp’  cl  her  hands — and  through  the  gallery  pour, 
Equipp’d  for  flight,  her  vassals — Greek  and  Moor ; 
Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind  ; 

Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain  wind  ! 

But  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate, 

As  if  they  there  trausferr’d  that  iron  weight. 

No  words  are  utter’d — at  her  sign,  a door 
Reveals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore  ; 

The  city  lies  behind — they  speed,  they  reach 
The  glad  waves  dancing  on  the  yellow  beach ; 

And  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obey’d, 

Nor  cared  he  now  if  rescued  or  betray’d ; 

Resistance  were  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark’d,  the  sail  unfurl’d,  the  light  breeze  blew — 
How  much  had  Conrad’s  memory  to  review  ! 

Sunk  he  in  Contemplation,  till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  anchor’d  rear’d  its  giant  shape. 

Ah  ! — since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time, 
Had  swept  an  age  of  terror,  grief,  and  crime. 

As  its  far  shadow  frown’d  above  the  mast, 

He  veil’d  his  face,  and  sorrow’d  as  he  past ; 

He  thought  of  all— Gonsalvo  and  his  band, 

His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  failing  hand' ; 

He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride  : 

He  turn’d  and  saw — Gulnare,  the  homicide ! 

XIV. 

She  watch’d  his  features  till  she  could  not  bear 
Their  freezing  aspect  and  averted  air, 

And  that  strange  fierceness  foreign  to  her  eye, 

Fell  quench’d  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 

She  knelt  beside  him  and  his  hand  she  press’d, 

*£  Thou  may’st  forgive  though  Allah’s  self  detest ; 

But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  wert  thou  ? 
Reproach  me — but  not  yet — Oh  ! spare  me  now! 

I am  not  what  I seem — this  fearful  night 
My  brain  bewilder’d — do  not  madden  quite  ! 

If  I had  never  loved — though  less’  my  guilt. 

Thou  hadst  not  lived  to — hate  me — if  thou  wilt.” 

xv. 

She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 
Than  her,  though  undesign’d,  the  wretch  he  made; 
But  speechless  all,  deep,  dark,  and  unexprest, 

They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell — his  breast. 

Still  onward,  fail  the  breeze,  nor  rough  the  surge, 

The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stern  they  urge  ; 

Far  on  the  horizon’s  verge  appears  a speck, 

A spot— a mast — a sail — an  armed  deck  ! 

Their  little  bark  her  men  of  watch  descry, 

And  ampler  canvass  woos  the  wind  from  high ; 

She  bears  her  down  majestically  near, 

Speed  on  her  prow,  and  terror  in  her  tier ; 

A flash  is  seen — the  ball  beyond  their  bow 
Booms  harmless,  hissing  to  the  deep  below. 

Up  rose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 

A long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance  ; 

“ ’Tis  mine — my  blood-red  flag  ! again — again — 

I am  not  all  deserted  on  the  main  ! ” 

They  own  the  signal,  answer  to  the  hail, 

Hoist  out  the  boat  at  once,  and  slacken  sail. 

“ ’Tis  Conrad  ! Conrad  !”  shouting  from  the  deck, 
Command  nor  duty  could  their  transport  check ! 


With  light  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride, 

They  view  him  mount  once  more  his  vessel’s  sicie  , 

A smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face, 

Their  arms  can  scarce  forbear  a rough  embrace. 

He,  half  forgetting  danger  and  defeat, 

Returns  their  greeting  as  a chief  may  greet, 

Wrings  with  a cordial  grasp  Anselmo’s  hand, 

And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  command  ! 

XVI. 

These  greetings  o’er,  the  feelings  that  o’erflow, 

Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  without  a blow ; 

They  sail’d  prepared  for  vengeance — had  they  known 
A woman’s  hand  secured  that  deed  her  own, 

She  were  their  queen — less  scrupulous  are  they 
Than  haughty  Conrad  how  they  win  their  wav. 

With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering  stare, 
They  whisper  round,  and  gaze  upon  Gulnare  ; 

And  her,  at  once  above — beneath  her  sex, 

Whom  blood  appall’d  not,  their  regards  perplex. 

To  Conrad  turns  her  faint  imploring  eye. 

She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by  ; 

Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast, 

Which — Conrade  safe — to  fate  resign’d  the  rest. 
Though  worse  than  frenzy  could  that  bosom  fill, 
Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill, 

The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still ! 

XVII. 

This  Conrad  mark’d,  and  felt — ah  ! could  he  less  ? 
Hate  of  that  deed — but  grief  for  her  distress ; 

What  she  has  done  no  tears  can  wash  away, 

And  Heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day  : 

But — it  was  done  : he  knew,  whate’er  her  guilt, 

For  him  that  poniard  smote,  that  blood  was  spilt ; 
And  he  was  free  ! — and  she  for  him  had  given 
Her  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven  ! 

And  now  he  turn’d  him  to  that  dark-eyed  slave, 
Whose  brow  was  bow’d  beneath  the  glance  he  gave, 
Who  now  seem’d  changed  and  humbled  : — faint  anc 
meek, 

But  varying  oft  the  colour  of  her  cheek 
To  deeper  shades  of  paleness — all  its  red 
That  fearful  spot  which  stain’d  it  from  the  dead  ! 

Fie  took  that  hand — it  trembled — now  too  late — 

So  soft  in  love — so  wildly  nerved  in  hate  ; 

He  clasp’d  that  hand — it  trembled— and  his  own 
Had  lost  its  firmness,  and  his  voice  its  tone. 

“ Gulnare  !” — but  she  replied  not — ££  dear  Gulnare  !’* 
She  raised  her  eye — her  only  answer  there — 

At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace  : 

If  he  had  driven  her  from  that  resting-place. 

His  had  been  more  or  less  than  mortal  heart, 

But — good  or  ill — it  bade  her  not  depart. 

Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast. 

His  latest  virtue  then  had  join’d  the  rest. 

Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 
That  ask’d  from  form  so  fair  no  more  than  this, 

The  first,  the  last  that  Frailty  stole  from  Faith — 

To  lips  where  Love  had  lavish’d  all  his  breath, 

To  lips — whose  broken  sighs  such  fragrance  fling 
As  he  had  fann’d  them  freshly  with  his  wing ! 

XVIII. 

They  gain  by  twilight’s  hour  their  lonely  isle. 

To  them  the  very  rocks  appear  to  smile ; 


(1)  [“  I have  added  a section  for  Gulnare,  to  fill  ud  ,.e  parting,  dislike,  ’tis  but  a sponge  and  another  midnight.” — herd  fty  * << 
and  dismiss  her  more  ceremoniously.  If  Gifford  or  you  Mr.  Murray,  Jan.  11.  1814] 


P 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  in 


106 

Th*  haven  hums  with  many  a cheering  sound, 

The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round, 

The  boats  are  darting  o’er  the  curly  bay, 

And  sportive  dolphins  bend  them  through  the  spray ; 
Even  the  hoarse  sea-bird’s  shrill,  discordant  shriek, 
Greets  like  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beak  ! 

Beneath  each  lamp  that  through  its  lattice  gleams, 
Their  fancy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the  beams. 

Oh  ! what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home. 

Like  Hope’s  gay  glance  from  Ocean’s  troubled  foam  F 

XIX. 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower, 

And  ’midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora’s  tower  : 

He  looks  in  vain — ’tis  strange — and  all  remark, 

Amid  so  many,  hers  alone  is  dark. 

’Tis  strange — of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail’d, 

Nor  now,  perchance,  extinguish’d,  only  veil’d. 

With  the  first  boat  descends  he  for  the  shore. 

And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 

Oh  ! for  a wing  beyond  the  falcon’s  flight, 

To  bear  him  like  an  arrow  to  that  height ! 

With  the  first  pause  the  resting  rowers  gave, 

He  waits  not — looks  not — leaps  into  the  wave, 

Strives  through  the  surge,  bestrides  the  beach,  and  high 
Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reach’d  his  turret  door — he  paused — no  sound 
Broke  from  within  ; and  all  was  night  around. 

He  knock’d,  and  loudly — footstep  nor  reply 
Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem’d  him  nigh  ; 

He  knock’d — but  faintly — for  his  trembling  hand 
Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart’s  demand. 

The  portal  opens — ’tis  a well-known  face — 

But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace, 
ics  lips  are  silent — twice  his  own  essay’d, 

And  fail’d  to  frame  the  question  they  delay’d ; 

He  snatch’d  the  lamp — its  light  will  answer  all — 

It  quits  his  grasp,  expiring  in  the  fall. 

He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray — 

As  soon  could  he  have  linger’d  there  for  day ; 

But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridore, 

Another  chequers  o’er  the  shadow’d  floor ; 

His  steps  the  chamber  gain — his  eyes  behold 
All  that  his  heart  believed  not — yet  foretold  ! 

xx. 

He  turn’d  not — spoke  not — sunk  not  — fix’d  his  look, 
And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  lately  shook  : 

He  gazed — how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain, 

And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  in  vain  ! 

In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair, 

That  death  with  gentler  aspect  wither’d  there  ; 

And  the  cold  flowers  1 her  colder  hand  contain’d, 
in  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain’d 
Vs  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign’d  a sleep, 

And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep  : 

The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow, 

And  veil’d  — thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk’d 
below — 

Oh ! o’er  the  eye  Death  most  exerts  his  might, 

And  hurls  the  spirit  fropi  her  throne  of  light ; 

Sinks  those  blue  orbs  ii.  hat  long  last  eclipse, 

But  spares,  as  yet,  the  cnarm  around  her  lips — - 
Y et,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forbore  to  smile, 

And  wish’d  repose — but  only  for  a while  ; 


But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress, 

Long — fair — but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness, 

Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind, 

Escaped  the  baffled  wreath  that  strove  to  bind  ; 

These — and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier — 
But  she  is  nothing — wherefore  is  he  here  ? 

XXI. 

He  ask’d  no  question — all  were  answer’d  now 
By  the  first  glance  on  that  still— marble  brow. 

It  was  enough — she  died — what  reck’d  it  how  ? 

The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years, 

The  source  of  softest  wishes,  tenderest  fears. 

The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate, 

Was  reft  at  once — and  he  deserved  his  fate, 

But  did  not  feel  it  less  ; — the  good  explore, 

For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar ». 
The  proud — the  wayward — who  have  fix’d  below 
Their  joy,  and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe, 

Lose  in  that  one  their  all — perchance  a mite— 

But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  ? 

Full  many  a stoic  eye  and  aspect  stern 

Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn  ; 

And  many  a withering  thought  lies  hid,  not  lost. 

In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most. 

XXII. 

By  those  that  deepest  feel  is  ill  exprest 
The  indistinctness  of  the  suffering  breast ; 

Where  thousand  thoughts  begin  to  end  in  one, 

Which  seeks  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none ; 

No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show, 

For  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Woe. 

On  Conrad’s  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest, 

And  stupor  almost  lull’d  it  into  rest ; 

So  feeble  now— his  mother’s  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant’s  wept  t 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain, 

Which  thus  confess’d  without  relieving  pain. 

None  saw  his  trickling  tears — perchance,  if  seen. 

That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been  : 

Nor  long  they  flow’d — he  dried  them  to  depart, 

In  helpless — hopeless — brokenness  of  heart : 

The  sun  goes  forth — but  Conrad’s  day  is  dim  n 
And  the  night  cometh — ne’er  to  pass  from  him. 

There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of. mind, 

On  Grief’s  vain  eye — the  blindest  of  the  blind  ! 
Which  may  not — dare  not  see — but  turns  aside 
To  blackest  shade — nor  will  endure  a guide ! 

XXIII. 

His  heart  was  form’d  for  softness — warp’d  to  wrong  ;2 
Betray’d  too  early,  and  beguiled  too  long ; 

Each  feeling  pure — as  falls  the  dropping  dew 
Within  the  grot ; like  that  had  harden’d  too  , 

Less  clear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  pass’d, 

But  sunk,  and  chill’d,  and  petrified  at  last. 

Yet  tempests  wear,  and  lightning  cleaves  the  rock, 

If  such  his  heart,  so  shatter’d  it  the  shock. 

There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged  brow, 
Though  dark  the  shade — it  shelter’d — saved  till  now 
The  thunder  came — that  bolt  hath  blasted  both, 

The  Granite’s  firmness,  and  the  Lily’s  growth  : 

The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 
Its  talc,  but  shrunk  and  wither’d  where  it  fell ; 

And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  round 
But  shiver’d  fragments  on  the  barren  ground  ! 


(1)  In  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers  on  the  bodies 
of  the  lfcad,  and  in  the  har.ds  of  young  persons  to  place  a nosegay. 


(2)  [These  sixteen  lines  are  not  in  the  original  MS.] 


CANTO  III. 


THE  CORSAIR. 


107 


XXIV. 

’Tis  morn — to  venture  on  liis  lonely  hour 

Few  dare  ; though  now  Anselma  sought  his  tower. 

He  was  not  there — nor  seen  along  the  shore  ; 

Ere  night,  alarm’d,  their  isle  is  traversed  o’er : 
Another  morn — another  bids  them  seek, 

And  shout  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak  ; 

Mount — grotto — cavern — valley  search’d  in  vain, 
They  find  on  shore  a sea-boat’s  broken  chain  : 

Their  hope  revives — they  follow  o’er  the  main. 


(1)  That  the  point  of  honour  which  is  represented  in  one  in- 
stance of  Conrad’s  character  has  not  been  carried  beyond  the 
bounds  of  probability,  may  perhaps  be  in  some  degree  confirmed 
by  the  following  anecdote  of  a brother  buccaneer  in  the  year  1814  : 
— “Our  readers  have  all  seen  the  account  of  the  enterprise  against 
the  pirates  of  Barrataria:  but  few,  we  believe,  were  informed  of 
the  situation,  history,  or  nature  of  that  establishment.  For  the 
information  of  such  as  were  unacquainted  with  it,  we  have  pro- 
cured from  a friend  the  following  interesting  narrative  of  the  main 
facts,  of  which  he  has  personal  knowledge,  and  which  cannot  fail 
to  interest  some  of  our  readers.— Barrataria  is  a bay,  or  narrow 
arm  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico;  it  runs  through  a rich  hut  veryfl.t 
country,  until  it  reaches  within  a mile  of  the  Mississippi  river, 
fifteen  miles  below  the  city  of  New  Orleans.  The  bay  has  branches 
almost  innumerable,  in  which  persons  can  lie  concealed  from  the 
severest  scrutiny.  It  communicates  with  three  lakes  which  lie  on 
the  south-west  side,  and  these,  with  the  lake  of  the  same  name,  and 
which  lies  contiguous  to  the  sea,  where  there  is  an  island  formed 
by  the  two  arms  of  this  lake  and  the  sea.  The  east  and  west 
points  of  this  island  were  fortified,  in  the  year  1811,  by  a band  of 
pirates,  under  the  command  of  one  Monsieur  La  Fitte.  A large 
majority  of  these  outlaws  are  of  that  class  of  the  population  of  the 
state  of  Louisiana  who  fled  from  the  island  of  St.  Domingo  during 
the  troubles  there,  and  took  refuge  in  the  island  of  Cuba , and  when 
the  last  war  between  France  and  Spain  commenced,  they  were  com- 
pelled to  leave  that  island  with  the  short  notice  of  a few  days. 
Without  ceremonv,  they  entered  the  United  States,  the  most  of 
them  the  state  of  Louisiana,  with  all  the  negroes  they  had  pos- 
sessed in  Cuba.  They  were  notified  by  the  Governor  of  that  State 
of  the  clause  in  the  constitution  which  forbad  the  importation  of 
slaves;  but,  at  the  same  time,  received  the  assurance  of  the  Gover- 
nor that  he  would  obtain,  if  possible,  the  approbation  of  the  General 
Government  for  their  retaining  this  property.— The  island  of  Bar- 
rataria is  situated  about  lat.  29  deg.  15  min.,  Ion.  92.  30. ; and  is 
as  remarkable  for  its  health  as  for  the  superior  scale  and  shell  fish 
with  which  its  waters  abound.  The  chief  of  this  horde,  like 
Charles  de  Moor,  had  mixed  with  his  many  vices  some  virtues. 
In  the  year  1813,  this  party  had,  from  its  turpitude  and  boldness, 
claimed  the  attention  of  the  Governor  of  Louisiana ; and  to  break 
up  the  establishment,  he  thought  proper  to  strike  at  the  head.  He 
therefore  offered  a reward  of  500  dollars  for  the  head  of  Monsieur 
La  Fitte,  who  was  well  known  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  of  New 
Orleans,  from  his  immediate  connexion,  and  his  once  having  been 
a fencing  master  in  that  city  of  great  reputation,  which  art  he  learnt 
in  Buonaparte’s  army,  where  he  was  a captain.  The  reward  which 
was  offered  by  the  Governor  for  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was  answered 
by  the  offer  of  a reward  from  the  latter  of  15,000  for  the  head  of  the 
Governor.  The  Governor  ordered  out  a company  to  march  from 
the  city  to  La  Fitte’s  island,  and  to  burn  and  destroy  all  the  pro- 
perty, and  to  bring  to  the  city  of  New  Orleans  all  his  banditti. 
This  company,  under  the  command  of  a man  who  had  been  the  in- 
timate associate  of  this  bold  Captain,  approached  very  near  to  the 
fortified  island,  before  he  saw  a man,  or  heard  a sound,  until  he 
heard  a whistle,  not  unlike  a boatswain’s  call.  Then  it  was  he 
found  himself  surrounded  bj»armed  men  who  had  emerged  from  the 
secret  avenues  which  led  into  Bayou.  Here  it  was  that  the  mo- 
dern Charles  de  Moor  developed  his  few  noble  traits ; for  to  this 
man  who  had  come  to  destroy  his  life  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him, 
he  not  only  spared  his  life,  but  offered  him  that  which  would  have 
made  the  honest  soldier  easy  for  the  remainder  of  his  days  ; which 
was  indignantly  refused.  He  then,  with  the  approbation  of  his 
captor,  returned  to  the  city.  This  circumstance,  and  some  con- 
comitant events,  proved  that  this  band  of  pirates  was  not  to  be 
taken  by  land.  Our  naval  force  having  always  been  small  in  that 
quarter,  exertions  for  the  destruction  of  this  illicit  establishment 
could  not  be  expected  from  them  until  augmented;  for  an  officer  of 
the  njiv,  with  most  of  the  gunboats  on  that  station,  had  to  retreat 
from  an  overwhelming  force  of  La  Fitte’s.  So  soon  as  the  augmen- 
tation of  the  navy  authorised  an  attack,  one  was  made ; the  over- 


’Tis  idle  all — moons  roll  on  moons  away, 

And  Conrad  comes  not — came  not  since  that  day  : 

Nor  trace,  nor  tidings  of  his  doom  declare 
Where  lives  his  grief,  or  perish’d  his  despair!  [beside; 
Long  mourn’d  his  band  whom  none  could  mourn 
And  fair  the  monument  they  gave  his  bride  : 

For  him  they  raise  not  the  recording  stone — 

His  death  yet  dubious,  deeds  too  widely  known  ; 

He  left  a Corsair’s  name  to  other  times, 

Link’d  with  one  virtue,1  and  a thousand  crimes.2 


throw  of  this  banditti  has  been  the  result ; and  now  this  almost  in- 
vulnerable point  and  key  to  New  Orleans  is  clear  of  an  enemy,  it 
is  to  be  hoped  the  government  will  hold  it  by  a strong  military 
force.” — American  Newspaper. 

In  Noble’s  continuation  of  Granger’s  Biographical  History  there 
is  a singular  passage  in  his  account  of  Archbishop  Blackbourne ; 
and  as  in  some  measure  connected  with  the  profession  of  the  hero 
of  the  foregoing  poem,  I cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  extracting 
it. — “ There  is  something  mysterious  in  the  history  and  character 
of  Dr.  Blackbourne.  The  former  is  but  imperfectly  known;  and 
report  has  even  asserted  he  was  a buccaneer;  and  that  one  of  his 
brethren  in  that  profession  having  asked,  on  his  arrival  in  England, 
what  had  become  of  his  old  chum,  Blackbourne,  was  answered, 
He  is  Archbishop  of  York.  We  are  informed,  that  Blackbourne 
was  installed  sub-dean  of  Exeter  in  1694,  which  office  he  resigned 
in  1702;  but  after  his  successor  Lewis  Barnet’s  death,  in  1704,  he 
regained  it.  In  the  following  year  he  became  dean  ; and  in  1714, 
held  with  it  the  archdeanery  of  Cornwall.  He  was  consecrated 
bishop  of  Exeter,  February  24,  1716;  and  translated  to  York, 
November  28,  1724,  as  a reward,  according  to  court  scandal,  for 
uniting  George  I.  to  the  Duchess  of  Munster.  This,  however, 
appears  to  have  been  an  unfounded  calumny.  As  archbishop  he 
behaved  with  great  prudence,  and  was  equally  respectable  as  the 
guardian  of  the  revenues  of  the  see.  Rumour  whispered  he  re- 
tained the  vices  of  his  youth,  and  that  a passion  for  the  fair  sex 
formed  an  item  in  the  list  of  his  weaknesses:  but  so  far  from 
being  convicted  by  seventy  witnesses,  he  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  directly  criminated  by  one.  In  short,  I look  upon  these 
aspersions  as  the  effects  of  mere  malice.  How  is  it  possible  a 
buccaneer  should  have  been  so  good  a scholar  as  Blackbourne 
certainly  was  ? He  who  had  so  perfect  a knowledge  of  the  classics 
(particularly  of  the  Greek  tragedians),  as  to  be  able  to  read  them 
with  the  same  ease  as  he  could  Shakspeare,  must  have  taken 
great  pains  to  acquire  the  learned  languages;  and  have  had  both 
leisure  and  good  masters.  But  he  was  undoubtedly  educated  at 
Christ  Church  College,  Oxford.  He  is  allowed  to  hare  been  a 
pleasant  man  : this,  however,  was  turned  against  him  by  its  being 
said,  ‘ he  gained  more  hearts  than  souls.’  ” 

“The  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  the  savage 
(Alphonso  III.),  was  that  of  an  amiable  and  virtuous  wife,  the  sole 
object  of  his  love  : the  voice  of  Donna  Isabella,  the  daughter  of  the 
Duke  of  Savoy,  and  the  grand-daughter  of  Philip  II.  King  of 
Spain. — Her  dying  words  sunk  deep  into  his  memory , his  fierce 
spirit  melted  into  tears;  and,  after  the  last  embrace,  Alphonso  re- 
tired into  his  chamber  to  bewail  his  irreparable  loss,  and  to  medi- 
tate on  the  vanity  of  human  life.” — Gibbon’s  Miscellaneous  Works, 
vol.  iii.  p.473. 

(2)  [In  “The  Corsair,”  Lord  Byron  first  felt  himself  at  full 
liberty  ; and  then  all  at  once  he  shows  the  unbroken  stream  of  his 
native  eloquence,  of  rapid  narrative,  of  vigorous  and  intense,  yet 
unforced  imagery,  sentiment,  and  thought : of  extraordinary  elasti- 
city, transparency,  purity,  ease,  and  harmony  of  language ; of  an 
arrangement  of  words,  never  trite,  yet  always  simple  and  flowing  ; 
— in  such  a perfect  expression  of  ideas,  always  impressive,  generally 
pointed,  frequently  passionate,  and  often  new,  that  it  is  perspicuity 
itself,  with  not  a superfluous  word,  and  not  a word  out  of  its  natural 
place. — Sir  E.  Brydges.  “The  Corsair”  is  written  in  the  regular 
heroic  couplet,  with  a spirit,  freedom,  and  variety  of  tone,  of  which, 
notwithstanding  the  example  of  Dryden,  we  scarcely  believed  that 
measure  susceptible.  It  was  yet  to  be  proved  that  this,  the  most 
ponderous  and  stately  verse  in  our  language,  could  be  accommo- 
dated to  the  variations  of  a tale  of  passion  and  of  pity,  and  to  all  the 
breaks,  starts,  and  transitions  of  an  adventurous  and  dramatic  nar- 
ration. This  experiment  Lord  Byron  has  made,  with  equal  bold- 
ness and  success ; and  has  satisfied  us,  that  the  oldest  and  most 
respectable  measure  that  is  known  amongst  us  is  at  least  as  flexible 
as  any  other,  and  capable,  in  the  hands  of  a master,  of  vibratirus 
as  strong  and  rapid  as  those  of  a lighter  structure. — Jeffrey.] 


Slav  a: 


A TALE.1 


Hara. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


« 

I. 

Ihe  Serfs2  are  glad  through  Lara’s  wide  domain, 
And  slavery  half  forgets  her  feudal  chain  ; 

He,  their  unhoped,  but  unforgotten  lord, 

The  long  self-exiled  chieftain,  is  restored  : 

There  be  bright  faces  in  the  busy  hall, 

Bowls  on  the  board,  and  banners  on  the  wall ; 

Ear  checkering  o’er  the  pictured  window,  plays 
The  unwonted  faggot’s  hospitable  blaze  ; 

And  gay  retainers  gather  round  the  hearth, 

With  tongues  all  loudness,  and  with  eyes  all  mirth. 

TI. 

The  chief  of  Lara  is  return’d  again  : 

And  why  had  Lara  cross’d  the  bounding  main  ? 

Left  by  his  sire,  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 

Lord  of  himself ; — that  heritage  of  woe, 

That  fearful  empire  which  the  human  breast 
But  holds  to  rob  the  heart  within  of  rest ! — 


(1 )  [A  few  days  after  he  had  put  the  finishing  hand  to  the  “ Ode 

to  Napoleon  Buonaparte,”  Lord  Byron  adopted  the  most  extraordi- 
nary resolution  that,  perhaps,  ever  entered  into  the  mind  of  an 
author  of  any  celebrity.  Annoyed  at  the  tone  of  disparagement  in 
which  his  assailants — not  content  with  blackening  his  moral  and 
social  character — now  affected  to  speak  of  his  genius,  and  some- 
what mortified,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  by  finding  that  his  own 
friends  dreaded  the  effects  of  constant  publication  on  his  ultimate 
fame,  he  came  to  the  determination,  not  only  to  print  no  more  in 
future,  but  to  purchase  back  the  whole  of  his  past  copyrights,  and 
suppress  every  line  he  had  ever  written.  With  this  view,  on  the 
29th  of  April,  he  actually  enclosed  his  publisher  a draft  for  the 
money.  “For  all  this,”  he  says,  “it  might  be  as  well  to  assign 
some  reason  : I have  none  to  give,  except  my  own  caprice,  and  I 
do  not  consider  the  circumstance  of  consequence  enough  to  require 
explanation.”  An  appeal,  however,  from  Mr.  Murray,  to  his  good- 
nature and  considerateness,  brought,  in  eight  and  forty  hours,  the 
following  reply  : — “ If  your  present  note  is  serious,  and  it  really 
would  be  inconvenient,  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter;  tear  my 
draft,  and  go  on  as  usual : that  I was  perfectly  serious,  in  wishing 
to  suppress  all  future  publication,  is  true;  but  certainly  not  to  in- 
terfere with  the  convenience  of  others,  and  more  particularly  your 
own.” 

The  following  passages  in  his  Diary  depict  the  state  of  Lord 
Byron’s  mind  at  this  period  : — “ Murray  has  had  a letter  from  his 
brother  bibliopole  of  Edinburgh,  who  says,  ‘ he  is  lucky  in  having 
such  a poet’ — something  as  if  one  was  a pack-horse,  or  ‘ass,  or  any 
tiling  that  is  his;’  or  like  Mrs.  Packwood,  who  replied  to  some 
inquiry  after  the  Odes  on  Razors,  ‘ Laws,  sir,  we  keeps  a poet.’ 
The  same  illustrious  Edinburgh  bookseller  once  sent  an  order  for 
books,  poesy,  and  cookery,  with  this  agreeable  postscript — ‘ The 
Harold  and  Cookery  are  much  wanted.’  Such  is  fame!  and, 
after  ali,  quite  as  good  as  any  other  ‘life  in  others’  breath.’  ’Tis 
much  the  same  to  divide  purchasers  with  Hannah  Glasse  or  Hannah 
Moore.” — “ March  17th,  Redde  the  ‘Quarrels  of  Authors,’  anew 
work  by  that  most  entertaining  and  researching  writer,  D’lsraeli. 
They  seern  tc  be  an  irritable  set,  and  I wish  myself  well  out  of  it. 


With  none  to  check  and  few  to  point  in  time 
The  thousand  paths  that  slope  the  way  to* crime  • 
Then,  when  he  most  required  commandment,  then 
Had  Lara’s  daring  boyhood  govern’d  men. 

It  skills  not,  boots  not,  step  by  step  to  trace 
His  youth  through  all  the  mazes  of  its  race  ; 

Short  was  the  course  his  restlessness  had  run. 

But  long  enough  to  leave  him  half  undone.3 

hi. 

And  Lara  left  in  youth  his  father-land  ; 

But  from  the  hour  he  waved  his  parting  hand 
Each  trace  wax’d  fainter  of  his  course,  till  all 
Had  nearly  ceased  his  memory  to  recall. 

Ilis  sire  was  dust,  his  vassals  could  declare, 

’Twas  all  they  knew,  that  Lara  was  not  there  j 
Nor  sent,  nor  came  lie,  till  conjecture  grew 
Cold  in  the  many,  anxious  in  the  few. 

His  hall  scarce  echoes  with  his  wonted  name, 

His  portrait  darkens  in  its  lading  frame. 

Another  chief  consoled  his  destined  bride, 

The  young  forgot  him,  and  the  old  had  died ; 

“ Yet  doth  he  live  !”  exclaims  the  impatient  heir, 
And  sighs  for  sables  which  he  must  not  wear. 

A hundred  scutcheons  deck  with  gloomy  grace 
The  Laras’  last  and  longest  dwelling-place  ; 


‘ I’ll  not  march  through  Coventry  with  them,  that’s  flat.’  What 
the  devil  had  I to  do  with  the  scribbling ! It  is  too  late  to  inquire, 
and  all  regret  is  useless.  But  an  it  were  to  do  again— I should 
write  again,  I suppose.  Such  is  human  nature,  at  least  my  share 
ot  it ; though  I shall  think  better  of  myself  if  1 have  sense  to  stop 
now.  If  I have  a wife,  and  that  wife  has  a son,  I will  bring  up 
mine  heir  in  the  most  anti-poetical  way — make  him  a lawyer,  or  a 
pirate,  or  anything.  But  if  he  writes,  too,  I shall  be  sure  he  is 
none  of  mine,  and  I will  cut  him  off  with  a Bank  token.”— “ April 
19.  I will  keep  no  further  journal ; and,  to  prevent  me  from  return- 
ing, like  a dog,  to  the  vomit  of  memory,  I tear  out  the  remaining 
leaves  of  this  volume.  ‘ Oh  fool ! I shall  go  mad.’  ” 

These  extracts  are  from  the  Diary  of  March  and  April,  1811. 
Before  the  end  of  May  he  had  begun  the  composition  of  “Lara,” 
which  has  been  almost  universally  considered  as  the  continuation  of 
“ The  Corsair.”  This  poem  was  published  anonymously  in  the  fol- 
lowing August,  in  the  same  volume  with  Mr.  Rogers’s  elegant  tale 
of  “Jacqueline;”  an  unnatural  and  unintelligible  conjunction, 
which,  however,  gave  rise  to  some  pretty  good  jokes.  “ I believe,” 
says  Lord  Byron,  in  one  of  his  letters,  “I  tcld  you  of  Larry  and 
Jacquy.  A friend  of  mine— at  least  a friend  of  his— was  reading 
said  Larry  and  Jacquy  in  a Brighton  coach.  A passenger  took  up 
the  book  and  queried  as  to  the  author.  The  proprietor  said,  ‘ there 
were  two to  which  the  answer  of  the  unknown  was,  ‘ Ay,  ay,— 
a joint  concern,  I suppose,  summot  like  Sternhold  and  Hopkins.’ 
Is  not  this  excellent?  I would  not  have  missed  the  ‘vile  com- 
parison’ to  have  escaped  being  the  ‘Arcades  ambo  et  cantare 
pares.’  ”] 

(2)  The  reader  is  apprised,  that  the  name  of  Lara  being  Spanish, 
and  no  circumstance  of  local  and  natural  description  fixing  the 
scene  or  hero  of  the  poem  to  any  country  or  age,  the  word  ‘ Serf,’ 
which  could  not  be  correctly  applied  to  the  lower  classes  in  Spain, 
who  were  never  vassals  of  the  soil,  has  nevertheless  been  employed 
to  designate  the  followers  of  our  fictitious  chieftain. — [Lord  Byron 
elsewhere  intimates,  that  he  meant  Lara  for  a chief  of  the  Morea.] 

(3)  [Lord  Byron’s  own  tale  is  partly  told  in  this  section.— Sip 
Walter  Scott.] 


CVNTC  I 


LARA. 


109 


But  one  is  absent  from  the  mouldering  file, 

That  now  were  welcome  in  that  Gothic  pile. 

IV. 

He  comes  at  last  in  sudden  loneliness. 

And  whence  they  know  not,  why  thqy  need  not  guess ; 
They  more  might  marvel,  when  the  greeting’s  o’er, 
Not  that  he  came,  but  came  not  long  before  : 

No  train  is  his  beyond  a single  page. 

Of  foreign  aspect,  and  of  tender  age. 

Years  had  rolled  on,  and  fast  they  speed  away 
To  those  that  wander  as  to  those  that  stay ; 

But  lack  of  tidings  from  another  clime 
H ad  lent  a flagging  wing  to  weary  Time. 

They  see,  they  recognise,  yet  almost  deem 
The  present  dubious,  or  the  past  a dream. 

He  lives,  nor  yet  is  past  his  manhood’s  prime, 

Though  sear’d  by  toil,  and  something  touch’d  by  time ; 
His  faults,  whate’er  they  were,  if  scarce  forgot, 

Might  be  untaught  him  by  his  varied  lot ; 

Nor  good  nor  ill  of  late  were  known,  his  name 
Might  yet  uphold  his  patrimonial  fame : 

His  soul  in  youth  was  haughty,  but  his  sins 
No  more  than  pleasure  from  the  stripling  wins ; 

And  such,  if  not  yet  harden’d  in  their  course, 

Might  be  redeem’d,  nor  ask  a long  remorse. 

v. 

And  they  indeed  were  changed — ’tis  quickly  seen, 
Whate’er  he  be,  ’twas  not  what  he  had  been : 

That  brow  in  furrow’d  lines  had  fix’d  at  last. 

And  spake  of  passions,  but  of  passion  past : 

The  pride,  but  not  the  fire,  of  early  days, 

Coldness  of  mien,  and  carelessness  of  praise ; 

A high  demeanour,  and  a glance  that  took 
Their  thoughts  from  others  by  a single  look ; 

And  that  sarcastic  levity  of  tongue, 

The  stinging  of  a heart  the  world  hath  stung,1 
That  darts  in  seeming  playfulness  around, 

And  makes  those  feel  that  will  not  own  the  wound  ; 
All  these  seem’d  his,  and  something  more  beneath, 
Than  glance  could  well  reveal,  or  accent  breathe. 
Ambition,  glory,  love,  the  common  aim. 

That  some  can  conquer,  and  that  all  would  claim, 
Within  his  breast  appear’d  no  more  to  strive. 

Yet  seem’d  as  lately  they  had  been  alive  ; 

And  some  deep  feeling  it  were  vain  to  trace 
At  moments  lighten’d  over  his  livid  face. 


( 1 ) [It  is  a remarkable  property  of  the  poetry  of  Lord  Byron, 
that  although  his  manner  is  frequently  varied, — although  he  ap- 
pears to  have  assumed  for  an  occasion  the  characteristic  stanza 
and  style  of  several  contemporaries, — yet  not  only  is  his  poetry 
marked  in  every  instance  by  the  strongest  cast  of  originality,  but 
in  some  leading  particulars,  and  especially  in  the  character  of  his 
heroes,  each  story  so  closely  resembled  the  other,  that,  managed 
by  a writer  of  less  power,  the  effect  would  have  been  an  unpleasant 
monotony.  All,  or  almost  all,  his  heroes  have  somewhat  the  attri- 
butes of  Childe  Harold : — all,  or  almost  all,  have  minds  which 
seem  at  variance  with  their  fortunes,  and  exhibit  high  and  poignant 
feelings  of  pain  and  pleasure;  a keen  sense  of  what  is  noble  and 
honourable;  and  an  equally  keen  susceptibility  of  injustice  or 
injury,  under  the  garb  of  stoicism  or  contempt  of  mankind.  The 
strength  of  early  passion,  and  the  glow  of  youthful  feeling,  are 
uniformly  painted  as  chilled  or  subdued  by  a train  of  early  impru- 
dences or  of  darker  guilt,  and  the  sense  of  enjoyment  tarnished, 
by  too  intimate  an  acquaintance  with  the  vanity  of  human  wishes. 
These  general  attributes  mark  the  stern  features  of  all  Lord  Byron’s 
heroes,  from  those  which  are  shaded  by  the  scalloped  hat  of  the 
illustrious  Pilgrim,  to  those  which  lurk  under  the  turban  of  Alp 
the  Renegade.  It  was  reserved  to  him  to  present  the  same  cha- 
racter on  the  public  stage  again  and  again,  varied  only  by  the 


VI. 

Not  much  he  loved  long  question  of  the  past. 
Nor  told  of  wondrous  wilds,  and  deserts  vast, 

In  those  far  lands  where  he  had  wander’d  lone. 
And — as  himself  would  have  it  seem — unknown : 
Yet  these  in  vain  his  eye  could  scarcely  scan. 
Nor  glean  experience  from  his  fellow  man  ; 

But  what  he  had  beheld  he  shunn’d  to  show, 

As  hardly  worth  a stranger’s  care  to  know ; 

If  still  more  prying  such  inquiry  grew, 

His  brow  fell  darker,  and  his  words  more  few. 

VII. 

Not  unrejoiced  to  see  him  once  again, 

Warm  was  his  welcome  to  the  haunts  of  men ; 
Born  of  high  lineage,  link’d  in  high  command, 

He  mingled  -with  the  Magnates  of  his  land; 
Join’d  the  carousals  of  the  great  and  gay, 

And  saw  them  smile  or  sigh  their  hours  away ; * 
But  still  he  only  saw,  and  did  not  share, 

The  common  pleasure  or  the  general  care : 

He  did  not  follow  what  they  all  pursued. 

With  hope  still  baffled  still  to  be  renew’d  ; 

Nor  shadowy  honour,  nor  substantial  gain, 

Nor  beauty’s  preference,  and  the  rival’s  pain  : 
Around  him  some  mysterious  circle  thrown 
Repell’d  approach,  and  show’d  him  still  alone ; 
Upon  his  eye  sat  something  of  reproof, 

That  kept  at  least  frivolity  aloof ; 

And  things  more  timid  that  beheld  him  near, 

In  silence  gazed,  or  whisper’d  mutual  fear  ; 

And  they  the  wiser,  friendlier  few  confess’d 
They  deem’d  him  better  than  his  air  express’d. 

VIII. 

’Twas  strange — in  youth  all  action  and  all  Me, 
Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife  ; 
Woman — the  field — the  ocean — all  that  gave 
Promise  of  gladness,  peril  of  a grave, 

In  turn  he  tried — he  ransack’d  all  below, 

And  found  his  recompence  in  joy  or  woe, 

No  tame,  trite  medium ; for  his  feelings  sought 
In  that  intenseness  an  escape  from  thought ; 

The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 
On  that  the  feebler  elements  hath  raised  ; 

The  rapture  of  his  heart  had  look’d  on  high. 

And  ask’d  if  greater  dwelt  beyond  the  sky : 
Chain’d  to  excess,  the  slave  of  each  extreme, 
How  woke  he  from  the  wildness  of  that  dream  ? 


exertions  of  that  powerful  genius  which,  searching  the  springs  of 
passion  and  of  feeling  in  their  innermost  recesses,  knew  how  to 
combine  their  operations,  so  that  the  interest  was  eternally  varying, 
and  never  abated,  although  the  most  important  personage  of  the 
drama  retained  the  same  lineaments.  It  will  one  day  be  consi- 
dered as  not  the  least  remarkable  literary  phenomenon  of  this  age, 
that  during  a period  of  four  years,  notwithstanding  the  quantity 
of  distinguished  poetical  talent  of  which  we  may  be  permitted  to 
boast,  a single  author — and  he  managing  his  pen  with  the  careless 
and  negligent  ease  of  a man  of  quality,  and  choosing  for  his  theme 
subjects  so  very  similar,  and  personages  bearing  so  close  a resem- 
blance to  each  other, — did,  in  despite  of  these  circumstances,  of 
the  unamiable  attributes  with  which  he  usually  invested  his  heroes, 
and  of  the  proverbial  fickleness  of  the  public,  maintain  the  ascen 
dancy  in  their  favour,  which  he  had  acquired  by  his  first,  matured 
production.  So,  however,  it  indisputably  has  been. — Sir  Walter 
Scott.] 

(2)  [This  descrip'ion  of  Lara,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  re- 
turned from  distant  travels,  and  re-assuming  his  station  in  the 
society  of  his  cwn  country,  has  strong  points  of  resemblance  to 
the  part  which  the  author  himself  seemed  occasionally  to  bear 
amid  the  scenes  where  the  great  mingle  with  the  fair.  — Sir 
Walter  Scott.] 


110 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CA  *TO  I 


Alas ! ne  toM  not — but  lie  did  awake 

To  curse  the  wither’d  heart  that  would  not  break. 

IX. 

Books — for  his  volume  heretofore  was  Man — 

With  eye  more  curious  he  appear’d  to  scan. 

And  oft,  in  sudden  mood,  for  many  a day, 

From  all  communion  he  would  start  away  : 

And  then,  his  rarely  call’d  attendants  said,  [tread 
Through  night’s  long  hours  would  sound  his  hurried 
O’er  the  dark  gallery,  where  his  fathers  frown’d 
In  rude  but  antique  portraiture  around  : 

They  heard,  but  whisper’d  — “ that  must  not  be 
known — 

The  sound  of  words  less  earthly  than  his  own. 

Yes,  they  who  chose  might  smile,  but  some  had  seen 
They  scarce  knew  what,  but  more  than  should  have 
been. 

W liy  gazed  he  so  upon  the  ghastly  head 
Which  hands  profane  had  gather’d  from  the  dead, 
That  still  beside  his  open’d  volume  lay, 

As  if  to  startle  all  save  him  away  ? 

Why  slept  he  not  when  others  were  at  rest  ? 

Why  heard  no  music,  and  received  no  guest  ? 

All  was  not  well,  they  deem’d — but  where  the  wrong  F 
Some  knew  perchance — but  ’twere  a tale  too  long ; 
And  such  besides  were  too  discreetly  wise, 

To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  surmise  ; 

But  if  they  would — they  could” — around  the  board, 
Thus  Lara’s  vassals  prattled  of  their  lord. 

x. 

It  was  the  night — and  Lara’s  glassy  stream 
The  stars  are  studding,  each  with  imaged  beam ; 

So  calm,  the  waters  scarcely  seem  to  stray, 

And  yet  they  glide  like  happiness  away ; 

Reflecting  far  and  fairy-like  from  high 
The  immortal  lights  that  live  along  the  sky  : 

Its  banks  are  fringed  with  many  a goodly  tree, 

And  flowers  tne  fairest  that  may  feast  the  bee  ; 

Such  in  her  chaplet  infant  Dian  wove. 

And  Innocence  would  offer  to  her  love. 

These  deck  the  shore  ; the  waves  their  channel  make 
In  windings  bright  and  mazy  like  the  snake. 

All  was  so  still,  so  soft  in  earth  and  air, 

You  scarce  would  start  to  meet  a spirit  there ; 

Secure  that  nought  of  evil  could  delight 
To  walk  in  such  a scene,  on  such  a night ! 

It  was  a moment  only  for  the  good  : 

So  Lara  deem’d,  nor  longer  there  he  stood, 

But  turn’d  in  silence  to  his  castle-gate ; 

Such  scene  his  soul  no  more  could  contemplate : 

Sucli  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days, 

Of  skies  more  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze, 

Of  nights  more  soft  and  frequent,  hearts  that  now — 
No— no— the  storm  may  beat  upon  his  brow, 

Unfelt — unsparing — but  a night  like  this, 

A night  of  beauty,  mock’d  such  breast  as  his. 

XI. 

He  turn’d  within  his  solitary  hall, 

And  his  high  shadow  shot  along  the  wall : 

There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times, 

*Twas  all  they  left  of  virtues  or  of  crimes, 

Sttve  vague  tradition ; and  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  their  faults ; 

And  half  a column  of  the  pompous  page, 

That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  age ; 


Where  history’s  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies. 

And  lies  like  truth,  and  still  most  truly  lies. 

He  wandering  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeam  shone 
Through  the  dim  lattice  o’er  the  floor  of  stone, 

And  the  high  fietted  roof,  and  saints,  that  there 
O’er  Gothic  windows  knelt  in  pictured  prayer, 
Reflected  in  fantastic  figures  grew, 

Like  life,  but  not  like  mortal  life,  to  view ; 

His  bristling  locks  of  sable,  brow  of  glcom, 

And  the  wide  waving  of  his  shaken  plume. 

Glanced  like  a spectre’s  attributes,  and  gave 
His  aspect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 

XII. 

’Twas  midnight — all  was  slumber ; the  lone  light 
Dimm’d  in  the  lamp,  as  loth  to  break  the  night. 

Hark  ! there  be  murmurs  heard  in  Lara’s  hall — 

A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful  call ! 

A long,  loud  shriek — and  silence — did  they  hear 
That  frantic  echo  burst  the  sleeping  ear  ? 

They  heard  and  rose,  and,  tremulously  brave, 

Rush  where  the  sound  invoked  their  aid  to  save : 
They  come  with  half-lit  tapers  in  their  hands, 

And  snatch’d  in  startled  haste  unbelted  brands. 

XIII. 

Cold  as  the  marble  where  his  length  was  laid, 

Pale  as  the  beam  that  o’er  his  features  play’d, 

Was  Lara  stretch’d;  his  half-drawn  sabre  near, 
Dropp’d  it  should  seem  in  more  than  nature’s  fear 
Yet  he  was  firm,  or  had  been  firm  till  now, 

And  still  defiance  knit  his  gather’d  brow  : 

Though  mix’d  with  terror,  senseless  as  he  lay, 

There  lived  upon  his  lip  the  wish  to  slay  ; 

Some  half-form’d  threat  in  utterance  there  had  died, 
Some  imprecation  of  despairing  pride  ; 

His  eye  was  almost  seal’d,  but  not  forsook 
Even  in  its  trance  the  gladiator’s  look, 

That  oft  awake  his  aspect  could  disclose, 

And  now  was  fix’d  in  horrible  repose. 

They  raise  him — bear  him  ; — hush  ! he  breathes,  he 
speaks, 

The  swarthy  blush  recolours  in  his  cheeks, 

His  lip  resumes  its  red,  his  eye,  though  dim, 

Rolls  wide  and  wild,  eacli  slowly  quivering  limb 
Recalls  its  function,  but  his  words  are  strung 
In  terms  that  seem  not  of  his  native  tongue ; 

Distinct  but  strange,  enough  they  understand 
To  deem  them  accents  of  another  land ; 

And  such  they  were,  and  meant  to  meet  an  ear 
That  hears  him  not — alas  ! that  cannot  hear  ! 

XIV. 

His  page  approach’d,  and  be  alone  appear’d 
To  know  the  import  of  the  words  they  heard ; 

And,  by  the  changes  of  his  cheek  and  brow, 

They  were  ndt  such  as  Lara  should  avow, 

Nor  he  interpret, — yet  with  less  surprise 
Than  those  around  their  chieftain’s  state  he  eyes. 

But  Lara’s  prostrate  form  he  bent  beside. 

And  in  that  tongue  which  seem’d  his  own  replied. 

And  Lara  heeds  those  tones  that  gently  seem 
To  soothe  away  the  horrors  of  his  dream — 

If  dream  it  were,  that  thus  could  overthrow 
A breast  that  needed  not  ideal  woe. 

xv. 

Whate’er  his  frenzy  dream’d  or  eye  beheld. 

If  yet  remember’d  ne’er  to  be  reveal’d. 


CA2JTL  . 


LARA. 


Ill 


Rests  at  liis  heart : the  custom’d  morning  came. 

And  breathed  new  vigour  in  his  shaken  frame  ; 

And  solace  sought  he  none  from  priest  nor  leech, 

And  soon  the  same  in  movement  and  in  speech 
As  heretofore  he  fill’d  the  passing  hours,— 

Nor  less  he  smiles,  nor  more  his  forehead  lowers, 
Than  these  were  wont ; and  if  the  coming  night 
Appear’d  less  welcome  now  to  Lara’s  sight,  • 

lie  to  liis  marvelling  vassals  show’d  it  not, 

Whose  shuddering  proved  their  fear  was  less  forgot. 
In  trembling  pairs  (alone  they  dared  not)  crawl 
The  astonish’d  slaves,  and  shun  the  fated  hall ; 

The  waving  banner,  and  the  clapping  door, 

The  rustling  tapestry,  and  the  echoing  floor; 

The  long  dim  shadows  of  surrounding  trees, 

The  flapping  bat,  the  night  song  of  the  breeze ; 

Aught  they  behold  or  hear  their  .thought  appals. 

As  evening  saddens  o’er  the  dark  grey  walls. 

XVI. 

Vain  thought ! that  hour  of  ne’er  unravell’d  gloom 
Came  not  again,  or  Lara  could  assume 
A seeming  of  forgetfulness,  that  made 
His  vassals  more  amazed  nor  less  afraid — 

Had  memory  vanish’d  then  with  sense  restored  ? 
Since  word,  nor  look,  nor  gesture  of  their  lord 
Betray’d  a feeling  that  recall’d  to  these 
That  fever’d  moment  of  his  mind’s  disease. 

Was  it  a dream  ? was  his  the  voice  that  spoke 
Those  strange  wild  accents  ; his  the  cry  that  broke 
Their  slumber  ? his  the  oppress’d,  o’erlabour’d  heart 
That  ceased  to  beat,  the  look  that  made  them  start  ? 
Could  he  who  thus  had  suffer’d  so  forget. 

When  such  as  saw  that  suffering  shudder  yet  ? 

Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memory  fix’d 
Too  deep  for  words,  indelible,  unmix’d 
In  that  corroding  secrecy  which  gnaws 
The  heart  to  show  the  effect,  but  not  the  cause  ? 

Not  so  in  him  ; his  breast  had  buried  both, 

Nor  common  gazers  could  discern  the  growth 
Of  thoughts  that  mortal  lips  must  leave  half  told  ; 
They  choke  the  feeble  words  that  would  unfold. 

XVII. 

In  him,  inexplicably  mix’d,  appear’d 

Much  to  be  loved  and  hated,  sought  and  fear’d ; 

Opinion  varying  o’er  his  hidden  lot, 

In  praise  or  railing  ne’er  his  name  forgot : 

His  silence  form’d  a theme  for  others’  prate — 

They  guess’d — they  gazed — they  fain  would  know 
his  fate. 

What  had  he  been  ? what  was  he,  thus  unknown. 
Who  walk’d  their  world,  his  lineage  only  known  ? 

A hater  of  his  kind  ? yet  some  would  say, 

With  them  lie  could  seem  gay  amidst  the  gay  ; 

But  own’d  that  smile,  if  oft  observed  and  near, 

Waned  in  its  mirth,  and  wither’d  to  a sneer ; 

That  smile  might  reach  his  lip,  but  pass’d  not  by. 
None  e’er  could  trace  its  laughter  to  his  eye  : 

Yet  there  was  softness  too  in  his  regard, 

At  times,  a heart  as  not  by  nature  hard, 

Hut  once  perceived,  his  spirit  seem’d  to  chide 
Such  weakness,  as  unworthy  of  its  pride. 

And  steel’d  itself,  as  scorning  to  redeem 
One  doubt  from  others’  half  withheld  esteem  ; 

I n self-inflicted  penance  of  a breast 

vYhicli  tenderness  might  once  have  wrung  from  rest ; 


In  vigilance  of  grief  that  would  compel 
The  soul  to  hate  for  having  loved  too  well. 

XVIII. 

There  was  in  him  a vital  scorn  of  all : 

As  if  the  worst  had  fall’n  which  could  befali. 

He  stood  a stranger  in  this  breathing  world, 

An  erring  spirit  from  another  hurl’d  ; 

A thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 
By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped ; 

But  ’scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 
His  mind  would  half  exult  and  half  regret : 

With  more  capacity  for  love  than  earth 
Bestows  on  most  of  mortal  mould  and  birth, 

His  early  dreams  of  good  outstripp’d  the  truth, 
And  troubled  manhood  follow’d  baffled  youth ; 
With  thought  of  years  in  phantom  chase  misspent, 
And  wasted  powers  for  better  purpose  lent ; 

And  fiery  passions  that  had  pour’d  their  wrath 
In  hurried  desolation  o’er  his  path, 

And  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 
In  wild  reflection  o’er  his  stormy  life ; 

But  haughty  still,  and  loth  himself  to  blame, 

He  call’d  on  Nature’s  self  to  share  the  shame. 

And  charged  all  faults  upon  the  fleshy  form 
She  gave  to  clog  the  soul,  and  feast  the  worm ; 

Till  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  ill, 

And  half  mistook  for  fate  the  acts  of  will : 

Too  high  for  common  selfishness,  he  could 
At  times  resign  his  own  for  others’  good. 

But  not  in  pity,  not  because  he  ought. 

But  in  some  strange  perversity  of  thought, 

That  sway’d  him  onward  with  a secret  pride 
To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside  ; 

And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time, 
Mislead  his  spirit  equally  to  crime ; 

So  much  he  soar’d  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath, 

The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condemn’d  to  breathe. 
And  long’d  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 
Himself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state  ; 

His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fix’d  her  throne 
Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own  : 

Thus  coldly  passing  all  that  pass’d  below 

His  blood  in  temperate  seeming  now  would  flow  : 

Ah  ! happier  if  it  ne’er  with  guilt  had  glow’d, 

But  ever  in  that  icy  smoothness  flow’d  ! 

’Tis  true,  with  other  men  their  path  he  walk’d, 
And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  talk’d, 

Nor  outraged  Reason’s  rules  by  flaw  nor  start, 

His  madness  was  not  of  the  head,  but  heart ; 

And  rarely  wander’d  in  his  speech,  or  drew 
His  thoughts  so  forth  as  to  offend  the  view. 

XIX. 

With  all  that  chilling  mystery  of  mien, 

And  seeming  gladness  to  remain  unseen, 

He  had  (if  ’twere  not  nature’s  boon)  an  art 
Of  fixing  memory  on  another’s  heart : 

It  was  not  love  perchance — nor  hate — nor  aughi 
That  words  can  image  to  express  the  thought ; 

But  they  who  saw  him  did  not  see  in  vain. 

And  once  beheld,  would  ask  of  him  again  : 

And  those  to  whom  he  spake  remember’d  wed. 

And  on  the  words,  however  light,  would  dweil : 
None  knew,  nor  how,  nor  why,  but  he  entwined 
Himself  perforce  around  the  hearer’s  mind  ; 

There  he  was  stamp’d,  in  liking,  or  in  hate. 

If  greeted  once ; however  brief  the  date 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  l 


112 

That  friendship,  pity,  or  aversion  knew, 

Still  there  within  the  inmost  thought  he  grew. 

You  could  not  penetrate  his  soul,  but  found, 

Despite  your  wonder,  to  your  own  he  wound ; 

His  presence  Haunted  still ; and  from  the  breast 
He  forced  an  all  unwilling  interest : 

Vain  was  the  struggle  in  that  mental  net, 

His  spirit  seem’d  to  dare  you  to  forget ! 

xx. 

There  is  a festival,  where  knights  and  dames, 

And  aught  that  wealth  or  lofty  lineage  claims, 

Appear — a highborn  and  a welcome  guest 
To  Otho’s  hail  came  Lara  with  the  rest. 

The  long  carousal  shakes  the  illumined  hall. 

Well  speeds  alike  the  banquet  and  the  ball ; 

And  the  gay  dance  of  bounding  Beauty’s  train 
Links  grace  and  harmony  in  happiest  chain  : 

Blest  are  the  early  hearts  and  gentle  hands 
That  mingle  there  in  well  according  bands  ; 

It  is  a sight  the  careful  brow  might  smooth, 

And  make  Age  smile,  and  dream  itself  to  youth. 

And  Youth  forget  such  hour  was  past  on  earth. 

So  springs  the  exulting  bosom  to  that  mirth ! 

XXI. 

And  Lara  gazed  on  these,  sedately  glad, 

His  brow  belied  him  if  his  soul  was  sad  ; 

And  his  glance  follow’d  fast  each  fluttering  fair. 
Whose  steps  of  lightness  woke  no  echo  there  : 

He  lean’d  against  the  lofty  pillar  nigh, 

With  folded  arms  and  long  attentive  eye, 

Nor  mark’d  a glance  so  sternly  fix’d  on  his — • 

111  brook’d  high  Lara  scrutiny  like  this  ; 

At  length  he  caught  it — ’tis  a face  unknown, 

But  seems  as  searching  his,  and  his  alone ; 

Prying  and  dark,  a stranger’s  by  his  mien, 

Who  still  till  now  had  gazed  on  him  unseen : 

At  length  encountering  meets  the  mutual  gaze 
Of  keen  inquiry,  and  of  mute  amaze ; 

On  Lara’s  glance  emotion  gathering  grew, 

As  if  distrusting,  that  the  stranger  threw  ; 

Along  the  stranger’s  aspect,  fix’d  and  stern, 

Flash’d  more  than  thence  the  vulgar  eye  could  learn. 

XXII. 

“ ’Tis  he  ! ” the  stranger  cried,  and  those  that  heard 
Re-echoed  fast  and  far  the  whisper’d  word. 

“ ’Tis  he  !*’ — “ ’Tis  who  ?”  they  question  far  and  near, 
Till  louder  accents  rung  on  Lara’s  ea?’ ; 

So  widely  spread,  few  bosoms  well  could  brook 
The  general  marvel,  or  that  single  look : 

But  Lara  stirr’d  not,  changed  not,  the  surprise 
That  sprung  at  first  to  his  arrested  eyes 
Seem’d  now  subsided,  neither  sunk  nor  raised 
Glanced  his  eye  round,  though  still  the  stranger  gazed ; 
And  drawing  nigh,  exclaim’d,  with  haughty  sneer, 
'‘’Tis  he! — how  came  he  thence? — what  doth  he 
here  ?” 

XXIII. 

If  were  too  much  for  Lara  to  pass  by 
Such  questions,  so  repeated  fierce  and  high ; 

With  !ook  collected,  but  with  accent  cold, 

More  mildly  firm  than  petulantly  bold, 

He  turn’d,  and  met  the  inquisitorial  tone — 

“ My  name  is  Lara ! — when  thine  own  is  known, 


Doubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  requite 
The  unlook’d  for  courtesy  of  such  a knight. 

’Tis  Lara ! — further  wouldst  thou  mark  or  ask  ? 

I shun  no  question,  and  I wear  no  mask.” 

“ Thou  shunn’st  no  question  ! Ponder — is  there  none 
Thy  heart  must  answer,  though  thine  ear  would  shun? 
And  deem’st  thou  me  unknown,  too  ? Gaze  again  ! 
At  least  thy  memory  was  not  given  in  vain. 

Oh  ! never  canst  thou  cancel  half  her  debt, 

Eternity  forbids  thee  to  forget.” 

With  slow  and  searching  glance  upon  his  face 
Grew  Lara’s  eyes,  but  nothing  there  could  trace 
They  knew,  or  chose  to  know — with  dubious  look 
He  deign’d  no  answer,  but  his  head  he  shook, 

And  half  contemptuous  turn’d  to  pass  away ; 

But  the  stern  stranger  motion’d  him  to  stay. 

“ A word ! — I charge  thee  stay,  and  answer  here 
To  one,  who,  wert  thou  noble,  were  thy  peer, 

But  as  thou  wast  and  art — nay,  frown  not,  lord, 

If  false,  ’tis  easy  to  disprove  the  word — 

But  as  thou  wast  and  art,  on  thee  looks  down, 
Distrusts  thy  smiles,  but  shakes  not  at  thy  frown. 

Art  thou  not  he  ? whose  deeds ” 

“ Whate’er  I be, 

Words  wild  as  these,  accusers  like  to  thee, 

I list  no  further  ; those  with  whom  they  weigh 
May  hear  the  rest,  nor  venture  to  gainsay 
The  wondrous  tale  no  doubt  thy  tongue  can  tell, 
Which  thus  begins  so  courteously  and  well. 

Let  Otlio  cherish  here  his  polish’d  guest, 

To  him  my  thanks  and  thoughts  shall  be  express’d.” 
And  here  their  wondering  host  hath  interposed — 

“ Whate’er  there  be  between  you  undisclosed, 

This  is  no  time  nor  fitting  place  to  mar 
The  mirthful  meeting  with  a wordy  war. 

If  thou,  Sir  Ezzelin,  hast  aught  to  show 
Which  it  befits  Count  Lara’s  ear  to  know, 

To-morrow,  here,  or  elsewhere,  as  may  best 
Beseem  your  mutual  judgment,  speak  the  rest; 

I pledge  myself  for  thee,  as  not  unknown, 

Though,  like  Count  Lara,  now  return’d  alone 
From  other  lands,  almost  a stranger  grown ; 

And  if  from  Lara’s  blood  and  gentle  birth 
I augur  right  of  courage  and  of  worth, 

He  will  not  that  untainted  line  belie, 

Nor  aught  that  knighthood  may  accord,  deny.” 

“ To-morrow  be  it,”  Ezzelin  replied, 

“ And  here  our  several  worth  and  truth  be  tried : 

I gage  my  life,  my  falchion  to  attest 
My  words,  so  may  I mingle  with  the  blest !” 

What  answers  Lara  ? to  its  centre  shrunk 
His  soul,  in  deep  abstraction  sudden  sunk ; 

The  words  of  many,  and  the  eyes  of  all 

That  there  were  gather’d,  seem’d  on  him  to  fall ; 

But  his  were  silent,  his  appear’d  to  stray 
In  far  forgetfulness  away — away — 

Alas  ! that  heedlessness  of  all  around 
Bespoke  remembrance  only  too  profound. 

XXIV. 

“ To-morrow  ! — ay,  to-morrow  !”  further  word 
Than  those  repeated  none  from  Lara  heard ; 

Upon  his  brow  no  outward  passion  spoke: 

From  his  large  eye  no  flashing  anger  broke ; 

Yet  there  was  something  fix’d  in  that  low  toLe, 
Which  show’d  resolve,  determined,  though  unknown 


CAXTC  : 


LARA. 


113 


tie  seized  his  cloak — his  head  he  slightly  bow’d. 

And  passing  Ezzelin,  lie  left  the  crowd ; 

And,  as  he  pass’d  him,  smiling  met  the  frown 
With  which  chieftain’s  brow  would  bear  him  down: 
It  was  nor  simie  of  mirtJi,  nor  struggling  pride 
That  curbs  to  scorn  the  wrath  it  cannot  hide ; 

But  that  of  one  in  his  own  heart  secure 
Of  all  that  he  would  do  or  could  endure. 

Could  this  mean  peace  ? the  calmness  of  the  good  ? 

Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood  ? 

Alas  ! too  like  in  confidence  are  each, 

For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speech  ; 

From  deeds,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discern 
Truths  which  it  wrings  the  unpractised  heart  to  learn. 

XXV. 

And  Lara  call’d  his  page,  and  went  his  way — 

Well  could  that  stripling  word  or  sign  obey  : 

His  only  follower  from  those  climes  afar, 

Where  the  soul  glows  beneath  a brighter  star ; 

For  Lara  left  the  shore  from  whence  he  sprung, 

In  duty  patient,  and  sedate  though  young  ; 

Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  faith  appears 
Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years. 

Though  not  unknown  the  tongue  of  Lara’s  land. 

In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command ; 

But  lieet  his  step,  and  clear  his  tones  would  come, 
When  Lara’s  lip  breathed  forth  the  words  of  home  : 
Those  accents,  as  his  native  mountains  dear, 

Awake  their  absent  echoes  in  his  ear, 

Friends’,  kindred's,  parents’,  wonted  voice  recall, 

Now  lost,  abjured,  for  one — his  friend,  his  all : 

For  him  earth  now  disclosed  no  other  guide ; 

What  marvel  then  he  rarely  left  his  side  ? 

XXVI. 

Light  was  his  form,  and  darkly  delicate 
That  brow  whereon  his  native  sun  had  sate, 

But  had  not  marr’d,  though  in  his  beams' he  grew, 

The  cheek  where  oft  the  unbidden  blush  shone 
through ; 

Yet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health  would  show 
All  the  heart’s  hue  in  that  delighted  glow ; 

But  ’twas  a hectic  tint  of  secret  care 
That  for  a burning  moment  fever’d  there  ; 

And  the  wild  sparkle  of  his  eye  seem’d  caught 
From  high,  and  lighten’d  with  electric  tliought, 
Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes’  fringe 
Had  temper’d  with  a melancholy  tinge  ; 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  pride  was  there, 

Or,  if  ’twere  grief,  a grief  that  none  should  share : 
And  pleased  not  him  the  sports  that  please  his  age, 
The  tricks  of  youth,  the  frolics  of  the  page ; 

For  hours  on  Lara  lie  woidd  fix  his  glance, 

As  all-forgotten  in  that  watchful  trance  ; 

And  from  his  chief  withdrawn,  he  wander’d  lone, 

Brief  were  his  answers,  and  his  questions  none  ; 

His  walk  the  wood,  his  sport  some  foreign  book  ; 

His  resting-place  the  bank  that  curbs  the  brook ; 

He  seem’d,  like  him  he  served,  to  live  apart 
From  all  tLat  lures  the  eye,  and  fills  the  heart; 

To  know  no  brotherhood,  and  take  from  earth 
Ho  gift  beyond  that  bitter  boon — our  birth. 

XXVII. 

If  aught  he  loved,  ’twas  Lara  ; but  was  shown 
His  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeds  alone ; 


In  mute  attention ; and  bis  care,  wbicli  guess’d 
Each  wish,  fulfill’d  it  ere  the  tongue  express’d. 

Still  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  did, 

A spirit  deep  that  brook’d  not  to  be  chid  ; 

His  zeal,  though  more  than  that  of  servile  hands. 

In  act  alone  obeys,  his  air  commands  ; 

As  if  ’twas  Lara’s  less  than  his  desire 
That  thus  lie  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 

Slight  were  the  tasks  enjoin’d  him  by  his  lord, 

To  hold  the  stirrup,  or  to  bear  the  sword  ; 

To  tune  his  lute,  or,  if  he  will’d  it  more, 

On  tomes  of  other  times  and  tongues  to  pore  ; 

But  ne’er  to  mingle  with  the  menial  train, 

To  whom  he  sliow’d  nor  deference  nor  disdain, 

But  that  well-worn  reserve  which  proved  he  knew 
No  sympathy  with  that  familiar  crew  : 

His  soul,  whate’er  his  station  or  his  stem, 

Could  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 

Of  higher  birth  he  seem’d,  and  better  days, 

Nor  mark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays, 

So  femininely  white  it  might  bespeak 

Another  sex,  when  match’d  with  that  smooth  cheek. 

But  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  his  gaze, 

More  wild  and  high  than  woman’s  eye  betrays ; 

A lat  ent  fierceness  that  far  more  became 
His  fiery  climate  than  his  tender  frame  : 

True,  in  his  words  it  broke  not  from  his  breast, 

But  from  his  aspect  might  be  more  than  guess’d. 
Kaled  his  name,  though  rumour  said  he  bore 
Another  ere  he  left  his  mountain-shore  ; 

For  sometimes  he  would  hear,  however  nigh, 

That  name  repeated  loud  without  reply. 

As  unfamiliar,  or,  if  roused  again, 

Start  to  the  sound,  as  but  remember’d  then ; 

Unless  ’twas  Lara’s  wonted  voice  that  spake, 

For  then,  ear,  eyes,  and  heart  would  all  awake. 

XXVIII. 

He  had  look’d  down  upon  the  festive  hall, 

And  mark’d  that  sudden  strife  so  mark’d  of  ah  ; 

And  when  the  crowd  around  and  near  him  told 
Their  wonder  at  the  calmness  of  the  bold, 

Their  marvel  how  the  high-born  Lara  bore 
Such  insult  from  a stranger,  doubly  sore, 

The  colour  of  young  Kaled  went  and  came. 

The  lip  of  ashes,  and  the  cheek  of  flame ; 

And  o’er  his  brow  the  dampening  heart-drops  threw 
The  sickening  iciness  of  that  cold  dew, 

That  rises  as  the  busy  bosom  sinks 
With  heavy  thoughts  from  which  reflection  shrinks. 
Yes — there  be  things  which  we  must  dream  and  dare, 
And  execute  ere  thought  be  half  aware : 

Whate’er  might  Kaled’ s be,  it  was  enow 
To  seal  his  lip,  but  agonize  his  brow. 

He  gazed  on  Ezzelin  till  Lara  cast 

That  sidelong  smile  upon  the  knight  he  past : 

When  Kaled  saw  that  smile  his  visage  fell, 

As  if  on  something  recognised  right  well ; 

His  memory  read  in  such  a meaning  more 
Than  Lara’s  aspect  unto  others  wore  : 

Forward  he  sprung — a moment,  both  were  gone, 

And  all  within  that  hall  seem’d  left  alone ; 

Each  had  so  fix’d  his  eye  on  Lara’s  mien, 

All  had  so  mix’d  their  feelings  with  that  scene, 

That  when  his  long  dark  shadow  through  the  porch 
No  more  relieves  the  glare  of  yon  high  torch, 

Each  pulse  beats  quicker,  and  all  bosoms  seem 
To  bound  as  doubting  from  too  black  a dream, 

Q 


114 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  U 


Such  as  we  know  is  false,  yet  dread  in  sooth. 
Because  the  worst  is  ever  nearest  truth. 

And  they  are  gone — but  Ezzelin  is  there. 

With  thoughtful  visage  and  imperious  air ; 

But  long  remain’d  not ; ere  an  hour  expired 
lie  waved  his  hand  to  Otho,  and  retired. 

XXIX. 

The  crowd  are  gone,  the  revellers  at  rest ; 

The  courteous  host,  and  all-approving  guest, 

Again  to  that  accustom’d  couch  must  creep 
Where  joy  subsides,  and  sorrow  sighs  to  sleep, 

And  man,  o’erlaboured  with  his  being’s  strife, 
Shrinks  to  that  sweet  forgetfulness  of  life  : 

There  lie  love’s  feverish  hope,  and  cunning’s  guile, 
Hate’s  working  brain,  and  lull’d  ambition’s  wile  ; 
O’er  each  vain  eye  oblivion’s  pinions  wave, 

And  quench’d  existence  crouches  in  a grave. 

What  better  name  may  slumber’s  bed  become  ? 
Night’s  sepulchre,  the  universal  home. 

Where  weakness,  strength,  vice,  virtue,  sunk  supine, 
Alike  in  naked  helplessness  recline  ; 

Glad  for  awhile  to  heave  unconscious  breath, 

Yet  wake  to  wrestle  with  the  dread  of  death, 

And  shun,  though  day  but  dawn  on  ills  increased, 
That  sleep,  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least. 


Hara. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND.1 


L 

Night  wanes  — the  vapours  round  the  mountains 
curl’d 

Melt  into  morn,  and  Light  awakes  the  world. 

Man  has  another  day  to  swell  the  past, 

And  lead  him  near  to  little,  but  his  last ; 

But  mighty  nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth, 

The  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  life  on  eartli ; 

Blowers  in  the  valley,  splendour  in  the  beam, 

Health  on  the  gale,  and  freshness  in  the  stream. 
Immortal  man  ! behold  her  glories  shine, 

And  cry,  exulting  inly,  “They  are  thine  !” 

Gaze  on,  while  yet  thy  gladden’d  eye  may  see ; 

A morrow  comes  when  they  are  not  for  thee : 

And  grieve  what  may  above  thy  senseless  bier, 

Nor  earth  nor  sky  will  yield  a single  tear  ; 

Nor  cloud  shall  gather  more,  nor  leaf  shall  fall, 

Nor  gale  breathe  forth  one  sigh  for  thee,  for  all ; 

But  creeping  things  shall  revel  in  their  spoil. 

And  fit  thy  clay  to  fertilize  the  soil. 

n. 

’Tis  morn — ’tis  noon — assembled  in  the  hall, 

The  gather’d  chieftains  come  to  Otho’s  call ; 

’Tis  now  the  promised  hour,  that  must  proclaim 
The  life  or  death  of  Lara’s  future  fame ; 


(1)  [Lord  Byron  seems  to  have  taken  a whimsical  pleasure  in 
disappointing,  by  his  second  Canto,  most  of  the  expectations  which 
hi  had  excited  by  the  first.  For,  without  the  resuscitation  of  Sir 
Ezzelin,  Lara’s  mysterious  vision  in  his  antique  hall  becomes  a 
mere  useless  piece  of  lumber,  inapplicable  to  any  intelligible  pur- 
nse.  The  charact»-  of  Medora,  whom  we  had  been  satisfied  to 
ehold  very  contentedly  domesticated  in  the  Pirate's  Island,  with- 


Whcn  Ezzelin  his  charge  may  here  unfold, 

And  whatso’er  the  tale,  it  must  be  told. 

His  faith  was  pledged,  and  Lara’s  promise  given, 
To  meet  it  in  the  eye  of  man  and  heaven. 

Why  comes  he  not  'r  Such  truths  to  be  divulged, 
Mcthinks  the  accuser’s  rest  is  long  indulged. 

in. 

The  hour  is  past,  and  Lara  too  is  there. 

With  self-confiding,  coldly  patient  air  ; 

Why  comes  not  Ezzelin  ? The  hour  is  past. 

And  murmurs  rise,  and  Otho’s  brow’s  o’ercast. 

“ I know  my  friend  ! his  faith  1 cannot  fear, 

If  yet  lie  be  on  earth,  expect  him  here ; 

The  roof  that  held  him  in  the  valley  stands 
Between  my  own  and  noble  Lara’s  lands  ; 

My  halls  from  such  a guest  had  honour  gain’d, 

Nor  had  Sir  Ezzelin  his  host  disdain’d, 

But  that  some  previous  proof  forbade  liis  stay, 

And  urged  him  to  prepare  against  to-day  ; 

The  word  I pledged  for  his  1 pledge  again, 

Or  will  myself  redeem  his  knighthood’s  stain.” 

He  ceased — and  Lara  answer’d,  “ I am  here 
To  lend  at  thy  demand  a listening  ear 
To  tales  of  evil  from  a stranger’s  tongue, 

Whose  words  already  might  my  heart  have  wrung, 
But  that  I deem’d  him  scarcely  less  than  mad, 

Or,  at  the  worst,  a foe  ignobly  bad. 

I know  him  not — but  me  it  seems  he  knew 
In  lands  where — but  I must  not  trifle  too : 
Produce  this  babbler — or  redeem  the  pledge ; 

Here  in  thy  hold,  and  with  thy  falchion’s  edge.” 

Proud  Otho  on  the  instant,  reddening,  threw 
His  glove  on  earth,  and  forth  his  sabre  fiew. 

“ The  last  alternative  befits  me  best, 

And  thus  I answer  for  mine  absent  guest.” 

With  cheek  unchanging  from  its  sallow  gloom, 
However  near  his  own  or  other’s  tomb  ; 

With  hand,  whose  almost  careless  coolness  spoke 
Its  grasp  well-used  to  deal  the  sabre-stroke  ; 

With  eye,  though  calm,  determined  not  to  spare. 
Did  Lara  too  his  willing  weapon  bare. 

In  vain  the  circling  chieftains  round  them  closed, 
Eor  Otho’s  frenzy  would  not  be  opposed  ; 

And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell — 

His  sword  is  good  who  can  maintain  them  well. 

IV. 

Short  was  the  conflict ; furious,  blindly  rash, 

Vain  Otho  gave  his  bosom  to  the  gash: 

He  bled,  and  fell ; but  not  with  deadly  wound. 
Stretch’d  by  a dextrous  sleight  along  the  ground. 

“ Demand  thy  life  !”  He  answer’d  not : and  then 
From  that  red  floor  he  ne’er  had  risen  again, 

For  Lara’s  brow  upon  the  moment  grew 
Almost  to  blackness  in  its  demon  hue  ; 

And  fiercer  shook  his  angry  falchion  now 
Than  when  his  foe’s  was  leveil’d  at  his  brow 


out  inquiring  whence  or  why  she  had  emigrated  thither,  is  ^ *rj 
means  of  some  mysterious  relation  between  her  and  Sir  E izshsr. 
involved  in  very  disagreeable  ambiguity; — and,  further,  the  mgn- 
minded  and  generous  Conrad,  who  had  preferred  death  and  torture 
to  life  and  liberty,  if  purchased  by  a nightly  murder,  is  degraded 
into  a vile  and  cowardly  assassin. — George  Ellis.] 


CAM  TO  II. 


LABA. 


115 


Then  all  was  stem  collectedness  and  art, 

Now  rose  the  unleaven’d  hatred  of  his  heart ; 

So  little  sparing  to  the  foe  he  fell’d, 

That  when  the  approaching  crowd  his  arm  withheld, 
lie  a/most  turn’d  the  thirsty  point  on  those, 

Wh  ^ thus  for  mercy  dared  to  interpose ; 

But  to  a moment’s  thought  that  purpose  bent ; 

Yet  look’d  he  on  him  still  with  eye  intent. 

As  if  lie  loathed  the  ineffectual  strife 

That  left  a foe,  howe’er  o’erthrown,  with  life; 

As  if  to  search  how  far  the  wound  he  gave 
Had  sent  its  victim  onward  to  his  grave. 

v. 

They  raised  the  bleeding  Otho,  and  the  Leech 
Forbade  all  present  question,  sign,  and  speech; 

The  others  met  within  a neighbouring  hall, 

And  he,  incensed,  and  heedless  of  them  all, 

The  cause  and  conqueror  in  this  sudden  fray. 

In  haughty  silence  slowly  strode  away  ; 

He  back’d  his  steed,  his  homeward  oath  he  took, 
Nor  cast  on  Otho’s  towers  a single  look. 

VI. 

But  where  was  he  ? that  meteor  of  a night, 

Who  menaced  but  to  disappear  with  light. 

Where  was  this  Ezzelin?  who  came  and  went 
To  leave  no  other  trace  of  his  intent. 

He  left  the  dome  of  Otho  long  ere  morn, 

In  darkness,  yet  so  well  the  path  was  worn 
He  could  not  miss  it : near  his  dwelling  lay  ; 

But  there  he  was  not,  and  with  coming  day 
Came  fast  inquiry,  which  unfolded  nought 
Except  the  absence  of  the  chief  it  sought. 

A chamber  tenantless,  a steed  at  rest. 

His  host  alarm’d,  his  murmuring  squires  distress’d  : 
Their  search  extends  along,  around  the  path, 

In  dread  to  meet  the  marks  of  prowlers’  wrath : 

But  none  are  there,  and  not  a brake  hath  borne 
Nor  gout  of  blood,  nor  shred  of  mantle  torn  ; 

Nor  fall  nor  struggle  Hath  defaced  the  grass, 

Which  still  retains  a mark  where  murder  was  ; 

Nor  dabbling  fingers  left  to  tell  the  talc, 

The  bitter  print  of  each  convulsive  nail, 

When  agonized  hands  that  cease  to  guard, 

Wound  in  that  pang  the  smoothness  of  the  sward. 
Some  such  had  been,  if  here  a life  was  reft, 

But  these  were  not ; and  doubting  hope  is  left ; 

And  strange  suspicion,  whispering  Lara’s  name, 
Now  daily  mutters  o’er  his  blacken’d  fame  ; 

Then  sudden  silent  when  his  form  appear’d. 

Awaits  the  absence  of  the  thing  it  fear’d 
Again  its  wonted  wondering  to  renew. 

And  dye  conjecture  with  a darker  hue. 

VII. 

Days  roll  along,  and  Otho’s  wounds  are  heal’d, 

But  not  his  pride  ; and  hate  no  more  conceal’d : 

He  was  a man  of  power,  and  Lara’s  foe, 

The  friend  of  all  who  sought  to  work  him  woe, 

And  from  his  country’s  justice  now  demands 
Account  of  Ezzelin  at  Lara’s  hands. 

Who  else  than  Lara  could  have  cause  to  fear 
Ilis  presence  ? who  had  made  him  disappear, 

If  not  the  man  on  whom  his  menaced  charge 
Had  sate  too  deeply  were  he  left  at  large  ? 

The  general  rumour  ignorantly  loud, 

The  mystery  dearest  to  the  curious  crowd ; 


The  seeming  friendlessness  of  him  who  strove 
To  win  no  confidence,  and  wake  no  love  ; 

The  sweeping  lierceness  which  his  soul  betray’d. 

The  skill  with  which  he  wielded  his  keen  blade ; 
Where  had  his  arm  unwarlike  caught  that  art  ? 
Where  had  that  fierceness  grown  upon  his  heart  ? 

For  it  was  not  the  blind  capricious  rage 
A word  can  kindle  and  a word  assuage ; 

But  the  deep  working  of  a sold  unmix’d 
With  aught  of  pity  where  its  wrath  had  fix’d  ; 

Such  as  long  power  and  overgorged  success 
Concentrates  into  all  that’s  merciless  : 

These,  link’d  with  that  desire  which  ever  sways 
Mankind,  the  rather  to  condemn  than  praise, 

’Gainst  Lara  gathering  raised  at  length  a storm, 

Such  as  himself  might  fear,  and  foes  would  form, 

And  he  must  answer  for  the  absent  head 
Of  one  that  haunts  him  still,  alive  or  dead. 

VIII. 

Within  that  land  was  many  a malcontent. 

Who  cursed  the  tyranny  to  which  he  bent ; 

That  soil  full  many  a wringing  despot  saw. 

Who  work’d  his  wantomiess  in  form  of  law ; 

Long  war  without  and  frequent  broil  within 
Rad  made  a path  for  blood  and  giant  sin, 

That  waited  but  a signal  to  begin 
New  havoc,  such  as  civil  discord  blends, 

Which  knows  no  neuter,  owns  but  foes  or  fr  ends ; 
Fix’d  in  his  feudal  fortress  each  was  lord, 

In  word  and  deed  obey’d,  in  soul  abkorr’d, 

Thus  Lara  had  inherited  his  lands. 

And  with  them  pining  hearts  and  sluggish  hands ; 1 
But  that  long  absence  from  his  native  clime 
Had  left  him  stainless  of  oppression’s  crime. 

And  now,  diverted  by  his  milder  sway, 

All  dread  by  slow  degrees  had  worn  away. 

The  menials  felt  their  usual  awe  alone, 

But  more  for  him  than  them  that  fear  was  grown; 
They  deem’d  him  now  unhappy,  though  at  first 
Their  evil  judgment  augur’d  of  the  worst. 

And  each  long  restless  night,  and  silent  mood. 

Was  traced  to  sickness,  fed  by  solitude  : 

And  though  his  lonely  habits  threw  of  late 
Gloom  o’er  his  chamber,  cheerful  was  his  gate ; 

From  thence  the  wretched  ne’er  unsoothed  withdrew 
For  them,  at  least,  his  soul  compassion  knew. 

Cold  to  the  great,  contemptuous  to  the  high. 

The  humble  pass’d  not  his  unheeding  eye ; 

Much  he  would  speak  not,  but  beneath  his  roof 
They  found  asylum  oft,  and  ne’er  reproof. 

And  they  who  watch’d  might  mark  that,  day  by  day, 
Some  new  retainers  gather’d  to  his  sway ; 

But  most  of  late,  since  Ezzelin  was  lost, 

He  play’d  the  courteous  lord  and  bounteous  host : 
Perchance  his  strife  with  Otho  made  him  dread 
Some  snare  prepared  for  his  obnoxious  head ; 
Whate’er  his  view,  his  favour  more  obtains 
With  these,  the  people,  than  his  fellow  thanes. 

If  this  were  policy,  so  far  ’twas  sound. 

The  million  judged  but  of  him  as  tliev  found  ; 

From  him  by  sterner  chiefs  to  exile  driven 
They  but  required  a shelter,  and  ’twas  given. 

By  him  no  peasant  mourn’d  his  rifled  cot. 

And  scarce  the  Serf  could  murmur  o’er  his  lot  •, 
With  him  old  avarice  found  its  hoard  secure, 

With  him  contempt  forbore  to  mock  the  poor ; 


1 1 G 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  IT 


Youth  present  cheer  and  promised  recompcnce 
Detain’d,  t.ill  all  too  late  to  part  from  thence : 

To  hate  lie  offer’d,  with  the  coming  change. 

The  deep  reversion  of  delay’d  revenge  : 

To  love,  long  baffled  by  the  unequal  match, 

The  well-won  charms  success  was  sure  to  snatch. 

All  now  was  ripe,  he  waits  but  to  proclaim 
That  slavery  nothing  which  was  still  a name. 

The  moment  came,  the  hour  when  Otlio  thought 
Secure  at  last  the  vengeance  which  he  sought : 

Ills  summons  found  the  destined  criminal 
Begirt  by  thousands  in  his  swarming  hall, 

Fresh  from  their  feudal  fett  ers  newly  riven. 

Defying  earth,  and  confident  of  heaven. 

That  morning  he  had  freed  the  soil-bound  slaves 
Who  dig  no  land  for  tyrants  but  their  graves  ! 

Such  is  their  cry — some  watchword  for  the  fight 
Must  vindicate  the  wrong,  and  warp  the  right : 
Religion — freedom — vengeance — what  you  will, 

A word’s  enough  to  raise  mankind  to  kill ; 

Some  factious  phrase  by  cunning  caught  and  spread, 
That  guilt  may  reign,  and  wolves  and  worms  be  fed  ! 

IX. 

Throughout  that  clime  the  feudal  chiefs  had  gain’d  ' 
Such  sway,  their  infant  monarch  hardly  reign’d ; 
Now'  was  the  hour  for  faction’s  rebel  growth, 

The  Serfs  contemn’d  the  one,  and  hated  both  : 

They  waited  but  a leader,  and  they  found 
One  to  their  cause  inseparably  bound  ; 

By  circumstance  compell’d  to  plunge  again. 

In  self-defence,  amidst  the  strife  ol  men. 

Cut  off  by  some  mysterious  fate  from  those 
"Whom  birth  and  nature  meant  not  for  his  foes, 

Had  Lara  from  that  night,  to  him  accurst, 

Prepared  to  meet,  but  not  alone,  the  worst : 

Some  reason  urged,  whate’er  it  wras,  to  shun 
Inquiry  into  deeds  at  distance  done ; 

Jly  mingling  with  his  own  the  cause  of  all. 

E’en  if  he  fail’d,  he  still  delay’d  his  fall. 

The  sullen  calm  that  long  his  bosom  kept, 

Hie  storm  that  once  had  spent  itself  and  slept. 
Roused  by  events  that  seem’d  foredoom’d  to  urge 
His  gloomy  fortunes  to  their  utmost  verge, 

Burst  forth,  and  made  him  all  he  once  had  been. 

And  is  again  ; he  only  chang’d  the  scene. 

Light  care  had  he  for  life,  and  less  for  fame, 

But  not  less  fitted  for  the  desperate  game : 
lie  deem’d  himself  mark’d  out  for  others’  hate, 

And  mock’d  at  ruin  so  they  shared  his  fate. 

"What  cared  he  for  the  freedom  of  the  crowd  ? 

He  raised  the  humble  but  to  bend  the  proud. 

He  had  hoped  quiet  in  his  sullen  lair, 

But  man  and  destiny  beset  him  there  : 

Inured  to  hunters,  he  was  found  at  bay; 

And  they  must  kill,  they  cannot  snare  the  prey. 
Stern,  unambitious,  silent,  he  had  been 
Henceforth  a calm  spectator  of  life’s  scene; 

But  dragg’d  again  upon  the  arena,  stood 
A leader  not  unequal  to  the  feud  ; 

In  voice — mien — gesture — savage  nature  spoke, 

And  from  his  eye  the  gladiator  broke. 

x 

"What  boots  the  oft-repeated  talc  of  strife, 

The  feast  of  vultures,  and  the  waste  of  life  ? 

The  varying  fortune  of  each  separate  field, 

The  fierce  that  vanquish,  and  the  faint  that  yield  ? 


The  smoking  ruin,  and  the  i rumbled  wall? 

In  this  the  struggle  was  the  same  with  all ; 

Save  that  distemper’d  passions  lent  t heir  force 
In  bitterness  that  banish’d  ali  remorse. 

None  sued,  for  Mercy  knew  her  cry  was  vain. 

The  captive  died  upon  the  battle-plain : 

In  either  cause,  one  rage  alone  possess’d 
The  empire  of  the  alternate  victor’s  brcat*t; 

And  they  that  smote  for  freedom  or  for  sway, 
Deem’d  few  were  slain,  while  more  remain’d  to  slay. 
It  was  too  late  to  check  the  wasting  brand, 

And  Desolation  reap’d  the  famish’d  land  ; 

The  torch  w'as  lighted,  and  the  flame  was  spnvl. 
And  Carnage  smiled  upon  her  daily  dead. 

XI. 

Fresh  with  the  nerve  the  new-born  impulse  stl  "g, 
The  first  success  to  Lara’s  numbers  clung: 

But  that  vain  victory  bath  ruin’d  all ; 

They  form  no  longer  to  their  leader’s  call : 

In  blind  confusion  on  the  foe  they  press, 

And  think  to  snatch  is  to  secure  success. 

The  lust  of  booty,  and  the  thirst  of  hate, 

Lure  on  the  broken  brigands  to  their  fate  : 

In  vain  he  doth  whate’er  a chief  may  do, 

To  check  the  headlong  fury  of  that  crew ; 

In  vain  their  stubborn  ardour  lie  would  tame. 

Hie  hand  that  kindles  cannot  quench  the  flanv* , 
The  wary  foe  alone  hath  turn’d  their  mood, 

And  shown  their  rashness  to  that  erring  brood : 

The  feign’d  retreat,  the  nightly  ambuscade, 

The  daily  harass,  and  the  tight  delay’d, 

The  long  privation  of  the  hoped  supply, ' 

The  tentlcss  rest  beneath  the  humid  skv, 

•The  stubborn  wall  that  mocks  the  leaguer's  art, 

And  palls  the  patience  of  bis  baffled  heart, 

Of  these  they  had  not  deem’d  : the  battie-day  • 

They  coidd  encounter  as  a veteran  may  ; 

But  more  preferr’d  the  fury  of  the  strife, 

And  present  death,  to  hourly  suffering  life  : 

And  famine  wrings,  and  fever  sweeps  away 
Ilis  numbers  melting  fast  from  their  array  ; 
Intemperate  triumph  fades  to  discontent, 

And  Lara’s  soul  alone  seems  still  unbent : 

But  few  remain  to  aid  his  voice  and  hand, 

And  thousands  dwindled  to  a scanty  band  : 
Desperate,  though  few,  the  last  and  best  remain’d 
To  mourn  the  discipline  they  late  disdain’d. 

One  hope  survives,  the  frontier  is  not  far, 

And  thence  they  may  escape  from  native  war  , 

And  bear  within  them  to  the  neighbouring  state 
An  exile’s  sorrows,  or  an  outlaw’s  hate  : 

Hard  is  the  task  their  father-land  to  quit, 

But  harder  still  to  perish  or  submit. 

XII. 

It  is  resolved — they  march— consenting  Night 
Guides  with  her  star  their  dim  and  uorcliless  fiighfc  : 
Already  they  perceive  its  tranquil  beam 
Sleep  on  the  surface  of  the  barrier  stream  ; 

Already  they  descry — Is  yon  the  bank? 

Away  ! ’tis  lined  with  many  a hostile  rank. 

Return  or  fly ! — What  glitters  in  the  rear? 

’Tis  Otho’s  banner — the  pursuer’s  spear ! 

Are  those  the  shepherds’  fires  upon  the  height  ? 

Alas  ! they  blaze  too  widely  for  the  flight : 

Cut  off  from  hope,  and  compass’d  in  the  toil. 

Less  blood  perchance  hath  bought  a richer  spoil ! 


CAJfTO  n. 


LARA. 


117 


XIII. 

A moment’s  pause — ’tis  but  to  breathe  their  band, 

Or  shall  they  onward  press,  or  here  withstand  ? 
rt  matters  little— if  they  charge  the  foes 
Who  by  their  border-stream  their  marcli  oppose, 
i Some  few,  perchance,  may  break  and  pass  the  line, 
However  link’d  to  baffle  such  design.  _ 

« The  charge  be  ours  ! to  wait  for  their  assault 
| Were  fate  well  worthy  of  a coward’s  halt.” 

! Forth  flies  each  sabre,  rein’d  is  every  steed, 

I And  the  next  word  shall  scarce  outstrip  the  deed : 

I In  the  next  tone  of  Lara’s  gathering  breatli 
How  many  shall  but  hear  the  voice  of  death  ! 

XTT. 

His  blade  is  bared— in  him  there  is  an  air 
As  deep,  but  far  too  tranquil  for  despair  ; 

A something  of  indifference  more  than  then 
i Becomes  the  bravest,  if  they  feel  for  men. 

He  turned  his  eye  on  Kaled,  ever  near, 

And  still  too  faithful  to  betray  one  fear  ; 

Perchance  ’twas  but  the  moon’s  dim  twilight  threw 
1 Along  liis  aspect  an  unwonted  hue  _ 

Of  mournful  paleness,  whose  deep  tint  express  d 
The  truth,  and  not  the  terror  of  his  breast. 

I This  Lara  mark’d,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  : 

It  trembled  not  in  such  an  hour  as  this  ; 

His  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  his  heart, 

His  eye  alone  proclaim’d,  “ We  will  not  part . 

Thy  band  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee, 
Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  thee  ! 

The  word  hath  pass’d  his  lips,  and  onward  driven, 
i Pours  the  link’d  band  through  ranks  asunder  riven ; 
j Well  has  each  steed  obey’d  the  armed  heel, 

And  flash  the  scimitars,  and  rings  the  steel ; 
Outnumber’d,  not  outbraved,  they  still  oppose 
[ Despair  to  daring,  and  a front  to  foes  ; 

: And  blood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream, 

Which  runs  all  redly  till  the  morning  beam. 

xv. 

| Commanding,  aiding,  animating  all. 

Where  foe  appear’d  to  press,  or  friend  to  fall, 

| Cheers  Lara’s  voice,  and  waves  or  strikes  his  steel, 
Inspiring  hope  himself  had  ceased  to  feel. 

Hone  fled,  for  well  they  knew  that  flight  were  vam 
■ But  those  that  waver  turn  to  smite  again, 

; While  yet  they  find  the  firmest  of  the  foe 
i Ttecoil  before  their  leader’s  look  and  blow : 

N ow  girt  with  numbers,  now  almost  alone. 

He  foils  their  ranks,  or  re-unites  his  own  ; 

Himself  he  spared  not — once  they  seem’d  to  fly 
Now  was  the  time,  he  waved  his  hand  on  high, 

And  shook — Why  sudden  droops  that  piumed  crest . 
The  shaft  is  sped — the  arrow’s  in  his  breast ! 

That  fatal  gesture  left  the  unguarded  side, 

And  Death  hath  stricken  down  yon  arm  of  pride. 
The  word  of  triumph  fainted  from  his  tongue ; 

I That  hand,  so  raised,  how  droopingly  it  hung  ! 

But  yet  the  sword  instinctively  retains, 

Though  from  its  fellow  shrink  the  falling  reins ; 
These  Kaled  snatches  : dizzy,  with  the  blow, 

And  senseless  bending  o’er  his  saddle-bow. 

Perceives  not  Lara  that  his  anxious  page 
Beguiles  his  charger  from  the  .combat’s  rage : 
Meantime  liis  followers  charge,  and  charge  ag  tin  ; 
Too  mix’d  the  slayers  now  to  heed  the  slain  1 


XVI. 

Dav  glimmers  on  the  dying  and  the  dead, 

The  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  helmless  head ; 

The  war-horse  masterless  is  on  the  earth, 

And  that  last  gasp  hath  burst  his  bloody  girt  n ; 

And  near,  yet  quivering  with  what  life  remain’d, 

The  heel  that  urged  him  and  the  hand  that  rein'd  ; 
And  some  too  near  that  rolling  torrent  lie,  . 

Whose  waters  mock  the  lip  of  those  that  die  ; 

That  panting  thirst  which  scorches  in  the  breath 
Of  those  that  die  the  soldier’s  fiery  death, 

In  vain  impels  the  burning  mouth  to  crave 
I One  drop — the  last — to  cool  it  for  the  grave  ; 

With  feeble  and  convulsive  effort  swept, 

Their  limbs  along  the  crimson’d  turf  have  crept ; 

The  faint  remains  of  life  such  struggles  waste. 

But  yet  they  reach  the  stream,  and  bend  to  taste : 
They  feel  its  freshness,  and  almost  partake — 

Why  pause  ? No  further  thirst  have  they  to  slake— 
It  is  unquench’d,  and  yet  they  feel  it  not ; 

It  was  an  agony— but  now  forgot ! 

XVII. 

Beneath  a lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 

Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  been, 

A breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay : 

’Twas  Lara  bleeding  fast  from  life  away. 

His  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide, 

Kneels  Kaled  watchful  o’er  his  welling  side, 

A.nd  with  his  scarf  would  stanch  the  tides  that  rash. 
With  each  convulsion,  in  a blacker  gush ; 

And  then,  as  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low, 

In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow  : . 

He  scarce  can  speak,  but  motions  him  ’tis  vam. 

And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 

He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  would  assuage, 
And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page. 

Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees, 
Save  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees  ; 
Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim, 
Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him. 

XVIII. 

The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  search’d  the  field, 
Their  triumph  nought  till  Lara  too  should  yield ; 
They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  ’twere  vain, 
And  lie  regards  them  with  a calm,  disdain, 

That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  liis  fate, 

And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hate  : 

And  Otlio  comes,  and  leaping  from  his  steea, 

Looks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 
And  questions  of  his  state  ; he  answers  not, 

Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot, 

And  turns  to  Kaled  -.—each  remaining  word 
They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard  ; 

His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue 
To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly  clung, 
They  spake  of  other  scenes,  but  what— is  knowr 
To  Kaled,  whom  their  meaning  reach’d  alone ; 

And  lie  replied,  though  faintly,  to  their  sound, 
While  gazed  the  rest  in  dumb  amazement  round  : 
They  seem’d  even  then— that  twain— unto  the  last 
To  half  forget  the  present  in  the  past ; 

To  share  between  themselves  some  separate  fate, 
Whose  darkness  none  beside  should  penetrate. 


118 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANEQ  n. 


XIX. 

Their  words  though  faint  were  many — from  the  tone 
Their  import  those  who  heard  could  judge  alone ; 
From  this,  you  might  have  deem’d  young  Kalcd’s 
death 

More  near  than  Lara’s,  by  his  voice  and  breath, 

So  sad,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 

The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke  ; 

But  Lara’s  voice,  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 
And  calm,  till  murmuring  death  gasp’d  hoarsely  near: 
But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess, 

So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless, 

Save  that  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last, 

Upon  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 

And  once,  as  Kaled’s  answering  accents  ceased, 

Rose  Lara’s  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  East : 

Whether  (as  then  the  breaking  sun  from  high 
Roll’d  back  the  clouds)  the  morrow  caught  his  eye, 

Or  that  ’twas  chance,  or  some  remember’d  scene, 

That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  such  had  been. 
Scarce  Kalcd  seem’d  to  know,  but  turn’d  away, 

As  if  his  heart  abhorr’d  that  coming  day, 

And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning  light, 

To  look  on  Lara’s  brow — where  all  grew  night. 

Yet  sense  seem’d  left,  though  better  were  its  loss ; 

For  when  one  near  display’d  the  absolving  cross, 

And  proffer’d  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead, 

Of  which  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need, 

He  look’d  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane, 

And  smiled — Heaven  pardon  ! if  ’twere  with  disdain  : 
And  Kaied,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 
From  Lara’s  face  his  fix’d  despairing  view, 

With  brow  repulsive,  and  "with  gesture  swift, 

Flung  back  the  hand  which  held  the  sacred  gift, 

As  if  such  but  disturb’d  the  expiring  man, 

Nor  seem’d  to  know  his  life  but  then  began, 

That  life  of  Immortality,  secure 

To  none,  save  them  whose  faith  in  Christ  is  sure. 

xx. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew, 

And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew  ; 

His  limbs  stretch’d  fluttering,  and  his  head  droop’d  o’er 
The  weak  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore  ; 

He  press’d  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart — 

It  beats  no  more,  but  Kaied  will  not  part 
Witli  the  cold  grasp,  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vain, 

For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 

“ It  beats  !” — Away,  thou  dreamer  ! he  is  gone — 

It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look’st  upon.* 

XXI. 

Ae  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass’d  away 
The'  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay  ; 

And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  his  trance, 
But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance ; 


(1)  [The  death  of  Lara  is,  by  far,  the  finest  passage  in  the  poem, 
and  is  fully  equal  to  any  thing  else  which  the  author  ever  wrote. 
The  physical  horror  of  the  event,  though  described  with  a terrible 
force  and  fidelity,  is  both  relieved  and  enhanced  by  the  beautiful 
pictures  of  mental  energy  and  affection  with  which  it  is  combined. 
The  whole  sequei  of  the  poem  is  written  with  equal  vigour  and 
feeling,  and  may  be  put  in  competition  with  any  thing  that  poetry 
has  produced,  in  point  either  of  pathos  or  energy.— Jeffrey.] 

(2)  The  event  in  this  section  was  suggested  by  the  description  of 
the  death,  or  rather  burial,  of  the  Duke  of  Gandia.  The  most 
interesting  and  particular  account  of  it  is  given  by  Burchard,  and 
is  in  substance  as  follows: — “On  the  eighth  day  of  June,  the  Car- 
dinal of  Valenza  and  the  Duke  of  Gandia,  sons  of  the  Pope,  supped 
with  their  mother,  Vanozza,  near  the  church  of  S.  Pietro  ad  tin- 


And  when,  in  raising  him  from  where  lie  bore 
Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more, 

He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain. 

Roll  down  like  earth  to  earth  upon  the  plain  ; 

He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 
The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair, 

But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reel’  d and  fob, 
Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well. 
Than  that  he  loved  ! Oh  ! never  yet  beneath 
The  breast  of  man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe  i 
That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  reveal’d 
The  secret  long  and  yet  but  half  conceard; 

In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast, 

Its  grief  seem’d  ended,  but  the  sex  confess’d  ; 

And  life  return’d,  and  Kaied  felt  no  shame — 

What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame  ? 

XXII. 

And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  sleep, 

But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep ; 

Nor  is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound, 

Though  priest  nor  bless’d,  nor  marble  deck'n 
mound ; 

And  he  was  mourn’d  by  one  whose  quiet  grief, 

Less  loud,  outlasts  a people’s  for  their  chief. 

Yain  was  all  question  ask’d  her  of  the  past, 

And  vain  e’en  menace — silent  to  the  Inst ; 

She  told  nor  whence,  nor  why  she  left  behind 
Her  all  for  one  who  seem’d  but  little  kind. 

Why  did  she  love  him  r Curious  fool ! — be  still — ' 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will ,J 
To  her  he  might  be  gentleness ; the  stern 
Have  deeper  thoughts  than  your  dull  eyes  discern, 
And  when  they  love,  your  smilers  guess  not  how 
Beats  the  strong  heart,  though  less  the  lips  avow. 
They  were  not  common  links,  that  form’d  the  chain 
That  hound  to  Lara  Kaled’s  heart  and  brain  ; 

But  that  wild  tale  she  brook’d  not  to  unfold, 

And  scal’d  is  now  each  lip  that  could  have  told. 

XXIII. 

They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  his  breast, 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest, 

They  found  the  scatter’d  dints  of  many  a scar, 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war ; 
Where’er  had  pass’d  his  summer  years  of  life, 

It  seems  they  vanish’d  in  a land  of  strife  ; 

But  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt, 

These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt. 
And  Ezzclin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Return’d  no  more — that  night  appear’d  his  last. 

XXIV. 

Upon  that'  night  (a  peasant’s  is  the  tale) 

A Serf  that  cross’d  the  intervening  vale,1 2 


c via ; several  other  persons  being  present  at  the  entertainment, 
A late  hour  approaching,  and  the  cardinal  having  reminded  his 
brother,  that  it  was  time  to  return  to  the  apostolic  palace,  they 
mounted  their  horses  or  inules  with  only  a few  attendants,  and 
proceeded  together  as  far  as  the  palace  of  Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza 
when  the  duke  informed  the  cardinal  that,  before  he  returned 
home,  he  had  to  pay  a visit  of  pleasure.  Dismissing  therefore  all 
his  attendants,  excepting  his  staffiero , or  footman,  and  a person  in 
a mask,  who  had  paid  him  a visit  whilst  at  supper,  and  who,  during 
the  space  of  a month  or  thereabouts,  previous  to  this  time,  had 
called  upon  him  almost  daily,  at  the  apostolic  palace,  he  took  this 
erson  behind  him  on  his  mule,  and  proceeded  to  the  street  of  the 
ews,  where  he  quitted  his  servant,  directing  him  to  remain  there 
until  a certain  hour ; when  if  he  did  not  return,  he  might  repair 


CA-NTO  j: 


LARA. 


119 


When  Cynthia’s  light  almost  gave  way  to  mom, 

And  nearly  veil’d  in  mist  her  waning  horn, 

A Serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  the  wood, 

And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children’s 
food. 

Pass’d  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 
Of  Otlio’s  lands  and  Lara’s  broad  domain  : 

He  heard  a tramp — a horse  and  horseman  broke 
From  out  the  wood — before  him  was  a cloak 
Wrapt  round  some  burthen  at  his  saddle-bow, 

Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 

Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  at  time, 

And  some  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime, 

Himself  unheeded  watch’d  the  stranger’s  course, 

Who  reach’d  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse, 

And  lifting  thence  the  burthen  which  he  bore, 

Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash’d  it  from  the  shore, 
^Tlicn  paused,  and  look’d,  and  turn’d,  and  seem’d  to 
watch. 

And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch, 

And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  llow’d, 

As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  show'd  : 

At  once  he  started,  stoop’d,  around  him  strown 
The  winter  floods  had  scatter’d  heaps  of  stone  ; 

Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  lie  gather’d  there, 

And  slung  them  with  a more  than  common  care. 
Meantime  the  Serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 
Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mean  ; 

He  caught  a glimpse,  as  of  a floating  breast, 

And  something  glitter’d  starlike  on  the  vest ; 

But  ere  he  well  could  mark  the  buoyant  trunk, 

A massy  fragment  smote  it,  and  it  sunk : 

It  rose  again,  but  indistinct  to  view, 

And  left  the  waters  of  a purple  hue, 

Then  deeply  disappear’d  : the  horseman  gazed 
Till  ebb’d  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised ; 

Then  turning,  vaulted  on  his  pawing  steed, 

And  instant  spurr’d  him  into  panting  speed. 

His  face  was  mask’d — the  features  of  the  dead, 

If  dead  it  were,  escaped  the  observer’s  dread  ; 


to  the  palace.  The  duke  then  seated  the  person  in  the  mask 
oehind  him,  and  rode,  I know  not  whither;  but  in  that  night  lie 
»as  assassinated,  and  thrown  into  the  river.  The  servant,  after 
tuving  been  dismissed,  was  also  assaulted  and  mortally  w'ounded  : 
and  although  he  was  attended  with  great  care,  yet  such  was  his 
situation,  that  he  could  give  no  intelligible  account  of  what  had 
befallen  his  master.  In  the  morning,  the  duke  not  having  returned 
to  the  palace,  his  servants  began  to  be  alarmed:  and  one  of  them 
informed  the  pontiff  of  the  evening  excursion  of  his  sons,  and  that 
the  duke  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance.  This  gave  the  pope  no 
Small  anxiety;  hut  he  conjectured  that  the  duke  had  been  at- 
tracted by  some  courtesan  to  pass  the  night  with  her,  and  not 
choosing  to  quit  the  house  in  open  day,  had  waited  till  the  follow- 
ing evening  to  return  home.  When,  however,  the  evening  arrived, 
and  he  found  himself  disappointed  in  his  expectations,  he  became 
deeply  afflicted,  and  began  to  make  inquiries  from  different  persons, 
whom  he  ordered  to  attend  him  for  that  purpose.  Amongst  these 
was  a man  named  Giorgio  Scliiavoni,  who,  having  discharged  some 
timber  from  a bark  in  the  river,  had  remained  on  board  the  vessel 
to  watch  it;  and  being  interrogated  whether  he  had  seen  any  one 
thrown  into  the  river  on  the  night  preceding,  he  replied,  that  he 
saw  two  men  on  foot,  who  came  down  the  street,  and  looked  dili- 
gently about,  to  observe  whether  any  person  was  passing.  That 
seeing  no  one,  they  returned,  and  a short  time  afterwards  two 
others  came,  and  looked  around  in  the  same  manner  as  the  former  : 
no  person  still  appearing,  they  gave  a sign  to  their  companions, 
when  a man  came,  mourned  on  a white  horse,  having  behind  him  a 
dead  body,  the  head  and  arms  of  which  hung  on  one  side,  and  the 
feet  on  the  other  side  of  the  horse ; the  two  persons  on  foot  sup- 
porting the  body,  to  prevent  its  falling.  They  thus  proceeded 
to  that  part  where  the  filth  of  the  city  is  usually  discharged  into 
the  river,  and  turning  the  horse,  with  his  tail  towards  the  water,  the 
two  persons  took  the  dead  body  by  the  arms  and  feet,  and  with  all 
their  strength  flung  it  into  the  river.  The  person  on  horseback 
then  asked  if  they  had  thrown  it  in  ; to  which  they  replied  Signor, 
(yes,  Sir).  He  then  looked  towards  the  river,  and  seeing  a man- 
tl  ' floating  on  the  stream,  he  inquired  what  it  was  that  appeared 
black,  to  which  they  answered,  it  was  a mantle:  and  one  of  them 


But  if  in  sooth  a star  its  bosom  bore, 

Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore. 

And  such  ’tis  known  Sir  Ezzelin  had  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a morn. 

If  thus  lie  perish’d,  Ileavp.n  receive  his  soul! 

1 Lis  undiscover’d  limbs  tc  vean  roll ; 

And  charity  upon  the  hope  would  dwell 
It  was  not  Lara’s  hand  by  which  he  fell. 

XXV. 

And  Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin,  are  gone, 

Alike  without  their  monumental  stone  ! 

The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean 

From  lingering  where  her  chieftain’s  blood  had  been; 

Grief  had  so  tamed  a spirit  once  too  proud, 

Her  tears  were  few,  her  wailing  never  loud; 

But  furious,  would  you  tear  her  from  the  spot 
Where  yet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not, 

Her  eye  shot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 
That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelpless  ire ; 

But  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there, 

She  talk’d  all  idly  unto  shapes  of  air, 

Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  Sorrow  paints. 

And  woos  to  listen  to  her  foud  complaints  : 

And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree 
Where  lay  his  drooping  head  upon  her  knee; 

And  in  that  posture  where  she  saw  him  fall, 

His  words,  his  looks,  his  dying  grasp  recall ; 

And  she  had  shorn,  but  saved  her  raven  hair. 

And  oft  would  snatch  it  from  her  bosom  there, 

And  fold,  and  press  it  gently  to  the  ground, 

As  if  she  stanch’d  anew  some  phantom’s  wound. 
Herself  would  question,  and  for  him  reply  ; 

Then  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 
From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit ; 

Then  seat  her  down  upon  some  linden’s  root, 

And  hide  her  visage  with  her  meagre  hand, 

Or  trace  strange  characters  along  the  sand. 

This  could  not  last — she  lies  by  him  she  loved ; 

Her  tale  untold — her  truth  too  dearly  proved.* 1 


threw  stones  upon  it,  in  consequence  of  which  it  sunk.  The  at- 
tendants of  the  pontiff  then  inquired  from  Giorgio,  why  he  had  not 
revealed  this  to  the  governor  of  the  city;  to  which  he  replied,  that 
he  had  seen  in  his  time  a hundred  dead  bodies  thrown  into  the 
river  at  the  same  place,  without  any  inquiry  being  made  respecting 
them ; and  that  he  had  not,  therefore,  considered  it  as  a matter  of 
any  importance.  The  fishermen  and  seamen  were  then  collected, 
and  ordered  to  search  the  river,  where,  on  the  following  evening, 
they  found  the  body  of  the  duke,  with  his  habit  entire,  and  thirty 
ducats  in  his  purse.  He  was  pierced  with  nine  wounds,  one  of 
which  was  in  his  throat,  the  others  in  his  head,  body,  anil  limbs. 
No  sooner  was  the  pontiff' informed  of  the  death  of  his  son,  and  that 
he  had  been  thrown,  like  filth,  into  the  river,  than,  giving  way  to  his 
grief,  he  shut  himself  up  in  a chamber,  and  wept  bitterly.  The 
Cardinal  of  Segovia,  and  other  attendants  on  the  pope,  went  to  the 
door,  and  after  many  hours  spent  in  persuasions  and  exhortations, 
prevailed  upon  him  to  admit  them.  From  the  evening  of  Wednes- 
day till  the  following  Saturday  the  pope  took  no  food;  nor  did  he 
sleep  from  Thursday  morning  till  the  same  hour  on  the  ensuing 
day.  At  length,  however,  giving  way  to  the  entreaties  of  his  at- 
tendants, he  began  to  restrain  his  sorrow’,  and  to  consider  the 
injury  which  his  own  health  might  sustain,  by  the  further  indul- 
gence of  his  grief.” — Roscoc’s  Leo  the  Tenth,  vol.  i.  p.  2G5. 

(1)  [Lara,  though  it  has  many  good  passages,  is  a further  proof 
of  the  melancholy  fact,  which  is  true  of  all  sequels,  from  the  con- 
tinuation of  the  yEneid,  by  one  of  the  famous  Italian  poets  of  the 
middle  ages,  down  to  “ Polly,  a sequel  to  the  Beggar’s  Opera,”  that 
“more  last  words”  may  generally  he  spared,  without  any  great 
detriment  to  the  world. — Bisuor  Hf.ber.] 

Lara  has  some  charms  which  the  Corsair  has  not.  It  is  more 
domestic;  it  calls  forth  more  sympathies  with  polished  society;  it 
is  more  intellectual,  but  much  less  passionate,  less  vigorous,  and  less 
brilliant;  it  is  sometimes  even  languid, — at  any  rate,  it  is  more 
diffuse. — Sir  E.  Brydges. 

Lara,  obviously  the  sequel  of  “The  Corsair,”  maintains  in 
general  the  same  tone  of  deep  interest  and  lofty  feeling though 
the  disappearance  of  Medora  from  the  scene  deprives  it  of  the  en- 
chanting sweetness  by  which  its  terrors  are  there  redeemed,  and 


Zf)t  &tcg;e  of  ©onntt*1 


TO 

JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ. 

THIS  POEM  IS  INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS 

January,  22,  1816.  EMEND, 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

“The  grand  army  of  the  Turks  (in  1715),  under 
the  Prime  Vizier,  to  open  to  themselves  a way  into  the 
heart  of  the  Morea,  and  to  form  the  siege  of  Napoli 
di  Romania,  the  most  considerable  place  in  all  that 
country,2 3  thought  it  best  in  the  first  place  to  attack 
Corinth,  upon  which  they  made  several  .storms.  The 
garrison  being  weakened,  and  ihe  governor  seeing  it 
was  impossible  to  hold  out  against  so  mighty  a force, 
thought  it  fit  to  beat  a parley  : but  while  they  were 
treating  about  the  articles,  one  of  the  magazines  in 
the  Turkish  camp,  wherein  they  had  six  hundred 
barrels  of  powder,  blew  up  by  accident,  whereby  six 
or  seven  hundred  men  were  killed ; which  so  enraged 
the  infidels,  that  they  w'ndd  not  grant  any  capitu- 


makes the  hero,  on  the  whole,  less  cultivating.  The  character  of 
Lara,  too,  is  rather  too  elaborately  finished,*  and.  his  nocturnal 
encounter  with  the  apparition  is  worked  up  too  ostentatiously. 
There  is  infinite  beauty  in  the  sketch  of  the  dark  Page,  and  in 
many  of  the  moral  or  general  reflections  which  are  interspersed  with  } 
the  narrative. — Jeffrey.] 

<1)  [The  “Siege  of  Corinth,”  which  appears,  by  the  original 
MS.,  to  have  been  begun  in  July,  1815,  made  its  appearance  in 
January,  1816.  Mr.  Murray  having  enclosed  Lord  Byron  a thou- 
sand guineas  for  the  copyright  of  this  poem  and  of  “ I’arisina,”  he 
replied, — “ Your  offer  is  liberal  in  the  extreme,  and  much  more 
than  the  two  poems  can  possibly  be  worth;  but  I cannot  accept  it, 
nor  will  not.  You  are  most  welcome  to  them  as  additions  to  the 
collected  volumes;  but  I cannot  consent  to  their  separate  publica- 
tion. I do  not  like  to  risk  any  fame  (whether  merited  or  not) 
which  I have  been  favoured  with  upon  compositions  which  I do  not 
feel  to  be  at  all  equal  to  my  own  notions  of  what  they  should  be; 
though  they  may  do  very  well  as  things  without  pretension,  to  add 
to  the  publication  with  the  lighter  pieces.  I have  enclosed  your 
draft  torn,  for  fear  of  accidents  by  the  way — I wish  you  would  not 
throw  temptation  in  mine.  It  is  not  from  a disdain  of  the  universal 
idol,  nor  from  a present  superfluity  of  his  treasures,  I can  assure 
you,  that  I refuse  to  worship  him;  but  what  is  right  is  right,  and 
must  not  yield  to  circumstances.  1 am  very  glad  that  the  hand- 
writing was  a favourable  omen  of  the  morale  of  the  piece;  but  you 
must  not  trust  to  that,  for  my  copyist  would  write  out  any  thing  I 
desired,  in  all  the  ignorance  of  innocence— 1 hope,  however,  in  this 
instance  with  no  great  peril  to  either.”  The  copyist  was  Lady 
Byron.  Lord  Byron  gave  Mr.  Gilford  carle-btanche  to  strike  out 
cr  alter  any  thing  at  his  pleasure  in  this  poem,  as  it  was  passing 
through  the  press ; and  the  reader  will  be  amused  with  (he  variw  | 
lertiunes  which  had  their  origin  in  this  extraordinary  confidence,  i 
Mr.  Gifford  drew  his  pen,  it  will  be  seen,  through  at  least  one  of 
•Jie  most  admired  passages.] 


• [“What  do  the  Reviewers  mean  by  ‘ elaborate t’  'Lara*  I 
wrote  while  undressing,  after  coming  home  from  bails  and  msu- 
juerades,  in  the  year  of  "f  velry,  1814.” — Byron  Letters,  1822.] 


lation,  but  stormed  the  place  with  so  much  fury,  that 
they  took  it,  and  put  most  of  the  garrison,  with  Sigr.ior 
Minotti,  the  governor,  to  the  sword.  The  rest,  with 
Antonio  Bembo,  proveditor  extraordinary,  were  made 
prisoners  of  war.” — History  of  the  Turks , vol.  iii. 
p.  151. 

— ♦ 


Wjt  Sbtcge  of  CDcrmtf).* 


In  the  year  since  Jesus  died  for  men,4 
Eighteen  hundred  years  and  ten. 


(2)  Napoli  di  Romania  is  not  now  the  most  considerable  place  in 
the  Morea,  but.  Tripolitza,  where  the  Pacha  resides,  and  mainta  na 
his  government.  Napoli  is  near  Argos.  I visted  all  three  in 
1810-11;  and,  in  the  course  of  journeyiwg  through  the  cour  try 
from  my  first  arrival  in  1 809,  I crossed  the  Isthmus  eight  times  in 
my  way  from  Attica  to  the  Morea,  over  the  mountains,  or  in  the 
other  direction,  when  passing  from  the  Gulf  of  Athens  to  that  of 
Lepanto.  Both  the  routes  are  picturesque  and  beautiful,  though 
very  different:  that  by  sea  has  more  sameness;  but  the  voyage 
being  always  within  sight  of  land,  and  often  very  near  it,  presents 
many  attractive  views  of  the  islands  Salamis,  iEgina,  Poro,  &c.  and 
the  coast  of  the  Continent. 

(3)  [“With  regard  to  the  observations  on  carelessness,  Ac.," 
wrote  Lord  Byron  to  a friend,  “ 1 think,  with  all  humility,  that 
the  gentle  reader  has  considered  a rather  uncommon,  and  de- 
cidedly irregular,  versification  for  haste  and  negligence.  The 
measure  is  not  that  of  any  of  the  other  poems,  which  l believe)  weie 
allowed  to  be  tolerably  correct,  according  to  Byshe  and  the  fingers 
— or  ears — by  which  bards  write,  and  readers  reckon.  Great  part  of 
the  ‘ Siege’  is  in  (I  think)  what  the  learned  call  anapests,  (though  1 
am  not  sure,  being  heinously  forgetful  of  my  metres  and  my 
Gradus,)  and  many  of  the  lines  intentionally  longer  or  shorter  than 
its  rhyming  companion  ; and  the  rhyme  also  occurring  at  greater  or 
less  intervals  of  caprice  or  convenience.  I mean  not  to  say  that 
this  is  right  or  good,  but  merely  that  l could  have  been  smoother, 
had  it  appeared  to  me  of  advantage;  and  that  I was  not  otherwise 
without  being  aware  of  the  deviation,  though  I now  feel  sorry  for 
it,  as  I would  undoubtedly  rather  please  than  not.  My  wish  has 
been  to  try  at  something  different  from  my  former  efforts;  as  1 
endeavoured  to  make  them  differ  from  each  other.  The  versifi- 
cation of  the  ‘ Corsair’  is  not  that  of  ‘ Lara;'  nor  the  * Giaour’  that 
of  the  ‘ Bride:  ’ ‘Childe  Harold’  is,  again,  varied  from  these;  and 
I strove  to  vary  the  last  somewhat  from  all  of  the  others.  Excuse 
all  this  nonsense  and  egotism.  The  fact  is,  that  1 am  rat'*  er  trying 
to  think  on  the  subject  of  the  note,  than  really  thinkin?  on  it;”— 
Byron  Letters,  Feb.  1816.] 

(4)  [On  Christmas- day,  1815,  Lord  Byron,  enclosing  this  frag- 
ment to  Mr  Murray,  says, — “1  send  some  lines,  wrflten  some 
time  ago,  and  intended  as  an  opening  to  the  ‘ Siege  oi  Corinth. 


TIIE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


121 


We  were  a gallant  company, 

Riding  o’er  land,  and  sailing  o’er  sea. 

Oh ! but  \vc  went  merrily  ! 

We  forded  the  river,  and*  clomb  the  high  hill. 
Never  our  steeds  for  a day  stood  still  : 

Whether  we  lay  in  the  cave  or  the  shed, 

Our  sleep  fell  soft  on  the  hardest  bed  ; 

Whether  we  couch’d  in  our  rough  capote,* 1 
On  the  rougher  plank  of  our  gliding  boat. 

Or  stretch’u  on  the  beach,  or  our  saddles  spread 
A s a pillow  beneath  the  resting  head, 

Eresli  we  woke  upon  the  morrow  : 

All  our  thoughts  and  words  had  scope, 

We  had  health,  and  we  had  hope, 

Toil  and  travel,  but  no.  sorrow. 

We  were  of  all  tongues  and  creeds  : — 

Some  were  those  who  counted  beads. 

Some  of  mosque,  and  some  of  church, 

And  some,  or  I mis-say,  of  neither  ; 

Yet  through  the  wide  world  might  ye  search, 
Nor  fincl  a mother  crew  nor  blither. 

But  some  are  dead,  and  some  are  gone, 

And  some  are  scatter’d  and  alone. 

And  some  are  rebels  on  the  hills 2 
That  look  along  Epirus’  valleys, 

Where  freedom  still  at  moments  rallies, 

And  pays  in  blood  oppression’s  ills ; 

And  some  are  in  a far  countrec, 

And  some  all  restlessly  at  home  ; 

But  never  more,  oh  ! never,  we 
Shall  meet  to  revel  and  to  roam. 

But  those  hardy  days  flew  cheerily, 

And  when  they  now  fall  drearily, 

My  thoughts,  like  swallows,  skim  the  main, 

And  bear  my  spirit  back  again 


I had  forgotten  thffn,  and  am  not  sure  that  they  had  not  better  be 
left  out  now ; — on  that,  you  and  your  synod  can  determine.” — 
“They  are  written,”  says  Moore,  “in  the  loosest  form  of  that 
rambling  style  of  metre,  which  his  admiration  of  Mr.  Coleridge’s 
‘Christabel’  led  him,  at  this  time,  to  adopt.”  It  will  be  seen, 
hereafter,  that  riie  poet  had  never  read  “Christabel”  at  the  time 
when  he  wrote  these  lines ; — he  had,  however,  the  “ Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel.”  With  regard  to  the  character  of  the  species  of 
versification  at  this  time  so  much  in  favour,  it  may  be  observed, 
that  feeble  imitations  have  since  then  vulgarized  it  a good  deal  to 
the  general  ear  ; but  that,  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  and  Lord  Byron  himself,  it  has  often  been  employed  with 
the  most  happy  effect.  Its  irregularity,  when  moulded  under  the 
guidance  of  a delicate  taste,  is  more  to  the  eye  than  to  the  ear,  and 
in  fact  not  greater  than  was  admitted  in  some  of  the  most  delicious 
of  the  lyrical  measures  of  the  ancient  Greeks.] 

(1)  [In  one  of  his  sea  excursions,  Lord  Byron  was  nearly  lost  in 
a Turkish  ship  of  war,  owing  to  the  ignorance  of  the  captain  and 
crew.  “ Fletcher,”  he  says,  “ yelled  ; the  Greeks  called  on  all  the 
saints;  the  Mussulmans  on  Alla;  while  the  captain  burst  into 
tears,  and  ran  below  deck.  I did  what  I could  to  console  Fletcher, 
but  finding  him  incorrigible,  I wrapped  myself  up  in  my  Albanian 
capote,  and  lay  down  to  wait  the  worst.”  This  striking  instance  of 
the  poet’s  coolness  and  courage  is  thus  confirmed  by  Mr.  Hob- 
house  : — “ Finding  that,  from  his  lameness,  he  was  unable  to  be 
of  any  service  in  the  exertions  which  our  very  serious  danger 
called  for,  after  a laugh  or  two  at  the  panic  of  his  valet,  he  not 
only  wrapped  himself  up  and  lay  down,  in  the  manner  he  has 
described,  but  when  our  difficulties  were  terminated  was  found 
fast  asleep.”] 

(2)  The  last  tidings  recently  heard  of  Dervish  (one  of  the  Arnaouts 
who  followed  me)  state  him  to  be  in  revolt  upon  the  mountains, 
at  the  head  of  some  of  the  bands  common  in  that  country  in  times 
of  trouble. 

(3)  [In  the  original  MS. — 

“ A marvel  from  her  Moslem  bands.”] 

14)  [Timoleon,  who  had  saved  the  life  of  his  brother  Timophanes 


Over  the  earth,  and  through  the  air, 

A wild  bird  and  a wanderer. 

’Tis  this  that  ever  wakes  my  strain. 

And  oft,  too  oft,  implores  again 
The  few  who  may  endure  my  lay, 

To  follow  me  so  far  away. 

Stranger — wilt  thou  follow  now, 

And  sit  with  me  on  Acro-Corinth’s  brow  F 


i. 

Many  a vanish’d  year  and  age, 

And  tempest’s  breath,  and  battle’s  rage, 

Have  swept  o’er  Corinth ; yet  she  stands, 

A fortress  form’d  to  Freedom’s  hands.3 

The  whirlwind’s  wrath,  the  earthquake’s  shock. 

Have  left  untouch’d  her  hoary  rock, 

The  keystone  of  a land,  which  still, 

Though  fall’n,  looks  proudly  on  that  kill, 

The  landmark  to*the  double  tide 
That  purpling  rolls  on  cither  side, 

As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet. 

Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 

But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 
Since  first  Timoleon’s  brother  bled,4 
Or  bafllcd  Persia’s  despot  fled, 

Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 
The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank, 

That  sanguine  ocean  would  o’erflow 
Her  isthmus  idly  spread  below  : 

Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain. 

Who  perish’d  there,  be  piled  again. 

That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 

More  mountain-like,  through  those  clear  skies, 

Than  yon  tower-capp’d  Acropolis, 

Which  seems  the  very  clouds  to  kiss.5 


in  battle,  afterwards  killed  him  for  aiming  at  the  supreme  power 
in  Corinth,  preferring  his  duty  to  his  country  to  all  the  obligations 
of  blood.  Dr.  Warton  says,  that  Pope  once  intended  to  write  an 
epic  poem  on  the  story,  and  that  Dr.  Akenside  had  the  same 
design.] 

(5)  [“The  Giaour,”  “The  Bride  of  Abydos,”  “The  Corsair,” 
“ Lara,”  “ The  Siege  of  Corinth,”  followed  each  other  with  a celerity, 
which  was  only  rivalled  by  their  success ; and  if  at  times  the  author 
seemed  to  pause  in  his  poetic  career,  with  the  threat  of  forbearing  fur- 
ther adventure  for  a time,  the  public  eagerly  pardoned  the  breach  of 
a promise  by  keeping  which  they  must  have  been  sufferers.  Exqui- 
sitely  beautiful  in  themselves,  these  tales  received  a new  charm 
from  the  romantic  climes  into  which  they  introduced  us,  and  from 
the  oriental  costume  so  strictly  preserved  and  so  picturesquely 
exhibited.  Greece,  the  cradle  of  the  poetry  with  which  our  earliest 
studies  are  familiar,  was  presented  to  us  among  her  ruins  and  her 
sorrows.  Her  delightful  scenery,  once  dedicated  to  those  deitiea 
who,  though  dethroned  from  their  own  Olympus,  still  preserve  a 
poetical  empire,  was  spread  before  us  in  Lord  Byron’s  poetry, 
varied  by  all  the  moral  effect  derived  from  what  Greece  is  and 
what  she  has  been,  while  it  was  doubled  by  comparisons  per- 
petually excited,  between  the  philosophers  and  heroes  who  for- 
merly inhabited  that  romantic  country,  and  their  descendants, 
who  either  stoop  to  their  Scythian  conquerors,  or  maintain,  among 
the  recesses  of  their  classical  mountains,  an  independence  as  wild 
and  savage  as  it  is  precarious.  The  oriental  manners  also  and 
diction,  so  peculiar  in  their  picturesque  effect  that  they  can  cast  a 
charm  even  over  the  absurdities  of  an  eastern  tale,  had  here  the 
more  honourable  occupation  of  decorating  that  which  in  itself  waj 
beautiful,  and  enhancing  by  novelty  what  would  have  been  capti- 
vating without  its  aid.  The  powerful  impression  produced  by  thir 
peculiar  species  of  poetry  confirmed  us  in  a principle,  which, 
though  it  will  hardly  be  challenged  when  stated  as  an  axiom,  is 
very  rarely  complied  with  in  practice.  It  is,  that  every  author 
should,  like  Lord  Byron,  form  to  himself,  and  communicate  to  tha 
reader,  a precise,  defined,  and  distinct  view  of  the  landscape, 
sentiment,  or  action  which  he  intends  to  describe  to  the  ,,e*4vr  — 
Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

& 


122 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


II. 

On  dun  Citli scroll’s  ridge  appears 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spears  ; 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain, 

F rom  shore  to  shore  of  either  main, 

The  tent  is  pitch’d,  the  crescent  shines 
Along  ihe  Moslem’s  leaguering  lines ; 

And  the  dusk  Spahi’s  hands  1 advance 
Beneath  each  bearded  pacha’s  glance  ; 

And  far  and  wide  as  eye  can  reach 
The  turban’ d cohorts  throng  the  beach ; 
And  there  the  Arab’s  camel  kneels, 

And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels  ; 
The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd,2 
The  sabre  round  his  loins  to  gird  ; 

And  there  the  volleying  thunders  pour. 

Till  waves  grow  smoother  to  the  roar. 

The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon’s  breath 
Wings  the  far  hissing  globe  of  death  ; 

Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall, 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ball ; 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies, 

O’er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies, 

With  fires  that  answer  fast  and  well 
The  summons  of  the  Infidel. 

in. 

But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  work  its  fall, 

With  deeper  skill  in  war’s  black  art, 

Than  Othman’s  sons,  and  high  of  heart 
As  any  cliicf  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood  ; 

From  post  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed. 

Fast  spurring  on  his  reeking  steed, 

Where  sallying  ranks  the  trench  assail, 

And  make  the  foremost  Moslem  quail ; 

Or  where  the  battery,  guarded  well, 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable, 

Alighting  checrly  to  inspire 
The  soldier  slackening  in  his  fire  ; 

The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 
Which  Stamboul’s  sultan  there  can  boast. 
To  guide  the  follower  o’er  the  field, 

To  point  the  tube,  the  lance  to  wield, 

Or  whirl  around  the  bickering  blade ; — 
Was  Alp,  the  Adrian  renegade ! 

IV. 

From  Venice — once  a race  of  worth 
His  gentle  sires — he  drew  his  birth ; 

But  Tate  an  exile  from  her  shore, 

Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 
The  arms  they  taught  to  bear ; and  now 
The  turban  girt  his  shaven  brow, 

Through  many  a change  had  Corinth  pass’d 
With  Greece  to  Venice’  ride  at  last ; 

And  here,  before  her  walls,  witli  those 
To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes, 


{'.)  [Turkish  holders  of  military  fiefs,  which  oblige  them  to  join 
the  a.Tr.y,  mounted  at  their  own  expense.] 

(2)  The  life  of  the  Turcomans  is  wandering  and  patriarchal ; 
they  dwell  in  tents. 

(3)  Ali  Coumourgi,  the  favourite  of  three  sultans,  and  Grand 
Vizier  to  Achmet  III.,  after  recovering  Peloponnesus  from  the 
Venetians  in  one  campaign,  was  mortally  wounded  in  the  next, 
gainst  the  Germans,  at  the  battle  of  Peterwaradin  (iu  the  plain 


He  stood  a foe,  with  all  the  zeal 
Which  young  and  fiery  converts  ted. 
Within  whose  heated  bosom  throngs 
The  memory  of  a thousand  wrongs. 

To  him  had  Venice  ceased  to  be 
Her  ancient  civic  boast — “ the  Free 
And  in  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 
Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 
Within  the  “ Lion’s  mouth”  had  placed 
A charge  against  him  uneffaced  : 

He  fled  in  time,  and  saved  his  life, 

To  waste  his  future  years  in  strife. 

That  taught  his  land  how  great  her  loss 
In  him  who  triumph’d  o’er  the  Cross, 
’Gainst  which  lie  rear’d  the  Crescent  high, 
And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 

v. 

Coumourgi 3 — he  whose  closing  scene 
Adorn’d  the  triumph  of  Eugene, 

When  on  Carlowitz’  bloody  plain, 

The  last  and  mightiest  of  the  slain. 

He  sank,  regretting  not  to  die, 

But  cursed  the  Christian’s  victory — 
Coumourgi — can  his  glory  cease. 

That  latest  conqueror  of  Greece, 

Till  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 
The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  yore  ? 

A hundred  years  have  roll’d  away 
Since  he  refix’d  the  Moslem's  sway. 

And  now  he  led  the  Mussulman, 

And  gave  the  guidance  of  the  van 
To  Alp,  who  well  repaid  the  trust 
By  cities  level! d with  the  dust : 

And  proved,  by  many  a deed  of  death. 

How  firm  his  heart  in  novel  faith. 

VI. 

The  walls  grew  weak ; and  fast  and  hot 
Against  them  pour’d  the  ceaseless  shot, 
With  unabating  fury  sent  * 

From  battery  to  battlement ; 

And  thunder-like  the  pealing  din 
Rose  from  each  heated  culverin  : 

And  here  and  there  some  crackling  dome 
Was  fired  before  the  exploding  bomb  : 

And  as  the  fabric  sank  beneath 
The  shattering  shell’s  volcanic  breath, 

In  red  and  wreathing  columns  flash’d 
The  flame,  as  loud  the  ruin  crash’d, 

Or  into  countless  meteors  driven, 

Its  earth-stars  melted  into  heaven  ; 

Whose  clouds  that  day  grew  doubly  dun. 
Impervious  to  the  hidden  sun, 

With  volumed  smoke  that  slowly  grew 
To  one  wide  sky  of  sulphurous  hue. 

VII. 

But  not  for  vengeance,  long  delay’d, 

Alone,  did  Alp,  the  renegade. 


of  Carlowitz),  in  Hungary,  endeavouring  to  rally  his  guards.  He 
died  of  his  wounds  next  day.  His  last  order  was  the  decapitation 
of  General  Hreuner,  and  some  other  German  prisoners;  and  nil 
last  words,  “ Oh  that  I could  thus  serve  all  the  Christian  dogs  ! ” a 
speech  and  act  not  unlike  one  of  Caligula.  He  was  a young  man 
of  great  ambition  and  unbounded  presumption  : on  being  told  that 
Prince  Eugene,  then  opposed  to  him,  “was  a great  general,”  he 
said,  “ I shall  become  a greater,  and  at  his  expense." 


THE  SIEGE  OE  CORINTH. 


123 


The  Moslem  warriors  sternly  teach 
His  skill  to  pierce  the  promised  breach . 
Within  these  walls  a maid  was  pent 
His  hope  would  win,  without  consent 
Of  that  inexorable  sire. 

Whose  heart  refused  him  in  its  ire, 

When  Alp,  beneath  his  Christian  name, 

Her  virgin  baud  aspired  to  claim. 

In  happier  mood,  and  earlier  time, 

While  unimpeach’d  for  traitorous  crime, 
Gayest  in  gondola  or  hall, 

He  glitter’d  through  the  Carnival ; 

And  tuned  the  softest  serenade 
That  e’er  on  Adria’s  waters  play’d 
At  midnight  to  Italian  maid.1 

VIII. 

And  many  deem’d  her  heart  was  won ; 

For  sought  by  numbers,  given  to  none, 

Had  young  Eraucesca’s  hand  remain’d 
Still  by  the  church’s  bonds  unchain’d : 

And  when  the  Adriatic  bore 
Lanciotto  to  the  Paynim  shore, 

Her  wonted  smiles  were  seen  to  fail, 

And  pensive  wax’d  the  maid  and  pale ; 

More  constant  at  confessional, 

More  rare  at  masque  and  festival ; 

Or  seen  at  such,  with  downcast  eyes, 

Which  conquer’d  hearts  they  ceased  to  prize  : 
With  listless  look  she  seems  to  gaze ; 

With  humbler  care  her  form  arrays ; 

Her  voice  less  lively  in  the  song ; 

Her  step,  though  light,  less  fleet  among 
The  pairs,  on  whom  the  Morning’s  glance 
Breaks,  yet  unsated  with  the  dance. 

IX. 

Sent  by  the  sta^  to  guard  the  land, 

(Which,  wrested  from  the  Moslem’s  hand, 
While  Sobieski  tamed  his  pride 
By  Buda’s  wall  and  Danube’s  side. 

The  chiefs  of  Venice  wrung  away 
Erom  Patra  to  Euboea’s  bay,) 

Minotti  held  in  Corinth’s  towers 
The  Doge’s  delegated  powers, 

While  yet  the  pitying  eye  of  Peace 
Smiled  o’er  her  long  forgotten  Greece  : 

And  ere  that  faithless  truce  was  broke 
Which  freed  her  from  the  unchristian  yoke. 
With  him  his  gentle  daughter  came ; 

Nor  there,  since  Menclaus’  dame 
Eorsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  prove 
What  woes  await  on  lawless  love, 

Had  fairer  form  adorn’d  the  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 

x. 

The  wall  is  rent,  the  ruins  yawn  ; 

And,  with  to-morrow’s  earliest  dawn. 

O’er  the  disjointed  mass  shall  vault 
The  foremost  of  the  fierce  assault. 

The  bands  are  rank’d  ; the  chosen  van 
Of  Tartar  and  of  Mussulman, 


(1)  [“  In  midnight  courtship  to  Italian  maid.”—  MS.] 
<>2)  [“  And  make  a melancholy  moan, 

To  mortal  voice  and  ear  unknown." — MS.] 


The  full  of  hope,  misnam’d  “ forlorn/’ 

"Who  hold  the  thought  of  death  in  scorn, 
And  win  their  way  with  falchion’s  force. 

Or  pave  the  path  with  many  a corse, 

O'er  which  the  following  brave  may  rise, 
Their  stepping-stone — the  last  who  dies  ! 

XI. 

’Tis  midnight : on  the  mountains  brown 
The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down 
Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light, 

So  wildly,  spiritually  bright ; 

Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining, 

And  turn’d  to  earth  without  repining, 

Nor  wish’d  for  wings  to  flee  away, 

And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 

The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 
Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air ; 

And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 
But  murmur’d  meekly  as  the  brook. 

The  winds  were  pillow’d  on  the  waves  ; 

The  banners  droop’d  along  their  staves, 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling  ; 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 

Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 

Save  where  the  steed  neigh’d  oft  and  shrill. 
And  echo  answer’d  from  the  hill, 

And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host 
Bustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast. 

As  rose  the  Muezzin’s  voice  in  air 
In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer  ; 

It  rose,  that  chanted  mournful  strain, 

Like  some  lone  spirit’s  o’er  the  plain : 

’Twas  musical,  but  sadly  sweet, 

Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 
And  take  a long  unmeasured  tone. 

To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown.2 
It  seem’d  to  those  within  the  wall 
A cry  prophetic  of  their  fall : 

It  struck  even  the  besieger’s  ear 
With  something  ominous  and  drear. 

An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 

Which  makes  the  heart  a moment  still, 
Then  beat  with  quicker  pulse,  ashamed 
Of  that  strange  sense  its  silence  framed  ; 
Such  as  a sudden  passing  bell 
Wakes,  though  but  for  a stranger’s  knell.* 

XII. 

The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore ; 

The  sound  was  hush’d,  the  prayer  was  o’er ; 
The  watch  was  set,  the  night-round  made. 
All  mandates  issu’d  and  obey’d : 

’Tis  but  another  anxious  night. 

His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 
With  all  revenge  and  love  can  pay, 

In  guerdon  for  their  long  delay. 

Eew  hours  remain,  and  he  hath  need 
Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a deed 
Of  slaughter  : but  within  his  soul 
The  thoughts  like  troubled  waters  roll. 


(3)  [“Which  rings  a deep,  internal  knell, 
A visionary  passing  bell.” — MS.] 


124 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


He  stood  alone  among  the  host ; 

Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 
To  plant  the  crescent  o’er  the  cross. 

Or  risk  a life  with  little  loss, 
f Secure  in  paradise  to  be 

By  Houris  loved  immortally  : 

Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel. 

The  stern  exaltedness  of  zeal, 

Profuse  of  blood,  untired  in  toil, 

When  battling  on  the  parent  soil. 

He  stood  alone — a renegade 
Against  the  country  lie  betray’d  ; 

He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band, 

Without  a trusted  heart  or  hand  : 

They  follow’d  him,  for  he  was  brave, 

And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave  ; 

They  crouch’d  to  him,  for  he  had  skill 
To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  will : 

But  still  his  Christian  origin 
With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 

They  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 
He  earn’d  beneath  a Moslem  name ; 

Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  been 
In  youth  a bitter  Nazarene. 

They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop. 
When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop  ; 
They  did  not  know  how  hate  can  burn 
In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stem  ; 
Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 
The  convert  of  revenge  can  feel, 
lie  ruled  them — man  may  rule  the  worst. 
By  ever  daring  to  be  first : 

So  lions  o’er  the  jackal  sway ; 

The  jackal  points,  lie  fells  the  prey/ 

Then  on  the  vulgar  yelling  press. 

To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 

XIII. 

His  head  grows  fever’d,  and  his  pulse 
The  quick  successive  throbs  convulse ; 

In  vain  from  side  to  side  he  throws 
His  form,  in  courtship  of  repose ; 2 
Or  if  he  dozed,  a sound,  a start 
Awoke  him  with  a sunken  heart. 

The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  press’d, 

The  mail  weigh’d  lead-like  on  his  breast. 
Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 
Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate, 

Without  or  couch  or  canopy, 

Except  a rougher  field  and  sky 
Than  now  might  yield  a warrior’s  bed, 

Than  now  along  the  heaven  was  spread. 

He  could  not  rest,  he  could  not  stay 
Within  his  tent  to  wait  for  day. 

But  walk’d  him  forth  along  the  sand. 

Where  thousand  sleepers  strew’d  the  strand. 
What  pillow’d  them  ? and  why  should  he 
More  wakeful  than  the  humblest  be  ? 

Since  more  their  peril,  worse  their  toil. 

And  yet  they  fearless  dream  of  spoil ; 

While  he  alone,  where  thousands  pass'd 
A night  of  sleep,  perchance  their  last, 

In  sickly  vigil  wander’d  on, 

And  envied  all  he  gazed  upon. 


'))  [*•  As  lions  o’er  the  jackal  sway 
By  springing  dauntless  on  the  prey; 

They  follow  on,  and  yelling  piess 
To  gorge  the  fragments  of  success." — MS  ] 


He  felt  his  soul  become  more  light 
Beneath  the  freshness  of  the  night. 

Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  calm. 

And  bathed  his  brow  with  airy  balm  : 
Behind,  the  camp— before  him  lay, 

In  many  a winding  creek  and  bay, 

Lepanto’s  gulf ; and,  on  the  brow 
Of  Delphi’s  hill,  unshaken  snow, 

High  and  eternal,  such  as  shone 
Through  thousand  summers  brightly  gone, 
Along  the  gulf,  the  mount,  the  clinic  • 

It  will  not  melt,  like  man,  to  time  ; 

Tyrant  and  slave  are  swept  away. 

Less  form’d  to  wear  before  the  ray  ; 

But  that  white  veil,  the  lightest,  frailest, 
Which  on  the  mighty  mount  thou  hailest, 
While  tower  and  tree  are  torn  and  rent. 
Shines  o’er  its  craggy  battlement ; 

In  form  a peak,  in  height  a cloud, 

In  texture  like  a hovering  shroud, 

Thus  high  by  parting  Ereedom  spread. 

As  from  her  fond  abode  she  fled. 

And  linger’d  on  the  spot,  where  long 
Her  prophet  spirit  spake  in  song. 

Oh  ! still  her  step  at  moments  falters 
O’er  wither’d  fields,  and  ruin’d  altars, 

And  fain  would  wake,  in  souls  too  broken. 

By  pointing  to  each  glorious  token : 

But  vain  her  voice,  till  better  days 
Dawn  in  those  yet  remember’d  rays, 

Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying. 

And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 

xv. 

Not  mindless  of  these  mighty  times 
W as  Alp,  despite  his  flight  and  crimes  ; 

And  through  this  night,  as  on  he  wander’d. 
And  o’er  the  past  and  present  ponder’d, 

And  thought  upon  the  glorious  dead 
Who  there  in  better  cause  had  bled. 

He  felt  how  faint  and  feebly  dim 
The  fame  that  could  accrue  to  him, 

Who  cheer’d  the  band,  and  waved  the  sword, 
A traitor  in  a turban’d  horde  ; 

And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege, 

Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 

Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  number’d, 

The  chiefs  whose  dust  around  him  slumber’d  ; 
Their  phalanx  marshall’ d on  the  plain, 

Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain. 

They  fell  devoted,  but  undying  ; 

The  very  gale  their  names  seem’d  sighing  : 
The  waters  murmur’d  of  their  name  ; 

The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame  ; 

The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  grey, 

Claim’d  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay ; 

Their  spirits  wrapp’d  the  dusky  mountain, 
Their  memory  sparkled  o’er  the  fountain ; 

The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river 
Roll’d  mingling  with  their  fame  for  ever. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 

That  land  is  glory’s  still  and  theirs ! 3 


(2)  [“  He  vainly  turn’d  from  side  to  side, 

And  each  reposing  posture  tried.” — MS.] 
(3,  [Here  follows,  in  Ms. — 

“ Immortal — boundless— undecay’d — 
Their  souls  the  very  soil  pervada.”] 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


125 


Tis  still  a watch-word  to  the  earth  : 

When  man  would  do  a deed  of  worth 
Jle  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 

So  sanction’d,  on  the  tyrant’s  head  : 

He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won.1 

XVI. 

Stai  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused, 

And  woo’d*,  the  freshness  Night  diffused. 

There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tidelcss  sea,1 2 
Which  changeless  rolls  eternally  ; 

So  that  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood, 
Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a rood  ; 
And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 
Heedless  if  she  come  or  go : 

Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay, 

On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 

The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare, 

And  looks  o’er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there : 
And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 

On  the  line  that  it  left  long  ages  ago  : 

A smooth  short  space  of  yellow  sand 
Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 

He  wander’d  on,  along  the  beach, 

Till  within  the  range  of  a carbine’s  reach 
Of  the  leaguer’d  wall ; but  they  saw  him  not, 

Or  how  could  he  ’scape  from  the  hostile  shot  ? 3 
Did  traitors  lurk  in  the  Christians’  hold  ? 

Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax’d  cold  ? 
[ know  not,  in  sooth ; but  from  yonder  wall 
There  flash’d  no  fire,  and  there  hiss’d  no  ball. 

Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion’s  frown. 

That  flank’d  the  sea-ward  gate  of  the  town  ; 

Though  he  heard  the  sound,  and  could  almost  tell 
Tiie  sullen  words  of  the  sentinel, 

As  his  measured  step  on  the  stone  below 
Clank’d,  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro  ; 

And  he  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall  „ 

Hold  o’er  the  dead  their  carnival,4 
Gorging  and  growling  o’er  carcass  and  limb  ; 

They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him  ! 

From  a Tartar’s  skull  they  had  stripp’d  the  flesh, 

As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh  ; 

And  their  white  tusks  crunch’d  o’er  the  whiter  skull,5 
As  it  slipp’d  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew 
As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead,  [dull, 
When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  where  they 
fed ; 


(1)  [“  Where  Freedom  loveliest  may  be  won.” — MS.] 

(2)  The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  there  are  no  per- 
eeptible  tides  in  the  Mediterranean. 

(3)  [“  Or  would  not  waste  on  a single  head 

The  ball  on  numbers  better  sped.” — MS.] 

( 4)  [Omit  the  rest  of  this  section. — Gifford.] 

(5>  This  spectacle  I have  seen,  such  as  described,  beneath  the 
wall  of  the  Seraglio  at  Constantinople,  in  the  little  cavities  worn 
by  the  Bosphorus  in  the  rock,  a narrow  terrace  of  which  projects 
detween  the  wall  and  the  water.  I think  the  fact  is  also  mentioned 
In  Hobhouse's  Travels.  The  bodies  were  probably  those  of  some 
refractory  Janizaries.  [“The  sensations  produced  by  the  state  of 
the  weather,  and  leaving  a comfortable  cabin,  were  in  unison  with 
th>  ’regressions  which  we  felt  when,  passing  under  the  palace  of 
the  sultan*  and  gazing  at  the  gloomy  cypresses  which  rise  above 
the  walls,  we  saw  two  dogs  gnawing  a dead  body.” — Hobhouse.] 

(6)  [This  passage  shows  the  force  of  Lord  Byron’s  pencil. 
Jeffrey.] 

(7)  This  tuft,*  or  long  lock,  is  left,  from  a superstition  that 

Mahomet  will  draw  them  into  Paradise  by  it. 

(ft)  [Than  the  mangled  corpse  in  its  own  blood  lying.— G.] 


So  well  bad  they  broken  a lingering  fast 
With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night’s  repast.6 
And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  roll’d  on  the  sand, 
The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band : 
Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their  wear, 
And  each  scalp  had  a single  long  tuft  of  hair,7 
All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 

The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dog’s  maw, 

The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 

But  close  by  the  shore,  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf. 

There  sat  a vulture  flapping  a wolf, 

Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills,  but  kept  away. 

Scared  by  the  dogs,  from  the  human  prey  ; 

But  lie  seized  on  his  share  of  a steed  that  lay. 

Pick’d  by  the  birds,  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

XVII. 

Alp  turn’d  him  from  the  sickening  sight : 

Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  fight ; 

But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying, 

Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying,8 
Scorch’d  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain. 
Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain.9 
There  is  something  of  pride  in  the  perilous  hour, 
Whnte’cr  be  the  shape  in  which  death  may  lower ; 
For  Fame  is  there  to  say  who  bleeds, 

And  Honour’s  eye  on  daring  deeds  ! 

But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 
O’er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead,10 
And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the  air, 
Beasts  oft  the  forest,  all  gathering  there  ; 

All  regarding  man  as  their  prey, 

All  rejoicing  in  his  decay.11 

XVIII. 

There  is  a temple  in  rum  stands, 

Fashion’d  by  long  forgotten  hands ; 

Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a stone. 

Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o’ergrown  ! 

Out  upon  Time  ! it  will  leave  no  more 

Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before  ! ** 

Out  upon  Time ! who  for  ever  will  leave 
But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 
O’er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o’er  that  which  must 
he : 

What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see ; 

Kcmnants  of  things  that  have  pass’d  away, 

Fragments  of  stone,  rear’d  by  creatures  of  clay ! 13 


(9)  [Strike  out — 

“ Scorch’d  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain, 
Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain.” 

What  is  a “ perishing  dead?” — Gifford.] 

(10)  [O’er  the  weltering  limbs  of  the  tombless  dead. — G.] 

(11)  [“  All  that  liveth  on  man  will  prey, 

All  rejoice  in  his  decay; 

All  that  can  kindle  dismay  and  disgust 

Follow  his  frame  from  the  bier  to  the  dust.”  — MS.] 

(12)  [Omit  this  couplet. — G.] 

(13)  [After  this  follows  in  MS. — 

“ Monuments  that  the  coming  age 
Leaves  to  the  spoil  of  the  seasons’  rag? — 

Till  Ruin  makes  the  relics  scarce, 

Then  Learning  acts  her  solemn  farce, 

And,  roaming  throigh  the  marble  waste, 

Prates  of  beauty,  art,  and  tasto. 

XIX. 

••  That  Temple  was  more  in  the  midst  of  the  pl*ia  | 
What  of  that  shrine  did  yet  remain 
Lay  to  his  left .”} 


126 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


XIX. 

He  sate  him  down  at  a pillar’s  base,1 
And  pass’d  his  hand  athwart  his  face  ; 

Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood, 

Declining  was  his  attitude  : 

His  head  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 

Fever’d,  throbbing,  and  oppress’d  : 

And  o’er  his  brow,  so  downward  bent, 

Oft  his  beating  fingers  went, 

Hurriedly,  as  you  may  see 
Your  own  run  over  the  ivory  key, 

Ere  the  measured  tone  is  taken 
By  the  chords  you  would  awaken. 

There  he  sate  all  heavily, 

As  he  heard  the  night-wind  sigh. 

Was  it  the  wind  through  some  hollow  stone, 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan  ? 2 
He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  look’d  on  the  sea, 

Rut  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be  ; 

lie  look’d  on  the  long  grass — it  waved  not  a blade ; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  convey’d  ? 

He  look’d  to  the  banners — each  flag  lay  still, 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithaeron’s  hill, 

And  he  felt  not  a breath  come  over  his  cheek  : 
What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak  ? 

He  turn’d  to  the  left — is  he  sure  of  sight  ? 

There  sate  a lady,  youthful  and  bright ! 

xx. 

lie  started  up  with  more  of  fear 

Than  if  an  armed  foe  were  near.  * 

“ God  of  my  fathers ! what  is  here  ? 

Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 
So  near  a hostile  armament  ? ” 

His  trembling  hands  refused  to  sign 
The  cross  he  deem’d  no  more  divine : 

He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 

But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 

He  gazed,  he  saw  : he  knew  the  face 
Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace  ; 

It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 

The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride  ! 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  cheek, 

But  mellow’d  with  a tenderer  streak : 

Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  lips  fled  ? 

Gone  was  the  smile  that  enliven’d  their  red. 

The  ocean’s  calm  within  their  view. 

Beside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue ; 

But  like  that  cold  wave  it  stood  still, 

And  its  glance,3  though  clear,  was  chill. 

Around  her  form  a thin  robe  twining, 

Nought  conceal’d  her  bosom  shining; 

Through  the  parting  of  her  hair, 

Floating  darkly  downward  there, 

Her  rounded  arm  sliow’d  white  and  bare : 


(1)  [From  this,  all  is  beautiful  to — 

“ He  saw  not,  he  knew  not ; but  nothing  is  there.” — 
Giffoud.] 

(2)  I must  here  acknowledge  a close,  though  unintentional, 
resemblance  in  these  twelve  lines  to  a passage  in  an  unpublished 
poem  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  called  “ Christabel.”  It  was  not  till  alter 
these  lines  were  written  that  I heard  that  wild  and  singularly 
original  and  beautiful  poem  recited;  and  the  MS.  of  that  produc- 
tion I never  saw  till  very  recently,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Coleridge 
himself,  who,  I hope,  is  convinced  that  I have  not  been  a wilful 
plagiarist.  The  original  idea  undoubtedly  pertains  to  Mr.  Cole- 
jidge,  whose  poem  has  been  composed  above  fouitecn  years.  Let 

me  conclude  by  a hope  that  he  will  not  longer  delay  the  publica- 
tion of  a production,  of  whio’i  I can  only  add  my  mite  of  appro- 


And  ere  yet  she  made  reply, 

Once  she  raised  her  liana  on  high  ; 

It  was  so  wan,  and  transparent  of  hue, 

You  might  have  seen  the  moon  shine  through. 

XXI. 

“ I come  from  my  rest  to  him  I love  best, 

That  I may  be  happy,  and  he  may  be  bless’d. 

I have  pass’d  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall ; 

Sought  thee  in  safety  through  foes  and  all. 

’Tis  said  the  lion  will  turn  and  flee 
From  a maid  in  the  pride  of  her  purity  ; 

And  the  Power  on  high,  that  can  shield  the  good 
Thus  from  the  tyrant  of  the  wood, 

Hath  extended  its  mercy  to  guard  me  as  well 
From  the  hands  of  the  leaguering  inlidcl. 

I come— and  if  I come  in  vain, 

Never,  oh  never,  we  meet  again! 

Thou  liast  done  a fearful  deed 
In  falling  away  from  thy  father’s  creed  : 

But  dash  that  turban  to  earth,  and  sign 
The  sign  of  the  cross,  and  for  ever  be  mine ; 

Wring  the  black  drop  from  thy  heart, 

And  to-morrow  unites  us  no  more  to  part.” 

“ And  where  should  our  bridal  couch  be  spread  ? 

In  the  midst  of  the  dying  and  the  dead  ? 

For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and  flame 
The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name. 
None,  save  thou  and  thine,  I’ve  sworn, 

Shall  be  left  upon  the  morn : 

But  thee  will  I bear  to  a lovely  spot,  ['forgot 

Where  our  hands  shall  be  join’d,  and  our  sorrow 
There  thou  yet  slialt  be  my  bride, 

When  once  again  I’ve  quell’d  the  pride 
Of  Venice ; and  her  hated  race 
Have  felt  the  arm  they  would  debase 
Scourge,  with  a whip  of  scorpions,  those 
Whom  vice  and  envy  made  my  foes.” 

Upon  his  hand  she  laid  her  own — 

Light  was  the  touch,  but  it  thrill’d  to  the  bone, 

And  shot  a chillness  to  his  heart, 

Which  fix’d  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 

Though  slight  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  cold. 

He  could  not  loose  him  from  its  hold ; 

But  never  did  clasp  of  one  so  dear 
Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 

As  those  thin  fingers,  long  and  white, 

Froze  through  his  blood  by  their  touch  that  night, 
The  feverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 

And  his  heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like  stone, 

As  he  look’d  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hue, 

So  deeply  changed  from  what  ho  knew : 

Fair  but  faint — without  the  ray 
Of  mind,  that  made  each  feature  play 
Like  sparkling  waves  on  a sunny  day ; 


bation  to  the  applause  of  far  more  competent  judges.  — [Th» 
following  are  the  lines  in  “ Christabel  ” which  Lord  Byron  hau 
unintentionally  imitated : — 

“ The  night  is  chill,  the  forest  bare 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moneth  bleak  ? 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady’s  cheek — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  dan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hang  ng  so  hifh, 

On  the  topmast  twig  that  looks  at  the  skf.”j 
(*)  [And  its  thrilling  glance,  &c.— Gifford. J 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


127 


And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death, 

And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath, 

And  there  rose  not  a heave  o’er  her  bosom’s  swell, 
And  there  seem’d  not  a pulse  in  her  veins  to  dwell. 
Though  her  eye  shone  out,  yet  the  lids  were  fix  d, 

And  the  glance  that  it  gave  was  wild  and  unmix  d 
With  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  may  seem 
Of  the  restless  who  walk  in  a troubled  dream  ; 

Like  the  figures  on  arras,  that  gloomily  glare, 

Stirr’d  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air,1 * 
So  seen  by  the  dying  lamp’s  fitful  light, 

Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awful  to  sight ; Ldow  n 
As  they  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to  come 
From  the  shadowy  wall  where  their  images  frown ; ' 
Fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro, 

As  the  gusts  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 


“ If  not  for  love  of  me  be  given 

Thus  much,  then,  for  the  love  of  heaven,— 

Again  I say — that  turban  tear 

From  off  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 

Thine  injured  country’s  sons  to  spare, 

Or  thou  art  lost ; and  never  slialt  sec— 
Not  earth — that’s  past— but  heaven  or  me. 
If  this  thou  dost  accord,  albeit 
A heavy  doom  ’tis  thine  to  meet, 

That  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 

And  mercy’s  gate  may  receive  thee  within : 
But  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 
The  curse  of  Him  thou  didst  lorsake  ; 

And  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  see 
Its  love  for  ever  shut  from  thee. 

There  is  a light  cloud  by  the  moon  3 
’Tis  passing,  and  will  pass  lull  soou 
If,  by  the  time  its  vapoury  sail 
Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 

Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 

Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged ; 
Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 
Thine  immortality  of  ill.” 


Alp  look’d  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 
The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky  ; 

But  Ins  heart  was  swollen,  and  turn’d  aside 
By  deep  int  erminable  pride; 

This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 
Boil’d  like  a torrent  o’er  the  rest. 

He  sue  for  mercy  ! He  dismay’d 
By  wild  words  of  a t»nid  maid ; 

He,  wrong’d  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 
Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave  ! 


<.(1)  [“  Like  a picture,  that  magic  had  charm’d  from  its  frame, 
Lifeless  but  life-like,  aud  ever  the  same.”— MS.] 


(21  Tin  the  summer  of  1803,  when  in  his  sixteenth  year,  Lord 
Bvron,  though  offered  a bed  at  Annesley,  used  at  first  to  return 
everv  night  to  sleep  at  Newstead  ; alleging  as  a reason,  that  he  was 
afraid  of  the  family  pictures  of  the  Chaworths ; that  he  fancied 
“they  had  taken  a grudge  to  him  on  account  of  the  duel.  Mr. 
Moore  thinks  it  may  possibly  have  been  the  recollection  of  these 
pictures  that  suggested  to  him  these  lines.] 

(3)  I have  been  told  that  the  idea  expressed  in  this  and  the  five 
following  lines  has  been  admired  by  those  whose  approbation  is 
valuable.  I am  glad  of  it : but  it  is  not  original-at  leut mot  mine ; 
it  may  be  found  much  better  expressed  in  pages  182-3-4.  ot  the 
English  version  of  “ Vathek”  (1  forget  the  precise  page  of  the 
French),  a work  to  which  I have  before  referred  ; and  never  recur 
to,  or  read,  without  a renewal  of  gratification.— [1  he  following  is 
the  passage  : — “ * Deluded  prince!  ’ said  the  Genius,  addressing  the 
Caliph  ‘ to  whom,  Providence  hath  confided  the  care  of  innumerable 
subjects;  is  it  thus  that  thou  fulfillest  thy  mission?  Thy  crimes 
are  already  completed ; and  art  thou  now  hastening  to  thy  punish- 
ment ! Thou  knowest  that  beyond  those  mountains  Eblis  and  his 


No — though  that  cloud  were  thunder’s  worst. 
And  charged  to  crush  him — let  it  burst ! 

He  look’d  upon  it  earnestly 
Without  au  accent  of  reply ; 

He  watch’d  it  passing ; it  is  flown : 

Full  on  his  eye  the  clear  moon  shone. 

And  thus  lie  spake— “ Whate’cr  my  fate, 

I am  no  changeling — ’tis  too  late  : 

The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  cjuiver. 

Then  rise  again ; the  tree  must  shiver. 

What  Venice  made  me,  I must  be, 

Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee  : 

But  thou  art  safe  : oh,  fly  witlf  me  ! ” 

He  turn’d,  but  she  is  gone ! 

Nothing  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 

Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air  ? 

He  saw  not — he  knew  not — but  nothing  is  there. 


XXII. 


The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 
As  if  that  morn  were  a jocund  one.4 
Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 
The  Morning  from  her  mantle  grey, 

And  the  Noon  will  look  oil  a sultry  day.5 
Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum,. 

And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  bora, 

And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they  re  borne. 
And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude  s uuni, 
Aud  the  clash,  and  the  shout,  “They  come!  they 


uu me  ; . . 

The  horsetails 6 are  pluck’d  from  the  ground,  and  the 
sword  . [word- 

From  its  sheath  ; and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for  the 
Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 

Strike  your  teuts,  and  throng  to  the  van  ; 

Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain, 

That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain. 

When  he  breaks  from  the  town;  and  none  escape, 
Aged  or  young,  in  the  Christian  shape  ; 

While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a fiery  mass, 

Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  the;,  pass.7 
The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein ; 
Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane ; 

White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit : 

The  spears  are  uplifted ; the  matches  are  lit ; 

The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar, 

And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before  :8 
Forms  in  bis  phalanx  each  Janizar; 

Alp  at  their  head  ; bis  right  arm  is  bare, 

So  is  the  blade  of  bis  scimitar ; 


accursed  dives  hold  their  infernal  empire;  and,  seduced  by  a 
malignant  phantom,  thou  art  proceeding  to  surrender  thyself  to 
them!  This  moment  is  the  last  of  grace  allowed  thee:  give  back 
Nouronahar  to  her  father,  who  still  retains  a few  sparks  of  life : 
destroy  tliy  tower  with  all  its  abominations : drive  Carathis  from 
thy  councils:  be  just  to  thy  subjects:  respect  the  ministers  of  the 
prophet:  compensate  for  thy  impieties  by  an  exemplary  life;  and, 
instead  of  squandering  thy  days  in  voluptuous  indulgence,  lament 
thy  crimes  on  the  seuulchres  of  thy  ancestors.  Thou  beholdest  the 

clouds  that  obscure  the  sun  : at  the  instant  he  recovers  his  splen- 
dour, if  thy  heart  be  not  changed,  the  time  of  mercy  assigned  ihee 

will  be  past  for  ever.’  ”] 

(4)  [Leave  out  this  couplet. — Gifford.] 

(5)  [Strike  out— “ And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a sultry  day.” — G.] 

(C)  The  horsetails,  fixed  upon  a lance,  a pacha’s  standard. 

(7)  [Omit— 

“ While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a fiery  mass, 

Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  they  pass.’  — G.J 

(8)  [Aud  crush  the  wall  they  have  shaken  before.— G.] 


4 


128  LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


The  khan  and  the  pac  .as  are  all  at  their  post ; 

The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 

When  the  culverin’s  signal  is  fired,  then  on; 

Leave  not  in  Corinth  a living  one — 

A priest  at  her  altars,  a chief  in  her  halls, 

A hearth  in  her  mansions,  a stone  on  her  walls. 

God  and  the  prophet — Alla  IIu  ! 

Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo ! 

“ There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to  scale ; 
And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye 
fail  ? 

He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 1 2 
His  heart’s  dearest  wish;  let  him  ask  it,  and  have  \}> 
Thus  utter’d  Coumoftrgi,  the  dauntless  vizier ; 

The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear, 

And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire : — 
Silence — hark  to  the  signal — fire  ! 

XXIII. 

As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 
On  the  stately  buffalo, 

Though  with  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar, 

And  hoofs  that  stamp,  and  horns  that  gore. 

He  tramples  on  earth,  or  tosses  on  higli 

The  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  die  : 

Thus  against  the  wall  they  went, 

Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent ; 3 
Many  a bosom,  sheathed  in  brass, 

Strew’d  the  earth  like  broken  glass. 

Shiver’d  by  the  shot,  that  tore 

The  ground  whereon  they  moved  no  more  : 

Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay, 

Like  the  mower’s  grass  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  his  work  is  done  on  the  levelt’d  plain; 

Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain.3 

XXIY. 

As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  plash. 

From  the  cliffs  invading  dash 

Huge  fragments,  sapp’d  by  the  ceaseless  flow. 

Till  white  and  thundering  down  they  go, 

Like  the  avalanche’s  snow 
On  the  Alpine  vales  below  ; 

Thus  at  length,  outbreathed  and  worn, 

Corinth’s  sons  were  downward  borne 
By  the  long  and  oft  renew’d 
Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 

In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 
Heap’d,  by  the  host  of  the  infidel, 

Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot ; 

Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute ; 

Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 
For  quarter,  or  for  victory, 

Mingle  there  with  the  volleying  thunder, 

! Which  makes  the  distant  cities  wonder 
How  the  sounding  battle  goes, 

If  with  them,  or  for  their  foes  ; 

If  they  must  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 
II  that  annihilating  voice. 


(1)  [“  He  who  first  downs  with  the  red-cross  may  crave,"  &c. 
What  vulgarism  is  this  l — 

“ He  who  lowers , — or  plucks  down,"  &c. — Gifford.] 

(2)  [Thus  against  the  wall  they  bent, 

Thus  the  first  were  backward  sent. — G.] 

(3)  [Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  train. — G ] 

(4)  [There  stood  a man,  & c. — G.] 

(5)  [“  Lurk'd,"  a bad  word— say  “ Was  hid."—  C.] 


Minch  pierces  the  deep  hills  through  and  through 
With  an  echo  dread  and  new  : 

You  might  have  heard  it,  on  that  day, 

O’er  Salamis  and  Megara ; 

(We  have  heard  the  bearers  say,) 

Even  unto  Piraeus’  bay. 

xxv. 

From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the  hilt, 
Sabres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt ; 

But  the  rampart  is  won,  and  the  spoil  begun, 

And  all  but  the  after  carnage  done. 

Shriller  shrieks  now  mingling  come 
From  within  the  plunder’d'  dome  : 

Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet, 

That  splash  in  the  blood  ot  the  slippery  street ; 

But  here  and  there,  where  ’vantage  ground 
Against  the  foe  may  still  be  found, 

Desperate  groups,  of  twelve  or  ten, 

Make  a pause,  and  turn  again — 

With  banded  backs  against  the  wall, 

Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man 4 — his  hairs  were  whitQ 
But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might : 

So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray, 

The  dead  before  him,  on  that  day, 

In  a semicircle  lay  ; 

Still  he  combated  unwounded, 

Though  retreating,  unsurrounded. 

Many  a scar  of  former  fight 
Lurk’d 5 beneath  his  corslet  bright 
But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 

Each  and  all  had  been  ta’en  before  : 

Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  limb, 

Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him  ; 

And  the  foes,  whom  he  singly  kept  at  bay 
Outnumber’d  his  thin  hairs0  of  silver  grey. 

From  right  to  left  his  sabre  swept : 

Many  an  Othman  mother  wept 
Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  dipp’d 7 
His  weapon  first  in  .Moslem  gore, 

Ere  his  years  could  count  a score. 

Of  all  he  might  have  been  the  sire 8 
Who  fell  that  day  beneath  his  ire  : 

For,  sonlcss  left  long  years  ago. 

His  wrath  made  many  a childless  foe ; 

And  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait 9 
His  only  boy  had  met  his  fate, 

His  parent’s  iron  hand  did  doom 
More  than  a human  hecatomb.10 
If  shades  by  carnage  be  appeased, 

Patroclus’  spirit  less  was  pleased 
Than  his,  Minotti’s  son,  who  died  > 

Where  Asia’s  bounds  and  ours  divide. 

Buried  he  lay,  where  thousands  before 
For  thousands  of  years  were  inhumed  on  the  shore  ; 
What  of  them  is  left,  to  tell 
Where  they  lie,  and  how  they  fell  ? _ 

Not  a stone  on  their  turf,  nor  a bone  in  their  graves  ; 
But  they  live  in  the  verse  that  immortally  saves. 


(6)  [Outnumber’d  his  hairs,  &e.— Gifford] 

(7)  [Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  he  dipp’d. — G.] 

(»)  [Bravo!— this  is  better  than  King  Priam’s  fifty  sons.— G.J 

(9)  In  the  naval  battle  at  the  mouth  of  the  Dardanelles,  between 
the  Venetians  and  the  Turks. 

(10)  [There  can  be  no  such  thing;  but  the  whole  of  this  is  poor, 
and  spun  out. — G ] 


THE  SEIGE  OF  CORINTH. 


129 


xxvi. 

Hark  to  the  Allah  shout ! 1 a band 

Of  the  Mussulman  bravest  and  best  is  at  hand  : 

Their  leader’s  nervous  arm  is  bare, 

Swifter  to  smite,  and  never  to  spare — 

Unclothed  to  the  shoulder  it  waves  them  on ; 

Thus  in  the  fight  is  he  ever  known : 

Others  a gaudier  garb  may  show, 

To  tempt  the  spoil  of  the  greedy  foe  ; 

Many  a hand’s  on  a richer  hilt. 

But  none  on  a steel  more  ruddily  gilt ; 

Many  a loftier  turban  may  wear, — 

Alp  is  but  known  by  the  white  arm  bare ; 

Look  through  the  thick  of  the  fight  ’tis  there  : 
There  is  not  a standard  on  that  shore 
So  well  advanced  the  ranks  before  ; 

There  is  not  a banner  in  Moslem  war 
Will  lure  the  Delliis  half  so  far ; 

It  glauces  like  a falling  star  ! 

Where’er  that  mighty  arm  is  seen, 

The  bravest  be,  or  late  have  been ; 2 
There  the  craven  cries  for  quarter 
Vainly  to  the  vengeful  Tartar; 

Or  the  hero,  silent  iying, 

Scorns  to  yield  a groan  in  dying ; 

Mustering  his  last  feeble  blow 
’Gainst  the  nearest  leveh  > oe, 

Though  faint  beneath  the  n.  itual  wound, 

Grappling  on  the  gory  ground. 

XXVII. 

Still  the  old  man  stood  erect, 

And  Alp’s  career  a moment  check’d. 

‘ Yield  thee,  Minotti ; quarter  take, 

For  thine  own,  thy  daughter’s  sake.” 

“ Never,  renegado,  never ! 

Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  for  ever.” 3 

“Francesca ! — Oh,  my  promised  bride  1 4 
Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride?” 

“ She  is  safe.” — “ Where  ? where  ?” — “ In  heaven  ; 
From  whence  thy  traitor  soul  is  driven — 

Far  from  thee,  and  undefiled.” 

Grimly  then  Minotti  smiled, 

As  he  saw  Alp  staggering  bow 
Before  his  words,  as  with  a blow. 

“ Oh  God ! when  died  she  ?” — “ Yesternight — 
Nor  weep  I for  her  spirit’s  flight : 

None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 
Slaves  to  Mahomet  and  thee — 

Come  on  !” — That  challenge  is  in  vam — 

Alp’s  already  with  the  slain  ! 

While  Mmott.i’s  words  were  wreaking 
More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 
Than  his  falchion’s  point  had  found, 

Had  the  time  allow’d  to  wound. 


(1)  [Hark  to  the  Alla  Hu ! &c. — Gifford.] 

(2)  [Omit  the  remainder  of  the  section. — G.] 

(3)  [In  the  original  MS. — 

“ Though  the  life  of  thy  giving  would  last  for  ever.”] 

(4)  [“Where’s  Francesca ?— my  promised  bride  1” — MS.] 

(5)  [Here  follows  in  MS. — 

“ Twice  and  once  he  roll’d  a space. 

Then  lead-like  lay  upon  his  face.’*] 

(6)  [One  cannot  help  suspecting,  on  longer  and  more  mature  con- 

sideration, that  one  has  been  led  to  join  in  ascribing  much  more 


From  within  the  neighbouring  pore- 
Of  a long  defended  church, 

Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 
Would  the  failing  fight  renew, 

The  sharp  shot  dash’d  Alp  to  the  ground ; 
Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 
That  crash’d  through  the  brain  of  the  infidel, 
Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell ; 

A flash  like  fire  within  his  eyes 
Blazed,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise, 

And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 
Through  all  the  palpitating  trunk  ; 5 
Nought  of  life  left,  save  a quivering 
Where  his  limbs  were  slightly  shivering : 
They  turn’d  him  on  his  back  ; his  breast 
And  brow  were  stain’d  with  gore  and  dust. 
And  through  his  lips  the  life-blood  oozed, 
From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed  ; 

But  in  his  pulse  there  was  no  throb. 

Nor  on  his  lips  one  dying  sob  ; 

Sigh,  nor  wrord,  nor  struggling  breath 
Heralded  his  way  to  death : 

Ere  his  very  thought  could  pray 
Unanel’d  he  pass’d  away, 

Without  a hope  from  mercy’s  aid,— 

To  the  last — a Renegade.6 

XXVIII. 

Fearfully  the  yell  arose  * 

Of  his  followers,  and  his  foes ; 

These  in  joy,  in  fury  those  : 7 
Then  again  in  conflict  mixing, 

Clashing  swords,  and  spears  transfixing 
Interchanged  the  blow  and  thrust. 

Hurling  warriors  in  the  dust. 

Street  by  street,  and  foot  by  foot, 

Still  Minotti  dares  dispute 
The  latest  portion  of  the  land 
Left  beneath  his  high  command  ; 

With  him,  aiding  heart  and  hand. 

The  remnant  of  his  gallant  band. 

Still  the  church  is  tenable, 

Whence  issued  late  the  fatal  ball, 

That  half  avenged  the  city’s  fall, 

When  Alp,  her  fierce  assailant,  fell : 

Thither  bending  sternly  back. 

They  leave  before  a bloody  track  ; 

And,  with  their  faces  to  the  foe, 

Dealing  wounds  with  every  blow,8 
The  chief,  and  his  retreating  train, 

Join  to  those  within  the  fane  ; 

There  they  yet  may  breathe  awhile, 

Shelter’d  by  the  massy  pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief  breathing-time  ! the  turban’d  host, 
With  adding  ranks  and  raging  boast, 


force  to  the  objections  made  against  such  characters  as  the  Corsair, 
Lara,  the  Giaour,  Alp,  &c.  than  belongs  to  them.  The  incidents, 
habits,  &c.  are  much  too  remote  from  modern  and  European  life  to 
act  as  mischievous  examples  to  others;  while,  under xthe  given 
circumstances,  the  splendour  of  imagery,  beauty  and  tenderness  of 
sentiment,  and  extraordinary  strength  and  felicity  oflanguage,  ate 
applicable  to  human  nature  at  all  times,  and  in  all  countries,  and 
convey  to  the  best  faculties  of  the  reader’s  mind  an  impulse  which 
j elevates,  refines,  instructs,  and  enchants,  with  the  noblest  and 
I purest  of  all  pleasures.— Sir  E.  Brydges.] 

(7)  [“These  in  rage,  in  triumph  those.” — MS.] 

(8)  [Dealing  death  with  every  blow. — Gifford.] 

s 


130 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Press  onwards  with  such  strength  and  heat, 
Their  numbers  balk  their  own  retreat ; 

Bor  narrow  the  way  that  led  to  the  spot 
Where  still  the  Christians  yielded  not ; 

And  the  foremost,  if  fearful,  may  vainly  try 
Through  the  massy  column  to  turn  and  fly  ; 

They  perforce  must  do  or  die. 

They  die  ; but  ere  their  eyes  could  close. 
Avengers  o’er  their  bodies  rose ; 

Fresh  and  furious,  fast  they  fill 
The  ranks  unthiim’d,  though  slaughter’d  still ; 
And  faint  the  weary  Christians  wax 
Before  the  still  renew’d  attacks  : 

And  now  the  Othmans  gain  the  gate ; 

Still  resists  its  iron  weight, 

And  still,  all  deadly  aim’d  and  hot, 

From  every  crevice  comes  the  shot ; 

From  every  shatter’d  window  pour 
The  volleys  of  the  sulphurous  shower ; 

But  the  portal  wavering  grows  and  weak — 

The  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak — 

It  bends — it  falls — and  all  is  o’er ; 

Lost  Corinth  may  resist  no  more  ! 

XXX. 

Darkly,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 

Minotti  stood  o’er  the  all  ar  stone : 

Madonna’s  face  upon  him  shone, 

Painted  in  heavenly  hues  above, 

With  eyes  of  light  and  looks  of  love. 

And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 
To  fix  our  thoughts  on  things  divine, 

When  pictured  there,  we  kneeling  see 
Her,  and  tne  boy-God  on  her  knee, 

Smiling  sweetly  on  each  prayer 
To  heaven,  as  if  to  waft  it  there. 

Still  she  smiled  ; even  now  she  smiles, 

Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles : 
Minotti  lifted  his  aged  eye, 

And  made  the  sign  of  a cross  with  a sigh, 

Then  seized  a torch  which  blazed  thereby ; 

And  still  he  stood,  while,  with  steel  and  flame, 
Inward  and  onward  the  Mussulman  came. 

XXXI. 

The  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone 
Contain’d  the  dead  of  ages  gone ; 

Tueir  names  were  on  the  graven  floor, 

But  now  illegible  with  gore  ; 

The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 
The  varied  marble’s  veins  diffuse, 

Were  smear’d,  and  slippery — stain’d,  and  strown 
With  broken  swords,  and  helms  o’ertnrown  : 
There  were  dead  above,  and  the  dead  below 
Lay  cold  in  many  a coffin’d  row ; 

You  might  see  them  piled  in  sable  state. 

By  a pale  light  through  a gloomy  grate  ; 

But  War  had  enter’d  their  dark  caves. 

And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 
Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 
In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead : 

Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 
The  Christians’  chiefest  magazine  ; 

To  these  a late-form’d  train  now  led, 


(11  t“Oh,  hut  it  made  a glorious  show!!!"  Out. — Gif- 

na&] 


Minotti’s  last  and  stern  resource 
Against  the  foe’s  o’erwlielming  force. 

XXXI 1. 

The  foe  came  on,  and  few  remain 
To  strive,  and  those  must  strive  in  vain  : 

For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  shake 
The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake, 

With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead, 

And  lop  the  already  lifeless  head, 

And  fell  the  statues  from  their  niche, 

And  spoil  the  shrines  of  offerings  rich, 

And  from  each  other’s  rude  hands  wrest 
The  silver  vessels  saints  had  bless’ d. 

To  the  high  altar  on  they  go  ; 

Oh,  but  ft  made  a glorious  show  ! 1 
On  its  table  still  behold 
The  cup  of  consecrated  gold ; 

Massy  and  deep,  a glittering  prize, 

Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderers’  eyes  : 

That  morn  it  held  the  holy  wine, 

Converted  by  Christ  to  his  blood  so  divine. 

Which  his  worshippers  drank  at  the  break  of  day 
To  shrive  their  souls  ere  they  join’d  in  the  fray 
Still  a few  drops  within  it  lay  ; 

And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 
Twelve  lofty  lamps,  in  splendid  row, 

From  the  purest  metal  cast ; 

A spoil — the  richest,  and  the  last. 

XXXIII. 

So  near  they  came,  the  nearest  stretch’d 
To  grasp  the  spoil  he  almost  reach’d. 

When  old  Minotti’s  hand 
Touch’d  with  the  torch  the  train — 

’Tis  fired ! 

Spire,  vaults,  the  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain, 

The  turban’ d victors,  the  Christian  band. 

All  that  of  living  or  dead  remain, 

Hurl’d  on  high  with  the  shiver’d  lane. 

In  one  wild  roar  expir’d  ! 

The  shatter’d  town — the  walls  thrown  down — 
The  waves  a moment  backward  bent— 

The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent, 

As  if  an  earthquake  pass’d — 

The  thousand  shapeless  things  all  driven 
In  cloud  and  flame  athwart  the  heaven, 

Bv  that  tremendous  blast — 

Proclaim’d  the  desperate  conflict  o’er 
On  that  too  long  afflicted  shore  : 2 
Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 
All  that  mingled  there  below  : 

Many  a tall  and  goodly  man, 

Scorch’d  and  shrivel! u.  to  a span 
When  he  fell  to  earth  again 
Like  a cinder  strew’d  the  plain : 

Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain ; 

Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which  received  the  sprini'.** 
With  a thousand  circling  wrinkles  ; 

Some  fell  on  the  shore,  but,  far  away, 

Scatter’d  o’er  the  isthmus  lav  ; 

Christian  or  Moslem,  which  be  they  ? 

Let  their  mothers  see  and  say  ! 

Wrhen  in  cradled  rest  they  lay, 

And  each  nursing  mother  smiled 
On  the  sweet  sleep  of  her  child. 


(2)  [Strike  out  from  “Up  to  the  sky ,” &c.  to  “All  black-*  i 
there  and  reeking  lay.” — Despicable  stuff.— Gifford.] 


fARISINA. 


131 


Little  deem’d  she  such  a day 
Would  rend  those  tender  limbs  away 
Not  the  matrons  that  them  bore 
Could  discern  their  offspring  more ; 

That  one  moment  left  no  trace 
More  of  human  form  or  face 
Save  a scatter’d  scalp  or  bone  : 

And  down  came  blazing  rafters,  strown 
Around,  and  many  a falling  stone. 
Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay, 

All  blacken’d  there  and  reeking  lay. 

All  the  living  things  that  heard 
That  deadly  earth-shock  disappeared  : 
The  wild  birds  flew ; the  wild  dogs  fled. 
And  howling  left  the  unburied  dead ; 1 
The  camels  from  their  keepers  broke  : 
The  distant  steer  forsook  the  yoke — 


The  neaier  steed  plung’d  o’er  the  plain, 
And  burst  his  girth,  and  tore  nis  rein  ; 
The  bull-frog’s  note,  from  out  the  marsh, 
Deep-mouth’ d arose,  and  doubly  harsh  •> 
The  wolves  yell’d  on  the  cavern’ d hill 
Where  echo  roll’d  in  thunder  still ; 

The  jackal’s  troop,  in  gather’d  cry,2 
Bay’d  from  afar  complainingly, 

With  a mix’d  and  mournful  sound, 

Like  crying  babe,  and  beaten  hound : 3 
With  sudden  wing,  and  ruffled  breast, 
The  eagle  left  his  rocky  nest, 

And  mounted  nearer  to  the  sun, 

The  clouds  beneath  him  seem’d  so  dun  ; 
Their  smoke  assail’d  his  startled  beak, 
And  made  him  higher  soar  and  shriek — 
Thus  was  Corinth  lost  and  won ! 4 5 


ipart^tna* 


TO 

SCROPE  BERDMORE  DAVIES,  ESQ. 

THE  FOLLOWING  POEM  IS  INSCRIBED, 

BT  ONE  WHO  HAS  LONG  ADMIRED  HIS  TALENTS  AND  VALUED  HIS  FRIENDSHTT- 


January  22,  1816. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  poem  is  grounded  on  a circumstance 
mentioned  in  Gibbon’s  “ Antiquities  of  the  House  of 
Brunswick.”  I am  aware,  that  in  modern  times  the 


delicacy  or  fastidiousness  of  the  reader  may  deem 
such  subjects  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  poetry.  The 
Greek  dramatists,  and  some  of  the  best  of  our  old 
English  writers,  were  of  a different  opinion : as 
Alfleri  and  Schiller  have  also  been,  m^e  recently, 


(1)  [Omit  the  next  six  lines.— Gifford.] 

(2)  I believe  I have  taken  a poetical  licence  to  transplant  the 
lackal  from  Asia.  In  Greece  I never  saw  nor  heard  these  animals ; 
but  among  the  ruins  of  Ephesus  I have  heard  them  by  hundreas. 
They  haunt  ruins  and  follow  armies. 

(3)  [Leave  out  this  couplet. — Gifford.] 

(4'>  [The  “ Siege  of  Corinth,”  though  written,  perhaps,  with  too 
visible  an  effort,  and  not  very  well  harmonized  in  all  its  parts,  can- 
not but  be  regarded  as  a magnificent  composition.  There  is  loss 
misanthropy  in  it  than  in  any  of  the  rest ; and  the  interest  is  made 
up  of  alternate  represensations  of  soft  and  solemn  scenes  and 
emotions,  and  of  the  tumult,  and  terrors,  and  intoxication  of  war. 
These  opposite  pictures  are,  perhaps,  too  violently  contrasted,  and, 
in  some  parts,  too  harshly  coloured ; but  they  are  in  general  exqui- 
sitely designed,  and  executed  with  the  utmost  spirit  and  energy.— 
Jeffrey.] 

(5)  [This  poem,  perhaps  the  most  exquisitely  versified  one  that 
ever  the  author  produced,  was  written  in  London  in  the  autumn  of 
1815,  and  published  in  February,  1816.  Although  the  beauties  of 
it  were  universally  acknowledged,  a«d  fragments  of  'ts  music  ere 
long  on  every  lip,  the  nature  of  the  subject  prevented  from  being 
dwelt  upon  at  much  length  in  the  critical  journals  of  the  time  > 
®ost  of  which  were  content  to  record,  generally,  their  regret  that 
to  great  a poet  should  have  permitted  himself,  by  awakening 
sympathy  for  a pair  of  incestuous  lovers,  to  become,  in  some  sort, 
the  apologist  of  their  sin.  An  anonymous  writer,  in  “ Blackwood  s 
Magazine,”  seems,  however,  to  have  suggested  some  particulars,  in 


the  execution  of  the  story,  which  ought  to  be  taken  into  consi- 
deration, before  we  rashly  class  Lord  Byron  with  those  poetical 
offenders,  who  have  bent  their  powers  “ to  divest  incest  of  its 
hereditary  horrors.”  “ In  Parisina,”  says  this  critic,  we  are 
scarcely  permitted  to  have  a single  glance  at  the  guilt,  before  our 
attention  is  rivetted  upon  the  punishment : .we. haye  ^Mcely  h^ 
time  to  condemn,  within  our  own  hearts,  the  sinning,  though  injured 
son,  when — 

‘ For  a departing  being  s soul 
The  death-hymn  peals  and  the  hollow  bells  knoll 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 

Kneeling  at  the  Friars  knee; 

Sad  to  hear — and  piteous  to  see— 

Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground, 

With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around— 

And  the  headsman  with  his  bare  arm  ready, 

That  the  blow  may  be  both  swift  and  steady, 

Feels  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true — 

Since  he  set  its  edge  anew : .... 

While  the  crowd  in  a speechless  circle  gather 
To  see  the  Son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  Father  1 
The  fatal  guilt  of  the  Princess  is  in  like  manner  swallowed  up  :n 
the  dreary  contemplation  of  her  uncertain  fate.  \\e  forbear  to 
think  of  her  as  an  adulteress,  after  we  have  heard  that  koma 
voice1  which  is  sent  up  to  heaven  at  the  death  of  her  paramour— 

‘ Whatsoe’er  its  end  below, 

Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe. 

“Not  only  has  Lord  Byron  avoided  all  the  details  of  his  unr.al- 


132 


LOUD  BYRON’S  V\  ORES. 


upon  the  Continent.  The  following  extract  will  ex- 
plain the  facts  on  which  the  story  is  founded.  The 
name  of  Azo  is  substituted  for  Nicholas,  as  more 
metrical. 

“ Under  the  reign  of  Nicholas  III.  Ferrara  was 
polluted  with  a domestic  tragedy.  By  the  testi- 
mony of  an  attendant,  and  his  own  observation,  the 
Marquis  of  Este  discovered  the  incestuoui  loves  of 
his  wife  Tarisina,  and  Hugo  his  bastard  son,  a beau- 
tiful and  valiant  youth.  They  were  beheaded  in  the 
castle  by  the  sentence  of  a father  and  husband,  who 
published  his  shame,  and  survived  their  execution.1 * 
He  was  unfortunate,  if  they  were  guilty  : if  they 
were  innocent,  he  was  still  more  unfortunate;  nor 
is  there  any  possible  situation  in  which  I can  sin- 
cerely approve  the  last  act  of  the  justice  of  a 
parent.”  — Gibbon’s  Miscellaneous  Works,  vol.  iii. 
p.  470. 


lowed  love,  he  has  also  contrived  to  mingle  in  the  very  incest 
which  he  condemns  the  idea  of  retribution  ; and  our  horror  for  the 
pn  of  Hugo  is  diminished  by  our  belief  that  it  was  brought  about 
by  some  strange  and  super-human  fatalism,  to  revenge  the  ruin  of 
Bianca.  That  gloom  of  righteous  visitation,  which  invests,  in  the 
oid  Greek  tragedies,  the  fated  house  of  Atreus,  seems  here  to  im- 
pend with  some  portion  of  its  ancient  horror  over  the  line  of  Este. 
We  hear  in  the  language  of  Hugo,  the  voice  of  the  same  prophetic 
Bolcmnity  which  announced  to  Agamemnon,  in  the  very  moment 
of  his  triumph,  the  approaching  and  inevitable  darkness  of  his 
fate : — 

‘The  gather’d  guilt  of  elder  times 
Shall  reproduce  itself  in  crimes ; 

There  is  a day  of  vengeance  still, 

Linger  it  may — but  come  it  will.’ 

“ That  awful  chorus  does  not,  unless  we  be  greatly  mistaken, 
leave  an  impression  of  destiny  upon  the  mind  more  powerful  than 
that  which  rushed  on  the  troubled  spirit  of  Azo,  when  he  heard  the 
speech  cf  Hugo  in  his  hall  of  judgment: — 

* Thou  giv.oai,,  and  may’st  resume  my  breath, 

A gift  for  which  I thank  thee  not; 

Nor  are  my  mother’s  wrongs  forgot, 

Her  slighted  love  and  ruin’d  name, 

Her  offspring's  heritage  of  shame  ’” 

We  shall  have  occasion  to  recur  to  this  subject  when  we  reach 
our  author’s  “ Manfred.”  The  facts  on  which  the  present  poem 
was  grounded  are  thus  given  in  Frizzi’s  History  of  Ferrara:  — 
“This  turned  out  a calamitous  year  for  the  people  of  Ferrara; 
for  there  occurred  a very  tragical  event  in  the  court  of  their 
sovereign.  Our  annals,  both  printed  and  in  manuscript,  with  the 
exception  of  the  unpolished  and  negligent  work  of  Sardi,  and  one 
other,  have  given  the  following  relation  of  it, — from  which,  how- 
ever, are  rejected  many  details,  and  especially  the  narrative  of 
Bandelli,  who  wrote  a century  afterwards,  and  who  does  not  accord 
with  the  contemporary  historians. 

“ By  the  above-mentioned  Stella  dell’  Assassino,  the  Marquis,  in 
the  year  1405,  had  a son  called  Ugo.  a beautiful  and  ingenuous 
youth.  Parisina  Malatesta,  second  wife  of  Niccolo,  like  the  gene- 
rality of  step-mothers,  treated  him  with  little  kindness,  to  the 
infinite  regret  of  the  Marquis,  who  regarded  him  with  fond  par- 
tiality. One  day  she  asked  leave  of  her  husband  to  undertake  a 
certain  journey,  to  which  he  consented,  but  upon  condition  that 
Ugo  should  bear  her  company ; for  he  hoped  by  these  means  to 
induce  her,  in  the  end,  to  lay  aside  the  obstinate  aversion  which 
she  had  conceived  against  him.  And  indeed  his  intent  was  accom- 
plished but  too  well,  since,  during  the  journey,  she  not  only  divested 
herself  of  all  her  hatred,  but  fell  into  the  opposite  extreme.  After 
their  return,  the  Marquis  had  no  longer  any  occasion  to  renew  his 
former  reproofs.  It  happened  one  day  that  a servant  of  the  Mar- 
quis, named  Eoese,  or,  as  some  call  him,  Giorgio,  passing  before 
the  apartments  of  Parisina,  saw  going  out  from  them  one  of  her 
chamber-maids,  all  terrified  and  in  tears.  Asking  the  reason,  she 
told  him  that  her  mistress,  for  sime  slight  offence,  had  been  beat- 
ing her;  and,  giving  vent  to  lur  rage,  she  added,  that  she  could 
easily  be  revenged,  if  she  ch/>se  to  make  known  the  criminal 
familiarity  which  subsisted  between  Parisina  and  her  step-son. 
The  servant  took  note  of  the  words,  and  related  them  to  his  master. 
He  was  astounded  thereat,  hut  scarcely  believing  his  ears,  he 
assured  himself  of  the  fact,  alas!  too  clearly,  on  the  18th  of  May, 
by  looking  through  a hole  made  in  th°  ceiling  of  his  wife’s  chamber. 
Instantly  he  broke  into  a furious  rage,  and  arrested  both  of  them, 
together  with  Aldobrandino  ltangoni,  of  Modena,  her  gentleman, 
and  also,  as  some  say,  two  of  the  women  of  her  chamber,  as  abet- 
tors of  this  sinful  act.  He  ordered  them  tc  >e  brought  to  a hasty 
trial,  desiring  the  judges  to  pronounce  sentei..  ‘n  the  accustomed 
forms  t ?oi"  the  culprits.  This  sentence  was  ueath.  Some  there 


^artsma. 


i. 

It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 
The  nightingale’s  high  note  is  heart  ; 
It  is  the  hour  when  lovers’  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper’d  word ; 3 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 

Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 

Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 

A nd  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 

A nd  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 

And  on  the  leaf  a browner  hue, 

And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 

So  softly  dark,  and  darkiy  pure, 


were  that  bestirred  themselves  in  favour  of  the  delinquents,  and. 
amongst  others,  Ugoccion  Contrario,  who  was  all  powerful  with 
Niccolo,  and  also  his  aged  and  much  deserving  minister  Alberta 
dal  Sale-  Both  of  these,  their  tears  flowing  down  their  cheeks 
and  uprn  their  knees,  implored  him  for  mercy;  adducing  whatever 
reasons  they  could  suggest  for  sparing  the  offenders,  besides  those 
motives  of  honour  and  decency  which  might  persuade  him  to  con- 
ceal from  the  public  so  scandalous  a deed.  But  his  rage  made  him 
inflexible,  and,  on  the  instant,  he  commanded  that  the  sentence 
shculd  be  put  in  execution. 

“It  was,  then,  in  the  prisons  of  the  castle,  and  exactly  in  those 
frightful  dungeons  which  a.e  seen  at  this  day  beneath  the  chamber 
called  the  Aurora,  at  the  foot  of  the  Lion’s  tower,  at  the  top  of  the 
street  Giovecca,  that  on  the  night  of  the  21stof  May  were  beheaded, 
first,  Ugo,  and  afterwards  Parisina.  Zoese,  he  that  accused  her, 
conducted  the  latter  under  his  arm  to  the  place  of  punishment. 
She,  all  along,  fancied  that  she  was  to  be  thrown  into  a pit,  and 
asked  at  every  step,  whether  she  was  yet  come  to  the  spot?  She 
was  told  that  her  punishment  was  the  axe.  She  inquired  what  was 
become  of  Ugo,  and  received  for  answer,  that  he  was  aneady 
dead  ; at  the  which,  sighing  grievously,  she  exclaimed,  ‘ Now,  then, 

I wish  not  myself  to  live;’  and,  being  come  to  the  block,  she 
stripped  herself  with  her  own  hands  of  all  her  ornaments,  and 
wrapping  a cloth  round  her  head,  submitted  to  the  fatal  stroke, 
which  terminated  the  cruel  scene.  The  same  was  done  with  Ran- 
goni,  who,  together  with  the  others,  according  to  two  calendars  in 
the  library  of  St.  Francesco,  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  that 
convent.  Nothing  else  is  known  respecting  the  women. 

“ The  Marquis  kept  watch  the  whole  of  that  dreadful  night,  and, 
as  he  was  walking  backwards  and  forwards,  inquired  of  the  captain 
of  the  castle  if  Ugo  was  dead  yet?  who  answered  him,  Yes.  He 
then  gave  himself  up  to  the  most  desperate  lamentations,  exclaim- 
ing, ‘ Oh ! that  I too  were  dead,  since  I have  been  hurried  on  to 
resolve  thus  against  my  own  Ugo!’  And  then  gnawing  with  his 
teeth  a cane  which  he  had  in  his  hand,  he  passed  the  rest  of  the 
night  in  sighs  and  in  tears,  calling  frequently  upon  his  own  dear 
Ugo.  On  the  following  day,  calling  to  mind  that  it  would  be 
necessary  to  make  public  his  justification,  seeing  that  the  trans- 
action could  not  be  kept  secret,  he  ordered  the  narrative  to  be 
drawn  out  upon  paper,  and  sent  it  to  all  the  courts  of  Italy. 

“On  receiving  this  advice,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  Francesco  Fos- 
cari,  gave  orders,  but  without  publishing  his  reasons,  that  stop 
should  be  put  to  the  preparations  for  a tournament,  which,  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Marquis,  and  at  the  expense  of  the  city  of 
Padua,  was  about  to  take  place,  in  the  square  of  St.  Mark,  in 
order  to  celebrate  his  advancement  to  the  ducal  chair. 

“The  Marquis,  in  addition  to  what  he  had' already  done,  from 
some  unaccountable  burst  of  vengeance,  commanded  that  as  many 
of  the  married  women  as  were  well  known  to  him  to  be  faithless, 
like  his  Parisina,  should,  like  her,  be  beheaded.  Amongst  others, 
Barberina,  or,  as  some  call  her,  Laodamia  Romei,  wife  of  the  court 
judge,  underwent  this  sentence,  at  the  usual  place  of  execution; 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  quarter  of  St.  Giacomo,  opposite  the  present 
fortress,  beyond  St.  Paul’s.  It  cannot  be  fold  how  strange  appeared 
this  proceeding  in  a prince,  who,  considering  his  own  disposition, 
should,  as  it  seemed,  have  been  in  such  cases  most  indulgent. 
Some,  however,  there  were  who  did  not  fail  to  commend  him.” 

The  above  passage  of  Frizzi  was  translated  by  Lord  Byron,  and 
formed  a closing  note  to  the  original  edition  of  “ Parisina.”] 

(1)  [“  Ferrara  is  much  decayed  and  depopulated;  but  the  castle 
still  exists  entire ; and  I saw  the  court  where  Parisina  and  Huge 
were  beheaded,  according  to  the  annal  of  Gibbon.” — Byron  Letter*  * *, 
1817. J 

(2)  [The  opening  verses,  though  soft  and  voluptuous,  are  tinged 
with  the  same  shade  of  sorrow  which  gives  character  and  harmonj 

o the  whole  poem. — Jeffrey.] 


PAUIS1NA. 


133 


Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 

A 3 twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 


ii. 

But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 
That  Parisina  leaves  her  hall, 

And  it  is  not  to  gaze  on  the  heavenly  light 
That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night ; 

And  if  she  sits  in  Este’s  bower, 

’Tis  not  for  the  sake  of  its  full-blown  flower— 

She  listens— but  not  for  the  nightingale— 

Though  her  ear  expects  as  soft  a tale. 

There  glides  a step  through  the  foliage  thick, 

And  her  cheek  grows  pale— and  her  heart  beats  quick. 
Theic  whispers  a voice  through  the  rustling  leaves, 
And  her  blush  returns,  and  her  bosom  heaves  : 

A moment  more— and  they  shall  meet— 

‘Tis  past — her  lover ’s  ut  her  feet. 


in. 

And  what  unto  them  is  the  world  beside. 
With  all  its  change  of  time  and  tide  ? 

Its  living  things — its  earth  and  sky — 

Are  nothing  to  their  mind  and  eye. 

And  heedless  as  the  dead  are  they 
Of  aught  around,  above,  beneath ; 

As  if  all  else  had  pass’d  away, 

They  only  for  each  other  breathe ; 

Their  very  sighs  are  full  of  joy 
So  deep,  that  did  it  not  decay, 

That  happy  madness  would  destroy 
The  hearts  which  feel  its  fiery  sway  : 

Of  guilt,  of  peril,  do  they  deem 
In  that  tumultuous  tender  dream  ? 

Who  that  have  felt  that  passion’s  power, 
Or  ’paused,  or  fear’d  in  such  an  hour  ? 

Or  thought  how  brief  such  moments  last  ? 
But  yet — they  are  already  past ! 

Alas  ! we  must  a wake  before 
We  know  such  vision  comes  no  more. 


IV. 

With  many  a lingering  look  they  leave 
The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  past ; 

And  though  they  hope,  and  vow,  they  grieve, 
As  if  that  parting  weie  die  last, 
hhe  frequent  sigh— the  long  embrace — 

The  lip  that  there  would  cling  for  ever. 
While  gleams  on  Parisina’s  face 
The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forgive  her, 
As  if  each  calmly  conscious  star 
Beheld  her  frailty  from  afar — 

The  frequent  sigh,  the  long  embrace, 

Yet  binds  them  to  their  try  sting- place. 

But  it  must  come,  and  they  must  part 
In  fearful  heaviness  of  heart, 

With  all  the  deep  and  shuddering  chill 
Which  follows  fast  the  deeds  of  ill. 


v. 

And  Hugo  is  gone  to  his  lonely  bed, 
To  covet  there  another’s  bride , 
But  she  must  lay  her  conscious  head 
A husband’s  trusting  heart  beside. 


But  fever’d  in  her  sleep  she  seems, 

And  red  her  cheek  with  troubled  dreams, 

And  mutters  she  in  her  unrest 
A name  she  dare  not  breathe  by  day, 

And  clasps  her  lord  unto  the  breast 
Which  pants  for  one  away : 

And  he  to  that  embrace  awakes, 

And,  happy  in  the  thought,  mistakes 
That  dreaming  sigh,  and  warm  caress, 

Eor  such  as  he  was  wont  to  bless ; 

And  could  in  very  fondness  weep 
O’er  her  who  loves  him  even  in  sleep. 

VI. 

He  clasp’d  her  sleeping  to  his  heart,, 

And  listen’d  to  each  broken  word  : 

He  hears — Why  doth  Prince  Azo  start. 

As  if  the  Archangel’s  voice  he  heard  ? 

And  well  he  may — a deeper  doom 
Could  scarcely  thunder  o’er  his  tomb, 

When  he  shall  wake  to  sleep  no  more, 

And  stand  the  eternal  throne  before. 

And  well  he  may— his  earthly  peace 
Upon  that  sound  is  doom’d  to  cease. 

That  sleeping  whisper  of  a name 
Bespeaks  her  guilt  and  Azo’s  shame. 

And  whose  that  name  ? that  o’er  his  pillow. 
Sounds  fearful  as  the  breaking  billow, 

Which  rolls  the  plank  upon  the  shore, 

And  dashes  on  the  pointed  rock 
The  wretch  who  sinks  to  rise  no  more, — 

So  came  upon  his  soul  the  shock. 

And  whose  that  name  ? ’tis  Hugo’s — his  • 

In  sooth  he  had  not  deem’d  of  this  ! — 

’Tis  Hugo’s, — he,  tlie  child  of  one 
He  loved — his  own  all-evil  son — 

The  offspring  of  his  wayward  youth, 

When  he  betray’d  Bianca’s  truth, 

The  maid  whose  folly  could  confide 
In  him  who  made  her  not  his  bride. 

VII. 

He  pluck’d  his  poniard  in  its  sheath, 

But  sheath’d  it  ere  the  point  was  bare— 
Howe’er  unworthy  now  to  breathe. 

He  could  not  slay  a thing  so  fair — 

At  least,  not  smiling— sleeping — there— 

Nay  more  : — lie  did  not  wake  her  then, 

But  gazed  upon  her  with  a glance 
Which,  had  she  roused  her  from  her  trance. 
Had  frozen  her  sense  to  sleep  again — 

And  o’er  his  brow  the  burning  lamp 
Gleam’d  on  the  dew-drops  big  and  damp. 

She  spake  no  more — but  still  she  slumber’d  - 
While,  in  his  thought,  her  days  are  number’d. 

VIII. 

And  with  the  morn  he  sought,  and  found, 

In  many  a tale  from  those  around, 

The  proof  of  all  he  fear’d  to  know, 

Their  present  guilt,  his  future  woe ; 

The  long-conniving  damsels  seek 

To  save  themselves,  and  w'ould  transfer 
The  guilt — the  shame — the  doom — to  her  : 
Concealment  is  no  more — they  speak 


|1)  The  lines  contained  in  this  section  were  printed  as  set  to 
music  some  time  iince,  but  belonged  to  the  poem  where  they 


now  appear;  the  greater  part  f which  was  composed  prioi 
“Lara.,: 


184 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


All  circumstance  which  may  compel 
.Full  credence  to  the  tale  they  tell : 

And  Azo’s  tortured  heart  and  ear 
Have  nothing  move  to  feel  or  hear. 

IX. 

He  was  not  one  who  brook’d  delay : 

Within  the  chamber  of  his  state, 

The  chief  of  Este’s  ancirtit  sway 
Upon  his  throne  of  judgment  sate ; 

His  nobles  and  his  guards  are  there, — 

Before  him  is  the  sinful  pair; 

Both  young, — and  one  how  passing  fair  ! 

With  swordless  belt,  and  fetter’d  hand, 

Oh,  Christ ! that  thus  a son  should  stand 
Before  a father’s  face  ! 

Yet  thus  must  Hugo  meet  his  sire, 

And  hear  the  sentence  of  his  ire, 

The  tale  of  his  disgrace  ! 

And  yet  he  seems  not  overcome, 

Although,  as  yet,  his  voice  be  dumb. 

x. 

And  still,  and  pale,  and  silently 
Did  Parisina  wait  her  doom  ; 

How  changed  since  last  her  speaking  eye 
Glanced  gladness  round  the  glittering  room, 
Where  high-born  men  were  proud  to  wait — 
Where  Beauty  watch’d  to  imitate 
Her  gentle  voice — her  lovely  mien — 

And  gather  from  her  air  and  gait 
The  graces  of  its  queen  : 

Then, — had  her  eye  in  sorrow  wept, 

A thousand  warriors  forth  had  leapt, 

A thousand  swords  had  sheathless  shone,1 
And  made  her  quarrel  all  their  own. 

Now, — what  is  she  ! and  what  are  they  P 
Can  she  command,  or  these  obey  ? 

All  silent  and  unheeding  now, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  knitting  brow, 

And  folded  arms,  and  freezing  air, 

And  lips  that  scarce  their  scorn  forbear, 

Her  knights  and  dames,  her  court — is  there  : 
And  he,  the  chosen  one,  whose  lance 
Had  yet  been  couch’d  before  her  glance, 

Who — were  his  arm  a moment  free — 

Had  died  or  gain’d  her  liberty  ; 

The  minion  of  his  father’s  bride, — 

He,  too,  is  fetter’d  by  her  side : 

Nor  sees  her  swoln  and  full  eye  swim 
Less  for  her  own  despair  than  him  : 

Those  lids — o’er  which  the  violet  vein 
Wandering,  leaves  a tender  stain, 

Shining  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  e’er  did  softest  kiss  invite — 

Now  seem’d  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade,  the  orbs  below ; 

Which  glance  so  heavily,  and  fill, 

As  tear  on  tear  grows  gathering  still. 

XI. 

And  he  for  her  had  also  wept. 

But  for  the  eyes  that  on  him  gazed  : 

His  sorrow,  if  he  felt  it,  slept ; 

Stern  and  erect  his  brow  was  raised. 


(1)  [A  fugacious  writer  gravely  charges  Lord  Byron  with  para- 
phrasing, in  this  passage,  without  acknowledgment,  Mr.  Burke’s 
well-known  description  of  the  unfortunate  Marie  Antoinette. 
“Verily,”  says  Mr.  Coleridge,  “there  be  amongst  us  a set  of 
oritics.  ho  teem  to  hold,  that  every  possible  though*;  and  image  is 


Whate’cr  the  grief  his  soul  avow’d, 

He  would  not  shrink  before  the  crowd ; 

But  yet  he  dared  not  look  on  her : 
Remembrance  of  the  hours  that  were — 

His  guilt — his  love — his  present  state — 

His  father’s  wrath — all  good  men’s  hate — 
His  earthly,  his  eternal  fate — 

And  hers, — oh,  hers  ! — he  dared  not  throw 
One  look  upon  that  deathlike  brow  ! 

Else  had  his  rising  heart  betray’d 
Remorse  for  all  the  wreck  it  made. 

XII. 

And  Azo  spake : — “ But  yesterday 
I gloried  in  a wife  and  son ; 

That  dream  this  morning  pass’d  away ; 

Ere  day  declines,  I shall  have  none. 

My  life  must  linger  on  alone ; 

Well,— let  that  pass,— there  breathes  not  on* 
Who  would  not  do  as  I have  done : 

Those  ties  are  broken — not  by  me ; 

Let  that  too  pass  ; — the  doom’s  prepared ! 
Hugo,  the  priest  awaits  on  thee, 

And  then — thy  crime’s  reward ! 

Away ! address  thy  prayers  to  Heaven, 

Before  its  evening  stars  are  met — 

Learn  if  thou  Riere  canst  be  forgiven  ; 

Its  mercy  may  absolve  thee  yet. 

But  here,  upon  the  eartli  beneath, 

There  is  no  spot  where  thou  and  I 
Together,  for  an  hour,  could  breathe  : 
Farewell ! I will  not  see  thee  die — 

But  thou,  frail  thing  ! shalt  view  his  head— 
Away  ! I cannot  speak  the  rest : 

Go ! woman  of  the  wanton  breast ; 

Not  I,  but  thou  his  blood  dost  shed : 

Go  ! if  that  sight  thou  canst  outlive, 

And  joy  thee  in  the  life  I give.” 

XIII. 

And  here  stern  Azo  hid  his  face — ■ 

For  on  his  brow  the  swelling  vein 
Throbb’d  as  if  back  upon  his  brain 
The  hot  blood  ebb’d  and  flow’d  again; 

And  therefore  bow’d  he  for  a space, 

And  pass’d  his  shaking  hand  along 
His  eye,  to  veil  it  from  the  throng ; 

While  Hugo  raised  his  chained  hands, 

And  for  a brief  delay  demands 
His  father’s  ear:  the  silent  sire 
Forbids  not  what  his  words  require. 

“ It  is  not  that  I dread  the  death — 

For  thou  hast  seen  me  by  thy  side 
All  redly  through  the  battle  ride, 

And  that  not  once  a useless  brand 
Thy  slaves  have  wrested  from  my  land. 

Hath  shed  more  blood  in  cause  of  thine, 

Than  e’er  can  stain  the  axe  of  mine : 

Thou  gav’st,  and  may’st  resume  my  breath, 
A gift  for  which  I thank  thee  not ; 

Nor  arc  my  mother’s  wrongs  forgot, 

Her  slighted  love  and  ruin’d  name, 

Her  offspring’s  heritage  of  shame ; 


traditional;  who  have  no  notion  that  there  are  such  things.  M 
fountains  in  the  world,  small  as  well  as  great;  and  who  would 
therefore  charitably  derive  every  rill  they  behold  flowing,  froi  i a 
perforation  made  in  some  other  max/a  tank.”] 


PARTSIXA. 


135 


But  she  is  in  the  grave,  where  he, 

Her  son,  thy  rival,  soon  shall  be. 

Her  broken  heart — ray  sever’d  head — 

Shall  witness  for  thee  from  the  dead 
How  trusty  and  how  tender  were 
Thy  youthful  love— paternal  care. 

’Tis  true  that  I have  done  thee  wrong— 

But  wrong  for  wrong  : — this,  deem  d thy  bride, 
The  other  victim  of  thy  pride, 

Thou  know’st  for  me  was  destined  long. 

Thou  saw’st,  and  covetedst  her  charms — 

And  with  thy  very  crime— my  birth, 

Thou  tauntedst  me — as  little  worth ; 

A match  ignoble  for  her  arms, 

Because,  forsooth,  I could  not  claim 
The  lawful  heirship  of  thy  name, 

Nor  sit  on  Este’s  lineal  throne  : 

Yet,  were  a few  short  summers  mine,  _ 

My  name  should  more  than  Este’s  sliine 
With  honours  all  my  own. 

I had  a sword — and  have  a breast 
That  should  have  won  as  b aught 1 2 a crest 
As  ever  waved  along  the  line 
Of  all  these  sovereign  sires  of  thine. 

Not  always  knightly  spurs  are  worn 
The  brightest  by  the  better  born ; 

And  mine  have  lanced  my  courser’s  flank 
Before  proud  chiefs  of  princely  rank. 

When  charging  to  the  cheering  cry 
Of  ‘ Este  and  of  Victory  ! ’ 

I will  not  plead  the  cause  of  crime, 

Nor  sue  thee  to  redeem  from  time 
A few  brief  hours  or  days  that  must 
At  length  roll  o’er  my  reckless  dust 
Such  maddening  moments  as  my  past. 

They  could  not,  and  they  did  not,  last. 

Albeit  my  birth  and.  name  be  base. 

And  thy  nobility  of  race 
Disdain’d  to  deck  a thing  like  me — 

Yet  in  my  lineaments  they  trace 
Some  features  of  my  father’s  face. 

And  in  my  spirit — all  of  thee. 

Erom  thee — this  tamelessness  of  heart — 


From  thee — nay,  wherefore  dost  thou  start  ? — 
From  thee  in  all  their  vigour  came 
My  arm  of  strength,  my  soul  of  flame — 

Thou  didst  not  give  me  life  alone, 

But  all  that  made  me  more  thine  own. 

See  what  thy  guilty  love  hath  done  ! 

Repaid  thee  with  too  like  a son  ! 

I am  no  bastard  in  my  soul, 

For  that,  like  thine,  abhorr’d  control : 

And  for  my  breath,  that  hasty  boon 
Thou  gav’st  and  wilt  resume  so  soon, 

I value  it  no  more  than  thou, 

When  rose  thy  casque  above  thy  brow. 


And  we,  all  side  l j side,  have  striven, 

And  o’er  the  dead  our  coursers  driven  : 

The  past  is  nothing — and  at  last 
The  future  can  but  be  the  past ; 

Yet  would  I that  I then  had  died  ; 

For  though  thou  work’dst  my  mother’s  ill, 
And  made  thy  own  my  destined  bride, 

I feel  thou  art  my  father  still ; 

And,  harsh  as  sounds  thy  hard  decree, 

’Tis  not  unjust,  although  from  thee. 

Begot  in  sin,  to  die  in  shame, 

My  life  begun  and  ends  the  same  : 

As  err’d  the  sire,  so  err’d  the  son, 

And  thou  must  punish  both  in  one. 

My  crime  seems  worst  to  human  view. 

But  God  must  judge  between  us  too !” 

xiv. 

He  ceased — and  stood  with  folded  arms, 

On  which  the  circling  fetters  sounded ; 

And  not  an  ear  but  felt  as  wounded, 

Of  all  the  chiefs  that  there  were  rank’d, 
When  those  dull  chains  in  meeting  clank’  1 ; 
Till  Parisina’s  fatal  charms  2 
Again  attracted  every  eye — 

Would  she  thus  near  him  doom’d  to  die  ! 

She  stood,  I said,  all  pale  and  still. 

The  living  cause  of  Hugo’s  ill : 

Her  eyes  unmoved,  but  full  and  wide, 

Not  once  had  turn’d  to  either  side — 

Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close, 

Or  shade  the  glance  o’er  which  they  rose. 

But  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew — - 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  she  stood 
As  ice  were  in  her  curdled  blood  ; 

But  every  now  and  then  a tear 
So  large  and  slowly  gather’d  slid 
From  the  long  dark  fringe  of  that  fair  lid. 
It  was  a thing  to  see,  not  hear ! . 

And  those  who  saw,  it  did  surprise. 

Such  drops  could  fall  from  human  eyes. 

To  speak  she  thought — the  imperfect  note 
Was  choked  within  her  swelling  throat, 

Yet  seem’d  in  that  low  hollow  groan 
Her  whole  heart  gushing  in  the  tone. 

It  ceased — again  she  thought  to  speak, 

Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shriek, 51 
And  to  the  earth  she  fell  like  stone 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o’ertlirown. 

More  like  a thing  that  ne’er  had  life, — 

A monument  of  Azo’s  wife, — 

Than  her,  that  living  guilty  thing, 

Whose  every  passion  was  a sting, 

Which  urged  to  guilt,  but  could  not  bear 
That  guilt’s  detection  and  despair. 


(1)  Haught— haughty.— “ Away,  haught  man,  thou  art  insulting 

m2.” — Shakspeare. 

(2)  [“1  sent  for  ‘ Marmion,’  because  it  occurred  to  me,  there 
■night  be  a resemblance  between  part  of  ‘ Parisina’  and  a similar 
scene  in  the  second  canto  of  ‘ Marmion.’  I fear  there  is,  though  1 
never  thought  of  it  before,  and  could  hardly  wish  to  imitate  that 
which  is  inimitable.  I wish  you  would  ask  Mr.  Gifford  whether  I 
>ught  to  say  any  thing  upon  it.  I had  completed  the  story  on  the 
passage  from  Gibbon,  which  indeed  leads  to  a like  scene  naturally, 
without  a thought  of  the  kind  : but  it  comes  upon  me  not  very 
comfortably.”—  Lord  B.  to  Mr.  M.  Feb.  3,  1816.— The  scene  re- 
ferred to  is  the  one  in  which  Constance  de  Beverley  appears  before 
the  conclave — 


“ Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 

Bespoke  a matchless  constancy ; 

And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale, 

That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 

And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 

And  of  her  bosom,  warranted, 

That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks, 

You  must  have  thought  a form  of  wax, 

Wrought  to  the  very  life,  was  there — 

So  still  she  was,  so  pale  so  fair.”] 

(3)  [The  arraignment  and  condem na'.on  of  the  guilty  pair,  with 
the  bold,  high-toned,  and  yet  tempe  ate  defence  of  the  son,  are 
managed  with  considerable  talent ; and  yet  are  less  touching  tbaa 
the  mute  despair  of  the  fallen  beauty,  who  stands  in  speechless 
agony  before  him. — Jeffrey.] 


136 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


But  yet  she  lived — and  all  too  soon 
Recover’d  from  that  death-like  swoon — 

But  scarce  to  reason — every  sense 
Had  been  o’erstrung  by  pangs  intense ; 

And  each  frail  fibre  of  her  brain 
(As  bowstrings,  when  relax’d  by  rain, 

The  erring  arrow  launch  aside) 

Sent  forth  her  thoughts  all  wild  and  wide — 

The  past  a blank,  the  future  black, 

With  glimpses  of  a dreary  track, 

Like  lightning  on  the  desert  path, 

When  midnight  storms  are  mustering  wrath. 

She  fear’d — she  felt  that  something  ill 
Lay  on  her  soul,  so  deep  and  chill — - 
That  there  was  sin  and  shame  she  knew  ; 

That  some  one  was  to  die — but  who  ? 

She  had  forgotten : — did  she  breathe  ? 

Could  this  be  still  the  earth  beneath. 

The  sky  above,  and  men  around  ; 

Or  were  they  fiends  who  now  so  frown’d 
On  one,  before  whose  eyes  each  eye 
Till  then  had  smiled  in  sympathy  ? 

All  was  confused  and  undefined 
To  her  all-iarr’d  and  wandering  mind  ; 

A chaos  of  wild  hopes  and  fears  : 

And  now  in  laughter,  now  in  tears, 

But  madly  still  hi  each  extreme, 

She  strove  with  that  convulsive  dream  ; 

For  so  it  seem’d  on  her  to  break  : 

Oh  ! vainly  must  she  strive  to  wake  ! 

xv. 

The  Convent  bells  are  ringing, 

But  mournfully  and  slow  ; 

In  the  grey  square  turret  swinging, 

With  a deep  sound,  to  and  fro. 

Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go  ! 

Hark  ! the  hymn  is  singing — 

The  song  for  the  dead  below, 

Or  the  living  who  shortly  shall  be  so  ! 

For  a departing  being’s  soul 

The  death-hymn  peals  and  the  hollow  bells  knoll : 

He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 

Kneeling  at  the  friar’s  knee  ; 

Sad  to  hear— and  piteous  to  see — 

Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground, 

With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around — 
And  the  headsman  with  his  bare  arm  ready, 

That  the  blow  may  be  both  swift  and  steady, 
Feels  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true — 

Since  he  set  its  edge  anew  : 

While  the  crowd  in  speechless  circle  gather 
Tc  see  the  Son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  Father. 

XVI. 

I*  it  i lovely  hour  as  yet 
Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set, 

Which  rose  upon  that  heavy  day, 

And  mock’d  it  with  his  ste?,diest  ray; 

And  his  evening  beams  are  shed 
Full  on  Hugo’s  fated  head, 

As  his  last  confession  pouring 
To  the  monk,  his  doom  deploring 


In  penitential  hdiness, 

He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bless 
With  absolution  such  as  may 
Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away. 

That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten 
As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen— 

A.nd  the  rings  of  chestnut  hair 
Curl’d  half  down  his  neck  so  bare  ; 

But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 
Upon  the  axe  which  near  him  shone 

With  a clear  and  ghastly  glitter 

Oh ! that  parting  hour  was  bitter ! 

Even  the  stern  stood  chill’d  with  awe : 

Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law — <• 

Yet  they  shudder’d  as  they  saw. 

XVII. 

The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 
Of  that  false  son — and  daring  iovr*  • 

His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted. 

His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted — 

His  mantling  cloak  before  was  stripp’d, 

Ilis  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipp’d ; 
’Tis  done — all  closely  are  they  shorn — 

The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn — 

The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave — 

Must  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave. 

Even  that  must  now  be  thrown  aside. 

And  o’er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied; 

But  no — that  last  indignity 

Shall  ne’er  approach  his  haughty  eye, 

All  feelings  seemingly  subdued, 

In  deep  disdain  were  half  renew’d, 

When  headsman’s  hands  nrepared  to  bind 
Those  eyes  which  would  not  brook  such  blind 
As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 

“ No — yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath — 
These  hands  are  chain’d,  but  let  me  die 
At  least  with  an  unshackled  eye — 

Strike  : ” — and  as  the  word  he  said, 

Upon  the  block  he  bow’d  his  head; 

These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke  : 

“ Strike  — and  flashing  fell  the  stroke — 

Roll’d  the  head — and,  gushing,  sunk 
Back  the  stain’d  and  heaving  trunk, 

In  the  dust,  w'hich  each  deep  vein 
Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain ; 

His  eyes  and  lips  a moment  quiver, 

Convulsed  and  quick — then  fix  for  evt 
He  died,  as  erring  man  should  die, 

Without  display,  without  parade ; 

Meekly  had  he  bow’d  and  pray’d, 

As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid, 

Nor  desperate  of  all  hope  on  high. 

And  while  before  the  prior  kneeling, 

His  heart  was  wean’d  from  earthly  feeling ; 

His  wrathful  sire — his  paramour 
What  were  they  in  such  an  hour  ? 

No  more  reproach— no  more  despair; 

No  thought  but  heaven — no  word  but  prayer — 
Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke, 

When,  bared  to  meet  the  headsman’s  stroke. 
He  claim’d  to  die  with  eyes  unbound, 

His  sole  adieu  to  those  around.1 


(1)  [The  grand  part  of  this  poem  is  that  which  describes  the 
•xecutioi  of  the  ri\  »1  son  ; and  in  which,  though  ti.-ve  is  no  pomp, 
either  c-f  language  ar  of  sentiment,  and  though  every  thing  is 


conceived  and  expressed  with  the  utmost  simplicity  and  dirtetnea* 
there  is  a spirit  of  pathos  and  poetry  to  which  it  wov’d  not  be  easj 
to  find  manv  parallels. — Jeffrey.! 


PARISINA. 


13? 


XVIII. 

Still  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death. 

Each  gazer’ s bosom  held  his  breath : 

But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 

A.  cold  electric  shiver  ran, 

As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 
On  him  whose  life  and  love  thus  ended ; 

And,  with  a hushing  sound  compress’d, 

A sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast ; 

But  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there, 

Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 
Pierced  through  with  forced  and  sullen  shock, 
Save  one : — what  cleaves  the  silent  air 
So  madly  shrill— so  passing  wild  ? 

That,  as  a mother’s  o’er  her  child. 

Done  to  death  by  sudden  blow. 

To  the  sky  these  accents  go, 

Like  a soul’s  in  endless  woe. 

Through  Azo’s  palace-lattice  driven, 

That  horrid  voice  ascends  to  heaver, 

And  every  eye  is  turn’d  thereon ; 

But  sound  and  sight  alike  are  gone  ! 

It  was  a woman’s  shriek — and  ne'er 
In  madlier  accents  rose  despair  ; 

And  those  who  heard  it,  as  it  past, 

In  mercy  wish’d  it  were  the  last. 


XIX. 

Hugo  is  fallen ; and,  from  that  hour, 

No  more  in  palace,  hall,  or  bower, 

Was  Parisina  heard  or  seen  : 

Her  name — as  if  she  ne’er  had  been — 

Was  banish’d  from  each  lip  and  ear, 

Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear ; 

And  from  Prince  Azo’s  voice,  by  none 
Was  mention  heard  of  wife  or  son; 

No  tomb — no  memory  had  they  ; 

Theirs  was  unconsecrated  clay  ; 

At  least  the  knight’s  who  died  that  day. 

But  Parisina’s  fate  lies  hid 
Like  dust  beneath  the  coffin  lid  : 

Whether  in  convent  she  abode, 

And  won  to  heaven  her  dreary  road, 

By  blighted  and  remorseful  years 
Of  scourge  and  fast,  and  sleepless  tears  ; 

Or  if  she  fell  by  bowl  or  steel, 

Eor  that  dark  love  she  dared  to  feel ; 

Or  if,  upon  the  moment  smote, 

She  died  by  tortures  less  remote  *, 

Like  him  she  saw  upon  the  block, 

With  heart  that  shared  the  headsman’s  shock, 
In  quicken’d  brokenness  that  came, 

In  pity,  o’er  her  shatter’d  frame, 

None  knew — and  none  can  ever  know : 

But  whatsoe’er  its  end  below, 

Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe ! 


(1)  [In  Parisina  there  is  no  tumult  or  stir.  It  is  all  sadness, 
and  pity,  and  terror.  There  is  loo  much  of  horror,  perhaps,  in 
»»ic  circumstanc  es ; but  the  writing  is  beautiful  throughout,  and 


XX, 

And  Azo  found  another  bride, 

And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side ; 

But  none  so  lovely  and  so  brave 
As  him  who  wither’d  in  the  grave  ; 

Or  if  they  were — on  his  cold  eye 
Their  growth  but  glanced  unheeded  by. 

Or  noticed  with  a smother’d  sigh. 

But  never  tear  his  cheek  descended, 

And  never  smile  his  brow  unbended ; 

And  o'er  that  fair  broad  brow  were  wroUfA® 
The  intersected  lines  of  thought ; 

Those  furrows  which  the  burning  share 
Of  Sorrow  ploughs  untimely  there ; 

Scars  of  the  lacerating  mind 

Which  the  Soul’s  war  doth  leave  behini 

He  was  past  all  mirth  or  woe  : 

Nothing  more  remain’d  below 
But  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days, 

A mind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise, 

A heart  which  shunn’d  itself — and  yet 
That  would  not  yield — nor  could  forger 
Which,  when  it  least  appear’d  to  mbit. 
Intently  thought — intensely  felt : 

The  deepest  ice  which  ever  froze 
Can  only  o’er  the  surface  close — 

The  living  stream  lies  quick  below, 

And  flows — and  cannot  cease  to  flow. 

Still  was  his  seal’d-up  bosom  haunted 
By  thoughts  which  Nature  hath  implanted  [ 
Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish. 
Howe’er  our  stifled  fears  we  banish ; 

When,  struggling  as  they  lise  to  start, 

We  check  those  waters  of  the  heart, 

They  are  not  dried — those  tears  unshed 
But  flow  back  to  the  fountain  head, 

And  resting  in  their  spring  more  pure, 

Eor  ever  in  its  depth  endure, 

Unseen,  unwept,  but  uucongeal’d, 

And  cherish’d  most  where  least  reveal’d. 
With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left, 

To  throb  o’er  those  of  life  bereft ; 

Without  the  power  to  fill  again 
The  desert  gap  which  made  his  pain ; 
Without  the  hope  to  meet  them  where 
United  souls  shall  gladness  share, 

With  all  the  consciousness  that  lie 
Had  only  pass’d  a just  decree  : 

That  they  had  wrought  their  doom  of  ill ; 
Yet  Azo’s  age  was  wretched  still. 

The  tainted  branches  of  the  tree, 

If  lopp’d  with  care,  a strength  may  give. 
By  which  the  rest  shall  bloom  and  live 
All  greenly  fresh  and  wildly  free : 

But  if  the  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 

The  waving  boughs  with  fury  scathe, 

The  massy  trunk  the  ruin  feels, 

And  never  more  a leaf  reveals.1 


the  whole  wrapped  in  a rich  and  redundant  veil  of  poetry,  whert 
every  thing  breathes  the  pure  essence  of  genius  and  semuilitv.— 
Jeffrey.] 


Ci)c  prisoner  of  ©ftiUon : 

A FABLE.1 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON. 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind  ! 2 * 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty  ! thou  art, 

Eor  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind  ; 

A.nd  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned — 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault’s  davless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom’s  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon ! thy  prison  is  a holy  place. 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  ’twas  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a sod, 


(1)  When  this  poem  was  composed,  I was  not  sufficiently  aware 
of  the  history  of  Bonnivard,  or  I should  have  endeavoured  to 
dignify  the  subject  by  an  attempt  to  celebrate  his  courage. and 
his  virtues.  With  some  account  of  his  life  I have  been  furnished, 
by  the  kindness  of  a citizen  of  that  republic,  which  is  still  proud 
of  the  memory  of  a man  worthy  of  the  best  age  of  ancient  free- 
dom : — 

" Franpois  de  Bonnivard,  fils  de  Louis  de  Bonnivard,  originaire 
de  Seysel  et  Seigneur  de  Lune?,  naquit  en  1496.  II  fit  ses  etudes 
a Turin:  en  1510  Jean  Aime  de  Bonnivard,  son  oncle,  lui  resigna 
le  Prieure  de  St.  Victor,  qui  aboutissait  aux  murs  de  Geneve,  et 
qui  formait  un  benefice  considerable. 

“Ce  grand  homme— (Bonnivard  merite  ce  titre  par  la  force  de 
son  time,  la  droiture  de  son  coeur,  la  noblesse  de  ses  intentions,  la 
sagesse  de  ses  conseils,  le  courage  de  ses  demarches,  l’ecendue  de 
ses  connaissances  et  la  vivacite  de  son  esprit), — ce  grand  homme, 
qui  excitera  l’admiration  de  tous  ceux  qu’une  vertu  heroi'que  peut 
encore  6mouvoir,  inspirera  encore  la  plus  vive  reconnaissance  dans 
les  cceurs  des  Genevois  qui  aiment  Gen&ve.  Bonnivard  en  fut  I 
toujours  un  des  plus  fermes  appuis : pour  assurer  la  liberte  de  | 
notre  Republique,  il  ne  craignit  pas  de  perdre  souvent  la  sienne ; | 
il  oublia  son  r**pos ; il  m6prisa  ses  richesses ; il  ne  negligea  rien 
pour  affermir  L bonheur  d’une  patrie  qu’il  honora  de  son  choix : 
d&s  ce  moment  il  la  cherit  comme  le  plus  zele  de  ses  citoyens;  il  la 
servit  avec  l’intrepidit6  d’un  heros,  et  il  ecrivit  son  Histoire  avec  la 
naivete  d’un  philosophe  et  la  chaleur  d’un  patriote. 

“ Il  dit  dans  le  commencement  de  son  Histoire  de  Geneve,  que 
des  qu’il  eut  commence  de  lire  I’histoire  des  nations , il  se  sentit 
entrainc  par  son  yodt  pour  les  Repub liques,  dont  il  cpousa  toujours  j 
les  inlerets:  c’est  ce  gofit  pour  la  liberte  qui  lui  fit  sans  doute 
adopter  Geneve  pour  sa  patrie. 

“ Bonnivard,  encore  ji.une,  s’annonpa  hautement  comme  le 
d6fenseur  de  Geneve  contre  le  Due  de  Savoye  et  l’Eveque. 

“ En  1519,  Bonnivard  devient  le  martyr  de  sa  patrie.  Le  Due 
de  Savoye  etant  entre  dans  Gen&ve  avec  cinq  cent  hommes,  Bonni- 
vard craint  le  ressentiment  du  Due;  il  voulut  se  retirer  k Fribourg 
pour  en  eviter  les  suites ; mais  il  fut  tralii  par  deux  hommes  qui 
l’accompagnaient,  et  conduit  par  ordre  du  Prince  k Grolee,  oil  il 
resta  prisonnier  pendant  deux  ans.  Bonnivard  etait  malheureux 
dans  ses  voyages : comme  ses  malheurs  n’avaient  point  ralenti  son 
zele  pour  Geneve,  il  etait  toujours  un  ennemi  redoutable  pour  ceux 
qui  la  menapaient,  et  par  consequent  il  devait  etre  expose  G leurs 
coups.  Il  fut  rencontre  en  1530  sur  le  Jura  par  des  voleurs,  qui  le 
depouilRrent,  et  qui  le  mirent  encore  entre  les  mains  du  Duo  de 
Savoye:  ce  Prince  le  fit  enfermer  dans  le  Chateau  de  Chillon,  oil 
il  resta  sans  etre  interrog6  jusques  en  1536  ; il  fut  alors  delivre  par 
les  Bernois,  qui  s’empar£rent  du  Pays  de  Vaud. 

“ Bonnivard,  en  sortant  de  sa  captivit6,  eut  le  plaisir  de  trouver 
Geneve  libre  et  reformee:  la  Republique  s’empressa  de  lui  temoi- 
gner  sa  reconnaissance,  et  de  dedommager  des  maux  qu’il  avait 
6oufferts ; elle  le  reput  Bourgeois  de  la  ville  au  mois  de  Juin,  1536; 
eile  lui  donna  la  maison  habitee  autrefois  par  le  Vicaire-G6neral, 
et  elle  lui  assigna  une  pension  de  deux  cent  6cus  d’or  tant  qu’il 
sejournerait  k Geneve.  Il  fut  admis  dansle  Conseil  de  Deux-Cent 
en  1537. 

"Bonnivard  n’a  pas  flni  d’etre  utile;  apres  avoir  travaill6  k 
rendre  Geneve  libre,  il  reussit  a la  rendre  tolerante.  Bonnivard 


By  Bonnivard ! — May  none  those  marks  efface  l 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


^rfeonev  of  <£f)tIIon.s 


i. 

My  hair  is  grey,  but  not  with  years, 

Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a single  night,4 

As  men’s  have  grown  from  sudden  fears  : 


engagea  le  Conseil  a accorder  aux  ecclesiastiques  et  aux  paysans 
un  terns  suffisant  pour  examiner  les  propositions  qu’on  leur  .aisait; 
il  reussit  par  sa  douceur : on  pr&che  toujours  le  Christianisme  avec 
sucees  quand  on  le  preche  avec  charite. 

"Bonnivard  fut  savant:  ses  manuscrits,  qui  sont  dans  la  Biblio- 
theque  publique,  prouvent  qu’il  avait  bien  lu  les  auteurs  classiques 
Latins,  et  qu’il  avait  approfondi  la  theologie  et  l’histoire.  Ce  grand 
homme  aimait  les  sciences,  et  il  croyait  qu’elles  pouvaient  faire  la 
gloire  de  Geneve;  aussi  il  ne  negligea  rien  pour  les  fixer  dans  cette 
ville  naissante;  en  1551  il  donna  sa  bibliotbeque  au  public;  elle 
fut  le  commencement  de  notre  bibliotbeque  publique ; et  ces  livres 
sont  en  partie  les  rares  et  belles  editions  duquinzieme  siecle  qu’on 
voit  dans  notre  collection.  Enfin,  pendant  la  meme  annee,  ce  bon 
patriote  institua  la  Republique  son  heriti^re,  a condition  qu’elie 
employerait  ses  biens  a entretenir  le  college  dont  on  projettait  la 
fondation. 

“ Il  parait  que  Bonnivard  mourut  en  1570;  mais  on  ne  peut 
l’assurer,  parcequ’il  y a une  lacune  dans  le  Necrologe  depuis  le 
mois  de  Juillet,  1570,  jusques  en  1571.” 

[Lord  Byron  wrote  this  beautiful  poem  at  a small  inn,  in  the 
little  village  of  Ouchy,  near  Lausanne,  where  he  happened  in  June. 
1816,  to  be  detained  two  days  by  stress  of  weather;  “thereby 
adding,”  says  Moore,  “ one  more  deathless  association  to  the 
already  immortalized  localities  of  the  Lake.”] 

(2)  [In  the  first  draught  the  sonnet  opens  thus — 

“ Beloved  Goddess  of  the  chainless  mind! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty ! thou  art, 

Thy  palace  is  within  the  Freeman’s  heart, 

Whose  soul  the  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign’d — 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault’s  dayless  gloom, 

Thy  joy  is  with  them  still,  and  unconfined, 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom.’’] 

(3)  [“  I will  tell  you  something  about  ‘ Chillon.’  A Mr.  De  Luc, 
ninety  years  old,  a Swiss,  had  it  read  to  him,  and  is  pleased  with 
it — so  my  sister  writes.  He  said  that  he  was  with  Rousseau  at 
Chillon,  and  that  the  description  is  perfectly  correct.  But  this  is 
not  all ; I recollected  something  of  the  name,  and  find  the  following 

J passage  in  * The  Confessions,’  vol.  iii.  p.  247,  liv.  viii.  * De  tous  ces 
amusemens  celui  qui  me  plut  davantage  fut  une  promenade  autoui 
du  Lac,  que  je  fis  en  bateau  avec  De  Luc  p£re,  sa  bru,  ses  deux 
I fils,  et  ma  Ther&se.  Nous  mimes  sept  jours  k cette  tournee  par  le 
plus  beau  temps  du  monde.  J’en  gardai  le  vif  souvenir  des  sites, 

! qui  m’avaient  frappfe  G l’autre  extremite  du  Lac,  et  dont  je  fis  la 
I description  quelques  annees  apr&s,  dans  “ La  Nouvelle  Helo'ise.”  ' 
j This  nonagenarian,  De  Luc,  must  be  one  of  the  ‘ deux  fils.’  He 
is  in  England,  infirm,  but  still  in  faculty.  It  is  odd  that  he  should 
' have  lived  so  long,  and  not  wanting  in  oddness,  that  he  should 
i have  made  this  voyage  with  Jean  Jacques,  and  afterwards,  at  such 
! an  interval,  read  a poem  by  an  Englishman  (who  made  precisely 
j the  same  circumnavigation)  upon  the  same  scenery.” — Byron  Lrt- 
! iers,  April  9,  1817.  Jean  Andre  de  Luc,  F.R.S,  died  at  Windsor, 
i in  the  July  following.  He  was  born  in  1726,  at  Geneva,  was  the 
author  of  many  geological  works,  and  corresponded  with  most  of 
the  learned  societies  of  Europe.] 

(4)  Ludovico  Sforza,  and  others. — The  same  is  asserted  of  Marie 
Antoinette's,  the  wife  of  Louis  the  Sixteenth,  though  not  in  quite 


THE  PRISONER  OE  CHILLON. 


139 


My  limbs  are  bow’d,  though  not  with  toil, 
But  rusted  with  a vile  repose,1 
For  they  have  been  a dungeon’s  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann’d,  and  barr’d — forbidden  fare  ; 
But  this  was  for  my  father’s  faith 
I suffer’d  chains  and  courted  death ; 

That  father  perish’d  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 

And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a dwelling-place ; 

We  were  seven — who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 

Finish’d  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  persecution’s  rage  ; 2 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 

Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal’d; 

Dying  as  their  father  died, 

For  the  God  their  foes  denied ; 

Three  were  in  a dungeon  cast, 

Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

II. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 

In  Chillon’s  dungeons  deep  and  old, 

There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  grey. 
Dim  with  a dull  imprison’d  ray, 

A sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 

And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left ; 
Creeping  o’er  the  floor  so  damp, 

Like  a marsh’s  meteor  lamp : 

And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a chain ; 

That  iron  is  a cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 

Till  I have  done  with  this  new  day. 

Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 

Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I cannot  count  them  o’er, 

I lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  droop’d  and  died, 
And  I lay  living  by  his  side. 

HI. 

They  chain’d  us  each  to  a column  stone, 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone ; 

We  could  not  move  a single  pace, 

We  could  not  see  each  other’s  face, 

But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight ; 

And  thus  together — yet  apart, 

Fetter’d  in  hand,  but  pined  in  heart ; 

’Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 

To  hearken  to  each  other’s  speech. 

And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 


•o  short  a period.  Grief  is  said  to  have  the  same  effect : to  such, 
and  not  to  fear,  this  change  in  hers  was  to  be  attributed. 

;1)  [Original  MS. — 

“ But  with  the  inward  waste  of  grief.”] 

(2)  [“  Braving  rancour — chains — and  rage.” — MS.] 

(3)  [This  picture  of  the  first  feelings  of  the  three  gallant  brothers, 
when  bound  apart  in  this  living  tomb,  and  of  the  gradual  decay  of 
their  cheery  fortitude,  is  full  of  pity  and  agony. — Jeffrey.] 

(4)  The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between  Clarens  and 
Vuie aeuve,  which  last  is  at  one  extremity  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva. 


With  some  new  hope  or  legend  old. 

Or  song  heroically  bold ; 

But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 

Our  voices  took  a dreary  tone, 

An  echo  of  the  dungeon  stone, 

A grating  sound — not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be  : 

It  might  be  fancy— but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own.3 

IV. 

I was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I ought  to  do — and  did  my  best — 

And  eacli  did  ^vell  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved. 
Because  our  mother’s  brow  was  given 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven, 

For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved  : 
And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a nest ; 

For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 

(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles  being  free) — 

A polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A sunset  till  its  summer’s  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 

The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 

With  tears  for  nought  but  others’  ills, 
And  then  they  flow’d  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorr’d  to  view  below. 

v. 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 

But  form’d  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a mood 
Which  ’gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood. 
And  perish’d  in  the  foremost  rank 
With  joy  : — but  not  in  chains  to  pine : 
His  spirit  wither’d  with  their  clank, 

I saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine : 

But  yet  I forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a home  so  dear. 

He  was  a hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  follow’d  there  the  deer  and  wolf;  j 
To  him  this  dungeon  was  a gulf, 

And  fetter’d  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

VI. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon’s  walls  : 

A thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow  ; 

Thus  much  the  fathom -line  was  sent 
From  Chillon’s  snow-white  battlement,4 
Which  round  about  the  wave  enthrals  : 


On  its  left  are  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone,  and  opposite  are  the 
heights  of  Meillerie  and  the  range  of  Alps  above  Boveret  and  St. 
Gingo.  Near  it,  on  a hill  behind,  is  a torrent:  below  it,  washing 
its  walls,  the  lake  has  been  fathomed  to  the  depth  of  800  feet, 
French  measure : within  it  are  a range  of  dungeons,  in  which  the 
early  Reformers,  and  subsequently  prisoners  of  state,  were  confined 
Across  one  of  the  vaulcs  is  a beam  black  with  age,  on  which  we 
were  informed  that  the  condemned  were  formerly  executed.  In 
the  cells  are  seven  pillars,  or,  rather,  eight,  one  being  half  merged 
in  the  wall;  in  some  of  these  are  rings  for  the  fetters  and  the 


140 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


A double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a living  grape. 

Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  wc  lay, 

We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day; 

Sounding  o’er  our  heads  it  knock’d  : 

And  I have  felt  the  winter’s  spray 

Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 

And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock’d, 

And  I have  felt  it  shake,  unshock’d. 
Because  I could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

VII. 

I said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 

I said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 

He  loathe  1 and  put  away  his  food  ; 

It  was  nor  that  ’twas  coarse  and  rude, 

For  we  were  used  to  hunters’  fare, 

And  for  the  like  had  little  care  : 

The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 

Our  bread  was  such  as  captives’  tears 
Have  moisten’d  many  a thousand  years. 

Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow  men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den ; 

But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 

These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb  ; 

My  brother’s  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a palace  Lad  grown  cold, 

Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain’s  side  ; 

But  why  delay  the  truth  ? — he  died  l* 1 
I saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 

Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead, — 
Though  nard  I strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 

To  rend  and  gnash  2 my  bonds  in  twain. 

He  died— and  they  unlock’d  his  chain, 

And  scoop’d  for  him  a shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 

I begg’d  them,  as  a boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a foolish  thought. 

But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 

That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a dungeon  could  not  rest. 

I might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — • 

They  coldly  laugh’d — and  laid  him  there : 

The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love ; 

His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 

Such  murder’s  fitting  monument ! 

VIII. 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower. 

Most  cherish’d  since  his  natal  hour. 


lettered:  ir.  the  pavement  the  steps  of  Bonnivard  have  left  their 
traces.  Ke  was  confined  here  several  years.  It  :s  Dy  ihis  castle 
that  Rousseau  has  fixed  the  catastrophe  of  his  Heioise,  in  the 
-escue  of  one  of  her  children  by  Julie  from  the  water;  the  shock 
of  which,  and  the  illness  produced  by  the  immersion,  is  the  cause 
of  her  death.  The  chateau  is  large,  and  seen  along  the  lake  for  a 
great,  distance.  The  walls  are  white. — [“The  ear’y  history  of  this 
castle,”  says  Mr.  Tennant,  who  went  over  it  in  18?’,  “is.  I believe, 
involved  in  doubt.  By  some  historians  it  is  said  to  he  I milt  in  the 
year  1120,  and  according  to  others,  in  the  year  1236;  but  by  whom 
it  was  built  seems  not  to  be  known.  It  is  said,  however,  in  his- 
tory, that  Charles  the  Fifth,  Duke  of  Savoy,  stormed  and  took  it 
in  1536;  that  he  there  found  great  hidden  treasures,  and  many 


His  mother’s  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyr’d  father’s  dearest  thought. 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free ; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 
A spirit  natural  or  inspired  — 
lie,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 
Was  wither’d  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh,  God  ! it  is  a fearful  thing 
, To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 
In  any  shape,  in  any  mood  : — 

I’ve  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I’ve  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 
Strive  with  a swoln  convulsive  motion, 
I’ve  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 
Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread : 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 
Unmix’d  with  such— but  sure  and  slow  i 
He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  lie  left  behind  ; 

With  all  the  while  a cheek  whose  bloom 
Was  as  a mockery  of  the  tomb. 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 
As  a departing  rainbow’s  ray — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright. 

And  not  a word  of  murmur — not 
A groan  o’er  his  untimely  lot, — 

A little  talk  of  better  days, 

A little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I was  sunk  in  silence — lost 
In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 
Of  fainting  nature’s  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less  : 

I listen’d,  but  I could  not  hear — 

I call’d,  for  I was  wild  with  fear ; 

I knew  ’twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 
Would  not  be  thus  admonished; 

I call’d,  and  thought  I heard  a sound — 

I burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 
And  rush’d  to  him  ; — I found  him  not, 

/ only  stirr’d  in  this  black  spot, 

I only  lived — I only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew ; 

The  last — the  sole — the  dearest  link 
Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place  3 
One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe : 
I took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas ! my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 


wretched  beings  pining  away  their  lives  in  these  frightful  dungeons, 
amongst  whom  was  the  good  Bonni  /ard.  On  the  pillar  to  which 
this  unfortunate  man  is  said  to  have  been  chained,  1 observed,  cut 
out  of  the  stone,  the  name  of  oc.:-  whose  beautiful  poem  has  done 
much  to  heighten  the  interest  of  this  dreary  spot,  and  will,  perhaps, 
do  more  towards  rescuing  from  oblivion  the  names  of  * Chillon  ’ and 
‘ Bonnivard,’  than  all  the  cruel  sufferings  which  that  injured  man 
endured  within  its  damp  ana  gloomy  walls.”j 

(1)  [“  But  why  withhold  the  blow? — he  died.” — MS.] 

t21  [“  To  break  or  bite.” — MS.] 

(3)  [The  gentle  decay  and  gradual  extinction  of  the  ycnngttl 
life  is  the  most  tender  and  beautiful  passage  in  the  poem.— 
Jeffrey.] 


THE  PRISON  ER  OF  CHlLLON. 


1 4l 


I bad  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I was  still  alive — 

A frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 
That  what  we  iove  shall  ne’er  be  so. 

I know  not  why 
I coaid  not  die, 

I had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 

And  that  forbade  a selfish  death. 

IX. 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I know  not  well — I never  knew— 

First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too : 

I had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 

Among  the  stbnes  I stood  a stone, 

And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I wist, 

As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  grey, 

It  was  not  night — it  was  not  day, 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light. 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness — without  a place ; 

There  wrere  no  stars — no  earth — no  time — 
No  check — no  change — no  good — no  crime — 
But  silence,  and  a stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death  : 

A sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless  ! 

x. 

A light  broke  in  upon  my  brain, — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a bird  ; 

It-  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard. 

And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 

And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I was  the  mate  of  misery ; 

But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track, 

I saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 

I saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 

But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch’d,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree ; 

A lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 

A nd  song  that  said  a thousand  things, 

And  seem’d  to  say  them  all  for  me  ! 

I never  saw  its  like  before, 

I ne’er  shall  see  its  likeness  more 
It  seem’d  like  me  to  want  a mate. 

But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 

And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 

And  cheering  from  my  dungeon’s  brink, 

Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 

I know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine. 

But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird. ! I could  not  wish  for  thine ! 

Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 

A visitant  from  Paradise  ; 


(1)  [“  I saw  them  with  their  lake  below, 

And  their  three  thousand  years  of  snow.” — MS.] 

(2)  Between  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone  and  Villeneuve,  not  far 
from  Ckillon,  is  a very  small  island ; the  only  one  I could  perceive. 


For — Heaven  forgive  that  thougnt ! the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile ; 

I sometimes  deem’d  that  it  might  be 
My  brother’s  soul  come  down  to  me ; 

But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 

And  then  ’twas  mortal — well  I knew, 

For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown. 

And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone, — 

Lone — as  the  corse  within  its  shroud. 

Lone — as  a solitary  cloud, 

A single  cloud  on  a sunny  day, 

While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 

A frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 

That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI. 

A kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate, 

My  keepers  grew  compassionate ; 

I know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 

They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 

But  so  it  was  : — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten’d  did  remain, 

And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart. 

And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one. 

Returning  where  my  walk  begun. 

Avoiding  only,  as  I trod, 

My  brothers’  graves  without  a sod ; 

For  if  I thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 

My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick. 

And  my  crush’d  heart  fell  blind  and 

XII. 

I made  a footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 

For  I had  buried  one  and  all, 

Who  loved  me  in  a human  shape  : 

And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A wider  prison  unto  me : 

No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I, 

No  partner  in  my  misery ; 

I thought  of  this,  and  I was  glad, 

For  thought  of  them  had  macle  me  mad; 

But  I was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr’d  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high. 

The  quiet  of  a loving  eye. 

XIII. 

I saw  them — and  they  were  the  same. 

They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame ; 

I saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide  ion"  lake  below,1 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow ; 

I heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O’er  channeled  rock  and  broken  bush  ; 

I saw  the  white-wall’ d distant  town, 

And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down; 

And  then  there  was  a little  isle,2 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  ordy  one  in  view ; 


in  my  voyage  round  and  over  the  lake,  within  its  circumference 
It  contains  a few  trees  (I  think  lot  above  three),  and  from 
singleness  and  diminutive  size  .as  a peculiar  effect  upon  it* 
view 


142 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


A small  green  isle,  it  seem’d  no  more, 

Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor. 

But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 

And  o’er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 

And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 

And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing, 
Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 

The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 

And  they  seem’d  joyous  each  and  all ; 

The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 

Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem’d  to  fly, 

And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 

And  I felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I had  not  left  my  recent  chain  ; 

And  when  I did  descend  again, 

The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Bell  on  me  as  a heavy  load  ; 

It  was  as  is  a new-dug  grave, 

Closing  o’er  one  we  sought  to  save, — 

And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  oppress’d. 

Had  almost  need  of  such  a rest. 

xiv. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I kept  no  count — I took  no  note. 


I had  no  hope  my  eyes  t.  raise. 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I ask’d  not  why,  and  reck’d  not  where. 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me. 

Fetter’d  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I learn’d  to  love  despair. 

And  thus  when  they  appear’d  at  last, 

And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast. 

These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A hermitage — and  all  my  own  ! 

And  half  I felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a second  home : 

With  spiders  I had  friendship  made, 

And  watch’d  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I feel  less  than  they  ? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 

And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 

Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learn’d  to  dwell — 1 
My  very  chains  and  I grew  friends. 

So  much  a long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  : — even  I 
Regain’d  my  freedom  with  a sigh.2 


A VENETIAN  STORY. 


Rosalind.  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller  : Look,  you  lisp,  and  wear  strange  suits;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own 
country;  be  out  of  love  with  your  Nativity,  and  almost  chide  God  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are:  or  I will 
scarce  think  that  you  have  swam  in  a Gondola.  As  You  Like  It,  Act  IV.  Sc.  1. 

* Annotaticn  of  the  Commentators. 

That  is,  been  at  Venice,  which  was  much  visited  by  the  young  English  gentlemen  of  those  times,  and  was  then  what  Paris 
is  now — the  seat  of  all  dissoluteness.  (3)  S.  A. 


[Beppo  was  written  at  Venice,  in  Octooer,  1817.  and 
acquired  great  popularity  immediately  on  its  publica- 
tion in  the  May  of  the  following  year.  Lord  Byron’s 
letters  show  that  he  attached  very  little  importance 
to  it  at  the  time.  He  was  not  aware  that  he  had 


opened  a new  vein,  in  which  his  genius  was  destinej 
to  work  out  some  of  its  brightest  triumphs.  “I  have 
written,”  he  says  to  Mr.  Murray,  “ a poem  humorous, 
in  or  after  the  excellent  manner  of  Mr.  Whistlecraft, 
and  founded  on  a Venetian  anecdote  which  amused 


(1)  [Here  follow  in  MS.— 

“ Nor  slew  I of  my  subjects  one — 

What  sovereign  {JefsJmuch^ath}  don3?” 


(2)  [It  has  not  been  the  purpose  of  Loid  Byron  to  paint  the 
peculiar  character  of  Bonnivard.  The  object  of  the  poem,  like 
that  of  Sterne’s  celebrated  sketch  of  the  prisoner,  is  to  consider 
captivity  in  the  abstract,  and  to  mark  its  effects  in  gradually  chill- 
ing the  mental  powers  as  it  benumbs  and  freezes  the  animal  frame, 
until  the  unfortunate  victim  becomes,  as  it  were,  a part  of  his  dun- 
geon, and  identified  with  his  chains.  This  transmutation  we  be- 
lieve to  be  founded  on  fact:  at  least, -in  the  Low  Countries,  where 
.olitude  for  life  is  substituted  for  capital  punishments,  something 
like  it  may  be  witnessed.  On  particular  days  in  the  course  of  the 
year,  these  victims  of  a jurisprudence  which  calls  itself  humane, 
are  presented  to  the  public  eye,  upon  a stage  erected  in  the  open 
market-place,  apparently  to  prevent  their  guilt  and  their  punish- 
ment from  being  forgotten.  It  is  scarcely  possible  to  witness  a 
sight  more  degrading  to  humanity  than  this  exhibition  : with  mat- 
ted hair,  wild  looks,  and  haggard  features,  with  eyes  dazzled  by 


the  unwonted  light  of  the  sun,  and  ears  deafened  and  astounded 
by  the  sudden  exchange  of  the  silence  of  a dungeon  for  the  busy  hum 
of  men,  the  wretches  sit  more  like  rude  images  fashioned  to  a 
fantastic  imitation  of  humanity,  than  like  living  and  reflectin- 
beings.  In  the  course  of  time  we  are  assured  they  generally  becom> 
either  madmen  or  idiots,  as  mind  or  matter  happens  to  predoim 
nate,  when  the  mysterious  balance  between  them  is  destroyed.  1 1 
will  readily  be  allowed  that  this  singular  poem  is  more  powerful 
than  pleasing.  The  dungeon  of  Bonnivard  is,  like  that  of  Ugolino, 
a subject  too  dismal  for  even  the  power  of  the  painter  or  poet  to 
counteract  its  horrors.  It  is  the  more  disagreeable  as  affording 
human  hope  no  anchor  to  rest  upon,  and  describing  the  sufferer, 
though  a man  of  talents  and  virtues,  as  altogether  inert  and  power- 
less under  his  accumulated  sufferings : yet,  as  a picture,  however 
gloomy  the  colouring,  it  may  rival  any  which  Lord  Byron  has 
drawn ; nor  is  it  possible  to  read  it  without  a sinking  of  the  heart, 
corresponding  with  that  which  he  describes  the  victim  to  have 
suffered. — Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

(3)  [“Although  I was  only  nine  days  at  Venice,  I saw,  in  that 
little  time,  more  liberty  to  sin,  than  ever  I heard  tell  of  :n  the  in 
of  London  in  nine  years.” — Roger  Ascham.] 


BEPFO. 


143 


me.  It  is  called  Beppo — the  short  name  for  Giuseppo, 
—that  is,  the  Joe  of  the  Italian  Joseph.  It  has 
[jolitics  and  ferocity.”  Again — “ Whistlecraft  is  my 

immediate  model,  but  Berni  is  the  father  of  that 
kind  of  writing ; which,  I think,  suits  our  language, 
too,  very  well.  We  shall  see  by  this  experiment. 
It  will,  at  any  rate,  show  that  I can  write  cheerfully, 
and  repel  the  charge  of  monotony  and  mannerism.” 
He  wished  Mr.  Murray  to  accept  of  Beppo  as  a free 
gift,  or,  as  he  chose  to  express  it,  “ as  part  of  the 
contract  for  Canto  Fourth  of  Childe  Harold;”  adding, 
however, — “ if  it  pleases,  you  shall  have  more  in  the 
same  mood ; for  I know  tile  Italian  way  of  life,  and, 
as  for  the  verse  and  the  passions,  I have  them  still  in 
tolerable  vigour.” 

The  Right  Honourable  John  Hookham  Frere  has, 
then,  by  Lord  Byron’s  confession,  the  merit  of  having 
first  introducing  the  Bernesque  style  into  our  lan- 
guage; but  his  performance,  entitled  “Prospectus 
and  Specimen  of  an  intended  National  Work,  by 
William  and  Robert  Whistlecraft,  of  Stowmarket,  in 
Suffolk,  Harness  and  Collar  Makers,  intended  to  com- 
prise the  most  interesting  Particulars  relating  to  King 
Arthur  and  his  Round  Table,”  though  it  delighted  all 
elegant  and  learned  readers,  obtained  at  the  time 
little  notice  from  the  public  at  large,  and  is  already 
almost  forgotten.  For  the  causes  of  this  failure, 
about  which  Mr.  Rose  and  others  have  written  at 
some  length,  it  appears  needless  to  look  further  than 
the  last  sentence  we  have  been  quoting  from  the 
letters  of  the  author  of  the  more  successful  Beppo. 
Whistlecraft  had  the  verse:  it  had  also  the  humour, 
the  wit,  and  even  the  poetry  of  the  Italian  model ; but 
it  wanted  the  life  of  actual  manners,  and  the  strength 
of  stirring  passions.  Mr.  Frere  had  forgot — or  was, 
with  all  his  genius,  unfit  to  profit  by  remembering — 
that  the  poets,  whose  style  he  was  adopting,  always 
made  their  style  appear  a secondary  matter.  They 
never  failed  to  embroider  their  merriment  on  the  tex- 
ture of  a really  interesting  story.  Lord  Byron  per- 
ceived this  ; and  avoiding  his  immediate  master’s  one 
fatal  error,  and  at  least  equalling  him  in  the  excel- 
lences which  he  did  display,  engaged  at  once  the  sym- 
pathy of  readers  of  every  class,  and  became  substan- 
tially the  founder  of  a new  species  of  English  poetry. 

In  justice  to  Mr.  Frere,  however,  whose  “ Speci- 
men” has  long  been  out  of  print,  we  must  take  this 
opportunity  of  showing  how  completely,  as  to  style 
and  versification,  he  had  anticipated  Beppo  and  Don 
Juan.  In  the  introductions  to  his  cantos,  and  in 
various  detached  passages  of  mere  deserintion,  he 
had  produced  precisely  the  sort  of  effect  ai  which 
Lord  Byron  aimed  in  what  we  may  call  the  secondary, 
or  merely  ornamental,  parts  of  his  Comic  Epic.  For 
example,  this  is  the  beginning  of  Whistlecraft’s  first 
canto  : — 

*'  I’ve  often  wish’d  that  I could  write  a book, 

Such  as  all  English  people  might  peruse ; 

I never  should  regret  the  pains  it  took, 

That  ’»  Just  the  sort  of  fame  that  I should  choose . 

To  sail  about  the  world  like  Captain  Cook, 

I ’d  sling  a co'.  up  for  my  favourite  Muse, 

And  we’d  take  verses  out  to  Demerara, 

To  New  South  Wales,  and  up  to  Niagara. 

‘ Poets  consume  excisea.ble  commodities, 

They  raise  the  nation’s  spirit  when  victorious, 

They  drive  an  export  trade  in  whims  and  oddities, 

Making  our  commerce  and  revenue  glorious  j 
As  an  industrious  and  pains-taking  body  ’tis 
That  Poets  should  be  reckon’d  meritorious : 


And  therefore  I submissively  propose 
To  erect  one  Board  for  Verse  and  one  for  Prose, 

Princes  protecting  Sciences  and  Art  • 

Pve  often  seen,  in  copper-plate  and  print; 

I never  saw  them  elsewhere,  for  my  part, 

And  therefore  I conclude  there’s  nothing  in’t: 

But  every  body  knows  the  Regent’s  heart ; 

I trust  he  won’t  reject  a well-meant  hint ; 

Each  Board  to  have  twelve  members,  with  a seat 
To  bring  them  in  per  ann.  five  hundred  neat : — 

From  Princes  I descend  to  the  Nobility : 

In  former  times  all  persons  of  high  stations, 

Lords,  Baronets,  and  Persons  of  gentility, 

Paid  twenty  guineas  for  the  dedications  : 

This  practice  was  attended  with  utility  ; 

The  patrons  lived  to  future  generations, 

The  poets  lived  by  their  industrious  earning. — 

So  men  alive  and  dead  could  live  by  Learning. 

“ Then,  twenty  guineas  was  a little  fortune  : 

Now,  we  must  starve  unless  the  times  should  mend1 
Our  poets  now-a-days  are  deem’d  importune 
If  their  addresses  are  diffusely  penn’d ; 

Most  fashionable  authors  make  a short  one 
To  their  own  wife,  or  child,  or  private  friend, 

To  show  their  independence,  I suppose ; 

And  that  may  do  for  Gentlemen  like  those. 

“ Lastly,  the  common  people  I beseech — 

Dear  People ! if  you  think  my  verses  clever, 

Pre  serve  with  care  your  noble  parts  of  speech. 

And  take  it  as  a maxim  to  endeavour 
To  talk  as  your  good  mothers  used  to  teach, 

And  then  these  lines  of  mine  may  last  for  p.v^r ; 

Anri  don’t  «cn  found  the  language  of  the  naf>v 
With  ’o-.j: 'ril’d  words  in  osity  and  ation. 

“ I think  that  Poets  (whether  Whig  or  Tory) 

(Whether  they  go  to  meeting  or  to  church) 

Shou.d  study  to  promote  their  country’s  glory 
With  patrotic,  diligent  research ; 

That  child-m  yst  unborn  may  learn  the  story, 

With  grammars,  dictionaries,  canes,  and  birch : 

It  stands  to  reason — This  was  Homer’s  plan, 

And  we  must  do— like  him— the  best  we  can. 

“ Madoc  and  Marmion,  and  many  more, 

Are  out  in  print,  and  most  of  them  have  sold ; 

Perhaps  together  they  may  make  a score ; 

Richard  the  First  has  had  his  story  told — 

But  there  were  Lords  and  Princes  long  before, 

That  had  behaved  themselves  like  warriors  bold . 
Amongst  the  rest  there  was  the  great  King  Arthur, 

What  hero’s  fame  was  ever  carried  farther?” 

The  following  description  of  King  Arthur’s  Christ 
mas  at  Carlisle  is  equally  meritorious : — 

“ The  Great  King  Arthur  made  a sumptuous  Feast, 

And  held  his  Royal  Christmas  at  Carlisle, 

And  thither  came  the  Vassals,  most  and  least, 

From  every  corner  of  this  British  Isle; 

And  all  were  entertain’d,  both  man  and  beast, 

According  to  their  rank,  in  proper  style; 

The  steeds  were  fed  rpd  litter’d  in  the  stable, 

The  ladies  and  the  knights  sat  down  to  table. 

“ The  bill  of  fare  (as  you  may  well  suppose) 

Was  suited  to  those  plentiful  old  times, 

Before  our  modern  luxuries  arose, 

With  truffles  and  ragouts,  and  various  crimes; 

And  therefore,  from  the  original  in  prose 
I shall  arrange  the  catalogue  in  rhymes  : 

They  served  up  salmon,  venison,  and  wild  boars 
By  hundreds,  and  by  dozens,  and  by  scores. 

“ Hogsheads  of  honey,  kilderkins  of  mustard, 

Muttons,  and  fatted  beeves,  and  bacon  swine ; 

Herons  and  bitterns,  peacock,  swan  and  bustard, 

Teal,  mallard,  pigeons,  widgeons,  and  in  fine, 
Plum-puddings,  pancakes,  apple  pies  and  custard  • 

And  therewithal  they  drank  good  Gascon  wine, 

With  mead,  and  ale,  and  cyder,  of  our  own; 

For  porter,  punch,  and  negus  were  not  known. 

“ The  noise  and  uproar  of  the  scullery  tribe. 

All  pilfering  and  scrambling  in  their  calling, 

Was  past  all  powers  of  language  to  describe — 

The  din  of  manful  oaths  and  female  squalling: 

The  sturdy  porter,  huddling  up  his  biibe, 

And  then  at  random  breaking  heads  and  bawling 


144 


,ORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Outcries,  and  cries  of  order,  and  contusions, 

'Au&e  a confusion  beyond  all  confusions; 

Beggars  and  vagabonds,  blind,  lame,  and  sturdy, 

Minstrels  and  singers  with  their  various  airs, 

The  pipe,  the  tabor,  and  the  hurdy-gurdy, 

Jugglers  and  mountebanks  with  apes  and  bears, 

Continued  from  the  first  day  to  the  third  day, 

An  uproar  like  ten  thousand  Smithfield  fairs; 

There  were  wild  beasts  and  foreign  birds  and  creatures, 

And  Jews  and  Foreigners  with  foreign  features. 

" All  sorts  of  people  there  were  seen  together, 

All  sorts  of  characters,  all  sorts  of  dresses ; 

The  fool  with  fox’s  tail  and  peacock’s  feather, 

Pilgrims  and  penitents,  and  grave*  burgesses; 

The  country  people  with  their  coats  of  leather. 

Vintners  and  victuallers  with  cans  and  messes; 

Grooms,  archers,  varlets,  falconers  and  yeomen, 

Damsels  and  waiting-maids,  and  waiting- women. 

' But  the  profane,  indelicate  amours, 

The  vulgar,  unenlighten’d  conversation 
Of  minstrels,  menials,  courtezans,  and  boors, 

(Although  appropriate  to  their  meaner  station) 

Would  certainly  revolt  a taste  like  yours ; 

Therefore  I shall  omit  the  calculation 
Of  all  the  curses,  oaths,  and  cuts,  and  stabs, 

Occasion’d  by  their  dice,  and  drink,  and  drabs. 

•*  We  must  take  care  in  our  poetic  cruise, 

And  never  hold  a single  tack  too  long ; 

Therefore  my  versatile,  ingenious  Muse, 

Takes  leave  of  this  illiterate,  low-bred  throng, 

Intending  to  present  superior  views, 

Which  to  genteeler  company  belong. 

And  show  the  higher  orders  of  society 
Behaving  with  politeness  and  propriety 

“ And  certainly  they  say,  for  fine  behaving 

King  Arthur’s  Court  has  never  had  its  match; 

True  point  of  honour,  without  pride  or  braving, 

Strict  etiquette  for  ever  on  the  watch  : 

Their  manners  were  refined  and  perfect — saving 
Some  modern  graces,  which  they  could  not  catch. 

As  spitting  through  the  teeth,  and  driving  stages, 
Accomplishments  reserved  for  distant  ages. 

" They  look’d  a manly,  generous  generation ; 

Beards,  shoulders,  eyebrows,  broad,  and  square,  and  thick. 
Tbeir  accents  firm  and  loud  in  conversation, 

Their  eyes  and  gestures  eager,  sharp,  and  quick, 

Showed  them  prepared,  on  proper  provocation, 

To  give  the  lie,  pull  noses,  stab,  and  kick  ; 

And  for  that  very  reason,  it  is  said, 

They  were  so  very  courteous  and  well-bred. 

: The  ladies  look’d  of  an  heroic  race  — 

At  first  a general  likeness  struck  your  eve 
Tall  figures,  open  features,  oval  face, 

Large  eyes,  with  ample  eyebrows,  arch’d  and  high ; 

Their  manners  had  an  odd,  peculiar  grace, 

Neither  repulsive,  affable,  nor  shy, 

Majestical,  reserved,  and  somewhat  sullen  ; 

Their  dresses  partly  silk  and  partly  woollen.” 

The  little  snatches  of  critical  quizzing  introduced  in 
Whistlecraft  are  perfect  in  their  way.  Take,  for 
example,  this  good-humoured  parody  on  one  of  the 
most  magnificent  passages  in  Wordsworth  : — 

“In  castles  and  in  courts  Ambition  dwells, 

But  not  in  castles  or  in  courts  alone  ; 

She  breathed  a wish,  throughout  those  sacred  cells, 

For  bells  of  larger  size,  and  louder  tone ; 

Giants  abominate  the  sound  of  bells, 

And  soon  the  fierce  antipathy  was  shown, 

The  tinkling  and  the  jingling,  and  the  clangor. 

Roused  their  irrational,  gigantic  anger. 

“ Unhappy  mortals  I ever  blind  to  fate! 

Unhappy  Monks  1 you  see  no  danger  nigh; 

Exulting  in  their  sound,  and  size,  and  weight, 

From  morn  till  noon  the  merry  peal  you  ply : 

The  belfry  rocks,  your  bosoms  are  elate, 

’•'?ur  spirts  with  the  ropes  and  pulleys  fly: 

Tired,  but  transported,  panting,  pulling,  hauling, 

Ramping  and  stamping,  overjoy’d  and  bawling. 

’’  Meanwhile  the  solemn  mountains  that  surrount’  d 
The  silent  valley  where  the  convent  lay, 

With  tiutinnabular  uproar  were  astounded, 

When  the  first  peal  burst  forth  at  bre  .k  of  v ay  . 


Feeling  their  granite  ears  severely  won  n dad 
They  scarce  knew  what  to  think,  or  what  to  say; 

And  (though  large  mountains  commonly  cornea. 

Their  sentiments,  dissembling  what  they  feel. 

“ Yet)  Cader-Gibbrish  from  his  cloudy  throne 
To  huge  Loblommon  gave  an  intimation 
Of  this  strange  rumour , with  an  awful  lone, 

Thund’ring  his  deep  surprise  and  indignation  ; 

The  lesser  hills,  in  language  of  their  own. 

Discuss'd  the  topic  by  reverberation  ; 

Discoursing  with  their  echoes  all  day  long, 

Their  only  conversation  was  ‘ ding-dong.  ” 

Mr.  Rose  has  a very  elegant  essay  on  Whistlecraft., 
in  his  “ Thoughts  and  Recollections  by  One  of  the 
last  Century,”  which  thus  concludes  : — 

“ Beppo,  which  had  a story,  and  which  pointed  but  one  way,  met 
with  signal  and  universal  success;  while  ‘The  Monks  and  the 
Giants’  have  been  little  appreciated,  by  the  majority  of  readers. 
Yet  those  who  will  only  laugh  upon  a sufficient  warrant,  may,  on 
analysing  this  bravura-poem,  find  legitimate  matter  for  their  mirth. 
The  want  of  meaning  certainly  cannot  be  objected  to  it,  with  reason; 
for  it  contains  a deep  substratum  of  sense,  and  does  not  exhibit 
a character  which  has  not,  or  might  not  have,  its  parallel  in  nature. 

I remember  at  the  time  this  poem  was  published,  (which  was,  when 
the  French  monarchy  seemed  endangered  by  the  vacillating  con- 
duct of  Louis  XVII I.,  who,  under  the  guidance  of  successive 
ministers,  was  trimming  between  the  loyalists  and  the  liberals,  ap- 
parently thinking  that  civility  and  conciliation  was  a remedy  for  all 
evils,)  a friend  dared  me  to  prove  my  assertion ; and  by  way  of  a 
text,  referred  me  to  the  character  of  the  crippled  abbott,  under 
whose  direction, 

‘ The  convent  was  all  going  to  the  devil, 

While  he,  poor  creature,  thought  himself  beloved 
For  saying  handsome  things,  and  being  civil, 

Wheeling  about  as  he  was  pull'd  and  shoved.’ 

“ The  obvious  application  of  this  was  made  by  me  to  Lou.-* 
XVIII. ; and  if  it  was  not  the  intention  of  the  author  to  designate 
him  in  particular,  the  applicability  of  the  passage  to  the  then  state 
of  France,  and  her  ruler,  shows,  at  least,  the  intrinsic  truth  of  the 
description.  Take,  in  the  same  way,  the  character  of  Sir  Tristram 
and  we  shall  find  its  elements,  if  not  in  one,  in  different  living 
persons. 

* Songs,  music,  languages,  and  many  a lay 
Asturian,  or  Armoric,  Irish,  Basque, 

His  ready  memory  seized  and  bore  away ; 

And  ever  when  the  ladies  chose  to  ask, 

Sir  Tristram  was  prepared  to  sing  and  play, 

Not  like  a minstrel,  earnest  at  his  task, 

But  with  a sportive,  careless,  easy  style, 

As  if  he  seem’d  to  mock  himself  the  while. 

‘ His  ready  wit,  and  rambling  education, 

With  the  congenial  influence  of  his  stars, 

Had  taught  him  all  the  arts  of  conversation. 

All  games  of  skill,  and  stratagems  of  wars ; 

His  birth,  it  seems,  by  Merlin’s  calculation, 

Was  under  Venus,  Mercury,  and  Mars: 

His  mir.d  with  all  their  attributes  was  mix’d, 

And,  like  those  planets,  wand’ring  and  unfix’d. 

“ Who  can  read  this  description,  without  recognising  in  it  tna 
portraits  (flattering  portraits,  perhaps)  of  two  military  character* 
well  known  in  society  ? ” 

The  reader  will  find  a copious  criticism  on  Whistle 
craft,  from  the  pen  of  Ugo  Boscolo,  in  the  Quarter!  i 
Review,  vol.  xxi.J 


43eppo. 


i. 

’Tis  known,  at  least  it  should  be,  that 
All  countries  of  the  Catholic  persuasion, 

Some  weeks  before  Shrove  Tuesday  comes  about. 
The  people  take  their  fill  of  recreation. 


BEPPO 


I And  buy  repentance,  ere  they  grow  devout, 

However  high  their  rank,  or  low  their  station, . 
With  fiddling,  feasting,  dancing,  drinking,  masquing, 
And  other  tilings  which  may  be  had  for  askkig. 

n. 

The  moment  night  with  dusky  mantle  covers 
The  skies  (and  the  more  duskily  the  better), 

The  time  less  liked  by  husbands  than  by  lovers 
[ Begins,  .and  prudery  flings  aside  her  fetter ; 

| And  gaiety  on  restless  tiptoe  hovers, 

Giggling  with  all  the  gallants  who  beset  her . 

And  there  are  songs  and  quavers,  roaring,  humming. 
Guitars,  and  every  other  sort  of  strumming. 

III. 

i And  there  are  dresses  splendid,  but  fantastical, 

Masks  of  all  times  and  nations,  Turks  and  Jewj, 

I And  harlequins,  and  clowns,  with  feats  gymnastical, 
Greeks,  Romans,  Yankce-doodles,  ana  Hindoos ; 
All  kinds  of  dress,  except  the  ecclesiastical, 

All  people,  as  their  fancies  hit,  may  choose. 

But  no  one  in  these  parts  may  quiz  the  clergy, — 
Therefore  take  heed,  ye  Freethinkers  ! I charge  ye. 


iv. 

You’d  better  walk  about  begirt  with  briars, 
Instead  of  coat  and  small  clothes,  than  put  on 
A single  stitch  reflecting  upon  friars, 
j Although  you  swore  it  only  was  in  fun  ; 

They ’d  haul  you  o’er  the  coals,  and  stir  the  fires 
„ Pklegetlion  with  every  mother’s  son, 

Nor  say  one  mass  to  cool  the  caldron’s  bubble 
That  boil’d  your  bones,  unless  you  paid  them  double. 


v. 

But  saving  this,  you  may  put  on  whate’er 
You  like  by  way  of  doublet,  cape,  or  cloak. 
Such  as  in  Monmout'h-street,  or  in  Rag  Fair, 
Would  rig  you  out  in  seriousness  or  joke  ; 

And  even  in  Italy  such  places  are, 

With  prettier  name  in  softer  accents  spoke. 
For,  bating  Covent  Garden,  I can  hit  on 
No  place  that’s  call’d  “Piazza”  in  Great  Britain.1 


I _ VI. 

[This  feast  is  named  the  Carnival,2  which  bein^ 

L ^tej'preted,  implies  “farewell  to  flesh:”  ° 
rS~^*  because  the  name  and  thing  agreeing, 
Through  Lent  they  live  on  fish  both  salt  and  fresh. 

I 


1 } [‘  For  bating  Covent  Garden,  I can  t hit  on 
A Plare,"  &c.~M;4.] 

..'lllr  •Carnivt1-”  iay8  Mr‘  Rose»  “though  it  is  gayer 

lu’eenSSrt  f R‘‘niUS  °f  thfe  nations  whi*h  celebranf  it, 
’he  bSinl  is  lik  ’ ncaJy  lhe  same  311  over  the  peninsa 
eg!n  to m i ' a,'y  ?ther  season;  towards  the  middle  y, 
Ue?n  da^the  r,V!e\an'1  muTmers  in  sunshine:  in  the  h 
urly  B„t  to  £ rCken5;  a?d  duri"g  lhe  three  last  all  is  hurl 

and’  obsenin«  that.  besides  the  ordinary  dramatis  pe 

‘B SreU^n a^°nd8*  bI5nd’  lame>  a"d  sturdy, 
Minstrel,  and  singers,  with  their  various  airs 
> pipe,  the  talior,  and  the  hurdy-gurdy  * 

ConUnu^rom  Wjth  a*>es  a”d  bea«, 

A n™  f r ^ <lay  t0  the  third  d«y. 

Aii  uproar  like  ten  thousand  Smithfieid  fairs’— 


14 

But  why  they  usher  Lent  with  so  much  glee  in. 

Is  more  than  I can  tell,  although  I guess 
’Tis  as  we  take  a glass  with  friends  at  parting. 

In  the  stage-coach  or  packet,  just  at  starting.' 

VII. 

And  thus  they  bid  farewell  to  carnal  dishes, 

And  solid  meats,  and  highly  spiced  ragouts, 

To  live  for  forty  days  on  ill-drcss’d  fishes. 

Because  they  have  no  sauces  to  their  stews, 

A tiling  which  causes  many  “poolis”  and  “ pishes,” 
And  several  oaths  (which  would  not  suit  the  M ul* 
From  travellers  accustom’d  from  a boy 
To  eat  their  salmon,  at  the  least,  with  soy ; 

viii. 

And  therefore  humbly  I would  recommend 
“ The  curious  in  fish-sauce,”  before  they  cross 
The  sea,  to  bid  their  cook,  or  wife,  or  friend, 

Walk  or  ride  to  the  $trand,  and  buy  in  gross 
(Or  if  set  out  beforehand,  these  may  send 
„ % any  means  least  liable  to  loss). 

Ketchup,  Soy,  Chili-vinegar,  and  Harvey, 

Or,  by  the  Lord ! a Lent  will  well-nigh  starve  ye  : 

IX. 

That  is  to  say,  if  your  religion’s  Roman, 

And  you  at  Rome  would  do  as  Romans  do. 
According  to  the  proverb,— although  no  man. 

If  foreign,  is  obliged  to  fast ; and  you, 

If  Protestant,  or  sickly,  or  a woman, 

Would  rather  dine  in  sin  on  a ragout — 

Dine  and  be  d — d ! I don’t  mean  to  be  coarse. 

But  that’s  the  penalty,  to  say  no  worse. 

<v 

Of  all  the  places  where  the  Carnival 
Was  most  facetious  in  the  days  of  yore, 

For  dance,  and  song,  and  serenade,  and  ball, 

And  masque,  and  mime,  and  mystery,  and  more 
Than  I have  time  to  tell  now,  or  at  all, 

Venice  the  bell  from  every  city  bore, — 

And  at  the  moment  when  I fix  my  story. 

The  sea-born  city  was  in  all  her  glory. 

XI. 

They’ve  pretty  faces  yet,  those  same  Venetians, 

Black  eyes,  arch’d  brows,  and  sweet  expressions  still ; 
Such  as  of  old  were  copied  from  the  Grecians, 

In  ancient  arts  by  moderns  mimick’d  ill; 

And  like  so  many  Venuses  of  Titian’s 
( The  best’s  at  Florence 3 — see  it,  if  ye  will,) 


the  shops  are  shut,  all  business  is  at  a stand,  and  the  drunken  cries 
heard  at  night  afford  a clear  proof  of  the  pleasures  to  which  these 
days  of  leisure  are  dedicated.  These  holydays  may  surely  be  reckoned 
amongst  the  secondary  causes  which  contribute  to  the  indolence  of 
the  Italian,  since  they  reconcile  this  to  his  conscience, %s  being  of 
religious  institution.  Now  there  is,  perhaps,  no  offence  which  is 
w Uvnprl°p0rti0nably  Punished  by  conscience  as  that  of  indolence. 
With  the  wicked  man,  it  is  an  intermittent  disease;  with  the  idle 
p^lVl1]  1S  4 chr°nic  one-”"- Letters  from  the  North  of  Italy,  vol.  ii. 

(3)  [“  At  Florence  I remained  but  a day,  having  a hurry  for 
Rome.  However,  I went  to  the  two  galleries,  from  which  one 
returns  drunk  with  beauty:  but  there  are  sculpture  and  painting, 
which,  for  the  first  time,  gave  me  an  idea  of  what  people  mean 
by  their  cant  about  those  two  most  artificial  of  the  arts.  What 
struck  me  most  were,— the  mistress  of  Raphael,  a portrait;  the 
mistress  of  Titian,  a portrait;  a Venus  of  Titian,  in  the  Medici 
gallery  ; the  \ enus ; Canova’s  Venus,  also  in  the  other  ga.lerj ,”  &c. 
— Byron  Letters  1817.]  J 


V 


148 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


They  look  when  leaning  over  the  balcony, 

Or  stepp’d  from  out  a picture  by  Giorgione,1 * 

XII. 

Whose  tints  are  truth  and  beauty  at  their  best ; 

And  when  you  to  Manfrini’s  palace  go,3 
That  picture  (howsoever  fine  the  rest) 

Is  loveliest  to  my  mind  of  all  the  show ; 

It  may  perhaps  be  also  to  your  zest, 

And  that’s  the  cause  I rhyme  upon  it  so ; 

*Tis  but  a portrait  of  his  son,  and  wife, 

And  self;  but  such  a woman ! love  in  life  !3 

XIII. 

Love  in  full  life  and  length,  not  love  ideal. 

No,  nor  ideal  beauty,  that  fine  name, 

But  something  better  still,  so  very  real, 

That  the  sweet  model  must  have  been  the  same; 

A thing  that  you  would  purchase;,  beg,  or  steal, 

Wer’t  not  impossible,  besides  a shame : 

The  face  recalls  some  face,  as  ’twere  with  pain, 

You  once  have  seen,  but  ne’er  will  see  again ; 

XIV. 

One  of  those  forms  which  flit  by  us,  when  we 
Are  young,  and  fix  our  eyes  on  every  face ; 

And,  oh ! the  loveliness  at  times  we  see 
In  momentary  gliding,  the  soft  grace, 

The  youth,  the  bloom,  the  beauty  which  agree, 

In  many  a nameless  being  we  retrace, 

Whose  course  and  home  we  knew  not,  nor  shall  know, 
Like  the  lost  Pleiad 4 seen  no  more  below. 

xv. 

I said  that  like  a picture  by  Giorgione 
Venetian  women  were,  and  so  they  are, 

Particularly  seen  from  a balcony. 

(For  beauty’s  sometimes  best,  set  off  afar) 

And  there,  just  like  a heroine  of  Goldoni, 

Tney  peep  from  out  the  blind,  or  o’er  the  bar ; 

And,  truth  to  say,  they’re  mostly  very  pretty, 

And  rather  like  to  show  it,  more’s  the  pity  ! 

XVI. 

For  glances  beget  ogles,  ogles  sighs, 

Sighs  wishes,  wishes  words,  and  words  a letter. 


(1)  [“  I know  nothing  of  pictures  myself,  and  care  almost  as 
little;  but  to  me  there  are  none  like  the  Venetian — above  all, 
Giorgione.  I remember  well  his  Judgment  of  Solomon,  in  the  Maris- 
calchi  gallery  in  Bologna.  The  real  mother  is  beautiful,  exqui- 
sitely beautiful.” — Byron  Letters , 1820.] 

(2)  [The  following  is  Lord  Byron’s  account  of  his  visit  to  this 
palace,  in  April,  1817: — “To-day,  I ]jave  been  over  the  Manfrini 
palace,  famous  for  its  pictures.  Amongst  them,  there  is  a portrait 
of  Ariosto,  by  Titian,  surpassing  all  my  anticipation  of  the  power 
of  painting  or  human  expression : it  is  the  poetry  of  portrait,  and 
the  portrait  of  poetry.  There  was  also  one  of  some  learned  lady 
centuries  old,  whose  name  1 forget,  but  whose  features  must  always 
be  remembered.  I never  saw  greater  beauty,  or  sweetness,  or 
wisdom ; — it  is  the  kind  of  face  to  go  mad  for,  because  it  cannot 
walk  out  of  its  frame.  There  is  also  a famous  dead  Christ  and  live 
Apostles,  for  which  Buonaparte  offered  in  vain  five  thousand 
louis ; and  of  which,  though  it  is  a capo  d’  opera  of  Titian,  as  I am 
no  connoisseur,  I say  little,  and  thought  less,  except  of  one  figure 
in  it.  There  are  ten  thousand  others,  and  some  very  fine  Gior- 
giones amongst  them.  There  is  an  original  Laura  and  l’etrarch, 
very  hideous  both.  Petrarch  has  not  only  the  dress,  but  the  features 
and  air  of  an  old  woman ; and  Laura  looks  by  no  means  like  a young 
one,  or  a pretty  one.  What  struck  me  most  in  the  general  collection, 
was  the  extreme  resemblance  of  the  style  of  the  female  faces  in 
the  mass  of  pictures,  so  many  centuries  or  generations  old,  to  those 
you  see  and  meet  every  day  among  the  existing  Italians.  The 
Queen  of  Cyprus  and  Giorgione’s  wife,  particularly  the  latter,  are 
Venetians  as  it  were  of  yesterday;  the  same  eyes  and  expression, 
and,  to  my  mind,  there  is  none  finer.  You  must  recollect,  however, 


Which  flies  on  wings  of  light-heel’d  Mercuries. 

Who  do  such  things  because  they  know  no  better ; 
And  then,  God  knows,  what  mischief  may  arise, 
When  love  links  two  young  people  in  one  fetter, 
Vile  assignations,  and  adulterous  beds, 

Elopements,  broken  vows,  and  hearts,  and  headt. 

XVII. 

Sbakspeare  described  the  sex  in  Desdemona 
As  very  fair,  but  yet  suspect  in  fame,5 
And  to  this  day  from  Venice  to  Verona 
Such  matters  may  be  probably  the  same, 

Except  that  since  those  times  was  never  known  a 
Husband  whom  mere  suspicion  could  inflame 
To  suffocate  a wife  no  more  than  twenty, 

Because  she  had  a “ cavalier  servente.” 

XVIII. 

Their  jealousy  (if  they  are  ever  jealous) 

Is  of  a fair  complexion  altogether. 

Not  like  that  sooty  devil  of  Othello’s 

Which  smothers  women  in  a bed  of  feather. 

But  worthier  of  thete  much  more  jolly  fellows, 
When  weary  of  the  matrimonial  tether 
His  head  for  such  a wife  no  mortal  bothers, 

But  takes  at  once  another,  or  another’s.6 

XIX. 

Didst  ever  see  a Gondola  ? For  fear 
You  should  not,  I’ll  describe  it  you  exactly : 

’Tis  a long  cover’d  boat  that’s  common  here, 

Carved  at  the  prow,  built  lightly,  but  compactly, 
Row’d  by  two  rowers,  each  call’d  “ Gondolier,” 

It  glides  along  the  water  looking  blackly, 
dust  like  a eofiui  ciapt  in  a canoe,  . 

Where  none  can  make  out  what  you  say  or  do. 


And  up  and  down  the  long  canals  they  go, 

And  under  the  Rialto  7 shoot  along, 

By  night  and  day,  all  paces,  swift  or  slow. 

And  round  the  theatres,  a sable  throng, 

They  wait  in  their  dusk  livery  of  woe,-'  ■ 

But  not  to  them  do  woeful  things  belong, 

For  sometimes  they  contain  a deal  of  fun, 

Like  mourning  coaches  when  the  funeral ’s  done. 


that  I know  nothing  of  painting,  and  that  I detest  it,  unless  it  ; 

reminds  me  of  something  I have  seen,  or  think  it  possible  to  see.”]  ; 

(3)  [This  appears  to  be  an  incorrect  description  of  the  picture;  • 
as,  according  to  Vasari  and  others,  Giorgione  never  was  married,  l 
and  died  young.] 

(4)  “ Quae  sepiem  dici  sex  tamen  esse  solent.” — Ovid. 

(5)  [“Look  to ’t: 

In  Venice  they  do  let  heaven  see  the  pranks 

They  dare  not  show  their  husbands  ; their  best  conscience 

Is — not  to  leave  undone,  but  keep  unknown." — Othello .] 

(6)  [“  Jealousy  is  not  the  order  of  the  day  in  Venice,  and  daggers 
ire  out  of  fashion,  while  duels  on  love  matters  are  unknown — at  j 
east,  with  the  husbands.” — Byron  Letters.] 

(7)  [An  English  abbreviation.  Rialto  is  the  name,  not  ot  the 
oridge,  but  of  the  island  from  which  it  is  called;  and  the  Venetians  1 
say,  il  ponte  di  Rialto,  as  we  say  Westminster  Bridge.  In  that  | 
island  is  the  Exchange;  and  I have  often  walked  there  as  on  1 
classic  ground.  In  the  days  of  Antonio  and  Bassanio  it  was  second  1 
to  none.  “ I sotto  portichi,”  says  Sansovino,  writing  in  1580,  “sono  I 
ogni  giorni  frequentati  da  i mercatanti  Fiorentini,  Genovesi,  Mila-  ' 
nesi,  Spagnuoli,  Turchi,  e d’  altre  nationi  diverse  del  mondo,  i | 
quali  vl  concoriono  in  tanta  copia,  che  questa  piazza  6 annoverata  j 
fra  le  priive  dell’  universo.”  It  was  there  that  the  Christian  held 
discourse  with  the  Jew ; and  Shylock  refers  to  it,  when  he  says,—  j 

“ Signor  Antonio,  many  a time  and  oft, 

1 n the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me.” 

* Andiamo  a Rialto’ — ‘ 1’  ora  di  Rialto’ — were  on  every  tongue ; and 
continue  so  to  the  present  day. — Kooxas ] 


A.  PRETTY  WOMAN  LS  A.  WELCOME  GI'EST  . 

AND  t AURAS  BROW  A FROWN  HAD  RARELY  RENT  : 

Indeed  she  -ii"M,  yel  smiles  and  >i:i  v h ru  flatter 

MANKIND  WITH  HER  HACK  EYES  l ■ >U  LOOKING  AT  HER  . 


BtH-H 


BEPPO. 


147 


Bat  to  my  story.— ’Twas  some  years  ago, 

It  may  be  thirty,  forty,  more  or  less, 

The  carnival  was  at  its  height,  and  so 
Were  all  kinds  of  buffoonery  and  dress  ; 

A certain  lady  went  to  see  the  show, 

Her  real  name  I know  not,  nor  can  guess. 

And  so  we’ll  call  her  Laura,  if  you  please. 

Because  it  slips  into  my  verse  with  ease. 

XXII. 

She  was  not  old,  nor  young,  nor  at  the  years 
Which  certain  people  call  a “ certain  aije , 

Wliich  yet  the  most  uncertain  age  appears, 

Because  I never  heard,  nor  could  engage 
A person  yet  by  prayers,  or  bribes,  or  tears, 

To  name,  define  by  speech,  or  write  on  page, 

The  period  meant  precisely  by  that  word,— 

Which  surely  is  exceedingly  absurd. 

XXIII. 

Laura  was  blooming  still,  had  made  the  best 
Of  time,  and  time  return’d  the  compliment, 

And  treated  her  genteelly,  so  that,  dress’d, 

She  look’d  extremely  well  where’er  she  went ; 

A pretty  woman  is  a welcome  guest, 

And  Laura’s  brow  a frown  had  rarely  bent ; 
Indeed  she  shone  all  smiles,  and  seem’d  to  Hatter 
Mankind  with  her  black  eyes  for  looking  at  her. 

XXIV. 

She  was  a married  woman ; ’tis  convenient. 

Because  in  Christian  countries  ’tis  a rule  . 

To  view  their  little  slips  with  eyes  more  lenient ; 

Whereas,  if  single  ladies  play  the  tool, 

(Unless  within  the  period  intervenient 

A well-timed  wedding  makes  the  scandal  cool) 

I don’t  know  how  they  ever  can  get  over  it. 

Except  they  manage  never  to  discover  it. 

XXV. 

Her  husband  sail’d  upon  the  Adriatic, 

And  made  some  voyages*  too,  in  other  seas, 

Anri  when  he  lay  in  quarantine  for  pratique 
(A  forty  days’  precaution  ’gainst  disease) 

His  wife  would  mount,  at  times,  her  highest  attic. 
For  thence  she  could  discern  the  ship  with  ease  : 
He  was  a merchant  trading  to  Aleppo, 

His  name  Giuseppe,  call’d  more  briefly,  Beppo. 


XXVII. 

But  several  years  elapsed  sinee  they  had  met ; 

Some  people  thought  the  ship  was  lost,  and  some 
That  he  had  somehow  blunder’d  into  debt, 

And  did  not  like  the  thoughts  of  steering  home  i 
there  were  several  offer’d  any  bet. 

Or  that  he  would,  or  that  he  would  not  come. 

For  most  men  (till  by  losing  render’d  sager) 

Will  back  their  own  opinions  with  a wager. 

XXVIII. 

’Tis  said  that  their  last  parting  was  pathetic. 

As  partings  often  are,  or  ought  to  be, 

And  their  presentiment  was  quite  prophetic 
That  they  should  never  more  each  other  see, 

(A  sort  of  morbid  feeling,  half  poetic, 

Which  I have  known  occur  in  two  or  three,) 

When  kneeling  on  the  shore  upon  her  sad  knee. 

He  left  this  Adriatic  Ariadne. 

XXIX. 

And  Laura  waited  long,  and  wept  a little, 

And  thought  of  wearing  weeds,  as  well  she  might ; 
She  almost  lost  all  appetite  for  victual. 

And  could  not  sleep  with  ease  alone  at  night ; 

She  deem’d  the  window-frames  and  shutters  brittle 
Against  a daring  housebreaker  or  sprite, 

And  so  she  thought  it  prudent  to  connect  her 
With  a vice-husband,  chiefly  to  protect  her. 

XXX. 

She  chose,  (and  what  is  there  they  will  not  cnoose. 
If  only  you  will  but  oppose  their  choice  f) 

Till  Beppo  should  return  from  his  long  cruise, 

And  bid  once  more  her  faithful  heart  rejoice, 

A man  some  women  like,  and  yet  abuse — 

A coxcomb  was  he  by  the  public  voice ; 

A Count  of  wealth,  they  said,  as  well  as  quality, 

And  in  his  pleasures  of  great  liberality.2 

XXXI. 

And  then  he  was  a Count,  and  then  he  knew 
Music,  and  dancing,  fiddling,  French  and  Tuscan 
The  last  not  easy,  be  it  known  to  you, 

For  few  Italians  speak  the  right  Etruscan. 

He  was  a critic  upon  operas,  too, 

And  knew  all  niceties  of  the  sock  and  buskin  ; 
And  no  Venetian  audience  could  endure  a ^ 
Song,  scene,  or  air,  when  he  cried  “ seccatura  1” 


XXVI. 

He  was  a man  as  dusky  as  a Spaniard, 

Sunburnt  with  travel,  yet  a portly  figure ; 
Though  colour’d,  as  it  were,  within  a tanyard, 

He  was  a person  both  of  sense  and  vigour — 

A better  seaman  never  yet  did  man  yard  : 

And  she , although  her  manners  show’d  no  rigour, 
Was  deem’d  a woman  of  the  strictest  principle. 

So  much  as  to  be  thought  almost  invincible.1 


(1)  [“The  general  state  of  morals  here  is  much  the  same  as  In 
the  Doges’  time ; a woman  is  virtuous  (according  to  the  code)  who 
limits  herself  to  her  husband  and  one  lover;  those  who  have  two, 
three,  or  more,  are  a little  wild ; but  it  is  only  those  who  are 
indiscriminately  diffuse,  and  form  a low  connexion,^  wlxo_  are 
considered  as  overstepping  the  modesty  of  marriage.  Ihere  is  no 

convincing  a woman  here,  that  she  is  in  tire  smallest  degree 


XXXII. 

His  “ bravo”  was  decisive,  for  that  sound 
Hush’d  “ Academie”  sigh’d  in  silent  awe  ; 

The  fiddlers  trembled  as  he  look’d  around, 

For  fear  of  some  false  note’s  detected  flaw. 

The  “prima  donna’s”  tuneful  heart  would  bound. 
Dreading  the  deep  damnation  ot  liis  “ bah  1 
Soprano,  basso,  even  the  contra-alto. 

Wish’d  him  five  fathom  under  the  Rialto. 


ating  from  the  rule  of  right  or  the  htness  of  things,  in  having 
moroso.  The  great  sin  seems  to  lie  in  concealing  .t,  or  having 
e than  one ; that  is,  unless  such  an  extension  ot  tne  preroga 
is  understood  and  approved  of  by  the  prior  ciannaut.  —Mynn 
era,  1817.] 


I o 1 / .J  . .. 

[“  A Count  of  wealth  inferior  to  his  quality, 
Which  somewhat  limited  his  liberality. ‘ — 


MS.J 


148 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


XXXIIT. 

Lie  patronised  the  Improvisator!, 

Way,  could  himself  extemporise  some  stanzas, 
Wrote  rhymes,  sang  songs,  could  also  tell  a story, 
Sold  pictures,  and  was  skilful  in  the  dance  as 
Italians  can  be,  though  in  this  their  glory  [has ; 

Must  surely  yield  the  palm  to  that  which  France 
In  short,  he  was  a perfect  cavaliero, 

And  to  his  very  valet  seem’d  a hero. 

xxxiv. 

Then  he  was  faithful  too,  as  well  as  amorous ; 

So  that  no  sort  of  female  could  complain, 

Although  they’re  now  and  then  a little  clamorous, 
lie  never  put  the  pretty  souls  in  pain ; 

His  heart  was  one  of  those  which  most  enamour  us, 
Wax  to  receive,  and  marble  to  retain. 

He  wasa  lover  of  the  good  old  school. 

Who  still  become  more  constant  as  tney  cool, 
xxxv. 

No  wonder  such  accomplishments  should  turn 
A female  head,  however  sage  and  steady — 

With  scarce  a hope  that  Beppo  could  return, 

In  law  he  was  almost  as  good  as  dead,  he  * 

Nor  sent,  nor  wrote,  nor  show’d  the  least  concern. 
And  she  had  waited  several  years  already  ; 

And  really  if  a man  won’t  let  us  know 
That  he’s  alive,  he’s  dead , or  should  be  so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides,  within  the  Alps,  to  every  woman, 

(Although,  God  knows,  it  is  a grievous  sin,) 

Tis,  I may  say,  permitted  to  have  tiro  men ; 

I can  t tell  who  first  brought  the  custom  in. 

But  “ Cavalier  Servcntes”  arc  quite  common. 

And  no  one  notices,  nor  cares  a pin ; 

And  we  may  call  this  (not  to  say  the  worst) 

A second  marriage  which  corrupts  the  first. 

xxxvii. 

The  word  was  formerly  a “ Cicisbco,” 

But  that  is  now  grown  vulgar  and  indecent ; 

The  Spaniards  call  the  person  a “ Cortejo ,”  1 
For  the  same  mode  subsists  in  Spain, ’though  recent- 
In  short  it  reaches  from  the  Po  to  Teio, 

And  may  perhaps  at  last  be  o’er  the  sea  sent. 

But  Heaven  preserve  Old  England  from  such  courses ! 
Or  what  becomes  of  damage  and  divorces  ? 

XXXVIII. 

However,  I still  think,  with  all  due  deference 
To  the  fair  single  part  of  the  Creation, 

That  married^ ladies  should  preserve  the  preference 
1 n tete-a-tete  or  general  conversation — 

And  this  I say  without  peculiar  reference 

lo  England,  France,  or  any  other  nation 

Because  they  know  the  world,  and  are  at  ease, 

And  being  natural,  naturally  please. 

xxxrx. 

Tis  true,  your  budding  Miss  is  very  charming, 

But  sny  and  awkward  at  first  coming  out,  * 
bo  much  alarm’d,  that  she  is  quite  alarming 
All  Giggle,  Blush  ; half  Pcrtncss,  and  half  Pout ; 


And  glancing  at  Mamma,  for  fear  there’s  harm  m 

m Wlrlt  you>  shc’  or  the7»  ma.T  about, 

1 he  Nursery  still  lisps  out  in  all  tiey  utter— 
Besides,  they  always  smell  of  bread  and  butter. 

XL. 

But  “ Cavalier  Servcnte”  is  the  phrase 
Used  in  politest  circles  to  express 
This  supernumerary  slave,  who  stays 
Close  to  the  lady  as  a part  of  dress, 

Her  word  the  only  law  which  he  obeys. 

Ilis  is  no  sinecure,  as  you  may  guess  ; 

Coach,  servants,  gondola,  he  goes  do  call. 

And  carries  fan  and  tippet,  gloves  and  shawl. 

XU. 

With  all  its  sinful  doings,  I must  say, 

That  Italy’s  a pleasant  place  to  me, 

Who  love  to  see  the  Sun  shine  every  day. 

And  vines  (not  nail’d  to  walls)  from  tree  to  tree 
Fest  oon’d,  much  like  the  back  scene  of  a play, 

Or  melodrame,  which  people  flock  to  see,  ' 
When  the  first  act  is  ended  by  a dance 
In  vineyards  copied  from  the  south  of  France. 


XLII. 

I like  on  Autumn  evenings  to  ride  out, 

Without  being  forced  to  bid  my  groom  be  sure 
My  cloak  is  round  his  middle  strapp’d  about, 

Because  the  skies  are  not  the  most  secure ; 

I know  too  that,  if  stopp’d  upon  my  route, 

Where  the  green  alleys  windingly  allure, 

Reeling  with  grapes  red  waggons  choke  the  way,— 

In  England ’t  would  be  dung,  dust,  or  a dray. 

XLIII. 

I also  like  to  dine  on  bccaficas, 

1°  see  t^e  Sun  set,  sure  he’ll  rise  to-morrow, 

Not  through  a misty  morning  twinkling  weak  as  . 

A drunken  man’s  dead  eye  in  maudlin  sorrow, 

But  with  all  Heaven  t’  himself ; that  day  will  break  ac 
Beauteous  as  cloudless,  nor  be  forced  to  borrow 
That  sort  of  farthing  candlelight  which  glimmers 
W heie  reeking  London’s  smoky  caldron  simmers. 

XLl*. 

1 .tlie  Janguage,  that  soft  bastard  Latin, 

H Inch  melts  like  kisses  from  a female  mouth, 

And  sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin, 

With  syllables  which  breathe  of  the  sweet  South, 
And  gentle  liquids  gliding  all  so  pat  in, 
dhat  not  a single  accent  seems  uncouth, 

Like  our  harsh  northern  whistling,  grunting  guttu/*'. 
V\  inch  we  re  obliged  to  hiss,  and  spit,  and  sputtei  an 


I like  the  women  too  (forgive  my  folly). 

From  the  rich  peasant-cheek  of  ruddy  bronzed 
And  large  black  eyes  that  flash  on  you  a volley 
O rays  that  say  a thousand  things  at  once, 
io  the  high  dama’s  brow,  more  melancholy 
But  clear,  and  with  a wild  and  liquid  glance. 
Heart  on  her  lips,  and  soul  within  her  eyes, 
boft  as  her  clime,* 3  and  sunny  as  her  skies.4 


PraCtiCe  U “ *"» 


Jo!  [!!  7™\the  ta”  pe,asant  with  her  ruddy  bronze.  '-MS  ] 

(3)  [ Likelier  own  clime,  all  sun,  and  bloom,  and  skie*  " 

(4)  [In  these  lines  the  author  rises  above  the  usual  and  ,ppJ 


BEPPO. 


149 


XLVI. 

fcvo  of  the  land  which,  still  is  Paradise  ! 

Italian  beauty ! didst  thou  not  inspire  _ * 

Raphael,* 1  who  died  in  thy  embrace,  and  viea 
With  all  we  know  of  Heaven,  or  can  desire, 

In  what  he  hath  bequeath’d  us? — in  what  guise. 
Though  dashing  from  the  fervour  of  the  lyre, 
Would  words  describe  thy  past  and  present  glow. 
While  yef  Canova  can  create  below  ?2 

XLVII. 

“ England ! with  all  thy  faults  I love  thee  still,” 

1 said  at  Calais,  and  have  not  forgot  it ; 

I like  to  speak  and  lucubrate  my  fill ; 

1 like  the  government  (but  that  is  not  it) ; 

I like  the  freedom  of  the  press  and  quill ; 

I like  the  Habeas  Corpus  (when  we’ve  got  it) ; 
f like  a parliamentary  debate, 

Particularly  when  ’tis  not  too  late ; 

XLVIII. 

1 like  the  taxes,  when  they’re  not  too  many ; 

I like  a seacoal  fire,  when  not  too  dear ; 

I like  a beef-steak,  too,  as  well  as  any  ; 

Have  no  objection  to  a pot  of  beer ; 

I like  the  weather,  when  it  is  not  rainy, 

That  is,  1 like  two  months  of  every  year. 

And  so  God  save  the  Regent,  Church,  and  King ! 
Which  means  that  I like  all  and  every  tiling. 

XLIX. 

Our  standing  army,  and  disbanded  seamen, 

Poor’s  rate,  Reform,  my  own,  the  nation’s  debt, 
Our  little  riots  just  to  show  we  are  free  men. 

Our  trifling  bankruptcies  in  the  Gazette, 

Our  cloudy  climate,  and  our  chilly  women, 

All  these  I can  forgive,  and  those  forget, 

And  greatly  venerate  our  recent  glories, 

And  wish  they  were  not  owing  tc  the  Tories. 

L. 

But  to  my  tale  of  Laura, — for  I find 
Digression  is  a sin,  that  by  degrees 
Becomes  exceeding  tedious  to  my  mind. 

And,  therefore,  may  the  reader  too  displease — 
The  gentle  reader,  who  may  wax  unkind, 

And  caring  little  for  the  author’s  ease, 

Insist  on  knowing  what  he  means,  a hard 
And  hapless  situation  lor  a bard. 

LI. 

Oh  that  I had  the  art  of  easy  writing 

What  should  be  easy  reading  ! could  I scale 
Parnassus,  where  the  Muses  sit  inditing 
Those  pretty  poems  never  known  to  fail. 


priate  pitch  of  liis  composition,  and  is  betrayed  into  something  too 
like  enthusiasm  and  deep  feeling  for  the  light  and  fantastic  strain 
of  his  poeiry.  Neither  does  the  lit  go  o(f,  for  he  rises  quite  into 
rapture  in  the  succeeding  stanza.  This  is,  however,  the  only  slip 
of  the  kind  in  the  whole  work  — the  only  passage  in  which  the 
author  betrays  the  secret  (which  might,  however,  have  been  sus- 
pected) of  his  own  genius,  and  his  affinity  to  a higher  order  of 
poets  than  those  to  whom  he  has  here  been  pleased  to  hold  out  a 
model. — Jeffrey.] 

(1)  For  the  received  accounts  of  the  cause  of  Raphael's  death 
•ea  his  lives. 

(2)  Note.— (In  talking  thus,  the  writer,  more  especially 

Of  women,  would  be  understood  to  say, 

He  speaks  as  a spectator,  not  officially, 

And  always,  reader,  in  a modest  way ; 


How  quickly  would  I print  ff.be  world  delighting) 

A Grecian,  Syrian,  or  Assyrian  tale; 

And  sell  you,  mix’d  with  western  sentimentalism. 
Some  samples  of  the  finest  Orientalism. 

LIT. 

But  I am  but  a nameless  sort  of  person, 

(A  broken  Dandy3  lately  on  my  travels) 

And  take  for  rhyme,  to  hook  my  rambling  verse  on. 
The  first  that  Walker’s  Lexicon  unravels. 

And  when  I can’t  find  that,  I put  a worse  on, 

Not  caring  as  I ought  for  critics’  cavils  ; 

I’ve  half  a mind  to  tumble  down  to  prose, 

But  verse  is  more  in  fashion — so  here  goes. 

LSII. 

The  Count  and  Laura  made  their  new  arrangement, 
Which  lasted,  as  arrangements  sometimes  do, 

Por  half  a dozen  years  without  estrangement; 

They  had  their  little  differences,  too  ; 

Those  jealous  whiffs,  which  never  any  change  meant. 

In  such  affairs  there  probably  arc  few 
Who  have  not  had  this  pouting  sort  of  squabble. 

Prom  sinners  of  high  station  to  the  rabble. 

LTV. 

But,  on  the  whole,  they  were  a happy  pair, 

As  happy  as  unlawful  love  could  make  them; 

The  gent  leman  was  fond,  the  lady  fair. 

Their  chains  so  light,  ’twas  not  worth  while  to 
break  them : 

The  world  beheld  them  with  indulgent  air; 

The  pious  only  wish’d  “the  devil  take  them!” 

He  took  them  not;  lie  very  often  waits, 

And  leaves  old  sinners  to  be  young  ones’  baits. 

LV. 

But  they  were  young : Oh  ! what  without  our  youth 
Would  love,  he  ! What  would  youth  be  without  love 
Youth  lends  it  joy,  and  sweetness,  vigour,  truth. 
Heart,  soul,  and  all  that  seems  as  from  above; 

But,  languishing  with  years,  it  grows  uncouth — 

One  of  few  things  experience  don’t  improve, 

Which  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  old  fellows 
Are  always  so  preposterously  jealous. 

LVI. 

It  was  the  Carnival,  as  I have  said 

Some  six  and  thirty  stanzas  back,  and  so 
Laura  the  usual  preparations  made, 

Which  you  do  when  your  mind’s  made  up  to  go 
To-night  to  Mrs.  Boehm’s  masquerade. 

Spectator,  or  partaker  in  the  show  ; 

The  only  difference  known  between  the  cases 
Is — here , we  have  six  weeks  of  “varnish’d  faces.” 


Perhaps,  too,  in  no  very  great  degree  shall  he 
Appear  to  have  offended  in  this  lay, 

Since,  as  all  know,  without  the  sex,  our  sonnets 
Would  seem  unfinish’d,  like  their  untrimm'd  bonnets.) 

(Signed)  Printer’s  Devil. 

(3)  [“ The  expressions  ‘ blue  stacking’  and  'dandy'  may  furnish 
matter  for  the  learning  of  a commentator  at  some  future  period. 
At  this  moment,  every  English  reader  will  understand  them.  Our 
present  ephemeral  dandy  is  akin  to  the  maccaroni  of  my  earlier 
days.  The  first  of  those  expressions  has  become  classical,  by  Mrs. 
Hannah  More's  poem  of  1 llas-lileu,’  and  the  other  by  the  use  of  it 
in  one  of  Lord  Byron’s  poems.  Though  fow  become  familiar  au«l 
trite,  their  day  may  not  be  long. 

‘ Cadentque 

Qu®  nunc  sunt  in  honore  vocabuia.’  * 

—Lord  Glen  her  vie,  Iiicciardittu,  1822.] 


150 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


LVII. 

Laura,  when  dress’d,  was  (as  I sang  before) 

A pretty  woman  as  was  ever  seen, 

.Fresh  as  tne  Angel  o’er  a new  inn  door, 

Or  frontispiece  of  a new  Magazine, 

With  all  the  fashions  which  the  last  month  wore, 
Colour’d,  and  silver  paper  leaved  between 
That  and  the  title-page,  for  fear  the  press 
Should  soil  with  parts  of  speech  the  parts  of  dress. 

LVIII. 

They  went  to  the  Ridotto ’tis  a hall 

M here  people  dance,  and  sup,  and  dance  again ; 
Its  proper  name,  perhaps,  were  a masqued  ball. 

But  that’s  of  no  importance  to  my  strain; 

’Tis  (on  a smaller  scale)  like  our  Yauxhall, 
Excepting  that  it  can’t  be  spoilt  by  rain ; 

The  company  is  “mix’d”  (the  phrase  I quote  is 
As  much  as  saying,  they’re  below  your  notice)  ; 

LIX. 

For  a “ mix’d  company”  implies  that,  save 
\ ourself  and  friends,  and  half  a hundred  more, 
Whom  you  may  bow  to  without  looking  grave. 

The  rest  are  but  a vulgar  set,  the  bore 
Of  public  places,  where  they  basely  brave 
The  fashionable  stare  of  twenty  score 
Of  well-bred  persons,  call’d  “ the  World;”  but  I, 
Although  I know  them,  really  don’t  know  why. 

LX. 

This  is  the  case  in  England ; at  least  was 
During  the  dynasty  of  Dandies,1  now 
Perchance  succeeded  by  some  other  class 
Of  imitated  imitators  : — how 
Irreparably  soon  decline,  alas  ! 

The  demagogues  of  fashion : all  below 
Is  frail ; how  easily  the  world  is  lost 
By  love,  or  war,  and  now  and  then  by  frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush’d  was  Napoleon  by  the  northern  Thor, 

Who  knock’d  his  army  down  with  icy  hammer. 
Stopp’d  by  the  elements ,2  like  a whaler,  or 
A Diundering  novice  in  his  new  French  grammar; 
Good  cause  had  he  to  doubt  the  chance  of  war, 

And  as  (or  Fortune — but  I dare  not  d — n her, 
Because,  where  I to  ponder  to  infinity, 

The  more  I should  believe  in  her  divinity.3 4 

LXIL, 

She  rules  the  present,  past,  and  all  to  be  yet, 

She  gives  us  luck  in  lotteries,  love,  and  marriage ; 

I cannot  say  that  she’s  done  much  for  me  yet ; 

Not  that  I mean  her  bounties  to  disparage, 

We’ve  not  yet  closed  accounts,  and  we  shall  see  yet 
How  mucli  she’ll  make  amends  for  past  miscarriage; 
Meantime  the  goddess  I’ll  no  more  importune, 

Unless  to  thank  her  when  she’s  made  my  fortune. 


1 [“I  liked  the  Dandies;  they  were  always  very  civil  to  me; 
though,  in  general,  they  disliked  literary  people,  and  persecuted 
and  mystified  Madame  de  Stael,  Lewis,  Horace  Twiss,  and  the 
like.  The  truth  is,  that  though  I gave  up  the  business  early,  I 
had  a tinge  of  Dandyism  in  my  minority,  and  probably  retained 
enough  of  it  to  conciliate  the  great  ones  at  four-and-twenty.” — 
Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

(2)  [“  When  Brummell  was  obliged  to  retire  to  France,  he  knew 
no  French,  and  having  obtained  a grammar  for  the  purpose  of 
study,  our  friend  Scrope  Davies  was  asked  what  progress  Brum- 
mell had  made  in  French;  he  responded,  ‘that  Brummell  had 
been  stopped,  like  Buonaparte  in  Russia,  by  the  elements.'  1 have 
put  this  pun  into  Beppo,  which  is  ‘ a fair  exchange  and  no 


Lzm. 

To  turn,— and  to  return ;— the  devil  take  it  \ 

This  story  slips  for  ever  through  my  fingers. 
Because,  just  as  the  stanza  likes  to  make  it. 

It  needs  must  be— and  so  it  rather  lingers  ; 

This  form  of  verse  began,  I can’t  well  break  it. 

But  must  keep  time  and  tune  like  public  singers. 
But  if  I once  get  through  my  present  measure, 

I’ll  take  another  when  I’m  next  at  leisure. 

LXIV. 

They  went  to  the  Ridotto  (’tis  a place 
lo  which  I mean  to  go  myself  to-morrow. 

Just  to  divert  my  thoughts  a little  space, 

Because  I’m  rather  hippish,  and  may  borrow 
Some  spirits,  guessing  at  what  kind  of‘  face 
May  lurk  beneath  each  mask  ; and  as  my  sorrow 
Slackens  its  pace  sometimes,  I’ll  make,  or  find, 
Something  shall  leave  it  half  an  hour  behind.) 

t LXV. 

Now  Laura  moves  along  the  joyous  crowd, 

Smiles  in  her  eyes,  and  simpers  on  her  lips; 

To  some  she  whispers,  others  speaks  aloud  ; 

To  some  she  curtsies,  and  to  some  she  dips. 
Complains  of  warmth,  and  this  complaint  avow’d, 
ller  lover  brings  the  lemonade,  she  sips  ; 

She  then  surveys,  condemns,  but  pities  still 
Her  dearest  friends  for  being  dress’d  so  ill. 

LX  VI. 

One  lias  false  curls,  another  too  much  paint, 

A third— where  did  she  buv  that  frightful  turban  ? 

A fourth’s  so  pale  she  fears  she’s  going  to  faint, 

A fifth’s  look’s  vulgar,  dowdyish,  and  suburban, 

A sixth’s  white  silk  has  got  a yellow  taint, 

A seventh’s  thin  muslin  surely  will  be  her  bane, 

And  lo ! an  eighth  appears,— “ I’ll  see  no  more !”  i 
ror  fear,  like  Banquo’s  kings,  they  reach  a score, 

LX  VII. 

Meantime,  while  she  was  thus  at  others  gazing. 

Others  were  levelling  their  looks  at  her ; 

She  heard  the  men’s  half-whisper’d  mode  of  praising, 
And,  till  ’twas  done,  determined  not  to  stir; 

The  women  only  thought  it  quite  amazing 
d hat,  at  her  time  ol*  life,  so  many  were 
Admirers  still,— but  men  are  so  deoased, 

Those  brazen  creatures  always  suit  their  taste. 

% 

IXVIII. 

For  my  part,  now,  I ne’er  could  understand 
Why  naughty  women— but  I won’t  discuss 
A tlihi"  which  is  a scandal  to  the  land, 

I only  don’t  see  why  it  should  be  thus ; 

And  if  I were  but  in  a gown  and  band, 

, J ust  to  entitle  me  to  make  a fuss, 

I’d  preach  on  this  till  Wilberforce  and  Romilly 
Should  quote  in  their  next  speeches  foom  my  homilv,  ■ 


robbery  for  Scrope  made  his  fortune  at  several  dinners  (as  ha 

owned  himself),  by  repeating  occasionally,  as  his  own,  some  of  i 
the  buffooneries  with  which  1 had  encountered  him  in  the  morn- 
ing.”— Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

(3)  [“  Like  Sylla,  I have  always  believed  that  all  things  de- 
pend upon  Fortune,  and  nothing  upon  ourselves.  I am  not  awtri 
of  any  one  thought  or  action,  worthy  of  being  called  good  to  my- 
self or  others,  which  is  not  to  be  attributed  to  the  good  goddeea— 
Fortune  1” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

(4)  [In  the  margin  of  ‘he  original  MS.  Lord  Byron  has  writ 
ten— “ January  19Ui,  1818.  To  morrow  will  be  a Sunday,  Mi  ft* 
Ridotto."] 


BEPPO. 


151 


LXIX. 

While  Laura  thus  was  seen  and  seeing,  smiling, 
Talking,  she  knew  not  why  and  eared  not  what, 

So  that  her  female  friends,  with  envy  broiling, 

Beheld  her  airs  and  triumph,  and  all  that ; 

And  well-dress’d  males  still  kept  before  her  fding, 
And  passing  bow’d  and  mingled  with  her  chat ; 
More  than  the  rest  one  person  seem’d  to  stare 
With  pertinacity  that ’s  rather  rare. 

LXX. 

He  was  a Turk,  the  colour  of  mahogany  ; 

And  Laura  saw  him,  and  at  first  was  glad, 

Because  the  Turks  so  much  admire  philogynv, 
Although  their  usage  of  their  wives  is  sad ; 

’Tis  said  they  use  no  better  than  a do"  any 
Poor  woman  whom  they  purchase  like  a pad  : 

They  have  a number,  though  they  ne’er  exhibit  ’em. 
Poor  wives  by  law,  and  concubines  “ ad  libitum.” 

LXXI. 

They  lock  them  up,  and  veil,  and  guard  them  daily, 
They  scarcely  can  behold  their  male  relations, 

So  that  their  moments  do  not  pass  so  gaily 
As  is  supposed  the  case  with  northern  nations  ; 
Confinement,  too,  must  make  them  look  quite  palely  ; 

And  as  the  Turks  abhor  long  conversations, 

Their  days  are  either  pass’d  in  doing  nothing, 

Or  bathing,  nursing,  making  love,  and  clothing. 

LXX1I. 

They  cannot  read,  and  so  don’t  lisp  in  criticism  ; 

Nor  write,  and  so  they  don’t  all'cct  the  muse  ; 

Were  never  caught  in  epigram  or  witticism, 

Have  no  romances,  sermons,  plays,  reviews,  — 

In  harams  learning  soon  would  make  a pretty  schism  ! 

But  luckily  these  beauties  are  no  “ Blues,” 

No  bustling  Botherbys  have  they  to  show  ’em 
“ That  charming  passage  in  the  last  new  poem.” 

LXXIII. 

No  solemn,  antique  gentleman  of  rhyme, 

Who  having  angled  all  his  life  for  fame, 

And  getting  but  a nibble  at  a time, 

Still  fussily  keeps  fishing  on,  the  same 
Small  “ Triton  of  the  minnows,”  the  sublime 
Of  mediocrity,  the  furious  tame, 

The  echo’s  echo,  usher  of  the  school 
Of  female  wits,  boy  bards — iryshort,  a fool ! 

LXXIV. 

A stalking  oracle  of  awful  phrase, 

The  approving  “Good /”  (by  no  means  good  in  law-) 
Humming  like  Hies  around  the  newest  blaze, 

The  bluest  of  bluebottles  you  e’er  saw. 

Teasing  with  blame,  excruciating  with  praise, 

Gorging  the  little  fame  he  get  s all  raw, 

Translating  tongues  he  knows  not  even  by  letter, 

And  sweating  plays  so  middling,  bad  were  better 

LXXV. 

One  hates  an  author  that’s  all  author , fellows 
In  foolscap  uniforms  turn’d  up  with  ink, 

So  very  anxious,  clever,  fine,  and  jealous, 

One  don’t  know  what  to  say  to  them,  or  think, 
Unless  to  puff  them  with  a pair  of  bellows  ; 

Of  coxcombry’s  worst  coxcombs  e’en  the  pink 
Are  preferable  to  these  shreds  of  paper, 

These  unquencnM  snaffings  of  the  midnight  taper. 


LXXVI. 

Of  these  same  we  ste  several,  and  of  others, 

Men  of  the  world,  who  know  the  world  like  men, 
Scott,  Rogers,  Moore,  and  all  the  better  brothers, 
Who  think  of  something  else  besides  the  pen ; 

But  for  the  children  of  the  “mighty  mother’s,” 

The  would-be  wits  and  can’t- be  gentlemen, 

I leave  them  to  their  daily  “ tea  is  ready,” 

Smug  coterie,  and  literary  lady.1 

LXXVII. 

The  poor  dear  Mussulwomen  wiiom  I mention 
Have  none  of  these  instructive  pleasant  people, 
And  one  to  them  would  seem  a new  invention, 
Unknown  as  bells  within  a Turkish  steeple  ; 

I think  ’tw'ould  almost  be  worth  while  to  pension 
(Though  best-sown  projects  very  often  reap  ill) 

A missionary  author,  just  to  preach 
Our  Christian  usage  of  the  parts  of  speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No  chemistry  for  them  unfolds  her  gasses, 

No  metaphysics  are  let  loose  in  lectures. 

No  circulating  library  amasses 

Religious  novels,  moral  tales,  and  strictures 
Upon  the  living  manners,  as  they  pass  us  ; 

No  exhibition  glares  with  annual  pictures ; 

They  stare  not  on  the  stars  from  out  their  attics. 

Nor  deal  (thank  God  for  that !)  in  mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why  I thank  God  for  that  is  no  great  matter, 

1 have  my  reasons,  you  no  doubt  suppose, 

And  as,  perhaps,  they  wrould  not  highly  flatter, 

I’ll  keep  them  for  my  life  (to  come)  in  prose ; 

I fear  1 have  a little  turn  for  satire, 

And  yet  methinks  the  older  that  one  grows 
Inclines  us  more  to  laugh  than  scold,  though  laugh  lei 
Leaves  us  so  doubly  serious  shortly  after. 

LXXX. 

Oh,  Mirth  and  Innocence  ! Oh,  Milk  and  Water ! 

Ye  happy  mixtures  of  more  happy  days  ! 

In  these  sad  centuries  of  sin  and  slaughter, 
Abominable  Man  no  more  allays 
His  thirst  with  such  pure  beverage.  No  matter, 

I love  you  both,  and  both  shall  have  my  praise. 

Oh,  for  old  Saturn’s  reign  of  sugar-candy  ! — 
Meantime  I drink  to  your  return  in  brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our  Laura’s  Turk  still  kept  his  eyes  upon  her, 

Less  in  the  Mussulman  than  Christian  way. 

Which  seems  to  say,  “Madam,  I do  you  honour. 

And  while  I please  to  stare,  you’ll  please  to  stay.’* 
Cou  Id  staring  wfin  a woman,  this  had  wron  her. 

But  Laura  could  not  thus  be  led  astray ; 

She  had  stood  fire  too  long  and  well,  to  boggle 
Even  at  this  stranger’s  most  outlandish  ogle. 

LXXXIT. 

The  morning  now  was  on  the  point  of  breaking, 

A turn  of  time  at  which  I wrould  advise 
Ladies  wdio  have  been  dancing,  or  partaking 
In  any  other  kind  of  exercise, 

To  make  their  preparations  for  forsaking 
The  ball-room  ere  the  sun  begins  to  rise, 

Because  when  once  the  lamps  and  candles  fail. 

His  blushes  make  them  look  a little  pale. 


(1)  [Nothing  can  be  cleverer  than  this  caustic  little  fiacr!>a 
introduced  a propot  of  the  life  of  Turkish  ladies  in  their  b 
Jeffkiv.] 


152 


LORD  BYllON^  WORKS. 


LXXXIII. 

I’ve  seen  some  balls  and  revels  in  my  time. 

And  stay’d  them  over  for  some  silly  reason, 

And  then  I look’d  (I  hope  it  was  no  crime) 

To  see  what  lady  best  stood  out  the  season ; 

And  though  I’ve  seen  some  thousands  in  their  prime, 
Lovely  and  pleasing,  and  who  still  may  please  on, 

I never  saw  but  one  (the  stars  withdrawn) 

Whose  bloom  could  after  dancing  dare  the  dawn. 

LXXXIV. 

The  name  of  this  Aurora  I’ll  not  mention, 

Although  I might,  for  she  was  nought  to  me 
More  than  that  patent  work  of  God’s  invention, 

A charming  woman,  whom  we  like  to  see  ; 

But  writing  names  would  merit  reprehension, 

Yet  if  you  like  to  find  out  this  fair  she, 

At  the  next  London  or  Parisian  ball 

You  still  may  mark  her  cheek,  out-blooming  all. 

LXXXV. 

.Laura,  wno  knew  it  would  not  do  at  all 
To  meet  the  daylight  after  seven  hours’  sitting 
Among  three  thousand  people  at  a ball, 

To  make  her  curtsy  thought  it  right  and  fitting : 
The  Count  was  at  her  elbow  with  her  shawl, 

And  they  the  room  were  on  the  point  of  quitting, 
When  lo  ! those  cursed  gondoliers  had  got 
Just  in  the  very  place  where  they  should  not. 

LX  XXVI. 

In  this  they’re  like  our  coachmen,  and  the  cause 
Is  much  the  same — the  crowd,  and  pulling,  hauling, 
With  blasphemies  enough  to  break  their  jaws. 

They  make  a never  intermitting  bawling. 

At  home,  our  Bow-street  gemmen  keep  the  laws. 

And  here  a sentry  stands  within  your  calling ; 

But  for  all  that,  there  is  a deal  of  swearing, 

And  nauseous  words  past  mentioning  or  bearing 

LXXXVII. 

The  Count  and  Laura  found  their  boat  at  last. 

And  homeward  floated  o’er  the  silent  tide, 
Discussing  all  the  dances  gone  and  past ; 

The  dancers  and  their  dresses,  too,  beside ; 

Some  little  scandals  eke  : but  all  aghast 
(As  to  their  palace  stairs  the  rowers  glide) 

Sate  Laura  by  the  side  of  her  Adorer,1 
When  lo  ! the  Mussulman  was  there  before  her. 

LXXXVIII. 

“ Sir,”  said  the  Count,  with  brow  exceeding  grave, 

“ Your  unexpected  presence  here  will  make 
It  necessary  for  myself  to  crave 
Its  import  ? But  perhaps  ’t  is  a mistake  ; 

I hope  it  is  so ; and,  at  once  to  wave 
All  compliment,  I hope  so  for  yozir  sake : 

Jon  understand  my  meaning,  or  you  shall” 

“ Sir,”  (quoth  the  Turk)  “ ’tis  no  mistake  at  all. 

LXXXIX. 

“ That  lady  is  my  wife  ! ” Much  wonder  paints 
The  lady’s  changing  check,  as  well  it  might ; 

But  where  an^nglish woman  sometimes  faints, 

Italian  females  don’t  do  so  outright ; 

They  only  call  a little  on  their  saints, 

And  then  come  to  themselves,  almost  or  quite; 
Which  saves  much  hartshorn,  salts,  and  sprinkling  faces, 
And  cutting  stays,  as  usual  in  such  cases. 


xc. 

She  said  — what  could  she  say  ? Why,  not  a word  • 
But  the  Count  courteously  invited  in 
The  stranger,  much  appeased  by  what  he  heard  ; 

“ Such  things,  perhaps,  we’d  best  discuss  within.*1 
Said  he  ; “ don’t  let  us  make  ourselves  absurd 
In  public,  by  a scene,  nor  raise  a din, 

Por  then  the  chief  and  only  satisfaction 

Will  be  much  quizzing  on  the  whole  transaction.” 

xci. 

They  enter’d,  and  for  coffee  call’d — it  came, 

A beverage  for  Turks  and  Christians  both, 

Although  the  way  they  make  it’s  not  the  same. 

Now  Laura,  much  recover’d,  or  less  loth 
To  speak,  cries,  “Beppo  ! what’s  your  pagan  name  ? 

Bless  me  ! your  beard  is  of  amazing  growth  1 
And  how  came  you  to  keep  away  so  long  ? 

Are  you  not  sensible  ’twas  very  wrong  ? 

XCII. 

“ And  are  you  really,  truly , now  a Turk  ? 

With  any  other  women  did  you  wive  ? 

Is ’t  true  they  use  their  fingers  for  a fork  ? 

Well,  that ’s  the  prettiest  shawl — as  I’m  alive  ! 
You’ll  give  it  me  ? They  say  you  eat  no  pork. 

And  how  so  many  years  did  you  contrive 
To — Bless  me!  did  I ever?  No,  I never 
Saw  a man  grown  so  yellow ! How’s  your  liver  ? 

XCIII. 

“ Beppo  ! that  beard  of  yours  becomes  you  not ; 

It  shall  be  shaved  before  you’re  a day  older: 

"Why  do  you  wear  it  ? Oh  ! I had  forgot — 

Pray  don’t  you  think  the  weather  here  is  colder  ? 
How  do  I look?  You  shan’t  stir  from  this  spot 
In  that  queer  dress,  for  fear  that  some  beholdct 
Should  find  you  out,  and  make  the  story  known. 

How  short  your  hair  is  ! Lprd  ! how  grey  it’s  grown 

xciv. 

What  answer  Beppo  made  to  these  demands 
Is  more  than  I know.  He  was  cast  away 
Aoout  where  Troy  stood  once,  and  nothing  stands  ; 

Became  a slave  of  course,  and  for  his  pay 
Had  bread  and  bastinadoes,  till  some  bands 
Of  pirates  landing  in  a neighbouring  bay, 

He  join’d  the  rogues  and  prosper’d,  and  became 
A renegado  of  indiffero^it  fame. 

xcv. 

But  he  grew  rich,  and  with  his  riches  grew  so 
Keen  the  desire  to  see  his  home  again, 

He  thought  himself  in  duty  bound  to  do  so, 

And  not  be  always  thieving  on  the  main  ; 

Lonely  lie  felt,  at  times,  as  Robin  Crusoe 
And  so  he  hired  a vessel  come  from  Spain, 

Bound  for  Corfu : she  was  a fine  polacca, 

Mann’d  with  twelve  hands,  and  laden  with  tobacco. 

xcvi. 

Himself,  and  much  (heaven  knows  how  gotten  !)  cash, 
He  then  embark’d  with  risk  of  life  and  limb. 

And  got  clear  oIF,  although  the  attempt  was  rash  , 
lie  said  that  Providence  protected  him — 

Por  my  part,  I say  nothing,  lest  we  clash  . 

In  our  opinions  : — well,  the  ship  was  trim, 

Set  sail,  and  kept  her  reckoning  fairly  on. 

Except  three  days  of  calm  when  olf  Cape  Bonn. 


(1)  [“Sate  Laura  with  a kind  of  comic  horror." — MS.] 


MAZEPPA.  153 


xcra. 

The'  rr ach’d  the  island,  he  transferr’d  his  lading. 

And  self  and  live  stock,  to  another  bottom. 

And  pass’d  for  a true  Turkey-merchant,  trading 
With  goods  of  various  names,  but  I forgot  ’em. 
However,  he  got  off  by  this  evading, 

Or  else  the  people  would  perhaps  have  shot  him  ; 
And  -;mis  at  Venice  1 landed  to  reclaim 
His  wife,  religion,  house,  and  Christian  name. 

xcvm. 

His  wife  received,  the  patriarch  re-baptized  him, 

(He  made  the  church  a present,  by  the  way) ; 
lie  then  threw  oil'  the  garments  which  disguised  him, 
And  borrow’d  the  Count’s  smallclothes  for  a day : 


His  friends  the  nore  for  his  long  absence  prized  him. 
Finding  he’d  wherewithal  to  make  then;  gay. 

With  dinners,  where  he  oft  became  the  laugh  ot 
them, 

For  stories — but  I don’t  believe  the  half  of  them, 
xcix. 

Whate’er  his  youth  hat  suffer’d,  his  old  age 

With  wealth  and  talking  make  him  some  amends.; 
Though  Laura  sometimes  put  him  in  a rage, 

I’ve  heard  the  Count  and  he  were  always  friends 
My  pen  is  at  the  bottom  of  a page, 

Which  being  finish’d,  here  the  story  ends  * 

’Tis  to  be  wish’d  it  had  been  sooner  dons, 

But  stories  somehow  lengthen  when  begun.1 2 3 


advertisement. 

" Celui  qui  remplissait  alors  cette  place  etait  un 
gcntilhomme  Polonais,  nomme  Mazeppa,  ne  dans  le 


(1)  [“You  ask  me,”  says  Lord  Byron,  in  a letter  written  in  1820, 
“ for  a volume  of  Manners,  &c.  on  Italy.  Perhaps  I am  in  the  case 
to  know  more  of  them  than  most  Englishmen,  because  I have  lived 
among  the  natives,  and  in  parts  of  the  country  where  Englishmen 
never  resided  before  (I  speak  of  Romagna  and  this  place  particu- 
larly) ; but  there  are  many  reasons  why  I do  not  choose  to  treat  in 
prmi  on  such  a subject.  Their  moral  is  not  your  moral ; their  life 
is  not  your  life;  you  would  not  understand  it:  it  is  not  English, 
nor  French,  nor  German,  which  you  would  all  understand.  The 
conventual  education,  the  cavalier  servitude,  the  habits  of  thought 
and  living,  are  so  entirely  different,  and  the  difference  becomes  so 
much  more  striking  the  more  you  live  intimately  with  them,  that 
l«kncw  not  how  to  make  you  comprehend  a people  who  are  at  once 
temperate  and  profligate,  serious  in  their  characters  and  buffoons 
in  their  amusements,  capable  of  impressions  and  passions,  which 
are  at  once  sudden  and  durable  (wliat  you  find  in  no  other  nation), 
and  who  actually  have  no  society  (what  we  would  call  so),  as  you 
may  see  by  their  comedies ; they  have  no  real  comedy,  not  even  in 
Goldoni,  and  that  is  because  they  have  no  society  to  draw  it  from. 
Their  conversazioni  are  not  society  at  all.  They  go  to  the  theatre 
to  talk,  and  into  company  to  hold  their  tongues.  The  women  sit  in 
a circle,  and  the  men  gather  into  groups,  or  they  play  at  dreary 
fare,  or  ‘ lotto  reale, ’ for  small  sums.  Their  academie  are  concerts 
like  our  own,  with  better  music  and  more  form.  Their  best  things 
are  the  carnival  balls  and  masquerades,  when  every  body  runs  mad 
for  si*  weeks.  After  their  dinners  and  suppers  they  make  extem- 
pore verses  and  buffoon  one  another;  hut  it  is  in  a humour  which 
you  would  not  enter  into,  ye  of  the  north. — In  their  houses  it  is 
better.  As  for  the  women,  from  the  fisherman’s  wife  up  to  the 
r.obil  dama,  their  system  has  its  rules,  and  its  fitnesses,  and  its 
decorums,  so  as  to  be  reduced  to  a kind  of  discipline  or  game  at 
hearts,  which  admits  few  deviations,  unless  you  wish  to  lose  it. 
They  are  extremely  tenacious,  and  jealous  as  furies,  not  permitting 
their  lovers  even  to  marry  if  they  can  help  it,  and  keeping  them 
always  close  to  them  in  public  as  in  private,  whenever  they  can. 
In  short,  they  transfer  marriage  to  adultery,  and  strike  the  not  o us 
of  that  commandment.  The  reason  is,  that  they  marry  for  their 
parents,  and  love  for  themselves.  They  exact  fidelity  from  a lover 
as  a debt  of  honour,  while  they  pay  the  husband  as  a tradesman, 
that  is,  not  at  all.  You  hear  a person’s  character,  male  or  female, 
canvassed,  not  as  depending  on  their  conduct  to  their  husbands  or 
wives,  but  to  their  mistress  or  lover.  If  I wrote  a quarto,  I don’t 
know  that  I could  do  more  than  amplify  what  I have  here  noted."] 

(2)  [This  extremely  clever  and  amusing  performance  affords  a 
very  curious  and  complete  specimen  of  a kind  of  diction  and  com- 

nition  of  which  our  English  literature  has  hitherto  presented  very 
examples.  It  is,  in  itself,  absolutely  a thing  of  nothing — with- 
«xit  story,  characters,  sentiments,  or  intelligible  object; — a mere 


palatinat  de  Podolie : il  avait  6t6  pa<je  de  Jean 
Ca'imir,  et  avait  pris  a sa  cour  quelque  teinture  des 
belles-lettres.  Une  intrigue  qu’il  eut  dans  sa  jeunessc 
avec  la  femme  d’un  gentilhomme  Polonais  ayant  et4 


piece  of  lively  and  loquacious  prattling,  in  short,  upon  all  kinds  of 
frivolous  subjects, — a sort  of  gay  and  desultory  babbling  about 
Italy  and  England,  Turks,  balls,  literature,  ar,d  fish  sauces.  But 
still  there  is  something  very  engaging  in  the  uniform  gaiety,  polite 
ness,  and  good-humour  of  the  author,  and  something  still  more 
striking  and  admirable  in  the  matchless  facility  with  which  he  hag 
cast  into  regular,  and  even  difficult,  versification  the  unmingled, 
unconstrained,  and  unselected  language  of  the  most  light,  familiar, 
and  ordinary  conversation.  With  great  skill  and  felicity,  he  hag 
furnished  us  with  an  example  of  about  one  hundred  stanzas  of 
good  verse,  entirely  composed  of  common  words,  in  their  common 
places;  never  presenting  us  with  one  sprig  of  what  is  cal, ad 
poetical  diction,  or  even  making  use  of  a single  inversion,  either  > 
raise  the  style  or  assist  the  rhyme,  but  running  on  in  an  inexhaus 
tible  series  of  good  easy  colloquial  phrases,  and  finding  them  fall 
into  verse  by  some  unaccountable  and  happy  fatality.  In  this 
great  and  characteristic  quality  it  is  almost  invariably  excellent 
In  some  other  respects  it  is  more  unequal.  About  one-half  is  a3 
good  as  possible,  in  the  style  to  which  it  belongs ; the  other  half 
bears,  perhaps,  too  many  marks  of  that  haste  with  which  such  a 
work  must  necessarily  be  written.  Some  passages  are  rather  to  j 
snappish,  and  some  run  too  much  on  the  cheap  and  rather  plebeian 
humour  of  out  of-the-way  rhymes,  and  strange-sounding  words  and 
epithets.  But  the  greater  part  is  extremely  pleasant,  amiable,  and 
gentlemanlike. — Jeff  key.] 

(3)  [The  following  “lively,  spirited,  and  pleasant  tale,”  as  M., 
Gifford  calls  it,  on  the  margin  of  the  MS.,  was  written  in  th-j 
autumn  of  1818,  at  Ravenna.  We  extract  the  following  from  a 
reviewal  of  the  time: — “Mazeppa  is  a very  fine  and  spirited  sketch 
of  a very  noble  story,  and  is  every  way  worthy  of  its  author.  The 
story  is  a well-known  one ; namely,  that  of  the  young  Pole,  who, 
being  bound  naked  on  the  back  of  a wild  horse,  on  account  of  an 
intrigue  with  the  lady  of  a certain  great  noble  of  his  country,  was 
carried  hy  his  steed  into  the  heart  of  the  Ukraine,  and  being  there 
picked  up  by  some  Cossacks,  in  a state  apparently  of  utter  hope- 
lessness and  exhaustion,  recovered,  and  lived  to  be  long  after  the 
prince  and  leader  of  the  nation  among  whom  he  had  arrived  in  this 
extraordinary  manner.  Lord  Byron  has  represented  the  strange 
and  wild  incidents  of  this  adventure,  as  being  related  in  a iiau 
serious,  half  sportive  way,  by  Mazeppa  himself,  to  no  less  a person 
than  Charles  the  Twelfth  of  Sweden,  in  some  of  whose  last  cam- 
paigns the  Cossack  Hetman  took  a distinguished  part,  lie  tells  it 
during  the  desolate  bivouack  of  Charles  and  the  few  friends  w'ne 
fled  with  him  towards  Tuikey,  after  the  bloody  overthrow  of  Pui 
towa.  There  is  not  a little  of  beauty  and  gracefulness  in  this  waj 
of  setting  the  picture, — the  age  of  Mazeppa— the  calm,  practised 
indifference  with  which  he  now  submits  to  the  worst  of  fortune  * 
X 


! 54 


LORD  BYROX’S  WORKS. 


d£oouverte,  le  mari  le  fit  lirr  tout  nu  sur  un  clieval 
farouche,  et  le  laissa  allcr  en  cel  ctat.  Le  coeval,  qui 
etait  du  pays  de  l5 Ukraine,  y retouma,  et  y porta 
Mazeppa,  demi-mort  de  fatigue  et  de  faim.  Quelques 
paysans  le  secoururent,  : i'l  resta  long-terns  parmi 
eux,  et  se  signala  dans  plusieurs  courses  contre  les 
Tartarcs.  La  superiorite  de  ses  lumi£res  Ini  donna 
une  grande  consideration  parmi  les  Cosaques:  sa 
reputation  s’augmcntant  de  jour  en  jour,  obligca  le 
Czar  a le  faire  Prince  de  l’Ukraine.”— Voltaiiu:, 
Hist,  df  Charles  XII.  p.  196. 

“Le  roi  fuyant,  et  poursuivi,  eut  son  cheval  tu6 
sous  lui : le  Colonel  Gieta,  blesse,  et  perdant  tout 
sou  sang,  lui  donna  le  sien.  Ainsi  on  remit  deux  fois 
a clieval,  dans  la  fuite,  ce  conquerant  qui  n’avait  pu  y 
monter  pendant  la  bataille.” — p.  21G. 

“Le  roi  alia  par  un  autre  cliemin  avec  quelques 
cavaliers.  Le  carrosse  oil  il  etait  rompit  dans  la 
marclie;  on  le  remit  a clieval.  Pour  comble  de  dis- 
grace, il  s’egara  pendant  la  nuit  dans  un  bois ; la, 
son  courage  ne  nouvant  plus  suppleer  a ses  forces 
6puisees,  les  douleurs  de  sa  blessure  devenues  plus 
insupportables  par  la  fatigue,  son  clieval  etant  tombe 
de  lassitude,  il  se  couclia  quelques  lieures  au  pied 
d’un  arbre,  en  d.rnger  d’etre  <mrpris  a tout  moment 
par  les  vainqueurs  qui  le  cherchaient  de  tous  cotes.” 
— p.  218.*  1 


i$tn?cppa. 


i. 

Twas  after  dread  Pultowa’s  day, 

When  fortune  left  the  royal  Su  ede, 

Around  a slaughter’d  army  lay, 

No  more  to  combat  and  to  "bleed. 

The  power  and  glory  of  the  war, 

I aitiiiess  as  their  vain  votaries,  men, 

Ilad  pass’d  to  the  triumphant  Czar, 

And  Moscow’s  walls  were  safe  again, 

Until  a day  more  dark  and  drear, 

And  a more  memorable  year. 

Should  give  to  slaughter  and  to  shame 
A mightier  host  and  haughtier  name; 

A greater  wreck,  a deeper  fall, 

A shock  to  one — a thunderbolt  to  all. 

n. 

Such  was  the  hazard  of  the  die  ; 

The  wounded  Charles  was  taught  to  fly 
By  day  and  night  through  field  and  flood, 
Stain’d  with  Ins  own  and  subjects’  blood ; 

For  thousands  fell  that  flight  to  aid  : 

And  not  a voice  was  heard  t’ upbraid 
Ambition  in  ms  numo.ed  hour, 

When  truth  had  nought  to  dread  from  power. 
His  horse  was  slain,  and  Gieta  gave 
1 lis  own — and  died  the  Russians’  slave. 


deeds— the  heroic,  unthinking  coldness  of  the  royal  madman  to 
whom  he  speaks — the  dreary  and  perilous  accompaniments  of  the 
scene  around  the  speaker  and  the  audience,— all  contribute  to 
throw  a very  striking  charm  both  of  preparation  and  of  contrast 
over  the  wild  story  of  the  Hetman.  Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful, 


This  too  sinks  after  many  a league 
Of  well-sustain’d,  but  vain  fatigue ; 

And  in  the  depth  of  forests,  darkling 
The  watcli-flrcs  in  the  distance  sparkling— 
The  beacons  of  surrounding  foes — 

A king  must  lay  his  limbs  at  length. 

Are  these  the  laurels  and  repose 
For  which  the  nations  strain  their  strcngtM  * 
They  laid  him  by  a savage  tree, 

In  outworn  nature’s  agony ; 

His  wounds  were  stiff — his  limbs  were  st^rk— 
The  heavy Jiour  was  chill  and  dark; 

The  fever  in  his  blood  forbade 
A transient  slumber’s  fitful  aid : 

And  thus  it  was  ; but  yet  through  all, 
Kinglike  the  monarch  bore  his  faJi, 

And  made,  in  this  extreme  of  ill, 

I lis  pangs  the  vassals  of  his  will: 

All  silent  and  subdued  were  they, 

As  once  the  nations  round  1dm  lay. 

hi. 

A band  of  chiefs  ! — alas  . how  few, 

Since  but  the  fleeting  of  a day 
Had  thinn’d  it ; but  this  wreck  was  true 
And  chivalrous  : upon  the  clay 
Each  sate  him  down,  all  sad  and  mute, 

Beside  his  monarch  and  his  steed, 

For  danger  levels  man  and  brute, 

And  all  are  fellows  in  their  need. 

Among  the  rest,  Mazeppa  made 
His  pillow  in  an  old  oak’s  shade — 

Himself  as  rough,  and  scarce  less  old. 

The  Ukraine’s  hetman,  calm  and  bold : 

But  first,  outspent  with  his  long  course, 

The  Cossack  prince  rubb’d  down  Ids  horse, 

And  made  for  him  a leafy  bed, 

And  smooth’d  his  fetlocks  and  Ids  mane, 

And  slack’d  his  girth,  and  stripp’d  his  rein. 
And  joy’d  to  see  how  well  lie  fed ; 
lor  until  now  he  had  the  dread 
His  wearied  courser  might  refuse 
To  browse  beneath  the  midnight  dews : 

But  he  was  hardy  as  his  lord, 

And  little  cared  for  bed  and  board  ; 

But  spirited  and  docile  too  ; 

Wliate’er  was  to  be  done,  would  do. 

Shaggy  and  swift,  and  strong  of  limb, 

All  Tartar-like  he  carried  him  ; 

Obey’d  his  voice,  and  came  to  call, 

And  knew  him  in  the  midst  of  all : 

Though  thousands  were  around, — aud  Night, 
Without  a star,  pursued  her  flight, — 

That  steed  from  sunset  until  dawn 
His  chief  would  follow  like  a fawn. 

IV. 

Tikis  done,  Mazeppa  spread  his  cloak, 

And  laid  his  lance  beneath  his  oak, 

Felt  if  his  arms  in  order  good 

The  long  day’s  march  had  well  withstood — 

If  still  the  powder  fill’d  the  pan, 

And  flints  unloosen’d  kept  their  lock- 


fn  like  manner,  than  the  account  of  the  love — the  guilty  rove — 
fruits  of  which  had  been  so  miraculous.”] 

(1)  [For  some  authentic  and  interesting  particulars  conceroi*"- 
the  Hetman  Mazeppa,  see  Bairow’s  “ Memoir  of  the  Life  of  }*«t»? 
the  Great.”] 


MAZRPPA. 


155 


His  sabre’s  hilt  and  scabbard  felt. 

And  ■whether  they  had  dialed  his  belt — 

And  next  the  venerable  man, 

From  out  his  liavrcsack  and  can. 

Prepared  and  spread  his  slender  stock ; 

And  to  the  monarch  and  his  men 
The  whole  or  portion  offer’d  then 
With  far  less  of  inquietude 
Than  courtiers  at  a banquet  would. 

And  Charles  of  this  his  slender  share 
With  smiles  partook  a moment  there. 

To  force  of  cheer  a greater  show, 

And  seem  above  both  wounds  and  wToe ; — 
And  then  he  said — “ Of  all  our  band. 

Though  firm  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 

In  skirmish,  march,  or  forage,  none 
Can  less  have  said  or  more  nave  done 
Than  thee,  Mazeppa  ! On  the  earth 
So  fit  a pair  had  never  birth, 

Since  Alexander’s  days  till  now, 

As  thy  Bucephalus  and  thou  : 

All  Scythia’s  fame  to  thine  should  yield 
For  pricking  on  o’er  flood  and  field,” 

Mazeppa  answer’d — “ 111  betide 
The  school  wherein  I lcarn’d  to  ride  ! ” 

Quoth  Charles — “ Old  Hetman,  wherefore  so. 
Since  thou  hast  learn’d  the  art  so  well?” 
Mazeppa  said — “ ’Twere  long  to  tell ; 

And  we  have  many  a league  to  go, 

With  every  now  and  then  a blow, 

And  ten  to  one  at  least  the  foe, 

Before  our  steeds  may  graze  at  ease, 

Beyond  the  swift  Borysthenes  : 

And,  sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  rest, 

And  I will  be  the  sentin«l 

Of  this  your  troop.” — “ But  I request,” 

Said  Sweden’s  monarch,  “ thou  wilt  tell 
This  tale  of  thine,  and  I may  reap, 

Perchance,  from  this  the  boon  of  sleep ; 

For  at  this  moment  from  my  eyes 
The  hope  of  present  slumber  flies.” 

**  Well,  sire,  with  such  a hope,  I’ll  track 
My  seventy  years  of  memory  back : 

I think  ’twas  in  my  twentieth  soring, — 

Ay,  ’twas, — when  Casimir  was  king — 

John  Casimir, — I was  his  page 
Six  summers,  in  my  earlier  age  : 

A learned  monarch,  faith  ! -was  he. 

And  most  unlike  your  majesty  : 

He  made  no  wars,  and  did  not  gain 
New  realms  to  lose  them  back  again  ; 

And  (save  debates  in  Warsaw’s  cliet) 

He  reign’d  in  most  unseemly  quiet ; 

Not  that  lie  had  no  cares  to  vex, 

He  loved  tnc  muses  and  the  sex  ; 

And  sometimes  these  so  froward  are. 

They  made  him  wish  himself  at  war ; 

But  soon  his  wrath  being  o’er,  he  took 
Allot  her  mistress  or  new  book  ; 

And  then  he  gave  prodigious  fetes — 

All  Warsaw  gather’d  round  his  gates 
To  gaze  upon  his  splendid  court, 

And  dames,  and  chiefs,  of  princely  pert . 

He  was  the  Polish  Solomon, 

So  sung  his  poets,  all  but  one, 

Who,  being  unpension’d,  made  a satire, 
knd  boasted  that  he  could  not  Tatter. 


It  was  a court  of  jousts  and  mimes, 

Where  every  courtier  tried  at  rhymes  j 
Even  I for  once  produced  some  verses, 

And  sign’d  my  odes  ‘ Despairing  Thyrsis.* 
There  was  a certain  Palatine, 

A count  of  far  and  high  descent, 

Rich  as  a salt  or  silver  mine  ; 1 
And  he  was  proud,  ye  may  divine, 

As  if  from  heaven  he  had  been  sent : 

He  had  such  wealth  in  blood  and  ore 
As  few  could  match  beneath  the  throne  ; 
And  he  would  gaze  upon  his  store. 

And  o’er  his  pedigree  would  pore, 

Until  by  some  confusion  led, 

Which  almost  look’d  like  want  of  head, 

He  thought  their  merits  were  his  own. 

His  wife  was  not  of  his  opinion — 

His  junior  she  by  thirty  years — 

Grew  rtapv  tired  of  his  dominion; 

And,  after  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears. 

To  virtue  a few  farewell  tears, 

A restless  dream  or  two,  some  glances 
At  Warsaw’s  youth,  some  songs,  and  daneea. 
Awaited  but  the  usual  chances, 

Those  happy  accidents  which  render 
The  coldest  dames  so  very  tender. 

To  deck  her  Count  with  titles  given, 

’Tis  said,  as  passports  into  heaven ; 

But,  strange  to  say,  they  rarely  boast 
Of  these,  who  have  deserved  them  most. 


v. 

“ I was  a goodly  stripling  then ; 

At  seventy  years  I so  may  say, 

That  there  were  few,  or  boys  or  men, 

Who,  in  my  dawning  time  of  day, 

Of  vassal  or  of  knight’s  degree, 

Could  vie  in  vanities  with  me  ; 

For  I had  strength,  youth,  gaiety, 

A port,  not  like  to  this  ye  see. 

But  as  smooth,  as  all  is  rugged  now ; 

For  time,  and  care,  and  war,  have  plough 
My  very  soul  from  out  inv  brow  ; 

And  thus  I should  be  disavow’d 
By  all  my  kind  and  kin,  could  they 
Compare  my  day  and  yesterday  ; 

This  change  was  wrought,  too,  long  ere  age 
Had  ta’cn  my  features  for  his  page  : 

With  years,  ye  know,  have  not  declined 
Ary  strength,  my  courage,  or  my  mind. 

Or  at  this  hour  I should  not  be 
Telling  old  talcs  beneath  a tree, 

With  starless  skies  my  canopy. 

But  let  me  on  : Theresa’s  form — 

Methinks  it  glides  before  me  now. 

Between  me  and  yon  chestnut’s  bough. 

The  memory  is  so  quick  and  warm ; 

And  yet  I find  no  words  to  tell 
The  shape  of  her  I loved  so  well : 

She  had  the  Asiatic  eye, 

Such  as  our  Turkish  neighbourhood 
Hath  mingled  with  our  Polish  blood, 

Dark  as  above  us  is  the  sky ; 


(1)  This  comparison  of  a “ trlt  mine”  may,  perhaps,  be 
mitted  to  a Pole,  as  the  wealth  of  the  country  consists  gresC* 
the  salt  mines 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


156 

Bui  through  it  stole  a tender  light. 

Like  the  first  moonrise  of  midnight ; 

Large,  dark,  and  swimming  in  the  stream. 
Which  seem’d  to  melt  to  its  own  beam  ; 

All  love,  half  languor,  and  hall*  fire, 

Like  saints  that  at  the  stake  expire, 

And  lift  their  raptured  looks  on  high, 

As  though  it  were  a joy  to  die.1 
A brow  like  a midsummer  lake, 

Transparent  with  the  sun  therein, 

"When  waves  no  murmur  dare  to  make. 

And  heaven  beholds  her  face  within. 

A cheek  and  lip — but  why  proceed  ? 

I loved  her  then — I love  her  still ; 

And  such  as  I am,  love  indeed 

In  fierce  extremes — in  good  and  ill. 

But  still  we  love  even  in  our  rage. 

And  haunted  to  our  very  age 
With  the  vain  shadow  of  the  past, 

As  is  Mazeppa  to  the  last. 

VI. 

“ We  met — we  gazed — I saw,  and  sigh’d. 

She  did  not  speak,  and  yet  replied  ; 

There  are  ten  thousand  tones  and  signs 
We  hear  and  see,  but  none  defines — 
Involuntary  sparks  of  thought, 

"Which  strike  from  out  the  fieart  o’erwrought, 
And  form  a strange  intelligence, 

Alike  mysterious  and  intense, 

"Which  link  the  burning  chain  that  binds, 
Without  their  will,  young  hearts  and  minds ; 
Conveying,  as  the  electric  wire, 

Wre  know  not  how,  the  absorbing  lire. — 

I saw,  and  sigh’d — in  silence  wept, 

And  still  reluctant  distance  kept, 

Until  I was  made  known  to  her, 

And  we  might  then  and  there  confer 
Without  suspicion — then,  even  then, 

I long’d,  and  was  resolved  to  speak  ; 

But  on  my  lips  they  died  again; 

The  accents  tremulous  and  weak, 

TJnti!  one  hour. — There  is  a game, 

A frivolous  and  foolish  play, 

Wherewith  we  while  away  the  day ; 

It  is — 1 have  forgot  the  name — 

And  we  to  this,  it  seems,  were  set, 

By  some  strange  chance,  which  I forget : 

1 reck’d  not  if  I won  or  lost, 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  be 
So  near  to  hear,  and  oh  ! to  see 
The  being  whom  1 loved  the  most. — 

I watch’d  her  as  a sentinel, 

(May  ours  this  dark  night  watch  as  well !) 

Until  I saw,  and  thus  it  was, 

That  she  was  pensive,  nor  perceived 
Her  occupation,  nor  was  grieved 
Nor  glad  to  lose  or  gain  ; but  still 
Play’d  on  for  hours,  as  if  her  will 
Yet  bound  her  to  the  place,  though  not 
That  hers  might  be  the  winning  lot.2 

Then  through  my  brain  the  thought  did  pass 
Even  as  a flash  of  lightning  there, 

That  there  was  something  in  her  air 
Which  would  not  doom  me  to  despair  ; 


And  on  the  thought  my  words  broke  forth, 
All  incoherent  as  they  were — 

Their  eloquence  was  little  worth, 

But  yet  she  listen’d— ’tis  enough— 

Who  listens  once  will  listen  twice ; 

Her  heart,  be  sure,  is  not  of  ice. 

And  one  refusal  no  rebuff. 


VII. 

“ I loved,  and  was  beloved  again — 

They  tell  me,  Sire,  you  never  knew 
Those  gentle  frailties  ; if  ’tis  true, 

1 shorten  all  my  joy  or  pain ; 

To  you  ’twould  seem  absurd  as  vain ; 

But  all  men  are  not  born  to  reign. 

Or  o’er  their  passions,  or  as  you 
Thus  o’er  themselves  and  nations  too 
I am — or  rather  was — a prince, 

A chief  of  thousands,  and  could  lead 
Them  on  where  each  would  foremost  bleed  : 
But  could  not  o’er  myself  evince 
The  like  control — But  to  resume  : 

I loved,  and  was  beloved  again ; 

In  sooth,  it  is  a happy  doom, 

But  yet  where  happiest  ends  in  pain. — 

We  met  in  secret,  and  the  hour 
Which  led  me  to  that  lady’s  bower 
Was  fiery  Expectation’s  etower. 

My  days  and  nights  were  nothing— all 
Except  that  hour  which  doth  recall 
Li  the  long  lapse  from  youth  to  age 
No  other  like  itself — I’d  give 
The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 
It  o’er  once  more — and  be  a page, 

The  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 
Of  one  soft  heart,  and  his  own  sword, 

And  had  no  other  gem  nor  wealth 
Save  nature’s  gift  of  youth  and  health. — 

We  met  in  secret — doubly  sweet, 

Some  say,  they  find  it  so  to  meet ; 

I know  not  that — I would  have  given 
My  life  but  to  have  call’d  her  mine 
In  the  full  view  of  earth  and  heaven ; 

Eor  I did  oft  and  long  repine 
That  we  could  only  meet  by  stealth. 

nil. 

“ For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes, 

And  such  there  were  on  us ; — the  devil 
On  such  occasions  should  be  civil — 

The  devil ! — I’m  loth  to  do  him  wrong, 

It  might  be  some  untoward  saint, 

Who  would  not  be  at  rest  too  long, 

But  to  his  pious  bile  gave  vent — 

But  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 
Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 

The  Count  was  something  more  than  wroth— 
I was  unarm’d  ; but  if  in  steel, 

All  cap-a-pie  from  head  to  heel, 

What  ’gainst  their  numbers  could  I do  P — 
’Twas  near  his  castle,  far  away 
From  city  or  from  succour  near, 

And  almost  on  the  break  of  day  ; 


[ “ but  not 

Foi  that  which  we  had  both  forgot.” — MS.] 


(1)  [“  Until  it  proves  a joy  to  die.” — MS.J 


w 


"X 


MAZEPPA. 


157 


I did  not  think  to  see  another, 

My  moments  seem’d  reduced  to  few  ; 

And  with  one  prayer  to  Mary  Mother, 

And,  it  may  be,  a saint  or  two. 

As  I resign’d  me  to  my  fate, 

They  led  me  to  the  castle  gate : 

Theresa’s  doom  I never  knew, 

Our  lot  was  henceforth  separate. — - 
An  angry  man,  ye  may  opine, 

Was  he,  the  proud  Count  Palatine  : 

And  he  had  reason  good  to  be, 

Put  he  was  most  enraged  lest  such 
An  accident  should  chance  to  touch 
Upon  his  future  pedigree  ; 

Nor  less  amazed,  that  such  a blot 
His  noble  ’scutcheon  should  have  got. 

While  he  was  highest  of  his  line ; 

Pecause  unto  himself  he  seem’d 
The  first  of  men,  nor  less  lie  deem’d 
In  others’  eyes,  and  most  in  mine. 

’Sdeath  ! with  a page — perchance  a king 
Ilad  reconciled  him  to  the  thing  ; 

Put  with  a stripling  of  a page — 

1 felt — but  cannot  paint  his  rage. 

IX. 

“ ‘Pring  forth  the  horse  !’— the  horse  was  brought 
In  truth,  he  was  a noble  steed, 

A Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 

Who  look’d  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
W ere  in  his  limbs  ; but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught. 

With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled — 

’Twas  but  a day  he  had  been  caught ; 

And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 

And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 

In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led  : 

They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 

Upon  his  back  with  many  a thong  ; 

They  loosed  him  with  a sudden  lash — 

Away  ! — away ! — and  on  we  dash  ! — 

Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

x. 

“ Away ! — away  ! — My  breath  was  gone — 

I saw  not  where  he  hurried  on  : 

’Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 

And  on  he  foam’d — away  ! — away  ! — 

The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 

As  I was  darted  from  my  foes, 

Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 

Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 
A moment  from  that  rabble  rout : 

With  sudden  wrath  I wrench’d  my  head, 

And  snapp’d  the  cord,  which  to  the  mane 
Had  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein. 

And  writhing  half  my  form  about, 

Howl’d  back  my  curse;  but  ’midst  the  treed, 

Tlie  thunder  of  my  courser’s  speed, 

Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed : 

I I vexes  me — for  I would  fain 
Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 

I paid  it  well  in  after  days  : 

There  is  not  of  that  castle  gate, 

Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis’  weight, 

Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left ; 


Nor  of  its  fields  a blade  of  grass, 

Save  what  grows  on  a ridge  of  wall. 
Where  stood  the  hearth-stone  of  the  hall ; 
And  many  a time  ye  there  might  pass, 

Nor  dream  that  e’er  that  fortress  was : 

1 saw  its  turrets  in  a blaze, 

Their  crackling  battlements  all  cleft, 

And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain 
From  off  the  scorch’d  and  blackening  roof, 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

They  little  thought  that  day  of  pain, 
When  launch’d,  as  on  the  lightning’s  flash. 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash, 

That  one  day  I should  come  again. 

With  twfice  five  thousand  horse,  to  thank 
The  Count  for  his  uncourteous  ride. 

They  play’d  me  then  a bitter  prank, 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide, 
They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank  : 

At  length  I play’d  them  one  as  frank — 

For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even — 

And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 

There  never  yet  was  human  power 
Wliicli  could  evade,  if  unforgiven. 

The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  hnn  who  treasures  up  a wrong. 

XI. 

“ Away  ! — away  ! — my  steed  and  I, 

Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 

All  human  dwellings  left  behind ; 

We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky, 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  chequer’d  with  the  northern  light : 

Town — village — none  were  on  our  track. 
Put  a wild  plain  of  far  extent. 

And  bounded  by  a forest  black  ; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 
On  distant  heights  of.  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 

No  trace  of  man.  The  year  before 
A Turkish  army  had  march’d  o’er ; 

And  where  the  Spain’s  hoof  hath  trod, 

The  verdure  flies  the  bloody  sod  : — 

The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  gray, 

And  a low  breeze  crept  moaning  by — 

I could  have  answer’d  with  a sigh — 

Put  fast  we  fled,  away,  away — 

And  I could  neither  sigh  nor  pray ; 

And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser’s  bristling  mane; 

Put,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 

He  flew  upon  his  far  career  : 

At  times  I almost  thought,  indeed, 
lie  must  have  slacken’d  in  his  speed ; 

Put  no — my  bound  and  slender  frame 
Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might. 

And  merely  like  a spur  became : 

Each  motion  which  I made  to  free 
My  swoln  limbs  from  their  agony 
Increased  his  fury  and  affright : 

I tried  my  voice, — ’twas  faint  and  low, 

Put  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a blow ; 

And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a sudden  trumpet’s  clang  : 

Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore, 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o’er 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


158 

And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A something  fierier  far  than  flame. 

XII. 

“ We  near’d  the  wild  wood — ’twas  so  wide, 

I saw  no  bounds  on  either  side ; 

’Twas  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees, 

That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 
Which  howls  down  from  Siberia’s  waste, 

And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste, — 

But  these  were  few,  and  far  between 

Set  tliick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green. 

Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves, 

Ere  strowu  by  those  autumnal  eves 
That  nip  the  forest’s  foliage  dead, 

Discolour’d  with  a lifeless  red, 

Which  stands  thereon  like  stiffen’d  gore 
Upon  the  slain  when  battle’s  o’er, 

And  some  long  winter’s  night  hath  shed 
Its  frost  o’ei  every  tomblcss  head, 

So  cold  and  stark,  the  raven’s  beak 
May  peck  unpierced  each  frozen  cheek  : 

’Twas  a wild  waste  of  underwood, 

And  here  and  there  a chestnut  stood. 

The  strong  oa'k,  and  the  hardy  pine  ; 

But  far  apart — and  well  it  were, 

Or  else  a different  lot  were  mine — 

The  boughs  gave  wav,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs  ; and  I found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  searr’d  with  cold — 

My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 

We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 

Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind ; 

By  night  I heard  them  on  the  track, 

Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back, 

With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound’s  deep  hate  and  hunter’s  lire : 
Where’er  we  flew  they  follow’d  on, 

Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun ; 

Behind  I saw  them,  scarce  a rood, 

At  day-break  winding  through  the  wood, 

And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 

Oh ! how  I wish’d  for  spear  or  sword, 

At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 

And  perish — if  it  must  be  so — 

At  bay,  destroying  many  a foe. 

When  first  my  courser’s  race  begun, 

I wish’d  the  goal  already  won  ; 

But  now  I doubted  strength  and  speed. 

Vain  doubt ! his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Rad  nerved  him  like  the  mountain-roe ; 

Nor  faster  fails  the  blinding  snow 
Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 
Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more, 
Bewilder’d  with  the  dazzling  blast, 

Than  through  the  forest-paths  lie  past — 
Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild ; 

All  furious  as  a favour’d  child 
Balk’d  of  its  wish  ; or  fiercer  still — 

A woman  piqued — who  has  her  will. 

Xlil. 

“ The  wood  was  past ; ’twas  more  than  noon. 
But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June  ; 


■*)  [The  r**vfcwer  already  quoted  says, — “ As  the  Hetman  pro- 
M-eds,  it  btuke-a  us  there  is  a much  closer  resemblance  to  the  liery 
how  of  Walter  Scott's  chivalrous  narrative,  than  in  any  of  Lord 


Or  it  might  he  my  veins  ran  cold — 
Prolong’d  endurance  tames  the  bold ; 

And  I was  then  not  what  I seem, 

But  headlong  as  a wintry  stream. 

And  wore  my  feelings  out  before 
I well  could  count  their  causes  o’er : 

And  what  with  fury,  fear,  and  wrath. 

The  tortures  which  beset  my  path, 

Cold,  hunger,  sorrow,  shame,  distress, 

Thus  bound  in  nature’s  nakedness  ; 

Sprung  from  a race  whose  rising  blood 
When  stirr’d  beyond  its  calmer  mood, 

And  trodden  hard  upon,  is  like 
The  rattle-snake’s,  in  act  to  strike, 

What  marvel  if  this  worn-out  trunk 
Beneatli  its  woes  a moment  sunk  F 
The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  roll’d  round, 

I seem’d  ^o  sink  upon  the  ground  ; 

But  err’d,  for  I was  fastly  bound. 

My  heart  turn’d  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore. 
And  throb b’d  awhile,  then  beat  no  more  : 
The  skies  spun  like  a mighty  wheel; 

I saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel, 

And  a slight  flash  sprang  o’er  my  eyes, 
Which  saw  no  farther  : lie  who  dies 
Can  die  no  more  than  then  I died. 
O’ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 

I felt  the  blackness  come  and  go, 

And  strove  to  wake  ; but  could  not  nifcke 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below : 

I felt  as  on  a plank  at  sea, 

When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o’er  thee, 

At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm, 

And  hurl  thee  towards  a desert  realm. 

My  undulating  life  was  as 
The  fancied  lights  that  flitting  pass 
Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 
Lever  begins  upon  the  brain  ; 

But  soon  it  pass’d,  with  little  pain, 

But  a confusion  worse  than  such : 

I own  that  1 should  deem  it  much. 

Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again ; 

And  yet  I do  suppose  we  must 
Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust : 

No  matter ; I have  bared  my  brow 
Full  in  Death’s  face — before — and  now.1 


XIV. 

“ My  thoughts  came  back ; where  was  I f Cold, 
And  numb,  and  giddy  : pulse  by  pulse 
Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold, 

And  throb  by  throb  : till  grown  a pang 
Which  for  a moment  would  convulse, 

My  blood  reflow’d,  though  thick  and  cliill : 

My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang, 

My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill ; 

My  srnht  return’d,  though  dim,  alas  ! 

And  thicken’d,  as  it  were,  with  glass. 

Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh ; 

There  was  a gleam  too  of  the  sky, 

Studded  with  stars  it  is  no  dream  ; 

The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream! 

The  bright  br.oad  river’s  gushing  tide 
Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 

Byron’s  previous  pieces.  Nothing  can  be  grander  than  the 
and  torrent  of  the  horse’s  speed,  and  the  slow,  unwearied,  u* 
flexiblo  pursuit  of  the  wolves.”] 


MAZETPA. 


159 


And  we  arc  half-way,  struggling  o’er 
IV  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 

The  waters  broke  ray  hollow  trauce, 

And  with  a temporary  strength 
My  stiffen’d  limbs  were  rebaptized. 

My  courser’s  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 
And  dashes  ofT  the  ascending  waves, 

And  onward  we  advance ! 

We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 

A haven  I but  little  prized, 

For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear 
And  all  before  was  night  and  fear. 

How  raauy  hours  of  night  or  day 
In  those  suspended  pangs  1 lay, 

I could  not  tell ; I scarcely  knew 
If  this  were  human  breath  1 drew. 

xv. 

“ With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 

And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  Hank, 

The  wild  steed’s  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 
Up  tne  repelling  bank. 

Wc  gain  the  top  ; a boundless  plain 
Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night. 
And  onward,  onward,  onward,  seems. 
Like  precipices  in  our  dreams, 

To  stretch  beyond  the  sight ; 

And  here  and  there  a speck  of  white. 

Or  scatter’d  spot  of  dusky  green. 

In  masses  broke  into  the  light, 

As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right. 

But  nought  distinctly  seen 
In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 
The  omen  of  a cottage  gate ; 

No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 
Stood  like  a hospitable  star ; 

Not  even  an  igms-latuus  rose 
To  make  him  merry  with  my  woes  : 

That  very  cheat  had  cheer’d  me  then ! 
Although  detected,  welcome  still, 
Reminding  me,  through  every  ill, 

Of  the  abodes  of  men. 

XVI. 

“ Onward  we  went — but  slack  and  slow ; 

His  savage  force  at  length  o’erspent. 

The  drooping  courser,  Faint  aud  low. 

All  feebly  foaming  went. 

A sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour ; 

But  useless  all  to  me. 

His  new-born  tameness  nought  avail’d — 
My  limbs  were  bound ; my  force  had  fail’d. 
Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 

With  feeble  effort  still  I tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied — 

But  still  it  was  in  vain ; 

My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 

And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o’er, 

Which  but  prolong’d  their  pain  : 

The  dizzy  race  seem’d  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won  : 

Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun — - 
How  slow,  alas  ! he  came  ! 

Met  bought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  into  day  ; 

How  heavily  it  roll’d  away — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 


Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars. 

And  call’d  the  radiance  from  their  cars, 

And  fill’d  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne, 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 

XVII. 

“Up  rose  the  sun  ; the  mists  were  curl’d 
Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around  — behind — before  ; 

What  booted  it  to  traverse  o’er 
Plain,  forest,  river  ? Man  nor  brute. 

Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 

Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil ; 

No  sign  of  travel — none  of  toil ; 

The  very  air  was  mute ; 

Aud  not  an  insect’s  shrill  small  horn, 

Nor  matin  bird’s  new  voice  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.  Many  a werst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 

The  weary  brute  still  stagger’d  on  ; 

And  still  we  were — or  seem’d — alone 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I heard  a courser  neigh, 

From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 

Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  ? 

No,  no ! from  out  the  forest  prance 
A trampling  troop  ; I see  them  come  ! 

In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance  ! • 

I strove  to  cry — my  lips  were  dumb. 

The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride; 

But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 

A thousand  horse — and  none  to  ride ! 

With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 

W ide  nostrils — never  stretch’d  by  pain. 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein,  . 

And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 

And  flanks  unscarr’d  by  spur  or  rod, 

A thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free. 

Like  waves  that  follow  o’er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly*  t hundering  on, 

As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet ; 

The  sight  re-nerved  my  courser’s  feet, 

A moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 

A moment,  with  a famt  low  neigh. 

He  answer’d,  and  then  fell ; 

With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 

And  reeking  limbs  immoveable, 

His  first  and  last  career  is  done ! 

On  came  the  troop — they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 
His  back  with  many  a bloody  thong  : 

They  stop — they  start — they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a moment  here  and  there, 

Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round. 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound. 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 

Who  seem’d  the  patriarch  of  his  breed. 
Without  a single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide  ; 

They  snort — they  foam — neigh — swerve  aside. 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 

By  instinct,  from  a human  eye. — 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair, 

Link’d  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch. 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 


(I)  [“  Rose  crimson  and  forbad  the  star* 

To  sparkle  in  ttieir  radiant  cars." — MS.J 


1G0 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 

Prom  whence  I could  not  extricate 
Nor  him  nor  me — and  there  we  lay 
The  dying  on  the  dead  ! 

I little  deem’d  another  day 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 

“ And  there  from  morn  till  twilight  bound, 

I felt  the  heavy  hours  toil  round. 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 
My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me, 
lu  hopeless  certainty  of  mind, 

That  makes  us  feel  at  length  resign’d 
To  that  which  our  foreboding  years 
Present  the  worst  and  last  of  /ears 
Inevitable — even  a boon, 

Nor  more  unkind  for  coming  soon ; 

Yet  shuan’d  and  dreaded  with  such  care, 

As  if  it  only  were  a snare 
That  pi  udence  might  escape : 

At  times  both  wish’d  for  and  implored, 

At  times  sought  with  self-pointed  sword. 

Yet  still  a dark  and  hideous  close 
To  even  intolerable  woes, 

A nd  welcomein  no  shape. 

And,  strange  to  say,  the  sons  of  pleasure, 
The^  who  have  revell’d  beyond  measure 
In  beauty,  wassail,  wine,  and  treasure. 

Die  calm,  or  calmer,  oft  than  he 
Whose  heritage  was  misery ; 

For  he  who  hath  in  turn  run  through 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  new. 

Hath  nought  to  hope,  and  nouiriit  to  leave ; 
And,  save  the  future,  (wliich  is  wew’d 
Not  quite  as' men  are  base  or  good, 

But  as  their  nerves  may  be  endued, ) 

With  nought  perhaps  to  grieve : — 

The  wretch  still  hopes  his  woes  must  sia, 
And  Death,  whom  lie  should  deem  liis  friend. 
Appears,  to  his  distemper’d  eyes, 

Arrived  to  rob  him  of  his  prize, 

The  tree  of  his  new  Paradise. 

To-morrow  would  have  given  him  all. 

Repaid  his  pangs,  repair’d  his  fall ; 

To-morrow  would  have  been  the  first 
Of  days  no  more  deplored  or  curst, 

But  bright,  and  long,  and  beckoning  years, 
Seen  dazzling  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
Guerdon  of  many  a painful  hour ; 

To-morrow  would  have  given  him  power 
To  rule,  to  shine,  to  smite,  to  save — 

And  must  it  dawn  upon  his  grave  ? 


XVIII. 

“ The  sun  was  sinking — still  T lay 

Chain’d  to  the  chill  and  stiffening  steed, 

I thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay  ; 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need. 

No  hope  arose  ol  being  freed: 

I cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky, 

And  tnere  between  me  and  the  sun 
1 saw  the  expecting  raven  lly, 

Who  scarce  would  wait  till  both  should  die, 
Ere  his  repast  begun  ; 
tie  hew,  and  perch’d,  then  flew  once  more, 
And  each  time  nearer  than  before ; 


I saw  liis  wing  through  twilight  flit. 

And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

1 could  have  smole,  but  lack’d  the  strength  • 
But  the  slight  motion  of  my  hand, 

And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand, 

The  exerted  throat’s  faint  struggling  noise, 
Which  scarcely  could  be  call’d  a voice. 
Together  scared  him  off  at  length. — 

I know  no  more — my  latest  dream 
Is  something  of  a lovely  star 
Which  fix’d  my  dull  eyes  from  afar, 

And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam, 

And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense, 

And  then  subsiding  back  to  death, 

And  then  again  a little  breath, 

A little  thrill,  a short  suspense. 

An  icy  sickness  curdling  o’er 
Mv  heart,  and  sparks  that  cross’d  my  brain — 
A gasp,  a throb,  a start  of  pain, 

A sigh,  and  nothing  more. 

XIX. 

“ I woke — Where  was  I ? — Do  I see 
A human  face  look  down  on  me  ? 

And  doth  a roof  above  me  close  ? 

Do  these  Lmbs  on  a couch  repose  ? 

Is  this  a chamber  where  I lie  ? 

And  is  it  mortal  yon  bright  eye, 

Tnat  watches  me  with  gentle  glance,? 

I closed  my  own  again  once  more, 

As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 
Could  not  as  yet  be  o’er. 

A slender  girl,  long-hair’d,  and  tall, 

Sat  e watching  by  the  cottage  wall ; 

The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I caught, 

Even  with  my  first  1 eturn  of  thought 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 
A prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 
With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free : 

I gazed,  and  gazed,  until  I knew 
No  vision  it  could  be, — 

But  that  I lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture’s  feast : 

And  when  the  Cossack  maid  beheld 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unseal’d, 

She  smiled — and  I essay’d  to  speak. 

But  fail’d — and  she  approach’d,  and  made 
With  lip  and  finger  signs  that  said, 

I must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free ; 

And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 

And  smooth’d  the  pillow  for  mv  head, 

And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread, 

And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers — ne’er  was  voice  so  sweet ! 

Even  music  follow’d  her  light  feet ; — 

But  those  she  call’d  were  not  awake. 

And  she  went  forth  ; but,  ere  she  pass'd, 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast. 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say. 

That  I had  nought  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call, 

And  she  would  not  delav 
Ilcr  due  return  : — wLile  she  was  gone, 
Mcthought  I felt  too  much  alone. 


CAVTO  I. 


THE  ISLAND, 


161 


XX. 

“She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire — 
What  need  of  more  ? — I will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest, 

Since  I became  the  Cossack’s  guest. 

They  found  me  senseless  oil  the  plain — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut — 

They  brought  me  into  life  again — 

Me— one  aav  o’er  their  realm  to  reign  ! 

Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  nn  my  pain, 

Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness, 

Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone. 

To  pass  the  desert  to  a throne,- — 

What  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess  ? — 


Let  none  despond,  let  none  despair ! 
To-morrow  the  Borysthenes 
May  see  our  coursers  graze  at  ease 
Upon  his  Turkish  bank, — and  never 
Had  I such  welcome  for  a river 
As  I shall  yield  when  safely  there.1 
Comrades,  good  night !” — The  Hetman  tl  rev 
His  length  beneath  the  oak-tree  shade, 

\ With  leafy  couch  already  made, 

A bed  nor  comfortless  nor  new 
To  him,  who  took  his  rest  whene’er 
The  hour  arrived,  no  matter  where : 

His  eyes  the  hastening  slumbers  steep. 

And  if  ye  marvel  Charles  forgot 
■ To  thank  his  tale,  he  wonder’d  not,— - 
The  king  had  been  an  hour  asleep.2 


Zi)t  gSlantr;3 

OR, 

CHRISTIAN  AND  HIS  COMRADES.4 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  foundation  of  the  following  story  will  be  found 
artiy  in  Lieutenant  Bligh’s  “ Narrative  of  the 
lutiny  and  Seizure  of  the  Bounty,  in  the  South  Seas, 
hi  1789  and  partly  in  “Maimer’s  Account  of  the 
Tonga  Islands.”  5 

Genoa,  1823. 


Wm  Jfslanti. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


I. 

The  morning  watch  was  come ; the  vessel  lay 
Her  course,  and  gently  made  ner  liquid  way  ; 


(1)  [“Charles,  having  perceived  that  the  day  was  lost,  and  that  I 
his  only  chance  of  safety  was  to  retire  with  the  utmost  precipita-  | 
tion,  suffered  himself  to  be  mounted  on  horseback,  and  with  the 
remains  of  his  army  fled  to  a place  called  Perewolochna,  situated 
in  the  angle  formed  by  the  junction  of  the  Vorskla  and  the 
Borysthenes.  Here,  accompanied  by  Mazeppa,  and  a few  hundreds 
of  his  followers,  Charles  swam  over  the  latter  great  river,  and  pro- 
ceeding over  a desolate  country,  in  danger  of  perishing  with  hunger, 
at  length  reached  the  Bog,  where  he  was  kindly  received  by  the 
Turkish  pacha.  The  Russian  envoy  at  the  Sublime  Porte  de- 
manded that  Mazeppa  should  be  delivered  up  to  Peter;  but  the  old 
Hetman  of  the  Cossacks  escaped  this  fate  by  taking  a disease  which 
hastened  bis  death.” — Barrow’s  Peter  the  Great , pp.  19C — 203.] 

(2)  [It  is  impossible  not  to  suspect  that  the  Poet  had  some  cir- 
cumstances of  his  own  personal  history  in  his  mind,  when  he 
portrayed  the  fair  Polish  Theresa , her  youthful  lover,  and  the 
jealous  rage  of  the  old  Count  Palatine.] 

(3)  [“The  Island”  was  written  at  Genoa,  early  in  the  year  1823, 
ar.d  published  in  the  June  following.] 

(4)  [We  are  taught  by  The  Book  of  sacred  history,  that  the  dis- 

obedience of  our  first  parents  entailed  on  our  globe  of  earth  a sinful 


The  cloven  billow  flash’d  from  off  her  prow 
In  furrows  form’d  by  that  majestic  plough ; 

The  waters  with  their  world  were  all  before ; 
Behind,  the  South  Sea’s  many  an  islet  shore. 
The  quiet  night,  now  dappling,  ’gan  to  wane, 
Dividing  darkness  from  the  dawning  main ; 

The  dolphins,  not  unconscious  of  the  day, 

Swam  high,  as  eager  of  the  coming  ray  ; 

The  stars  from  broader  beams  began  to  creep. 
And  lift  their  shining  eyelids  from  the  deep ; 
The  sail  resumed  its  lately  shadow’d  white. 

And  the  wind  flutter’d  with  a freshening  flight ; 
The  purpling  ocean  owns  the  coming  sun. 

But  ere  he  break — a deed  is  to  be  done. 

ii. 

The  gallant  chief  within  his  cabin  slept, 

Secure  in  those  by  whom  the  watch  was  kept : 


and  a suffering  race.  In  our  time  there  has  sprung  up  from  the 
most  abandoned  of  this  sinful  family — from  pirates,  mutineers,  and 
murderers  — a little  society,  which,  under  the  precepts  of  that 
sacred  volume,  is  characterized  by  religion,  morality,  and  inno- 
cence. The  discovery  of  this  happy  people,  as  unexpected  as  it 
was  accidental,  and  all  that  regards  their  condition  and  history, 
partake  so  much  of  the  romantic,  as  to  render  the  story  not  ill 
adapted  for  an  epic  poem.  Lord  Byron,  indeed,  has  partially 
treated  the  subject;  but,  by  blending  two  incongruous  stories,  and 
leaving  both  of  them  imperfect,  and  by  mixing  up  fact  with  fiction, 
has  been  less  felicitous  than  usual ; for,  beautiful  as  many  passages 
in  his  “ Island  ” are,  in  a region  where  every  tree,  and  flower,  and 
fountain,  breathe  poetry,  yet,  as  a whole,  the  poem  is  deficient  in 
dramatic  effect. — Harrow.] 

(5)  [The  hitherto  scattered  materials  of  the  “ Eventful  History  of 
the  Mutiny  and  Piratical  Seizure  of  the  Bounty,”  with  many  im- 
portant and  most  interesting  additions,  from  the  records  of  the 
Admiralty,  and  the  family  papers  of  Captain  Heywood,  R.N., 
have  lately  been  collected  and  arranged  by  Sir  John  Barrow,  in  a 
little  volume,  to  which  the  reader  of  this  poem  is  referred,  and 
from  which  every  young  officer  of  the  navy  may  derive  valuable  in- 
struction.] 

Y 


162 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  L 


His  dreams  were  of  Old  England’s  welcome  shore. 
Of  toils  rewarded,  and  of  dangers  o’er ; 

His  name  was  added  to  the  glorious  roll 
Of  those  who  search  the  storm-surrounded  Pole. 

The  worst  was  over,  and  the  rest  seem’d  sure,1 
And  why  should  not  his  slumber  be  secure  ? 

Alas  ! his  deck  was  trod  by  unwilling  feet, 

And  wilder  hands  would  hold  the  vessel’s  sheet ; 
Young  hearts,  which  languish’d  for  some  sunny  isle, 
Where  summer  years  ana  summer  women  smile ; 
Men  without  country,  who,  too  long  estranged, 

Had  found  no  native  home,  or  found  it  changed, 
And,  half  uncivilized,  preferr’d  the  cave 
Of  some  soft  savage  to  the  uncertain  wave — 

The  gushing  fruits  that  nature  gave  untill’d  ; 

The  wood  without  a path  but  where  they  will’d ; 

The  field  o’er  which  promiscuous  Plenty  pour’d 
Her  horn ; the  equal  land  without  a lord  ; 

The  wish — which  ages  have  not  yet  subdued 
In  man — to  have  no  master  save  his  mood  ;2 
The  earth,  whose  mine  was  on  its  face,  unsold, 

The  glowing  sun  and  produce  all  its  gold ; 

The  freedom  which  can  call  each  grot  a home ; 

The  general  garden,  where  all  steps  may  roam. 
Where  Nature  owns  a nation  as  her  child. 

Exulting  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  wild ; 

Their  shells,  their  fruits,  the  only  wealth  they  know, 
Their  unexploring  navy,  the  canoe  ; 

Their  sport,  the  dashing  breakers  and  the  chase ; 
Their  strangest  sight,  an  European  face  : — 

Such  was  the  country  which  these  strangers  yearn’d 
To  see  again ; a sight  they  dearly  earn’d. 

in. 

Awake,  bold  Bligh  ! the  foe  is  at  the  gate ! 

Awake ! awake ! Alas  ! it  is  too  late  ! 

Fiercely  beside  thy  cot  the  mutineer 

Stands,  and  proclaims  the  reign  of  rage  and  fear. 

Thy  limbs  are  bound,  the  bayonet  at  thy  breast ; 

The  hands,  which  trembled  at  thy  voice,  arrest ; 

»d  o’er  the  deck,  no  more  at  thy  command 
edient  helm  shall  veer,  the  sail  expand  ; 

That  savage  spirit,  which  would  lull  by  wrath 
Its  desperate  escape  from  duty’s  path, 

Glares  round  thee,  in  the  scarce  believing  eyes 
Of  those  who  fear  the  chief  they  sacrifice  : 


(1)  [“  A few  hours  before,  my  situation  had  been  peculiarly  flat- 
tering: I had  a ship  in  the  most  perfect  order,  stored  with  every 
necessary,  both  for  health  and  service ; the  object  of  the  voyage  was 
attained,  and  two-thirds  of  it  now  completed.  The  remaining  part 
had  every  prospect  of  success.” — Bligh.] 

(2)  [“The  women  of  Otaheite  are  handsome,  mild,  and  cheerful 
in  manners  and  conversation,  possessed  of  great  sensibility,  and 
have  sufficient  delicacy  to  make  them  be  admired  and  beloved. 
The  chiefs  were  so  much  attached  to  our  people,  that  they  rather 
encouraged  their  stay  among  them  than  otherwise,  and  even  made 
them  promises  of  large  possessions.  Under  these  and  many  other 
concomitant  circumstances,  it  ought  hardly  to  be  the  subject  of 
surprise  that  a set  of  sailors,  most  of  them  void  of  connexions, 
should  be  led  away,  where  they  had  the  power  of  fixing  themselves, 
in  the  midst  of  plenty,  in  one  of  the  finest  islands  in  the  world, 
where  there  was  no  necessity  to  labour,  and  where  the  allurements 
of  dissipation  are  beyond  any  conception  that  can  be  formed  of 
it.”—  B.] 

(3)  [“Just  before  sunrise,  while  I was  yet  asleep,  Mr.  Christian, 
with  the  master  at  arms,  gunner’s  mate,  and  Thomas  Burkitt,  sea- 
man, came  into  my  cabin,  and,  seizing  me,  tied  my  hands  with  a 
cord  behind  my  back,  threatening  me  with  instant  death,  if  I 
spoke  or  made  the  least  noise.  1 nevertheless  called  out  as  loud 
as  I could,  in  hopes  of  assistance ; but  the  officers  not  of  their  party 
'»**re  already  secured  by  sentinels  at  their  dows.  At  my  own  cabin 
<ioor  were  three  men,  besides  the  foui  within : all  excep'  Christian 


For  ne’er  can  man  his  conscience  all  assuage, 

Unless  he  drain  the  wine  of  passion — rage. 

IV. 

In  vain,  not  silenced  by  the  eye  of  death, 

Thou  call’st  the  loyal  with  thy  menaced  breath : — 
They  come  not ; they  are  few,  and,  overawed, 

Must  acquiesce,  while  sterner  hearts  applaud. 

In  vain  thou  dost  demand  the  cause  : a curse 
Is  all  the  answer,  with  the  threat  of  worse. 

Full  in  thine  eyes  is  waved  the  glittering  blade, 

Close  to  thv  throat  the  pointed  bayonet  laid. 

The  levell’d  .muskets  circle  round  thy  breast 
In  hands  as  steel’d  to  do  the  deadly  rest. 

Thou  darest  them  to  their  worst,  exclaiming — “Fire  !** 
But  they  who  pitied  not  could  yet  admire  ; 

Some  lurking  remnant  of  their  former  awe 
Restrain’d  them  longer  than  their  broken  law ; 

They  would  not  dip  their  souls  at  once  in  blood, 

But  left  thee  to  the  mercies  of  the  flood.3 

v. 

“ Hoist  out  the  boat !”  was  now  the  leader’s  cry; 
And  who  dare  answer  “No  !”  to  Mutiny, 

In  the  first  dawning  of  the  drunken  hour. 

The  Saturnalia  of  unhoped-for  power  ? 

The  boat  is  lower’d  with  all  the  haste  of  hate, 

With  its  slight  plank  between  thee  and  thy  fate  ; 

Her  only  cargo  such  a scant  supply 
As  promises  the  death  their  hands  deny ; 

And  just  enough  of  water  and  of  bread 
To  keep,  some  days,  the  dying  from  the  dead  : 

Some  cordage,  canvass,  sails,  and  lines,  and  twine. 

But  treasures  all  to  hermits  of  the  brine, 

Were  added  after,  to  the  earnest  prayer 
Of  those  who  saw  no  hope,  save  sea  and  air ; 

And  last,  that  trembling  vassal  of  the  Pole — - 
The  feeling  compass — Navigation’s  soul.4 5 

yi. 

And  now  the  self-elected  chief  finds  time 
To  stun  the  first  sensation  of  his  crime, 

And  raise  it  in  his  followers — “ Ho  ! the  bowl ! ” * 
Lest  passion  should  return  to  reason’s  shoal. 

“Brandy  for  heroes  !” 6 Burke  could  once  exclaim — 
No  doubt  a liquid  path  to  epic  fame ; 


had  muskets  and  bayonets ; he  had  only  a cutlass.  I was  dragged 

out  of  bed,  and  forced  on  deck  in  my  shirt.  On  demanding  the 
reason  of  such  violence,  the  only  answer  was  abuse  for  not  holding 
my  tongue.  The  boatswain  was  then  ordered  to  hoist  out  the 
launch,  accompanied  by  a threat,  if  he  did  not  do  it  instantly,  to 

take  care  of  himself.  The  boat  being  hoisted  out,  Mr.  Heyward 
and  Mr.  Hallet,  two  of  the  midshipmen,  and  Mr.  Samuel,  the  clerk, 
were  ordered  into  it.  I demanded  the  intention  of  giving  this 
order,  and  endeavoured  to  persuade  the  people  near  me  not  to  per- 
sist in  such  acts  of  violence ; but  it  was  to  no  effect ; for  the  con- 
stant answer  was,  ‘ Hold  your  tongue,  or  you  are  dead  this  mo- 
ment 1 ’ ” — Bligh.] 

(4)  [“  The  boatswain  and  those  seamen  who  were  to  be  put  into 
the  boat  were  ailowed  to  collect  twine,  canvass,  lines,  sails,  cordage, 
an  eight-and-twenty-gallon  cask  of  water;  and  Mr.  Samuel  got  one 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  bread,  with  a small  quantity  of  rum 
and  wine ; also  a quadrant  and  compass.” — B.] 

(5)  [“  The  mutineers  having  thus  forced  those  of  the  seamen 
whom  they  wished  to  get  rid  of  into  the  boat,  Christian  directed  a 
dram  to  be  served  to  each  of  his  crew.” — B.] 

(6)  [It  appears  to  have  been  Dr.  Johnson  who  thus  gave  honour 
to  Cognac. — “ He  was  persuaded,”  says  Boswell,  ‘ totakeone  glass 
of  claret.  He  shook  his  head,  and  said,  ‘ Poor  stuff  1— No,  Sir, 
claret  is  the  liquor  for  boys  ; port  for  men  ; but  he  who  aspires  K 
be  a hero  (smiling)  must  drink  brandy.’  ” — See  Boswell , vol  via. 
p.  34.  ed.  1835.] 


CAKTO  I. 


THE  ISLAND. 


163 


And  sucn  the  new-born  heroes  found  it  here, 

And  drain’d  the  draught  with  an  applauding  cheer. 

“ Huzza  ! for  Otaheite  !”  was  the  cry. 

How  strange  such  shouts  from  sons  of  Mutiny  ! 

The  gentle  island,  and  the  genial  soil, 

The  friendly  hearts,  the  feasts  without  a toil, 

The  courteous  manners  but  from  nature  caught. 

The  wealth  unhoarded,  and  the  love  unbouglit ; 
Could  these  have  charms  for  rudest  sca-boys,  driven 
Before  the  mast  by  every  wind  of  heaven  ? 

And  now,  even  now  prepared  with  others’  woes 
To  earn  mild  virtue’s  vain  desire,  repose  ? 

Alas  ! such  is  our  nature  ! all  but  aim 
At  the  sarme  end  by  pathways  not  the  same ; 

Our  means,  our  birth,  our  nation,  and  our  name. 

Our  fortune,  temper,  even  our  outward  frame, 

Are  far  more  potent  o’er  our  yielding  clay 
Than  aught  we  know  beyond  our  little  day. 

Yet  still  there  whispers  the  small  voice  within, 
Heard  through  Gain’s  silence,  and  o’er  Glory’s  din  : 
Whatever  creed  be  taught  or  land  be  trod, 

Man’s  conscience  is  the  oracle  of  God. 

VII. 

The  launch  is  crowded  with  the  faithful  few 
Who  wait  their  chief,  a melancholy  crew  : 

But  some  remain’d  reluctant  on  the  deck 
Of  that  proud  vessel — now  a moral  wreck — • 

And  view’d  their  captain’s  fate  with  piteous  eyes  ; 
While  others  scoff’d  his  augur’d  miseries, 

Sneer’d  at  the  prospect  of  his  pigmy  sail, 

And  the  slight  bark  so  laden  and  so  frail. 

The  tender  nautilus,  who  steers  his  prdfcv, 

The  sea-born  sailor  of  his  shell  canoe. 

The  ocean  Mab,  the  fairy  of  the  sea, 

Seems  far  less  fragile,  and,  alas  ! more  free. 

He,  when  the  lightning-wing’d  tornados  sweep 
The  surge,  is  safe — his  port  is  in  the  deep — 

And  triumphs  o’er  the  armadas  of  mankind, 

Which  shake  the  world,  yet  crumble  in  the  wind. 

VIII. 

When  all  was  now  prepared,  the  vessel  clear, 

Which  hail’d  her  master  in  the  mutineer — 

A seaman,  less  obdurate  than  his  mates, 

Show’d  the  vain  pity  which  but  irritates ; 

Watch’d  his  late  chieftain  with  exploring  eye. 

And  told,  in  signs,  repentant  sympathy ; 

Held  the  moist  shaddock  to  his  parched  mouth. 
Which  felt  exhaustion’s  deep  and  bitter  drouth  : 

But  soon  observed,  this  guardian  was  withdrawn. 
Nor  further  mercy  clouds  rebellion’s  dawn.1 
Then  forward  stepp’d  the  bold  and  fro  ward  boy 
His  chief  had  cherish’d  only  to  destroy, 

And,  pointing  to  the  helpless  prow  beneath, 
Exclaim’d,  “ Depart  at  once  ! delay  is  death  ! ” 

Yet  then,  even  then,  his  feelings  ceased  not  all : 

In  that  last  moment  could  a word  recall 


(1)  [“  Isaac  Martin,  I saw,  had  an  inclination  to  assist  me;  and 
as  he  fed  me  with  shaddock,  my  lips  being  quite  parched,  we  ex- 
plained each  other’s  sentiments  by  looks.  But  this  was  observed, 
and  he  was  removed  He  then  got  into  the  boat,  but  was  com- 
pelled to  return.” — Bi.igh.] 

(2)  [“Christian  then  said,  ‘Come,  Captain  Bligh,  your  officers 
and  men  are  now  in  the  boat,  and  you  must  go  with  them:  if  you 
attempt  to  make  the  least  resistance,  you  will  instantly  be  put  to 
death  and,  without  further  ceremony,  1 was  forced  over  the  side 
by  a tribe  of  armed  ruffians,  where  they  untied  my  hands.  Being 
in  the  boat,  we  were  veered  astern  by  a rope.  A few  pieces  of  pork 


Remorse  for  the  black  deed  as  yet  half  done. 

And  what  he  hid  from  many  show’d  to  one  : 

When  Bligh  in  stern  reproach  demanded  where 
Was  now  his  grateful  sense  of  former  care  ? 

Where  all  his  hopes  to  see  his  name  aspire, 

And  blazon  Britain’s  thousand  glories  higher  ? 

His  feverish  lips  thus  broke  their  gloomy  spell, 

“ ’Tis  that ! ’tis  that ! I am  in  hefi ! in  hell !” 2 
No  more  he  said ; but  urging  to  the  bark 
His  chief,  commits  him  to  his  fragile  ark ; 

These  the  sole  accents  from  his  tongue  that  fell. 

But  volumes  lurk’d  below  his  fierce  farewell. 

IX. 

The  arctic  sun  rose  broad  above  the  wave  ; 

The  breeze  now  sank,  now  whisper'd  from  his  cave , 
As  on  the  iEolian  harp,  his  fitful  wings 
Now  swell’ d,  now  flutter’d  o’er  his  ocean  strings. 
With  slow,  despairing  oar,  the  abandon’d  skiff 
Ploughs  its  drear  progress  to  the  scarce-seen  cliff. 
Which  lifts  its  peak  a cloud  above  the  main : 

That  boat  and  ship  shall  never  meet  again ! 

But  ’tis  not  mine  to  tell  their  tale  of  grief. 

Their  constant  peril,  and  their  scant  relief ; 

Their  days  of  danger,  and  their  nights  of  pain ; 
Their  manly  courage  even  when  deem’d  in  vain ; 
The  sapping  famine,  rendering  scarce  a son 
Known  to  his  mother  in  the  skeleton; 

The  ills  that  lessen’d  still  their  little  store. 

And  starved  even  Hunger  till  he  wrung  no  more  • 
The  varying  frowns  ana  favours  of  the  deep, 

That  now  almost  ingulfs,  then  leaves  to  creep 
With  crazy  oar  and  shatter’d  strength  along 
The  tide  that  yields  reluctant  to  the  strong ; 

The  incessant  fever  of  that  arid  thirst 
Which  welcomes,  as  a well,  the  clouds  that  burst 
Above  their  naked  bones,  and  feels  delight 
In  the  cold  drenching  of  the  stormy  night, 

And  from  the  outspread  canvass  gladly  wrings 
A drop  to  moisten  life’s  all-gasping  springs ; 

The  savage  foe  escaped,  to  seek  again 
More  hospitable  shelter  from  the  main ; 

The  ghastly  spectres  which  were  doom’d  at  last 
To  tell  as  true  a tale  of  dangers  past. 

As  ever  the  dark  annals  of  the  deep 
Disclosed  for  man  to  dread  or  woman  wee]). 

x. 

We  leave  them  to  their  fate,  but  not  unknown 
Nor  unredress’d.  Revenge  may  have  her  own : 
Roused  discipline  aloud  proclaims  their  cause. 

And  injured  navies  urge  their  broken  laws. 

Pursue  we  on  his  track  the  mutineer, 

Whom  distant  vengeance  had  not  taught  to  fear 
Wide  o’er  the  wave — away  ! away  ! away  ! 

Once  more  his  eyes  shall  hail  the  welcome  bay  ; 
Once  more  the  happy  shores  without  a law 
Receive  the  outlaws  whom  they  lately  saw ; 


were  thrown  to  us,  also  the  four  cutlasses.  After  having  be»*  kept 
some  time  to  make  sport  for  these  unfeeling  wretches,  and  l iving 
undergone  much  ridicule,  we  were  at  length  cast  adrift  in  the  open 
ocean.  Eighteen  persons  were  with  me  in  the  boat.  When  we 
were  sent  away,  ‘ Huzza  for  Otaheite ! ’ was  frequently  heard  among 
the  mutineers.  Christian,  the  chief  of  them,  was  of  a respectable 
family  in  the  north  of  England.  While  they  were  forcing  me  out 
of  the  ship,  I asked  him  whether  this  was  a proj  sr  return  for  the 
many  instances  he  had  experienced  of  my  fri>  ndship?  He  ap- 
peared disturbed  at  the  question,  and  answered  with  much  emo- 
tion, ‘ That— Captain  Bligh — that  is  the  thing — 1 uc  ia  hell — 1 aa 
in  helll’" — Bligh.] 


164 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


cm  to  il 


Nature,  and  Nature’s  goddess — woman — woos 
To  lands  where,  save  their  conscience,  none  accuse ; 
Where  all  partake  the  earth  without  dispute, 

And  bread  itself  is  gather’d  as  a fruit  ;* 

W here  none  contest  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  streams: — 
The  goldless  age,  where  gold  disturbs  no  dreams. 
Inhabits  or  inhabited  the  shore. 

Till  Europe  taught  them  better  than  before  : 

Bestow’d  her  customs,  and  amended  theirs, 

But  left  her  vices  also  to  their  heirs. 

Away  with  this  ! behold  them  as  they  were, 

Do  good  with  Nature,  or  with  Nature  err. 

“ Huzza!  for  Otaheitc!  ” was  the  cry, 

As  stately  swept  the  gallant  vessel  by. 

The  breeze  springs  up  ; the  lately  flapping  sail 
Extends  its  arch  before  the  growing  gale ; 

In  swifter  ripples  stream  aside  the  seas, 

Which  her  bold  bow  flings  off  with  dashing  ease. 

Thus  Argo1 2  plough’d  the  Euxine’s  virgin  foam  ; 

But  those  she  wafted  still  look’d  back  to  home — 
These  spurn  their  country  with  their  rebel  bark, 

And  fly  her  as  the  raven  fled  the  ark  ; 

And  yet  they  seek  to  nestle  with  the  dove. 

And  tame  their  fiery  spirits  down  to  love. 


♦ 


OTje  -"gslantr. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


I. 

How  pleasant  were  the  songs  of  Toobonai,3 
When  summer’s  sun  went  down  the  coral  bay  ! 

Come,  let  us  to  the  islet’s  softest  shade, 

And  hear  the  warbling  birds  ! the  damsels  said : 

The  wood-dove  from  the  forest  depth  shall  coo. 

Like  voices  of  the  gods  from  Bolotoo  ; 

We’ll  cull  the  flowers  that  grow  above  the  dead, 

For  these  most  bloom  where  rests  the  warrior’s  head ; 

And  we  will  sit  in  twilight’s  face,  and  see 

The  sweet  moon  glancing  through  the  tooa  tree. 

The  lofty  accents  of  whose  sighing  bough 
Shall  sadly  please  us  as  we  lean  below  ; 

Or  climb  the  steep,  and  view  the  surf  in  vain 
Wrestle  with  rocky  giants  o’er  the  main, 

Which  spurn  in  columns  back  the  baffled  spray. 

How  beautiful  are  these ! how  happy  they. 

Who,  from  the  toil  and  tumult  of  their  lives, 

Steal  to  look  down  where  nought  but  ocean  strives  ! 
Even  he  too  loves  at  times  the  blue  lagoon, 

And  smooths  his  ruffled  mane  beneath  the  moon. 

II. 

Yes — from  the  sepulchre  we’ll  gather  flowers,* 

Then  feast  like  spirits  in  their  promised  bowers. 

Then  plunge  and  revel  in  the  rolling  surf, 

Then  lay  our  limbs  along  the  tender  turf, 


(1)  Thu  now  celebrated  bread-fruit,  to  transplant  which  Captain 
Bligh’s  expedition  was  undertaken. 

(2)  [Tne  vessel  in  which  Jason  embarked  in  quest  of  the  golden 

fleece.] 

(3)  Tae  first  three  sections  are  taken  from  an  actual  song  of  the 


! And,  wet  and  shining  from  the  sportive  toil, 

Anoint  our  bodies  with  the  fragrant  oil. 

And  plait  our  garlands  gather’d  from  the  grave, 

And  wear  the  wreaths  that  sprung  from  out  the  brave. 
But  lo  ! night  comes,  the  Mooa  woos  us  back. 

The  sound  of  mats  is  heard  along  our  track  ; 

Anon  the  torchlight  dance  shall  fling  its  sheen 
In  flashing  mazes  o’er  the  Marly’s  green ; 

And  we  too  will  be  there ; we  too  recall 
The  memory  bright  with  many  a festival, 

Ere  Fiji  blew  the  shell  of  war,  when  foes 
For  the  first  time  were  wafted  in  canoes. 

Alas  ! for  them  the  flower  of  mankind  bleeds  ; 

Alas  ! for  them  our  fields  are  rank  with  weeds  : 
Forgotten  is  the  rapture,  or  unknown, 

Of  wandering  with  the  moon  and  love  alone. 

But  be  it  so : — they  taught  us  how  to  wield 
The  club,  and  rain  our  arrows  o’er  the  field : 

Now  let  them  reap  the  harvest  of  their  art ! 

But  feast  to-night ! to-morrow  we  depart. 

Strike  up  the  dance  ! the  cava  bowl  fill  high  ! 

Drain  every  drop  ! — to-morrow  we  may  die. 

In  summer  garments  be  our  limbs  array’d ; 

Around  our  waists  the  tappa’s  white  display’d ; 

Thick  wreaths  shall  form  our  coronal,  like  spring’s, 
And  round  our  necks  shall  glance  the  hooni  strings  ; 
So  shall  their  brighter  hues  contrast  the  glow 
Of  the  dusk  bosoms  that  beat  high  below. 

hi. 

But  now  the  dance  is  o’er — yet  stay  awhile  ; 

Ah,  pause  ! nor  yet  put  out  the  social  smile. 
To-morrow  for^he  Mooa  we  depart, 

But  not  to-night — to-night  is  for  the  heart. 

Again  bestow  the  wreaths  we  gently  woo. 

Ye  young  enchantresses  of  gay  Licoo  ! 

How  lovely  are  your  forms ! how  every  sense 
Bows  to  your  beauties,  soften’d,  but  intense. 

Like  to  the  flowers  on  Mataloco’s  steep, 

Which  fling  their  fragrance  far  athwart  the  deep  ! — 
We  too  will  see  Licoo  ; but — oh  ! my  heart ! — 

What  do  I say  ? — to-morrow  we  depart ! 

IV. 

Thus  rose  a song — the  harmony  of  times 
Before  the  winds  blew  Europe  o’er  these  climes. 

True,  they  had  vices — such  are  Nature’s  growth — 
But  only  the  barbarian’s — we  have  both  : 

The  sordor  of  civilisation,  mix’d 

With  all  the  savage  which  man’s  fall  hath  fix’d. 

Who  hath  not  seen  Dissimulation’s  reign, 

The  prayers  of  Abel  link’d  to  deeds  of  Cain  ? 

Who  such  would  see  may  from  his  lattice  view 
The  Old  World  more  degraded  than  the  New, — 

Now  new  no  more,  save  where  Columbia  rears 
Twin  giants,  born  by  Freedom  to  her  spheres, 

Where  Chimborazo,  over  air,  earth,  wave, 

Clares  with  his  Titan  eye,  and  sees  no  slave. 

v. 

Such  was  this  ditty  of  Tradition’s  days, 

Which  to  the  dead  a lingering  fame  conveys. 


Tonga  Islanders,  of  which  a prose  translation  is  given  in  “ Mariner  * 
Account  of  the  Tonga  Islands.”  Toobonai  is  not  however  one  ci 
them  ; but  was  one  of  those  where  Christian  and  the  mutineers 
took  refuge.  1 have  altered  and  added,  but  have  retained  as  muck 
as  possible  of  the  original. 


JiLNTO  il 


THE  ISLAND. 


165 


In  song,  where  fame  as  yet  hath  left  no  sign 
Beyond  the  sound  whose  charm  is  half  divine  ; 
Wliich  leaves  no  record  to  the  sceptic  eye, 

But  yields  young  history  all  to  harmony ; 

A boy  Achilles,  with  the  centaur’s  lyre 
In  hand,  to  teach  him  to  surpass  his  sire. 

Bor  one  long-cherished  ballad’s  simple  stave, 

Hung  from  the  rock,  or  mingled  with  the  wave, 

Or  from  the  bubbling  streamlet’s  grassy  side, 

Or  gathering  mountain  echoes  as  they  glide, 

Hath  greater  power  o’er  each  true  heart  and  ear, 
Than  all  the  columns  Conquest’s  minions  rear  ; 
Invites,  when  hieroglyphics  are  a theme 
Eor  sages’  labours  or  the  student’s  dream ; 

Attracts,  when  History’s  volumes  are  a toil, — 

The  first,  the  freshest  bud  of  Feeling’s  soil. 

Such  was  this  rude  rhyme — rhyme  is  of  the  rude — 
But  such  inspired  the  Norseman’s  solitude, 

Who  came  and  conquer’d ; such,  wherever  rise 
Lands  which  no  foes  destroy  or  civilize, 

Exist : and  what  can  our  accomplish’d  art 
Of  verse  do  more  than  reacli  the  awaken’d  heart  ? 

VI. 

And  sweetly  now  those  untaught  melodies 
Broke  the  luxurious  silence  of  the  skies. 

The  sweet  siesta  of  a summer  day, 

The  tropic  afternoon  of  Toobonai, 

When  every  flower  was  bloom,  and  air  was  balm, 
And  the  first  breath  began  to  stir  the  palm, 

The  first  yet  voiceless  wind  to  urge  the  wave 
All  gently  to  refresh  the  thirsty  cave, 

Where  sat  the  songstress  with  the  stranger  boy, 
Who  taught  her  passion’s  desolating  joy, 

Too  powerful  over  every  heart,  but  most 
O’er  those  who  know  not  how  it  may  be  lost ; 

O’er  those  who,  burning  in  the  new-born  fire, 

Like  martyrs  revel  in  their  funeral  pyre, 

With  such  devotion  to  their  ecstasy, 

That  life  knows  no  such  rapture  as  to  die  : 

And  die  they  do ; for  earthly  life  has  nought 
Match’d  with  that  burst  of  nature,  even  in  thought, 
And  all  our  dreams  of  better  life  above 
But  close  in  one  eternal  gush  of  love. 

VII. 

There  sat  the  gentle  savage  of  the  wild. 

In  growth  a woman,  though  in  years  a child. 

As  childhood  dates  within  our  colder  clime. 

Where  nought  is  ripen’d  rapidly  save  crime ; 

The  infant  of  an  infant  world,  as  pure 
From  nature — lovely,  warm,  and  premature  ; 

Dusky  like  night,  but  night  with  all  her  stars  ; 

Or  cavern  sparkling  with  its  native  spars  ; 

With  eyes  that  were  a language  and  a spell, 

A form  like  Aphrodite’s  in  her  shell, 

With  all  her  loves  around  her  on  the  deep, 
Voluptuous  as  the  first  approach  of  sleep  ; 

Yet  full  of  life — for  through  her  tropic  cheek 
The  blush  would  makp  its  way,  and  all  but  speak ; 


(1)  [George  Stewart.  “He  was,”  says  Bligh,  “a  young  man  of 
creditable  parents  in  the  Orkneys;  at  which  place,  on  the  return  of 
the  Resolution  from  the  South  Seas,  in  1780,  we  received  so  many 
civilities,  that,  on  that  account  only,  I should  gladly  have  taken 
him  with  me;  but,  independent  of  this  recommendation,  he  was  a 
»eaman,  and  had  always  borne  a good  character^”] 

(2)  The  “ ship  of  the  desert”  is  the  Oriental  hgure  for  the  camel 
or  dromedary ; and  they  deserve  the  metaphor  well,— the  former 

for  1 's  endurance,  the  latter  for  his  swiftness. 


The  sun-bom  blood  suffused  her  neck,  and  threw 
O’er  her  clear  nut-brown  skin  a lucid  hue, 

Like  coral  reddening  through  the  darken’d  wave, 
Which  draws  the  diver  to  the  crimson  cave. 

Such  was  this  daughter  of  the  southern  seas, 

Herself  a billow  in  her  energies, 

To  bear  the  bark  of  others’  happiness, 

Nor  feel  a sorrow  till  their  joy  grew  less  : 

Her  wild  and  warm  yet  faithful  bosom  knew 
No  joy  like  what  it  gave  ; her  hopes  ne’er  drew 
Aught  from  experience,  that  chill  touchstone,  whose 
Sad  proof  reduces  all  things  from  their  hues : 

She  fear’d  no  ill,  because  she  knew  it  not, 

Or  what  she  knew  was  soon — too  soon — forgo*  : 

Her  smiles  and  tears  had  pass’d,  as  light  winds  pass 
O’er  lakes  to  ruffle,  not  destroy,  their  glass, 

Whose  depths  unsearch’d,  and  fountains  from  the  hilig 
Restore  their  surface,  in  itself  so  still, 

Until  the  earthquake  tear  the  naiad’s  cave, 

Boot  up  the  spring,  and  trample  on  the  wave, 

And  crush  the  living  waters  to  a mass, 

The  amphibious  desert  of  the  dank  morass ! 

And  must  their  fate  be  hers  ? The  eternal  change 
But  grasps  humanity  with  quicker  range  ; 

And  they  who  fall  but  fall  as  worlds  will  fall, 

To  rise,  if  just,  a spirit  o’er  them  all. 

VIII. 

And  who  is  he  ? the  blue-eyed  northern  child 1 
Of  isles  more  known  to  man,  but  scarce  less  wild  ; 
The  fair-hair’d  offspring  of  the  Hebrides, 

Where  roars  the  Pentland  with  its  whirling  seas ; 
Rock’d  in  his  cradle  by  the  roaring  wind, 

The  tempest-born  in  body  and  in  mind. 

His  young  eyes  opening  on  the  ocean-foam, 

Had  from  that  moment  deem’d  the  dee])  his  home. 
The  giant  comrade  of  his  pensive  moods, 

The  sharer  of  his  craggy  solitudes, 

The  only  Mentor  of  his  youth,  where’er 

His  bark  was  borne ; the  sport  of  wave  and  air ; 

A careless  thing,  who  placed  his  choice  in  chance. 
Nursed  by  the  legends  of  his  land’s  romance  ; 

Eager  to  hope,  but  not  less  firm  to  bear, 

Acquainted  with  all  feelings  save  despair. 

Placed  in  the  Arab’s  clime,  he  would  have  been 
As  bold  a rover  as  the  sands  have  seen. 

And  braved  their  thirst  with  as  enduring  lip 
As  Ishmael,  wafted  on  his  desert-ship  ; 2 
Fix’d  upon  Chili’s  shore,  a proud  cacique  ; 

On  Hellas’  mountains,  a rebellious  Greek; 

Bom  in  a tent,  perhaps  a Tamerlane  ; 

Bred  to  a throne,  perhaps  unfit  to  reign. 

For  the  same  soul  that  rends  its  path  to  sway. 

If  rear’d  to  such,  can  find  no  further  prey 
Beyond  itself,  and  must  retrace  its  way 3 
Plunging  for  pleasure  into  pain  : the  same 
Spirit  wliich  made  a Nero,  Rome’s  worst  shame, 

A humble^  state  and  discipline  of  heart, 

Had  form’d  his  glorious  namesake’s  counterpart ; ' 


(3)  “ Lucullus,  when  frugality  could  charm, 

Had  roasted  turnips  in  the  Sabine  farm.” — Pope. 

(4)  The  consul  Nero,  who  made  the  unequalled  march  which 
deceived  Hannibal,  and  defeated  Asdrubal ; thereby  accomplishing 
an  achievement  almost  unrivalled  in  military  annals.  The  first 
intelligence  of  his  return,  to  Hannibal,  was  the  sight  of  Asdrubal’s 
head  thrown  into  his  camp.  When  Hannibal  saw  this,  he  exclaimed 
with  a sigh,  that  “ Rome  would  now  be  the  mistress  of  the  world. 
And  yet  to  this  victory  of  Nero’s  it  might  be  owing  that  his  imperial 


166 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  IL 


But  "rant  liis  vines,  grant  them  all  his  own, 

IIow  small  their  theatre  without  a throne  ! 

IX. 

Thou  smilest ; — these  comparisons  seem  high 
To  those  who  scan  all  things  with  dazzled  eye  ; 

] jink’d  with  the  unknown  name  of  one  whose  doom 
Has  nought  to  do  with  glory  or  with  Rome, 

With  Chili,  Hellas,  or  with  Araby  ; — 

Thou  smilest? — Smile;  ’tis  better  thus  than  sigh  ; 
Yet  such  he  might  have  been ; he  was  a man, 

A soaring  spirit,  ever  in  the  van, 

A patriot  hero  or  despotic  chief, 

To  form  a nation's  glory  or  its  grief. 

Born  under  auspices  which  makes  us  more 
Or  less  than  we  delight  to  ponder  o’er. 

But  these  are  visions  ; say,  what  was  he  here  ? 

A blooming  boy,  a truant  mutineer  ; 

The  fair-hair’ d Torquil,  free  as  ocean’s  spray, 

The  husband  of  the  bride  of  Toobonai. 

x. 

By  Neuha’s  side  he  sate,  and  watch’d  the  waters, — 
Neuha,  the  sun-flower  of  the  island  daughters, 
Highborn,  (a  birth  at  which  the  herald  smiles, 
Without  a ’scutcheon  for  these  secret  isles,) 

Of  a long  race,  the  valiant  and  the  free, 

The  naked  knights  of  savage  chivalry. 

Whose  grassy  cainis  ascend  along  the  shore  ; 

And  thine — I’ve  seen — Achilles  ! do  no  more. 

She,  when  the  thunder-bearing  strangers  came, 

In  vast  canoes,  begirt  with  bolts  of  flame, 

Topp’d  with  tall  trees,  which,  loftier  than  the  palm, 
Seem’d  rooted  in  the  deep  amidst  its  calm  : 

But  when  the  winds  awaken’d,  shot  forth  wings 
Broad  as  the  cloud  along  the  horizon  flings, 

And  sway’d  the  waves,  like  cities  of  the  sea, 

Making  the  very  billows  look  less  free ; — 

She,  with  her  paddling  oar  and  dancing  prow, 

Shot  through  the  surf,  like  reindeer  through  the  snow, 
Swift-gliding  o’er  the  breaker’s  whitening  edge, 

Light  as  a nereid  in  her  ocean  sledge, 

And  gazed  and  wonder’d  at  the  giant  hulk, 

Which  heaved  from  wave  to  wave  its  trampling  bulk  : 
The  anchor  dropp’d ; it  lay  along  the  deep, 

Like  a huge  bon  in  the  sun  asleep, 

While  round  it  swarm’d  the  proas’  flitting  chain, 

Like  summer  bees  that  hum  around  his  mane. 

XI. 

The  white  man  landed  ! — need  the  rest  be  told  ? 

The  New  World  stretch’d  its  dusk  hand  to  the  Old  ; 
Each  was  to  each  a marvel,  and  the  tie 
Of  wonder  warm’d  to  better  sympathy. 

Kind  was  the  welcome  of  the  sun-born  sires, 

And  kinder  still  their  daughters’  gentler  fires. 

Their  union  grew  : the  children  of  the  storm 
Bound  beauty  link’d  with  many  a dusky  form  ; 

While  these  in  turn  admired  the  paler  glow, 

Which  seem’d  so  white  in  climes  that  kne'fr  no  snow. 
The  chase,  the  race,  the  liberty  to  roam, 

The  soil  where  every  cottage  show’d  a home  ; 


namesake  reigned  at  all.  But  the  infamy  of  the  one  has  eclipsed 
the  glory  of  the  other.  When  the  name  of  “ Nero”  is  heard,  who 
thinks  of  the  consul  ?— But  such  are  human  things  ! 

(1)  When  very  young,  about  eight  years  of  age,  after  an  attack 
of  the  scarlet  fever  at  Aberdeen,  I was  removed  by  medical  advice 
into  the  Highlands.  Here  1 passed  occasionally  some  summers, 
and  from  this  period  I date  my  love  of  mountainous  countries.  I 


The  sea-spread  net,  the  lightly-launch’d  canoe. 

Which  stemm’d  the  studded  archipelago, 

O’er  whose  blue  bosom  rose  the  starry  isles ; 

The  healthy  slumber,  earn’d  by  sportive  toils ; 

The  palm,  the  loftiest  dryad  of  the  woods, 

Within  whose  bosom  infant  Bacchus  broods, 

While  eagles  scarce  build  higher  than  the  crest 
Which  shadows  o’er  the  vineyard  in  her  breast; 

The  cava  feast,  the  yam,  the  cocoa’s  root, 

Which  bears  at  once  the  cup,  and  milk,  and  fruit ; 
The  bread-tree,  which,  without  the  ploughshare,  yields 
The  unreap’d  harvest  of  unfurrow’d  fields. 

And  bakes  its  unadulterated  loaves 
Without  a furnace  in  unpurchased  groves, 

And  flings  off  famine  from  its  fertile  breast, 

A priceless  market  for  the  gathering  guest ; — 

These,  with  the  luxuries  of  seas  and  woods, 

The  airy  joys  of  social  solitudes, 

Tamed  each  rude  wanderer  to  the  sympathies 
Of  those  who  were  more  happy,  if  less  wise, 

Did  more  than  Europe’s  discipline  had  done. 

And  civilized  Civilization’s  son  ! 

XII. 

Of  these,  and  there  was  many  a willing  pair, 

Neuha  and  Torquil  were  not  the  least  fair : 

Both  children  of  the  isles,  though  distant  far ; 

Both  born  beneath  a sea-presiding  star ; 

Both  nourish’d  amidst  nature’s  native  scenes. 

Loved  to  the  last,  whatever  intervenes 
Between  us  and  our  childhood’s  sympathy, 

Which  still  reverts  to  what  first  caught  the  eye. 

He  who  first  met  the  Highlands’  swelling  blue 
Will  love  each  peak  that  shows  a kindred  line, 

Hail  in  each  crag  a friend’s  familiar  face, 

And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind’s  embrace. 

Long  have  I roam’d  through  lands  which  are  not  mill:* 
Adored  the  Alp,  and  loved  the  Apennine, 

Revered  Parnassus,  and  beheld  the  steep 
Jove’s  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  deep  : 

But  ’twas  not  all  long  ages’  lore,  nor  all 
Their  nature  held  me  in  their  thrilling  thrall ; 

The  infant  rapture  still  survived  the  boy, 

And  Loch-na-gar  with  Ida  look’d  o’er  Troy,* 1 
Mix’d  Celtic  memories  with  the  Phrygian  mount, 

And  Highland  linns  with  Castalie’s  clear  fount. 
Forgive  me,  Homer’s  universal  shade  ! 

Forgive  me,  Phoebus  ! that  my  fancy  stray’d ; 

The  north  and  nature  taught  me  to  adore 
Your  scenes  sublime,  from  those  beloved  before. 

XIII. 

The  love  which  maketh  all  things  fond  and  fair. 

The  youth  which  makes  one  rainbow  of  the  air, 

The  dangers  past,  that  make  even  man  enjoy 
The  pause  in  which  he  ceases  to  destroy, 

The  mutual  beauty,  which  the  sternest  feel 
Strike  to  their  hearts  like  lightning  to  the  steel. 
United  the  half  savage  and  the  whole, 

The  maid  and  boy,  in  one  absorbing  soul. 

No  more  the  thundering  memory  of  the  fight 
Wrapp’d  his  wean’d  bosom  in  its  dark  delight ; 


can  never  forget  the  effect,  a few  years  afterwards,  in  England,  of 
the  only  thing  I had  long  seen,  even  in  miniature,  of  a mountain, 
in  the  Malvern  Hills.  After  I returned  to  Cheltenham,  I used  to 
watch  them  every  afternoon,  at  sunset,  with  a sensation  which  I 
cannot  describe.  This  was  boyish  enough , but  I was  then  only 
thirteen  years  of  age,  and  it  was  in  the  holidays. 


CANTO  II. 


THE  ISLAND. 


167 


Ro  more  the  irksome  restlessness  of  rest 
Disturb’d  him  like  the  eagle  in  her  nest, 

Whose  whetted  beak  and  Far-pervading  eye 
Darts  for  a victim  over  all  the  sky  : 

His  heart  was  tamed  to  that  voluptuous  state, 

At  once  Elysian  and  effeminate, 

Which  leaves  no  laurels  o’er  the  hero’s  nrn ; — 

These  wither  when  for  aught  save  blood  they  burn ; 
Yet  when  their  ashes  in  their  nook  are  laid. 

Doth  not  the  myrtle  leave  as  sweet  a shade  ? 

Had  Caesar  known  but  Cleopatra’s  kiss, 

Rome  had  been  free,  the  world  had  not  been  his. 

And  what  have  Caesar’s  deeds  and  Caesar’s  fame 
Done  for  the  earth  ? We  feel  them  in  our  shame  : 
The  gorv  sanction  of  his  glory  stains 
fhe  rust  which  tyrants  cherish  on  our  chains. 

Though  Glory,  Nature,  Reason,  Ereedom,  bid 
Roused  millions  do  what  single  Brutus  did — 

Sweep  these  mere  mock-birds  of  the  despot’s  song 
From  the  tall  bough  where  they  have  perch’d  so  long, — 
Still  are  we  hawk’d  at  by  such  mousing  owls, 

And  take  for  falcons  those  ignoble  fowls, 

When  but  a word  of  freedom  would  dispel 
These  bugbears,  as  their  terrors  show  too  well. 

XIV. 

Rapt  in  the  fond  forgetfulness  of  life, 

Neuha,  the  South  Sea  girl,  was  all  a wife. 

With  no  distracting  world  to  call  her  off 
From  love  ; with  no  society  to  scoff 
At  the  new  transient  flame  : no  babbling  crowd 
Of  coxcombry  in  admiration  loud, 

Or  with  adulterous  whisper  to  alloy 
Her  duty,  and  her  glory,  and  her  joy : 

With  faith  and  feelings  naked  as  her  form, 

She  stood  as  stands  a rainbow  in  a storm, 

Changing  its  hues  with  bright  variety, 

But  still  expanding  lovelier  o’er  the  sky, 

Howe’er  its  arch  may  swell,  its  colours  move. 

The  cloud-compelling  harbinger  of  love. 

XT, 

Here,  m this  grotto  of  the  wave-worn  shore, 

They  pass’d  the  tropic's  red  meridian  o’er  ; 

Nor  long  the  hours — they  never  paused  o’er  time, 
Unbroken  by  the  clock’s  funereal  chime. 

Which  deals  the  daily  pittance  of  our  span, 

And  points  and  mocks  with  iron  laugh  at  man. 

What  deem’d  they  of  the  future  or  the  past  ? 

The  present,  like  a tyrant,  held  them  fast : 

Their  hour-glass  was  the  sea-sand,  and  the  tide, 

Like  her  sir.ooih  billow,  saw  their  moments  glide ; 
Their  clock  the  su.u,  in  his  unbounded  tow’r ; 

They  reckon’d  not,  whose  day  was  but  an  hour ; 


The  nightingale,  their  only  vesper-bell, 

Sung  sweetly  to  the  rose  the  day’s  farewi.ll ; 1 2 * * * * * 
The  broad  sun  set,  but  not  with  lingering  sweep, 
As  in  the  north  he  mellows  o’er  the  dee]) ; 

But  fiery,  full,  and  fierce,  as  if  he  left 
The  world  for  ever,  earth  of  light  bereft, 

Blunged  with  red  forehead  down  along  the  waic, 
As  dives  a hero  headlong  to  his  grave. 

Then  rose  they,  looking  first  along  the  skies, 

J And  then  for  light  into  each  other’s  eyes, 
Wondering  that  summer  show’d  so  brief  a sun. 

And  asking  if  indeed  the  day  were  done. 

XVI. 

And  let  not  this  seem  strange  : the  devotee 
Lives  not  in  earth,  but  in  his  ecstasy  ; 

Around  him  days  and  worlds  are  heedless  driven. 
His  soul  is  gone  before  his  dust  to  heaven. 

Is  love  less  potent?  No — his  path  is  trod, 

Alike  uplifted  gloriously  to  God  ; 

Or  link’d  to  all  we  know  of  heaven  below, 

The  other  better  self,  whose  joy  or  woe 
Is  more  than  ours;  the  all-absorbing  flame 
Which,  kindled  by  another,  grows  the  same, 

W rapt  in  one  blaze  ; the  pure,  yet  funeral  pile, 
Where  gentle  hearts,  like  Bramins,  sit  and  smile. 
How  often  we  forget  all  time,  when  lone, 

Admiring  Nature’s  universal  throne, 

Her  woods,  her  wilds,  her  waters,  the  intense 
Reply  of  liers  to  our  intelligence ! 

Live  not  the  stars  and  mountains  ? Are  the  waves 
Without  a spirit  ? Are  the  dropping  caves 
Without  a feeling  in  their  silent  tears  ? 

No,  no  ; — they  woo  and  clasp  us  to  their  spheres. 
Dissolve  this  clog  and  clod  of  clay  before 
Its  hour,  and  merge  our  soul  in  the  great  shore. 
Strip  off  this  fond  and  false  identity  ! — ' 

Who  thinks  of  self,  when  gazing  on  the  sky  ? 

And  who,  though  gazing  lower,  ever  thought. 

In  the  young  moments  ere  the  heart  is  taught 
Time’s  lesson,  of  man’s  baseness  or  his  own  ? 

All  nature  is  his  realm,  and  love  his  throne. 

XVII. 

Neuha  arose,  and  Torquil : twilight’s  hour 
Came  sad  and  softly  to  their  rocky  bower, 

Which,  kindling  by  degrees  its  dewy  spars, 

Echoed  their  dim  light  to  the  mustering  stars. 
Slowly  the  pair,  partaking  nature’s  calm. 

Sought  out  their  cottage,  built  beneath  the  palm  ; 
Now  smiling  and  now  silent,  as  the  scene; 

Lovely  as  Love — the  spirit 1 — when  serene. 

The  Ocean  scarce  spoke  louder  with  his  swell, 
Than  breathes  his  mimic  murmurer  in  the  shell,8 


(1)  The  now  well-known  story  of  the  loves  of  the  nightingale  and 
rose  need  not  be  more  than  alluded  to,  being  sufficiently  familiar 
to  rhe  Western  as  to  tne  Eastern  reader. 

(2)  If  the  reader  will  apply  to  his  ear  the  sea-shell  on  his  chim- 
ney-piece.. he  will  he  aware  of  what  is  alluded  to.  If  the  text  should 
appear  obscure,  he  will  find  in  “ Gebir”  the  same  idea  better  ex- 
pressed in  two  lines.  The  poem  I never  read,  but  have  heard  the 
lines  footed  by  a more  recondite  reader — who  seems  to  be  of  a 
different  opinion  from  the  editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  who 
qualified  it,  in  his  answer  to  the  Critical  Reviewer  of  his  Juvenal, 
as  trash,  of  the  worst  and  most  insane  description.  It  is  to  Mr. 

Landor,  the  author  of  “ Gebir,”  so  qualified,  and  of  some  Latin 

poems,  which  vie  with  Martial  or  Catullus  in  obscenity,  that  the 
iminaculato  Mr.  Southey  addresses  his  declamation  against  im- 

puruy ! 

[Mj.  Lando/s  lines  above  alluded  to  are — 

“ For  1 have  often  seen  her  with  both  hands 
Shake  a dry  crocodile  of  equal  height, 

And  listen  to  the  shells  within  the  scales, 


And  fancy  there  was  life,  and  yet  apply 
The  jagged  jaws  wide  open  to  the  ear.” 

In  the  “ Excursion”  of  Wordsworth  occurs  the  following  exqut 
site  passage : — 

“ I have  seen 

A curious  child,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a srnooth-iipp’d  shell, 

To  which,  in  silence  hush’d,  his  very  soul 
Listen’d  intensely,  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brighten'd  with  joy  ; for  murmuring  from  within 
Were  heard  sonorous  cadences  ! whereby, 

To  his  belief,  the  monitor  express’d 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 

Even  such  a shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  faith  and  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things : 

Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power; 

And  central  peace  subsisting  at  the  heart 
Of  endless  agitation.”] 


168 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


4s,  far  divided  from  his  parent  deep, 

The  sea-born  infant  cries,  and  will  not  sleep. 

Raising  his  little  plaint  in  vain,  to  rave 
I or  the  broad  bosom  of  his  nursing  wave  : 

The  woods  droop’d  darkly,  as  inclined  to  rest, 
rlhe  tropic  bird  wheel’d  rockward  to  his  nest, 

And  the  blue  sky  spread  round  them  like  a lake 
01  peace,  where  Piety  her  thirst  might  slake. 

XVIII. 

But  through  the  palm  and  plantain,  hark,  a voice  ! 
Not  such  as  would  have  been  a lover’s  choice. 

In  such  an  hour,  to  break  the  air  so  still ; 

No  dying  night-breeze,  harping  o’er  the  hill, 

Striking  the  strings  of  nature,  rock  and  tree. 

Those  best  and  earliest  lyres  of  harmony, 

With  Echo  for  their  chorus  ; nor  the  alarm 
Of  the  loud  war-whoop  to  dispel  the  charm  ; 

Nor  the  soliloquy  of  the  hermit  owl, 

Exhaling  all  his  solitary  soul, 

The  dim  though  large-eyed  winged  anchorite. 

Who  peals  his  dreary  psean  o’er  the  night ; — 

But  a loud,  long,  and  naval  whistle,  shrill 
As  ever  started  through  a sea-bird’s  bill ; 

And  then  a pause,  and  then  a hoarse  “ liillo  ! 

Torquil ! my  boy  ! what  cheer  F Ho  ! brother,  ho  ! ” 
“ Who  hails  ?”  cried  Torquil,  following  with  hie  eye 
The  sound.  “Here’s  one,”  was  all  the  brief  reply. 

XIX. 

But  here  the  herald  of  the  self-same  mouth 
Came  breathing  o’er  the  aromatic  south, 

Not  like  a “ bed  of  violets”  on  the  gale, 

But  such  as  wafts  its  cloud  o’er  grog  or  ale, 

Borne  from  a short  frail  pipe,  which  yet  had’  blown 
Its  gentle  odours  over  either  zone, 

And,  puff’d  where’er  winds  rise  or  waters  roll, 

Had  wafted  smoke  from  Portsmouth  to  the  Pole, 
Opposed  its  vapour  as  the  lightning  flash’d, 

And  reek’d,  ’midst  mountain-billows  unabash’d, 

To  JEolus  a constant  sacrifice, 

Through  every  change  of  all  the  varying  skies. 

And  wiiat  was  he  who  bore  it  ? — I mav  err, 

But  deem  him  sailor  or  philosopher. * 

Sublime  tobacco  ! which  from  east  to  west 
Cheers  the  ta^’s  labour  or  the  Turkman’s  rest; 

Which  on  the  Moslem’s  ottoman  divides 
His  hours,  and  rivals  opium  and  his  brides ; 
Magnificent  in  Stamboul,  but  less  grand, 

Though  not  less  loved,  in  Wapping  or  the  Strand ; 
Divine  in  hookas,  glorious  in  a pipe, 

When  tipp’d  with  amber,  mellow,  rich,  and  ripe ; 

Like  other  charmers,  wooing  the  caress 
More  dazzlingly  when  daring  in  full  dress ; 

Yet  thy  true  lovers  more  admire  by  far 
Thy  naked  beauties — Give  me  a cigar  !  1  2 * 

xx. 

Through  the  approaching  darkness  of  the  wood 
A human  figure  broke  the  solitude, 


(1)  Ilobbes,  the  father  of  Locke’s  and  other  philosophy,  was  an 
nveterate  smoker, — even  to  pipes  beyond  computation. 

(2)  [“  We  talked  of  change  of  manners  (1773).  Dr.  Johnson 

)bserved,  that  our  drinking  less  than  our  ancestors  was  owing  to 
the  change  from  ale  to  wine.  ‘ I remember,’  said  he,  4 when  all 
decent  people  in  Lichfield  got  drunk  every  night,  and  were  not  the 

worse  thought  of.  Smoking  has  gone  out.  To  be  sure,  it  is  a 
shocking  tiling,  blowing  smoke  out  of  our  mouths  into  other 
people's  mouths,  eyes,  and  noses,  and  having  the  same  thing  done 
to  us.  Yet  1 cannot  account,  whv  a thing  which  requires  so  little 
exertion  and  yet  preserves  the  mind  from  total  vacuity,  should 


Fantastically,  it  may  be,  array’d, 

A seaman  in  a savage  masquerade  ; 

Such  as  ^appears  to  rise  out  from  the  deep 
When  o’er  the  line  the  merry  vessels  sweep, 

And  the  rough  saturnalia  of  the  tar 
Flock  o’er  the  deck,  in  Neptune’s  borrow’d  car ; * 
And,  pleased,  the  god  of  ocean  sees  his  name 
Revive  once  more,  though  but  in  mimic  game 
Of  his  true  sons,  who  riot  in  the  breeze 
Undreamt  of  in  his  native  Cyclades. 

Still  the  old  god  delights,  from  out  the  main. 

To  snatch  some  glimpses  of  his  ancient  reign. 

Our  sailor’s  jacket,  though  in  ragged  trim, 

His  constant  pipe,  which  never  yet  burn’d  dim, 

His  foremast  air,  and  somewhat  rolling  gait, . 

Like  his  dear  vessel,  spoke  his  former 'state  ; 

But  then  a sort  of  kerchief  round  his  head. 

Not  over-tightly  bound,  nor  nicely  spread ; 

And,  ’stead  of  trousers  (ah  ! too  early  torn  ! 

For  even  the  mildest  woods  will  have  their  thorn) 

A curious  sort  of  somewhat  scanty  mat 
Now  served  for  inexpressibles  and  hat; 

His  naked  feet  and  neck,  and  sunburnt  face. 
Perchance  might  suit  alike  with  either  race. 

His  arms  were  all  his  own,  our  Europe’s  growth. 
Which  two  worlds  bless  for  civilizing  both  ; 

The  musket  swung  behind  his  shoulders  broad. 

And  somewhat  stoop’d  by  his  marine  abode, 

But  brawny  as  the  boar’s  ; and  hung  beneath, 

His  cutlass  droop’d,  unconscious  of  a sheath. 

Or  lost  or  worn  away  ; his  pistols  were 
Link’d  to  his  belt,  a matrimonial  pair — 

(Let  not  this  metaphor  appear  a scoff, 

Though  one  miss’d  fire,  the  other  would  go  off) ; 
These,  with  a bayonet,  not  so  free  from  rust 
As  when  the  arm-chest  held  its  brighter  trust. 
Completed  his  accoutrements,  as  Night 
Survey’d  him  in  his  garb  heteroclite. 

XXI. 

“What  cheer,  Ben  Bunting?”  cried  (when  in  fuT 
view 

Our  new  acquaintance)  Torquil.  “ Aught  of  new  ?” 
“ Ey,  ey ! ” quoth  Ben,  “ not  new,  but  news  enow ; 

A strange  sail  in  the  offing.” — “ Sail ! and  how  ? 
What ! could  you  make  her  out  ? It  cannot  be ; 

I’ve  seen  no  rag  of  canvass  on  the  sea.” 

“Belike,”  said  Ben,  “you  might  not  from  the  bay, 
But  from  the  bluff-head,  where  I watch’d  to-day, 

I saw  her  in  the  doldrums  ; for  the  wind 
Was  light  and  baffling.” — “ When  the  sun  declined 
Where  lay  she  ? had  she  anchor’d  ?” — “ No,  but  still 
She  bore  down  on  us,  till  the  wind  grew  still.” 

“ Her  flag  ? ” — “ 1 had  no  glass  : but  fore  and  aft, 
Egad ! she  seem’d  a wicked-looking  craft.” 

“Arm’d  ?” — “ I expect  so  ; — sent  on  the  look-out : 
’Tis  time,  belike,  to  put  our  helm  about.” 

“About  ? — Whatc’er  may  have  us  now  in  chase, 

W e’ll  make  no  running  fight,  for  that  were  base ; 


have  gone  out.'  Boswell.  As  an  item  in  the  history  of  man- 
ners, it  may  be  observed,  that  drinking  to  excess  has  diminished 
greatly  in  the  memory  even  of  those  who  can  remember  fortj 
fifty  years.  The  taste  for  smoking,  however,  has  revived,  proba-  ty 
from  the  military  habits  of  Europe  during  the  French  wars;  but, 
instead  of  the  sober  sedentary  pipe,  the  ambulatory  cigar  Is  now 
chiefly  used. — Choker,  1830.] 

(3)  This  rough  but  jovial  ceremony,  used  in  crossing  the  line, 
has  been  so  often  and  so  well  described,  that  it  need  not  be  more 
than  alluded  to. 


CANTO  III. 


THE  ISLAND. 


169 


We  will  die  at  our  quarters,  like  true  men.” 

«» Ey,  cy : for  that  ’tis  all  the  same  to  Ben.” 
t:  Does  Christian  know  this?”— “Ay;  he  has  piped 
all  hands 

To  quarters.  They  are  furbishing  the  stands 
Of  arms  ; and  we  have  got  some  guns  to  bear. 

And  scaled  them.  You  are  wanted.” — “That’s  but 
fair ; 

And  if  it  were  not,  mine  is  not  the  soul 
To  leave  my  comrades  helpless  on  the  shoal. 

My  Neuha  ! ah  ! and  must  my  fate  pursue 
Not  me  alone,  but  one  so  sweet  and  true  ? 

But  whatsoe’er  betide,  ah,  Neuha ! now 
Unman  me  not ; the  hour  will  not  allow 
A tear ; I am  thine  whatever  intervenes  ! ” 

“Bight,”  quoth  Ben,  “that  will  do  for  the  marines.”1 

t 

— ♦ 

V 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 


I. 

The  fight  was  o’er ; the  flashing  through  the  gloom, 
Which  robes  the  cannon  as  he  wings  a tomb, 

Had  ceased  ; and  sulphury  vapours  upward  driven 
Had  left  the  earth,  and  but  polluted  heaven : 

The  rattling  roar  which  rung  in  every  volley 
Had  left  the  echoes  to  their  melancholy ; 

No  more  they  shriek’d  their  horror,  boom  for  boom  ; 
The  strife  was  done,  the  vanquish’d  had  their  doom ; 
The  mutineers  were  crush’d,  dispersed,  or  ta’en, 

Or  lived  to  deem  the  happiest  were  the  slain. 

Few,  few  escaped,  and  these  were  hunted  o’er 
The  isle  they  loved  beyond  their  native  shore. 

No  further  home  was  theirs,  it  seem’d,  on  earth, 

Once  renegades  to  that  which  gave  them  birth  ; 
Track’d  like  wild  beasts,  like  them  they  sought  the 
wild, 

As  to  a mother’s  bosom  flies  the  child ; 

But  vainly  wolves  and  lions  seek  their  den, 

And  still  more  vainly  men  escape  from  men. 


ii. 

Beneath  a rock  whose  jutting  base  protrudes 
Ear  over  ocean  in  his  fiercest  moods, 

When  scaling  his  enormous  crag  the  wave 
Is  hurl’d  down  headlong,  like  the  foremost  brave, 
And  falls  back  on  the  foaming  crowd  behind, 
Which  fight  beneath  the  banners  of  the  wind, 

But  now  at  rest,  a little  remnant  drew 
Together,  bleeding,  thirsty,  faint,  and  few ; 

But  still  their  weapons  in  their  hands,  and  still 
Writh  something  of  the  pride  of  former  will, 

As  mennot  all  unused  to  meditate, 

And  strive  much  more  than  wonder  at  their  fate. 
Their  present  lot  was  what  they  had  foreseen, 
And  dared  as  what  was  likely  to  have  been  : 


O)  “That  wHl  do  for  the  marines,  but  the  sailors  won’t  bel 
’ ; and  one  of  the  few  fragments  of  former 

IwrfcL.  h h 1 SUrV1Ve  (m  j6St  °nly)  between  these  gal 

(2)  Archidamus,  king  of  Sparta,  and  son  of  Agesilaus,  when 


Yet  still  the  lingering  hope,  which  deem’d  their  lot 
Not  pardon’d,  but  unsought  for  or  forgot, 

Or  trusted  that,  if  sought,  their  distant  caves 
Might  still  be  miss’d  amidst  the  world  of  waves, 

Had  wean’d  their  thoughts  in  part  from  what  they 
And  felt,  the  vengeance  of  their  country’s  law. 

Their  sea-green  isle,  their  guilt- won  paradise, 

No  more  could  shield  their  virtue  or  their  vice : 

Their  better  feelings,  if  such  were,  were  thrown 
Back  on  themselves, — their  sins  remain’d  alone. 
Proscribed  even  in  their  second  country,  they 
Were  lost ; in  vain  the  world  before  them  lay  ; 

All  outlets  seem’d  secured.  Their  new  allies 
Had  fought  and  bled  in  mutual  sacrifice ; 

But  what  avail’d  the  club  and  spear,  and  arm 
Of  Hercules,  against  the  sulphury  charm, 

The  magic  of  the  thunder,  which  destroy’d 
The  warrior  ere  his  strength  could  be  employ’d  1 
Dug,  like  a spreading  pestilence,  the  grave 
No  less  of  human  bravery  than  the  brave  !2 
Their  own  scant  numbers  acted  all  the  few 
Against  the  many  oft  will  dare  and  do  : 

But  though  the  choice  seems  native  to  die  free, 

Even  Greece  can  boast  but  one  Thermopylae, 

Till  now , when  she  has  forged  her  broken  chain 
Back  to  a sword,  and  dies  and  lives  again ! 

HI. 

Beside  the  jutting  rock  the  few  appear’d, 

Like  the  last  remnant  of  the  red-deer’s  herd ; 

Their  eyes  were  feverish,  and  their  aspect  worn. 

But  still  the  hunter’s  blood  was  on  their  horn, 

A little  stream  came  tumbling  from  the  height, 

And  straggling  into  ocean  as  it  might. 

Its  bounding  crystal  frolick’d  in  the  ray. 

And  gush’d  from  cliff  to  crag  with  saltiess  spray ; 
Close  on  the  wild,  wide  ocean,  yet  as  pure 
And  fresh  as  innocence,  and  more  secure, 

Its  silver  torrent  glitter’d  o’er  the  deep. 

As  the  shy  chamois’  eye  o’erlooks  the  steep, 

While  far  below  the  vast  and  sullen  swell 
Of  ocean’s  alpine  azure  rose  and  fell. 

To  this  young  spring  they  rush’d,— all  feelings  first 
Absorb’d  in  passion’s  and  in  nature’s  thirst, — 

Drank  as  they  do  who  drink  their  last,  and  threw 
Their  arms  aside  to  revel  in  its  dew ; 

Cool’d  their  scorch’d  throats,  and  wash’d  the  gory  stains 
From  wounds  whose  only  bandage  might  be  chains ; 
Then,  when  their  drought  was  quench’d,  look’d  sachv 
round, 

As  wondering  how  so  many  still  were  found 
Alive  and  fetterless  : — but  silent  all, 

Each  sought  his  fellow’s  eyes,  as  if  to  call 
On  him  for  language  which  his  lips  denied, 

As  though  their  voices  with  their  cause  had  died. 


IV. 

Stern,  and  aloof  a little  from  the  rest, 

Stood  Christian,  with  his  arms  across  his  chest. 
The  ruddy,  reckless,  dauntless  hue  once  spread 
Along  his  cheek  was  livid  now  as  lead ; 

His  light-brown  locks,  so  graceful  in  their  flow, 
Now  rose  like  startled  vipers  o’er  his  brow. 


saw  a machine  invented  for  the  casting  of  stones  and  darts,  ex 
claimed,  that  it  was  the  “ grave  of  valour.”  The  same  story  hat 
been  told  of  some  knights  on  the  first  application  of  gunpowder- 
but  the  original  anecdote  is  in  Plutarch. 


Z 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


V/ANTO  in. 


170 

Still  as  a statue,  with  his  lips  comprest 
To  stifle  even  the  breath  within  his  breast. 

Fast  by  the  rock,  all  menacing,  but  mute, 

He  stood  ; and,  save  a slight  beat  of  his  foot, 

Which  deepen’d  now  and  then  the  sandy  dint 
Beneath  his  heel,  his  form  seem’d  turn’d  to  flint. 
Some  paces  farther  Torquil  lean’d  his  head 
Against  a bank,  and  spoke  not,  but  he  bled, — 

Not  mortally ; — his  worst  wound  was  within: 

His  brow  was  pale,  his  blue  eyes  sunken  in, 

And  blood-drops,  sprinkled  o’er  his  yellow  hair, 
Show’d  that  his  faintness  came  not  from  despair, 

But  nature’s  ebb.  Beside  him  was  another, 

Rough  as  a bear,  but  willing  as  a brother, — 

Ben  Bunting,  who  essay’d  to  wash,  and  wipe, 

And  bind  his  wound — then  calmly  lit  his  pipe, 

A trophy  which  survived  a hundred  fights, 

A.  beacon  which  had  cheer’d  ten  thousand  nights. 

The  fourth  and  last  of  this  deserted  group 
Walk’d  up  and  down — at  times  would  stand,  then  stoop 
To  pick  a pebble  up— then  let  it  drop— 

Then  hurry  as  in  haste— then  quickly  stop — 

Then  cast  his  eyes  on  his  companions— then 
Half  whistle  half  a tune,  and  pause  again — 

And  then  his  former  movements  would  redouble, 

With  something  between  carelessness  and  trouble. 
This  is  a long  description,  but  applies 
To  scarce  five  minutes  pass’d  before  the  eyes ; 

But  yet  what  minutes  ! Moments  like  to'  these 
Rencl  men’s  lives  into  immortalities. 

v. 

At  length  Jack  Skyscrape,  a mercurial  man, 

Who  flutter’d  over  all  things  like  a fan, 

More  brave  than  firm,  and  more  disposed  to  dare 
And  die  at  once  than  wrestle  with  despair, 

Exclaim’d,  “G — d damn  !” — those  syllables  intense, — 
Nucleus  of  England’s  native  eloquence, 

As  the  Turk’s  “Allah!”  or  the  Roman’s  more 
Pagan  “Proli  Jupiter!”  was  wont  of  yore 
To  give  their  first  impressions  such  a vent, 

By  way  of  echo  to  embarrassment. 

Jack  was  embarrass’d, — never  hero  more, 

And  as  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  he  swore : 

Nor  swore  in  vain  ; the  long  congenial  sound 
Revived  Ben  Bunting  from  his  pipe  profound; 

He  drew  it  from  his  mouth,  and  look’d  full  wise, 

But  merely  added  to  the  oath  his  eyes  ; 

Thus  rendering  the  imperfect  phrase  complete, 

A peroration  I need  not  repeat. 

VI. 

But  Christian,  of  a higher  order,  stood 
Like  an  extinct  volcano  in  his  mood  ; 

Silent,  and  sad,  and  savage, — with  the  trace 
Of  passion  reeking  from  his  clouded  face ; 

Till  lifting  up  again  his  sombre  eye, 

It  glanced  on  Torquil,  who  lean’d  faintly  by. 

“And  is  it  thus  ?”  he  cried,  “ unhappy  boy  ! 

And  thee,  too,  thee — my  madness  must  destroy  !” 

He  3oid,  and  strode  to  where  young  Torquil  stood. 

Yet  dabbled  with  his  lately  flowing  blood  ; 

Seized  his  hand  wistfully,  but  did  not  press, 

And  shrunk  as  fearful  of  his  own  caress ; 

Inquired  into  his  state  ; and  when  he  heard 
The  wound  was  slighter  than  he  deem’d  or  fear’d. 

A moment’s  brightness  pass’d  along  his  brow, 

As  much  as  such  a moment  would  allow. 


“ Yes,”  he  exclaim’d,  “ we  are  taxen  m the  toil. 

But  not  a coward  or  a common  spoil; 

Dearly  they  have  bought  us — dearly  still  may  buy, 

And  I must  fall ; but  have  you  strength  to  fly? 
’Twould  be  some  comfort  still,  could  you  survive. 
Our  dwindled  band  is  now  too  few  to  strive. 

Oh ! for  a sole  canoe  ! though  but  a shell, 

To  bear  you  hence  to  where  a hope  may  dwell ! 

For  me,  my  lot  is  what  I sought ; to  be, 

In  life  or  death,  the  fearless  and  the  free.” 

VII. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  around  the  promontory, 

W hicli  nodded  o’er  the  billows  high  and  hoary, 

A dark  speck  dotted  ocean : on  it  flew 
Like  to  the  shadow  of  a roused  sea-mew  : 

Onward  it  came— and,  lo  ! a second  follow’d — 

Now  seen — now  hid — where  ocean’s  vale  was  hollow’d  j 
And  near,  and  nearer,  till  their  dusky  crew 
Presented  well-known  aspects  to  the  view, 

Till  on  the  surf  their  skimming  paddles  play, 

Buoyant  as  wings,  and  flitting  through  the  spray  ; — 
Now  perching  on  the  wave’s  high  curl,  and  now 
Dash’d  downward  in  the  thundering  foam  below, 
Which  flings  it  broad  and  boiling,  sheet  on  sheet, 

And  slings  its  high  flakes,  shiver’d  into  sleet: 

But  floating  still  through  surf  and  swell,  drew  nigh 
The  barks,  like  small  birds  through  a lowering  sky. 
Their  art  seem’d  nature — such  the  skill  to  sweep 
The  wave  of  these  born  playmates  of  the  deei). 

VIII. 

And  who  the  first  that,  springing  on  the  strand, 
Leap’d  like  a nereid  from  her  shell  to  land, 

With  dark  but  brilliant  skin,  and  dewy  eye 
Shining  with  love,  and  hope,  and  constancy? 

Neuha — the  fond,  the  faithful,  the  adored — 

Her  heart  on  Torquil’s  like  a torrent  pour’d : 

And  smiled,  and  wept,  and  near,  and  nearer  clasp’d, 

As  if  to  be  assured  ’twas  him  she  grasp’d ; 

Shudder’d  to  see  his  yet  warm  wound,  and  then, 

To  find  it  trivial,  smiled  and  wept  again. 

She  was  a warrior’s  daughter,  and  could  bear 
Such  sights,  and  feel,  and  mourn,  but  not  despair. 
Her  lover  lived, — nor  foes  nor  fears  could  blight 
That  full-blown  moment  in  its  all  delight : 

Joy  trickled  in  her  tears,  joy  fill’d  the  sob 
That  rock’d  her  heart  till  almost  heard  to  throb ; 

And  paradise  was  breathing  in  the  sigh 
01  nature’s  child  in  nature’s  ecstasy. 

IX. 

The  sterner  spirits  who  beheld  that  meeting’ 

Were  not  unmoved : who  are,  when  hearts  are 
greeting  ? 

Even  Christian  gazed  upon  the  maid  and  boy 
With  fearless  eye,  but  yet  a gloomy  joy 
Mix’d  with  those  bitter  thoughts  the  soul  arrays 
in  hopeless  visions  of  our  better  days, 

When  all’s  gone — to  the  rainbow’s  latest  ray. 

“ And  but  for  me  !”  he  said,  and  turn’d  away  ; 

Then  gazed  upon  the  pair,  as  in  his  den 
A lion  looks  upon  his  cubs  again ; 

And  then  relapsed  into  his  sullen  guise, 

As  heedless  of  his  further  destinies. 


CANTO  IT 


THE  ISLAND. 


171 


x. 

But  brief  their  time  for  good  or  evil  thought ; 

The  billows  round  the  promontory  brought 
The  plash  of  hostile  oars. — Alas  ! who  made 
That  sound  a dread  ? All  around  them  seem’d  array’d 
Against  them,  save  the  bride  of  Toobonai : 

She,  as  she  caught  the  first  glimpse  o’er  the  bay 
Of  the  arm’d  boats,  which  hurried  to  complete 
The  remnant’s  ruin  with  their  flying  feet, 

Beckon’d  the  natives  round  her  to  their  prows, 
Embark’d  their  guests  and  launch’d  their  light  canoes  ; 
In  one  placed  Christian  and  his  comrades  twain  : 

But  she  and  Torquil  must  not  part  again, 

She  fix’d  him  in  her  own. — Away  ! awav ! 

They  clear  the  breakers,  dart  along  the  bay, 

And  towards  a group  of  islets,  such  as  bear 
The  sea-bird’s  nest  and  seal’s  surf-hollow’d  lair, 

They  skim  the  blue  tops  of  the  billows ; fast 
They  flew,  and  fast  their  fierce  pursuers  chased. 

They  gain  upon  them — now  they  lose  again, — 

Again  make  way  and  menace  o’er  the  main ; 

And  now  the  two  canoes  in  chase  divide, 

And  follow  different  courses  o’er  the  tide, 

To  baffle  the  pursuit  — Away ! away  ! 

As  life  is  on  each  paddle’s  flight  to-day, 

And  more  than  life  or  lives  to  Neuha : Love 
•Freights  the  frail  bark  and  urges  to  the  cove — 

And  now  the  refuge  and  the  foe  are  nigh — 

Yet,  yet  a moment ! — Fly,  thou  light  ark,  fly  ! 


gjslan*. 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 


I. 

White  as  a white  sail  on  a dusky  sea, 

When  half  the  horizon’s  clouded  and  hall  free. 
Fluttering  between  the  dun  wave  and  the  sky, 
Is  hope’s  last  gleam  in  man’s  extremity. 

Her  anchor  parts ; but  still  her  snowy  sail 
Attracts  our  eye  amidst  the  rudest  gale  : 
Though  every  wave  she  climbs  divides  us  more, 
The  heart  still  follows  from  the  loneliest  shore. 

II. 

Not  distant  from  the  isle  of  Toobonai, 

A black  rock  rears  its  bosom  o’er  the  spray, 

The  haunt  of  birds,  a desert  to  mankind, 

Where  the  rough  seal  reposes  from  tlie  wil'd, 
And  sleeps  unwieldy  in  his  cavern  dun, 

Or  gambols  with  huge  frolic  in  the  sun  : 

There  shrilly  to  the  passing  oar  is  heard 
The  startled  echo  of  the  ocean  bird, 

Who  rears  on  its  bare  breast  her  callow  brood, 
The  feather’d  fishers  of  the  solitude. 

A narrow  segment  of  the  yellow  sand 
On  one  side  forms  the  eutline  of  a strand; 

Here  the  young  turtle,  crawling  from  his  shell, 
Steals  to  the  deep  wherein  his  parents  dwell ; 
Chipp’d  by  the  beam,  a nursling  of  the  day. 

But  hatch’d  for  ocean  by  the  fostering:  ray ; 


The  rest  was  one  bleak  precipice,  as  e’er 
Gave  mariners  a shelter  and  despair; 

A spot  to  make  the  saved  regret  the  deck 
Which  late  went  down,  and  envy  the  lost  wiec^. 

Such  was  the  stern  asylum  Neuha  clvose 
To  shield  her  lover  from  his  following  foes  ; 

But  all  its  secret  was  not  told ; she  knew 
In  this  a treasure  hidden  from  the  view. 

hi. 

Ere  the  canoes  divided,  near  the  spot, 

The  men  that  mann’d  what  held  her  Torquil’s  lot, 

By  her  command  removed,  to  strengthen  more 
The  skiff  which  wafted  Christian  from  the  shore. 

This  he  would  have  opposed ; but  with  a smile 
She  pointed  calmly  to  the  craggy  isle, 

And  bade  him  “speed  and  prosper.”  She  would  take 
The  rest  upon  herself  for  Torquil’s  sake. 

They  parted  with  this  added  aid ; afar 
The  proa  darted  like  a shooting  star, 

And  gain’d  on  the  pursuers,  who  now  steer’d 
Bight  on  the  rock  which  she  and  Torquil  near’d. 
They  pull’d ; her  arm,  though  delicate,  was  free 
And  firm  as  ever  grappled  with  the  sea, 

And  yielded  scarce  to  Torquil’s  manlier  strength. 

The  prow  now  almost  lay  within  its  length 
Of  the  crag’s  steep,  inexorable  face, 

With  nought  but  soundless  waters  for  its  base ; 
Within  a hundred  boats’  length  was  the  foe, 

And  now  what  refuge  but  their  frail  canoe  ? 

This  Torquil  ask’d  with  half-upbraiding  eye. 

Which  said— “ Has  Neuha  brought  me  here  to  die  ? 
Is  this  a place  of  safety,  or  a grave, 

And  yon  huge  rock  the  tombstone  of  the  wave  ? ” 

IV. 

They  rested  on  their  paddles,  and  uprose 
Neuha,  and  pointing  to  the  approaching  foes, 

Cried,  “ Torquil,  follow  me,  and  fearless  follow  ! ” 
Then  plunged  at  once  into  the  ocean’s  hollow. 

There  was  no  time  to  pause — the  foes  were  near — 
Chains  in  his  eye,  and  menace  in  his  ear ; 

With  vigour  they  pull’d  on,  and  as  they  came, 

Hail’d  him  to  yield,  and  by  his  forfeit  name. 

Headlong  he  leapt — to  him  the  swimmer’s  skill 
Was  native,  and  now  all  his  hope  from  ill : 

But  how,  or  where  ? He  dived,  and  rose  no  more  ; 
The  boat’s  crew  look’d  amazed  o’er  sea  and  shore. 
There  was  no  landing  on  that  precipice, 

Steep,  harsh,  and  slippery  as  a berg  of  ice. 

They  watch’d  awhile  to  see  him  float  again, 

But  not  a trace  rebubbled  from  the  main : 

The  wave  roll’d  on,  no  ripple  on  its  face, 

Since  their  first  plunge  recall’d  a single  trace ; 

The  little  whirl  which  eddied,  and  slight  foam, 

That  whiten’d  o’er  what  seem’d  their  latest  home. 
White  as  a sepulchre  above  the  pair 
Who  left  no  marble  (mournful  as  an  heir) 

The  quiet  proa  wavering  o’er  the  tide 
Was  all  that  told  of  Torquil  and  his  bride  ; 

And  but  for  this  alone  the  whole  might  seem 
The  vanish’d  phantom  of  a seaman’s  dream. 

They  paused  and  search’d  in  vain,  then  pull’d  away  • 
Even  superstition  now  forbade  their  stay. 

Some  said  he  had  not  plunged  into  the  wave. 

But  vanish’d  l’ke  a corpse-light  from  a grave; 

Others,  that  something  supernatural 
Glared  in  his  figure,  more  than  mortal  tall ; 


172 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  r». 


While  all  agreed  that  in  his  cheek  and  eve 
There  was  a dead  hue  of  eternity. 

Still  as  their  oars  receded  from  the  crag, 

Round,  every  weed  a moment  would  they  lag, 
Expectant  of  some  token  of  their  prey  ; 

But  no— he  had  melted  from  them  like  the  spray. 

v. 

And  where  was  he,  the  pilgrim  of  the  deep, 
Following  the  nereid  F Had  they  ceased  to  weep 
For  ever  ? or,  received  in  coral  caves, 

Wrung  life  and  pity  from  the  softening  waves  ? 
Did  they  with  ocean’s  hidden  sovereigns  dwell, 
And  sound  with  mermen  the  fantastic  shell  F 
Did  Neuha  with  the  mermaids  comb  her  hair 
Flowing  o’er  ocean  as  it  stream’d  in  air  F 
Or  Had  they  perish’d,  and  in  silence  slept 
Beneath  the  gulf  wherein  they  boldly  leapt  F 


VI. 

Young  Neuha  plunged  into  the  deep,  and  he 
Follow’d : her  track  beneath  her  native  sea 
Was  as  a native’s  of  the  element, 

So  smoothly,  bravely,  brilliantly  she  went, 

Leaving  a streak  of  light  behind  her  heel, 

Which  struck  and  flash’d  like  an  amphibious  steei. 
Closely,  and  scarcely  less  expert  to  trace 
The  depths  where  divers  hold  the  pearl  in  chase, 
Torquil,  the  nursling  of  the  northern  seas, 

Pursued  her  liquid  steps  with  heart  and  case. 

Deep — deeper  for  an  instant  Neuha  led 
The  way — then  upward  soar’d — and  as  she  spread 
Her  arms,  and  flung  the  foam  from  off  her  locks, 
Laugh’d,  and  the  sound  was  answer’d  by  the  rocks. 
They  had  gain’d  a central  realm  of  earth  again, 

But  look’d  for  tree,  and  field,  an ^ sky,  in  vain. 


( I ) Of  this  cave  (which  is  no  fiction)  the  original  will  be  found  in 
the  ninth  chapter  of  “ Mariner’s  Account  of  the  Tonga  Islands.” 

I have  taken  the  poetical  liberty  to  transplant  it  to  Toobonai,  the 
last  island  where  any  distinct  account  is  left  of  Christian  and  his 
comrades. — [The  following  is  the  account  given  by  Mariner: — 

“ On  this  island  there  is  a peculiar  cavern  situated  on  the  western 
coast,  the  entrance  to  which  is  at  least  a fathom  beneath  the  sur- 
face of  the  sea  at  low  water ; and  was  first  discovered  by  a young 
chief,  whilst  diving  after  a turtle.  The  nature  of  this  cavern  will 
be  better  understood  if  we  imagine  a hollow  rock  rising  sixty  feet 
or  more  above  the  surface  of  the  water,  into  the  cavity  of  which 
there  is  no  known  entrance  but  one,  and  that  is  in  the  side  of  the 
rock,  as  low  down  as  six  feet  under  the  water,  into  which  it  flows; 
and,  consequently,  the  base  of  the  cavern  may  be  said  to  be  the 
sea  itself.  Finow,  and  his  friends,  being  on  this  part  of  the  island, 
proposed  one  afternoon,  on  a sudden  thought,  to  go  into  this  cavern 
and  drink  cava.  Mr.  Mariner  was  not  with  them  at  the  time  this 
proposal  was  matte ; but  happening  to  come  down  a little  while 
after  to  the  shore,  and  seeing  some  of  the  young  chiefs  diving  into 
the  water  one  after  another,  and  not  rise  again,  he  was  a little  sur- 
prised, and  inquired  of  the  last,  who  was  just  preparing  to  take  the 
same  step,  what  they  were  about!  ‘ Follow  me,’  said  he,  ‘and  I 
will  take  you  where  you  have  never  been  before  ; and  where  Finow, 
and  his  chiefs  and  matabooles,  are  now  assembled.'  Mr.  Mariner, 
without  any  further  hesitation,  prepared  himself  to  follow  his  com- 
panion, who  dived  into  the  water,  and  he  after  him,  and,  guided 
by  the  light  reflected  from  his  heels,  entered  the  opening  in  the 
rock,  and  rose  into  the  cavern.  He  was  no  sooner  above  the  sur- 
face of  the  water  than,  sure  enough ! he  heard  the  voices  of  the 
king  and  his  friends  ; being  directed  by  his  guide,  he  climbed  upon 
a jutting  portion  of  rock  and  sat  down.  The  light  was  sufficient, 
after  ltu.aining  about  five  minutes,  to  show  objects  with  some  little 
distinctness;  and  he  could  discover  Finow  and  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany seated,  like  himself,  round  the  cavern.  Nevertheless,  as  it 
was  desirable  to  have  a stronger  illumination,  Mr.  Mariner  dived 
out  again,  and  procuring  his  pistol,  primed  it  well,  tied  plenty  of 
gnatoo  tight  round  it,  and  wrapped  the  whole  up  in  a plantain-leaf; 
he  directed  an  attendant  to  bring  a torch  in  the  same  way.  Thus 
prepared,  he  re-entered  the  cavern,  unwrapped  the  gnatoo,  a great 


Around,  she  pointed  to  a spacious  cave, 

Whose  only  portal  was  the  keyless  wave,* 1 
(A  hollow  archway  by  the  sun  unseen, 

Save  through  the  billows’  glassy  veil  of  green, 

I n some  transparent  ocean  holiday, 

When  all  the  finny  people  are  at  play,) 

Wiped  with  her  hair  the  brine  from  Torquil’s  eye*. 
And  clapp’d  her  hands  with  joy  at  his  surprise 
Led  him  to  where  the  rock  appear’d  to  jut, 

And  form  a something  like  a Triton’s  hut; 

For  all  was  darkness  for  a space,  till  day, 

Through  clefts  above  let  in  a sober’d  ray ; 

As  in  some  old  cathedral’s  glimmering  aisle 
The  dustv  monuments  from  light  recoil, 

Thus  sadly  in  their  refuge  submarine 

The  vault  drew  half  her  shadow  from  t he  scene. 


vn. 

Forth  from  her  bosom  the  young  savage  drew 
A pine  torch,  strongly  girded  with  gnatoo  ; 

A plantain  leaf  o’er  all,  the  more  to  keep 
Its  latent  sparkle  from  the  sapping  deep. 

This  mantle  kept  it  dry  ; then  from  a nook 
Of  the  same  plantain  leaf  a flint  she  took, 

A few  shrunk  wither’d  twigs,  and  from  the  blade 
Of  Torquil’s  knife  struck  fire,  and  thus  array’d 
The  grot  with  torchlight.  Wide  it  was  and  high, 
And  show’d  a self-born  Gothic  canopy ; 

The  arch  uprear’d  by  nature’s  architect, 

The  architrave  some  earthquake  might  erect ; 

The  buttress  from  some  mountain’s  bosom  hurl’d, 
When  the  Poles  crash’d,  and  water  was  the  world  ; 
Or  harden’d  from  some  earth-absorbing  fire, 

While  yet  the  globe  reek’d  from  its  funeral  pyre ; 

The  fretted  pinnacle,  the  aisle,  the  nave,2 

Were  there,  all  scoop’d  by  Darkness  from  her  cave. 


portion  of  which  was  perfectly  dry,  fired  it  by  the  flash  of  the 
powder,  and  lighted  the  torch.  The  place  was  now  illuminated 
tolerably  well,,  for  the  first  time,  perhaps,  since  its  existence.  It 
appeared  (by  guess)  to  be  about  forty  feet  wide  in  the  main  part, 
but  which  branched  off,  on  one  side,  in  two  narrower  portions. 
The  medium  height  seemed  also  about  forty  feet.  The  roof  was 
hung  with  stalactites  in  a very  curious  way,  resembling,  upon  a 
cursory  view,  the  Gothic  arches  and  ornaments  of  an  old  church. 
After  having  examined  the  place,  they  drank  cava,  and  passed 
away  the  time  in  conversation  upon  different  subjects.”  The 
account  proceeds  to  state  that  the  mode  in  which  the  cavern  vras 
discovered,  and  the  interesting  use  made  of  the  retreat  by  the 
young  chief  who  found  it  out,  were  related  by  one  of  the  matabooles 
present.  According  to  his  statement,  the  entire  family  of  a certain 
chief  had  been  in  former  times  condemned  to  death  in  conse- 
quence of  his  conspiring  against  a tyrannical  governor  of  the 
island.  One  of  the  devoted  family  was  a beautiful  daughter,  to 
whom  the  young  chief  who  had  accidentally  discovered  the  cave 
had  long  been  ardently  attached.  On  learning  her  danger,  he 
bethought  himself  of  this  retreat,  to  which  he  easily  persuaded  her 
to  accompany  him,  and  she  remained  concealed  within  it,  occa- 
sionally enjoying  the  society  of  her  lover,  until  he  was  enabled  to 
carry  her  off  to  the  Fiji  islands,  where  they  remained  until  the 
death  of  the  governor  enabled  them  to  return.  The  only  part  of 
this  romantic  tale  which  seemed  very  improbable  was  the  length  of 
time  which  the  girl  was  said  to  have  remained  in  the  cavern,  two  or 
three  months.  To  ascertain  whether  this  was  possible,  Mr.  Mariner 
examined  every  part  of  it,  but  without  discovering  any  opening.  If 
the  story  be  true,  in  all  likelihood  the  duration  of  her  stay  in  the 
cavern  was  not  much  more  than  one-fourth  of  the  time  mentioned; 
as  the  space  would  not  contain  a quantity  of  air  sufficient  for  the 
respiration  of  an  individual  for  a longer  period.] 

(2)  This  may  seem  too  minute  for  the  general  outlines  (in 
Mariner’s  Account)  from  which  it  is  taken.  But  few  men  have 
travelled  without  seeing  something  of  the  kind — on  land,  that  is. 
i Without  adverting  to  Ellora,  in  Mungo  Park’s  last  journal,  he 
mentions  having  met  with  a rock  or  mountain  so  exactly  resem- 
bling a Gothic  cathedral,  that  only  minute  inspection  could  con- 
vince him  that  it  was  a work  of  nature. 


CANTO  IV. 


THE  ISLAND, 


113 


There,  with  a little  tinge  of  phantasy, 

Fantastic  faces  mop’d  and  mow’d  on  high, 

And  then  a mitre  or  a shrine  would  fix 
The  eye  upon  its  seeming  crucifix. 

Thus  Nature  play’d  with  the  stalactites. 

And  built  herself  a chapel  of  the  seas. 

VIII. 

And  Neuha  took  her  Torquil  by  the  hand, 

And  waved  along  the  vault  her  kindled  brand, 

And  led  him  into  each  recess,  and  show’d 
The  secret  places  of  their  new  abode. 

Nor  these  alone,  for  all  had  been  prepared 
Before,  to  soothe  the  lover’s  lot  she  shared  : 

The  mat  for  rest : for  dress  the  fresh  gnatoo, 

And  sandal-oil  to  fence  against  the  dew  ; 

For  food  the  cocoa-nut,  the  yam,  the  bread 
Borne  of  the  fruit ; for  board  the  plantain  spread 
With  its  broad  leaf,  or  turtle-shell  which  bore 
A banquet  in  the  flesh  it  cover’d  o’er ; 

The  gourd  with  water  recent  from  the  rill. 

The  ripe  banana  from  the  mellow  hill ; 

A pine-torch  pile  to  keep  undying  light, 

And  she  herself,  as  beautiful  as  night, 

To  fling  her  shadowy  spirit  o’er  the  scene, 

. And  make  their  subterranean  world  serene. 

She  had  foreseen,  since  first  the  stranger’s  sail 
Drew  to  their  isle,  that  force  or  flight  might  fail, 
And  form’d  a refuge  of  the  rocky  den 
For  Torquil’s  safety  from  his  countrymen. 

Each  dawn  had  wafted  there  her  light  canoe, 

Laden  with  all  the  golden  fruits  that  grew  ; 

Each  eve  had  seen  her  gliding  through  the  hour 
With  all  could  cheer  or  deck  their  sparry  bower  ; 
And  now  she  spread  her  little  store  with  smiles, 
The  happiest  daughter  of  the  loving  isles. 

IX. 

She,  as  he  gazed  with  grateful  wonder,  press’d 
tier  shelter’d  love  to  her  impassion’d  breast ; 

And  suited  to  her  soft  caresses,  told 
An  olden  tale  of  love, — for  love  is  old, 

Old  as  eternity,  but  not  outworn, 

With  each  new  being  born  or  to  be  born  P 
How  a young  chief,  a thousand  moons  ago, 

Diving  for  turtle  in  the  depths  below, 

Had  risen,  in  tracking  fast  his  ocean  prey, 

Into  the  cave  which  round  and  o’er  them  lay ; 

How  in  some  desperate  feud  of  after-time 
He  shelter’d  there  a daughter  of  the  clime, 

A foe  beloved,  and  offspring  of  a foe, 

Saved  by  his  tribe  but  for  a captive’s  woe  ; 

How,  when  the  storm  of  war  was  still’d,  he  led 
His  island  clan  to  where  the  waters  spread 
Their  deep-green  shadow  o’er  the  rocky  door, 

Then  dived — it  seem’d  as  if  to  rise  no  more  : 

His  wondering  mates,  amazed  within  their  bark, 

Or  deem’d  him  mad,  or  prey  to  the  blue  shark ; 
Bow’d  round  in  sorrow  the  sea-girded  rock, 

Then  paused  upon  their  paddles  from  the  shock  ; 
When,  fresh  and  springing  from  the  deep,  they  saw 
A goddess  rise— so  deem’d  they  in  their  awe  ; 


( 1)  The  reader  will  recollect  the  epigram  of  the  Greek  Anthology, 
w its  translation  into  most  of  the  modern  languages  : — 

“ Whoe’er  thou  art,  thy  master  see— 

He  was,  or  is,  or  is  to  be.” 


And  their  companion,  glorious  by  her  side, 

Proud  and  exulting  in  his  mermaid  bride ; 

And  how,  when  undeceived,  the  pair  they  bore 
With  sounding  conclis  and  joyous  shouts  to  shore  ; 
How  they  had  gladly  lived  and  calmly  died, — 

And  why  not  also  Torquil  and  his  bride  ? 

Not  mine  to  tell  the  rapturous  caress 
Which  follow’d  wildly  in  that  wild  recess 
This  tale ; enough  that  all  within  that  cave 
Was  love,  though  buried  strong  as  in  the  grave 
Where  Abelard,  through  twenty  years  of  death, 

When  Eloisa’s  form  was  lower’d  beneath 

Their  nuptial  vault,  his  arms  outstretch’d,  and  press’d 

The  kindling  ashes  to  his  kindled  breast.2 

The  waves  without  sang  round  their  couch,  their  roar 

As  much  unheeded  as  if  life  were  o’er  ; 

Within,  their  hearts  made  all  their  harmony, 

Love’s  broken  murmur  and  more  broken  sigh. 

X. 

And  they,  the  cause  and  sharers  of  the  shock 
Which  left  them  exiles  of  the  hollow  rock, 

Where  were  they  ? O’er  the  sea  for  life  they  plied, 
To  seek  from  Heaven  the  shelter  men  denied. 

Another  course  had  been  their  choice — but  where  ? 
The  wave  which  bore  them  still  their  foes  would  bear, 
Who,  disappointed  of  their  former  chase, 

In  search  of  Christian  now  renew’d  their  race. 

Eager  with  anger,  their  strong  arms  made  way. 

Like  vultures  baffled  of  their  previous  prey. 

They  gain’d  upon  them,  all  whose  safety  lay 
In  some  bleak  crag  or  deeply-hidden  bay  : 

No  further  chance  or  choice  remain’d  ; and  right 
For  the  first  further  rock  which  met  their  sight 
They  steer’d,  to  take  their  latest  view  of  land, 

And  yield  as  victims,  or  die  sword  in  hand ; 

Dismiss’d  the  natives  and  their  shallop,  who 
Would  still  have  battled  for  that  scanty  crew; 

But  Christian  bade  them  seek  their  shore  again, 

Nor  add  a sacrifice  which  were  in  vain ; 

For  what  were  simple  bow  and  savage  spear 
Against  the  arms  which  must  be  wielded  here  ? 

XI. 

They  landed  on  a wild  but  narrow  scene. 

Where  few  but  Nature’s  footsteps  yet  had  been ; 
Prepared  their  arms,  and  with  that  gloomy  eye, 

Stern  and  sustain’d,  of  man’s  extremity, 

When  hope  is  gone,  nor  glory’s  self  remains 
To  cheer  resistance  against  death  or  chains, — 

They  stood,  the  three,  as  the  three  hundred  stood 
Who  dyed  Thermopylae  with  holy  blood. 

But,  ah  ! how  different ! ’tis  the  cause  makes  all, 
Degrades  or  hallows  courage  in  its  fall. 

O’er  them  no  fame,  eternal  and  intense, 

Blazed  through  the  clouds  of  death  and  beckon’d  hence; 
No  grateful  country,  smiling  through  her  tears, 

Begun  the  praises  of  a thousand  years ; 

No  nation’s  eyes  would  on  their  tomb  be  bent, 

No  heroes  envy  them  their  monument ; 

However  boldly  their  warm  blood  was  spilt, 

Their  life  was  shame,  their  epitaph  was  guilt. 

And  this  they  knew  and  felt,  at  least  the  one, 

The  leader  of  the  band  he  had  undone  ; 


(2)  The  tradition  is  attached  to  the  story  of  Eloisa,  that  whin 
her  body  was  lowered  into  the  grave  of  Abelard  (who  had  been 
buried  twenty  years),  he  opened  his  arms  to  receive  her. 


174 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Who,  born  perchance  for  better  things,  had  set 
His  life  upon  a cast  which  linger’d  yet : 

But  now  the  die  was  to  be  thrown,  and  all 
The  chances  were  in  favour  of  his  fall : 

And  such  a fall ! But  still  he  faced  the  shock, 
Obdurate  as  a portion  of  the  rock 
Whereon  he  stood,  and  fix’d  his  levell’d  gun. 

Dark  as  a sullen  cloud  before  the  sun. 

xir. 

The  boat  drew  nigh,  well  arm’d,  and  firm  the  crew 
To  act  whatever  duty  bade  them  do  ; 

Careless  of  danger,  as  the  onward  wind 
Is  of  the  leaves  it  strews,  nor  looks  behind. 

And  yet  perhaps  they  rather  wish’d  to  go 
Against  a nation’s  than  a native  foe, 

And  felt  that  this  poor  victim  of  self-will, 

Briton  no  more,  had  once  been  Britain’s  still. 

They  hail’d  him  to  surrender — no  reply  ; 

Their  arms  were  poised,  and  glitter’d  in  the  sky. 

They  hail’d  again — no  answer  ; yet  once  more 
They  offer’d  quarter  louder  than  before. 

The  echoes  only,  from  the  rock’s  rebound, 

Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  dying  sound. 

Then  flash’d  the  flint,  and  blazed  the  volleying  flame, 
And  the  smoke  rose  between  them  and  their  aim, 
While  the  rock  rattled  with  the  bullets’  knell, 

Which  peal’d  in  vain,  and  flatten’d  as  they  fell ; 

Then  flew  the  only  answer  to  be  given 

By  those  who  had  lost  all  hope  in  earth  or  heaven. 

After  the  first  fierce  peal,  as  they  pull’d  nigher, 

They  heard  the  voice  of  Christian  shout,  “ Now,  fire !” 
And  ere  the  word  upon  the  echo  died. 

Two  fell ; the  rest  assail’d  the  rock’s  rough  side, 

And,  furious  at  the  madness  of  their  foes, 

Disdain’d  all  further  efforts,  save  to  close. 

But  steep  the  crag,  and  all  without  a path, 

Each  step  opposed  a bastion  to  their  wrath. 

While,  placed  midst  clefts  the  least  accessible, 

Which  Christian’s  eye  was  train’d  to  mark  full  well, 
The  three  maintain’d  a strife  which  must  not  yield, 

In  spots  where  eagles  might  have  chose  to  build. 
Their  every  shot  told  ; while  the  assailant  fell, 

Dash’d  on  the  shingles  like  the  limpet  shell ; 

But  still  enough  survived,  and  mounted  still, 
Scattering  their  numbers  here  and  there,  until 
Surrounded  and  commanded,  though  not  nigh 
Enough  for  seizure,  near  enough  to  die, 

The  desperate  trio  held  aloof  their  fate 

But  by  a thread,  like  sharks  who  have  gorged  the  bait; 

Yet  to  the  very  last  they  battled  well, 

And  not  a groan  inform’d  their  foes  who  fell. 

Christian  died  last — twice  wounded  ; and  once  more 
Mercy  was  offer’d  when  they  saw  his  gore  ; 

Too  late  for  life,  but  not  too  late  to  die, 

With,  though  a hostile  hand,  to  close  his  eye. 

A limb  was  broken,  and  he  droop’d  along 
The  crag,  as  doth  a falcon  reft  of  young. 

The  sound  revived  him,  or  appear’d  to  wake 
Some  passion  which  a weakly  gesture  spake  : 
lie  beckon’d  to  the  foremost,  who  drew  n'gli, 

But,  as  they  near’d,  he  rear’d  his  weapon  high — 


(1)  In  Thibault’s  account  of  Frederic  the  Second  of  Prussia, 
there  is  a singular  relation  of  a young  Frenchman,  who  with  lias 
mistress  appeared  to  he  of  some  rank.  He  enlisted  and  deserted  at 
Schweidnitz;  and  after  a desperate  resistance  was  retaken,  having 
killed  an  officer,  who  attempted  to  seize  him  after  he  was  wounded, 
by  the  discharge  of  his  musket  loaded  with  a l>nttun  of  his  uniform. 


CANTO  IV. 

His  last  ball  had  been  aim’d,  but  from  his  breast 
He  tore  the  topmost  button  from  his  vest,1 
Down  the  tube  dash’d  it,  levell’d,  fired,  and  smiled 
As  his  foe  fell  ; then,  like  a serpent,  coil’d 
His  wounded,  weary  form,  to  where  the  steep 
Look’d  desperate  as  himself  along  the  deep  ; 

Cast  one  glance  back,  and  clench’d  his  hand,  and 
shook 

His  last  rage  ’gainst  the  earth  which  he  forsook ; 
Then  plunged  : the  rock  below  received  like  glass 
His  body  crush’d  into  one  gory  mass, 

With  scarce  a shred  to  tell  of  human  form, 

Or  fragment  for  the  sea-bird  or  the  worm  ; 

A fair-hair’ d scalp,  besmear’d  with  blood  and  weeds , 
Yet  reek’d,  the  remnant  of  himself  and  deeds  ; 

Some  splinters  of  his  weapons  (to  the  last. 

As  long  as  hand  could  hold,  he  held  them  fast) 

Yet  glitter’d,  but  at  distance — hurl’d  away 
To  rust  beneath  the  dew  and  dashing  spray. 

The  rest  was  nothing— save  a life  mis-spent, 

And  soul — but  who  shall  answer  where  it  went  ? 

’Tis  ours  to  bear,  not  judge  the  dead ; and  they 
Who  doom  to  hell,  themselves  are  on  the  way, 

Unless  these  bullies  of  eternal  pains 

Are  pardon’d  their  bad  hearts  for  their  worse  brains. 

XIII. 

The  deed  was  over  ! All  were  gone  or  ta’en. 

The  fugitive,  the  captive,  or  the  slain. 

Chain’d  on  the  deck,  where  once,  a gallant  crew, 

They  stood  with  honour,  were  the  wretched  few 
Survivors  of  the  skirmish  on  the  isle ; 

But  the  last  rock  left  no  surviving  spoil. 

Cold  lay  they  where  they  fell,  and  weltering, 

While  o’er  them  flapp’d  the  sea-birds’  dewy  wing, 

Now  wheeling  nearer  from  the  neighbouring  surge, 
And  screaming  high  their  harsh  and  hungry  dirge  : 

But  calm  and  careless  heaved  the  wave  below, 

Eternal  with  unsympathetic  flow  ; 

Ear  o’er  its  face  the  dolphins  sported  on, 

And  sprung  the  flying  fish  against  the  sun, 

Till  its  dried  wing  relapsed  from  its  brief  height, 

To  gather  moisture  for  another  flight. 

XIV. 

’Twas  morn  ; and  Nculia,  who  by  dawn  of  day 
Swam  smoothly  forth  to  catch  the  rising  ray, 

And  watch  if  aught  approach’d  the  amphibious  lair 
Where  lay  her  lover,  saw  a sail  in  air  : 

It  flapp’d,  it  fill’d,  and  to  the  growing  gale 
Bent  its  broad  arch  : her  breath  began  to  fail 
With  fluttering  fear,  her  heart  beat  thick  and  high, 
While  yet  a doubt  sprung  where  its  course  might  lie 
But  no  ! it  came  not ; fast  and  far  away 
The  shadow  lessen’d  as  it  clear’d  the  bay. 

She  gazed,  and  flung  the  sea-foam  from  her  eyes, 

To  watch  as  for  a rainbow  in  the  skies. 

On  the  horizon  verged  the  distant  deck, 

Diminish’d,  dwindled  to  a very  speck — 

Then  vanish’d.  All  was  ocean,  all  was  joy  ! 

Down  plunged  she  through  the  cave  to  rouse  her  boy; 


Some  circumstances  on  his  court-martial  raised  a great  interest 
amongst  his  judges,  who  wished  to  discover  his  real  situation  in 
life,  which  he  offered  to  disclose,  but  to  the  king  only,  to  whom  he  re* 
quested  permission  to  write.  This  was  refused,  and  Frederic  was 
tilled  with  the  greatest  indignation,  from  baffled  curiosity  or  some 
other  motive,  when  he  understood  that  his  request  had  been  denied. 


/ 


ACT  I.  SCENE  I. 


MANFRED. 


175 


fold  all  she  had  seen,  and  all  she  hoped,  and  all 
That  happy  love  could  augur  or  recall ; 

Sprung  forth  again,  with  Torquil  following  free 
Ilis  bounding  nereid  over  the  broad  sea  ; 

Swam  round  the  rock,  to  where  a shallow  cleft 
Ilid  the  canoe  that  Neulia  there  had  left 
Drifting  along  the  tide,  without  an  oar, 

That  eve  the  strangers  chased  them  from  the  shore  ; 
But  when  these  vanish’d,  she  pursued  her  prow, 
Regain’d,  and  urged  to  where  they  found  it  now  : 
Nor  ever  did  more  love  and  joy  embark. 

Than  now  were  wafted  in  that  slender  ark. 


A^ain  their  own  shore  rises  on  the  view. 
No  more  polluted  with  a hostile  hue ; 


No  sullen  ship  lay  bristling  o’er  the  foam, 

A floating  dungeon : — all  was  hope  and  home ! 

A thousand  proas  darted  o’er  the  bay, 

With  sounding  shells,  and  heralded  their  way ; 
The  chiefs  came  down,  around  the  people  pour’d. 
And  welcomed  Torquil  as  a son  restored  ; 

The  women  throng’d,  embracing  and  embraced 
By  Neulia,  asking  where  they  had  been  chased, 
And  how  escaped  ! The  tale  was  told ; and  then 
One  acclamation  rent  the  sky  again ; 

And  from  that  hour  a new  tradition  gave 
Their  sanctuary  the  name  of  “ Neuha’s  Cave.” 

A hundred  fires,  far  flickering  from  the  height. 
Blazed  o’er  the  general  revel  of  the  night, 

The  feast  in  honour  of  the  guest,  return’d 
To  peace  and  pleasure,  perilously  earn’d ; 

A night  succeeded  by  such  happy  days 
As  only  the  yet  infant  world  displays.1 


iWanfrcb : 

A DRAMATIC  POEM.2 


**  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy.” 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Manfred. 
Chamois-Hunter. 
Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 
Manuel. 

Herman. 

Witch  of  the  ALrs. 
Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The  Destinies. 

Spirits,  &c. 


The  scene  of  the  Drama  is  amongst  the  Higher  Alps — 
partly  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred , and  partly  in  the 
Mountains . 


(1)  [Byron  ! the  sorcerer!  He  can  do  with  me  according  to  his 
will.  If  it  is  to  throw  me  headlong  upon  a desert  Island;  if  it 
is  to  place  me  on  the  summit  of  a dizzy  cliff — his  power  is  the 
same.  I wish  he  had  a friend  or  a servant,  appointed  to  the  office 
of  the  slave,  who  was  to  knock  every  morning  at  the  chamber-door 
of  Philip  of  Maeedon,  and  remind  him  he  was  mortal.— Dr.  Parr.] 

(2)  [The  following  extracts  from  Lord  Byron’s  letters  to  Mr. 
Murray,  are  all  we  have  to  offer  respecting  the  history  of  the  com- 
position of  ” Manfred - 

Venice,  Feb.  15,  1817. — “ I forgot  to  mention  to  you,  that  a kind 
of  Poem  in  dialogue  (in  blank  verse)  or  Drama,  from  which  ‘ the 
Incantation’  is  an  extract,  begun  last  summer  in  Switzerland,  is 
finished;  it  is  in  three  acts,  but  of  a very  wild,  metaphysical,  and 


Jftanfreb. 


ACT  i. 

SCENE  I. 

Manfred  alone.  — Scene , a Gothic  Gallery. — Time^ 
Midnight. 

Man.  The  lamp  must  be  replenish’d,  but  even  then 
It  will  not  burn  so  long  as  I must  watch  : 

My  slumbers — if  I slumber — are  not  sleep, 

But  a continuance  of  enduring  thought, 

Which  then  I can  resist  not : in  my  heart 
There  is  a vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within ; and  yet  I live,  and  bear 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men. 


inexplicable  kind.  Almost  all  the  persons — but  two  or  three — are 
Spirits  of  the  earth  and  air,  or  the  waters  ; the  scene  is  in  the  Alps  ; 
the  hero  a kind  of  magician,  who  is  tormented  by  a species  of 
remorse,  the  cause  of  which  is  left  half  unexplained.  He  wanders 
about  invoking  these  Spirits,  which  appear  to  him,  and  are  of  no 
use ; he  at  last  goes  to  the  very  abode  of  the  Evil  Principle,  in  pro 
pria  persona , to  evocate  a ghost,  which  appears,  and  gives  him  an 
ambiguous  and  disagreeable  answer ; and,  in  the  third  Act,  he  is 
found  by  his  attendants  dying  in  a tower  where  he  had  studied  his 
art.  You  may  perceive,  by  this  outline,  that  I have  no  great 
opinion  of  this  piece  of  fantasy ; but  I have  at  least  rendered  it 
quite  impossible  for  the  stage,  for  which  my  intercourse  with  Drury 
Lane  has  given  me  the  greatest  oontempt.  I have  not  even  copied 


176 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  I. 


But  grief  should  he  the  instructor  of  the  wise ; 
Sorrow  is  knowledge  : they  who  know  the  most 
Must  mourn  the  deepest  o’er  the  fatal  truth, 
The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  not  that  of  Life. 
Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 

I have  essay’d,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself — ■ 

But  they  avail  not : I have  done  men  good, 

And  I have  met  with  good  even  among  men — • 
But  this  avail’d  not : I have  had  my  foes, 

And  none  have  bathed,  many  fallen  before  me — 
But  this  avail’d  not : — Good,  or  evil,  life, 
Powers,  passions,  all  I see  in  other  beings. 


it  off,  and  feel  too  lazy  at  present  to  attempt  the  whole ; but  when  I 
have,  I will  send  it  you,  and  you  may  either  throw  it  into  the  fire  or 
not.” 

March  3. — 44  I sent  you  the  other  day,  in  two  covers,  the  first  act 
of  ‘ Manfred,’  a drama  as  mad  as  Nat  Lee’s  Bedlam  tragedy,  which 
was  in  twenty-five  acts  and  some  odd  scenes : mine  is  but  in  three 
acts.” 

March  9. — “ In  remitting  the  third  act  of  the  sort  of  dramatic 
poem  of  which  you  will  by  this  time  have  received  the  two  first,  I 
have  little  to  observe,  except  that  you  must  not  publish  it  (if  it 
ever  is  published)  without  giving  me  previous  notice.  I have  really 
and  truly  no  notion  whether  it  is  good  or  bad ; and  as  this  was  not 
the  case  with  the  principal  of  my  former  publications,  I am,  there- 
fore, inclined  to  rank  it  very  humbly.  You  will  submit  it  to  Mr. 
Gifford,  and  to  whomsoever  you  please  besides.  The  thing,  you 
will  see  at  a glimpse,  could  never  be  attempted  or  thought  of  for 
the  stage  ; I much  doubt  if  for  publication  even.  It  is  too  much  in 
my  old  style;  but  I composed  it  actually  with  a horror  of  the  stage, 
and  with  a view  to  render  the  thought  of  it  impracticable,  knowing 
the  zeal  of  my  friends  that  I should  try  that  for  which  I have  an 
invincible  repugnance,  viz.  a representation.  I certainly  am  a devil 
of  a mannerist,  and  must  leave  off;  but  what  could  I do?  Without 
exertion  of  some  kind,  I should  have  sunk  under  my  imagination 
and  reality.” 

March  25. — “ With  regard  to  the  ‘ Witch  Drama,’  I repeat,  that 

I have  not  an  idea  if  it  is  good  or  bad.  If  bad,  it  must,  on  no 
account,  be  risked  in  publication ; if  good,  it  is  at  your  service.  I 
value  it  at  three  hundred  guineas,  or  less,  if  you  like  it.  Perhaps, 

if  published,  the  best  way  will  be  to  add  it  to  your  winter  volume, 
and  not  publish  separately.  The  price  will  show  you  I flon’t  pique 
myself  upon  it;  so  speak  out.  You  may  put  it  into  the  fire,  if  you 
like,  and  Gifford  don’t  like.” 

April  9. — “ As  for  ‘ Manfred,’  the  two  first  acts  are  the  best;  the 
third  so-so;  but  I was  blown  with  the  first  and  second  heats.  You 
may  call  it  1 a Poem,’  for  it  is  no  Drama,  and  I do  not  choose 
to  have  it  called  by  so  d — d a name  — a 4 Poem  in  dialogue,’  or 
— Pantomine,  if  you  will ; any  thing  but  a green-room  synonyme ; 
and  this  is  your  motto — 

4 There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 

Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy.’  ” 

The  Third  Act  was  re-written  before  publication ; as  to  the 
particulars  of  which,  the  reader  is  referred  to  a subsequent  note. 
To  avoid  overloading  the  margin,  we  may  give  here  the  most  im- 
portant paragraphs  of  the  two  ablest  critiques  that  immediately 
followed  the  appearance  of  Manfred  : — 

“ In  Manfred,  we  recognise  at  once  the  gloom  and  potency  of  that 
soul  which  burned  and  blasted  and  fed  upon  itself,  in  Harold,  and 
Conrad,  and  Lara — and  which  comes  again  in  this  piece,  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger — more  proud,  perhaps,  and  more  awful  than 
ever — but  with  the  fiercer  traits  of  its  misanthropy  subdued,  as  it 
were,  and  quenched  in  the  gloom  of  a deeper  despondency.  Man- 
fred does  not,  like  Conrad  and  Lara,  wreak  the  anguish  of  his  burn- 
ing heart  in  the  dangers  and  daring  of  desperate  and  predatory 
war — nor  seek  to  drown  bitter  thoughts  in  tbe  tumult  of  perpetual 
contention;  nor  yet,  like  Harold,  does  he  sweep  over  the  peopled 
scenes  of  the  earth  with  high  disdain  and  aversion,  and  make  his 
survey  of  the  business,  and  pleasures,  and  studies  of  man  an  oc- 
casion for  taunts  and  sarcasms,  and  the  food  of  an  unmeasurable 
spleen.  He  is  fixed  by  the  genius  of  the  poet  in  the  majestic 
solitudes  of  the  central  Alps — where,  from  his  youth  up,  he  has 
lived  in  proud  but  calm  seclusion  from  the  ways  of  men,  conversing 
only  with  the  magnificent  forms  and  aspects  of  nature  by  which  he 
is  surrounded,  and  with  the  Spirits  of  the  Elements  over  whom 
he  has  acquired  dominion,  by  the  secret  and  unhallowed  studies  of 
sorcery  and  magic.  He  is  averse,  indeed,  from  mankind,  and 
6Corns  the  low  and  frivolous  nature  to  which  he  belongs;  but  he 
cherishes  no  animosity  or  hostility  to  that  feeble  race.  Their  con- 
cerns excite  no  interest— their  pursuits  no  sympathy — their  joys  no 
envy.  It  is  irksome  and  vexatious  for  him  to  be  crossed  by  them 
in  his  melancholy  musings, — but  he  treats  them  with  gentleness  and 


Have  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands, 

Since  that  all-nameless  hour.  I have  no  dread, 

And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear, 

Nor  fluttering  throb,  that  beats  with  hopes  or  wishes, 
Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth. — 

Now  to  my  task. — 

Mysterious  Agency ! 

Ye  spirits  of  the  unbounded  Universe  !*  1 
Whom  I have  sought  in  darkness  and  in  light — 

Ye,  who  do  compass  earth  about,  and  dwell 
In  subtler  essence — ye,  to  whom  the  tops 
Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts,2 * 
And  earth’s  and  ocean’s  caves  familiar  things — ■ 

I call  upon  ye  by  the  written  charm 


pity ; and,  except  when  stung  to  impatience  by  too  importunate  an 
intrusion,  is  kind  and  considerate  to  the  comforts  of  all  around 
him. — This  piece  is  properly  entitled  a dramatic  poem — for  it  ia 
merely  poetical,  and  is  not  at  all  a drama  or  play  in  the  modern 
acceptation  of  the  term.  It  has  no  action,  no  plot,  and  no  charac- 
ters; Manfred  merely  muses  and  suffers  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end.  His  distresses  are  the  same  at  the  opening  of  the  scene  and 
at  its  closing,  and  the  temper  in  which  they  are  borne  is  the 
same.  A hunter  and  a priest,  and  some  domestics,  are  indeed  in- 
troduced, but  they  have  no  connexion  with  the  passions  or  suffer- 
ings on  which  the  interest  depends;  and  Manfred  is  substantially 
alone  throughout  the  whole  piece.  He  holds  no  communion  but 
with  the  memory  of  the  Being  he  had  loved ; and  the  immortal 
Spirits  whom  die  evokes  to  reproach  with  his  misery,  and  their  in- 
ability to  relieve  it.  These  unearthly  beings  approach  nearer  to 
the  character  of  persons  of  the  drama — but  still  they  are  but  choral 
accompaniments  to  the  performance;  and  Manfred  is,  in  reality, 
the  only  actor  and  sufferer  on  the  scene.  To  delineate  his  character 
indeed — to  render  conceivable  his  feelings — is  plainly  the  whole 
scope  and  design  of  the  poem ; and  the  conception  and  execution 
are,  in  this  respect,  equally  admirable.  It  is  a grand  and  terrific 
vision  of  a being  invested  with  superhuman  attributes,  in  order  that 
he  may  be  capable  of  more  than  human  sufferings,  and  be  sus- 
tained under  them  by  more  than  human  force  and  pride.  To  object 
to  the  improbability  of  the  fiction,  is  to  mistake  the  end  and  aim  of  the 
author.  Probabilities,  we  apprehend,  did  not  enter  at  all  into  his 
consideration  ; his  object  was,  to  produce  effect — to  exalt  and  dilate 
the  character  through  whom  he  was  to  interest  or  appal  us — and  to 
raise  our  conception  of  it,  by  all  the  helps  that  could  be  derived 
from  the  majesty  of  nature  or  the  dread  of  superstition,  it  is 
enough,  therefore,  if  the  situation  in  which  he  has  placed  him  is 
conceivable , and  if  the  supposition  of  its  reality  enhances  our  emo- 
tions and  kindles  our  imagination ; — for  it  is  Manfred  only  that  we 
are  required  to  fear,  to  pity,  or  admire.  If  we  can  once  conceive  of 
him  as  a real  existence,  and  enter  into  the  depth  and  the  height  of 
his  pride  and  his  sorrows,  we  may  deal  as  we  please  with  the  means 
that  have  been  used  to  furnish  us  with  this  impression,  or  to  enable 
us  to  attain  to  this  conception.  We  may  regard  them  but  as  types, 
or  metaphors,  or  allegories;  but  he  is  the  thing  to  be  expressed, 
and  the  feeling  and  the  intellect  of  which  all  these  are  but  shadows.” 
— Jeffrey. 

“ In  this  very  extraordinary  poem,  Lord  Byron  has  pursued  the 
same  course  as  in  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  and  put  out  his 
strength  upon  the  same  objects.  The  action  is  laid  among  the 
mountains  of  the  Alps — the  characters  are  all,  more  or  less,  formed 
and  swayed  by  the  operations  of  the  magnificent  scenery  around 
them,  and  every  page  of  the  poem  teems  with  imagery  and  passion, 
though,  at  the  same  time,  the  mind  of  the  poet  is  often  overborne, 
as  it  were,  by  the  strength  and  novelty  of  its  own  conceptions  ; and 
thus  the  composition,  as  a whole,  is  liable  to  many  and  fatal  ob- 
jections. But  there  is  a still  more  novel  exhibition  of  Lord  Byron’s 
powers  in  this  remarkable  drama.  He  has  here  burst  into  tbe 
world  of  spirits ; and,  in  the  wild  delight  with  which  the  elements 
of  nature  seem  to  have  inspired  him,  he  has  endeavoured  to  em- 
body and  call  up  before  him  their  ministering  agents,  and  to  em- 
ploy these  wild  personifications,  as  he  formerly  employed  the 
feelings  and  passions  of  man.  We  are  not  prepared  to  say,  that, 
in  this  daring  attempt,  he  has  completely  succeeded.  We  are  in- 
clined to  think,  that  the  plan  he  has  conceived,  and  the  principal 
character  which  he  has  wished  to  delineate,  would  require  a fuller 
development  than  is  here  given  to  them ; and,  accordingly,  a sense 
of  imperfection,  incompleteness,  and  confusion,  accompanies  the 
mind  throughout  the  perusal  of  the  poem.,  owing  either  to  some 
failure  on  the  part  of  the  poet,  or  to  the  inherent  mystery  of  the  sub- 
ject. But  though,  on  that  account,  it  is  difficult  to  comprehend 
distinctly  the  drift  of  the  composition,  it  unquestionably  exhibits 
many  noble  delineations  of  mountain  scenery, — many  impressive 
and  terrible  pictures  of  passion, — and  many  wild  and  awful  visions 
of  imaginary  horror.” — Professor  Wilson.] 

(1)  [“  Eternal  Agency! 

Ye  spirits  of  the  immortal  Uniyerse  !” — MS.] 

(2)  [“  Of  inaccessible  mountains  at  e the  haunts.” — MS.] 


•CINE  I. 


MANFRED. 


177 


Which  gives  me  power  upon  you Rise  ! appear  ! 

j A pause. 

fhey  come  not  yet. — Now  by  the  voice  of  him 
Who  is  the  first  among  you — bv  this  sign, 

'Which  makes  you  tremble— by  the  claims  of  him 

Who  is  undying, — Rise  ! appear  ! Appear ! • 

[A  pause . 

If  it  be  so. — Spirits  of  earth  and  air, 

Ye  shall  not  thus  elude  me  : by  a power, 

Deeper  than  all  yet  urged,  a tyrant-spell. 

Which  had  its  birthplace  in  a star  condemn’d, 

The  burning  wreck  of  a demolish’d  world, 

A wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space ; 

By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my  soul, 

The  thought  which  is  within  me  and  around  me, 

I do  compel  ye  to  my  will. — Appear  ! 

[A  star  is  seen,  at  the  darker  end  of  the  gallery : it  is 
stationary  ; and  a voice  is  heard  singing . 

First  Spirit. 

Mortal ! to  thy  bidding  bow’d, 

From  my  mansion  in  the  cloud, 

Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds, 

And  the  summer’s  sunset  gilds 
With  the  azure  and  vermilion, 

Which  is  mix’d  for  my  pavilion  ;l 
Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden. 

On  a star-beam  I have  ridden ; 

To  thine  adjuration  bow’d, 

Mortal — be  thy  wish  avow’d ! 

Voice  of  the  Second  Spirit. 

Mont  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains 
They  crown’d  him  long  ago 
On  a throne  of  rocks,  in  a robe  of  clouds, 

With  a diadem  of  snow. 

Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  Avalanche  in  his  hand ; 

But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball 
Must  pause  for  my  command. 

The  Glacier’s  cold  and  restless  mass 
Moves  onward  day  by  day ; 

But  I am  lie  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay.2 
I am  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  cavern’d  base — 

Ajid  what  with  me  wouldst  Thou  ? 

Voice  of  the  Third  Spirit. 

In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters. 

Where  the  wave  hath  no  strife. 

Where  the  wind  is  a stranger, 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life, 

Where  the  Mermaid  is  decking 
Her  green  hair  with  shells  ; 

Like  the  storm  on  the  surface 
Came  the  sound  of  thy  spells ; 

O’er  my  calm  Hall  of  Coral 
The  deep  echo  roll’d — 

To  the  Spirit  of  Ocean 
Thy  wishes  unfold ! 

Fourth  Spirit. 

Where  the  slumbering  earthquake 
Lies  pillow’d  on  fire, 

Aad  the  lakes  of  bitumen 
Rise  boilingly  higher ; 


(1)  [“  Which  is  fit  lor  my  pavilion.” — MS.] 


Where  the  roots  of  the  Andes 
Strike  deep  in  the  earth, 

As  their  summits  to  heaven 
Shoot  soaringly  forth  ; 

I have  quitted  my  birthplace. 

Thy  bidding  to  bide — 

Thy  spell  hath  subdued  me, 

Thy  will  be  my  guide  ! 

Fifth  Spirit.  - 

I am  the  Rider  of  the  wind, 

The  Stirrer  of  the  storm  ; 

The  hurricane  I left  behind 
Is  yet  with  lightning  warm  ; 

To  speed  to  thee,  o’er  shore  and  sea 
I swept  upon  the  blast : 

The  fleet  I met  sail’d  well,  and  yet 
’Twill  sink  ere  night  be  past. 

Sixth  Spirit. 

My  dwelling  is  the  shadow  of  the  night. 

Why  doth  thy  magic  torture  me  with  light  ? 

Seventh  Spirit. 

The  star  which  rules  thy  destiny 
Was  ruled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me  : 

It  was  a world  as  fresh  and  fair 
As  e’er  revolved  round  sun  in  air ; 

Its  course  was  free  and  regular, 

Space  bosom’d  not  a lovelier  star. 

The  hour  arrived — and  it  became 
A wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 

A pathless  comet,  and  a curse, 

The  menace  of  the  universe  ; 

Still  rofling  on  with  innate  force, 

Without  a sphere,  without  a course, 

A bright  deformity  on  high, 

The  monster  of  the  upper  sky ! 

And  thou  ! beneath  its  influence  born — 

Thou  worm  ! whom  I obey  and  scorn — 

Forced  by  a power  (which  is  not  thine, 

And  lent  thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 

For  this  brief  moment  to  descend, 

Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend 
And  parley  with  a thing  like  thee — • 

What  wouldst  thou,  Child  of  Clay ! with  me  ? 

The  Seven  Spirits. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  night,  mountains,  winds,  thy  star. 
Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  Child  of  Clay ! 

Before  thee  at  thy  quest  their  spirits  are — 

What  wouldst  thou  with  us,  son  of  mortals — say  r 

Man.  Forgetfulness — 

First  Spirit.  Of  what— of  whom — and  why  ? 

Man.  Of  that  which  is  within  me : read  it  there— 
Ye  know  it,  and  I cannot  utter  it. 

Spirit . We  can  but  give  thee  that  which  we  pos- 
sess : 

Ask  of  us  subjects,  sovereignty,  the  power 
O’er  earth,  the  whole,  or  portion,  or  a sign 
Which  shall  control  the  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dominators,  each  and  all, 

These  shall  be  thine. 


(2)  [“  Or  makes  its  ice  delay.” — MS.] 

A.  A 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


a err  i 


178 

Man.  Oblivion,  self-oblivion — 

Can  ye  not  wring  from  out  the  hidden  realms 
Ye  offer  so  profusely  what  I ask  ? 

Spirit.  It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill ; 

But — thou  may’st  die. 

Man.  Will  death  bestow  it  on  me  ? 

Spirit.  We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  forget; 

We  are  eternal ; and  to  us  the  past 

Is,  as  the  future,  present.  Art  thou  answer’d  ? 

Man.  Ye  mock  me — but  the  power  which  brought 
ye  here 

Hath  made  you  mine.  Slaves,  scoff  not  at  my  will ! 
The  mind,  the  spirit,  the  Promethean  spark, 

The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  bright, 

Pervading,  and  far-darting  as  your  own, 

And  shall  not  yield  to  yours,  though  coop’d  in  clay ! 
Answer,  or  I will  teach  you  what  I am. 

Spirit.  We  answer  as  we  answer’d;  our  reply 
Is  even  in  thine  own  words. 

Man.  Wrhy  say  ye  so  ? 

Spirit.  If,  as  thou  say’st,  thine  essence  be  as  ours, 
We  have  replied  in  telling  thee,  the  thing 
Mortals  call  death  hath  nought  to  do  with  us. 

Man.  I then  have  call’d  ye  from  your  realms  in 
vain ; 

Ye  cannot,  or  ye  will  not,  aid  me. 

Spirit.  Say ; 

What  we  possess  we  offer ; it  is  thine  : 

Bethink  ere  thou  dismiss  us,  ask  again— 

Kingdom,  and  sway,  and  strength,  and  length  of 
days 

Man.  Accursed  ! what  have  I to  do  with  days  F 
They  are  too  long  already. — Hence  —begone  ! 

Spirit.  Yet  pause  : being  here,  our  will  would  do 
thee  service ; 

Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  other  gift 
Which  we  can  make  not  worthless  in  thine  eyes  P 
Man.  No,  none : yet  stay — one  moment,  ere  we  part — 
I would  behold  ye  face  to  face.  I hear 
Your  voices,  sweet  and  melancholy  sounds. 

As  music  on  the  waters ; and  I see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a clear  large  star ; 

But  nothing  more.  Approach  me  as  ye  are. 

Or  one,  or  all,  in  your  accustom’d  forms. 

Spirit.  We  have  no  forms  beyond  the  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  principle  : 

But  choose  a form — in  that  we  will  appear. 

Man.  I have  no  choice  ; there  is  no  form  on  earth 
Hideous  or  beautiful  to  me  Let  him, 

Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fitting — Come  ! 

Seventh  Spirit.  ( Appearing  in  the  shape  of  a beau- 
tiful female  figure .)  Behold  ! 

Man.  Oh  God  ! if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 
Are  not  a madness  and  a mockery, 

I yet  might  be  most  happy.  I will  clasp  thee, 

And  we  again  will  be [The  figure  vanishes. 

My  heart  is  crush’d  ! 

[Manfred  falls  senseless. 


(1)  [These  verses  were  written  in  Switzerland,  in  1816,  and  trans- 
mitted to  England  for  publication,  with  the  third  canto  of  “ Childe 
Harold.”  “ As  they  were  written,”  says  Mr.  Moore,  ‘‘  immediately 
arfter  the  last  fruitless  attempt  at  reconciliation,  it  is  needless  to  say 
who  was  in  the  poet’s  thoughts  while  he  penned  some  of  the  opening 
stanzas.’  ] 

(2)  [”  And  the  wisp  on  the  morass”  — Hearing,  in  February, 

1818,  of  a menaced  version  of  Manfred  by  some  Italian,  Lord 

Bvron  wrote  to  his  friend  Mr.  Hoppner — “ If  you  have  any  means 
of  communicating  with  the  man,  would  you  permit  me  to  convey 


(A  Voice  is  heard  in  the  Incantation  which  follows .y 

When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave, 

And  the  glow-worm  in  the  grass. 

And  the  meteor  on  the  grave. 

And  the  wisp  on  the  morass  ;  1  2 * 
When  the  falling  stars  arc  shooting, 

And  the  answer’d  owls  are  hooting. 

And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill, 

Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine, 

With  a power  and  with  a sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep, 

Yet  thy  spirit  .shall  not  sleep  ; 

There  are  shades  which  will  not  vanish, 

There  are  thoughts  thou  eanst  not  banisn ; ' 

By  a power  to  thee  unknown. 

Thou  eanst  never  be  alone ; 

Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a shroud, 

Thou  art  gather’d  in  a cloud ; 

And  for  ever  shalt  thou  dwell 
In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  seest  me  not  pass  by, 

Thou  shalt  feel  me  with  thine  eye 
As  a thing  that,  though  unseen, 

Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been ; 

And  when  in  that  secret  dread 
Thou  hast  turn’d  around  thy  head, 

Thou  shalt  marvel  I am  not 
As  thy  shadow  on  the  spot, 

And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel 
Shall  be  what  thou  must  conceal. 

And  a magic  voice  and  verse 
Hath  baptized  thee  with  a curse  ; 

And  a spirit  of  the  air 
Hath  begirt  thee  with  a snare  ; 

In  the  wind  there  is  a voice 
Shall  forbid  thee  to  rejoice  ; 

And  to  thee  shall  Night  deny 
All  the  quiet  of  her  sky ; 

And  the  day  shall  have  a sun, 

Which  shall  make  thee  wish  it  done. 

From  thy  false  tears  I did  distil 
An  essence  which  hath  strength  to  kill ; 

Trom  thy  own  heart  I then  did  wring 
The  black  blood  in  its  blackest  spring; 

Trom  thy  own  smile  I snatch’d  the  snake, 

Tor  there  it  coil’d  as  in  a brake ; 

Trom  thy  own  lip  I drew  the  charm 
Which  gave  all  these  their  chiefest  harm 
In  proving  every  poison  known, 

I found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 

By  thy  cold  breast  and  serpent  smile, 

By  thy  unfathom’d  gulfs  of  guile, 

By  that  most  seeming  virtuous  eye. 

By  that  shut  soul’s  hypocrisy : 


to  him  the  offer  of  any  price  he  may  obtain,  or  think  to  obtain 
for  his  project,  provided  he  will  throw  his  translation  intr  tlvt 
fire,  and  promise  not  to  undertake  any  other  of  thau  ■ ' my 
other  of  my  things  ? I will  send  him  his  money  immediately, 
on  this  condition.”  A negotiation  was  accordingly  set  on  foot, 
and  the  translator,  on  receiving  two  hundred  francs.  A*.-  vered 
up  his  manuscript,  and  engaged  never  to  translate  au'  other  o4 
the  poet’s  works.  Of  his  qualifications  for  the  task  some  not:oi» 
may  be  formed  from  the  fact,  that  he4iad  turned  the  word  "w;ip, 
in  this  line,  into  “ a bundle  of  straw.”] 


gCINE  II. 


MANFRED. 


179 


By  the  perfection  of  thine  art 

Winch  pass’d  for  human  thine  own  heart ; 

By  thy  delight  in  others’  pain, 

And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 

I call  upon  thee  ! and  compel 1 
Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  Hell ! 

And  on  thy  head  I pour  the  vial 
Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial ; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die, 

Shall  be  in  thy  destiny ; 

Though  thy  death  shall  still  seem  near 
To  thy  wish,  but  as  a fear ; 

Lo ! the  spell  now  works  around  thee, 
And  the  clankless  chain  hath  bound  thee ; 
O’er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 
Hath  the  word  been  pass’d — now  wither  ! 


SCENE  II. 

The  Mountain  of  the  Jungfrau.  — Time,  Morning. — 
Manfred  alone  upon  the  Cliffs. 

Man.  The  spirits  I have  raised  abandon  me — • 

The  spells  which  I have  studied  baffle  me — 

The  remedy  I reck’d  of  tortured  me ; 

I lean  no  more  on  superhuman  aid, 

It  haiii  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulf’d  in  darkness, 

It  is  not  of  my  search. — My  mother  Earth  ! 

And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day,  and  you,  ye  Mountains, 
Why  are  ye  beautiful  ? I cannot  love  ye. 

And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe. 

That  ope  nest  over  all,  and  uuto  all 

Art  a delight— thou  shin’st  not  on  my  heart. 

And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 
I stand,  and  on  the  torrent’s  brink  beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 
In  dizziness  of  distance ; when  a leap, 

A stir,  a motion,  even  a breath,  would  bring 
My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom’s  bed 
To  rest  for  ever — wherefore  do  I pause  ? 

I feel  the  impulse — yet  I do  not  plunge  ; 

I see  the  peril — yet  do  not  recede  ; 

And  my  brain  reels — and  yet  my  foot  is  firm; 

There  is  a power  upon  me  which  withholds, 

And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live  ; 

If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 
This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 
My  own  soul’s  sepulchre,  for  I have  ceased 
To  justify  my  deeds  unto  myself — 


(1)  [“  I do  adjure  thee  to  this  spell.” — MS.] 

(2)  [The  germs  of  this,  and  of  several  other  passages  in  Man- 
fred, may  be  found  in  the  Journal  of  his  Swiss  tour,  which  Lord 

Byron  transmitted  to  his  sister:  e.  g.  “Sept.  19 —Arrived  at  a 
lake  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  mountains;  left  our  quadrupeds, 
and  ascended  further;  came  to  some  snow  in  patches,  upon  which 
my  forehead's  perspiration  fell  like  rain,  making  the  same  dents 
as  in  a sieve ; the  chill  of  the  wind  and  the  snow  turned  me  giddy, 
but  I scrambled  on  and  upwards.  Hobliouse  went  to  the  highest 
pinnacle.  The  whole  of  the  mountains  superb.  A shepherd  on  a 
steep  and  very  high  cliff  playing  upon  his  pipe;  very  different  from 
Arcadia.  The  music  of  the  cows’  bells  (for  their  wealth,  like  the 
pa'riarchs’,  is  cattle)  in  the  pastures,  which  reach  to  a height  far 
above  any  mountains  in  Britain,  and  the  shepherds  shouting  to  us 
from  crag  to  crag,  and  playing  on  their  reeds  where  the  steeps 
appeared  almost  inaccessible,  with  the  surrounding  scenery,  rea- 
lised all  that  1 have  ever  heard  or  imagined  of  a pastoral  ex- 
istence-much more  so  than  Greece  or  Asia  Minor;  for  there  we 
are  a little  loo  much  of  the  sabre  and  musket  order,  and  if  there 

is  a crook  in  one  hand,  you  are  sure  to  see  a gun  in  the  other . 


The  last  infirmity  of  evil  Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister. 

\An  eagle  paster. 

Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven, 

Well  may’st  thou  swoop  so  near  me — I should  be 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets  ; thou  art  gone 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee ; but  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above, 

With  a pervading  vision. — Beautiful ! 

How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world ! 

Flow  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself ! 

But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 

Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mix’d  essence  make 
A conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 
The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  priue, 

Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will, 

Till  our  mortality  predominates, 

And  men  are — what  they  name  not  to  tliemse1  ■ s. 
And  trust  not  to  each  oilier.  Hark  ! the  note 

\The  Shepherd’s  pipe  in  the  distance  h heard. 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed — 

For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 

Mix’d  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  nerd  ;2 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes. — Oh,  that  I were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a lovely  sound, 

A living  voice,  a breathing  harmony, 

A bodiless  enjoyment — born  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me ! 

Enter  from  below  a Chamois  Hunter. 

Chamois  Hunter.  Even  so 

This  wav  the  chamois  leapt : her  nimble  feet 
Have  baffled  me  ; my  gains  to-day  will  scarce 
Repay  my  break-neck  travail. — What  is  here  ? 

Who  seems  not  of  my  trade,  and  yet  hath  reach’d 
A height  which  none  even  of  our  mountaineers, 

Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain  : his  garb 

Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 

Proud  as  a freeborn  peasant’s,  at  this  distance — 

I will  approach  him  nearer. 

Man.  {not  perceiving  the  other).  To  be  thus — 
Grey-hair’d  with  anguish,3  like  these  blasted  pines. 
Wrecks  of  a single  winter,  barkless,  branchless,4 
A blighted  trunk  upon  a cursed  root, 

Which  but  supplies  a feeling  to  decay — 

And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus. 

Having  been  otherwise  ! Now  furrow’d  o’er 
With  wrinkles,  plough’d  by  moments,  not  by  years 
And  hours  —all  tortured  into  ages — hours 


but  this  was  pure  and  unmixed — solitary,  savage,  and  patriarchal. 
As  we  went,  they  played  the  ‘ llanz  des  V aches’  and  other  airs,  by 
way  of  farewell.  1 have  lately  repeopled  my  mind  with  nature.’’] 

(3)  [See  the  opening  lines  to  the  “ Prisoner  of  Chillon,”  antd, 
p.  138.  Speaking  of  Marie  Antoinette,  “I  was  struck,"  says 
Madame  Campan,  “ with  the  astonishing  change  misfortune  had 
wrought  upon  her  features:  her  whole  head  of  hair  had  turned 
almost  white,  during  her  transit  from  Varennes  to  Paris.”  The 
same  thing  occurred  to  the  unfortunate  Queen  Mary.  “ With  calm 
hut  undaunted  fortitude,”  says  her  historian,  “ she  laid  her  neck 
upon  the  block;  and  while  one  executioner  held  her  hands,  the 
other,  at  the  second  stroke,  cut  ofr  her  head,  which,  falling  out  of 
its  attire,  discovered  her  hair,  already  grown  quite  grey  with  cares 
and  sorrows.”  The  hair  of  Mary’s  grandson,  Charles  I.,  turned 
quite  grey,  in  like  manner,  during  his  stay  at  Carisbrooke.] 

(4)  [“Passed  \*hoie  woods  of  withered  pines,  all  withered, — 
trunks  stepped  and  barkiess,  branches  lifeless,  done  by  a single 
winter:  their  appearance  reminded  me  of  me  and  my  family.” — 
Swiss  Journal.] 


180 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  II 


Which  I outlive ! — Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice  ! 
ic  avalanches,  whom  a breath  draws  down 
In  mountainous  o’erwlielming,  come  and  crush  me  1 
jl  ne*z  ye  momently  above,  beneath, 

Crash  with  a frequent  conflict  [ but  ye  pass, 

And  only  fall  on  things  that  still  would  live ; 

On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 
And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager 

C.  Hun.  The  mists  begin  to  rise  from  up  the  valley ; 
I’ll  warn  him  to  descend,  or  he  may  chance 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  and  life  together. 

Man.  The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers  ; clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury, 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  Hell,2 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a living  shore, 

Heap’d  with  the  damn’d  like  pebbles. — I am  giddy.3 

C.  Hun.  I must  approach  him  cautiously ; if  near, 
A sudden  step  will  startle  him,  and  he 
Seems  tottering  already. 

Man.  Mountains  have  fallen, 

Leaving  a gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren ; filling  up 
The  ripe  green  valleys  with  destruction’s  splinters ; 
Damming  the  rivers  with  a sudden  dash, 

Which  crush’d  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel — thus, 

Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Mount  Rosenberg — 

Why  stood  I not  beneath  it  P 

C.  Hun.  Friend  ! have  a care, 

Your  next  step  may  be  fatal ! — for  the  love 
Of  him  who  made  you,  stand  not  on  that  brink ! 

Man.  ( not  hearing  him).  Such  would  have  been 
for  me  a fitting  tomb  ; 

My  bones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their  depth  ; 

They  had  not  then  been  strewn  upon  the  rocks 
For  the  wind’s  pastime  — as  thus  — thus  they  shall 
be — 

In  this  one  plunge. — Farewell,  ye  opening  heavens  ! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  reproachfully — 

You  were  not  meant  for  me — Earth  ! take  these  atoms  ! 

[As  Manfred  is  in  act  to  spring  from  the  cliff, 
the  Chamois  Hunter  seizes  and  retains  him 
with  a sudden,  grasp. 

C.  Hun.  Hold,  madman  ! — though  aweary  of  thy 
life, 

Stain  not  our  pure  vales  with  thy  guilty  blood — 

Away  with  me 1 will  not  quit  my  hold. 

Man.  I.  am  most  sick  at  heart  — nay,  grasp  me 
not — 

I am  all  feebleness — the  mountains  whirl  [thou  ? 

Spinning  around  me 1 grow  blind What  art 

C.  Hun.  I’ll  answer  that  anon.  — Away  with 
me 

The  clouds  grow  thicker there — now  lean  on 

me — 

Place  your  foot  here — here,  take  this  staff,  and  cling 
A moment  to  that  shrub — now  give  me  your  hand, 
And  hold  fast  by  my  girdle— softly — well — 

The  Chalet  will  be  gain’d  within  an  hour — 


0)  [“  Ascended  the  Wengen  mountain ; left  the  horses,  took 
off  my  coat,  and  went  to  the  summit.  On  one  side,  our  view 
comprised  the  Jungfrau,  with  all  her  glaciers;  then  the  Dent 
d’Argent,  shining  like  truth  ; then  the  Little  Giant,  and  the  Great 
Giant;  and  last,  not  least,  the  Wetterhorn.  The  height  of  the 
Jungfrau  is  thirteen  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  eleven  thou- 
sand above  the  valley.  Heard  the  avalanches  falling  every  five 
minutes  nearly.” — Swiss  Journal.] 

(2)  [•'  Lika  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  old  Hall.” — MS.] 


Come  on,  we’ll  quickly  find  a surer  footing, 

And  something  like  a pathway,  which  the  torrent 
Hath  wash’d  since  winter. — Come,  ’tis  bravely  dene — 
You  should  have  been  a hunter. — Follow  me. 

[As  they  descend  the  rocks  with  difficulty , tit 
scene  closes. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

A Cottage  amongst  the  Bernese  Alps . 

Manfred  and  the  Chamois  Hunter. 

C.  Hun.  No,  no — yet  pause — thou  must  not  yet  go 
forth : 

Thy  mind  and  body  are  alike  unfit 

To  trust  each  other,  for  some  hours  at  least ; 

When  thou  art  better,  I will  be  thy  guide — 

But  whither  ? 

Man.  It  imports  not : I do  know 

My  route  full  well,  and  need  no  further  guidance. 

C.  Hun.  Thy  garb  and  gait  bespeak  thee  of  high 
lineage — 

One  of  the  many  chiefs,  whose  castled  crags 
Look  o’er  the  lower  valleys — which  of  these 
May  call  thee  lord  ? I only  know  their  portals  ; 

My  way  of  life  leads  me  but  rarely  down 
To  bask  by  the  huge  hearths  of  those  old  halls, 
Carousing  with  the  vassals ; but  the  paths, 

Which  step  from  out  our  mountains  to  their  doors, 

I know  from  childhood — which  of  these  is  thine  ? 
Man.  No  matter. 

C.  Hun.  Well,  sir,  pardon  me  the  question, 

And  be  of  better  cheer.  Come,  taste  my  wine  ; 

’Tis  of  an  ancient  vintage  : many  a day 

’T  has  thaw’d  my  veins  among  our  glaciers,  now 

Let  it  do  thus  for  thine — Come  pledge  me  fairly. 

Man.  Away,  away  ! there’s  blood  upon  the  brim  ! 
Will  it  then  never — never  sink  in  the  earth  ? 

C.  Hun.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? thy  senses  wander 
from  thee. 

Man.  I say  ’tis  blood — my  blood  ! the  pme  warm 
stream 

Which  ran  in  the  veins  of  my  fathers,  and  in  ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had  one  heart. 

And  loved  each  other  as  we  should  not  love, 

And  this  was  shed : but  still  it  rises  up, 

Colouring  the  clouds,  that  shut  me  out  from  heaven. 
Where  thou  art  not — and  I shall  never  be. 

C.  Hun.  Man  of  strange  words,  and  some  half- 
maddening  sin, 

Which  makes  thee  people  vacancy,  whate’er 
Thy  dread  and  sufferance  be,  there’s  comfort  yet. — 

The  aid  of  holy  men,  and  heavenly  patience 

Man.  Patience  and  patience ! Hence — that  word 
was  made 

For  brutes  of  burthen,  not  for  birds  of  prey; 


(3)  [“The  clouds  rose  from  the  opposite  valley,  curling  up  per- 
pendicular precipices,  like  the  foam  of  the  ocean  of  hell  during  the 
spring-tide — it  was  white  and  sulphury,  and  immeasurably  deep  l’i 
appearance.  The  side  we  ascended  was  not  of  so  precipitous  a 
nature;  but,  on  arriving  at  the  summit,  we  looked  down  upon  the 
other  side  upon  a boiling  sea  of  cloud,  dashing  against  the  crags  on 
which  we  stood — these  crags  on  one  side  quite  perpendicular.  I* 
passing  the  masses  of  snow,  I made  a snowball  and  pelted  Hob* 
house  with  it.” — Swiss  Journal .] 


SCENE  II. 


MANFRED. 


181 


Preaoii  it  to  mortals  of  a dust  like  thine, — - 
X am  not  of  thine  order. 

C.  Hun.  Thanks  to  heaven  ! 

I would  not  be  of  thine  for  the  free  fame 
Of  William  Tell ; but  whatsoe’er  thine  ill, 

It  must  be  borne,  and  these  wild  starts  are  useless. 
Man.  Do  I not  bear  it  ? — Look  on  me — I live. 

C.  Hun.  This  is  convulsion,  and  no  healthful  life. 
Man.  I tell  thee,  man  ! I have  lived  many  years, 
Many  long-  years,  but  they  are  nothing  now 
To  those  which  I must  number : ages — ages — 

Space  and  eternity — and  consciousness, 

With  the  fierce  thirst  of  deatli — and  still  unslaked  ! 

C.  Hun.  Why,  on  thy  brow  the  seal  of  middle  age 
Hath  scarce  been  set ; I am  thine  elder  far. 

Man.  Think’st  thou  existence  doth  depend  on  time  ? 
It  doth  ; but  actions  are  our  epochs : mine 
Have  made  my  days  and  nights  imperishable, 

Endless,  and  all  alike,  as  sands  on  the  shore, 
Innumerable  atoms  ; and  one  desert, 

Barren  and  cold,  on  which  the  wild  waves  break, 

But  nothing  rests,  save  carcasses  and  wrecks, 

Rocks,  and  the  salt-serf  weeds  of  bitterness. 

C.  Hun.  Alas  ! he’s  mad— but  yet  I must  not  leave 
him. 

Man.  I would  I were — for  then  the  things  I see 
Would  be  but  a distemper’d  dream. 

C.  Hun.  What  is  it 

That  thou  dost  see,  or  think  thou  look’st  upon  ? 

Man.  Myself,  and  thee — a peasant  of  the  Alps — 
Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home, 

And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud,  and  free ; 

Thy  self-respect,  grafted  on  innocent  thoughts  ; 

Thy  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep  ; thy  toils, 

By  danger  dignified,  yet  guiltless  ; hopes 
Of  cheerful  old  age  and  a quiet  grave, 

With  cross  and  garland  over  its  green  turf, 

And  thv  grandchildren’s  love  for  epitaph ; 

This  do  I see — and  then  I look  within — 

It  matters  not — my  soul  was  scorch’d  already  ! 

C.  Hun.  And  wouldst  thou  then  exchange  thy  lot 
for  mine  ? 

Man.  No,  friend  ! I would  not  wrong  thee,  nor 
exchange 

My  lot  with  living  being  : I can  bear — 

However  wretchedly,  ’tis  still  to  bear — 

In  life  what  others  could  not  brook  to  dream. 

But  perish  in  their  slumber. 

C.  Hun.  And  with  this — ■ 

This  cautious  feeling  for  another’s  pain, 

Canst  thou  be  black  with  evil  ? — say  not  so. 

Can  one  of  gentle  thoughts  have  wreak’d  revenge 
Upon  his  enemies  ? 


(1)  [This  scene  is  one  of  tlie 'most  poetical  and  most  sweetly 
written  in  the  poem.  There  is  a still  and  delicious  witchery  in  the 
tranquillity  and  seclusion  of  the  place,  and  the  celestial  beauty  of 
the  being  who  reveals  herself  in  the  midst  of  these  visible  enchant- 
ments.—Jeffrey.] 

(2)  This  iris  is  formed  by  the  rays  of  the  sun  over  the  lower  part 
of  the  Alpine  torrents  : it  is  exactly  like  a rainbow  come  down  to 
pay  a visit,  and  so  close  that  you  may  walk  into  it:  this  effect  lasts 
till  noon.— [“  Before  ascending  the  mountain,  went  to  the  torrent; 
the  sun  upon  it,  forming  a rainbow  of  the  lower  part  of  all  colours, 
but  principally  purple  and  gold ; the  bow  moving  as  you  move : I 
never  saw  any  thing  like  this;  it  is  only  in  the  sunshine.” — Swiss 
Journal .] 

[“Arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  Jungfrau;  glaciers;  torrents: 
one  of  these  torrents  nine  hundred  feet  in  height  of  visible  descent ; 
heard  an  avalanche  fall,  like  thunder;  glaciers  enormous;  storm 
came  on — thunder,  lightning,  hail  all  in  perfection,  and  beautiful, 

fhe  torrent  is  in  shape  curving  *ver  the  rock,  like  the  tail  of  a 


Man.  Oh  ! no,  no,  no ! 

My  injuries  came  down  on  those  who  loved  me — 

On  those  whom  I best  loved  : I never  quell’d 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  just  defence — 

But  my  embrace  was  fated. 

C.  Hun.  Heaven  give  thee  rest ! 

And  penitence  restore  thee  to  thyself ; 

My  prayers  shall  be  for  thee. 

Man.  I need  them  not, 

But  can  endure  thy  pity.  I depart — 

’Tis  time  — farewell ! — Here’s  gold,  and  thanks  foi 
thee — 

No  words — it  is  thy  due. — Follow  me  not — 

I know  my  path — the  mountain  peril’s  past : — 

And  once  again,  I charge  thee,  follow  not ! 

[Exit  Manfred. 

scene  II. 

A lower  Valley  in  the  Alps. — A Cataract } 

Enter  Manfred. 

It  is  not  noon — the  sunbow’s  rays 1  2 still  arch 
The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven, 

And  roll  the  sheeted  silver’s  waving  column 
O’er  the  crag’s  headlong  perpendicular, 

And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along, 

A.nd  to  and  fro,  like  the  pale  courser’s  tail. 

The  Giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 

As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.3  No  eyes 
But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness ; 

I should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude, 

And  with  the  Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters. — I will  call  her. 

[Manfred  takes  some  of  the  water  into  the  palm 
of  his  hand , and  flings  it  in  the  air,  muttering 
the  adjuration.  After  a pause , the  Witch  of 
the  Alps  rises  beneath  the  arch  of  the  siinbow 
of  the  torrent .] 

Beautiful  Spirit ! with  thy  hair  of  light, 

And  dazzling  eyes  of  glory,  in  whose  form 
The  charms  of  earth’s  least  mortal  daughters  grow 
To  an  unearthly  stature,  in  an  essence 
Of  purer  elements  : while  the  hues  of  youth, — 
Carnation’d  like  a sleeping  infant’s  cheek, 

Rock’d  by  the  beating  of  her  mother’s  heart, 

Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer’s  twilight  leaves 
Upon  the  lofty  glacier’s  virgin  snow, 

The  blush  of  earth,  embracing  with  her  heaven, — 
Tinge  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 
The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o’er  thee.4 
Beautiful  Spirit ! in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 


white  horse  streaming  in  the  wind,  such  as  it  might  be  conceived 
would  be  that  of  the  ‘ pale  horse’  on  which  Death  is  mounted  in 
the  Apocalypse.  It  is  neither  mist  nor  water,  but  a something 
between  both;  its  immense  height  gives  it  a wave  or  curve,  a 
spreading  here  or  condensation  there,  wonderful  and  indescrib- 
able.”— Swiss  Journal .] 

(4)  [In  all  Lord  Byron’s  heroes  we  recognise,  though  with  infinite 
modifications,  the  same  great  characteristics — a high  and  audacious 
conception  of  the  power  of  the  mind,  — an  intense  sensibility  of 
passion, — an  almost  boundless  capacity  of  tumultuous  emotion, — 
a haunting  admiration  of  the  grandeur  of  disordered  power  —and, 
above  all,  a soul- felt,  blood-felt  delight  in  beauty.  “ Parisina”  is  full 
of  it  to  overflowing;  it  breathes  from  every  page  of  the  “ Prisoner 
of  Chillon  ;”  but  it  is  in  “ Manfred”  that  it  riots  and  revels  among  the 
streams,  and  waterfalls,  and  groves,  and  mountains,  and  heavens. 
There  is  in  the  character  of  Manfred  more  of  the  self-might  of 
Byron  than  in  all  his  previous  productions.  He  has  therein  brought, 
with  wonderful  power,  metaphysical  conceptions  into  forms, — and 


182 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


act  a. 


Wherein  is  glass’d  serenity  of  soul, 

Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 
l read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a Son 
Of  Earth,  whom  the  abstruser  powers  permit 
At  times  to  commune  with  them — if  that  he 
Avail  him  of  his  spells — to  call  thee  thus, 

And  gaze  on  thee  a moment. 

Witch.  Son  of  Earth  ! 

I know  thee,  and  the  powers  which  give  thee  power ; 
L know  thee  for  a man  of  many  thoughts, 

And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in  both, 

Fatal  and  fated  in  thy  sufferings. 

I have  expected  this  — what  wouldst  thou  with 
me  ? 

Man.  To  look  upon  thy  beauty — nothing  further.1 
The  face  of  the  earth  hath  madden’d  me,  and  I 
Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 
To  the  abodes  of  those  who  govern  her — 

But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.  I have  sought 
From  them  what  they  could  not  bestow,  and  now 
I search  no  further. 

Witch.  WHiat  could  he  the  quest 

Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  powerful, 

The  rulers  of  the  invisible  ? 

Man.  A boon ; 

But  why  should  I repeat  it  ? ’twere  in  vain. 

Witch.  I know  not  that ; let  thy  lips  utter  it. 

Man.  Well,  though  it  torture  me,  ’tis  but  the  same  ; 
My  pang  shall  find  a voice.  From  my  youth  upwards 
My  spirit  walk’d  not  with  the  souls  of  men, 

Nor  look’d  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes ; 

The  thirst  of  their  ambition  was  not  mine, 

The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine ; 

My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers, 
Made  me  a stranger ; though  I wore  the  form, 

I had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh. 

Nor  midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  me 
Was  there  but  one  who— — but  of  her  anon. 

I said,  with  men,  and  with  the  thoughts  of  men, 

I held  but  slight  communion ; but  instead, 

My  joy  was  in  the  Wilderness,  to  breathe 
The  difficult  air  of  the  iced  mountain’s  top, 

Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect’s  wing 
Flit  o’er  the  herbless  granite ; or  to  plunge 
Into  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 
On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new  breaking  wave 
Of  river-stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow. 

In  these  my4  early  strength  exulted  ; or 
To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon, 

The  stars  and  their  development ; or  catch 
The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim  ; 


we  know  of  no  poem  in  which  the  aspect  of  external  nature  is 
throughout  lighted  up  writh  an  expression  at  once  so  beautiful, 
solemn,  and  majestic.  It  is  the  poem,  next  to  “ Childe  Harold,” 
which  we  should  give  to  a foreigner  to  read,  that  he  might  know 
something  of  Byron.  Shakspeare  has  given  to  those  abstractions 
of  human  life  and  being,  which  are  truth  in  the  intellect,  forms  as 
full,  clear,  glowing,  as  the  idealized  forms  of  visible  nature.  The 
very  words  of  Ariel  picture  to  us  his  beautiful  Jieing.  In  “ Manfred” 
we  see  glorious  bat  immature  manifestations  of  similar  power.  The 
poet  there  creates,  with  delight,  thoughts  and  feelings  and  fancies 
into  visible  forms,  that  he  may  cling  and  eleave  to  them,  and  clasp 
them  in  liis  passion.  The  beautiful  Witch  of  the  Alps  seems  ex- 
haled from  the  luminous  spray  of  the  cataract, — as  if  the  poet’s 
eyes,  unsated  with  the  beauty  of  inanimate  nature,  gave  spectral 
apparitions  of  loveliness  to  feed  the  pure  passion  of  the  poet’s  soul. 
— Wilson.] 

(1)  [There  is  something  exquisitely  beautiful  in  all  this  passage; 
and  both  the  apparition  and  the  dialogue  are  so  managed,  that  the 
sense  of  their  improbability  is  swallowed  up  in  that  of  their  beauty; 
and,  wither  it  actually  believing  that  such  spirits  exist  or  comrau- 


Or  to  look,  list’ni ng,  on  the  scatter’d  leaves. 

While  Autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening  song. 
These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone  : 

For  if  the  beings,  of  whom  I was  one, — 

Hating  to  be  so, — cross’d  me  in  my  path, 

I felt  myself  degraded  back  to  them, 

And  was  all  clay  again.  And  then  I uived, 

In  my  lone  wanderings,  to  the  caves  of  death. 
Searching  its  cause  in  its  effect ; and  drew 
From  wither’d  bones,  and  skulls,  and  heap’d  up  dust, 
Conclusions  most  forbidden.  Then  I pass’d 
The  nights  of  years  in  sciences  untaught, 

Save  in  the  old  time ; and  with  time  and  toil, 

And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance 
As  in  itself  hath  power  upon  the  air, 

And  spirits  that  do  compass  air  and  earth. 

Space,  and  the  peopled  infinite,  I made 
Mine  eyes  familiar  with  Eternity, 

Such  as,  before  me,  did  the  Magi,  and 

He  who  from  out  their  fountain  dwellings  raised 

Eros  and  Anteros,2  at  Gadara, 

As  I do  thee ; — and  with  my  knowledge  grew 
The  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power  and  joy 
Of  this  most  bright  intelligence,  until, 

Witch.  Proceed. 

Man.  Oh  ! I but  thus  prolong’d  my  words, 

Boasting  these  idle  attributes,  because 
As  I approach  the  core  of  my  heart’s  grief — 

But  to  my  task.  I have  not  named  to  thee 
Father  or  mother,  mistress,  friend,  or  being, 

With  whom  I wore  the  chain  of  human  ties  ; 

If  I had  such,  they  seem’d  not  such  to  me — 

Yet  there  was  one 

Witch.  Spare  not  thyself — procetd. 

Man.  She  was  like  me  in  lineaments — her  eyes, 
Her  hair,  her  features,  all,  to  the  very  tone 
Even  of  her  voice,  they  said  were  like  to  mine ; 

But  soften’d  all,  and  temper’d  into  beauty : 

She  had  the  same  lone  thoughts  and  wanderings, 

The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a mind 
To  comprehend  the  universe  : nor  these 
Alone,  but  with  them  gentler  powers  than  mine, 

Pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears — which  I had  not ; 

And  tenderness — but  that  I had  for  her ; 

Humility — and  that  I never  had. 

Her  faults  were  mine — her  virtues  were  her  own — 

I loved  her,  and  destroy’d  her  ! 

Witch.  With  thy  hand  ? 

Man.  Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart — which  broke 
her  heart — 

It  gazed  on  mine,  and  wither’d.  I have  shed 


nicate  themselves,  we  feel  for  the  moment  as  if  we  stood  in  their 
presence. — Jeffrey.] 

(2)  The  philosopher  Jamblicus.  The  story  of  the  raising  of  Eros 
and  Anteros  may  be  found  in  his  life  by  Eunapius.  It  is  well 
told. — [“It  is  reported  of  him,”  says  Eunapius,  “ that  while  he  and 
his  scholars  were  bathing  in  the  hot  baths  of  Gadara  in  Syria,  a 
dispute  arising  concerning  the  baths,  he,  smiling,  ordered  his  dis- 
ciples to  ask  the  inhabitants  by  what  names  the  two  lesser  springs, 
that  were  nearer  and  handsomer  than  the  rest,  were  called.  To  # 
which  the  inhabitants  replied,  that  ‘ the  one  was  called  Eros,  and 
the  other  Anteros,  but  for  what  reason  they  knew  not.’  Upon 
which  Jamblicus,  sitting  by  one  of  the  springs,  put  his  hand  in  the 
water,  and  muttering  some  few  words  to  himself,  called  up  a fair- 
complexioned  boy,  with  gold-coloured  locks  dangling  from  his  back 
and  breast,  so  that  he  looked  like  one  that  was  washing:  and  then, 
going  to  the  other  spring,  and  doing  as  he  had  done  before,  called 
up  another  Cupid,  with  darker  and  more  dishevelled  hair : upon 
which  both  the  Cupids  clung  about  Jamblicus;  but  lie  presently 
sent,  them  back  to  their  proper  places.  After  this,  his  friends  sub 
mitted  their  belief  to  him  in  every  thing.”1 


SCENE  III. 


MANFRED. 


183 


Blood,  but  not  hers — and  yet  her  blood  was  shed — 

I saw — and  could  not  stanch  it. 

Witch.  And  for  this — 

A bein^  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise, 

The  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
Mingling  with  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
The  gifts  of  our  great  knowledge,  and  shrink’st  back 

To  recreant  mortality xlway  ! 

Man.  Daughter  of  Air!  I tell  thee,  since  that  hour — 
But  wtords  are  breath — look  on  me  in  my  sleep, 

Or  watch  my  watchings — Come  and  sit  by  me  ! 

My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more, 

But  peopled  with  the  Furies  : — I have  gnash’d 
My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn, 

Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset ; — I have  pray’d 
For  madness  as  a blessing — ’tis  denied  me. 

I have  affronted  death — but  in  the  war 
Of  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me, 

And  fatal  things  pass’d  harmless— the  cold  hand 
Of  an  all-pitiless  demon  held  me  back, 

Back  by  a single  liair,  which  would  not  break. 

In  fantasy,  imagination,  all 

The  affluence  of  my  soul — which  one  day  was 

A Croesus  in  creation — I plunged  deep, 

But,  like  an  ebbing  wave,  it  dash’d  me  back 
Into  the  gulf  of  my  unfathom’d  thought. 

I plunged  amidst  mankind — Forgetfulness 
I sought  in  all,  save  where  ’tis  to  be  found. 

And  that  I have  to  learn — my  sciences, 

My  long  pursued  and  superhuman  art, 

Is  mortal  here — I dwell  in  my  despair — 

And  live — and  live  for  ever. 

Witch.  It  may  be 

That  I can  aid  thee. 

Man.  To  do  this  thy  power 

Must  wake  the  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with  them. 

Do  so — in  any  shape — in  any  hour — 

With  any  torture — so  it  be  the  last. 

Witch.  That  is  not  in  my  province  ; but  if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  my  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may  help  thee  to  thy  wishes. 

Man.  I will  not  swear — Obey ! and  whom  ? the 
spirits 

Whose  presence  I command,  and  be  the  slave 
Of  those  who  served  me — Never  ! 

Witch.  Is  this  all  ? 

Hast  thou  no  gentler  answer  ? — Yet  bethink  thee, 

And  pause  ere  ^hou  rejectest. 

Man.  I have  said  it. 

Witch.  Enough  ! — I may  retire  then — say  ! 

Man.  Retire ! 

[The  Witch  disappears. 
Man.  {alone').  We  are  the  fools  of  time  and  terror : 
days 


(1)  The  story  of  Pausanias,  king  of  Sparta  (who  commanded  the 
Greeks  at  the  battle  of  Plataea,  and  afterwards  perished  for  an 
attempt  to  betray  the  Lacedaemonians),  and  Cleonice,  is  told  in 
Plutarch’s  life  of  Cimon;  and  in  ihe  Laconics  of  Pausanias  the 
sophist,  in  his  description  of  Greece. — [The  following  is  the  passage 
from  Plutarch  : — “ It  is  related,  that  when  Pausanias  was  at  Byzan- 
tium, he  cast  his  eyes  upon  a young  virgin  named  Cleonice,  of  a 
noble  family  there,  and  insisted  on  having  her  for  a mistress.  The 
parents,  intimidated  by  his  power,  were  under  the  hard  necessity 
of  giving  up  their  daughter.  The  young  woman  begged  that  the 
light  might  be  taken  out  of  his  apartments,  that  she  might  go  to 
his  bed  in  secrecy  and  silence.  When  she  entered  he  was  asleep, 
and  she  unfortunately  stumbled  upon  the  candlestick  and  threw  it 
down.  The  noise  waked  him  suddenly,  and  he,  in  his  confusion, 
thinking  it  was  an  enemy  coming  to  assassinate  him,  unsheathed  a 
dagger  that  lay  by  him,  and  plunged  it  into  the  virgin’s  heart. 


Steal  on  us  and  steal  from  us ; yet  we  live. 
Loathing  our  life,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 

In  all  the  days  of  this  detested  yoke — 

This  vital  weight  upon  the  struggling  heart. 

Which  sinks  with  sorrow,  or  beats  quick  with  pain. 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  faintness — 
i In  all  the  days  of  past  and  future,  for 
j In  life  there  is  no  present,  we  can  number 
( How  few — how  less  than  few — wherein  the  soul 
F’orbcars  to  pant  for  death,  and  yet  draws  bacK 
As  from  a stream  in  winter,  though  the  chill 
Be  but  a moment’s.  I have  one  resource 
Still  in  my  science — I can  call  the  dead, 

And  ask  them  what  it  is  we  dread  to  be  : 

The  sternest  answer  can  but  be  the  Grave, 

And  that  is  nothing — if  they  answer  not — - 
The  buried  Prophet  answered  to  the  Hag 
Of  Endor ; and  the  Spartan  Monarch  drew 
From  the  Byzantine  maid’s  unsleeping  spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny — he  slew 
That  which  he  loved,  unknowing  what  lie  sle  w, 

And  died  unpardon’d— though  he  call’d  in  aid 
The  Phyxian  Jove,  and  in  Phigalia  roused 
The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 
The  indignant  shadow  to  depose  her  wrath, 

Or  fix  her  term  of  vengeance — she  replied 
In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfill’d.1 
If  I had  never  lived,  that  which  I love 
Had  still  been  living;  had  I never  loved, 

That  which  I love  would  still  be  beautiful — 

Happy  and  giving  happiness.  What  is  she  ? 

What  is  she  now  ? — a sufferer  for  my  sins — 

A thing  I dare  not  think  upon — or  nothing. 

Within  few  hours  I shall  not  call  in  vain — • 

Yet  in  this  hour  I dread  the  thing  I dare  : 

Until  this  hour  I never  shrunk  to  gaze 
On  spirit,  good  or  evil — now  I tremble, 

And  feel  a strange  cold  thaw  upon  my  heart. 

But  I can  act  even  what  I most  abhor, 

And  champion  human  fears. — The  night  approaches. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III. 

The  Summit  of  the  Jung fr ait  Mountain. 

Enter  First  Destiny. 

The  moon  is  rising  broad,  and  round,  and  bright , 

And  here  on  snows,  where  never  human  foot 
Of  common  mortal  trod,  we  nightly  tread, 

And  leave  no  traces  ; o’er  the  savage  sea, 

The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain  ice. 

We  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  put  on 
The  aspect  of  a tumbling  tempest’s  foam. 


After  this  he  could  never  rest.  Her  image  appeared  to  him  every 
night,  and  with  a menacing  tone  repeated  this  heroic  verse, — 

‘ Go  to  the  fate  which  pride  and  lust  prepare !’ 

The  allies,  highly  incensed  at  this  infamous  action,  joined  Cimon 
to  besiege  him  ir,  Byzantium.  But  he  found  means  to  escape 
thence;  and  as  he  was  still  haunted  by  the  spectre,  he  is  said  to 
have  applied  to  a temple  at  Heraclea,  where  the  manes  of  the  dead 
were  consulted.  There  he  invoked  the  spirit  of  Cleonice,  and 
entreated  her  pardon.  She  appeared,  and  told  him  ‘ he  would  soon 
be  delivered  from  all  his  troubles,  after  his  return  to  Sparta;’  in 
which,  it  seems,  his  death  was  enigmatically  foretold.  These  par- 
ticulars we  have  from  many  historians.” — Langhorne’s  Plutarch, 
vol.  iii.  p.  279.  “ Thus  we  find,”  adds  the  translator,  “ that  it  was 

a custom  in  the  Pagan  as  well  as  in  the  Hebrew  theology,  to  conjure 
up  the  spirits  of  the  dead;  and  that  the  witch  of  Endor  was  not  the 
only  witch  in  the  world.”] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  II 


184 

Frozen  in  a moment 1 2 — a dead  whirlpool’s  image  : 
And  this  most  steep  fantastic  pinnacle, 

The  fretwork  of  some  earthquake — where  the  clouds 
Pause  to  repose  themselves  in  passing  by — 

Is  sacred  to  our  revels,  or  our  vigils  ; 

Here  do  I wait  my  sisters,  on  our  wav 

To  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  for  to-night 

Is  our  great  festival — ’tis  strange  they  come  not. 

A Voice  without,  singing. 

The  Captive  Usurper, 

Hurl’d  down  from  the  throne. 

Lay  buried  in  torpor, 

Forgotten  and  lone ; 

I broke  through  his  slumbers, 

I shiver’d  his  chain, 

I leagued  him  with  numbers — 

He’s  Tyrant  again ! 

With  the  blood  of  a million  he’ll  answer  my  care, 
With  a nation’s  destruction — his  flight  and  despair. 

Second  Voice , without. 

The  ship  sail’d  on,  the  ship  sail’d  fast. 

But  I left  not  a sail,  and  I left  not  a mast ; 

There  is  not  a plank  of  the  hull  or  the  deck, 

And  there  is  not  a wretch  to  lament  o’er  his  wreck ; 
Save  one,  whom  I held,  as  he  swam,  by  the  hair, 
And  he  was  a subject  well  worthy  my  care ; 

A traitor  on  land,  and  a pirate  at  sea — 

But  I saved  him  to  wreak  further  havoc  for  me  ! 

First  Destiny,  answering. 

The  city  lies  sleeping  ; 

The  morn,  to  deplore  it, 

May  dawn  on  it  weeping : 

Sullenly,  slowly, 

The  black  plague  flew  o’er  it — 
Thousands  lie  lowly ; 

Tens  of  thousands  shall  perish — 

The  living  shall  fly  from 
The  sick  they  shall  cherish ; 

But#nothing  can  vanquish 
The  touch  that  they  die  from. 

Sorrow  and  anguish. 

And  evil  and  dread, 

Envelope  a nation — 

The  blest  are  the  dead. 

Who  see  not  the  sight 
Of  their  own  desolation — 

This  work  of  a night — 

This  wreck  of  a realm — this  deed  of  my  doing — 

For  ages  I’ve  done,  and  shall  still  be  renewing ! 

Enter  the  Second  and  Third  Destinies. 

The  Three. 

Our  hands  contain  the  hearts  of  men, 

Our  footsteps  are  their  graves  ; 

We  only  give  to  take  again 
The  spirits  of  our  slaves  ! 


(1)  ["Came  to  a morass;  Hobhouse  dismounted  to  get  over 
well ; I tried  to  pass  my  horse  over;  the  horse  sunk  up  to  the  chin, 
and  of  course  hu  and  I were  in  the  mud  together;  bemired,  but  not 
hurt;  laughed  and  rode  on.  Arrived  at  the  Grindenwold;  mounted 
again,  and  rode  to  the  higher  glacier — like  a frozen  hurricane.” — 
Swiss  Journal .] 

(2)  [This  stanza  we  think  is  out  of  place,  at  least,  if  not  out 


First  Fes.  Welcome  ! — Where’s  Nemesis  ? 

Second  Fes.  At  some  great  work  ; 

But  what  I know  not,  for  my  hands  were  full. 

Third  Fes.  Behold  she  cometh. 

Enter  Nemesis. 

First  Fes.  Say,  where  hast  thou  been  ’ 

My  sisters  and  thyself  are  slow  to-night. 

Nem.  I was  detain’d  repairing  shatter’d  thrones, 
Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties, 

Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies, 

And  making  them  repent  their  own  revenge  ; 

Goading  the  wise  to  madness ; from  the  dull 
Shaping  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 
Afresh,  for  they  were  waxing  out  of  date, 

And  mortals  dared  to  ponder  for  themselves. 

To  weigh  kings  in  the  balance,  and  to  speak 
Of  freedom,  the  forbidden  fruit. — Away  ! 

We  have  outstay’d  the  hour — mount  we  our  clouds  ! 

[Exeunt 


SCENE  IV. 

The  Hall  of  Arimanes  — Arimanes  on  his  Throne , t 
Globe  of  Fire,  surrounded  by  the  Spirits. 

Hymn  of  the  Spirits. 

Hail  to  our  Master  ! — Prince  of  Earth  and  Air ! 

Who  walks  the  clouds  and  waters — in  his  hand 
The  sceptre  of  the  elements,  which  tear 
Themselves  to  chaos  at  his  high  command  ! 

He  breatheth — and  a tempest  shakes  the  sea  ; 

He  speaketh — and  the  clouds  reply  in  thunder  ; 

He  gazetli — from  his  glance  the  sunbeams  flee  ; 

He  movetli — earthquakes  rend  the  world  asunder. 
Beneath  his  footsteps  the  volcanoes  rise ; 

His  shadow  is  the  Pestilence ; his  path 
The  comets  herald  through  the  crackling  skies  ; 3 

And  planets  turn  to  ashes  at  his  wrath. 

To  him  War  offers  daily  sacrifice  ; 

To  him  Death  pays  his  tribute  ; Life  is  his, 

With  all  its  infinite  of  agonies — 

And  his  the  spirit  of  whatever  is  ! 

Enter  the  Destinies  and  Nemesis. 

First  Fes.  Glory  to  Arimanes ! on  the  earth 
His  power  increaseth — both  my  sisters  did 
His  bidding,  nor  did  I neglect  my  duty ! 

Second  Fes.  Glory  to  Arimanes  ! we  who  bow 
The  necks  of  men,  bow  down  before  his  throne  ! 

Third  Fes.  Glory  to  Arimanes  ! we  await 
His  nod ! 

Nem.  Sovereign  of  Sovereigns  ! we  are  thine. 

And  all  that  liveth,  more  or  less,  is  ours, 

And  most  things  wholly  so  ; still  to  increase 
Our  power,  increasing  thine,  demands  our  care, 

And  we  are  vigilant — Thy  late  commands 
Have  been  fulfill’d  to  the  utmost. 


of  character : and  though  the  author  may  tell  us  that  huma: 
calamities  are  naturally  subjects  of  derision  to  the  ministers  c 
vengeance,  yet  we  cannot  be  persuaded  that  satirical  and  politics 
allusions  are  at  all  compatible  with  the  feelings  and  impression 
which  it  was  here  his  business  to  maintain. — Jeffrey.] 

(3)  [“The  comets  herald  through  the  j^rnYng8 } skies,>  ""****' 


SCENE  IV. 


MANFRED. 


185 


Enter  Manfred. 

A Spirit.  . What  is  here  ? 

A mortal ! — Thou  most  rash  and  fatal  wretch, 

Bow  down  and  worship  ! 

Second  Spirit.  I do  know  the  man — 

A Magian  of  great  power,  and  fearful  skill ! 

Third  Spirit.  Bow  down  and  worship,  slave  ! 

What,  know’st  thou  not 
Thine  and  our  Sovereign  ? — Tremble,  and  obey  ! 

All  the  Spirits.  Prostrate  thyself,  and  thy  con- 
demned clay, 

Child  of  the  Earth  ! or  dread  the  worst. 

Man.  I know  it ; 

And  yet  ye  see  I kneel  not. 

Fourth  Spirit.  ’Twill  be  taught  thee. 

Man.  ’Tis  taught  already ; — many  a night  on  the 
earth, 

On  the  bare  ground,  have  I bow’d  down  my  face, 

And  strew’d  my  head  with  ashes ; 1 have  known 
The  fulness  of  humiliation,  for 
1 sunk  before  my  vain  despair,  and  knelt 
To  my  own  desolation. 

Fifth  Spirit.  Dost  thou  dare 

Befuse  to  Arimanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  beholding  not 
The  terror  of  his  Glory  ? — Crouch  ! 1 say. 

Man.  Bid  him  bow  down  to  that  which  is  above 
him, 

The  overruling  Infinite — the  Maker 

Who  made  him  not  for  worship — let  him  kneel, 

And  we  will  kneel  together. 

The  Spirits.  Crush  the  worm  ! 

Tear  him  in  pieces  ! — 

First  Fes.  Hence  ! Avaunt ! — he’s  mine. 

Prince  of  the  Powers  invisible  ! This  man 
Is  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 
And  presence  here  denote ; his  sufferings 
Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 
Our  own ; his  knowledge  and  his  powers  and  will, 

As  far  as  is  compatible  with  clay, 

Which  clogs  the  ethereal  essence,  have  been  such 
As  clay  hath  seldom  borne ; his  aspirations 
Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth, 

And  they  have  only  taught  him  what  we  know — 

That  knowledge  is  not  happiness,  and  science 
But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 
Which  is  another  kind  of  ignorance. 

This  is  not  all — the  passions,  attributes 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power,  nor 
being. 

Nor  breath  from  the  worm  upwards  is  exempt, 

Have  pierced  his  heart ; and  in  their  consequence 
Made  him  a thing,  which  I,  who  pity  not, 

Yet  pardon  those  who  pity.  He  is  mine, 

And  thine,  it  may  be — be  it  so,  or  not. 

No  other  Spirit  in  this  region  hath 
A soul  like  his — or  power  upon  his  soul. 

Nem.  What  doth  he  here  then  ? 

First  Des.  Let  him  answer  that. 

Man.  Ye  know  what  I have  known ; and  without 
power 

I could  not  be  amongst  ye : but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond — I come  in  quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  unto  what  I seek. 

Nem.  What  wouldst  thou  F 

Man.  Thou  canst  not  reply 

to  me. 

Call  ’jp  the  dead — my  question  is  for  them. 


Nem.  Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal  ? 

Ari.  Yea. 

Nem.  Whom  wouldst  thou 

Uncharnel  ? 

Man.  One  without  a tomb — call  up 
Astarte. 

Nemesis. 

Shadow ! or  Spirit ! 

Whatever  thou  art, 

Which  still  doth  inherit 
The  whole  or  a part 
Of  the  form  of  thy  birth, 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 

Which  return’d  to  the  earth, 

Be-appear  to  the  day  ! 

Bear  what  thou  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form, 

And  the  aspect  thou  worest 
, Redeem  from  the  worm. 

Appear  ! — Appear  ! — Appear  ! 

Who  sent  thee  there  requires  thee  here  ! 

\The  Phantom  of  Astarte  rises  and  stands  in 
the  midst 

Man.  Can  this  be  death?  there’s  bloom  upon  her 
ciieek ; 

But  now  I see  it  is  no  living  hue, 

But  a strange  hectic — like  the  unnatural  red 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  perish’d  leaf. 

It  is  the  same  ! oh,  God  ! that  T should  dread 
To  look  upon  the  same — Astarte  ! — No, 

I cannot  speak  to  her — but  bid  her  speak — 

Eorgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

Nemesis. 

By  the  power  which  hath  broken 
The  grave  which  enthrall’d  thee, 

Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken, 

Or  those  who  have  call’d  thee  ! 

Man.  She  is  silent, 

And  in  that  silence  I am  more  than  answer’d. 

Nem.  My  power  extends  no  further.  Prince  of  an 
It  rests  with  thee  alone — command  her  voice. 

Ari.  Spirit — obey  this  sceptre  ! 

Nem.  Silent  still ! 

She  is  not  of  our  order,  but  belongs 

To  the  other  powers.  Mortal ! thy  quest  is  vain, 

And  we  are  baffled  also. 

Man.  Hear  me,  hear  me — 

Astarte  ! my  beloved ! speak  to  me  : 

I have  so  much  endured — so  much  endure — 

Look  on  me ! the  grave  hath  not  changed  thee  mere 
Than  I am  changed  for  thee.  Thou  lovedst  me 
Too  much,  as  I loved  thee  : we  were  not  made 
To  torture  thus  each  other,  though  it  were 
The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  have  loved. 

Say  that  thou  loath’st  me  not — that  I do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both — that  thou  wilt  be 
One  of  the  blessed — and  that  I shall  die ; 

For  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  bind  me  in  existence — in  a life 
Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality — 

A future  like  the  past.  I cannot  rest 
I know  not  what  I ask,  nor  what  I seek  : 

I feel  but  what  thou  art — and  what  T *m ; 

B B 


a86 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  in. 


And  I would  hear  yet  once  before  I perish 
The  voice  which  was  my  music — Speak  to  me  ! 

For  I have  call’d  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 

Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the  hush’d  boughs, 
And  woke  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the  caves 
Acquainted  with  thy  vainly  echoed  name, 

Which  answer’d  me— many  things  answer’d  me — 
Spirits  and  men — but  thou  wert  silent  all. 

Yet  speak  to  me  ! I have  outwatch’d  the  stars, 

And  gazed  o’er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  thee. 

Speak  to  me ! I have  wander’d  o’er  the  earth, 

And  never  found  thy  likeness — Speak  to  me  ! 

Look  on  the  fiends  around — they  feel  for  me  : 

I fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone — 

Speak  to  me  ! though  it  be  in  wrath ; — but  say — 

I reck  not  what — but  let  me  hear  thee  once — 

This  once — once  more  ! 

Phantom  of  Ast arte.  Manfred ! 

Man.  ' Say  on,  say  on — 

I live  but  in  the  sound — it  is  thy  voice  ! [ills. 

Phan.  Manfred!  To-morrow  ends  thine  earthly 
Farewell ! 

Man.  Yet  one  word  more — am  I forgiven  ? 

Phan.  Farewell. 

Man.  Say,  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

Phan.  Farewell 

Man.  One  word  for  mercy ! Say,  thou  lovest  me. 
Phan.  Manfred  ! 

[ The  Spirit  of  Astarte  disappears} 

Nem.  She’s  gone,  and  will  not  be  recall’d; 

Her  words  will  be  fulfill’d.  Return  to  the  earth. 

A Spirit.  He  is  convulsed — This  is  to  be  a mortal, 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality. 

Another  Spirit.  Yet,  see,  he  mastereth  himself,  and 
makes 

His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 

Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awful  spirit. 

Nem.  Hast  thou  further  question 

Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers  ? 

Matt.  None. 

Nem.  Then  for  a time  farewell. 

Man.  We  meet  then  ! Where  ? On  the  earth  ? — 
Even  as  thou  wilt : and  for  the  grace  accorded 
T now  depart  a debtor.  Fare  ye  well ! 

[Exit  ManfriJ). 

(Scene  closes .) 


(1)  [Over  this  fine  drama,  a moral  feeling  hangs  like  a sombrous 
thunder-cloud.  No  other  guilt  but  that  so  darkly  shadowed  out 
could  have  furnished  so  dreadful  an  illustration  of  the  hideous 
aberrations  of  human  nature,  however  noble  and  majestic,  when 
left  a prey  to  its  desires,  its  passions,  and  its  imagination.  The 
beauty,  at  one  time  so  innocently  adored,  is  at  last  soiled,  profaned, 
and  violated.  Affection,  love,  guilt,  horror,  remorse,  and  death, 
come  in  terrible  succession,  yet  all  darkly  linked  together.  We 
think  of  Astarte  as  young,  beautiful,  innocent — guilty — lost — mur- 
dered— buried — judged — pardoned  ; but  still,  in  her  permitted  visit 
to  earth,  speaking  in  a voice  of  sorrow,  and  with  a countenance  yet 
pale  with  mortal  trouble.  We  had  but  a glimpse  of  her  in  her 
beauty  and  innocence ; but,  at  last,  she  rises  up  before  us  in  all  the 
mortal  silence  of  a ghost,  with  fixed,  glazed,  and  passionless  eyes, 
revealing  death,  judgment,  and  eternity.  The  moral  breathes  and 
burns  in  every  word, — in  sadness,  misery,  insanity,  desolation,  and 
death.  The  work  is  “instinct  with  spirit,” — and  in  the  agony  and 
distraction,  and  all  its  dimly  imagined  causes,  we  behold,  though 
broken  up,  confused,  and  shattered,  the  elements  of  a purer  exist- 
»nce. — Wilson.] 

(2)  [The  third  Act,  as  originally  written,  being  shown  to  Mr. 
Gifford,  he  expressed  his  unfavourable  opinion  of  it  very  distinctly  : 
and  Mr.  Murray  transmitted  this  opinion  to  Lord  Byron.  The 
result  is  told  hi  the  following  extracts  from  his  letters : — 


ACT  in 

SCENE  I. 

A Hall  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred. 

Manfred  and  Herman. 

Man.  What  is  the  hour  ? 

Her.  It  wants  but  one  till  sunset, 

And  promises  a lovely  twilight. 

Man.  _ Say, 

Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I directed  ? 

Her.  All,  my  lord,  are  ready  : 

Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 

Man.  It  is  well : 

Thou  may’st  retire.  . [Exit  Herman. 

Man.  {alone).  There  is  a calm  upon  me — 
Inexplicable  stillness  ! which  till  now 
Did  not  belong  to  what  I knew  of  life. 

If  that  I did  not  know  philosophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motliest, 

The  merest  word  that  ever  fool’d  the  ear 
From  out  the  schoolman’s  jargon,  I should  deem 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  “ Kalon,”  found, 

And  seated  in  my  soul.  It  will  not  last, 

But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but  once : 

It  hath  enlarged  my  thoughts  with  a new  sense. 

And  I within  my  tablets  Avould  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a feeling.  Who  is  there  ? 

Re-enter  Herman. 

Her.  My  lord,  the  abbot  of  St.  Maurice  craves 
To  greet  your  presence. 

Enter  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 

Abbot.  Peace  be  with  Ccxit  Manfred  ! 

Man.  Thanks,  holy  father ! welcome  to  these  walls ; 
Thy  presence  honours  them,  and  blesset.h  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

Abbot.  W ould  it  were  so,  Count ! — 

But  I would  fain  confer  with  thee  alone. 

Man.  Herman,  retire. — What  would  my  reverend 
guest  ? 

Abbot.  Thus,  without  prelude  : — Age  and  zeal,  my 
office, 

And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privilege ; 

Our  near,  though  not  acquainted  neighbourhood, 


“Venice,  April  14,  1817. — The  third  Act  is  certainly  d—d  bad, 
and,  like  the  Archbishop  of  Grenada’s  homily,  (which  savoured  of 
the  palsy,)  has  the  dregs  of  my  fever,  during  which  it  was  written. 
It  must  on  no  account  be  published  in  its  present  state.  I will  try 
and  reform  it,  or  re-write  it  altogether;  but  the  impulse  is  gone, 
and  I have  no  chance  of  making  any  thing  out  of  it.  The  speech 
of  Manfred  to  the  Sun  is  the  only  part  of  this  Act  I thought  good 
myself;  the  rest  is  certainly  as  bad  as  bad  can  be,  and  I wonder 
what  the  devil  possessed  me.  I am  very  glad  indeed  that  you  sent 
me  Mr.  Gifford’s  opinion  without  deduction.  Do  you  suppose  me 
such  a booby  as  not  to  be  very  much  obliged  to  him  ? or  that  I was 
not,  and  am  not,  convinced  and  convicted  in  my  conscience  of  this 
same  overt  act  of  nonsense  ? I shall  try  at  it  again ; in  the  mean 
time,  lay  it  upon  the  shelf— the  whole  Drama  I mean. — Recollect 
not  to  publish,  upon  pain  of  I know  not  what,  until  I have  tried 
again  at  the  third  act.  I am  not  sure  that  I shall  try,  and  stiil  less 
that  I shall  succeed  if  I do.” 

“ Rome,  May  5.— I have  re-written  the  greater  part,  and  returned 
what  is  not  altered  in  the  proof  you  sent  me.  The  Abbot  is  become 
a good  man,  and  the  Spirits  are  brought  in  at  the  death.  You  will 
find,  I think,  some  good  poetry  in  this  new  Act,  here  and  there 
and  if  so,  print  it,  without  sending  me  farther  proofs,  under  Mr 
Gifford's  correction  if  he  will  have  the  gjv.lness  to  overlook  it.”] 


R'FNE  I. 


MANFRED. 


187 


Mav  also  be  my  herald.  Rumours  strange, 

And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad. 

And  busy  with  thy  name  ; a noble  name 
For  centuries  : may  he  who  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  unimpair’d  ! 

Man.  Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot.  ’Tis  said  thou  boldest  converse  with  the 
things 

Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of  man  ; 

That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dark  abodes, 

The  many  evil  and  unheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of  death, 

Thou  commonest.  I know  that  with  mankind, 

Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  do:st  rarely 
Exchange  thy  thoughts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite’s,  were  it  but  holy. 

Man.  And  what  are  they  who  do  avouch  these 
things  F 

Abbot.  My  pious  brethren — the  scared  peasantry — 
Even  thy  own  vassals — who  do  look  on  thee 
With  most  unquiet  eyes.  Thy  life’s  in  peril. 

Man.  Take  it. 

Abbot.  I come  to  save,  and  not  destroy — 

l would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul ; 

But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  ana  pity  : reconcile  thee  [heaven. 
With  the  true  church,  and  through  the  church  to 
Man.  I hear  thee.  This  is  my  reply : whate’er 
I may  have. been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 
Heaven  and  myself, — I shall  not  choose  a mortal 
To  be  my  mediator.  Have  I sinnM 
Against  your  ordinances  ? prove  ard  punish  I1 
Abbot.  My  son  ! I did  not  speak  of  punishment, 

But  penitence  and  pardon; — with  thyself 


The  choice  c such  remains — and  for  the  last, 

Our  institutions  and  our  strong  belief 
Have  given  me  power  to  smooth  the  path  from  sin 
To  higher  hope  and  better  thoughts  ; the  first 
I leave  to  heaven, — “ Vengeance  is  mine  alone!” 

So  saitli  the  Lord,  and  with  all  humbleness 
Ilis  servant  echoes  back  the  awful  word. 

Man.  Old  man  ! there  is  no  power  in  holy  men. 
Nor  charm  in  prayer— nor  purifying  form 
Of  penitence — nor  outward  look — nor  fast — 

Nor  agony — nor,  greater  than  all  these, 

The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  despair, 

Which  is  remorse  without  the  fear  of  hell, 

But  all  in  all  sufficient  to  itself 

Would  make  a hell  of  heaven — can  exorcise 

From  out  the  unbounded  spirit  the  quick  sense 

Of  its  own  sins,  wrongs,  sufferance,  and  revenge 

Upon  itself;  there  is  no  future  pang 

Can  deal  that  justice  on  the  self-condemn’d 

He  deals  on  his  own  soul. 

Abbot.  All  this  is  well ; 

For  this  will  pass  away,  and  be  succeeded 
By  an  auspicious  hope,  which  shall  look  up 
With  calm  assurance  to  that  blessed  place, 

Which  all  who  seek  may  win,  whatever  be 
Their  earthly  errors,  so  they  be  atoned : 

And  the  commencement  of  atonement  is 
The  sense  of  its  necessity. — Say  on — 

And  all  our  church  can  teach  thee  shall  be  taught ; 
And  all  we  can  absolve  thee  shall  be  pardon’d. 

Man.  When  Rome’s  sixth  emperor2  was  near  hia 
last. 

The  victim  of  his  self-inflicted  wound, 

To  shun  the  torments  of  a public  death 3 


(i)  [Thus  far  the  text  stands  as  origin ,<ly  penned:  we  subjoin 
*’  -e  sequel  of  the  scene  as  given  in  the  firrt  MS. : — 

Abbot.  Then,  hear  and  tremble  ! For  the  headstrong  wretch 
Who  in  the  mail  of  innate  hardihood 
Would  shield  himself,  and  battle  fo.  his  sins, 

There  is  the  stake  on  earth,  and  bM-ond  earth  eternal 

Man.  Charity,  most  reverend  father, 

Becomes  thy  lips  so  much  mo’  8 nan  this  menace, 

That  I would  call  thee  back  *o  '.c:  but  say, 

What  wouldst  thou  with  me  t 
Abbot.  If  may  be  there  are 

Things  that  would  shake  thee — but  I keep  them  back, 

And  give  thee  till  to-morruvi  to  epent. 

Then  if  thou  dost  not  all  J svof  .•  thyself 
To  penance,  and  wb'n  r,ift  of  -ll  thy  lands 
To  the  monastery 

Man.  I understand  thee, — well! 

Abbot.  Expect  • o merry ; I have  warned  thee. 

Man.  (opr  .my  t!.c  ca ,/cct).  Stop — 

There  is  a ^ift  o:  thee  within  this  casket. 

[Manfred  opens  the  casket,  strikes  a light,  and 
b'j,rns  some  incense. 

' >nntaroth ! 

r*-t  Demon  Ashtaroth  appears,  singing  as  follows; — 

The  laven  sits 
'"in  the  raven-stone, 

And  his  black  wing  Hits 
O’er  the  milk-white  bone; 

To  and  fro,  as  the  night-winds  blow, 

The  carcass  of  the  assassin  swings ; 

And  there  alone,  on  the  raven-stone,* 

The  raven  Haps  his  dusky  wings. 

The  fetters  creak — and  his  ebon  beak 
Croaks  to  the  close  of  the  hollow  sound  ; 

And  this  is  the  tune,  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

To  which  the  witches  dance  their  round — 

Merrily,  merrily,  cheerily,  cheerily, 

Merrily,  speeds  the  bail : 

The  dead  in  their  shrouds,  and  the  demons  in  clouds, 
Flock  to  the  witches’  carnival. 


* ' Raven-stone  (Rabenstein)  a translation  of  the  German  word 
tor  the  gibbet,  which  in  Germany  and  Switzerland  is  permanent, 
and  made  of  stone.” 


Abbot.  I fear  thee  not — hence — hence — 

Avaunt  thee,  evil  one ! — help,  ho  ! without  there ! 

Man.  Convey  this  man  to  the  Shreckhorn — to  its  peak — 
To  its  extremest  peak — watch  with  him  there 
From  now  till  sunrise;  let  him  gaze,  and  know 
He  ne'er  again  will  be  so  near  to  heaven. 

But  harm  him  not;  and,  when  the  morrow  breaks, 

Set  him  down  safe  in  his  cell — away  with  him ! 

Ash.  Had  I not  better  bring  his  brethren  too, 

Convent  and  all,  to  hear  him  company? 

Man.  No,  this  will  serve  for  the  present.  Take  him  tip. 

Ash.  Come,  friar  ! now  an  exorcism  or  two, 

And  we  shall  fly  the  lighter. 

Ashtaroth  disappears  with  the  Abbot,  singing  as  folletct 
A prodigal  son,  and  a maid  undone, 

And  a widow  re-wedded  within  the  year; 

And  a worldly  monk,  and  a pregnant  nun, 

Are  things  which  every  day  appear. 

Manfred  alone. 


Man.  Why  would  this  fool  break  in  on  me,  and  fore* 
My  art  to  pranks  fantastical? — no  matter, 

1 1 was  not  of  my  seeking.  My  heart  sickens, 

And  weighs  a fix’d  foreboding  on  my  soul : 

But  it  is  calm — calm  as  a sullen  sea 
After  the  hurricane  ; the  winds  are  still, 

But  the  cold  waves  swell  high  and  heavily, 

And  there  is  danger  in  them.  Such  a rest 
Is  no  repose.  My  life  hath  been  a combat, 

And  every  thought  a wound,  till  1 am  scarr’d 
In  the  immortal  part  of  me. — What  now  ? ”] 


(2)  0*ho,  he'jig  defeated  in  a general  engagement  near  Brixellum, 
stabbed  himself.  Plutarch  says,  that,  though  he  lived  full  as  badly 
as  Nero,  his  last  moments  were  those  of  a philosopher.  He  com- 
forted his  soldiers  who  lamented  his  fortune,  and  expressed  his 
concern  for  their  safety,  when  they  solicited  to  pay  him  the  last 
friendly  offices.  Martial  says  : 


Sit  Cato,  dum  vivit,  sane  vel  Csesare  major, 
Dum  moritur,  nurnquid  major  Othone  fuit?” 


/3' 


[“  To  shun 


{not  loss  of  life,  butt 
the  torments  oi  a j 


public  death. 


Chooee  uetween  them.” — MS.] 


LORD  BYRlN’S  WORKS. 


AO  OL 


183 

From  senates  once  his  slaves,  a certain  soldier, 

With  show  of  loyal  pity,  would  have  stanch’d 
The  gushing  throat  with  his  officious  robe ; 

The  dying  Roman  thrust  him  back,  and  said — 

Some  empire  still  in  his  expiring  glance, 

“ It  is  too  late— is  this  fidelity  ?” 

Abbot.  And  what  of  this  ? 

Man.  I answer  with  the  Roman — 

“ It  is  too  late ! ” 

Abbot.  It  never  can  be  so, 

To  reconcile  thyself  with  thy  own  soul, 

And  thy  own  soul  with  heaven.  Hast  thou  no 
hope  ? 

’Tis  strange — even  those  who  do  despair  above, 

Yet  shape  themselves  some  fantasy  on  earth, 

To  which  frail  twig  they  cling,  like  drowning  men. 

Man.  Ay — father  ! I have  had  those  earthly  visions 
And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth, 

To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  other  men, 

The  enlightener  of  nations ; and  to  rise 
I knew  not  whither — it  might  be  to  fall ; 

But  fall,  even  as  the  mountain  cataract, 

Which  having  leapt  from  its  more  dazzling  height, 
Even  in  the  foaming  strength  of  its  abyss, 

(Which  casts  up  misty  columns  that  become 
Clouds  raining  from  the  re-ascended  skies,) 

Lies  low  but  mighty  still.  —But  this  is  past, 

My  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 

Abbot.  And  wherefore  so  ? 

Man.  I could  not  tame  my  nature  down ; for  he 
Must  serve  who  fain  would  sway — and  soothe  and 
sue — 

And  watch  all  time  — and  pry  into  all  place — 

And  be  a living  lie — who  would  become 
A mighty  thing  amongst  the  mean,  and  such 
The  mass  are  ; I disdain’d  to  mingle  with 
A herd,  though  to  be  leader — and  of  wolves. 

The  lion  is  alone,  and  so  am  I. 

Abbot.  And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other 
men  ? 

Man.  Because  my  nature  was  averse  from  life ; 

And  yet  not  cruel ; for  I would  not  make, 

But  find  a desolation  : — like  the  wind, 

The  red-hot  breath  of  the  most  lone  simoom, 

Which  dwells  but  in  the  desert,  and  sweeps  o’er 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  no  shrubs  to  blast. 


(1)  [This  speech  has  been  quoted  in  more  than  one  of  the  sketches 
of  the  Poet’s  own  life.  Much  earlier,  when  only  twenty-three  years 
of  age,  ne  had  thus  prophesied: — “It  seems  as  if  I were  to  ex- 
perience in  my  youth  the  greatest  misery  of  old  ape.  My  friends 
fall  around  me,  and  1 shall  be  left  a lonely  tree  before  I am  with- 
ered. Other  men  can  always  take  refuge  in  their  families  — I 
have  no  resource  but  my  own  reflections,  and  they  present  no  pro- 
spect, here  or  hereafter,  except  the  selfish  satisfaction  of  surviving 
my  betters.  I am,  indeed,  very  wretched.  My  days  are  listless, 
and  my  nights  restless.  I have  very  seldom  any  society ; and  when 
1 have,  I run  out  of  it.  I don’t  know  mat  I sha’n’t  end  with  in- 
sanity.”— Byron  Letters,  1811.] 

(2)  [“  Of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  it  appears  to  me  that 
there  can  be  little  doubt — if  we  attend  for  a moment  to  the  action 
of  mind.  It  is  in  perpetual  activity.  I used  to  doubt  it — but  re- 
flection has  taught  me  better.  How  far  our  future  state  will  be 
individual ; or,  rather,  how  far  it  will  at  all  resemble  our  present 
existence,  is  another  question ; but  that  the  mind  is  eternal  seems 
as  probable  as  that  the  body  is  not  so.”  — Byron  Diary,  1821. — “ I 
have  no  wish  to  reject  Christianity  without  investigation;  on  the 
contrary,  I am  very  desirous  of  believing  ; for  I have  no  happiness 
in  my  present  unsettled  notions  on  religion.” — Byron  Conversations 
with  Kennedy,  1823.] 

(3)  [There  are  three  only,  even  among  the  great  poets  of  mo- 
dern times,  who  have  chosen  to  depict,  in  their  full  shape  and 
'igour,  those  agonies  to  which  great  and  meditative  intellects  are, 


And  revels  o’er  tbeir  wild  and  ana  waves. 

And  seeketh  not,  so  that  it  is  not  sought, 

But  being  met  is  deadly  ; such  hath  been 
The  course  of  my  existence ; but  there  came 
Things  in  my  path  which  are  no  more. 

Abbot.  Alas ! 

I ’gin  to  fear  that  thou  art  past  all  aid 
From  me  and  from  my  calling ; yet  so  young, 

I still  would 

Man.  Look  on  me  ! there  is  an  order 

Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth,  and  die  ere  middle  age, 

Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death; 

Some  perishing  of  pleasure — some  of  study — 

Some  worn  with  toil — some  of  mere  weariness — 
Some  of  disease — and  some  insanity — 1 
And  some  of  wither’d,  or  of  broken  hearts  ; 

For  this  last  is  a malady  which  slays 
More  than  are  number’d  in  the  lists  of  Fate, 

Taking  all  shapes,  and  bearing  many  names. 

Look  upon  me  ! for  even  of  all  these  things 
Have  I partaken ; and  of  all  these  things, 

One  were  enough ; then  wonder  not  that  I 
Am  what  I am,  but  that  I ever  was, 

Or  having  been,  that  I am  still  on  earth. 

Abbot.  Yet,  hear  ire  still 

Man.  Old  man!  I do  respect 

Thine  order,  and  revere  thine  years  ; I deem 
Thy  purpose  pious,  but  it  is  in  vain : 

Think  me  not  churlish  ; I would  spare  thyself, 

Far  more  than  me,  in  shunning  at  this  time 
All  further  colloquy — and  so — farewell.2 

[Exit  Manfred. 

Abbot.  This  should  have  been  a noble  creature  :3  he 
Hath  all  the  energy  which  would  have  made 
A goodly  frame  of  glorious  elements, 

Had  they  been  wisely  mingled  ; as  it  is, 

It  is  an  awful  chaos — light  and  darkness — 

And  mind  and  dust — and  passions  and  pure  thoughts, 
Mix’d,  and  contending  without  end  or  order, 

All  dormant  or  destructive  : he  will  perish, 

And  yet  he  must  not ; I will  try  once  more, 

For  such  are  worth  redemption  ; and  my  duty 
Is  to  dare  all  things  for  a righteous  end. 

I’ll  follow  him — but  cautiously,  though  surely. 

[ Exit  Abrua, 


in  the  present  progress  of  human  history,  exposed  by  the  eternal 
recurrence  of  a deep  and  discontented  scepticism.  But  there  is 
only  one  who  has  dared  to  represent  himself  as  the  victim  of  those 
nameless  ar.d  undefinable  sufferings.  Goethe  chose  for  his  doubts 
and  his  darkness  the  terrible  disguise  of  the  mjsterious  Faustus. 
Schiller,  with  still  greater  boldness,  planted  the  same  anguish  in 
the  restless,  haughty,  and  heroic  bosom  of  Wallenstein.  But  Byron 
has  sought  no  external  symbol  in  which  to  embody  the  inquietudes 
of  his  soul.  He  takes  the  world,  and  all  that  it  inherit,  for  his 
arena  and  his  spectators  ; and  he  displays  himself  before  their  gaze, 
wrestling  unceasingly  and  ineffectually  with  the  demon  that  tor- 
ments him.  At  times,  there  is  something  mournful  and  depressing 
in  his  scepticism  ; but  oftener  it  is  of  a high  and  solemn  character, 
approaching  to  the  very  verge  of  a confiding  faith.  Whatever  the 
poet  may  believe,  we,  his  readers,  always  feel  ourselves  too  much 
ennobled  and  elevated,  even  by  his  melancholy,  not  to  be  con- 
firmed in  our  own  belief  by  the  very  doubts  so  majestically  con- 
ceived and  uttered.  His  scepticism,  if  it  ever  approaches  to  a 
creed,  carries  with  it  its  refutation  in  its  grandeur.  There  is  neither 
philosophy  nor  religion  in  those  bitter  and  savage  taunts  which 
have  been  cruelly  thrown  out,  from  many  quarters,  against  those 
moods  of  mind  which  are  involuntary,  and  will  not  pass  away  ; the 
shadows  and  spectres  which  still  haunt  his  imagination  may  once 
have  disturbed  our  own ; — through  his  gloom  there  are  frequent 
flashes  of  illumination;  and  the  sublime  sadness  which  to  him  is 
breathed  from  the  mysteries  of  mortal  existence,  is  always  joined 
with  a longing  after  immortality,  and  expressed  in  language  tha'  is 
itself  divine.— Wilson.] 


SCENE  II. 


MANFRED. 


180 


SCENE  II. 

Another  Chamber. 

Manfred  and  Herman. 

Her.  My  lord,  you  bade  me  wait  on  you  at  sunset : 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountain. 

Man.  Doth  lie  so  ? 

I will  look  on  him. 

[Manfred  advances  to  the  Window  of  the  Hall. 
Glorious  Orb  ! the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant  sons 1 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a sex 
More  beautiful  than  they,  which  did  draw  down 
The  erring  spirits  who  can  ne’er  return. — 

Most  glorious  orb  ! that  wert  a worship,  ere 
The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  reveal’d ! 

Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 

Which  gladden’d,  on  their  mountain-tops,  the  hearts 
Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  they  pour’d 
Themselves  in  orisons  ! Thou  material  God ! 

And  representative  of  the  Unknown — 

Who  chose  thee  for  his  shadow  ! Thou  chief  star  ! 
Centre  of  many  stars ! which  mak’st  our  earth 
Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 
And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  witliin  thy  rays  ! 

Sire  of  the  seasons,  Monarch  of  the  climes, 

And  those  who  dwell  in  them  ! for  near  or  far, 

Our  inborn  spirits  have  a tint  of  thee, 

Even  as  our  outward  aspects  ; — thou  dost  rise 
And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.  Fare  thee  well ! 

I ne’er  shall  see  thee  more.  As  my  first  glance 
Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 
My  latest  look  : thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 
To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  have  been 
Of  a more  fatal  nature.2  He  is  gone  : 

I follow.  [Exit  Manfred. 

SCENE  III. 

The  Mountains — The  Castle  of  Manfred  at  some  dis- 
tance.— A Terrace  before  a Tower. — Time,  Twilight. 

Herman,  Manuel,  and  other  Dependants  of 
Manfred. 

Her.  ’Tis  strange  enough  ; night  after  night,  for 
years, 

lie  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower, 

Without  a witness.  I have  been  within  it, — 

So  have  we  all  been  oft-times  : but  from  it, 


(1)  “ And  it  came  to  pass,  that  the  Sons  of  God  saw  the  daughters 
of  men,  that  they  were  fair,”  &c.  — “ There  were  giants  in  the 
earth  in  those  days ; and  also  after  that,  when  the  Sons  of  God 
ca  ne  in  unto  the  daughters  of  men,  and  they  bare  children  to  them, 
the  same  became  mighty  men  which  were  of  old,  men  of  renown.” 
— Genesis,  ch.  vi.  verses  2 and  4. 

(2)  [“  Fray,  was  Manfred’s  speech  to  the  Sun  still  retained  in 
Act  Third?  I hope  so:  it  was  one  of  the  best  in  the  thing,  and 
better  than  the  Coliseum.”— Byron  Letters,  1817.] 

(3)  [“  Some  strange  things  in  these  few  years.” — MS.] 

(4)  [The  remainder  of  the  third  Act,  in  its  original  shape,  ran 
thus : — 

Her.  Look — look — the  tower — 

The  tower  s on  fire.  Oh,  heavens  and  earth  ! what  sound, 

What  dreadful  sound  is  that?  [A  crush  like  thunder. 

. Manuel.  Help,  help,  there  !— to  the  rescue  of  the  Count, — 

The  Count ’s  in  danger, — what  ho  ! there!  approach  ! 

[The  Servants,  Vassals,  and  Peasantry  approach, 
•tupified  with  terror. 

If  there  bo  any  of  you  who  have  heart 


Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute,  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.  To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  chamber  where  none  enter : I would  give 
The  fee  of  what  I have  to  come  these  three  years, 

To  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel.  ’Twere  dangerous ; 

Content  thyself  with  what  thou  know’st  already. 

Her.  All ! Manuel ! thou  art  elderly  and  wise, 

And  couldst  say  much;  thou  hast  dwelt  within  the 
castle — 

How  many  years  is ’t  ? 

Manuel.  Ere  Count  Manfred’s  birth, 

I served  his  father,  whom  he  nought  resembles. 

Her.  There  be  more  sons  in  like  predicament. 

But  wherein  do  they  differ  ? 

Manuel.  I speak  not 

Of  features  or  of  form,  but  mind  and  habits ; 

Count.  Sigismund  was  proud, — but  gay  and  free, — • 

A warrior  and  a reveller ; he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
A gloomy  vigil,  but  a festal  time, 

Merrier  Ilian  day  ; he  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
And  forests  like  a wolf,  nor  turn  aside 
From  men  and  their  delights. 

Her.  Beshrew  the  hour. 

But  those  were  jocund  times  ! I would  that  such 
Would  visit  the  old  walls  again ; they  look 
As  if  t hey  had  forgotten  them. 

Manuel.  These  walls 

Must  change  their  chieftain  first.  Oh  ! I have  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  them,  Herman.3 

Her.  Come,  be  friendly ; 

Relate  me  some  to  while  away  our  watch  ; 

1’vc  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  happen’d  hereabouts,  by  this  same  tower. 

Manuel.  That  was  a night  indeed  ! I do  remember 
’Twas  twilight,  as  it  may  be  now,  and  such 
Another  evening ; von  red  cloud,  which  rests 
On  Eigher’s  pinnacle,  so  rested  then, — 

So  like  that  it  might  be  the  same ; the  wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  the  mountain  snows 
Began  to  glitter  with  the  climbing  moon  ; 

Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  within  his  tower, — 

How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  but  with  him 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings — her,  whom  of  all  earthly  things 
That  lived,’ the  only  thing  he  seem’d  to  love, — 

As  lie,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do, 

The  Lady  Astarte,  his 4 

Hush ! who  comes  here  ? 


And  love  of  human  kind,  and  will  to  aid 
Those  in  distress— pause  not — but  follow  me — 

The  portal’s  open,  follow.  [Manuel  goes  i k 

Her  Come — Who  follows? 

What,  none  of  ye?  - ye  recreants!  shiver  then 
Without.  [ will  not  see  old  Manuel  risk 

His  few  remaining  years  unaided.  [Herman  jo'  i» 

Vassal.  Hark  !— 

No — all  is  silent— not  a hreath — the  flame 
Which  shot  forth  such  a blaze  is  also  gone: 

What  may  this  mean?  Let’s  enter! 

Pea  ant.  Faith,  not  I, — 

Not  that,  if  one,  or  two,  or  more,  will  join, 

I then  will  stay  behind;  but,  fur  my  part, 

I do  not  see  precisely  to  what  end. 

Vassal.  Cease  your  vain  prating—  come. 

Manuel  ( speaking  within).  ’Tis  all  in  vain— 

He’s  dead. 

Her.  (within).  Not  so — even  now  methought  he  moved  ; 

But  it  is  dark  so  bear  him  gently  out — 

Softly— how  cold  he  is!  take  care  of  his  temples 
In  winding  down  the  staircase. 


190 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  IQ. 


Enter  the  Abbot. 

Abbot.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Her.  Yonder,  in  the  tower. 

Abbot.  I must  speak  with  him. 

Manuel.  ’Tis  impossible ; 

He  is  most  private,  and  must  not  be  thus 
Intruded  on. 

Abbot.  Upon  myself  I take 

The  forfeit  of  my  fault,  if  fault  there  be — 

But  I must  see  him. 

Her.  Thou  hast  seen  him  once 

This  eve  already. 

Abbot.  Herman ! I command  thee. 

Knock,  and  apprise  the  Count  of  my  approach. 

Her.  We  dare  not. 

Abbot.  Then  it  seems  I must  be  herald 

Of  my  own  purpose. 

Manuel.  Reverend  father,  stop — 

T pray  you  pause. 

Abbot.  Why  so  ? 

Manuel  * But  step  this  way, 

And  I will  tell  you  further.  [ Exeunt . 

SCENE  IV.* 1 
Interior  of  the  Tower. 

Manfiied  alone. 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beautiful ! 

I linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man  ; and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I learn’d  the  language  of  another  world. 

I do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 

When  I was  wandering, — upon  such  a night 
I stood  within  the  Coliseum’s  wall,2 
Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome ; 

The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin ; from  afar 
The  watchdog  bay’d  beyond  the  Tiber ; and 
More  near  from  out  the  Caesars’  palace  came 
The  owl’s  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  centinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the.  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appear’d  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 


Bs-enler  Manuel  and  Herman,  bearing  Manfred  in  their 
arms. 

Manuel.  Hie  to  the  castle,  some  of  ye,  and  bring 
What  aid  you  can.  Saddle  the  barb,  and  speed 
For  the  leech  to  the  city — quick  ! some  water  there ! 

Her.  His  cheek  is  black  — but  there  is  a faint  beat 
Still  lingering  about  the  heart.  Some  water. 

[ They  sprinkle  Manfred  with  water:  after  a pause, 
he  gives  some  signs  of  life. 

Manuel.  He  seems  to  strive  to  speak  — come — cheerly, 
Count ! 

He  moves  his  lips  - canst  hear  him  ? I am  old. 

And  cannot  catch  faint  sounds. 

[Herman  inclining  his  head  and  listening. 
Her.  I hear  a word 

Or  two — but  indistinctly — what  is  next? 

What’s  to  be  done?  let’s  bear  him  to  the  castle. 

[Manfred  motions  with  his  hand  not  to  remove  him. 
Manuel.  He  disapproves — and  ’twere  of  no  avail — 

He  changes  rapidly. 

Her.  'Twill  soon  be  over. 

Manuel.  Oh  ! what  a death  is  this!  that  1 should  live 
To  shake  my  grey  hairs  over  the  last  chief 
Ol  the  house  of  Sigismund. — And  such  a death  ! 

Alone — we  know  not  how — unshrived — untended — 


Within  a bowshot — where  the  Csesars  dwelt. 

And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A grove  which  springs  though  levell’d  battlements, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths. 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel’s  place  of  growth  ; — 

But  the  gladiators’  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  ! 

While  Caesar’s  chambers,  and  the  Augustan  halls, 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. — 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
AH  this,  and  cast  a wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  soften’d  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill’d  up, 

As  ’twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries  ; 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o’er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  ! — 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rul« 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 

’Twas  such  a U.gu  . 
’Tis  strange  that  I recall  it  at  this  time ; 

But  I have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  in  pensive  order. 

Enter  the  Abbot. 

Abbot.  My  good  lord  ! 

I crave  a second  grace  for  this  approach ; 

But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 
By  its  abruptness— all  it  hath  of  ill 
Recoils  on  me  ; its  good  in  the  effect 
May  light  upon  your  head — could  I say  heart — 

Could  I touch  that , with  words  or  prayers,  I should 
Recall  a noble  spirit  which  hath  wander’d  ; 

But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 

Man.  Thou  know’st  me  not ; 

My  days  are  number’d,  and  my  deeds  recorded  : 
Retire,  or  ’twill  be  dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot.  Thou  dost  not  mean  to  menace  me  f 
Man.  Not  I ; 

I simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand, 

And  would  preserve  thee. 

Abbot.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

Man.  Look  there ! 

What  dost  thou  see  ? 

Abbot.  Nothing. 

Man.  Look  tliei  e,  I say, 

And  stedfastly  ; — now  tell  me  what  thou  seest. 


With  strange  accompaniments  and  fearful  signs — 

I shudder  at  the  sight — but  must  not  leave  him. 

Manfred  ( speaking  faintly  and  slowly).  Old  man  ! ’tis  not  so 
difficult  to  die. 

[Manfred  having  said  this  expires. 
Her.  His  eyes  are  fixed  and  lileless — He  is  gone  ! — 

Manuel.  Close  them. — My  old  hand  quivers. — He  de- 
parts— 

Whither  ? I dread  to  think — but  he  is  gone!] 

(1)  [The  opening  of  this  scene  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  passage 
in  the  drama;  and  its  solemn,  calm,  and  majestic  character  throws 
an  air  of  grandeur  over  the  catastrophe,  which  was  in  danger  of 
appearing  extravagant,  and  somewhat  too  much  in  the  style  of  the 
“ Devil  and  Dr  Faustus.” — Wilson.] 

(2)  [“  Drove  at  midnight  to  see  the  Coliseum  by  moonlight:  but 
what  can  I say  of  the  Coliseum  ? It  must  be  seen ; to  describe  it  I 
should  have  thought  impossible,  if  1 had  not  read  1 Manfred.’  To 
see  it  aright,  as  the  Poet  of  the  North  tells  us  of  the  fair  Melrose, 
one  ‘ must  see  it  by  the  pale  moonlight.’  The  stillness  of  night,  the 
whispering  echoes,  the  moonlight  shadow's,  and  the  awful  grandeur 
of  the  impending  ruins,  form  a scene  of  romantic  sublimity,  such 
as  Byron  alone  could  describe  as  it  deserves.  His  description  it 
the  very  thing  itself.” -Matthews’s  Diary  of  an  Invalid .] 


SCENE  xV. 


MANFRED. 


191 


Abbot.  That  which  should  shake  me, — but  I fear 
it  not — 

1 sec  a dusk  and  awful  figure  rise, 

Like  an  infernal  god,  from  out  the  earth  ; 

His  face  wrapt  in  a mantle,  and  his  form 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds  : he  stands  between 
Thyself  and  me— but  I do  fear  him  not. 

Man.  Thou  hast  no  cause  — he  shall  not  harm 
thee— but 

His  sight  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into  palsy. 

I say  to  thee — Retire  ! 

Abbot.  And  I reply — 

Never — till  I have  battled  with  this  fiend  : — 

What  doth  he  here  ? 

Man.  Why — ay — what  doth  he  here  F — 

[ did  not  send  for  him, — he  is  unbidden.  [these 

Abbot.  Alas  ! lost  mortal ! what  with  guests  like 
Hast  thou  to  do  ? I tremble  for  thy  sake : 

Why  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on  him  ? 

Ah  ! he  unveils  his  aspect : on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven ; from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell — 

Avaunt ! — 

Man.  Pronounce — what  is  thy  mission  ? 

Spirit.  Come ! 

Abbot.  What  art  thou,  unknown  being  ? answer ! — 
speak ! 

Spirit.  The  genius  of  this  mortal.  — Come ! ’tis 
time. 

Man.  I am  prepared  for  all  things,  but  deny 
The  power  which  summons  me.  Who  sent  thee  here  F 
Spirit.  Thou ’It  know  anon — Come  ! come  ! 

Man.  I have  commanded 

Things  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine. 

And  striven  with  thy  masters.  Get  thee  hence  ! 

Spirit.  Mortal ! thine  hour  is  come  - — Away  ! I 
say. 

Man.  I knew,  and  know  my  hour  is  come,  but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee  : 

Away  ! I’ll  die  as  I have  lived — alone. 

Spirit.  Then  I must  summon  up  my  brethren. — 
Rise  ! [ Other  Spirits  rise  up. 

Abbot.  Avaunt ! ye  evil  ones  ! — Avaunt ! I say, — 
Ye  have  no  power  where  piety  hath  power, 

And  I do  charge  ye  in  the  name 

Spirit.  Old  man  ! 

We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine  order ; 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses, 

It  were  in  vain : this  man  is  forfeited. 

Once  more  I summon  him — Away  ! away  ! 

Man.  I do  defy  ye, — though  I feel  my  soul 
Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I do  defy  ye ; 

Nor  will  I hence,  while  I have  earthly  breath 
To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye — earthly  strength 
To  wrestle,  though  with  spirits  ; what  ye  take 
Shall  be  ta’en  limb  by  limb. 

Spirit.  Reluctant  mortal ! 


(1)  [In  the  first  edition,  this  line  was  accidentally  left  out.  On 
discovering  the  omission,  Lord  Byron  wrote  to  Mr.  Murray — “You 
h iv  e destroyed  the  «-V  le  effect  and  moral  of  the  poem,  by  omitting 
the  last  line  of  Manfred's  speaking.”] 

(2)  [In  June,  1S20,  Lord  Byron  thus  writes  to  Mr.  Murray: — 
“ Enclosed  is  something  which  will  interest  you  ; to  wit,  the  opinion 
oS  the  greatest  man  in  Germany — perhaps  in  Europe — upon  one  of 
the  great  men  of  your  advertisements  (all  ‘ famous  hands,’  as  Jacob 
Tonson  used  to  say  of  his  ragamuffins) — in  short,  a critique  of 
Goethe’s  upon  Manfred.  There  is  the  original,  an  English  trans- 
’ation,  and  an  Italian  one:  keep  them  all  in  your  archives;  for  the 
opinions  of  such  a man  as  Goethe,  whether  favourable  or  not,  are 
always  interesting— and  this  is  more  so,  as  favourable.  His  Faust 


Is  this  the  magian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal  ? — Can  it  be  that  thou 
Art  thus  in  love  with  life  ? the  very  life 
Which  made  thee  wretched  ! 

Man.  Thou  false  fiend,  thou  licst ! 

My  life  is  in  its  last  hour,  — that  I know, 

Nor  would  redeem  a moment  of  that  hour  ; 

I do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 
And  thy  surrounding  angels ; my  past  power 
Was  purchased  by  no  compact  with  thy  crew. 

But  by  superior  science — penance — daring — 

And  length  of  watching — strength  of  mind — and  skiL 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers — when  the  earth 
Saw  men  and  spirits  walking  side  by  side, 

And  gave  ye  no  supremacy  : I stand 
Upon  my  strength — I do  defy — deny — 

Spurn  back,  and  scorn  ye  ! — 

Spirit.  But  thy  many  crimes 

Have  made  thee 

Man.  What  are  they  to  such  as  thee  ? 

Must  crimes  be  punish’d  but  by  other  crimes. 

And  greater  criminals  F — Back  to  thy  hell ! 

Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I feel ; 

Thou  never  slialt  possess  me,  that  I know : 

What  I have  done  is  done  ; I bear  within 
A torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine  : 

The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts — 

Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end — 

And  its  own  place  and  time — its  innate  sense. 

When  stripp’d  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  colour  from  the  fleeting  things  without ; 

But  is  absorb’d  in  sufferance  or  in  joy, 

Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert.  [me  ; 
Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not  tempt 
I have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey — 

But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter. — Back,  ye  baffled  fiends  ! 

The  hand  of  death  is  on  me — but  not  yours  ! 

[The  Demons  disappear. 
Abbot.  Alas  ! how  pale  thou  art  — thy  lips  are 
white — 

And  thy  breast  heaves — and  in  thy  gasping  throat 
The  accents  rattle — Give  thy  prayers  to  Heaven — 
Pray — albeit  but  in  thought, — but  die  not  thus. 

Man.  ’Tis  over — my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee  not ; 

But  all  things  swim  around  me,  and  the  earth 
Heaves  as  it  were  beneath  me.  Fare  thee  well — 

Give  me  thy  hand. 

Abbot.  Cold — cold — even  to  the  heart — • 

But  yet  one  prayer — Alas ! how  fares  it  with  thee  F 
Man.  Old  man  ! ’tis  not  so  difficult  to  die.1 

[Manfred  expires. 
Abbot.  He’s  gone — his  soul  hath  ta’en  his  earthloss 
flight — 

Whither  F I dread  to  think — but  he  is  gone.2 


I never  read,  for  I don’t  know  German  ; but  Matthew  Monk  Lewis, 
in  181G,  at  Coligny,  translated  most  of  it  to  me  viva  voce,  and  1 was 
naturally  much  struck  with  it : but  it  was  the  Steinbach  and  the 
Jungfrau,  and  something  else,  much  more  than  Faustus,  that  made 
me  write  Manfred.  The  first  scene,  however,  and  that  of  Faustus 
are  very  similar.” 

The  following  is  the  extract  from  Goethe’s  Kunstvnd  Altherthum 
(i.  e.  Art  and  Antiquity)  which  the  above  letter  enclosed  : — 

“ Byron’s  tragedy,  ‘ Manfred,’  was  to  me  a wonderful  phe- 
nomenon, and  one  that  closely  touched  me.  This  singularly  inte) 
lectual  poet  has  taken  my  Faustus  to  himself,  and  extracted  from 
it  the  strongest  nourishment  for  his  hypochondriac  humour.  He 
has  made  use  of  the  impelling  principles  in  his  own  way,  for  his 


192 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


own  purposes,  so  that  no  one  of  them  remains  the  same  ; and  it  is 
particularly  on  this  account  that  I cannot  enough  admire  his 
genius.  The  whole  is  in  this  way  so  completely  formed  anew,  that 
it  would  be  an  interesting  task  for  the  critic  to  point  out,  not  only 
the  alterations  he  has  made,  but  their  degree  of  resemblance  with, 
or  dissimilarity  to,  the  original : in  the  course  of  which  I cannot 
deny,  that  the  gloomy  heat  of  an  unbounded  and  exuberant  despair 
becomes  at  last  oppressive  to  us.  Yet  is  the  dissatisfaction  we  feel 
always  connected  with  esteem  and  admiration. 

“ We  find  thus,  in  this  tragedy,  the  quintessence  of  the  most 
astonishing  talent  born  to  be  its  own  tormentor.  The  character  of 
Lord  Byron’s  life  and  poetry  hardly  permits  a just  and  equitable 
appreciation  lie  has  often  enough  confessed  what  it  is  that  tor- 
ments him.  He  has  repeatedly  portrayed  it;  and  scarcely  any  one 
feels  compassion  for  this  intolerable'  suffering,  over  which  he  is 
ever  laboriously  ruminating.  There  are,  properly  speaking,  two 
females  whose  phantoms  for  ever  haunt  him,  and  which,  in  this 
piece  also,  perform  principal  parts — one  under  the  name  of  Astarie, 
the  other  without  form  or  actual  presence,  and  merely  a voice.  Of 
the  horrid  occurrence  which  took  place  with  the  former,  the  follow- 
ing is  related  : — When  a bold  and  enterprising  young  man,  he  won 
the  affections  of  a Florentine  lady.*  Her  husband  discovered  the 
amour,  and  murdered  his  wife ; but  the  murderer  was  the  same 
night  found  dead  in  the  street,  and  there  was  no  one  on  whom  any 
suspicion  could  be  attached.  Lord  Byron  removed  from  Florence, 
and  these  spirits  haunted  him  all  his  life  after. 

“This  romantic  incident  is  rendered  highly  probable  by  innu- 
merable allusions  to  it  in  his  poems.  As,  for  instance,  when  turn- 
ing his  sad  contemplations  inwards,  he  applies  to  himself  the  fatal 
history  of  the  king  of  Sparta.  It  is  as  follows : — Pausanias,  a 
Lacedtemonian  general,  acquires  glory  by  the  important  victory  at 
Plataea,  but  afterwards  forfeits  the  confidence  of  his  countrymen 
through  his  arrogance,  obstinacy,  ai;d  secret  intrigues  with  the 
enemies  of  his  country.  This  man  draws  upon  himself  the  heavy 
guilt  of  innocent  blood,  which  attends  him  to  his  end ; for,  while 
commanding  the  fleet  of  the  allied  Greeks,  in  the  Black  Sea,  he  is 
inflamed  with  a violent  passion  foe  a Byzantine  maiden.  After 
long  resistance,  he  at  length  obtains  her  from  her  parents,  and  she 
is  to  be  delivered  up  to  him  at  night.  She  modestly  desires  the 
servant  to  put  out  the  lamp,  and,  while  groping  her  way  in  the 
dark,  she  overturns  it.  Pausanias  is  awakened  from  his  sleep - 
apprehensive  of  an  attack  from  murderers,  he  seizes  his  sword,  and 
destroys  his  mistress.  The  horrid  sight  never  leaves  him.  Her 
shade  pursues  him  unceasingly,  and  he  implores  for  aid  in  vain 
from  the  gods  and  the  exorcising  priests. 

“That  poet  must  have  a lacerated  heart  who  selects  such  a scene 
from  antiquity,  appropriates  it  to  himself,  and  burdens  his  tragic 
image  with  it.  The  following  soliloquy,  which  is  overladen  with 
gloom  and  a weariness  of  life,  is,  by  this  remark,  rendered  intelli- 
gible. We  recommend  it  as  an  exercise  to  all  friends  of  declama- 
tion. Hamlet's  soliloquy  appears  improved  upon  here.” — Goethe 
here  subjoins  Manfred’s  soliloquy,  beginning,  “We  are  the  fools  of 
time  and  terror,”  in  which  the  allusion  to  Pausanias  occurs. 

The  reader  will  not  be  sorry  to  pass  from  this  German  criticism 
to  that  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  on  “Manfred.” — “ This  is,  un- 
Joubtedly,  a work  of  great  genius  and  originality.  Its  worst  fault, 
perhaps,  is  that  it  fatigues  and  overawes  us  by  the  uniformity  of 
its  terror  and  solemnity.  Another  is  the  painful  and  offensive 
nature  of  the  circumstance  on  which  its  distress  is  ultimately 
founded.  The  lyrical  songs  of  the  Spirits  are  too  long,  and  not 
all  excellent.  There  is  something  of  pedantry  in  them  now  and 
then;  and  even  Manfred  deals  in  classical  allusions  a little  too 
much.  If  we  were  to  consider  it  as  a proper  drama,  or  even  as  a 
finished  poem,  we  should  be  obliged  to  add,  that  it  is  far  too  indis- 
tinct and  unsatisfactory.  But  this  we  take  to  be  according  to  the 
design  and  conception  of  the  author.  He  contemplated  but  a dim 
aud  magnificent  sketch  of  a subject  which  did  not  admit  of  more 


* [“  The  grave  confidence  with  which  the  venerable  critic  traces 
the  fancies  of  his  brother  poet  to  real  persons  and  events,  making 
no  difficulty  even  of  a double  murder  at  Florence  to  furnish 
grounds  for  his  theory,  affords  an  amusing  instance  of  the  disposi- 
tion so  prevalent  throughout  Europe,  to  picture  Byron  as  a man  of 
marvels  and  mysteries,  as  well  in  his  life  as  his  poetry.  To  these 
exaggerated,  or  wholly  false  notions  of  him,  the  numerous  fictions 
palmed  upon  the  world  of  his  romantic  tours  and  wonderful  adven- 
tures. in  places  he  never  saw,  and  with  persons  that  never  existed, 
have,  no  doubt,  considerably  contributed;  and  the  consequence  is, 
go  utterly  out  of  truth  and  nature  are  the  representations  of  his 
life  and  character  long  current  upon  the  Continent,  that  it  may  be 
questioned  whether  the  real  ‘ flesh  and  blood  ’ hero  of  these  pages, 
— the  social,  practical-minded,  and,  with  all  his  faults  and  eccen- 
tricities, English  Lord  Byron, — may  not,  to  the  over-exalted  imagi- 
nations of  most  of  his  foreign  admirers,  appear  but  an  ordinary, 
unrou.antic,  am’  prosaic  personage.”— Mooee.], 


accurate  drawing  or  more  brilliant  colouring.  Its  bscurltj  is  a 
part  of  its  grandeur; — and  the  darkness  that  rests  upon  it,  and  the 
smoky  distance  in  which  it  is  tost,  are  ail  Jevices  to  increase  its 
majesty,  to  stimulate  our  curiosity,  and  tc  impress  us  with  deeocr 
awe. — It  is  suggested,  in  an  ingenious  payer  in  a late  number  of 
the  Edinburgh  Magazine,  that  the  genera,  conception  of  this  piece, 
and  much  of  what  is  excellent  in  the  manner  of  its  execution,  have 
been  borrowed  from  1 The  Tragical  History  of  Dr.  Faustus,’  of  Mar- 
low ;+  and  a variety  of  passages  are  quoted,  which  the  author  con- 
siders as  similar,  and,  in  many  respects,  superior  to  others  in  the 
poem  before  us.  We  cannot  agree  in  the  general  terms  of  the 
conclusion;  but  there  is  no  doubt  a certain  resemblance,  both  in 
some  of  the  topics  that  are  suggested,  and  in  the  cast  of  the  diction 
in  which  they  are  expressed.  Thus,  to  induce  Faustus  to  persist 
in  his  unlawful  studies,  he  is  told  that  the  Spirits  of  the  Elements 
will  serve  him, — 

‘ Sometimes  like  women,  or  unwedded  maids, 

Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  ayrie  browes. 

Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Queene  of  Love. 

And  again,  when  the  amorous  sorcerer  commands  Helen  of  Troy 
to  revive  again  to  be  his  paramour,  he  addresses  her,  on  her  first 
appearance,  in  these  rapturous  lines — 

4 Was  this  the  face  that  launcht  a thousand  ships, 

And  burn’d  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  ! 

Sweet  Helen  ! make  me  immortal  with  a kiss. 

Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soule  ! — see  where  it  flies. 

Come,  Helen,  come  give  me  my  soule  againe, 

Here  will  I dwell,  for  heaven  is  on  that  lip, 

And  all  is  dross  that  i's  not  Helena. 

O ! thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  ayre. 

Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a thousand  starres ; 

More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  skyes, 

In  wanton  Arethusa’s  azure  arms  !’ 

The  catastrophe,  too,  is  bewailed  in  verses  of  great  elegance  and 
classical  beauty — 

* Cut  is  the  blanch  that  might  have  growne  full  straight, 
And  burned  is  Apollo’s  laurel  bough 
That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  man. 

Faustus  is  gone  ! — regard  his  hellish  fa-11, 

Whose  findful  torture  may  exhoit  the  wise, 

Only  to  wonder  at  unlawful  things ! ’ 

But  these,  and  many  other  smooth  and  fanciful  verses  in  tliit 
curious  old  drama,  prove  nothing,  we  think,  against  the  originality 
of  Manfred;  for  there  is  nothing  to  be  found  there  of  the  pride 
the  abstraction,  and  the  heart-rooted  misery  in  which  that  origi- 
nality consists.  Faustus  is  a vulgar  sorcerer,  tempted  to  sell  his 
soul  to  the  devil  for  the  ordinary  price  of  sensual  pleasure,  and 
earthly  power  and  glory ; and  who  shrinks  and  shudders  in  agon} 
when  the  forfeit  comes  to  be  exacted.  The  style,  too,  of  Marlow 
though  elegant  and  scholarlike,  is  weak  and  childish  compare! 
with  the  depth  and  force  of  much  of  Lord  Byron  ; and  the  disgust- 
ing buffoonery  and  low  farce  of  which  his  piece  is  principally  made 
up,  place  it  more  in  contrast,  than  in  any  terms  of  comparison, 
with  that  of  his  noble  successor.  In  the  tone  and  pitch  of  the 
composition,  as  well  as  in  the  character  of  the  diction  in  the  more 
solemn  parts,  Manfred  reminds  us  much  more  of  the  4 Prometheus 
of  jEschylus.J  than  of  any  more  modern  performance.  The  tre- 
mendous solitude  of  the  principal  person — the  supernatural  beings 
with  whom  a'one  he  holds  communion — the  guilt — the  firmness — 
the  misery — are  all  points  of  resemblance,  to  which  che  grandeui 
of  the  poetic  imagery  only  gives  a more  striking  effect.  The  chie 
differences  are,  that  the  subject  of  the  Greek  poet  was  sanctifiec 
and  exalted  by  the  established  belief  of  his  country,  and  that  his 
terrors  are  nowhere  tempered  with  the  sweetness  which  breathes 
from  so  many  passages  of  his  English  rival.”] 


t [On  reading  this,  Lord  Byron  wrote  from  Venice: — “Jeffrey 
is  very  kind  about  4 Manfred,’  and  defends  its  originality,  which  I 
did  not  know  that  any  body  ha-d  attacked.  As  to  the  germs  of  it, 
they  may  be  found  in  the  Journal  which  I sent  to  Mrs.  Leigh 
before  I left  Switzerland.  I have  the  whole  scene  of  Manfred 
before  me,  as  if  it  was  but  yesterday,  and  could  point  it  out,  spot 
by  spot,  torrent  and  all.”] 

J [“Of  the  ‘Prometheus’  of  JEsehylus  I was  passionately  for.d 
as  a boy  (it  was  one  of  the  Greek  plays  we  read  thrice  a-year  at 
Harrow) ; indeed,  that  and  the  4 Medea’  were  the  only  ones,  except 
the  4 Seven  before  Thebes,'  which  ever  much  pleased  me.  The 
‘ Prometheus,’  if  not  exactly  in  my  plan,  has  always  been  so  much 
in  my  head,  that  I can  easily  conceive  its  influence  over  all  or  aity 
thing  that  I have  written  , but  I deny  Marlow  -nd  his  progeny,  afcd 
beg  that  you  will  do  the  same.”— Bgron  Letlers,  18l7.j 


r 


ittarftto  dFaltero, 


IDoge  of  Wfitttt  t 


193 


AN  HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY, 

IN  FIVE  ACTS.1 


“,Ddx  inquieti  tuibidus  Adrias.” — Horace. 


PREFACE. 

The  conspiracy  of  the  Doge  Marino  Faliero  is  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  events  in  the  annals  of  the 


(1)  [On  the  original  MS.  sent  from  Ravenna,  Lord  Byron  has 
written: — “Begun  April  4th,  1820— completed  July  16th,  1820 — 
finished  copying  August  16th  17th,  1820;  the  which  copying  makes 
ten  times  the  toil  of  composing,  considering  the  weather  — thermo- 
meter 90  in  the  shade — and  my  domestic  duties.”  He  at  the  time 
intended  to  keep  it  by  him  for  six  years  before  sending  it  to  the 
press ; but  resolutions  of  this  kind  are,  in  modern  days,  very  seldom 
adhered  to.  It  was  published  in  the  end  of  the  same  year;  and,  to 
the  poet’s  great  disgust,  and  in  spite  of  his  urgent  and  repeated 
remonstrances,  was  produced  on  the  stage  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre 

*arlyin  1821.  The  extracts  from  his  letters  sufficiently  explain  his 
feelings  on  this  occasion. 

Marino  Faliero  was,  greatly  to  his  satisfaction,  recommended 
warmly  for  the  truth  of  its  adhesion  to  Venetian  history  and  man- 
ners, as  well  as  the  antique  severity  of  its  structure  and  lan- 
guage, by  that  eminent  master  of  Italian  and  classical  literature, 
the  late  Ugo  Foscolo.  Mr.  Gifford  also  delighted  him  by  pro- 
nouncing it  “ English — genuine  English.”  It  was,  however,  little 
favoured  by  the  contemporary  critics.  There  was  indeed  only  one 
who  spoke  of  it  as  quite  worthy  of  Lord  Byron’s  reputation.  “ No- 
thing,” said  he,  “has  for  a long  time  afforded  us  so  much  pleasure, 
as  the  rich  promise  of  dramatic  excellence  unfolded  in  this  pro- 
duction of  Lord  Byron.  Without  question,  no  such  tragedy  as 
Marino  Faliero  has  appeared  in  English,  since  the  day  when  Otway 
also  was  inspired  to  his  masterpiece  by  the  interests  of  a Venetian 
story  and  a Venetian  conspiracy.  The  story  of  which  Lord  Byron 
has  possessed  himself  is,  we  think,  by  far  the  finer  of  the  two, — and 
wc  say  possessed,  because  we  believe  he  has  adhered  almost  to  the 
letter  of  the  transactions  as  they  really  took  place.” — The  language 
of  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviewers,  Mr.  Jeffrey  and  Bishop 
Heber,  was  in  a far  different  strain.  The  former  says — 

“ Marino  Faliero  has  undoubtedly  considerable  beauties,  both 
dramatic  and  poetical,  and  might  have  made  the  fortune  of  any 
young  aspirant  for  fame  : but  the  name  of  Byron  raises  expecta- 
tions which  are  not  so  easily  satisfied  ; and,  judging  of  it  by  the 
lofty  standard  which  he  himself  has  established,  we  are  compelled 
to  say,  that  we  cannot  but.  regard  it  as  a failure,  both  as  a poem 
and  a play.  This  may  be  partly  accounted  for  from  the  inherent 
difficulty  of  uniting  these  two  sorts  of  excellence — of  confining  the 
daring  and  digressive  genius  cf  poetry  within  the  forms  and  limits 
o:  a regular  drama,  and,  at* *  the  same  time,  imparting  its  warm 
and  vivifying  spirit  to  the  practical  preparation  and  necessary  de- 
tails of  a complete  theatrical  action.  These,  however,  are  diffi- 
culties with  which  dramatic  adventurers  have  long  had  to  struggle  ; 
and  over  which,  though  they  are  incomparably  most  formidable  to 
the  most  powerful  spirits,  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the 
•owers  of  Lord  Byron  would  have  triumphed.  The  true  history  of 
tis  failure,  therefore,  we  conceive,  and  the  actual  cause  of  his  mis- 
carriage on  the  present  occasion,  is  to  be  found  in  the  bad  choice  of 
his  subject — his  selection  of  a story  which  not  only  gives  no  scope 
to  the  peculiar  and  commanding  graces  of  his  genius,  but  runs 
■ outinually  counter  to  the  master  currents  of  his  fancy.  His  great 
gilts  are  exquisite  tenderness,  and  demoniacal  sublimity ; the  power 
ol  conjuring  up  at  pleasure  those  delicious  visions  of  love  and 
beauty,  and  pity  and  purity,  which  melt  our  hearts  within  us  with 
1 tnrllling  and  etherial  softness — and  of  wielding,  at  the  same  time, 
that  Infernal  fire  which  blasts  and  overthrow's  all  things  with  the 
dark  and  capricious  fulminations  of  its  scorn,  rancour,  and  re- 


mcst  singular  government,  city,  and  people  of  modern 
history.  It  occurred  in  the  year  1355.  Every  thing 
about  Venice  is,  or  was,  extraordinary — her  aspect 
is  like  a dream,  and  her  history  is  like  a romance. 


venge.  With  the  consciousness  of  these  great  powers,  and  as  if  in 
wilful  perversity  to  their  suggestions,  he  has  here  chosen  a story 
which,  in  a great  measure,  excludes  the  agency  of  either ; and  re- 
solutely conducted  it,  so  as  to  secure  himself  against  their  intrusion : 
— a story  without  love  or  hatred — misanthropy  or  pity — containing 
nothing  voluptuous  and  nothing  terrific  — but  depending,  tor  its 
grandeur,  on  the  anger  of  a very  old  and  irritable  man;  and,  lor  its 
attraction,  on  the  elaborate  representations  of  conjugal  dignity  and 
domestic  honour, — the  sober  and  austere  triumphs  of  cold  and  un- 
tempted chastity,  and  the  noble  propriety  of  a pure  and  disciplined 
understanding.  These,  we  think,  are  not  the  most  promising 
themes  for  any  writer  whose  business  is  to  raise  powerful  emotions; 
nor  very  likely,  in  any  hands,  to  redeem  the  modern  drama  from 
the  imputation  of  want  of  spirit,  interest,  and  excitement.  But, 
for  Lord  Byron  to  select  them  for  a grand  dramatic  effort,  is  as  if  a 
swift  footed  racer  were  to  tie  his  feet  together  at  the  starting,  or  a 
valiant  knight  to  enter  the  lists  without  his  arms.  No  mortal  prowess 
could  succeed  under  such  disadvantages. — The  story,  in  so  far  as  it 
is  original  in  our  drama,  is  extremely  improbable,  though,  like 
most  other  very  improbable  stories,  derived  from  authentic  sources; 
but,  in  the  main,  it  is  origi^j ; being,  indeed,  merely  another 
‘Venice  Preserved,’  and  conwnually  recalling,  though  certainly 
without  eclipsing  the  memory  of  the  first.  Except  that  Jafiier  is 
driven  to  join  the  conspirators  by  the  natural  impulse  of  love  and 
misery,  and  the  Doge  by  a resentment  so  outrageous  as  to  exclude 
all  sympathy, — and  that  the  disclosure,  which  is  produced  by  love 
in  the  old  play,  is  here  ascribed  to  mere  friendship, — the  general 
action  and  catastrophe  of  the  two  pieces  are  almost  identical ; while, 
with  regard  to  the  writing  and  management,  it  must  be  owned  that, 
if  Lord  Byron  has  most  sense  and  vigour,  Otway  has  by  far  the 
most  passion  and  pathos;  and  that  though  his  conspirators  are 
better  orators  and  reasoners  than  the  gang  of  Pierre  and  Reynault, 
the  tenderness  of  Belvidere  is  as  much  more  touching,  as  it  is  more 
natural,  than  the  stoical  and  self-satisfied  decorum  of  Angiolina.” 

After  an  elaborate  disquisition  on  the  Unities,  Bishop  Heber  thus 
concludes : — 

“ We  cannot  conceive  a greater  instance  of  the  efficacy  of  system 
to  blind  the  most  acute  perception,  than  the  fact  that  Lord  Byron, 
in  works  avowedly  and  exclusively  intended  for  the  closet,  has 
piqued  himself  on  the  observance  of  rules,  which  (be  their  ad- 
vantage on  the  stage  what  it  may)  are  evidently,  off  the  stage,  a 
matter  of  perfect  indifference.  The  only  object  of  adhering  to  the 
unities  is  to  preserve  the  illusion  of  the  scene.  To  the  reader  they 
are  obviously  useless.  It  is  true,  that,  in  the  closet,  not  only  are 
their  supposed  advantages  destroyed,  but  their  inconveniences  are 
also,  in  a great  measure,  neutralized  : and  it  is  true  also,  that  poetry 
so  splendid  has  often  accompanied  them,  as  to  make  us  wholly 
overlook,  in  the  blaze  of  greater  excellences,  whatever  incon- 
veniences result  from  them,  either  in  the  closet  or  the  theatre.  But 
even  diminished  difficulties  are  not  to  be  needlessly  courted,  and 
though,  in  the  strength  and  dexterity  of  the  combatant,  we  soot 
lose  sight  of  the  cumbrous  trappings  by  which  he  has  chosen  to 
distinguish  himself ; yet,  if  those  trapuings  are  at  once  cumber- 
some and  pedantic,  not  only  will  his  difficulty  of  success  be  in- 
creased, but  his  failure,  if  he  fails,  will  be  rendered  the  icons 
signal  and  ridiculous. 

C C 


194 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


The  story  of  this  Doge  is  to  he  found  in  all  her 
Chronicles,  and  particularly  detailed  in  the  “Lives  of 
the  Doges,”  by  Marin  Sanuto,  which  is  given  in  the 
Appendix.  It  is  simply  and  clearly  related,  and  is 
perhaps  more  dramatic  in  itself  than  any  scenes  which 
can  be  founded  upon  the  subject. 

Marino  Faliero  appears  to  have  been  a man  of 
talents  and  of  courage.  I find  him  commander-in-chief 
of  the  land  forces  at  the  siege  of  Zara,  where  lie 
beat  the  King  of  Hungary  and  his  army  of  eighty 
thousand  men,  killing  eight  thousand  men,  and  keep- 
ing the  besieged  at  the  same  time  in  check ; an  ex- 
ploit to  which  I know  none  similar  in  history,  except 


“ Marino  Faliero  has,  we  believe,  been  pretty  generally  pro- 
nounced a failure  by  the  public  voice,  and  we  see  no  reason  to  call 
for  a revision  of  their  sentence.  It  contains,  beyond  all  doubt, 
many  passages  of  commanding  eloquence,  and  some  of  genuine 
poetry;  and  the  scenes,  more  particularly,  in  which  Lord  Byron 
has  neglected  the  absurd  creed  of  his  pseudo-Hellenic  writers,  are 
conceived  and  elaborated  with  great  tragic  effect  and  dexterity. 
But  the  subject  is  decidedly  ill-chosen.  In  the  main  tissue  of  the 
plot,  and  in  all  the  busiest  and  most  interesting  parts  of  it,  it  is,  in 
fact,  no  more  than  another  * Venice  Preserved,’  in  which  the 
author  has  had  to  contend  (nor  has  he  contended  successfully) 
with  our  recollections  of  a former  and  deservedly  popular  play  on 
the  same  subject.  And  the  only  respect  in  which  it  differs  is,  that 
the  Jaffier  of  Lord  Byron's  plot  is  drawn  in  to  join  the  conspira- 
tors, not  by  the  natural  and  intelligible  motives  of  poverty,  aggra- 
vated by  the  sufferings  of  a beloved  wife,  and  a deep  and  well- 
grounded  resentment  of  oppression,  but  by  his  outrageous  anger  for 
a private  wrong  of  no  very  atrocious  nature.  The  Doge  of  Venice, 
to  chastise  the  vulgar  libel  of  a foolish  boy,  attempts  to  overturn 
that  republic  of  which  he  is  the  first  and  most  trusted  servant;  to 
massacre  all  his  ancient  friends  and  fellow-soldiers,  the  magistracy 
and  nobility  of  the  land.  With  such  a resentment  as  }his,  thus 
simply  stated  and  taken  singly,  who  ever  sympathized,  or  who  but 
Lord  Byron  would  have  expected  in  such  a cause  to  be  able  to 
awaken  sympathy?  It  is  little  to  the  purpose  to  say  that  this  is  all 
historically  true.  A thing  may  be  true  without  being  probable; 
and  such  a case  of  idiosyncrasy  as  is  implied  in  a resentment  so 
sudden  and  extravagant,  is  no  more  a fitting  subject  for  the  poet, 
than  an  animal  with  two  heads  would  be  for  an  artist  of  a different 
description. 

“ It  is  true  that,  when  a long  course  of  mutual  bickering  had  pre- 
ceded, when  the  mind  of  the  prince  had  been  prepared,  by  due 
degrees,  to  hate  the  oligarchy  with  which  he  was  surrounded  and 
over  ruled,  and  to  feel  or  suspect,  in  every  act  of  the  senate,  a 
studied  and  persevering  design  to  wound  and  degrade  him,  a very 
slight  addition  of  injury  might  make  the  cup  of  anger  overflow;  and 
the  insufficient  punishment  of  Steno  (though  to  most  men  this 
punishment  seems  not  unequal  to  the  offence)  might  have  opened 
the  last  floodgate  to  that  torrent  Aich  had  been  long  gathering 
strength  from  innumerable  petty  inWIts  and  aggressions. 

“ It  is  also  possible  that  an  old  man,  doatingly  fond  of  a young 
and  beautiful  wife,  yet  not  insensible  to  the  ridicule  of  such  an  un- 
equal alliance,  might  for  months  or  years  have  been  tormenting 
himself  with  the  suspected  suspicions  of  his  countrymen ; have 
smarted,  though  convinced  of  his  consort’s  purity,  under  the  idea 
that  others  were  not  equally  candid,  and  have  attached,  at  length, 
the  greater  importance  to  Steno’s  ribaldry,  from  apprehending  this 
last  to  be  no  more  than  an  overt  demonstration  of  the  secret  thoughts 
of  half  the  little  world  of  Venice. 

“ And  we  cannot  but  believe  that,  if  the  story  of  Faliero  (unpro- 
mising as  we  regard  it  in  every  way  of  telling)  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  the  barbarian  Shakspeare,  the  commencement  of  the  play 
would  have  been  placed  considerably  earlier  ; that  time  would  have 
been  given  for  the  gradual  developement  of  those  strong  lines  of 
character  which  were  to  decide  the  fate  of  the  hero,  and  for  the 
working  of  those  subtle  but  not  instantaneous  poisons  which  were 
to  destroy  the  peace,  and  embitter  the  feelings,  and  confuse  the 
understanding,  of  a brave  and  high-minded  but  proud  and  irritable 
veteran. 

“ But  the  misfortune  is,  (and  it  is  in  a great  measure,  as  we  con- 
ceive, to  be  ascribed  to  Lord  Byron's  passion  for  the  unities,)  that, 
instead  of  placing  this  accumulation  of  painful  feelings  before  our 
eyes,  even  our  ears  are  made  very  imperfectly  acquainted  with 
them.  Of  the  previous  encroachments  of  the  oligarchy  on  the  ducal 
power  we  see  nothing.  Nay,  we  only  hear  very  little  of  it,  and 
that  in  general  terms,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  the  piece ; in  the 
form  of  an  apology  for  the  Doge’s  past  conduct,  not  as  the  constant 
and  painful  feeling  which  we  ought  to  have  shared  with  him  in  the 
first  instance,  if  we  were  to  sympathize  in  his  views  and  wish  suc- 
cess to  hi*  enterprise.  The  fear  that  his  wife  might  be  an  object  of 
suspicion  to  his  countrymen  is,  in  like  manner,  scarcely  hinted 
n» ; wj'i  nr  oilier  reason  for  such  a fear  is  named  than  that  which, 
Sitnpiy  taken,  could  never  have  produced  it — a libel  scribbled  on 
the  back  of  a chair.  We  are,  therefore,  through  the  whole  tra- 
gedy, under  feelings  of  surprise  rather  than  of  pity  or  sympathy,  as 


that  of  Caesar  at  Alcsia,  and  of  Prince  Eugene  at 
Belgrade.  He  was  after wa  'ds  commander  of  the  lk-et 
in  the  same  war.  He  took  Capo  d’Istria.  He  waa 
ambassador  at  Genoa  and  Rome,  at  which  last  lie 
received  the  news  of  his  election  to  the  dukedom ; 
his  absence  being  a proof  that  he  sought  it  by  no 
intrigue,  since  he  was  apprised  of  his  predecessor’s 
death  and  his  own  succession  at  the  same  moment. 
But  he  appears  to  have  been  of  an  ungovernable 
temper.  A story  is  told  by  Sanuto,  of  his  having, 
many  years  before,  when  podesta  and  captain  at 
Treviso,  boxed  the  ears  of  the  bishop,  who  was  some- 
what tardy  in  bringing  the  Host.  For  this,  honest 


persons  witnessing  portentous  events  from  causes  appar<-  tly  inade- 
quate. We  see  a man  become  a traitor  for  no  other  v ,i\le  cause 
(however  other  causes  are  incidentally  insinuated)  Wt  1 a single 
vulgar  insult,  which  was  more  likely  to  recoil  on  the  r arpetratoi 
than  to  wound  the  object;  and  we  cannot  pity  a death  jicurred  in 
such  a quarrel.” 

The  following  extract  from  a letter  of  January,  1821,  will  show 
the  author’s  own  estimate  of  the  piece  tlr*y  ciiticized.  After  re- 
peating his  hope,  that  no  manager  woulf.  je  so  audacious  as  to 
trample  on  his  feelings  by  producing  it  os  cl.e  stage,  he  thus  pro- 
ceeds:— 

“It  is  too  regular — the  time,  twenty-l>  or  hours — the  change  oi 
place  not  frequent — nothing  melo  dramali  j-  -no  surprises — no  starts, 
nor  trap-doors,  nor  opportunities  ‘ for  towing  their  heads  and  kick- 
ing their  heels’ — and  no  love,  the  grand  ingredient  of  a modern 
play.  I am  persuaded  that  a great  tragedy  Is  not  to  be  produced  by 
following  the  old  dramatists— who  are  full  of  gross  faults,  pardoned 
only  for  the  beauty  of  their  language, — but  by  writing  naturally  and 
regularly,  and  producing  regular  tragedies,  like  the  Greeks;  but 
not  in  imitation, — merely  the  outline  of  their  conduct,  adapted  to 
our  own  times  and  circumstances,  and  of  course  no  chorus.  You 
will  laugh,  and  say, * * *  4 Why  don’t  you  do  so?’  I have,  you  see,  tried 
a sketch  in  Marino  Faliero;  but  many  people  think  my  talent 

4 essentially  undramatic,’  and  I am  not  at  all  clear  that  they  are 
not  right.  If  Marino  Faliero  don’t  fail — in  the  perusal— I shall, 
perhaps,  try  again  (but  not  for  the  stage);  and  as  I think  that  l>,vc 
is  not  the  principal  passion  for  tragedy  (and  yet  most  of  ours  turn 
upon  it),  you  will  not  find  me  a popular  writer.  Uriels  it  is  love 
furious,  criminal,  and  hapless,  it  ought  not  to  make  • . / .pic  subject 
When  it  is  melting  and  maudlin,  it  does,  but  it  or/  > not  to  do;  it 
is  then  for  the  gallery  and  second-price  boxes.  1<  - ' j want  to  have 
a notion  of  what  I am  trying,  take  up  a IruntU  / o i of  ary  of  the 
Greek  tragedians.  If  1 said  the  original,  ;t  /f  rdd  be  an  impu- 
dent presumption  of  mine  : but  the  transl  tt'.c  if.  are  so  ini  trior  to 
the  originals,  that  I think  I may  risk  it.  Tn-  r judge  of  the  4 sim- 
plicity of  plot,’  and  do  not  judge  me  b-  near  old  mad  drama- 
tists; which  is  like  drinking  usquebauy,  and  then  proving  a 
fountain.  Yet,  after  all,  1 suppose  you  d'  not  mean  that  spirits  is 
a nobler  element  than  a clear  spring  buH  ing  up  in  the  sun'*  and 
this  I take  to  be  the  difference  betweer  be  Greeks  and  those  tur- 
bid mountebanks  — always  excepting  Gen  Jonson,  who  was  a 
scholar  and  a classic.  Or,  take  up  v Oanslation  of  Alfieri,  *nd 
try  the  interest,  &c.  of  these  my  new  ’.t  .empts  in  the  old  line,  by 
him  in  English’  and  then  tell  me  firry  your  opinion.  But  don’t 
measure  me  by  your  own  old  or  mrj  tailor’s  yard.  Nothing  so 
easy  as  intricate  confusion  of  plot  *nd  rant.  Mrs.  Centlivre,  in 
comedy,  has  ten  times  the  bustle  of  Congreve : but  are  they  to  bw 
compared?  anti  yet  she  drove  Congieve  from  the  theatre.” 

Again,  February  16,  he  thus  writes, — 

“You  say  the  Doge  will  not  be  popular:  did  I ever  write  foi 
popularity?  I defy  you  to  show  a work  of  mine  (except  a tale  or 
two)  of  a popular  style  or  complexion.  It  appears  to  me  that 
there  is  room  for  a different  style  of  the  drama;  neither  a 
servile  following  of  the  old  drama,  whiqji  is  a grossly  erroneous  one, 
nor  yet  too  French,  like  those  who  succeeded  the  older  writers.  It 
appears  to  me  that  good  English,  and  a severer  approach  to  the 
rules,  might  combine  something  not  dishonourable  to  our  litera- 
ture. 1 have  also  attempted  to  make  a play  without  love;  and 
there  are  neither  rings,  nor  mistakes,  nor  starts,  nor  outrageous 
canting  villains,  nor  melodrama  in  it.  All  this  will  prevent  its 
popularity,  but  does  not  persuade  me  that  it  is  therefore,  faulty. 
Whatever  fault  it  has  will  arise  from  deficiency  in  the  conduct, 
rather  than  in  the  conception,  which  is  simple  and  severe. 

“ Reproach  is  useless  always,  and  irritating — but  my  feelings 
were  very  much  hurt,  to  be  dragged  like  a gladiator  to  the  fate 
of  a gladiator  by  that  4 reliarius,'  Mr.  F.lliston.  As  to  his  defenw? 
and  offers  of  compensation,  what  is  all  this  to  the  purpose?  It  is 
like  Louis  XIV.  who  insisted  upon  buying  at  any  price  Algernon 
Sydney’s  horse,  and  on  his  refusal,  on  taking  it  by  force,  Sydney 
shot  his  horse.  I could  not  shoot  my  tragedy,  but  I would  havt 
flung  it  into  the  fire  rather  than  have  had  it  represented.”] 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


19o 


Shinto  “saddles  him  with  a judgment,”  as  Thwackum 
did  Square ; but  he  does  not  tell  us  whether  he  was 
punished  or  rebuked  by  the  Senate  for  this  outrage 
at  the  time  of  its  commission.  He  seems,  indeed,  to 
have  been  afterwards  at  peace  with  the  church,  for 
we  find  him  ambassador  at  Rome,  and  invested  with 
the  fief  of  Val  di  Marino,  in  the  march  of  Treviso, 
and  with  the  title  of  Count,  by  Lorenzo  Count-bishop 
of  Ceneda.  For  these  facts  my  authorities  are  Sanuto, 
Vettor  Sandi,  Andrea  Navagero,  and  the  account  of 
the  siege  of  Zara,  first  published  by  the  indefatigable 
Abate  Morelli,  in  his  “ Monumenti  Veneziani  di  varia 
Letteratura,”  printed  in  1796,  all  of  which  I have 
looked  over  in  the  original  language.  The  moderns, 
Daru,  Sismondi,  and  Laugier,  nearly  agree  with  the 
ancient  chroniclers.  Sismondi  attributes  the  con- 
ipiracy  to  his  jealousy ; but  I fin  ! this  nowhere 
asserted  by  the  national  historians  Vettor  Sandi, 

indeed,  says,  that  “ Altri  scrisscro  che 

dalla  gelosa  suspizion  di  esso  Doge  siasi  fatto  (Michel 
Steno)  staccar  con  violenza,”  &c.  &c. ; but  this  ap- 
pears to  have  been  by  no  means  the  general  opinion, 
nor  is  it  alluded  to  by  Sanuto  or  by  Navagero;  and 
Sandi  himself  adds,  a moment  after,  that  “ per  altre 
Veneziane  memorie  traspiri,  che  non  il  solo  desiderio 
di  vendetta  lo  dispose  alia  congiura  ma  anclie  la 
innata  abituale  ambizion  sua,  per  cui  anelava  a farsi 
principe  independente.”  The  first  motive  appears  to 
have  been  excited  by  the  gross  affront  of  the  words 
written  by  Michel  Steno  on  the  ducal  chair,  and  by 
the  light  and  inadequate  sentence  of  the  Forty  on 
the  offender,  who  was  one  of  their  “ tre  Capi.”  The 
attentions  of  Steno  himself  appear  to  have  Deen 
directed  towards  one  of  her  damsels,  and  not  to  the 
“ Dogaressa”  herself,  against  whose  fame  not  the 
slightest  insinuation  appears,  while  she  is  praised  for 
her  beauty,  and  remarked  for  her  youth.  Neither  do 
I find  it  asserted  (unless  the  hint  of  Sandi  be  an 
assertion),  that  the  Doge  was  actuated  by  jealousy 
of  his  wife ; but  rather  by  respect  for  her,  and  for 
his  own  honour,  warranted  by  his  past  services  and 
present  dignity. 

I know  not  that  the  historical  facts  are  alluded  to 
in  English,  unless  by  Dr.  Moore  in  his  View  of  Italy. 
His  account  is  false  and  flippant,  full  of  stale  jests 
about  old  men  and  young  wives,  and  wondering  at  so 
great  an  effect  from  so  slight  a cause.  How  so  acute 
and  severe  an  observer  of  mankind  as  the  author  of 
Zeluco  could  wonder  at  this  is  inconceivable.  He 
knew  that  a basin  of  water  spilt  on  Mrs.  Masham’s 
gown  deprived  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  of  his  com- 
mand, and  led  to  the  inglorious  peace  of  Utrecht — 
that  Louis  XIV.  was  plunged  into  the  most  desolating 
wars,  because  his  minister  was  nettled  at  his  finding 
fault  with  a window,  and  wished  to  give  him  another 
occupation  — that  Helen  lost  Troy  — that  Lucretia 
expelled  the  Tarquins  from  Rome  — and  that  Cava 
brought  the  Moors  to  Spain  — that  an  insulted 
husband  led  the  Gauls  to  Clusium,  and  thence  to 
Rome  -that  a single  verse  of  Frederick  II.  of  Prussia 
on  the  Abbe  de  Bernis,  and  a jest  on  Madame  de 


(1)  The  Abbe’s  biographer  denies  the  correctness  of  this  state- 
ment.— “ Quelques  ecrivains,”  he  says;  “ qui  trouvaient  sans  doute 
piquant  d’attribuer  de  grands  effete  k de  petites  causes,  ont  pre- 
tendu  que  l'Abbe  avait  insiste  dans  le  conseil  pour  faire  declarer 
la  guerre  a la  Prusse,  par  ressentiment.  contre  Frederic,  et  pour 
venger  sa  vanite  poetique,  huinilie  par  le  vers  du  monarque  bel- 
esprit  et  poiHe — 

* Evitez  de  Bernis  la  sterile  abundance.’ 


Pompadour,  led  lo  the  battle  of  Rosbach1 — that  the 
elopement  of  Dearbhorgil  with  Mac  Murchad  con- 
ducted the  English  to  the  slavery  of  Ireland — that 
a personal  pique  between  Maria  Antoinette  and  the 
Duke  of  Orleans  precipitated  the  first  expulsion  of 
the  Bourbons — and,  not  to  multiply  instances,  that 
Commodus,  Domitian,  and  Caligula,  fell  victims  not 
to  their  public  tyranny,  but  to  private  vengeance — 
and  that  an  order  to  make  Cromwell  disembark  from 
the  ship  in  which  he  would  have  sailed  to  America 
destroyed  both  king  and  commonwealth.  After  these 
instances,  on  the  least  reflection,  it  is  indeed  extra- 
ordinary in  Dr.  Moore  to  seem  surprised  that  a man 
used  to  command,  who  had  served  and  swayed  in  the 
most  important  offices,  should  fiercely  resent,  in  a 
fierce  age,  an  unpunished  affront,  the  grossest  that 
can  be  offered  to  a man,  be  he  prince  or  peasant.  The 
age  of  Faliero  is  little  to  the  purpose,  unless  to  favour 
it — 

“The  young  man’s  wrath  is  like  straw  on  fire, 

But  like  red-hot  steel  is  the  old  man's  ire.” 

“ Young  men  soon  give  and  soon  forget  affronts. 

Old  age  is  slow  at  both.” 

Laugier’s  reflections  are  more  philosophical : — 
“ Tale  fit  il  fine  ignominioso  di  un’  uomo,  che  la  sua 
nascita,  la  sua  eta,  il  suo  carattere  dovevano  tencr 
lontano  dalle  passioni  produttrici  di  grandi  delitti.  I 
suoi  talenti  per  lungo  tempo  esercitati  lie’  maggiori 
impieghi,  la  sua  capacita  sperimentata  ne’  governi  e 
nelle  ambasciate,  gli  avevano  acquistato  la  stima  e 
la  fiducia  de’  cittadini,  ed  avevano  uniti  i suffragi  per 
collocarlo  alia  testa  della  republica.  Innalzato  ad  un 
grado  che  terminava  gloriosamente  la  sua  vita,  il  ri- 
sentimento  di  un’  ingiuria  leggiera  insinuo  nel  suo 
cuore  tal  veleno  che  basto  a corrompere  le  antiche  sue 
qualita,  e a condurlo  al  termine  dei  scellerati;  serio 
esempio,  che  prova  non  esservi  eta , in  cui  la  prudenza 
uniana  sia  sicura,  e che  nelV  uomo  restano  sempre  pas- 
sioni capaci  a disonorarlo , quando  non  invigili  sopra  se 
stesso.”  2 

Where  did  Dr.  Moore  find  that  Marino  Faliero 
begged  his  life  ? I have  searched  the  chroniclers, 
and  find  nothing  of  the  kind ; it  is  true  that  he 
avowed  all.  He  was  conducted  to  the  place  of  tor- 
ture, but  there  is  no  mention  made  of  any  application 
for  mercy  on  his  part ; and  the  very  circumstance  of 
their  having  taken  him  to  the  rack  seems  to  argue 
any  tiling  but  his  ’having  shown  a want  of  firmness, 
which  would  doubtless  have  been  also  mentioned  by 
those  minu^  listorians,  who  by  no  means  favour 
him  : such,  ^~v.ed,  would  be  contrary  to  his  character 
as  a soldier,  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and  at 
which  he  died,  as  it  is  to  the  truth  of  history.  1 
know  no  justification,  at  any  distance  of  time,  for 
calumniating  an  historical  character : surely  truth 
belongs  to  the  dead,  and  to  the  unfortunate ; and 
they  who  have  died  upon  a scaffold  have  generally 
had  faults  enough  of  their  own,  without  attributing 
to  them  that  which  the  very  incurring  of  the  perils 
which  conducted  them  to  their  violent  death  renders, 
of  all  others,  the  most  improbable.  The  black  veil 


Je  ne  m’amuserai  point  a refuter  cette  opinion  ridicule ; elle  tombe 
par  le  fait,  si  l’abbe,  comme  dit  Duclos,  se  declara  au  contraire, 
dans  le  conseil,  constamment  pour  l’alliance  avec  'a  Prusse,  contra 
le  sentiment  meme  de  Louis  XV.  et  de  Madame  de  Pompadour.” — 
Bib.  Univ .] 

(2)  Laugier,  Hist,  de  la  R6pub.  de  Venise,  Italian  translation, 
▼ol.  iv.  p.  30. 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


196 


which  is  painted  over  the  place  of  Marino  Faliero 
amongst  the  Doges,  and  the  Giants’  Staircase  where 
he  was  crowned,  and  discrowned,  and  decapitated, 
struck  forcibly  upon  my  imagination ; as  did  his 
fiery  character  and  strange  story.  I went,  in  1819, 
in  search  of  his  tomb  more  than  once  to  the  church 
San  Giovanni  e San  Paolo  ; and,  as  I was  standing 
before  the  monument  of  another  family,  a priest  came 
up  to  me  and  said,  “I  can  show  you  finer  monuments 
than  that.”  I told  him  that  I was  in  search  of  that 
of  the  Faliero  family,  and  particularly  of  the  Doge 
Marino’s.  “ Oh,”  said  he,  “ I will  show  it  you 
and  conducting  me  to  the  outside,  pointed  out  a 
sarcophagus  in  the  wall  with  an  illegible  inscription. 
He  said  that  it  had  been  in  a convent  adjoining,  but 
was  removed  after  the  French  came,  and  placed  in 
its  present  situation ; that  he  bad  seen  the  tomb 
opened  at  its  removal;  there  were  still  some  bones 
remaining,  but  no  positive  vestige  of  the  decapitation. 
The  equestrian  statue  of  which  1 have  made  mention 
in  the  third  act  as  before  that  church  is  not,  however, 
of  a Faliero,  but  of  some  other  now  obsolete  warrior, 
although  of  a later  date.  There  were  two  other 
Doges  of  this  family  prior  to  Marino ; Ordelafo,  who 
fell  in  battle  at  Zara  in  1117  (where  his  descendant 
afterwards  conquered  .the  Huns),  and  Vital  Falier®, 
who  reigned  in  1082.  The  family,  originally  from 
Fano,  was  of  the  most  illustrious  in  blood  and  wealth 
in  the  city  of  once  the  most  wealthy  and  still  the 
most  ancient  families  in  Europe.  The  length  I have 
gone  into  on  this  subject  will  show  the  interest  I have 
taken  in  it  Whether  I have  succeeded  or  not  in  the 
tragedy,  I have  at  least  transferred  into  our  language 
an  historical  fact  worthy  of  commemoration. 

It  is  now  font  years  that  I have  meditated  this 
work  ; and  before  I had  sufficiently  examined  the 
records,  I was  rather  disposed  to  have  made  it  turn 


(1)  [In  February,  1817,  Lord  Byron  writes  to  Mr.  Murray — 
“Look  into  Dr.  Moore’s  ‘View  of  Italy’  for  me:  in  one  of  the 
volumes  you  will  find  an  account  of  the  Doge  Valiero  (it  ought  to 
be  Faliero)  and  his  conspiracy,  or  the  motives  of  it.  Get  it  tran- 
scribed for  me,  and  send  it  in  a letter  to  me  soon.  I want  it,  and 
cannot  find  so  good  an  account  of  that  business  here ; though  the 
veiled  patriot,  and  the  place  where  he  was  crowned,  and  afterwards 
decapitated,  still  exist  and  are  shown.  1 have  searched  all  their 
his'tores;  but  the  policy  of  the  old  aristocracy  made  their  writers 
silent  on  his  motives,  which  were  a private  grievance  against  one 
cf  the  patricians.  I mean  to  write  a tragedy  on  the  subject,  which 
appears  to  me  very  dramatic;  an  old  man,  jealous,  and  conspiring 
against  the  state,  of  which  he  was  actually  reigning  chief.  The 
last  circumstance  makes  it  the  most  remarkable,  and  only  fact  of 
the  kind,  in  all  history  of  all  nations.”] 

(2)  [It  is  like  being  at  the  whole  process  of  a woman’s  toilet — it 
disenchants.” — MS.] 

(3)  While  I was  in  the  sub-committee  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  I 
can  vouch  for  my  colleagues,  and  I hope  l'or  myself,  that  we  did 
our  best  to  bring  back  the  legitimate  drama.  I tried  what  I could 
to  get  “ De  Montfort”  revived,  but  in  vain,  and  equally  in  vain  in 
favour  of  Sotheby’s  “Ivan,”  which  was  thought  an  acting  play; 
and  I endeavoured  also  to  wake  Mr.  Coleridge  to  write  a tragedy. 
Those  who  are  not  in  the  secret  will  hardly  believe  that  the  “ School 
for  Scandal”  is  the  play  which  has  brought  least  money , averaging 
the  number  of  times  it  has  been  acted  since  its  production  ; so 
Manager  Dibdin  assured  me.  Of  what  has  occurred  since  Maturin’s* 


* [The  Rev.  Charles  Maturin  (a  curate  in  Dublin)  died  in  1824. 
His  first  production,  the  “ House  of  Montorio,”  a romance,  is  the 
only  one  of  his  works  that  has  survived  him.  When  he  wished  his 
family  »o  be  aware  that  the  fit  was  on  him,  this  fantastical  gentle- 
man uj,*,'i  to  siiuk  a wafer  on  his  forehead. — “ Maturin,”  says  Lord 
Bvron,  ' sent  his  ‘ Bertram’  and  a letter  to  the  Drury  Lane  Com- 
mittee, without  his  address;  so  that  at  first  I could  give  him  no 
nnt'rfi ; when  I at  length  hit  upon  his  residence,  I sent  him  a 
fa* '/•> table  one,  and  something  more  substantial.”J,J 


on  a jealousy  in  Faliero.1  But,  percerv.ng  no  found 
at.ion  for  this  in  historical  truth,  and  aware  1ha( 
jealousy  is  an  exhausted  passion  in  the  drama,  I have 
given  it  a more  historical  form.  I was,  besides,  well 
advised  by  the  late  Matthew  Lewis  on  that  point,  in 
talking  with  him  of  my  intention  at  Venice  in  1817 
“If  you  make  him  jealous,”  said  he,  “ recollect  that 
you  have  to  contend  with  established  writers,  to  say 
nothing  of  Shakspeare,  and  an  exhausted  subject 
stick  to  the  old  fiery  Doge’s  natural  character,  which 
will  bear  you  out,  if  properly  drawn;  and  make  your 
plot  as  regular  as  you  can.”  Sir  William  Drummond 
gave  me  nearly  the  same  counsel.  How  far  I have 
followed  these  instructions,  or  whether  they  have 
availed  me,  is  not  for  me  to  decide.  I have  had  no 
view  to  the  stage  ; in  its  present  state  it  is,  perhaps, 
not  a very  exalted  object  of  ambition ; besides,  I 
have  been  too  much  behind  the  scenes  to  have 
thought  it  so  at  any  time.2  And  I cannot  conceive 
any  man  of  irritable  feeling  putting  himself  at  the 
mercies  of  an  audience.  The  sneering  reader,  and 
the  loud  critic,  and  the  tart  review,  are  scattered  and 
distant  calamities  ; but  the  trampling  of  an  intelligent 
or  of  an  ignorant  audience  on  a production  which, 
be  it  good  or  bad,  has  been  a mental  labour  to  the 
writer,  is  a palpable  and  immediate  grievance, 
heightened  by  a man’s  doubt  of  their  competency  to 
judge,  and  his  certainty  cf  his  own  imprudence  in 
electing  them  his  judges.  Were  I capable  of  writing 
a play  which  could  be  deemed  stage-worthy,  success 
would  give  me  no  pleasure,  and  failure  great  pain. 
It  is  for  this  reason  that,  even  during  the  time  of 
being  one  of  the  Committee  of  one  of  the  theatres, 
I never  made  the  attempt,  and  never  will.3  But 
surely  there  is  a dramatic  power  somewhere,  where 
Joanna  Baillie,4  and  Millman,5 6  and  John  Wilson0 
exist.  The  “ City  of  the  Plague,”  and  the  “ Fall  of 


“ Bertram”  I am  not  aware ; so  that  I may  be  traducing,  through 
ignorance,  some  excellent  new  writers ; if  so,  I beg  their  pardon. 
I have  been  absent  from  England  nearly  five  years,  and,  till  last 
year,  I never  read  an  English  newspaper  since  my  departure,  and 
am  now  only  aware  of  theatrical  matters  through  the  medium  of 

the  Parisian  Gazette  of  Galignani,  and  only  for  the  last  twelve 
months,  l et  me  then  deprecate  all  offence  to  tragic  or  comic 
writers,  to  whom  I wish  well,  and  of  whom  I know  nothing.  The 
long  complaints  of  the  actual  state  of  the  drama  arise,  however, 
from  no  fault  of  the  performers.  1 can  conceive  nothing  better 
than  Kemble,  Cooke,  and  Kean  in  their  very  different  manners,  or 
than  Elliston  in  gentleman's  comedy,  and  in  some  parts  of  tragedy. 

Miss  O’Neill  I never  saw,  having  made  and  kept  a determination 
to  see  nothing  which  should  divide  or  disturb  my  recollection  of 
Siddons.  Siddons  and  Kemble  were  the  ideal  of  tragic  action  : I 
never  saw  any  thing  at  all  resembling  them  even  in  person  : for 
this  reason,  we  shall  never  see  again  Coriolanus  or  Macbeth.  When 
Kean  is  blamed  for  want  of  dignity,  we  should  remember  that  it  is  a 
grace,  and  not  an  art,  and  not  to  be  attained  by  study.  In  all,  not 
supER-natural  parts,  he  is  perfect;  even  his  very  defects  belong,  or 
seem  to  belong,  to  the  parts  themselves,  and  appear  truer  to  nature. 
But  of  Kemble  we  may  say,  with  reference  to  his  acting,  what  the 
Cardinal  de  Itetz  said  of  the  Marquis  of  Montrose,  “ that  he  was 
the  only  man  he  ever  saw  who  reminded  him  of  the  heroes  of 
Plutarch.” 

(4)  [Mrs.  Baillie’s  “Family  Legend”  is  the  only  one  of  her 
dramas  that  over  had  any  success  on  the  stage.] 

(5)  [The  Rev.  Henry  Hart  Millman,  of  Brazen  Nose  College' 
Oxford,  for  some  time  Professor  of  Poetry  in  that  University,  and 
now  Rector  of  St.  Margaret,  Westminster.  “ Fazio,”  which  ne 
wrote  before  taking  his  first  degree  at  Oxford,  is  the  only  one  of 
his  plays  that  has  done  well  on  the  stage.] 

(6)  [John  Wilson,  of  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  now  Professor 
of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,— the  well- 
known  author  of  the  “Isle  of  Palms,”  “Margaret  Lindsay, 

“ Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life,”  &c.  &c.,  and  the  principal 
critic  as  well  as  humorist  of  Blackwood’s  Magazine.] 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


197 


Jerusalem”  are  full  of  the  best  materiel  lor  tragedy 
that  has  been  since  Horace  Walpole,  except  passages 
of  Ethwald  and  De  Montfort.  It  is  the  fashion  to 
underrate  Horace  Walpole;  firstly,  because  he  was 
a nobleman,  and,  secondly,  because  he  was  a gentle- 
man : but,  to  say  nothing  of  the  composition  of  his 
incomparable  letters,  and  of  the  Castle  of  Otranto, 
he  is  the  “ Ultimus  Romanorum,”  the  author  of  the 
Mysterious  Mother,  a tragedy  of  the  highest  order, 
and  not  a puling  love-play.  He  is  the  father  of  the 
first  romance  and  of  the  last  tragedy  in  our  language, 
and  surely  worthy  of  a higher  place  than  any  living 
writer,  be"  he  who  he  may. 

In  speaking  of  the  drama  of  Marino  Faliero,  I for- 
got to  mention,  that  the  desire  of  preserving,  though 
still  too  remote,  a nearer  approach  to  unity  than  the 
irregularity,  which  is  the  reproach  of  the  English 
theatrical  compositions,  permits,  has  induced  me  to 
represent  the  conspiracy  as  already  formed,  and  the 
Doge  acceding  to  it ; whereas,  in  fact,  it  was  of  his 
own  preparation  and  that  of  Israel  Bertuccio.  The 
other  characters  (except  that  of  the  Duchess),  inci- 
dents, and  almost  the  time,  which  was  wonderfully 
short  for  such  a design  in  real  life,  are  strictly  his- 
torical, except  that  all  the  consultations  took  place  in 
the  palace.  Had  L followed  this,  the  unity  would  have 
been  better  preserved ; but  I wished  to  produce  the 
Doge  in  the  full  assembly  of  the  conspirators,  instead 
of  monotonously  placing  him  always  in  dialogue  with 
the  same  individuals.  Eor  the  real  facts,  I refer  to 
the  Appendix.* 1 


DRAMATIS  PERSON  M. 


MEN. 

Marino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice. 

Bertuccio  Faliero,  Nephew  of  the  Doge. 

Lion i,  a Patrician  and  Senator. 

Benintende,  Chief  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 

Michel  Steno,  One  of  the  Three  Capi  of  the  Forty. 
Israel  Bertuccio,  Chief  of  \ 
the  Arsenal,  I 

PniLir  Calendaro,  V Conspirators. 

Dagolino,  ( 

Bertram,  / 

Signor  of  the  Night,  (“  Signore  di  Nottef)  one  cf  the 
Officers  belonging  to  the  Republic. 

First  Citizen. 

Second  Citizen. 

Third  Citizen. 

Vincenzo,  x 

Pietro,  V Officers  belonging  to  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Battista,  j 

Secretary  of  the  Council  of  Ten. 

Guards,  Conspirators,  Citizens,  The  Council  of  Ten, 
The  Giunta,  Spc.  fyc. 

women. 

Angtolina,  Wife  to  the  Doge. 

Marianna,  her  Friend. 

Female  Attendants , fyc. 

Scene,  Venice — in  the  year  1355. 


(1)  [Lord  Byron  originally  designed  to  inscribe  this  tragedy  to  his 
friend,  the  late  Mr.  Douglas  Kinnaird;  but  the  dedication,  then 
drawn  up,  has  remained  till  now  in  MS.  It  is  in  these  words  : — 

“T<>  the  Honourable  Douglas  Kinnaird. 

“ My  dear  Douglas, — I dedicate  to  you  the  following  tragedy, 
rather  on  account  of  your  good  opinion  of  it,  than  from  any  notion 
of  my  own  that  it  may  be  worthy  of  your  acceptance.  But  if  its 
merits  were  ten  times  greater  than  they  possibly  can  be,  this  offer- 
ing would  still  be  a very  inadequate  acknowledgment  of  the  active 
and  steady  friendship  with  which,  for  a series  of  years,  you  have 
honoured  your  obliged  and  affectionate  friend, 

“BYRON.” 

At  another  moment,  the  Poet  resolved  to  dedicate  this  tragedy 
to  Goethe,  whose  praises  of  “ Manfred”  had  highly  delighted  him  ; 
but  this  dedication  shared  the  fate  of  that  to  Mr.  Kinnaird:— it 
did  not  reach  the  hands  of  Goethe  till  1831,  when  it  was  presented 
to  him  at  Weimar,  by  Mr.  Murray,  jun. ; nor  was  it  printed  at  all, 
until  Mr.  Moore  included  it  in  his  Life  of  Lord  Byron.  It  is  to  be 
regretted  that  Mr.  Moore,  in  doing  so,  omitted  some  passages, 
which,  the  MS.  having  since  been  lost,  we  cannot  now  restore. 
“ It  is  written,”  he  says,  “ in  the  poet’s  most  whimsical  and  mocking 
mood  ; and  the  unmeasured  severity  poured  out  in  it  upon  the  two 
favourite  objects  of  his  wrath  and  ridicule,  compels  me  to  deprive 
the  reader  of  some  of  its  most  amusing  passages.”  The  world  are 
in  possession  of  so  much  of  Lord  Byron’s  sarcastic  criticisms  on  his 
contemporaries,  and  the  utter  recklessness  with  which  he  threw 
them  off  is  so  generally  appreciated,  that  one  is  at  a loss  to  under- 
stand what  purpose  could  be  served  by  suppressing  the  fragments 
thus  characterised. 

“To  Baron  Goethe,*  &rc.  &c  &c. 

“Sir,— In  the  Appendix  to  an  Epglish  work  lately  translated 
into  German  and  published  at  Leipsic,  a judgment  of  yours  upon 
English  poetry  is  quoted  as  follows:  ‘That  in  English  poetry, 
great  genius,  universal  power,  a feeling  of  profundity,  with  suffi- 
cient tenderness  and  force,  are  to  be  found ; but  that  altogether 
these  do  not  constitute  poets,’  &c.  &c. 

“ I regret  to  see  a great  man  falling  into  a great  mistake.  This 
opinion  of  yours  only  proves,  that  the  -‘  Dictionary  of  ten  thousand 
living  English  Authors’  has  not  been  translated  into  German.  You 
will  have  read,  in  your  friend  Schlegel’s  version,  the  dialogue  in 
Macbeth — 

‘ There  are  ten  thousand  l 
Macbeth.  Geese,  villain  l 
Answer.  Authors,  sir.’ 


* [Goethe  was  ennobled,  having  th$\pnn  prefixed  to  his  name, 
but  never  received  the  title  of  Baron.]  j 


Now,  of  these  ‘ ten  thousand  authors,’  there  are  actually  nineteen 
hundred  and  eighty-seven  poets,  all  alive  at  this  moment,  whatever 
their  works  may  be,  as  their  booksellers  well  know : and  amongst 
these  there  are  several  who  possess  a far  greater  reputation  than 
mine,  although  considerably  less  than  yours.  It  is  owing  to  this 
neglect  on  the  part  of  your  German  translators  that  you  are  not 
aware  of  the  works  of  *****  * 

“ There  is  also  another,  named  * * * * * 

“ 1 mention  these  poets  by  way  of  sample  to  enlighten  you.  They 
form  but  two  bricks  of  our  Babel  (Windsor  bricks,  by  the  way), 
but  may  serve  for  a specimen  of  the  building. 

“ It  is  moreover,  asserted,  that  ‘ the  predominant  character  of 
the  whole  body  of  the  present  English  poetry  is  a disgust  and  con- 
tempt for  life.’  But  I rather  suspect  that,  by  one  single  work  of 
prose , you  yourself  have  excited  a greater  contempt  for  life,  than 
all  the  English  volumes  of  poesy  that  ever  were  written.  Madame 
de  Stael  says,  that  ‘ Werther  has  occasioned  more  suicides  than  the 
most  beautiful  woman ; ’ and  I really  believe  that  he  has  put  mere 
individuals  out  of  this  world  than  Napoleon  himself, — except  in 
the  way  of  his  profession.  Perhaps,  Illustrious  Sir,  the  acri- 
monious judgment  passed  by  a celebrated  northern  journal  upon, 
you  in  particular,  and  the  Germans  in  general,  has  rather  indis- 
posed you  towards  English  poetry  as  well  as  criticism.  But  you 
must  not  regard  our  critics,  who  are  at  bottom  good-natured  fellows, 
considering  their  two  piofessions, — taking  up  the  law  in  court,  and 
laying  it  down  out  of  it.  No  one  can  more  lament  their  hasty  and 
unfair  judgment,  in  your  particular,  than  I do ; and  1 so  expressed 
myself  to  your  friend  Schlegel,  in  1816,  at  Coppet. 

“ In  behalf  of  my  ‘ ten  thousand’  living  brethren,  and  of  myself, 

I have  thus  far  taken  notice  of  an  opinion  expressed  with  regard  to 
‘English  poetry’  in  general,  and  which  merited  notice,  because  it 
was  YOURS. 

“ My  principal  object  in  addressing  you  was  to  testify  my  sincere 
respect  and  admiration  of  a man,  who,  for  half  a century,  has  led 
the  literature  of  a great  nation,  and  will  go  down  to  posterity  as  the 
first  literary  character  of  his  age. 

“You  have  been  fortunate,  Sir,  not  only  in  the  wriPngs  which 
have  illustrated  your  name,  but  in  the  name  itself,  a*,  being  suffi 
ciently  musical  for  the  articulation  of  posterity.  1 this  you  have 
the  advantage  of  tome  of  your  countrymen,  whose  names  would 
perhaps  be  immortal  also — if  any  body  could  pronounce  them. 

“ It  may,  perhaps,  be  supposed,  by  this  apparent  tone  of  levity, 
that  I am  wanting  in  intentional  respect  towards  you;  but  this  wiM 
be  a mi.- take  : I am  always  flippant  in  prose.  Considering  you,  as 
I really  and  warmly  do,  in  common  with  all  your  own,  and  with 
most  other  nations,  to  be  by  far  the  first  literary  character  which 
has  existed  in  Europe  since  the  death  of  Voltaire,  ' felt,  and  feel, 
desirous  to  inscribe  to  you  the  following  work,—  not  >s  being  eithei 
a tragedy  or  a.  poem,  (for  I cannot  pronounce  upon  i ■ -etensioni 


198 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  1, 


jllavmo  jpaltcro. 


ACT  l. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Antechamber  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Pietro  speaks,  in  entering,  to  Battista. 

Vie.  Is  not  the  messenger  return’d  ? 

Bat.  Not  yet ; 

I have  sent  frequently,  as  you  commanded, 

But  still  the  Signory  is  deep  in  council 
And  long  debate  on  St.eno’s  accusation. 

Vie.  Too  long — at  least  so  thinks  the  Doge. 

Vat  How  bears  he 

These  moments  of  suspense  ? 

Vie.  With  struggling  patience. 

Placed  at  the  ducal  table,  cover’d  o’er 
With  all  the  apparel  of  the  state  ; petitions, 
Despatches,  judgments,  acts,  reprieves,  reports. 

He  sits  as  rapt  in  duty ; but  whene’er 
He  hears  the  jarring  of  a distant  door, 

Or  aught  that  intimates  a coming  step. 

Or  murmur  of  a voice,  his  quick  eye  wanders, 

And  he  will  start  up  from  his  chair,  then  pause, 

And  seat  himself  again,  and  fix  his  gaze 
Upon  some  edict  ; but  I have  observed 
Por  the  last  hour  he  has  not  turn’d  a leaf.  [’twas 

Bat.  ’Tis  said  he  is  much  moved, — and  doubtless 
Poul  scorn  in  Steno  to  offend  so  grossly. 

Vie.  Ay,  if  a poor  man  : Steno ’s  a patrician, 
Young,  galliard,  gay,  and  haughty. 

Bat.  Then  you  think 

He  will  not  bo  judged  hardly? 

Vie.  ’Twere  enough 

He  be  judged  justly  ; but  ’tis  not  for  us 
To  anticipate  the  sentence  of  the  Forty. 

Bat.  And  here  it  comes. — What  news,  Yinccnzo  ? 

Enter  Vincenzo. 

Fin.  ’Tis 

Decided  ; but  as  yet  his  doom ’s  unknown  : 

I saw  the  president  in  act  to  seal 

The  parchment  which  will  bear  the  Forty’s  judgment 

Unto  the  Doge,  and  hasten  to  inform  him.  [ Exeunt . 

SCENE  II. 

The  Ducal  Chamber. 

Marino  Faliero,  Doge  ; and  his  Nephew, 
Bertuccio  Faliero. 

Ber.  F.  It  cannot  be  but  they  will  do  you  justice. 

Dcge.  Ay,  such  as  the  Avogadori*  1 did, 

Who  sent  up  my  appeal  unto  the  Forty 
To  try  him  by  his  peers,  his  own  tribunal. 


to  be  either  one  or  the  other,  or  both,  or  neither,)  but  as  a mark  of 
esteem  and  admiration  from  a foreigner  to  the  man  who  has  been 
hailed  in  Germany  ‘the  Cheat  Goethe.'  I have  the  honour  to 
be,  with  the  truest  respect,  your  most  obedient  and  very  humble 
servant,  BYRON. 

"Ravenna,  8t>re  Ho,  J320. 

" P.  S.  I perceive  that  in  Germany  as  well  as  in  Italy,  there  is 
a great  struggle  about  what  they  call  ‘ Classical ' and  ‘ Romantic,’ — 
terms  which  were  not  subjects  of  classification  in  England,  at  least 
when  I left  it  four  or  five  years  age.  Some  of  the  English  scrib- 
blers, it  is  true,  abused  Pope  and  Swift,  but  the  reason  was  that 
they  themselves  did  not  know  how  to  write  either  prose  or  verse; 


Ber.  F.  His  peers  will  scarce  protect  him  : such  an 
act 

Wrould  bring  contempt  on  all  authority.  [Fortv? 

Doge  Know  you  not  Venice?  Know  you  not  the 
But  we  shall  see  anon. 

Ber.  F.  ( addressing  Vincenzo,  then  entering .) 

How  now — what  tidings  ? 
Fin.  I am  charged  to  tell  his  highness  that  the  court 
Has  pass’d  its  resolution,  and  that,  soon 
As  the  due  forms  of  judgment  arc  gone  through, 

The  sentence  will  be  sent  up  to  the  Doge ; 

In  the  mean  time  the  Forty  doth  salute 
The  Prince  of  the  Republic,  and  entreat 
His  acceptation  of  their  duty. 

Doge.  Yes — 

They  are  wondrous  dutiful,  and  ever  humble. 

Sentence  is  pass’d,  you  say  ? 

Fin.  ' It  is,  your  highness  : 

The  president  was  sealing  it,  when  1 
Was  call’d  in,  that  no  moment  might -be  lost 
In  forwarding  the  intimation  due 
Not  only  to  the  Chief  of  the  Republic, 

But  the  complainant,  both  in  one  united.  [ceived, 
Ber.  F.  Are  you  aware,  from  aught  you  have  per- 
Of  their  decision  ? 

Fin.  No,  my  lord  ; you  know 

The  secret  custom  of  the  courts  in  Venice. 

Ber.  F.  True  ; but  there  still  is  something  given  io 
guess, 

Which  a shrewd  gleaner  and  quick  eye  would  catch  at ; 

A whisper,  or  a murmur,  or  an  air 

More  or  less  solemn  spread  o’er  the  tribunal. 

The  Forty  are  but  men --most  worthy  men. 

And  wise,  and  just,  and  cautious — this  I grant— 

And  secret  as  the  grave  to  which  they  doom 
The  guilty ; but  with  all  this,  in  their  aspects — 

At  leasi  in  some,  the  juniors  of  the  number — 

A searching  eye,  an  eye  like  yours,  Vincenzo, 

W’ould  read  the  sentence  ere  it  was  pronounced. 

Fin.  My  lord,  I came  away  upon  the  moment, 

And  had  no  leisure  to  take  note  of  that 

Which  pass’d  among  the  Judges,  even  in  seeming; 

My  station  near  the  accused  too,  Michel  Steno, 

Made  me 

Doge  {abruptlg).  And  how  look’d  he?  deliver  that 
Fin.  Calm,  but  not  overcast,  he  stood  resign’d 
To  the  decree,  whate’er  it  were  ; — but  lo  ! 

It  comes,  for  the  perusal  of  his  highness. 

Enter  the  Secretary  of  the  Forty. 

Sec.  The  high  tribunal  of  the  Forty  sends 
Health  and  respect  to  the  Doge  Faliero, 

Chief  magistrate  of  Venice,  and  requests 
His  highness  to  peruse  and  to  approve 
The  sentence  pass’d  on  Michel  Steno,  bom 
Patrician,  and  arraign’d  upon  the  charge 


but  nobody  thought  them  worth  making  a sect  of.  Perhaps  there 
may  be  something  of  the  kind  sprung  up  lately,  but  I have  not 
heard  much  about  it,  and  it  would  be  such  bad  taste  that  I shall 
be  very  sorry  to  believe  it.” 

The  illustrious  Goethe  was  much  gratified  with  this  token  of 
Lord  Byron's  admiration.  He  died  at  Weimar  early  in  the  year 
1832 — a year  which  swept  away  so  many  of  the  great  men  of  the 
European  world — among  others,  Cuvier  and  Scott.] 

(1)  [The  Avogadori,  three  in  number,  were  the  conductors  of 
criminal  prosecutions  on  the  part  of  the  state;  and  no  act  of 
the  councils  was  valid,  unless  sanctioned  by  the  p-esence  of  one 
of  them.] 


sceive  i: 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


199 


Coiitaiu’d,  together  with  its  penalty, 

Within  the  rescript  which  I now  present. 

Doge.  Retire,  and  wait  without. 

[ Exeunt  Secretary  and  Vincenzo. 
Take  thou  this  paper  : 
The  misty  letters  vanish  from  my  eyes  : 

I cannot  fix  them. 

Ber.  F.  Patience,  my  dear  uncle  : 

Why  do  you  tremble  thus  ? — nay,  doubt  not,  all 
Will  be  as  could  be  wish’d. 

Doge.  Say  on. 

Ber.  F.  (reading).  “ Decreed 

In  council,  without  one  dissenting  voice, 

That  Michel  Steno,  by  his  own  confession, 

Guilty  on  the  last  night  of  Carnival 
Of  having  graven  on  the  ducal  throne 

The  following  words ” 1 

Doge.  Wouldst  thou  repeat  them? 

Wouldst  thou  repeat  them — thou , a Paliero, 

Harp  on  the  deep  dishonour  of  our  house, 

Dishonour’d  in  its  chief — that  chief  the  prince 
Of  Venice,  first ^of  cities  ? — To  the  sentence. 

Ber.  F.  Forgive  me,  my  good  lord ; I will  obey — 
(Reads)  “That  Michel  Steno  be  detain’d  a month 
In  close  arrest.” 2 
Doge.  Proceed. 

Ber.  F.  My  lord,  ’tis  finish’d. 

Doge.  How,  say  you  ? — finish’d ! Do  I dream  ? — 
’tis  false — 

Give  me  the  paper — (Snatches  the  paper  and  reads ) 
— “ ’Tis  decreed  in  council 

That  Michel  Steno” Nephew,  thine  arm  ! 

Ber.  F.  Nay, 

Cheer  up,  be  calm  ; this  transport  is  uncall’d  for — 

Let  me  seek  some  assistance. 

Doge.  Stop,  sir — stir  not — 

’Tis  past. 

Ber.  F.  I cannot  but  agree  with  you 
The  sentence  is  too  slight  for  the  offence — 

It  is  not  honourable  in  the  Forty 
To  affix  so  slight  a penalty  to  that 
Which  was  a foul  affront  to  you,  and  even 
To  them,  as  being  your  subjects ; but  ’tis  not 
Yet  without  remedy  : you  can  appeal 
To  them  once  more,  or  to  the  Avogadori, 

Who,  seeing  that  true  justice  is  withheld, 

Will  now  take  up  the  cause  they  once  declined, 

And  do  you  right  upon  the  bold  delinquent. 

Think  you  not  thus,  good  uncle  ? why  do  you  stand 
So  fix’d  ? You  heed  me  not ; — I pray  you,  hear  me  ! 
Doge  (dashing  down  the  ducal  bonnet,  and  ojfering 
to  trample  upon  it,  exclaims,  as  he  is  withheld 
by  his  nephew) 

Oh  ! that  the  Saracen  were  in  Saint  Mark’s  ! 

Thus  woidd  I do  him  homage. 

Ber.  F.  For  the  sake 

Of  Heaven  and  all  its  saints,  my  lord 

Doge.  Away ! 

Oh,  that  the  Genoese  were  in  the  port ! 


(1)  [“Marino  Faliero,  dalla  bella  moglie—  altrl  la  gode,  ed  egli 
la  mantiene.” — Sanuto.] 

(2)  [It  -s  not  in  the  plot  only,  that  we  think  we  can  trace  the 
injurious  effects  of  Lord  Byron’s  continental  prejudices  and  his 
choice  of  injudicious  models.  We  trace  them  in  the  abruptness 
of  his  verse,  which  has  all  the  harshness,  though  not  all  the  vigour, 
T Alncri,  and  which,  instead  of  that  richness  and  variety  of  ca- 
aencr,  which  distinguishes  even  the  most  careless  of  our  elder 
dramatists,  is  oiten  only  distinguishable  from  prose  by  the  unre- 


Oh,  that  the  Huns  whom  I o’erthrew  at  Zara 
Were  ranged  arourd  the  palace. ! 

Ber.  F.  ’Tis  n:it  well 

In  Venice’  Duke  to  say  so. 

Doge.  Venice’  Duke ! 

Who  now  is  Duke  in  Venice?  let  me  see  him, 

That  he  may  do  me  right. 

Ber.  F.  If  you  forget 

Your  office,  and  its  dignity  and  duty, 

Remember  that  of  man,  and  curb  this  passion. 

The  Duke  of  Venice 

Doge  (interrupting  him) . There  is  no  such  thing- - 
It  is  a word — nay,  worse— a worthless  by- word  : 

The  most  despised,  wrong’d,  outraged,  helpless 
wretch, 

Who  begs  his  bread,  if  ’tis  refused  by  one, 

May  win  it  from  another  kinder  heart ; 

But  he  who  is  denied  his  right  by  those 
Whose  place  it  is  to  do  no  wrong,  is  poorer 
Than  the  rejected  beggar — he’s  a slave — 

And  that  am  I,  and  thou,  and  all  our  house, 

Even  from  this  hour ; the  meanest  artisan 
Will  point  the  finger,  and  the  haughty  noble 
May  spit  upon  us  : — where  is  our  redress  ? 

Ber.  F.  The  law,  my  prince [done — ■ 

Doge  (interrupting  him).  You  see  what  it  has 
I ask’d  no  remedy  but  from  the  law— 

I sought  no  vengeance  but  redress  by  law — 

I call’d  no  judges  but  those  named  by  law — - 
As  sovereign,  I appeal’d  unto  my  subjects, 

The  very  subjects  who  had  made  me  sovereign, 

And  gave  me  thus  a double  right  to  be  so. 

The  rights  of  place  and  choice,  of  birth  and  service, 
Honours  and  years,  these  scars,  these  hoary  hairs, 

The  travel,  toil,  the  perils,  the  fatigues, 

The  blood  and  sweat  of  almost  eighty  years, 

Were  weigh’d  i’  the  balance,  ’gainst  the  foulest  stain, 
The  grossest  insult,  most  contemptuous  crime 
Of  a rank,  rash  patrician — and  found  wanting  ! 

And  this  is  to  be  borne  ! 

Ber.  F.  I say  not  that : — 

In  case  your  fresh  appeal  should  be  rejected. 

We  will  find  other  means  to  make  all  even. 

Doge.  Appeal  again ! art  thou  my  brother’s  son  ? 

A scion  of  the  house  of  Faliero  ? 

The  nephew  of  a Doge  ? and  of  that  blood 
Which  hath  already  given  three  dukes  to  Venice  ? 

But  thou  say’st  well — we  must  be  humble  now. 

Ber.  F.  My  princely  uncle ! you  are  too  much 
moved : 

I grant  it  was  a gross  offence,  and  grossly 
Left  without  fitting  punishment : but  still 
This  fury  doth  exceed  the  provocation, 

Or  any  provocation  ; if  we  are  wrong'd. 

We  will  ask  justice  ; if  it  be  denied. 

We’ll  take  it ; but  may  do  all  this  in  calmness — 

Deep  Vengeance  is  the  daughter  of  deep  Silence. 

I have  yet  scarce  a fliird  part  of  your  years, 

I love  our  house,  I honour  you,  its  chief, 


lenting  uniformity  with  which  it  is  divided  into  decasyllabic  por- 
tions. The  sent  nee  of  the  College  of  Justice  was  likely,  indeed, 
to  be  prosaic;  and  Shakspeare  and  our  other  elder  tragedians 
would  have  given  it  as  bond  fide  prose,  without  that  affectation 
(for  which,  however,  Lord  Byron  has  many  precedenti,  in  modern 
times)  which  condemns  letters,  proclamations,  the  speeches  of  the 
vulgar,  and  the  outcries  of  the  rabble  and  the  soldiery,  to  strut 
in  the  same  precise  measure  with  the  lofty  musings  and  dignified 
resentment  of  the  powerful  and  the  wise: — but  Bertuccio  Faliero 
might  as  well  have  spoken  poetry. — Heber.] 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  i 


200 

The  guardian  of  my  youth,  and  its  instructor — 

But  though  I understand  your  grief,  and  enter 
In  part  of  your  disdain,  it  doth  appal  me 
To  see  your  anger,  like  our  Adrian  waves, 

O’ersweep  all  bounds,  and  foam  itself  to  air. 

Done.  I tell  thee — must  1 tell  thee — what  thy  father 
Would  have  required  no  words  to  comprehend ! 

Hast  thou  no  feeling  save  the  external  sense 
Of  torture  from  the  touch  ? hast  thou  no  soul — ■ 

No  pride — no  passion — no  deep  sense  of  honour? 

Ber.  F.  ’Tis  the  first  time  that  honour  has  been 
doubted, 

And  were  the  last,  from  any  other  sceptic. 

Boge.  You  know  the  full  offence  of  this  born  villain, 
This  creeping,  coward,  rank,  acquitted  felon, 

Who  threw  his  sting  into  a poisonous* libel,1 
And  on  the  honour  of — oh  God  ! — my  wife, 

The  nearest,  dearest  part  of  all  men’s  honour, 

Left  a base  slur  to  pass  from  mouth  to  mouth 
Of  loose  mechanics,  with  all  coarse  foul  comments, 
And  villanous  jests,  and  blasphemies  obscene  ; 

While  sneering  nobles,  in  more  polish’d  guise, 
Whisper’d  the  tale,  and  smiled  upon  the  lie 
Which  made  me  look  like  them — a courteous  wittol, 
Patient — ay,  proud,  it  may  be,  of  dishonour. 

Ber.  F.  But  still  it  was  a lie — you  knew  it  false, 
And  so  did  all  men. 

Boge.  Nephew,  the  high  Roman 

Said,  “ Caesar’s  wife  must  not  even  be  suspected,” 
And  put  her  from  him. 

Ber.  F.  True — but  in  those  days 

Boge.  What  is  it  that  a Roman  would  not  suffer. 
That  a Venetian  prince  must  bear  ? Old  Dandolo 
Refused  the  diadem  of  all  the  Caesars, 

And  wore  the  ducal  cap  1 trample  on, 

Because  ’tis  now  degraded. 

Ber.  F.  ’Tis  even  so. 

Boge.  It  is — it  is  : — I did  not  visit  on 
The  innocent  creature  thus  most  vilely  slander’d 
Because  she  took  an  old  man  for  her  lord, 

For  that  he  had  been  long  her  father’s  friend 
And  patron  of  her  house,  as  if  there  were 
No  love  in  woman’s  heart  but  lust  of  youth 
And  beardless  faces  ; — I did  not  for  this 
Visit  the  villain’s  infamy  on  her, 

But  craved  my  country’s  justice  on  his  head. 

The  justice  due  unto  the  humblest  being 
Who  hath  a wife  whose  faith  is  sweet  to  him, 

Who  hath  a home  whose  hearth  is  dear  to  him. 

Who  hath  a name  whose  honour’s  all  to  him, 

When  these  are  tainted  by  the  accursing  breath 
Of  calumny  and  scorn. 

Ber.  F.  * And  what  redress 

Did  you  expect  as  his  fit  punishment  ? 

Boge.  Death ! Was  I not  the  sovereign  of  the 
state — ■ 

Insulted  on  his  very  throne,  and  made 
A mockery  to  the  men  who  should  obey  me  ? 

Was  I not  injured  as  a husband  ? scorn’d 
As  man?  reviled,  degraded,  as  a prince? 

Was  not  offence  like  his  a complication 
Of  insult  and  of  treason  ? — and  he  lives  ! 

Had  he  instead  of  on  the  Doge’s  throne 
Stamp’d  the  same  brand  upon  a peasant’s  stool, 

11  is  blood  had  gilt  the  threshold  ; for  the  carle 
Had  stabb’d  him  on  the  instant. 


Ber  F.  Do  not  doubt  it, 

He  shall  not  live  till  sunset — leave  to  me 
The  means,  and  calm  yourself. 

Buge.  Hold,  nephew  : thin 

Would  have  sufficed  but  yesterday  ; at  present 
I have  no  further  wrath  against  this  man. 

Ber.  F.  What  mean  you?  is  not  the  offence  re- 
doubled 

By  this  most  rank — I will  not  say— acquittal ; 

For  it  is  worse,  being  full  acknowledgment 
Of  the  offence,  and  leaving  it  unpunish’d  ? 

Boge.  It  is  redoubled , but  not  now  by  him  : 

The  Forty  hath  decreed  a month’s  arrest — 

We  must  obey  the  Forty. 

Ber.  F.  Obey  them  ! 

Who  have  forgot  their  duty  to  the  sovereign  ? 

Doge.  Why,  yes  ! — boy,  you  perceive  it,  thr.n,  at 
last : 

Whether  as  fellow-citizen  who  sues 

For  justice,  or  as  sovereign  who  commands  it, 

They  have  defrauded  me  of  both  my  rights 
(For  here  the  sovereign  is  a citizen) ; 

But,  notwithstanding,  harm  not  thou*a  hair 
Of  Steno’s  head — he  shall  not  wear  it  long. 

Ber.  F.  Not  twelve  hours  longer,  had  you  left  to  me 
The  mode  and  means : if  you  had  calmly  heard  me, 

I never  meant  this  miscreant  should  escape, 

But  wish’d  you  to  repress  such  gusts  of  passion, 

That  we  more  surely  might  devise  together 
His  taking  off. 

Boge.  No,  nephew,  he  must  live  ; 

At  least,  just  now — a life  so  vile  as  his 
W ere  nothing  at  this  hour  ; in  til’  olden  time 
Some  sacrifices  ask’d  a single  victim, 

Great  expiations  had  a hecatomb. 

Ber.  F.  Your  wishes  are  my  law  ; and  yet  I fain 
Would  prove  to  you  how  near  unto  my  heart 
The  honour  of  our  house  must  ever  be. 

Boge.  Fear  not ; you  shall  have  time  and  place  of 
proof ; 

But  be  not  thou  too  rash,  as  I have  been. 

I am  ashamed  of  my  own  anger  now  ; 

I pray  you,  pardon  me. 

Ber.  F.  Why,  that’s  my  uncle  l 

The  leader,  and  the  statesman,  and  the  chief 
Of  commonwealths,  and  sovereign  of  himself ! 

I wonder’d  to  perceive  you  so  forget 
All  prudence  in  your  fury  at  these  years, 

Although  the  cause 

Boge.  Ay,  think  upon  the  cause— 

Forget  it  not : — When  you  lie  down  to  rest, 

Let  it  fee  black  among  your  dreams ; and  when 
The  morn  returns,  so  let  it  stand  between 
The  sun  and  you,  as  an  ill-omen’d  cloud 
Upon  a summer- day  of  festival : 

So  will  it  stand  to  me  ; — but  speak  not,  stir  not  . — 
Leave  all  to  me  ; — we  shall  have  much  to  do, 

And  you  shall  have  a part. — But  now'  retire, 

’Tis  lit  I were  alone. 

Ber.  F.  ( talcing  up  and  placing  the  ducal  bonnet  on 
the  table .)  Ere  I depart, 

I pray  you  to  resume  what  you  have  spurn’d, 

Till  you  can  change  it  haply  for  a crown. 

And  now  I take  my  leave,  imploring  you 

In  all  things  to  rely  upon  my  duty 

As  doth  become  your  near  and  faithful  kinsman, 

And  not  less  loyal  citizen  and  subject. 

[ Exit  Beutucci'j  Falie 


(1)  [“  Who  threw  his  sting  into  a poisonous  rhyme.” — MS.] 


•CENE  II. 


M.  RINO  FALIERO. 


Doge  (solus).  Adieu,  mv  worthy  nephew. — Hollow 
bauble  ; [: Taking  up  the  ducal  cap. 

Beset  with  all  the  thorns  that  line  a crown, 

Without  investing  the  insulted  brow 
With  the  all-swaying  majesty  of  kings  ; 

Thou  idle,  gilded,  and  degraded  toy, 

Let  me  resume  thee  as  I would  a vizor.  [Puts  it  on. 
How  my  brain  aches  beneath  thee!  and  my  temples 
Throb  feverish  under  thy  dishonest  weight. 

Could  I not  turn  thee  to  a diadem  ? 

| Could  I not  shatter  the  Briarean  sceptre 
Which  in  this  hundred-handed  senate  rules, 

Making  the  people  nothing,  and  the  prince 
A pageant  ? In  my  life  1 have  achieved 
Tasks  not  less  difficult — achieved  for  them, 

Who  thus  repay  me  ! — Can  I not  requite  them  ? 

Oh  for  one  year ! Oh  ! but  for  even  a day 
Of  my  full  youth,  while  yet  my  body  served 
My  soul  as  serves  the  generous  steed  his  lord, 

1 would  have  dash’d  amongst  them,  asking  few 
In  aid  to  overthrow  these  swoln  patricians  ! 

But  now  I must  look  round  for  other  hands 
To  serve  this  hoary  head  ; — but  it  shall  plan 
111  such  a sort  as  will  not  leave  the  task 
Herculean,  though  as  yet  ’tis  but  a chaos 
Of  darkly  brooding  thoughts  : my  fancy  is 
In  her  first  work,  more  nearly  to  the  light 
Holding  the  sleeping  images  of  things 
For  the  selection  of  the  pausing  judgment. — 

The  troops  are  few  in 

Enter  Vincenzo. 

Pin.  There  is  one  without 

Craves  audience  of  your  highness. 

Doge.  I’m  unwell — 

I can  see  no  one,  not  even  a patrician — 

Let  him  refer  his  business  to  the  council. 

Pin.  My  lord,  I will  deliver  your  reply  ; 

It  cannot  much  import — lie’s  a plebeian, 

The  master  of  a galley,  I believe. 

Doge.  How ! did  you  say  the  patron  of  a galley  ? 
That  is — I mean — a servant  of  the  state : 

Admit  him,  he  may  be  on  public  service. 

[Exit  Y INCENZO. 

Doge  (solus).  This  patron  may  be  sounded  ; I will 
try  him. 

I know  the  people  to  be  discontented  : 

They  have  cause,  since  Sapienza’s  adverse  day, 

1 When  Genoa  conquer’d;  they  have  further  cause, 
Since  they  are  nothing  in  the  state,  and  in 
1 The  city  worse  than  nothing — mere  machines, 

To  serve  the  nobles’  most  patrician  pleasure. 

The  troops  have  long  arrears  of  pay,  oft  promised, 
And  murmur  deeply — any  hope  of  change 
A\  ill  draw  them  forward  : they  shall  pay  themselves 
With  plunder : — but  the  priests — I doubt  the  priest- 
hood 

Will  not  be  with  us  ; they  have  hated  me 

Since  that  rash  hour,  when,  madden’d  with  the  drone, 

I smote  the  tardy  bishop  at  Treviso,1 

Quickening  his  holy  march  ; yet,  nc’ertheless, 

They  may  be  won,  at  least  their  chief  at  Rome, 


(1)  An  historical  fact.  See  Marin  Sanuto’s  Lives  of  the  Doges. 
[“  Sanuto  says  that  Heaven  took  away  his  senses  for  this  buffet, 

and  induced  him  to  conspire : — ‘ Pero  fu  perniesso  che  il  Faliero 
perdette  1’  intelleto,’  &c.” — Byron  Letters .] 

(2)  [This  officer  was  chief  of  the  artisans  of  the  arsenal,  and 
-onmiauded  th«  Bucentaur,  for  the  6afety  of  which,  oven  if  an 


sm 

By  some  well-timed  concessions  ; but,  above 
All  things,  I must  be  speedy  : at  my  hour 
Of  twilight  little  light  of  life  remains. 

Could  1 free  Venice,  and  avenge  my  wrongs, 

I had  lived  too  long,  and  willingly  would  sleep 
Next  moment  with  my  sires;  and,  wanting  this, 
Better  that  sixty  of  my  fourscore  years 
Had  been  already  where — how  soon,  I care  not~^ 

The  whole  must  be  extinguish’d ; — better  that 
They  ne’er  had  been,  than  drag  me  on  to  be 
The  thing  these  arch-oppressors  fain  would  make  me 
Let  me  consider — of  efficient  troops 
There  are  three  thousand  posted  at 

Enter  Yincenzo  and  Israel  Bertuccio. 

Pin.  May  it  please 

Your  highness,  the  same  patron  whom  I spake  of 
Is  here  to  crave  your  patience. 

Doge.  Leave  the  chamber, 

Yincenzo. — [Exit  Yincenzo. 

Sir,  you  may  advance — what  would  you  ? 
I.  Ber.  Redress. 

Doge.  Of  whom  ? 

I.  Ber.  Of  God  and  of  the  Doge. 

Doge.  A.eis  ! my  friend,  you  seek  it  of  the  twain 
Of  least  respect  and  interest  in  Venice. 

You  must  address  the  council. 

I.  Ber.  ’Twere  in  vain  ; 

For  he  who  injured  me  is  one  of  them. 

Doge.  There’s  blood  upon  thy  face — how  came  it 
there  ? 

I.  Ber.  ’Tis  mine,  and  not  the  first  I’ve  shed  for 
Venice, 

But  the  first  shed  by  a Venetian  hand  : 

A noble  smote  me. 

Doge.  Doth  he  live  ? 

I.  Ber.  Not  long — 

But  for  the  hope  I had  and  have,  that  you, 

My  prince,  yourself  a soldier,  will  redress 
Him,  whom  the  laws  of  discipline  and  Venice 
Permit  not  to  protect  himself ; — If  not — - 
I say  no  more. 

Doge.  But  something  you  Avould  do — 

Is  it  not  so  ? 

I.  Ber.  I am  a man,  my  lord. 

Doge.  Why  so  is  he  who  smote  you. 

I.  Ber.  He  is  call’d  so ; 

Nay,  more,  a noble  one— at  least,  in  Venice  : 

But  since  he  hath  forgotten  that  I am  one, 

And  treats  me  like  a brute,  the  brute  may  turn — 

’Tis  said  the  worm  will. 

Doge.  Say — his  name  and  lineage  ? 

I.  Ber.  Barbaro. 

Doge.  What  was  the  cause  ? or  the  pretext  ? 

I.  Ber.  I am  the  chief  of  the  arsenal,2  employ’d 
At  present  in  repairing  certain  galleys 
But  roughly  used  by  tne  Genoese  last  year. 

This  morning  comes  the  noble  Barbaro 
Full  of  reproof,  because  our  artisans 
Had  left  some  frivolous  order  of  his  house. 

To  execute  the  state’s  decree  : I dared 
To  justify  the  men — he  raised  his  hand  ; — 


accidental  storm  should  arise,  he  was  responsible  with  his  life. 
He  mounted  guard  at  the  ducal  palace  during  an  interregnum,  ai.d 
bore  the  red  standard  before  the  new  Doge  on  his  inauguration  ; fer 
which  service  his  perquisites  were  the  ducal  mantle,  and  the  two 
silver  basins  from  which  the  Doge  scattered  the  regulated  pittanoo 
which  he  was  permitted  to  throw  among  the  people. — Arrxlot  Jj 
la  Houssayc,  79.] 

D D 


202 


LORD  BYRON  S WORKS. 


ACT  J 


Behold  mj  blood ! the  first  time  it  e’er  flow’d 
I.’  ishonourablv. 

Doge.  Have  you  long  time  served  ? 

1.  Ber.  So  long  as  to  remember  Zara’s  siege, 

And  fight  beneath  the  chief  who  beat  the  Huns  there, 
Sometime  my  general,  now  the  Doge  Faliero. — 

Dog*  ITe.w  . are  we  comrades? — the  state’s  ducal 
robes 

Sit  newly  on  me,  and  you  were  appointed 
Chief  of  the  arsenal  ere  I came  from  Rome  ; 

So  that  I recognised  you  not.  Who  placed  you  ? 

I.  Ber.  The  late  Doge ; keeping  stili  my  old  com- 
mand 

As  patron  of  a galley  : my  new  office 
Was  given  as  the  reward  of  certain  scars 
(So  was  your  predecessor  pleased  to  say) : 

I little  thought  his  bounty  would  conduct  me 
To  his  successor  as  a helpless  plaintiff; 

At  least,  in  such  a cause. 

Doge.  Are  you  much  hurt  ? 

I.  Ber.  Irreparably  in  my  self-esteem. 

Doge.  Speak  out;  fear  nothing:  being  stung  at 
heart, 

What  would  you  do  to  be  revenged  on  this  man? 

1.  Ber.  That  which  I dare  not  name,  and  yet  will 
do. 

Doge.  Then  wherefore  came  you  lie  re  ? 

7.  Ber.  I come  for  justice, 

Because  my  general  is  Doge,  and  will  not 
See  his  old  soldier  trampled  on.  Ilad  any, 

Save  Faliero,  fill’d  the  ducal  throne, 

This  blood  had  been  wash’d  out  in  other  blood. 

Doge.  You  come  to  me  for  justice — unto  me  ! 

The  l)oge  of  Venice,  and  I cannot  give  it; 

I cannot  even  obtain  it — ’twas  denied 
To  me  most  solemnly  an  hour  ago  ! 

7.  Ber.  How  says  your  highness  ? 

Doge.  Steno  is  condemn’d 

To  a month’s  confinement. 

7.  Ber.  What  ! the  same  who  dared 

To  stain  the  ducal  throne  with  those  foul  words, 

That  have  cried  shame  to  every  ear  in  Venice? 

Dope.  Ay,  doubtless  they  have  echo’d  o’er  the 
arsenal, 

Keeping  due  time  with  every  hammer’s  clink 
Asa  good  jest  to  jolly  artisans  ; 

Or  making  chorus  to  the  creaking  oar, 

In  the  vile  tunc  of  every  galley-slave, 

Who,  as  he  sung  the  merry  stave,  ex-ultcd 
Te  was  not  a shamed  dotard  like  the  Doge. 

7.  Ber.  Is ’t  possible  ? a month’s  imprisonment ! 

No  more  for  Steno  ? 

Doge.  You  have  heard  the  offence, 

And  now  you  know  his  punishment ; and  then 
You  ask  redress  of  me  ! Go  to  the  Forty, 

Who  pass’d  the  sentence  upon  Michel  Steno  ; 

They’ll  do  as  much  by  Barbaro,  no  doubt. 

7.  Ber.  Ah  ! dared  I speak  my  feelings  ! 

Doge.  Give  them  breath. 

Mine  have  no  further  outrage  to  endure. 

I.  Ber.  Then,  in  a word,  it  rests  but  on  your  word 
To  punish  and  avenge — I will  not  say 
Mg  petty  wrong,  for  what  is  a mere  blow, 

However  vile,  to  such  a thing  as  I am  ? — 

But  the  base  insult  done  your  state  and  person. 

Doge.  You  overrate  my  power,  which  is  a pageant. 
This  cap  is  not  the  monarch’s  crown  ; these  robes 
Might  move  compassion,  like  a beggar’s  rags ; 


I Nay,  more,  a beggar’s  arc  his  own,  and  these 
But  lent  to  the  poor  puppet,  who  must  play 
Its  part  with  all  its  empire  in  this  ermine. 

I.  Ber.  Wouldst  thou  be  king  ? 

Doge.  Yes — of  a happy  people 

7.  Ber.  Wouldst  thou  be  sovereign  lord  of  Venice  f 

Doge.  _ Ay 

If  that  the  people  shared  that  sovereignty, 

So  that  nor  they  nor  1 were  further  slaves 
To  this  o’ergrown  aristocratic  Hydra, 

The  poisonous  heads  of  whose  envenom’d  body 
Have  breathed  a pestilence  upon  us  all. 

7.  Ber.  Yet,  thou  wast  born,  and  still  hast  lived, 
patrician. 

Doge.  In  evil  hour  was  I so  bom ; my  birth 
Hath  made  me  Doge  to  be  insulted : but 
I lived  and  toil’d  a soldier  and  a servant 
Of  Venice  and  her  people,  not  the  senate ; 

Their  good  and  my  own  honour  were  my  guerdon. 

I have  fought  and  bled  ; commanded,  ay,  and  con- 
quered ; 

Have  made  and  marr’d  peace  oft  in  embassies, 

As  it  might  chance  to  be  our  country’s  ’vantage  , 
Have  traversed  land  and  sea  in  constant  duty, 
Through  almost  sixty  years,  and  still  for  Venice, 

My  fathers’  and  my  birthplace,  whose  dear  spires, 
Rising  at  distance  o’er  the  blue  Lagoon, 

It  was  reward  enough  for  me  to  view 
Once  more  ; but  not  for  any  knot  of  men, 

Nor  sect,  nor  faction,  did  I bleed  or  sweat ! 

But  would  you  know  why  I have  done  all  this  ? 

Ask  of'the  bleeding  pelican  why  she 

Hath  ripp’d  her  bosom  ? Had  the  bird  a voice, 

She’d  tell  thee  ’twas  for  all  her  little  ones. 

7.  Ber.  And  yet  they  made  thee  duke. 

Doge.  They  made  me  so ; 

I sought  it  not,  the  flattering  fetters  met  me 
Returning  from  my  Roman  embassy, 

And  never  having  hitherto  refused 

Toil,  charge,  or  duty  for  the  state,  I did  not, 

At  these  late  years,  decline  what  was  the  highest 
Of  all  in  seeming,  but  of  all  most  base 
In  what  we  have  to  do  and  to  endure  : 

Bear  witness  for  me  thou,  my  injured  subject, 

When  1 can  neither  right  myself  nor  thee. 

7.  Ber.  You  shall  do  both,  if  you  possess  the  will , 
And  many  thousands  more  not  less  oppress’d. 

Who  wait  but  for  a signal — will  you  give  it  ? 

Doge.  You  speak  in  riddles. 

7.  Ber.  Which  shall  soon  be  ’cad 

At  peril  of  my  life,  if  you  disdain  not 
To  lend  a patient  ear. 

Doge.  Say  on. 

7.  Ber.  Not  tnou. 

Nor  I alone,  are  injured  and  abused, 

Contemn’d  and  trampled  on;  but  the  whole  people 
Groan  with  the  strong  conception  of  their  wrongs  : ■ 

The  foreign  soldiers  in  the  senate’s  pay 
Arc  discontented  for  their  long  arrears  ; 

The  native  mariners,  and  civic  troops, 

Feel  with  their  friends:  for  who  is  he  amongst 
them 

Whose  brethren,  parents,  children,  wives,  or  sisters, 
Have  not  partook  oppression,  or  pollution. 

From  the  patricians  ? And  the  hopeless  war 
Against  the  Genoese,  which  is  still  maintain’d 
With  the  plebeian  blood,  and  treasure  wrung 
? their  hard  earnings,  b~~  i^JUmcd  them  further: 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


203 


SCENE  II. 

Even  now — but,  I forget  that  speaking  thus, 

Perhaps  I pass  the  sentence  of  my  death! 

Doge.  And  suffering  what  thou  hast  done— fear’st 
, thou  death  P 

Be  silent  then,  and  live  on,  to  be  beaten 
By  those  for  whom  thou  hast  bled. 

I.  Ber.  No,  I will  speak 

At  every  hazard  ; and  if  Venice’  Doge 
Should  turn  delator,  be  the  shame  on  him, 

And  sorrow  too ; for  he  will  lose  far  more 
Than  I.  \ 

! Doge.  From  me  fear  nothing ; out  with  it ! 

I.  Ber.  Know  then,  that  there  are  met  and  sworn 
\ in  secret 

A band  of  brethren,  valiant  hearts  and  true  ; 

Men  who  have  proved  all  fortunes,  and  have  long 
Grieved  over  that  of  Venice,  and  have  right 
To  do  so ; having  served  her  in  all  climes, 

And  having  rescued  her  from  foreign  foes, 

Would  do  the  same  from  those  within  her  walls. 

They  are  not  numerous,  nor  yet  toe  few 
For  their  great  purpose ; they  have  arms,  and  means, 
And  hearts,  and  hopes,  and  faith,  and  patient  courage. 
Doge.  For  what  then  do  they  pause  ? 

I.  Ber.  An  hour  to  strike. 

Doge  (aside).  Saint  Mark’s  shall  strike  that  hour ! ' 
I.  Ber.  I now  have  placed 

My  life,  my  honour,  all  my  earthly  hopes 
Within  thy  power,  but  in  the  firm  belief 
That  injuries  like  ours,  sprung  from  one  cause, 

Will  generate  one  vengeance  : should  it  be  so, 

Be  our  chief  now — our  sovereign  hereafter. 

Doge.  How  many  are  ye  ? 

I.  Ber.  I’ll  not  answer  that 

Till  I am  answer’d. 

Doge  How,  sir ! do  you  menace  ? 

I.  Ber.  No  ; I affirm.  I have  betray’d  myself ; 

But  there’s  no  torture  in  the  mystic  wells 
Which  undermine  your  palace,  nor  in  those 
Not  less  appalling  cells,  the  “ leaden  roofs,” 

To  force  a single  name  from  me  of  others. 

The  Pozzi1  2 and  the  Piombi  were  in  vain ; 

They  might  wring  blood  from  me,  but  treachery 
never. 

And  I would  pass  the  fearful  “ Bridge  of  Sighs,” 
Joyous  that  mine  must  be  the  last  that  e’er 
Would  echo  o’er  the  Stygian  wave  which  flows 
Between  the  murderers  and  the  murder’d,  washing 
The  prison  and  the  palace  walls  ; there  are 
Those  who  would  live  to  think  on’t,  and  avenge  me. 
Doge.  If  such  your  power  and  purpose,  why  come 
here 

To  sue  for  justice,  being  in  the  course 
To  do  yourself  due  right  ? 

I.  Ber.  Because  the  man, 

Who  claims  protection  from  authority, 

Showing  his  confidence  and  his  submission 
To  that  authority,  can  hardly  be 
Suspected  of  combining  to  destroy  it. 

Had  I sate  down  too  humbly  with  this  blow, 

A moody  brow  and  mutter’d  threats  had  made  me 
A mark’d  man  to  the  Forty’s  inquisition ; 


(1)  Tlie  bells  of  San  Marco  were  never  rung  but  by  order  of  the 
Doge.  One  of  the  pretexts  for  ringing  this  alarm  was  to  have 
been  an  announcement  of  the  appearance  of  a Genoese  fleet  off  the 
Lagune. 

(2)  [The  state  dungeons,  called  Pozzi.  or  wells,  were  sunk  in 
the  thick  walls  of  the  palace ; and  the  prisoner,  when  taken  out 


But  loud  complaint,  however  angrily 
It  shapes  its  phrase,  is  little  to  be  fear’d. 

And  less  distrusted.  But,  besides  all  this, 

I had  another  reason. 

Doge.  What  was  that  ? [moved 

I.  Ber.  Some  rumours  that  the  Doge  was  greatly 
By  the  reference  of  the  Avogadori 
Of  Michel  Steno’s  sentence  to  the  Forty 
Had  reach’d  me.  I had  served  you,  honour’d  you, 
And  felt  that  you  were  dangerously  insulted. 

Being  of  an  order  of  such  spirits,  as 
Requite  tenfold  both  good  and  evil : ’twas 
My  wish  to  prove  and  urge  you  to  redress. 

Now  you  know  all ; and  that  I speak  the  truth, 

My  peril  be  the  proof. 

Doge.  You  have  deeply  ventured , 

But  all  must  do  so  who  would  greatly  win  : 

Thus  far  I’ll  answer  you — your  secret’s  safe. 

I.  Ber.  And  is  this  ail  ? 

Doge.  Unless  with  all  intrusted. 

What  would  you  have  me  answer  ‘t 

I.  Ber.  . I would  have  yon 

Trust  him  who  leaves  his  life  in  trust  with  you. 

Doge.  But  I must  know  your  plan,  your  names, 
and  numbers ; 

The  last  may  then  be  doubled,  and  fl>°  former 
Matured  and  strengthen’d. 

I.  Ber.  We’re  enough  already  : 

You  are  the  sole  ally  we  covet  now. 

Doge.  But  bring  me  to  the  knowledge  of  your 
chiefs. 

I.  Ber.  That  shall  be  done  upon  your  formal  pledge 
To  keep  the  faith  that  we  will  pledge  to  you. 

Doge.  When  ? where  ? 

I.  Ber.  This  night  I ’ll  bring  to  your  apartment 
Two  of  the  principals  ; a greater  number 
Were  hazardous. 

Doge.  Stay,  I must  think  of  this. 

What  if  I were  to  trust  myself  amongst  you, 

And  leave  the  palace  ? 

I.  Ber.  You  must  come  alone. 

Doge.  With  but  my  nephew. 

I.  Ber.  Not  were  he  your  son. 

Doge.  Wretch ! darest  thou  name  my  son  ? He 
died  in  arms 

At  Sapienza  for  this  faithless  state. 

Oh  ! that  he  were  alive,  and  I in  ashes  ! 

Or  that  he  were  alive  ere  I be  ashes  ! 

I should  not  need  the  dubious  aid  of  strangers. 

I.  Ber.  Not  one  of  all  those  strangers  whom  thou 
doubtest, 

But  will  regard  thee  with  a filial  feeling. 

So  that  thou  keep’st  a father’s  faith  with  them. 

Doge.  The  die  is  cast.  Where  is  the  place  of 
meeting  ? 

f.  Ber.  At  midnight  I will  be  alone  and  mask’d 
Where’er  your  highness  pleases  to  direct  me, 

To  wait  your  coming,  and  conduct  you  where 
You  shall  receive  our  homage,  and  pronounce 
Upon  our  project. 

Doge.  At  what  hour  arises 

The  moon  ? 


to  die,  was  conducted  across  the  gallerj-  to  the  other  side,  and 
being  then  led  back  into  the  other  compartment,  or  cell,  upon  the 
bridge,  was  there  strangled.  The  low  portal  through  which  the 
criminal  was  taken  into  this  cell  is  now  walled  up;  but  the  pas 
sage  is  open,  and  is  still  known  by  the  name  of  the  Bridge  of  S 
— Hobhouse.] 


204 

I.  Ber.  Late  • cet  the  atmosphere  is  thick  and 
dusky ; 

"Tis  a sirocco. 

Doge.  At  the  midnight  hour,  then, 

Near  to  the  church  where  sleep  my  sires  ; 1 the  same, 
Twin-named  from  the  apostles  John  and  Paul ; 

A gondola,2  with  one  oar  only,  will 
Lurk  in  the  narrow  channel  which  glides  by. 

Be  there. 

I.  Ber.  I will  not  fail. 

Doge.  And  now  retire 

I.  Ber.  In  the  full  hope  your  highness  will  not  falter 
In  your  great  pu-rposc.  Prince,  I take  my  leave. 

[ Exit  Israel  Bertuccio. 
Doge  {solus).  At  midnight,  by  the  church  Saints 
John  and  Paul, 

Where  sleep  my  noble  fathers,  I repair — 

To  what  P to  hold  a council  in  the  dark 
With  common  ruffians  leagued  to  ruin  states ! 

And  will  not  my  great  sires  leap  from  the  vault, 

Where  lie  two  doges  who  preceded  me, 

And  pluck  me  down  amongst  them  r Would  they 
could ! 

For  I should  rest  in  honour  with  the  honour’d. 

Alas  ! I must  not  think  of  them,  but  those 
Who  have  made  me  thus  unworthy  of  a name, 

Noble  and  brave  as  aught  of  consular 
On  Roman  marbles ; but  I will  redeem  it 
Back  to  its  antique  lustre  in  our  annals, 

By  sweet  revenge  on  all  that’s  base  in  Venice, 

And  freedom  to  the  rest,  or  leave  it  black 
To  all  the  growing  calumnies  of  time. 

Which  never  spare  the  fame  of  him  who  fails, 

But  try  the  Ctesar,  or  the  Catiline, 

By  the  true  touchstone  of  desert — success.3 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Angiolina  {wife  of  the  Doge)  and  Marianna. 
Ang.  What  was  the  Doge’s  answer  P 
Mar . That  lie  was 

That  moment  summon’d  to  a conference ; 

But  ’tis  by  this  time  ended.  I perceived 
Not  long  ago  the  senators  embarking; 

And  the  last  gondola  may  now  be  seen 
Gliding  into  the  throng  of  barks  which  stud 
The  glittering  waters. 

Ang.  Would  he  were  return’d  ! 

He  has  been  much  disquieted  of  late ; 

And  Time,  which  has  not  tamed  his  fiery  spirit. 

Nor  yet  enfeebled  even  his  mortal  frame, 

Which  seems  to  be  more  nourish’d  by  a soul 


(1)  [The  Doges  were  all  buried  in  St.  Mark’s  before  Faliero.  It 
i*  singular  that  when  his  predecessor,  Andrea  Dandolo,  died,  the 
Ten  made  a law  that  all  the  future  Doges  should  be  buried  with 
their  families  in  their  own  churches— one  would  think,  by  a kind 
of  presentiment.  So  that  all  that  is  said  of  his  ancestral  Dotjes,  as 
buried  at  St.  John’s  and  St.  Paul’s,  is  altered  from  tl  e fact,  they 
being  in  St.  Mark’s.  Make  a note  of  this,  and  put  Editor  as  the 
subscription  to  it.  Ak  I make  such  pretensions  to  accuracy,  I 
should  not  like  to  be  twitted  even  with  such  trifles  on  that  score. 
Of  the  play  they  may  say  what  they  please,  but  not  so  of  my  cos- 
tume and  dram.  pers. — they  having  been  real  existences. — Baron 
Letters,  Oct.  1820  ] 

(21  A gondola  is  not  like  a common  boat,  but  is  easily  rowed 


CT  >1 

So  quick  and  restless  that  it  would  coasur  « 

Less  hardy  clay— Time  has  but  little  power 
On  his  resentments  or  his  griefs.  Unlike 
To  other  spirits  of  his  order,  who, 

In  the  first  burst  of  passion,  pour  away 
Their  wrath  or  sorrow,  all  things  wear  in  him 
An  aspect  of  eternity:  his  thoughts, 

His  feelings,  passions,  good  or  evil,  all 
Have  nothing  of  old  age  ; and  his  bold  brow 
Bears  but  the  scars  of  mind,  the  thoughts  of  years* 
Not  their  dtcrepitude : and  he  of  late 
Has  been  more  agitated  than  his  wont. 

Would  lie  were  come  ! for  I alone  have  power 
Upon  his  troubled  spirit. 

Mar.  It  is  true, 

His  highness  lias  of  late  been  greatly  moved 
By  the  affront  of  Steno,  and  with  cause  : 

But  the  offender  doubtless  even  now 
Is  doom’d  to  expiate  his  rash  insult  with 
Such  chastisement  as  will  enforce  respect 
To  female  virtue,  and  to  noble  blood. 

Ang.  ’Twas  a gross  insult ; but  I heed  it  not 
For  the  rash  scorner’s  falsehood  in  itself, 

But  f or. the  effect,  the  deadly  deep  impression 
Which  it  has  made  upon  Ealiero’s  soul, 

The  proud,  the  fiery,  the  austere — austere 
To  all  save  me : I tremble  when  I think 
To  what  it  may  conduct. 

Mar.  Assuredly 

The  Doge  can  not  suspect  you? 

Ang.  Suspect  me  ! 

Why  Steno  dared  not . when  he  scrawl’d  his  lie, 
Grovelling  by  stealth  in  the  moon’s  glimmering 

TJ.  %ht’ 

His  own  still  conscience  smote  him  for  the  act, 

And  every  shadow  on  the  walls  frown’d  shame 
Upon  his  coward  calumny. 

Mar  ’Twere  fit 

He  should  be  punish’d  grievously. 

Ang.  He  is  so. 

Mar.  What ! is  the  sentence  pass’d  ? is  he  con 
demn’d  ? 

Ang.  I know  not  that,  but  he  has  been  detected. 
Mar.  And  deem  you  this  enough  for  such  fo"l 
scorn  ? 

Ang.  I would  not  be  a judge  in  my  own  cause, 

Nor  do  I know  what  sense  of  punishment 
May  reach  the  soul  of  ribalds  such  as  Steno  ; 

But  if  his  insults  sink  no  deeper  in 
The  minds  of  the  inquisitors  than  they 
Have  ruffled  mine,  lie  will,  for  all  acquittance, 

Be  left  to  his  own  shamelessness  or  shame. 

Mar.  Some  sacrifice  is  due  to  slander’d  virtue. 

Ang.  Why,  what  is  virtue  if  it  needs  a victim  ? 

Or  if  it  must  depend  upon  men’s  words  ? 

The  dying  Roman  said,  “ ’twas  but  a name 


with  one  oar  as  with  two  (though,  of  course,  not  so  swiftly),  and 

of'en  is  so  from  motives  of  privacy ; and,  since  the  decay  of  Venice, 
of  economy. 

(3)  [“What  Gifford  says  of  the  first  act  is  very  consolatory. 
English,  sterling  genuine  English,  is  a desideratum  amongst  you, 
and  I am  glad  that  I have  got  so  much  left;  though  Heaven  know* 
how  I retain  it:  1 hear  none  but  from  my  valet,  and  he  Is  Notting- 
hamshire ; and  I see  none  but  in  your  new  publications,  and  their* 
is  no  language  at  all,  but  jargon.  Gifford  says  that  it  is  good 
English,  and  Foscolo  says  that  the  characters  are  right  Venetian 

* Here  are  in  all  two  worthy  voices  gain’d. 

— Byron  Letters,  Sept.  1820.] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


SCENE  I. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


iiOa 


It  were  indeed  no  more,  if  human  breath 
Could  make  or  mar  it. 

Var  Yet  full  many  a dame. 

Stainless  and  faithfu1,  would  feel  all  the  wrong 
Of  such  a slander ; and  less  rigid  ladies. 

Such  as  abound  in  Venice,  would  be  loud 

And  all-inexorable  in  their  cry 

."For  justice.  . . . 

Ang.  This  but  proves  it  is  the  name 

And  not  the  quality  they  prize : the  first 
Have  found  it  a hard  task  to  hold  them  honour, 

If  they  require  it  to  be  blazon’d  forth  ; 

And  those  who  have  not  kept  it,  seek  its  seeming 
.As  they  would  look  out  for  an  ornament 
Of  which  they  feel  the  want,  but  not  because 
They  think  it  so  ; they  live  in  others’  thoughts, 

And  would  seem  honest,  as  they  must  seem  fair. 

Mar.  You  have  strange  thoughts  for  a patrician 
dame. 

Ang.  And  yet  they  were  my  father’s ; with  his 


name, 

The  sole  inheritance  he  left. 

Mar.  You  want  none ; 

Wife  to  a prince,  the  chief  of  the  Republic. 

Ang.  I should  have  sought  none  though  a peasant  s 
bride, 

Hut  feel  not  less  the  love  and  gratitude 
Due  to  my  father,  who  bestow’d  my  hand 
Upon  his  early,  tried,  and  trusted  friend, 

The  Count  Val  di  Marino,  now  our  Doge. 

Mar.  And  with  that  hand  did  he  bestow  your 
heart  ? 

| Ang.  He  did  so,  or  it  had  not  been  bestow’d. 

Mar.  Yet  this  strange  disproportion  in  your  years, 
And,  let  me  add,  disparity  of  tempers, 

Might  make  the  world  doubt  whether  such  an  union 
Could  make  you  wisely,  permanently  happy. 

Ang.  The  world  will  think  with  worldlings  ; but  my 
heart 

Has  still  been  in  my  duties,  which  are  many, 

Bu  t never  difficult. 

Mar.  And  do  you  love  him  ? 

Ang.  I love  all  noble  qualities  which  merit 
i Love,  and  I loved  my  father,  who  first  taught  me 
To  single  out  what  we  should  love  in  others, 

And  to  subdue  all  tendency  to  lend 
Tire  best  and  purest  feelings  of  our  nature 
To  baser  passions.  He  bestow’d  my  hand 
j Upon  Faliero  : he  had  known  him  noble, 

, Brave,  generous ; rich  in  all  the  qualities 
| Of  soldier,  citizen,  and  friend  ; in  all 
Such  have  I found  him  as  my  father  said. 

His  faults  are  those  that  dwell  in  the  high  bosoms 
Of  men  who  have  commanded  : too  much  pride, 

And  the  deep  passions  fiercely  foster’d  by 
The  uses  of  patricians,  and  a life 
I Spent  in  the  storms  of  state  and  war  ; and  also 
From  *:hc  quick  sense  of  honour,  which  becomes 


A duty  to  a certain  sign,  a vice 

When  overstrain’d,  and  this  I feat  in  him. 

And  then  he  has  been  rash  from  his  youth  upwards, 
Yet  temper’d  by  redeeming  nobleness 
In  such  sort,  that  the  wariest  of  republics 
Has  lavish’d  all  its  chief  employs  upon  him. 

From  his  first  fight  to  his  last  embassy, 

From  which  on  his  return  the  Dukedom  met  him. 

Mar.  But  previous  to  this  marriage,  had  your  heart 
Ne’er  beat  for  any  of  the  noble  youth. 

Such  as  in  years  had  been  more  meet  to  match 
Beauty  like  yours  ? or  since  have  you  ne’er  seen 
One,  who,  if  your  fair  hand  were  still  to  give, 

Might  now  pretend  to  Loredano’s  daughter  ? 

Ang.  I answer’d  your  first  question  when  I said 
I married. 

Mar.  And  the  second  ? 

Ang.  Needs  no  answer. 

Mar.  I pray  you  pardon,  if  I have  offended. 

Ang.  I feel  no  wrath,  but  some  surprise  : I knew  not 
That  wedded  bosoms  could  permit  themselves 
To  ponder  upon  what  they  now  might  choose, 

Or  aught  save  their  past  choice. 

Mar.  ’Tis  their  past  choice 

That  far  too  often  makes  them  deem  they  would 
Now  choose  more  wisely,  could  they  cancel  it. 

Ang.  It  may  be  so.  I knew  not  of  such  thoughts. 

Mar.  Here  comes  the  Doge — shall  I retire? 

Ang.  It  may 

Be  better  you  should  quit  me  ; he  seems  wrapt 
In  thought. — How  pensively  he  takes  his  way  ! 

[Exit  Marianna. 

Enter  the  Doge  and  Pietro. 

Doge  (musing).  There  is  a certain  Philip  Calendaro 
Now  in  the  Arsenal,  who  holds  command 
Of  eighty  men,  and  has  great  influence 
Besides  on  all  the  spirits  of  his  comrades : 

This  man,  I hear,  is  bold  and  popular, 

Sudden  and  daring,  and  yet  secret ; ’twould 
Be  well  that  he  were  won  : I needs  must  hope 
That  Israel  Bertuecio  has  secured  him, 

But  fain  would  be 

Die.  My  lord,  pray  pardon  me 

For  breaking  in  upon  your  meditation ; 

The  Senator  Bertuecio,  your  kinsman, 

Charged  me  to  follow  and  inquire  your  pleasure 
To  fix  an  hour  when  he  may  speak  with  you. 

Doge.  At  sunset. — Stay  a moment — let  me  see — 
Say  in  the  second  hour  of  night.  [Exit  Pietro 

Ang.  My  lord ! 

Doge.  My  dearest  child,  forgive  me— why  delay 
So  long  approaching  me? — I saw  you  not. 

Ang.  You  were  absorb’d  i$  thought,  and  he  who  now 
Has  parted  from  you  might  have  words  of  weight 
To  bear  you  from  the  senate. 

Done.  From  the  senate  ? 1 


{!)  [This  scene  is,  perhaps,  the  finest  in  the  whole  play.  The 
character  of  the  calm,  pure  spirited  Angiolina  is  developed  in 
it  mest  admirably; — the  great  difference  between  her  temper  and 
that  of  her  fiery  husband  is  vividly  portrayed  ; but  not  less  vividly 
Vjuched  is  that  strong  bond  of  their  union  which  exists  in  the  eom- 
' y.cr.  nobleness  of  their  deeper  natures.  There  is  no  spark  of 
jealousy  in  the  old  man’s  thoughts, — he  does  not  expect  the  fer- 
y vours  of  youthful  passion  in  his  wife,  nor  does  he  find  them  ; but 
j he  finds  what  is  far  better, — the  fearless  confidence  of  one,  who, 
Doing  to  the  heart’s  core  innocent,  can  scarcely  be  a believer  in 
the  existence  of  such  a thing  as  guilt.  He  finds  every  charm  which 
gratitude,  respect,  anxious  and  deep-seated  affection  can  give  to 


the  confidential  language  of  a lovely,  and  a modest,  and  a pious 
woman.  She  has  been  extremely  troubled  by  her  observance  of 
the  countenance  and  gesture  of  the  Doge,  ever  since  the  discovery 
of  Steno’s  guilt;  and  she  does  all  she  can  to  soothe  him  from  his 
proud  irritation.  Strong  in  her  consciousness  of  purity,  she  has 
brought  herself  to  regard  without  anger  the  insult  offered  to  herself; 
and  the  yet  uncorrected  instinct  of  a noble  heart  makes  her  try 
to  persuade  her  lord,  as  she  is  herself  persuaded,  that  Steno, 
whatever  he  the  sentence  of  his  judges,  must  be  punished — tnnrr 
even  than  they  would  wish  him  to  be — by  tl  e secret  suggestion* 
of  his  own  guilty  conscience,  — the  deep  bit  sl.^6  of  his  privacy 
— Lockhart.] 


206 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


A.CT  ri 


Ang.  1 would  not  interrupt  him  hi  his  duty 
And  theirs. 

Doge.  The  senate’s  duty  ! you  mistake  ; 

’Tis  we  wno  owe  all  service  to  the  senate. 

Ang.  I thought  the  Duke  had  held  command  in 
Venice. 

Doge.  He  shall. — But  let  that  pass. — We  will  be 
jocund. 

How  fares  it  with  you  ? have  you  been  abroad  ? 

The  day  is  overcast,  but  the  calm  wave 
Favours  the  gondolier’s  light  skimming  oar; 

Or  have  you  held  a levee  of  your  friends  ? 

Or  has  your  music  made  you  solitary  ? 

Say — is  there  aught  that  you  would  will  within 
The  little  sway  now  left  the  Duke  ? or  aught 
Of  fitting  splendour,  or  of  honest  pleasure, 

Social  or  lonely,  that  would  glad  your  heart, 

To  compensate  for  many  a dull  hour,  wasted 
On  an  old  man  oft  moved  with  many  cares  ? 

Speak  and  ’tis  done. 

Ang.  You’re  ever  kind  to  me — ■ 

I have  nothing  to  desire,  or  to  request. 

Except  to  see  you  oftener  and  calmer. 

Doge.  Calmer? 

Ang.  Ay,  calmer,  my  good  lord. — Ah,  why 

Do  you  still  keep  apart,  and  walk  alone, 

And  let  such  strong  emotions  stamp  your  brow, 

As  not  betraying  their  full  import,  yet 
Disclose  too  much  ? 

Doge.  Disclose  too  much  ! — of  what  ? 

What  is  there  to  disclose  ? 

Ang.  A heart  so  ill 

At  ease. 

Doge.  ’Tis  nothing,  child. — But  in  the  state 
You  knov*what  daily  cares  oppress  all  those 
Win,  govern  this  precarious  commonwealth; 

Now  suffering  from  the  Genoese  without, 

And  malcontents  within — ’tis  this  which  makes  me 
More  pensive  and  less  tranquil  than  my  wont. 

Ang.  Yet  this  existed  long  before,  and  never 
Till  in  these  late  days  did  I see  you  thus. 

Forgive  me,;  there  is  something  at  your  heart 
More  than  the  mere  discharge  of  public  duties. 

Which  long  use  and  a talent  like  to  yours 
Have  render’d  light,  nay,  a necessity, 

To  keep  your  mind  from  stagnating.  T,  not 
In  hostile  states,  nor  perils,  thus  to  shake  yoi ; 

You,  who  have  stood  all  storms  and  never  sunk, 

And  climb’d  up  to  the  pinnacle  of  power 
And  never  fainted  by  the  way,  and  stand 
Upon  it,  and  can  look  down  steadily 
Along  the  depth  beneath,  and  ne’er  feel  dizzy. 

Were  Genoa’s  galleys  riding  in  the  port, 

Were  civil  fury  raging  in  Saint  Mark’s, 

You  are  not  to  be  wrought  on,  but  would  fall, 

As  you  have  risen,  with  an  unalter’d  brow — 

Your  feelings  now  arc  of  a different  kind  ; 

Something  has  stung  your  pride,  not  patriotism. 

Doge.  Pride  ! Angiolina  ? Alas  ! none  is  left  me. 
Ang.  Yes — the  same  sin  that  overthrew  the  angels, 
And  of  all  sins  most  easily  besets 
Mortals  the  nearest  to  the  angelic  nature  : 

The  vile  are  only  vain  ; the  great  are  proud. 


Doge.  I had  the  pride  of  honour,  of  your  honour, 

Deep  at  my  heart But  let  us  change  the  theme.  1 

Ang.  Ah  no  ! — As  I have  ever  shared  your  kindnesa 
In  all  things  else,  let  me  not  be  shut  out 
From  your  distress  : were  it  of  public  import, 

You  know  I never  sought,  would  never  seek, 

To  win  a word  from  you  ; but  feeling  now 
Your  grief  is  private,  it  belongs  to  me 
To  lighten  or  divide  it.  Since  the  day 
When  foolish  Steno’s  ribaldry  detected 
Unfix’d  your  quiet,  you  are  greatly  changed, 

And  I would  soothe  you  back  to  what  you  were. 

Doge.  To  what  I was  ! — Have  you  heard  Steno’a , 
sentence  F 
Ang.  No. 

Doge.  A month’s  arrest. 

Ang.  Is  it  not  enough  ? 

Doge.  Enough  ! — yes,  for  a drunken  galley  slave, 
Whc  stung  by  stripes,  may  murmur  at  his  master ; 
But  n.  i for  a deliberate,  false,  cool  villain, 

Who  stedus  a lady’s  and  a prince’s  honour, 

Even  on  the  throne  of  his  authority. 

Ang.  There  seems  to  me  enough,  in  the  conviction 
Of  a patrician  guilty  of  a falsehood  : 

All  other  punishment  were  light  unto 
His  loss  of  lionoui . 

Doge.  Such  men  have  no  honour, 

They  have  but  their  viio  lives — and  these  are  spared. 
Ang.  You  would  not  have  him  die  for  this  offence? 
Doge.  |^ot  now  : — being  still  alive,  I’d  have  him  live 
Long  as  he  can ; he  has  ceased  to  merit  death  ; 

The  guilty  saved  hath  damn’d  bis  hundred  judges, 
xVnd  he  is  pure,  for  now  his  crime  is  theirs. 

Ang.  Oh!  had  this  false  and  Hi ppaut  libeller 
Shed  his  young  blood  for  his  absurd  lampoon, 

Ne’er  from  that  moment  could  this  breast  have  known 
A joyous  hour,  or  dreamless  slumber  more. 

Doge.  Does  not  the  law  of  Heaven  say  blood  foi 
blood  F 

And  he  who  taints  kills  more  than  he  who  sheds  it. 

Is  it  the  pain  of  blows,  or  shame  of  blows, 

That  make  such  deadly  to  the  sense  of  man  ? 

Do  not  the  laws  of  man  say  blood  for  honour  ? 

And,  less  than  honour,  for  a little  gold  F 
Say  not  the  laws  of  nations  blood  for  treason  ? 

Is’t  nothing  to  have  fill’d  these  veins  with  poison 
For  their  once  healthful  current  ? is  it  nothing 
To  have  stain’d  your  name  and  mine — the  nobles' 
names  ? 

Is’t  nothing  to  have  brought  into  contempt 
A prince  before  his  people  ? to  have  fail’d 
In  the  respect  accorded  by  mankind 
To  youth  in  woman,  and  old  age  in  man  ? 

To  virtue  in  your  sex,  and  dignity  [him.’ 

In  ours? — But  let  them  look  to  it  who  have  saved 
Ang.  Heaven  bids  us  to  forgive  our  enemies. 

Doge.  Doth  Heaven  forgive  her  own?  Is  Salat 
saved 

From  wrath  eternal  ?1  2 

Ang.  Do  not  speak  thus  wild! , — 

Heaven  will  alike  forgive  you  and  your  foes. 

Doge.  Amen ! May  Heaven  forgive  them  ! 

Ang.  And  will  you  • 


(1)  [This  scene  between  the  Doge  and  Angiolina,  though  in- 

tolerably long,  has  more  force  and  beauty  than  any  thing  that 
goes  before  it.  Site  endeavours  to  soothe  the  furious  mood  of  her 
aged  partner;  while  he  insists  that  nothing  but  the  libeller's  death 
c«dd  make  expiation  for  his  offence.  This  speech  of  the 


Doge  is  an  elaborate,  and, 
cal  exaggerations,  to  give 
sured  resentment  on  wh.-.„ 


after  all,  ineffectual  attempt,  by  mete-' 
some  colour  to  the  insane  and  unma^ 
. the  piece  hinges. — Jeffrey.] 


(2;  l"  Doth  Heaven  forgive  her  own?  Is  there  not  Ilell?" — MU  j 


8CEVB 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


207 


Bone.  Yes,  when  they  are  in  heaven ! 

^ And  not  till  then  s’ 

Bone.  What  matters  my  forgiveness  : an  old  man’s, 
Worn  out,  scorn’d,  spurn’d,  abused;  what  matters 
My  pardon  more  than  my  resentment,  both  [then 
Being  weak  and  worthless  F I have  lived  too  long.— 
But  let  us  change  the  argument —My  child ! 

My  injured  wife,  the  child  of  Loredano, 

The  brave,  the  chivalrous,  how  little  deem’d 
Thv  father,  wedding  thee  unto  his  friend, 

That  he  was  linking  thee  to  shame  !—  Ams ! 

Shame  without  sin,  for  thou  art  faultless,  Hadst  thou 
But,  had  a different  husband,  any  husband 
In  Venice  save  the  Doge,  this  blight,  this  brand, 

This  blasphemy,  had  never  fallen  upon  thee. 

So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good,  so  pure, 

To  suffer  this,  and  yet  be  unavenged ! 

Any.  I am  too  well  avenged,  for  you  still  love  me, 
And  trust,  and  honour  me  ; and  all  men  know 
That  you  are  just,  and  I am  true  : what  more 
Could  I require,  or  you  command  ? 

Doge.  1 is  well, 

And  may  be  better  ; but  wliate  er  betide. 

Be  thou  at  least  kind  to  my  memory. 

Ana.  Why  speak  you  thus  ? 

B0fje.  * It  is  no  matter  why ; 

But  I would  still,  whatever  others  think, 

Have  your  respect  both  now  and  in  my  grave. 

Ang.  Why  should  you  doubt  it  ? has  it  ever  fail  d r 

Doge.  Come  hither,  child;  I would  a word  with 


vou. 

Your  father  was  my  friend  ; unequal  fortune 
Made  him  my  debtor  for  some  courtesies 
Which  bind  ihe  good  more  firmly : when,  oppress’d 
With  his  last  malady,  he  will’d  our  union, 
it  was  not  to  repay  me,  Ion"  repaid 
Before  by  his  great  loyalty  in  friendship  ; 

Ilis  object  was  to  place  your  orphan  beauty 
1 n honourable  safety  from  the  perils, 

Which,  in  this  scorpion  nest  of  vice,  assail 
A lonely  and  undower’d  maid.  I did  not 
Think  with  him,  but  would  not  oppose  the  thought 
Which  soothed  his  death-bed. 

Ang.  I have  not  forgotten 

I The  nobleness  with  which  you  bade  me  speak, 
l If  my  young  heart  held  any  preference 

Which  would  have  made  me  happier  ; nor  your  offer 
' To  make  my  dowry  equal  to  the  rank 
I Of  aught  in  Venice,  and  forego  all  claim 
1 M v father’s  last  injunction  gave  you. 

Doge.  . Thus, 

Twas  not  a foolish  dotard’s  vile  caprice, 

\ Nor  the  false  edge  of  aged  appetite, 

Which  made  me  covetous  of  girlish  beauty, 

! And  a young  bride  : for  in  my  fieriest  youth 
: I sway’d  such  passions  ; nor  was  this  my  age 

| Infected  with  that  leprosy  of  lust 

Which  taints  the  hoariest  years  of  vicious  men, 

I Making  them  ransack  to  the  very  last 

The  dregs  of  pleasure  for  their  vanish’d  joys  , 

Or  buy  in  selfish  marriage  some  young  victim, 

Too  helpless  to  refuse  a state  that’s  honest, 
ico  feeling  not  to  know  herself  a wretch. 

Our  wedlock  was  not  of  this  sort ; you  had 
Freedom  from  me  to  choose,  and  urged  in  answer 
Your  father’s  choice. 

Ang.  I did  so  ; I would  do  so 

In  face  of  earth  and  heaven ; for  I have  never 


Repented  for  my  sake  : sometimes  for  yours. 

In  pondering  o’er  your  late  disquietudes. 

Doge.  I knew  my  heart  would  never  treat  you 
harshly  ; 

I knew  my  days  could  not  disturb  you  long ; 

And  then  the  daughter  of  my  earliest  friend, 

His  worthy  daughter,  free  to  choose  again. 

Wealthier  and  wiser,  in  the  ripest  bloom 
Of  womanhood,  more  skilful  to  select 
By  passing  these  probationary  years  ; 

Inheriting  a prince’s  name  and  riches, 

Secured,  by  the  short  penance  of  enduring 
An  old  man  for  some  summers,  against  all 
That  law’s  chicane  or  envious  kinsmen  might 
Have  urged  against  her  right ; my  best  friend’s  child 
Would  choose  more  fitly  in  respect  of  years, 

And  not  less  truly  in  a faithful  heart. 

Ang.  My  lord,  I look’d  but  to  my  father’s  wishes. 
Hallow’d  by  his  last  words,  and  to  my  heart 
For  doing  all  its  duties,  and  replying 
With  faith  to  him  with  whom  I was  affianced. 
Ambitious  hopes  ne’er  cross’d  my  dreams  ; and  should 
The  hour  you  speak  of  come,  it  will  be  seen  so. 

Doge.  I do  believe  you  ; and  I know  you  true  : 

For  love,  romantic  love,  which  in  my  youth 
I knew  to  be  illusion,  and  ne  er  saw  . 

Lasting,  but  often  fatal,  it  had  been 
No  lure  for  me,  in  my  most  passionate  days, 

And  could  not  be  so  now,  did  such  exist. 

But  such  respect,  and  mildly  paid  regard 
As  a true  feeling  for  your  welfare,  and 
A free  compliance  with  all  honest  wishes  ; 

A kindness  to  your  virtues,  watch  tulness 
Not  shown,  but  shadowing  o’er  such  little  failings 
As  youth  is  apt  in,  so  as  not  to  check 
Rashly,  but  win  you  from  tiiem  ere  you  knew 
You  had  been  won,  but  thought  the  change  your 
choice  ; 

A pride  not  in  your  beauty,  but  your  conduct,— 

A trust  in  vou — a patriarchal  love. 

And  not  a "doting  homage— friendship,  faith — 

Such  estimation  in  your  eyes  as  these 
Might  claim,  I hoped  for. 

Ang.  And  have  ever  had. 

Doge.  I think  so.  For  the  difference  in  our  years 
You  knew  it,  choosing  me,  and  chose  ; I trusted 
Not  to  my  qualities,  nor  would  have  faith 
In  such,  nor  outward  ornaments  of  nature. 

Were  I still  in  my  five-and-twentieth  spring  ; 

I trusted  to  the  blood  of  Loredano 

Pure  in  your  veins  ; I trusted  to  the  soul 

God  gave  you — to  the  truths  your  father  taught  you— 

To  your  belief  in  heaven — to  your  mild  virtues — 

To  your  own  faith  and  honour,  for  my  own.  [trust, 
Ang.  You  have  done  well. — I thank  you  for  tna* 
Which  I have  never  for  one  moment  ceased 
To  honour  you  the  more  for. 

Doge.  Where  is  honour 

Innate  ar„d  precept-strengthen’d,  ’tis  the  rock 
Of  faith  connubial : where  it  is  not — where 
Light  thoughts  are  lurking,  or  the  vanities 
Of  worldly  pleasure  rankle  in  the  heart. 

Or  sensual  throbs  convulse  it,  well  I know 
’Twere  hopeless  for  humanity  to  dream 
Of  honesty  in  such  infected  blood, 

Although  ’twere  wed  to  him  it  covets  most, ; 

An  incarnation  of  the  poet’s  god 
In  all  his  marble-chisell’d  beauty,  or 


LORD  BYROVS  WORKS. 


aC?  II 


gos 


Hie  Jemi-deity,  Alcides,  in 

His  majesty  of  super-human  manhood, 

Would  not  suffice  to  bind  where  virtue  is  not ; 
tt  is  consistency  which  forms  and  proves  it ; 

Vice  cannot  fix,  and  virtue  cannot  change. 

The  once  fall’ll  woman  must  for  ever  fall ; 

For  vice  must  have  variety,  while  virtue 
Stands  like  the  sun,  and  all  which  rolls  around 
Drinks  life,  and  light,  and  glory  from  her  aspect.1 

Ang.  And  seeing,  feeling  thus  this  truth  in  others, 
(I  pray  you  pardon  me  ;)  but  wherefore  yield  you 
To  the  most  fierce  of  fatal  passions,  and 
Disquiet  your  great  thoughts  with  restless  hate 
Of  such  a thing  as  Steno  ? 

Doge.  You  mistake  me. 

Tt  is  not  Steno  who  could  move  me  thus  ; 

Had  it  been  so,  he  should but  let  that  pass. 

Ang.  What  is’t  you  feel  so  deeply,  then,  even  now  ? 
Doge.  The  violated  majesty  of  Venice, 

At  once  insulted  in  her  lord  and  laws.  _ 

Ang.  Alas  ! why  will  you  thus  consider  it  ? 

Doge.  I have  thought  on’t  till but  let  me  lead 

you  back 

To  what  I urged. — All  these  things  being  noted, 

I wedded  you  ; the  world  then  did  me  justice 
Ugon  the  motive,  and  my  conduct  proved 
Th*ey  did  me  right,  while  yours  was  all  to  praise  : 

You  had  all  freedom — all  respect — all  trust 
From  me  and  mine  ; and,  bora  of  those  who  made 
Princes  at  home,  and  swept  kings  from  their  thrones 
On  foreign  shores,  in  all  things  you  appear’d 
Worthy  to  be  our  first  of  native  dames. 

Ang.  To  what  does  this  conduct  ? 

Doge.  I’0  thus  much — that 

A miscreant’s  angry  breath  may  blast  it  all— 

A villain,  whom  for  his  unbridled  bearing, 

Even  in  the  midst  of  our  great  festival, 

I caused  to  be  conducted  forth,  and  taught 
How  to  demean  himself  in  ducal  chambers  ; 

A wretch  like  this  may  leave  upon  the  wall 
The  blighting  venom  of  his  sweltering  heart, 

And  this  shall  spread  itself  in  general  poison ; 

And  woman’s  innocence,  man’s  honour,  pass 
Into  a by-word  ; and  the  doubly  felon 
(Who  first  insulted  virgin  modesty 
By  a gross  affront  to  your  attendant  damsels 
Amidst  the  noblest  of  our  dames  in  public) 

Requite  himself  for  his  most  just  expulsion 
By  blackening  publicly  his  sovereign’s  consort, 

And  be  absolved  by  Ins  upright  compeers. 

Ang.  But  he  has  been  condemn’d  into  captivity. 
Doge.  For  such  as  him  a dungeon  were  acquittal ; 
And  his  brief  term  of  mock-arrest  will  pass 
Within  a palace.  But  I’ve  done  with  him ; 

The  rest  must  be  with  you. 
jinn.  With  me,  my  lord  ? 

Doge.  Yes,  Angiolina.  Do  not  marvel : I 
Have  let  this  prey  upon  me  till  I feel 
My  life  can  not  be  long  ; and  fain  would  have  you 
Regard  the  injunctions  you  will  find  within 

T'liis  scroll  ( Giving  her  a 'paper') Fear  not ; they 

are  for  your  advantage  ; 

Read  them  hereafter  at  the  fitting  hour. 

Ang.  My  lord,  in  life,  and  after  life,  you  shall 
Be  honour’d  still  by  me : but  may  your  days 


(I)  [These,  passages,  tho  igh  not  perfectly  dramatic,  have  great 
sweetness  and  dignitv,  and  r<  mind  us,  in  their  rich  verbosity,  or 
ina  moral  and  mellifluous  parts  of  Massing^  — j eukkey.] 


Be  many  yet and  happier  Ilian  fhe  present ! 

T'liis  passion  will  give  way,  and  you  will  be 
Serene,  and  what  you  should  be — what  you  were. 

Doge.  I will  be  what  I should  be,  or  f)c  noth  in v 
But  never  more — oh  ! never,  never  more, 

O’er  the  few  days  or  hours  which  yet  await 
The  blighted  old  age  of  Faliero,  shall 
Sweet  Q,uiet  shed  her  sunset ! Never  more 
Those  summer  shadows  rising  from  the  past 
Of  a not  ill-spent  nor  inglorious  life, 

Mellowing  the  last  hours  as  the  night  approaches. 
Shall  soothe  me  to  my  moment  of  long  rest. 

I had  but  little  more  to  task,  or  hope, 

Save  the  regards  due  to  the  blood  and  sweat, 

And  the  soul’s  labour  through  which  I had  toil’d 
To  make  my  country  honour'd.  As  her  servant — 

Her  servant,  though  her  chief — I would  have  gone 
Down  to  my  fathers  with  a name  serene 
And  pure  as  theirs ; but  this  has  been  denied  me.— 
Would  I had  died  at  Zara  ! 

Ang.  There  you  saved 

The  state  ; then  live  to  save  her  still.  A day. 
Another  day  like  that  would  be  the  best 
Reproof  to  them,  and  sole  revenge  for  you. 

Doge.  But  one  such  day  occurs  within  an  age  ; 

My  life  is  little  less  than  one,  and  ’tis 
Enough  for  Fortune  to  have  granted  once , 

That  which  scarce  one  more  favour’d  citizen 
May  win  in  many  states  and  years.  But  why 
Thus  speak  I ? Venice  has  forgot  that  dav— 

Then  why  should  I remember  it  ? — Farewell, 

Sweet  Angiolina ! I must  to  my  cabinet ; 

There’s  much  for  me  to  do — and  the  hour  hastens. 

Ang.  Remember  what  you  were. 

Doge.  It  were  in  vam 

Joy’s' recollection  is  no  longer  joy, 

While  Sorrow’s  memory  is  a sorrow  still. 

Ang.  At  least,  whate’er  may  urge,  let  me  implore 
That  you  will  take  some  little  pause  of  rest : 

Your  sleep  for  many  nights  has  been  so  turbid, 

That  it  had  been  relief  to  have  awaked  you, 

Had  1 not  hoped  that  Nature  would  o’erpower 
At  length  the  thoughts  which  shook  your  slumbers 
thus. 

An  hour  of  rest  will  give  you  to  your  toils 
With  fitter  thoughts  and  freshen’d  strength. 

Doge.  I cannot — 

I must  not,  if  I could  ; for  never  was 
Such  reason  to  be  watchful : yet  a few — 

Yet  a few  days  and  dream -perturbed  nights, 

And  I shall  slumber  well  — but  where  ? — no 
matter. 

Adieu,  my  Angiolina. 

Ang.  ’ Let  me  be 

An  instant — yet  an  instant  your  companion  ! 

I cannot  bear  to  leave  you  thus. 

Doge.  Come  then, 

My  gentle  child  - forgive  me  ; thou  wvrt  made 
For  "better  fortunes  than  to  shave  in  mine, 

Now  darkling  in  their  close  toward  the  deep  vale 

Where  Death  sits  robed  in  his  ali-sweeping  shadow 

When  1 am  gone — it  may  be  sooner  than 

Even  these  years  warrant,  for  there  is  that  stirring 

Within — above — around,  that  in  tins  city 

Will  make  the  cemeteries  populous 

As  e’er  they  were  by  pestilence  or  war, — 

When  T am  nothing,  let  that  which  I teas 
Be  still  sometimes  a name  on  thy  sweet  lips, 


(SCENE  II. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


209 


A shadow  in  thy  Fancy,  of  a thing 

Winch  would  not  have  thee  mourn  it,  but  remember; — 

Let  as  begone,  my  child — the  time  is  pressing. 

L Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

A retired  Spot  near  the  Arsenal. 

Israel  Bertuccio  and  Philip  Calendaro. 

Cal.  How  sped  you,  Israel,  in  your  late  complaint  ? 
T.  Ber.  Why,  well. 

Cal.  Is ’t  possible  ! will  lie  be  punished  ? 

J.  Ber.  Yes. 

Cal.  With  what  ? a mulct  or  an  arrest  ? 

1.  Ber.  With  death  !— 

Cal.  Now  you  rave,  or  must  intend  revenge, 

Such  as  I counsell’ d you,  with  your  own  hand. 

I.  Ber.  Yes ; and  for  one  sole  draught  ot  hate,  forego 
The  great  redress  we  meditate  for  Venice, 

And  change  a life  of  hope  for  one  of  exile ; 

Leaving  one  scorpion  crush’d,  and  thousands  stinging 
My  friends,  my  family,  my  countrymen  ! 

No,  Calendaro  ; these  same  drops  of  blood, 

Shed  shamefully,  shall  have  the  whole  of  his 

For  t heir  requital But  not  only  his; 

We  will  not  strike  for  private  wrongs  alone ; 

Such  are  for  selfish  passions  and  rash  men, 

But  are  unworthy  a tyrannicide. 

Cal.  You  have  more  patience  than  I care  to  boast. 
Had  I been  present  when  you  bore  this  insult, 

] must  have  slain  him,  or  expired  myself 
In  the  vain  effort  to  repress  my  wrath. 

1.  Ber.  Thank  Heaven,  you  were  not — all  had  else 
been  marr’d : 

As  ’tis,  our  cause  looks  prosperous  still. 

Cal.  You  saw 

The  Doge — what  answer  gave  he  ? 

I.  Ber.  That  there  was 

No  punishment  for  such  as  Barbara. 

Cal.  I told  you  so  before,  and  t hat  ’twas  idle 
To  think  of  justice  from  such  hands. 

I.  Ber.  At  least, 

It  lull’d  suspicion,  showing  confidence. 

Had  I been  silent,  not  a sbirro  but 
Had  kept  me  in  his  eye,  as  meditating 
A silent,  solitary,  deep  revenge. 

Cal.  But  wherefore  not  address  you  to  the  Council  ? 
The  Doge  is  a mere  puppet,  who  can  scarce 
Obtain  right  for  himself.  Why  speak  to  him ? 

/.  Ber.  You  shall  know  that  hereafter. 

Cal.  Why  not  now? 

1.  Ber.  Be  patient  but  till  midnight.  Get  your 
musters, 

And  bid  our  friends  prepare  their  companies  : — 

Set  all  in  readiness  to  strike  the  blow, 

Perhaps  in  a few  hours ; we  have  long  waited 
For  a fit  time — that  hour  is  on  the  dial, 

It  may  be,  of  to-morrow’s  sun : delay 
Beyond  may  breed  us  double  danger.  See 
That  all  be  punctual  at  our  place  of  meeting, 

And  arm’d,  excepting  those  of  the  Sixteen, 

Who  will  remain  amoner  the  troops  to  wait 
The  signal. 

Cal.  These  brave  words  have  breathed  new  life 
Into  my  veins ; I am  sick  of  these  protracted 
And  hesitating  councils  : day  on  day 
Cnwl’d  on,  and  added  but  another  link 
To  our  long  fetters,  and  some  fresher  wrong 


Inflicted  on  our  brethren  or  ourst_ves. 

Helping  to  swell  our  tyrant’s  bloated  strength. 

Let  us  but  deal  up.on  them,  and  I care  not 
For  the  result,  which  must  be  death  or  freedom  ! 

I ’m  weary  to  the  heart  of  finding  neither. 

I.  Ber.  We  will  be  free  in  life  or  death ! the  grave 
Is  chainless.  Have  you  all  the  musters  ready  ? 

And  are  the  sixteen  companies  completed 
To  sixty  ? 

Cal.  All  save  two,  in  which  there  are 
Twenty-five  wanting  to  make  up  the  number. 

I.  Ber.  No  matter ; we  can  do  without.  Whose 
are  they  ? 

Cal.  Bertram’s  and  old  Soranzo’s,  both  of  whom 
Appear  less  forward  in  the  cause  than  we  are. 

I.  Ber.  Your  fiery  nature  makes  you  deem  all  those 
Who  are  not  restless,  cold ; but  there  exists 
Oft  in  concentred  spirits  not  less  daring 
Than  in  more  loud  avengers.  Do  not  doubt  them. 

Cal.  I do  not  doubt  the  elder ; but  in  Bertram 
There  is  a hesitating  softness,  fatal 
To  enterprise  like  ours  : I’ve  seen  that  man 
Weep  like  an  infant  o’er  the  misery 
Of  others,  heedless  of  his  own,  though  greater ; 

And  in  a recent  quarrel  I beheld  him 

Turn  sick  at  sight  of  blood,  although  a villain’s. 

I.  Ber.  The  truly  brave  are  soft  of  heart  and  eyes, 
And  feel  for  what  their  duty  bids  them  do. 

I have  known  Bertram  long ; there  doth  not  breathe 
A soul  more  full  of  honour. 

Cal.  It  may  be  so : 

I apprehend  less  treachery  than  weakness  ; 

Yet  as  he  has  no  mistress,  and  no  wife, 

To  work  upon  his  milkiness  of  spirit, 

He  may  go  through  the  ordeal ; it  is  well 
He  is  an  orphan,  friendless  save  in  us  : 

A woman  or  a child  had  made  him  less 
Than  either  in  resolve. 

I.  Ber.  Such  ties  are  not 

For  those  who  are  call’d  to  the  high  destinies 
Which  purify  corrupted  commonwealths ; 

W«  must  forget  all  feelings  save  the  one — 

We  must  resign  all  passions  save  our  purpose — • 

We  must  behold  no  object  save  our  country — 

And  only  look  on  death  as  beautiful, 

So  that  the  sacrifice  ascend  to  heaven, 

And  draw  down  freedom  on  her  evermore. 

Cal.  But  if  we  fail 

I.  Ber.  They  never  fail  who  die 

In  a great  cause : the  block  may  soak  their  gore  ; 
Their  heads  may  sodden  in  the  sun  ; their  limbs 
Be  strung  to  city  gates  and  castle  walls — 

But  still  their  spirit  walks  abroad.  Though  years 
Elapse,  and  others  share  as  dark  a doom, 

They  but  augment  the  deep  and  sweeping  thoughts 
Which  overpower  all  others,  and  conduct 
The  world  at  last  to  freedom  : What  were  we 
If  Brutus  had  not  lived?  He  died  in  giving 
Rome  liberty,  but  left  a deathless  lesson — 

A name  which  is  a virtue,  and  a soul 
Which  multiplies  itself  throughout  all  time. 

When  wicked  men  wax  mighty,  and  a state 
Turns  servile : he  and  his  high  friend  were  styled 
“ The  last  of  Romans  *”  Let  us  be  the  first 
Of  true  Venetians,  sprung  from  Roman  sires. 

Cal.  Our  fathers  did  not  fly  from  Atlila 
Into  these  isles,  where  palaces  have  sprung 
On  banks  redeem’d  from  the  rude  ocean’s  ooze, 

E E 


210 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  III, 


To  own  a thousand  despots  in  his  place. 

Better  bow  down  before  the  Ilun,  and  call 
A Tartar  lord,  than  these  swoln  silkworms  masters ! 
The  first  at  least  was  man,  and  used  his  sword 
As  sceptre  : these  unmanly  creeping  things 
Command  our  swords,  and  rule  us  with  a word 
As  with  a spell. 

/.  Ber.  It  shall  be  broken  soon. 

You  say  that  all  things  are  in  readiness  : 

To-day  I have  not  been  the  usual  round, 

And  why  thou  knowest ; but  thy  vigilauce 
Will  better  have  supplied  my  care . these  orders 
In  recent  council  to  redouble  now 
Our  efforts  to  repair  the  galleys,  have 
Lent  a fair  colour  to  the  introduction 
Of  many  of  our  cause  into  the  arsenal, 

As  new  artificers  for  their  equipment, 

Or  fresh  recruits  obtain’d  in  haste  to  man 
The  hoped-for  fleet. — Are  all  supplied  with  arms  ? 

Cal.  All  who  were  deem’d  trustworthy : there  are 
some 

W hom  it  were  well  to  keep  in  ignorance 
Till  it  be  time  to  strike,  and  then  supply  them ; 

W hen  in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  hour 
They  have  no  opportunity  to  pause, 

But  needs  must  on  with  those  who  will  surround  them. 

I.  Ber.  You  have  said  well.  Have  you  remark’d 
all  such  ? 

Cal.  I’ve  noted  most ; and  caused  the  other  chiefs 
To  use  like  caution  in  their  companies. 

As  far  as  I have  seen,  we  are  enough 
To  make  the  enterprise  secure,  if  ’tis 
Commenced  to-morrow ; but,  till  ’tis  begun, 

Each  hour  is  pregnant  with  a thousand  perils. 

I.  Ber.  Let  the  Sixteen  meet  at  the  wonted  hour, 
Except  Soranzo,  Nicoletto  Blondo, 

And  Marco  Giuda,  who  will  keep  their  watch 
Within  the  arsenal,  and  hold  all  ready 
Expectant  of  the  signal  we  will  fix  on. 

Cal.  Wre  will  not  fail. 

I.  Ber.  Let  all  the  rest  be  there ; 

I have  a stranger  to  present  to  them. 

Cal.  A stranger ! doth  he  know  the  secret  P 

I.  Ber.  Yes. 

Cal.  And  have  you  dared  to  peril  your  friends’  lives 
On  a rash  confidence  in  one  we  know  not  ? 

/.  Ber.  I have  risk’d  no  man’s  life  except  iny  own — 
Of  that  be  certain  : he  is  one  who  may 
Make  our  assurance  doubly  sure,  according: 

His  aid ; and  if  reluctant,  he  no  less 
Is  in  our  power ; he  comes  along  with  me, 

And  cannot  ’scape  us  ; but  he  will  not  swerve. 

Cal.  I cannot  judge  of  this  until  I know  him  : 

Is  he  one  of  our  order  ? 

/.  Ber.  Av,  in  spirit, 

Although  a child  of  greatness  ; he  is  one 
Who  would  become  a throne,  or  ovei  throw  one — 

One  who  has  done  great  deeds,  and  seen  great 
changes ; 

No  tyrant,  though  bred  up  to  tyranny  , 

Valiant  in  war,  and  sage  in  council ; noble 
In  nature,  although  haughty  ; quick,  yet  wary  : 

Yet  for  all  this,  so  full  of  certain  passions, 

That  if  once  stirr’d  and  baffled,  as  he  has  been 
Upon  the  tenderest  points,  there  is  no  Fury 
In  Grecian  story  like  to  that  which  wrings 
His  vitals  with  her  burning  hands,  till  he 
Grows  capable  of  all  things  for  revenge ; 


And  add  too,  that  his  mind  is  liberal, 

He  sees  and  feels  the  people  are  oppress’d, 

And  shares  their  sufferings.  Take  him  all  in  all, 

We  have  need  of  such,  and  such  have  need  of  us. 

Cal.  And  what  part  would  you  have  him  tak« 
with  us  ? 

I.  Ber.  It  may  be,  that  of  chief. 

Cal.  What ! and  resign 

Your  own  command  as  leader  ? 

I.  Ber.  Even  so. 

My  object  is  to  make  your  cause  end  well, 

And  not  to  push  myself  to  power.  Experience, 

Some  skill,  and  your  own  ch  flee,  had  mark’d  me  out 
To  act  intrust  as  your  conimmder,  till 
Some  worthier  should  appear : if  I have  found  such 
As  you  yourselves  shall  own  more  worthy,  think  you 
That  I would  hesitate  from  selfishness, 

And,  covetous  of  brief  authority, 

Stake  our  deep  interest  on  my  single  tho'ights, 

Rather  than  yield  to  one  above  me  in 
All  leading  qualities  ? No,  Calendarr, 

Know  your  triend  better;  but  you  d'j  shall  judge. — 
Away  ! and  let  us  meet  at  the  fix’d  Vat. 

Be  vigilant,  and  all  will  yet  go  we!. 

Cal.  Worthy  Bertuccio,  I have  host/ n you  ever 
Trusty  and  brave,  with  head  and  heart  to  plan 
What  I have  still  been  prompt  to  execute. 

For  my  own  part,  I seek  no  other  chief; 

What  the  rest  will  decide  I know  not,  but 
I am  with  you,  as  I have  ever  been, 

In  all  our  undertakings.  Novi'  farewell, 

Until  the  hour  of  midnight  sees  us  meet.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

Scene , the  Spare  between  the  Canal  and  the  Church  of’ 
San  Gionanni  e San  Paolo.  An  equeAuan  Statue 
before  it.  — A Gondola  lies  in  the  U >/tal  at  some 
distance. 

Enter  the  Doge  alone,  di&y  ,ised. 

Doge  (solus).  I am  before  the  hoar,  the  lioiu  whose 
voice, 

Pealing  into  the  arch  of  night,  might  strike 
These  palaces  with  ominous  tottering, 

And  rock  their  marbles  to  the  corner-stone, 

Waking  the  sleepers  from  some  hideous  dream 
Of  indistinct  but  awful  auguiy 
Of  that  which  will  befall  them.  Yes,  proud  city ! 
Thou  must  be  cleansed  of  the  black  blood  which  mav?» 
thee 

A lazar-house  of  tyranny : the  task 
Is  forced  upon  jne,  I have  sought  it  not ; 

And  therefore  was  I punish’d,  seeing  this 
Patrician  pestilence  spread  on  and  on. 

Until  at  length  it  smote  me  in  my  slumbers, 

And  I am  tainted,  and  must  wash  away 
The  plague-spots  in  the  healing  wave.  Tall  fane  ! 
Where  sleep  my  fathers,  whose  dim  statues  shadow 
The  floor  which  doth  divide  us  from  the  dead, 

Where  all  the  pregnant  hearts  of  our  bold  blood, 
Moulder’d  into  a mite  of  ashes,  hold 
In  one  shrunk  heap  what  once  made  many  heroes. 
When  what  is  now  a handful  shook  the  earth — 

Fane  of  the  tutelar  saints  who  guard  our  house ! 

Vault  where  two  Doges  rest — my  sires!  who  dukl 


scrsNE  i. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


211 


L'he  one  of  toL,  the  other  in  the  field, 

With  a long  race  of  other  lineal  chiefs 

And  sages,  whose  great  labours,  wounds,  and  state 

L have  inherited, — let  the  graves  gape, 

Till  all  thine  aisles  be  peopled  with  the  dead. 

And  pour  them  from  thy  portals  to  gaze  on  me  ! 

1 call  them  up,  and  them  and  thee  to  witness 
What  it  hath  been  which  put  me  to  this  task — 

Their  pure  high  blood,  their  blazon-roll  of  glories. 
Their  mighty  name  dishonour’d  all  in  me. 

Not  by  me,  but  by  the  ungrateful  nobles 
We  fought  to  make  our  equals,  not  our  lords  : — 1 
And  chiefly  thou,  Ordelafo  the  brave, 

Who  perish’d  in  the  field,  where  I since  conquer’d, 
Battling  at  Zara,  did  the  hecatombs 
Of  thine  and  Venice’  foes,  there  offer’d  up 
By  thy  descendant,  merit  such  acquittance  ? 2 
Spirits ! smile  down  upon  me  ; for  my  cause 
Is  yours,  in  all  life  now  can  be  of  yours, — 

Your  fame,  your  name,  all  mingled  up  in  mine. 

And  in  the  future  fortunes  of  our  race ! 

Let  me  but  prosper,  and  I make  this  city 
Free  and  immortal,  and  our  house’s  name 
Worthier  of  what  you  were,  now  and  hereafter  ! 3 

Enter  Israel  Bertuccio. 

/.  Ber . Who  goes  there  ? 

Doge.  A friend  to  Venice. 

I Ber.  ’Tis  he. 

Welcome,  my  lord, — you  are  before  the  time. 

Doge.  I am  ready  to  proceed  to  your  assembly. 

I.  Ber.  Have  with  you. — I am  proud  and  pleased 
to  see 

Such  confident  alacrity.  Your  doubts 
Since  our  last  meeting,  then,  are  all  dispell’d  ? 

Doge.  Not  so — but  I have  set  my  little  left 
Of  life  upon  this  cast : the  die  was  thrown 
When  I first  listen’d  to  your  treason — Start  not ! 

That  is  the  word ; I cannot  shape  my  tongue 
To  syllable  black  deeds  into  smooth  names. 

Though  I be  wrought  on  to  commit  them.  When 
I heard  you  tempt  your  sovereign,  and  forbore 
To  have  you  dragg’d  to  prison,  I became 
Your  guiltiest  accomplice:  now  you  may, 

If  it  so  please  you,  do  as  much  by  me. 

/.  Ber.  Strange  words,  my  lord,  av.d  most  unmerited; 
I am  no  spy,  and  neither  are  we  traitors. 

Doge.  We! — We! — no  matter — you  have  earn’d 
the  right 

To  talk  of  us'. — Rut  to  the  point. — If  this 
Attempt  succeeds,  and  Venice,  render’d  free 
And  flourishing,  when  we  are  in  our  graves, 

Conducts  her  generations  to  our  tombs, 

And  makes  her  children  with  their  little  hands 


(1  > [“  We  fought  to  make  our  { e<*uaIi-  n<?‘  our  ,ords  : 

l peers,  and  not  our  masters 

— MS.] 

(2)  [“  By  thy  descendant,  merit  suchfac<*u?tt?I',<;eL»o 

(.requital  ? — MS.] 

(3)  [The  Doge,  true  to  his  appointment,  is  waiting  for  his  con- 
ductor before  the  church  of  San  Paolo  e Giovanni.  There  is  great 
loftiness,  both  of  feeling  and  diction,  in  this  passage. — Jeffrey.] 

(4)  [There  is  a great  deal  of  natural  struggle  in  the  breast  of  the 
kigh-born  and  haughty  Doge,  between  the  resentment  with  which 
be  burns  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  reluctance  with  which  he  con- 
siders the  meanness  of  the  associates  with  whom  he  has  leagued 

himselt  on  the  other.  The  conspiring  Doge  is  not,  we  think,  meant 
to  be  ambitious  for  himself,  but  he  is  sternly,  proudly,  a Venetian 
noble ; and  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  tear  from  his  bosom  the 


1 Strew  flowers  o’er  her  deliverers’  ashes,  then 
The  consequence  will  sanctify  the  deed, 

And  we  shall  be  like  the  two  Bruti  in 
The  annals  of  hereafter  ; but  if  not, 

If  we  should  fail,  employing  bloody  means 
And  secret  plot,  although  to  a good  end, 

Still  we  are  traitors,  honest  Israel  — thou 
No  less  than  he  who  was  thy  sovereign 
Six  hours  ago,  and  now  thy  brother  rebel. 

I.  Ber.  ’Tis  not  the  moment  to  consider  thus, 

Else  I could  answer. — Let  us  to  the  meeting, 

Or  we  may  be  observed  in  lingering  here. 

Doge.  We  are  observed,  ana  have  been. 

[.Ber.  We  observed  f 

Let  me  discover — and  this  steel 

Doge.  Put  up* 

Here  are  no  human  witnesses : look  there — 

What  see  you  ? 

I.  Ber.  Only  a tall  warrior’s  statue 

Bestriding  a proud  steed,  in  the  dim  light 
Of  the  dull  moon. 

Doge.  That  warrior  was  the  sire 

Of  my  sire’s  fathers,  and  that  statue  was 
Decreed  to  him  by  the  twice  rescued  city  : — ■ 

Think  you  that  he  looks  down  on  us,  or  no  ? 

I.  Ber.  My  lord,  these  are  mere  fantasies ; there 
are 

No  eyes  in  marble. 

Doge.  But  there  are  in  Death. 

I tell  thee,  man,  there  is  a spirit  in 

Such  tilings  that  acts  and  sees,  unseen,  though  felt ; 

And,  if  there  be  a spell  to  stir  the  dead, 

’Tis  in  such  deeds  as  we  are  now  upon. 

Deem’st  thou  the  souls  of  such  a race  as  mine 
Can  rest,  when  he,  their  last  descendant  chief, 

Stands  plotting  on  the  brink  of  their  pure  graves 
With  stung  plebeians  ? 4 

I.  Ber.  It  had  been  as  well 

To  have  ponder’d  this  before, — ere  you  embark’d 
In  our  great  enterprise. — Do  you  repent  ? 

Doge.  No — but  I feel>  and  shall  do  to  the  last. 

I cannot  quench  a glorious  life  at  once, 

Nor  dwindle  to  the  thing  I now  must  be,5 

And  take  men’s  lives  by  stealth,  without  some  pause. : 

Yet  doubt  me  not ; it  is  this  very  feeling, 

And  knowing  what  has  wrung  me  to  be  thus. 

Which  is  your  best  security.  There’s  not 
A roused  mechanic  in  your  busy*plot 
So  wrong’d  as  I,  so  fall’ll,  so  loudly  call’d 
To  his  redress  : the  very  means  I.  am  forced 
By  these  fell  tyrants  to  adopt  is  such, 

That  I abhor  them  doubly  for  the  deeds 
Which  I must  do  to  pay  them  back  for  theirs. 

I.  Ber.  Let  us  away — hark — the  hour  strikes. 


scorn  for  every  thing  plebeian  which  has  been  implanted  there  by 
birth,  education,  and  a long  life  of  princely  command.  There  are 
other  thoughts,  too,  and  of  a gentler  kind,  which  cross  from  time 
to  time  his  perturbed  spirit.  He  remembers — he  cannot  entirely 
forget— the  days  and  nights  of  old  companionsnip,  by  which  he  had 
long  been  bound  to  those  whose  sentence  he  has  consented  to  seal. 
He  has  himself  been  declaiming  against  the  folly  of  mercy,  and 
arguing  valiantly  the  necessity  of  total  extirpation, — and  that,  too, 
in  the  teeth  even  of  some  of  the  plebeian  conspirators  themselves: 
yet  the  Poet,  with  profound  insight  into  the  human  heart,  makes 
him  shudder  when  his  own  impetuosity  has  brought  himself,  and 
all  who  hear  him,  to  the  brink.  He  cannot  look  upon  the  bloody 
resolution,  no  not  even  after  he  himself  has  been  the  chief  instru- 
ment of  its  formation. — Lockhart.] 

r<i  f the  thing  I now  must  be, 

^ ^ 0 { a cut-throat  without  shuddering  — IdS.J 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  III 


2L2 


[>oge.  On — On — 

1 1 is  our  knoll,  or  that  of  Venice — On  ! 

Ber.  Say  rather, ’tis  her  freedom’s  rising  peal 
O1  rimnph This  way — we  are  near  the  place. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

The  House  where  the  Conspirators  meet. 

Da(t« .lino,  Doro,  Bertram,  Fepele  Trevisano, 

Calendaro,  Antonio  delle  Bende,  &c  &c. 

Cat.  [entering).  Are  all  here  ? 

Dag.  All  with  you;  except  the  three 

On  duty,  and  our  leader  Israel, 

Who  is  expected  momently. 

Cat.  Where  > Bertram  ? 

Ber.  Here ! 

Cal.  Have  you  not  been  able  to  complete 

The  numoer  wanting  in  your  company  r 

Ber.  1 had  mark’d  out  some  : but  I have  not  dared 
To  trust  them  with  the  secret,  till  assured 
That  they  were  worthy  faith. 

Cal.  There  is  no  need 

Of  trusting  to  their  faith  : who , save  ourselves 
And  our  more  chosen  comrades,  is  aware 
Fully  of  oui  intent?  they  think  themselvep 
Engaged  in  secret  to  the  Signory,1 
To  punish  some  more  dissolute  young  nobles 
Who  have  defied  the  law  in  their  excesses ; 

But  once  drawn  up,  and  their  new  swords  weil-flesh’d 
In  the  rank  hearts  of  the  more  odious  senators. 

They  will  not  hesitate  to  follow  up 
Their  blow  upon  the  others,  when  they  see 
The  example  of  their  chiefs,  and  I for  one 
Will  set  them  such,  that  they  for  very  shame 
And  safety  will  not  pause  till  all  have  perish’d. 

Ber.  How  say  ■-  ou  ? all ! 

Cal.  Whom  wouldst  thou  si  .are  ? 

Ber.  I spare  ? 

1 have  no  power  U -.pare.  1 only  question’d. 
Thinking  that  even  amongst  these  wicked  men 
There  might  be  some,  whose  age  and  qualities 
Might  mark  them  out  for  pity. 

Cal.  Yes,  such  pity 

As  when  the  viper  li.at.ri  been  cut  to  pieces, 

The  separate  fragments  quivering  in  the  sun, 

In  the  last  energy  of  venomous  life, 

Deserve  and  have.  Why,  I should  think  as  soon 
Of  pitying  some  particular  fang  which  made 
One  in  the  jaw  of  the  swoln  serpent,  as 
Of  saving  one  of  these ; they  form  but  links 
Of  one  long  chain;  one  mass,  one  breath,  one  body  ; 
They  eat,  and  drink,  and  live,  and  breed  together, 
Bevel,  and  lie,  oppress,  ant1  kill  in  concert, — 

So  let  them  die  as  one  ! 

Dag.  Should  one  survive, 

lie  would  be  dangerous  as  the  whole  ; it  is  not 
Their  number,  be  it  tens  or  thousands,  but 
The  spirit  of  this  aristocracy 
Which  must  be  rooted  out ; and  if  there  weie 
A single  shoot  of  the  old  tree  in  life, 

*T would  fasten  in  the  soil,  and  spring  again 
To  gloomy  verdure  and  to  bittei  fruit. 

Bertram,  we  must  be  firm  ! 

Cat.  Look  to  it  well, 

Bertra  ; 1 have  an  eye  upon  thee. 


(1)  An  historical  fact.  See  Appendix:  Marino  Faliero,  Note* 


Ber.  Who 

Distrusts  me  ? 

Cal.  Not  I ; for  if  I did  so, 

Thou  wouldst  not  now  be  there  to  talk  of  trust : 

It  is  thy  softness,  not  thy  want  of  faith, 

Which  makes  thee  to  be  doubted. 

Ber.  You  should  know 

Who  hear  me,  who  and  what  I am  ; a man 
Roused  like  yourselves  to  overtlmow  oppression ; 

A kind  man,  I am  apt  to  think,  as  some 
Of  you  have  found  me ; and  if  brave  or  no, 

You,  Calendaro,  can  pronounce,  who  have  seen  me 
Put  to  the  proof;  or,  if  you  should  have  doubts, 

I’ll  clear  them  on  your  person  ! 

Cal.  You  are  welcome, 

When  once  our  enterprise  is  o’er,  which  must  not 
Be  interrupted  by  a private  brawl. 

Ber.  I am  no  brawler ; but  can  bear  myself 
As  far  among  the  foe  as  any  he 
Who  hears  me ; else  why  have  I been  selected 
To  be  of  your  chief  comrades  ? but  no  less 
I own  my  natural  weakness ; I have  not 
Yet  learn’d  to  think  of  indiscriminate  murder 
Without  some  sense  of  shuddering  ; and  the  sight 
Of  blood  which  spouts  through  hoary  scalps  is  not 
To  me  a thing  of  triumph,  nor  the  death 
Of  men  surprised  a glory.  Well — too  well 
I know  that  wc  must  do  such  things  on  those 
YVhose  acts  have  raised  up  such  avengers  ; but 
If  there  were  some  of  these  who  could  be  saved 
From  out  this  sweeping  fate,  for  our  own  sakes 
And  for  our  honour,  to  take  off  some  stain 
Of  massacre,  which  else  pollutes  it  wholly,  ' 

I had  been  glad  ; and  see  no  cause  in  this 
Fc"  sneer,  nor  for  suspicion ! 

Dqg.  Calm  thee,  Bertram 

For  we  suspect  thee  not,  and  take  good  heart. 

It  is  the  cause,  and  not  our  will,  which  asks 
Such  actions  from  our  hands  : we’ll  wash  away 
All  stains  in  Freedom’s  fountain  ! 

Enter  Israel  Bertuccio,  and  the  Doge,  disguised. 

Dag.  Welcome,  Israel. 

Consp.  Most  welcome.  - Brave  Bertuccio,  thou  art 
late — 

Who  is  this  stranger  ? 

Cal.  It  is  time  to  name  him. 

Our  comrades  are  even  now  prepared  to  greet  him 
In  brotherhood,  as  I have  made  it  known 
That  thou  wouldst  add  a brot  her  to  our  cause, 

I Approved  by  thee,  and  thus  approved  by  all, 
j Such  is  our  trust  in  all  thine  actions.  Now 
] iet  him  unfold  himself. 

T.  Ber.  Stranger,  step  forth ! 

[The  Doge  discovers  himself. 

Consp.  To  arms ! — we  are  betray’d  — it  is  the 
Doge ! 

1 >■  wn  with  them  both  ! our  traitorous  captain,  and 
The  tyrant  he  hath  sold  us  to! 

(id.  [drawing  his  sword.)  Hold!  hold! 

Who  moves  a step  against  them  dies.  Hold  ! hear 
Bertuccio — What!  are  you  appall’d  to  see 
A lone,  unguarded,  weaponless  old  man 
Amongst  you?  — Israel,  speak!  what  means  this 
mystery  ? [bosoms, 

I.  Ber.  Let  them  advance  and  strike  at  their  own 
Ungrateful  suicides  ! for  on  our  lives 
Depend  their  own,  their  fortunes,  anil  their  hopes. 


SCENE  II. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


Doge.  Strike!— If  I dreaded  death,  a death  more 
fearful 

Than  any  your  rash  weapons  can  inflict, 

[ should*  not  now  be,  here  .—Oh,  noble  Courage  ! 

The  eldest  born  of  Fear,  which  makes  you  brave 
Against  this  solitary  hoary  head ! 

See  the  bold  chiefs,  who  would  reform  a state 
And  shake  down  senates,  mad  with  wrath  and  dread 
At  sight  of  one  patrician ! — Butcher  me, 

You  can ; I care  not. — Israel,  are  these  men 
The  mighty  hearts  you  spoke  of  ? look  upon  them  ! 

Cal.  Faith  ! he  hath  shamed  us,  and  deservedly. 
Was  this  your  trust  in  your  true  chief  Bertuccio, 

To  turn  your  sw'ords  against  him  and  his  guest  ? 
Sheathe  them,  and  hear  him. 

/.  Ber.  I disdain  to  speak. 

They  might  and  must  have  known  a heart  like 
mine 

Incapable  of  treachery ; and  the  power 
They  gave  me  to  adopt  all  fitting  means 
To  further  their  design  was  ne’er  abused. 

They  might  be  certain  that  whoe’er  was  brought 
By  me  into  this  council  had  been  led 
To  take  his  choice — as  brother,  or  as  victim. 

• Dor/e.  And  which  am  I to  be  ? your  act  ions  leave 
Some  cause  to  doubt  the  freedom  of  the  choice. 

I.  Ber.  My  lord,  we  would  have  perish’d  here 
together, 

Had  these  rash  men  proceeded ; but,  behold, 

They  are  ashamed  of  that  mad  moment’s  impulse, 

And  droop  their  heads ; believe  me,  they  are  such 
As  I described  them. — Speak  to  them. 

Cal.  _ Ay,  speak ; 

We  are  all  listening  in  wonder. 

I.  Ber.  ( addressing  the  Conspirators).  You  are  safe, 
Nay,  more,  almost  triumphant — listen  then, 

And  know  my  words  for  truth. 

Doge.  You  see  me  here, 

As  one  of  you  hath  said,  an  old,  unarm’d, 

Defenceless  man;  and  yesterday  you  saw  me 
Presiding  in  the  hall  of  ducal  state, 

Apparent  sovereign  of  our  hundred  isles, 

Robed  in  official  purple,  dealing  out 
The  edicts  of  a power  which  is  not  mine, 

Nor  yours,  but  of  our  masters — the  patricians. 

Why  I was  there,  you  know,  or  think  you  know ; 

Why  I am  here,  he  who  hath  been  most  wrong’d , 

He  who  among  you  hath  been  most  insulted, 

Outraged  and  trodden  on,  until  he  doubt 
If  he  be  worm  or  no,  may  answer  for  me, 

Asking  of  his  own  heart,  what  brought  him  here  F 
You  know  my  recent  story,  all  men  know  it, 

And  judge  of  it  far  differently  from  those 
Who  sate  in  judgment  to  heap  scorn  on  scorn. 

But  spare  me  the  recital — it  is  here, 

Here  at  my  heart  the  outrage  - but  my  words, 

Already  spent  in  unavailing  plaints, 

Would  only  show  my  feebleness  the  more, 

And  I come  here  to  strengthen  even  the  strong, 

And  urge  them  on  to  deeds,  and  not  to  war 
With  woman’s  weapons ; but  I need  not  urge  you. 

Our  private  wrongs  have  sprung  from  public  vices, 

In  this — I cannot  call  it  commonwealth 

Nor  kingdom,  which  hath  neither  prince  nor  people, 

But  all  the  sins  of  the  old  Spartan  state 1 


(1)  [“  But  all  the 


{sins  of  the  old  Spartan  state, 
worst  sins  of  the  Spartan  state.”— MS  ] 


213 

Without  its  virtues — temperance  and  vak  . r. 

The  lords  of  Lacedaemon  were  true  soldiers, 

But  ours  are  Sybarites,  while  we  are  Helots, 

Of  whom  I am  the  lowest,  most  enslaved ; 

Although  dress’d  out  to  head  a pageant,  as 
The  Greeks  of  yore  made  drunk  their  slaves  to  form 
A pastime  for  their  children.  You  are  met 
To  overthrow  this  monster  of  a state, 

This  mockery  of  a government,  this  spectre, 

Which  must  be  exorcised  with  blood, — and  then 
We  will  renew  the  times  of  truth  and  justice, 
Condensing  in  a fair  free  commonwealth 
Not  rash  equality  but  equal  rights, 

Proportion’d  like  the  columns  to  the  temple, 

Giving  and  taking  strength  reciprocal, 

And  making  firm  the  whole  with  grace  and  beauty, 

So  that  no  part  could  be  removed  without 
Infringement  of  the  general  symmetry. 

In  operating  this  great  change,  I claim 
To  be  one  of  you — if  you  trust  in  me  ; 

If  not,  strike  home, — my  life  is  compromised, 

And  I would  rather  fall  by  freemen’s  hands 
Than  live  another  day  to  act  the  tyrant 
As  delegate  of  tyrants  : such  I am  not, 

And  never  have  been — read  it  in  our  annals ; 

I can  appeal  to  my  past  government 
In  many  lauds  and  cities ; they  can  tell  you 
If  I were  an  oppressor,  or  a man 
Feeling  and  thinking  for  my  fellow-men. 

Iiaply  had  I been  what  the  senate  sought, 

A thing  of  robes  and  trinkets,  dizen’d  out 
To  sit  in  state  as  for  a sovereign’s  picture  : 

A popular  scourge,  a ready  sentence-signer, 

A stickler  for  the  Senate  and  “ the  Forty,” 

A sceptic  of  all  measures  which  had  not 
The  sanction  of  “ the  Ten,”  a council-fawner, 

A tool,  a fool,  a puppet, — they  had  ne’er 
Foster’d  the  wretch  who  stung  me.  What  I suffer 
Has  reach’d  me  through  my  pity  for  the  people  ; 

That  many  know,  and  they  who  know  not  yet 
Will  one  day  learn  : meantime,  I do  devote, 

Whate’er  the  issue,  my  last  days  of  life — 

My  present  power  such  as  it  is — not  that 
Of  Doge,  but  of  a man  who  has  been  great 
Before  he  was  degraded  to  a Doge, 

And  still  has  individual  means  and  mind  ; 

I stake  my  fame  (and  I had  fame) — my  breath — 

(The  least  of  all,  for  its  last  hours  are  nigh) 

My  heart — my  hope— my  soul — upon  this  cast 1 

Such  as  I am,  I offer  me  to  you 

And  to  your  chiefs,  accept  me  or  reject  me, 

A Prince  who  fain  would  be  a citizen 
Or  nothing,  and  who  has  left  his  throne  to  be  so. 

Cal.  Long  live  Faliero  ! — Venice  shall  be  free ! 

Consp.  LoDg  live  Faliero  ! 

I.  Ber.  Comrades  ! did  I well  ? 

Is  not  this  man  a host  in  such  a cause  ? 

Doge.  This  is  no  time  for  eulogies,  nor  place 
For  exultation.  Am  I one  of  you  ? 

Cal.  Ay,  and  the  first  amongst  us,  as  thou  hast  been 
Of  Venice — be  our  general  and  chief. 

Doge.  Chief ! — general ! — I wras  general  at  Zara, 

And  chief  in  Rhodes  and  Cyprus,  prince  in  Venice  : 

I cannot  stoop that  is,  I am  not  fit 

To  lead  a band  of patriots  : when  I lay 

Aside  the  dignities  which  I have  borne, 

’Tis  not  to  put  on  others,  but  to  be 
Mate  to  my  fellows — but  now  to  the  point : 


214 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  in 


Israel  has  stated  to  me  your  whole  plan — 

“Tis  bold,  but  feasible  if  I assist  it, 

And  must  be  set  in  motion  instantly. 

Cal.  E’en  when  thou  wilt.  Is  it  not  so,  my  friends  ? 
1 have  disposed  all  for  a sudden  blow7 ; 

When  shall  it  be  then  ? 

Doge.  At  sunrise. 

Ber.  So  soon  ? 

Doge.  So  soon  ? — so  late — each  hour  accumulates 
Peril  on  peril,  and  the  more  so  now 
Since  I have  mingled  with  you  ; — know  you  not 
The  Council,  and  “ the  Ten  ?”  the  spies,  the  eyes 
Of  the  patricians  dubious  of  their  slaves,  [one  ? 

And  now  more  dubious  of  the  prince  they  have  made 
J tell  you,  you  must  strike,  and  suddenly, 

Full  to  the  Hydra’s  heart — its  heads  will  follow. 

Cal.  With  all  my  soul  and  sword,  I yield  assent ; 
Our  companies  are  ready,  sixty  each, 

And  all  now  under  arms  by  Israel’s  order; 

Each  at  their  different  place  of  rendezvous, 

And  vigilant,  expectant  of  some  blow  ; 

Let  each  repair  for  action  to  his  post ! 

And  now,  my  lord,  the  signal  F 

Doge.  When  you  hear 

The  great  bell  of  St.  Mark’s,  which  may  not  be 
Struck  without  special  order  of  the  Doge 
(The  last  poor  privilege  they  leave  their  prince), 

March  on  Saint  Mark’s  ! 

I.  Ber.  And  there  ? 

Doge.  By  different  routes 

Let  your  march  be  directed,  every  sixty 
Entering  a separate  avenue,  and  still 
Upon  the  way  let  your  cry  be  of  war 
And  of  the  Genoese  fleet,  by  the  first  dawn 
Discern’d  before  the  port ; form  round  the  palace, 
Within  whose  court  will  be  drawn  out  in  arms 
My  nephew  and  the  clients  of  our  house, 

Many  and  martial  •.  while  the  bell  tolls  on, 

Shout  ye,  “ Saint  Mark  ! — the  foe  is  on  our  waters  !” 

Cal.  I see  it  now — but  on,  mv  noble  lord. 

Doge.  All  the  patricians  flocking  to  the  Council, 
(Which  they  dare  not  refuse,  at  the  dread  signal 
Pealing  from  out  their  patron  saint’s  proud  tower,) 
Will  then  be  gather’d  in  unto  the  harvest, 

And  we  will  reap  them  with  the  sword  for  sickle. 

If  some  few  should  be  tardy  or  absent  them, 

’Twill  be  but  to  be  taken  faint  and  single, 

When  the  majority  are  put  to  rest.  [scotch, 

Cal.  Would  that  the  houl  were  come  ! we  will  not 
But  kill. 

Ber.  Once  more,  sir,  with  your  pardon,  I 
Would  now  repeat  the  question  which  I ask’d 
Before  Bertuccio  added  to  our  cause 
This  great  ally  who  renders  it  more  sure, 

And  therefore  safer,  and  as  such  admits 

Some  dawn  of  mercy  to  a portion  of 

Our  victims — must  all  perish  in  this  slaughter  ? 

Cal.  All  who  encounter  me  and  mine,  be  sure, 

The  mercy  they  have  shown,  I show. 

Consp.  AH  ! All ! 

Is  this  a time  to  talk  of  pity  ? when 
Have  they  e’er  shown,  or  felt,  or  feign’d  it  ? 

7.  Ber.  Bertram, 

This  false  compassion  is  a folly,  and 


(1)  ["  Fought  by  my  side,  and  { “"n  Shna™  } shared 


Injustice  to  thy  comrades  ai  • thy  cause  ! 

Dost  thou  not  sec,  that  if  we  tingle  out 
Some  for  escape,  they  live  but  to  avenge 
The  fallen  ? and  how  distinguish  now  the  innoceni 
From  out  the  guilty  ? all  their  acts  are  one — 

A single  emanation  from  one  body, 

Together  knit  for  our  oppression ! ’Tis 
Much  that  we  let  their  children  live  ; I doubt 
If  all  of  these  even  should  be  set  apart : 

The  hunter  may  reserve  some  single  cub 
From  out  the  tiger’s  litter,  but  who  e’er 
Would  seek  to  save  the  spotted  sire  or  dam, 

Unless  to  perish  by  their  fangs  ? however, 

I will  abide  by  Doge  Faliero’s  counsel : 

Let  him  decide  if  any  should  be  saved. 

Doge.  Ask  me  not  — tempt  me  not  with  suet)  a 
question — 

Decide  yourselves. 

I.  Ber.  You  know  their  private  viitnes 

Far  better  than  we  can,  to  whom  alone 
Their  public  vices,  and  most  foul  oppression, 

Have  made  them  deadly;  if  there  be  amongst  them 
One  who  deserves  to  be  repeal’d,  pronounce. 

Doge.  Dolfino’s  father  was  my  friend,  and  Lando 
Fought  by  my  side,  and  Marc  Cornaro  shared  1 
My  Genoese  embassy  : I saved  the  life 
Of  Yeniero— shall  I save  it  twice  ? 

Would  that  I could  save  them  and  Venice  also! 

All  these  men,  or  their  fathers,  were  my  friends 
Till  they  became  my  subjects  : then  fell  from  me 
As  faithless  leaves  drop  from  the  o’crblown  flower, 
And  left  me  a lone  blighted  thorny  stalk, 

Which,  in  its  solitude,  can  shelter  nothing  ! 

So,  as  they  let  me  wither,  let  them  perish  ! 

Cal.  They  cannot  co-exist  with  Venice’  freedom  ! 

Doge.  Ye,  though  you  know  and  feel  our  mutual  mass 
Of  many  wrongs,  even  ye  are  ignorant 2 
What  fatal  poison  to  the  springs  of  life, 

To  human  ties,  and  all  that’s  good  and  dear, 

Lurks  in  the  present  institutes  of  Venice : 

All  these  men  were  my  friends  ; I loved  them,  they 
Requited  honourably  my  regards ; 

We  served  and  fought ; we  smiled  and  wept  in 
concert ; 

We  revell’d  or  we  sorrow’d  side  by  side ; 

We  made  alliances  of  blood  and  marriage ; 

We  grew  in  years  and  honours  fairly, — till 

Their  own  desire,  not  my  ambition,  made 

Them  choose  me  for  their  prince,  anti  then  farewell 1 

Farewell  all  social  memory  ! all  thoughts 

In  common!  and  sweet  bonds  which  link  old  friendships, 

When  the  survivors  of  long  years  and  actions, 

Which  now  belong  to  history,  soothe  the  days 
Which  yet  remain  by  treasuring  each  other, 

And  never  meet,  but  each  beholds  the  mirror 
Of  half  a century  on  his  brother’s  brow. 

And  sees  a hundred  beings,  now  in  earth. 

Flit  round  them  whispering  of  the  days  gone  by. 

And  seeming  not  all  dead,  as  long  as  two 
Of  the  brave,  joyous,  reckless,  glorious  band, 

Which  once  were  one  and  many,  still  retain 
A breath  to  sigh  for  them,  a tongue  to  speak 

Of  deeds  that  else  were  silent,  save  on  marble 

Oime ! Oime  !— and.  must  I do  this  deed  ? 


(2)  [“  Bear  witness  with  me!  ye  who  hear  and  know. 

And  feel  our  mutua*  tv 2S?  Cf  iT.Euy  wrong3.,:— 3£&.] 


SCENE  II. 


MARINO  EAL1ERO. 


215 


l.  Ber.  My  lord,  yon  are  much  moved : it  is  not 
now 

That  such  things  must  be  dwelt  upon. 

Doge.  Your  patience 

A moment — I recede  not : mark  with  me 
The  gloomy  vices  of  this  government. 

From  the  hour  they  made  me  Doge,  the  Doge  they 
made  me  — 

Farewell  the  past ! I died  to  all  that  had  been, 

Or  rather  they  to  me  : no  friends,  no  kindness. 

No  privacy  of  life — all  were  cut  off : 

They  came  not  near  me,  such  approach  gave  umbrage  ; 
They  could  not  love  me,  such  was  not  the  law  ; 

They  thwarted  me,  ’twas  the  state’s  policy ; 

They  baffled  me,  ’twas  a patrician’s  duty  ; 

They  wrong’d  me,  for  such  was  to  right  the  state  ; 
They  could  not  right  me,  that  would  give  suspicion ; 
So  that  I was  a slave  to  my  own  subjects ; 

So  that  I was  a foe  to  my  own  friends  ; 

Begirt  with  spies  for  guards — with  robes  for  power — 
With  pomp  for  freedom — gaolers -for  a council — 
Inquisitors  for  friends — and  hell  for  life  i 
I had  one  only  fount  of  quiet  left, 

And  that  they  poison’d ! My  pure  household  gods1 
Were  shiver’d  on  my  hearth,  and  o’er  their  shrine 
Sate  grinning  Ribaldry  and  sneering  Scorn. 

I.  Ber.  You  have  been  deeply  wrong’d,  and  now 
shall  be 

Nobly  avenged  before  another  night. 

Doge.  I had  borne  all — it  hurt  me,  but  I bore  it — 
Till  this  last  running  over  of  the  cup 
Of  bitterness — until  this  last  loud  insult, 

Not  only  unredress’d,  but  sanction’d  ; then, 

And  thus,  I cast  all  further  feelings  from  me — 

The  feelings  which  they  crush’d  for  me,  long,  long 
Before,  even  in  their  oath  of  false  allegiance  ! 

Even  in  that  very  hour  and  vow,  they  abjured 
Their  friend  and  made  a sovereign,  as  boys  make 
Playthings,  to  do  their  pleasure — and  be  broken  ! 

I from  that  hour  have  seen  but  senators 
In  dark  suspicious  conflict  with  the  Doge, 

Brooding  with  him  in  mutual  hate  and  fear ; 

They  dreading  he  should  snatch  the  tyranny 
From  out  their  grasp,  and  he  abhorring  tyrants. 

To  me,  then,  these  men  have  no  'private  life, 

Nor  claim  to  ties  they  have  cut  off  from  others ; 

As  senators  for  arbitrary  acts 
Amenable,  I look  on  them — as  such 
Let  them  be  dealt  upon.2 

Cal.  And  now  to  action  ! 

Hence,  brethren,  to  our  posts,  and  may  this  be 


(!)  [“I  could  have  forgiven  the  dagger  or  the  bowl,  any  thing, 
but  the  deliberate  desolation  piled  upon  me,  when  I stood  alone 
upon  my  hearth,  with  my  household  gods  shivered  around  me. 
Ho  you  suppose  I have  forgotten  or  forgiven  it?  It  has,  com- 
paratively, swallowed  up  in  me  every  other  feeling,  and  1 am  only 
a spectator  upon  earth  till  a tenfold  opportunity  offers.  It  may 
come  vet.”—  Byron  Letters,  1819.] 

(2)  [The  struggle  of  feelings  with  which  the  Doge  undertakes 
tne  conspiracy  is  admirably  contrasted  with  the  ferocious  eager- 
ness of  his  low-born  associates  ; and  only  loses  its  effect,  because 
we  cannot  but  be  sensible  that  the  man  who  telt  thus  could  not 
nave  gone  on  with  his  guilty  project,  unless  stimulated  by  some 
greater  and  more  accumulated  injuries  than  are,  in  the  course  of 
the  tragedy,  brought  before  the  perception  of  the  reader.  — IIebeii.] 

tS'  [“  Nor  turn  aside  to  strike  at  such  a 

(4  [The  great  defect  of  Marino  Faliero  is,  that  the  nature  and 
cnaracter  of  the  conspiracy  excite  no  interest.  It  matters  little 
tnat  Lord  Byron  hag  been  faithful  to  history,  if  the  event  is  desti- 


Tlie  last  night  of  m«.re  words  : I’d  fain  be  * ing  ! 
Saint  Mark’s  great  bell  at  dawn  shall  find  me  wakeful  i 
I.  Ber.  Disperse  then  to  your  posts : be  firm  ami 
vigilant ; 

Think  on  the  wrongs  we  bear,  the  rights  we  claim. 
This  day  and  night  shall  be  the  last  of  peril ! 

Watch  for  the  signal,  and  then  march.  I go 
To  join  my  band  ; let  each  be  prompt  to  marshal 
His  separate  charge  : the  Doge  will  now  return 
To  the  palace  to  prepare  all  for  the  blow. 

We  part  to  meet  in  freedom  and  in  glory  ! [you 

Cal.  Doge,  when  I greet  you  next,  my  homage  to 
Shall  be  the  head  of  Steno  on  this  sword  ! 

Doge.  No  ; let  him  be  reserved  unto  the  last. 

Nor  turn  aside  to  strike  at  such  a prey,3 
Till  nobler  game  is  quarried  : his  offence 
Was  a mere  ebullition  of  the  vice, 

The  general  corruption  generated 
By  the  foul  aristocracy : he  could  not — • 

He  dared  not — in  more  honourable  days 

Have  risk’d  it.  I have  merged  all  private  wrath 

Against  him,  in  the  thought  of  our  great  purpose. 

A slave  insults  me — I require  his  punishment 
From  his  proud  master’s  hands  ; if  he  refuse  it. 

The  offence  grows  his,  and  let  him  answer  it. 

Cal.  Yet,  as  the  immediate  cause  of  the  alliance 
Which  consecrates  our  undertaking  more, 

I owe  him  such  deep  gratitude,  that  fain 
I would  repay  him  as  he  merits  ; may  I ? 

Doge.^lovi  would  but  lop  the  hand,  and  I the  head; 
You  would  but  smite  the  scholar,  I the  master ; 

You  would  but  punish  Steno,  I the  senate. 

I cannot  pause  on  individual  hate, 

In  the  absorbing,  sweeping,  whole  revenge, 

Which,  like  the  sheeted  fire  from  heaven,  must  blast. 
Without  distinction,  as  it  fell  of  yore, 

Where  tlie  Dead  Sea  hath  quench’d  two  cities’  ashes. 

/.  Ber.  Away,  then,  to  your  posts  ! I but  remain 
A moment  to  accompany  the  Doge 
To  our  late  place  of  tryst,  to  see  no  spies 
Have  been  upon  the  scout,  and  thence  I hasten 
To  wdiere  my  allotted  band  is  under  arms. 

Cal.  Farewell,  then, — until  dawn  ! 

I.  Ber.  Success  go  with  you  ! 

Conap.  We  will  not  fail. — Away!  My  iord,  farewell.4 
[ The  Conspirators  salute  the  Doge  and  Israel 
Bertuccio,  and  retire , headed  by  Philip  Calen- 
daro.  The  Doge  and  Israel  Bertuccio  re- 
main. 

I.  Ber.  We  have  them  in  the  toil — it  cannot  fail 1 
Now  thou  ’rt  indeed  a sovereign,  and  wilt  make 


tute  of  a poetic  character.  Like  Alfieri,  to  whom  in  many  points 
his  genius  approximates,  he  is  fettered  by  an  intractable  story, 
which  is  wholly  remote  Irom  the  instincts  and  feelings  of  mankind. 
How  elevated  soever  may  be  his  diction,  how  vivid  soever  his 
colouring,  a moral  truth  is  wanting — that  charm,  so  difficult  to 
define,  so  easy  to  apprehend,  which,  diffused  over  the  scene,  ex- 
cites in  generous  bosoms  an  exalted  enthusiasm  for  the  great  in- 
terests of  humanity.  This  is  the  poesy  of  history  it  is  the  charm 
of  the  William  Tell  of  Schiller;  it  is  felt  in  the  awful  plot  of 
Brutus,  and,  to  a certain  degree,  in  the  conspiracy  of  Pierre  and 
Jaffier;  for  the  end  and  purpose  of  these  conspiracies  were,  to 
redeem  their  country  from  insult  and  oppression.  But  in  Marino 
Faliero’s  attempt  against  the  state,  we  contemplate  nothing  but  the 
project  of  a sanguinary  ruffian  seeking  to  grasp  unlimited  autho- 
rity, and  making,  after  the  established  precedents  of  ad  usurpers, 
the  wrongs  and  sufferings  of  the  commonalty  his  pretence;  while, 
in  another  aspect  of  his  character,  we  see  him  goaded,  by  an  im- 
agined injury,  into  an  enterprise  which  would  have  inundated 
Venice  with  her  best  blood.  Is  this  a sublime  spectacle,  calcu- 
lated to  purge  the  mind,  according  to  the  aphorism  of  Arisiotle,  1*7 
means  o'  terror  or  pity? — Eel.  Rev.} 


216 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  III 


A name  immcrtal  greater  than  the  greatest : 

Free  citizens  have  struck  at  kings  ere  now ; 

Caesars  have  fallen,  and  even  patrician  hands 
Ha^e  crush’d  dictators,  as  the  popular  steel 
Has  reach’d  patricians  : but,  until  this  hour, 

What  prince  has  plotted  for  his  people’s  freedom  ? 

Or  risk’d  a life  to  liberate  his  subjects  ? 

For  ever,  and  for  ever,  they  conspire 
Against  the  people,  to  abuse  their  hands 
To  chains,  but  laid  aside  to  carry  weapons 
Against  the  fellow  nations,  so  that  yoke 
On  yoke,  and  slavery  and  death  may  whet, 

Not  glut , the  never-gorged  Leviathan  ! 

Now,  my  lord,  to  our  enterprise  ; — ’tis  great, 

And  greater  the  reward ; why  stand  you  rapt  ? 

A moment  back,  and  you  were  all  impatience ! 

Doge.  And  is  it  then  decided?  must  they  die  ? 

I.  Ber.  Who  ? 

Doge.  My  own  friends  by  blood  and  courtesy, 
And  many  deeds  and  days — the  senators  ? 

I.  Ber.  You  pass’d  their  sentence,  and  it  is  a just  one. 
Doge.  Ay,  so  it  seems,  and  so  it  is  to  you; 

You  are  a patriot,  plebeian  Gracchus — 

The  rebel’s  oracle,  the  people’s  tribune — 

I blame  you  not — you  act  in  your  vocation ; 

They  smote  you,  and  oppress’d  you,  and  despised  you ; 
So  they  have  me : but  you  ne’er  spake  with  them  ; 

You  never  broke  their  bread,  nor  shared  their  salt ; 
You  never  had  their  wine-cup  at  your  lips ; 

You  grew  not  up  with  them,  nor  laugh’d,  nor  wept, 
Nor  held  a revel  in  their  company  ; 

Ne’er  smiled  to  see  them  smile,  nor  claim’d  their  smile 
In  social  interchange  for  yours,  nor  trusted 
Nor  wore  them  in  your  heart  of  hearts,  as  I have  : 
These  hairs  of  mine  are  grey,  and  so  are  theirs, 

The  elders  of  the  council:  1 remember 
Winn  all  our  locks  were  like  the  raven’s  win£. 

As  we  went  forth  to  take  our  prey  around 
The  isles  wrung  from  the  false  Mahometan; 

And  can  I see  them  dabbled  o’er  with  blood  ? 

Each  stab  to  them  will  seem  my  suicide.1 

I.  Ber.  Doge  ! Doge  ! this  vacillation  is  unworthy 
A child  ; if  you  are  not  in  second  childhood, 

Call  back  your  nerves  to  your  own  purpose,  nor 
Thus  shame  yourself  and  me.  By  heavens ; I’d 
rather 

Forego  even  now,  or  fail  in  our  intent, 

Than  see  the  man  1 venerate  subside 

From  high  resolves  into  such  shallow  weakness ! 

You  have  seen  blood  in  battle,  shed  it,  both 
Your  own  and  that  of  others  ; can  you  shrink  then 
From  a few  drops  from  veins  of  hoary  vampires, 

Who  but  give  back  what  they  have  drain’d  from 
millions  ? 

Doge.  Bear  with  me  ! Step  by  step,  and  blow  on 
blow, 

I will  divide  with  you  ; think  not  I waver : 

Ah  ! no  ; it  is  the  certainty  of  all 

Which  I must  do  loth  make  me  tremble  thus. 


(1)  [The  unmixed  selfishness  of  the  motives  with  which  the  Doge 
accedes  to  the  plot  perpetually  escapes  him.  Not  that  he  is  wholly 
untouched  by  the  compunctious  visitings  of  nature.  Hut  the  fear- 
ful unity  of  such  a character  is  broken  by  assigning  to  it  the  throb- 
bings  and  the  pangs  of  human  feelings,  and  by  making  him  recoil 
with  affright  from  slaughter  and  desolation.  In  the  roar  and  whirl- 
wind of  the  mighty  passions  which  precede  the  acting  of  a dreadful 
plot,  it  is  wholly  unreasonable  and  out  of  keeping  to  put  into  his 
mouth  the  sentimental  effusions  of  affectionate  pity  for  his  friends, 
whom  he  thinks  of  rather  too  late  to  give  these  touches  of  re- 


But  let  these  last  and  lincering  thoughts  have  way 
To  which  you  only  and  the  .Night  arc  conscious, 

And  both  regardless  ; when  the  hour  arrives, 

’Tis  mine  to  sound  the  knell,  and  strike  the  blow. 
Which  shall  unpeople  many  palaces, 

And  hew  the  highest  gencalogic  trees 

Down  to  the  earth',  strew’d  with  their  bleeding  fruit, 

And  crush  their  blossoms  into  barrenness  : 

This  will  I — must  I — have  I sworn  to  do, 

Nor  aught  can  turn  me  from  my  destiny ; 

But  still  I quiver  to  behold  what  I 

Must  be,  and  think  what  I have  been  ! Bear  with  me. 

I.  Ber.  Re-man  your  breast ; I feel  no  such  remorse, 
I understand  it  not ; why  should  you  change  ? 

You  acted,  and  you  act,  on  your  free  will. 

Doge.  Ay,  there  it  is — you  feel  not,  nor  do  I, 

Else  I should  stab  thee  on  the  spot,  to  save 
A thousand  lives,  and,  killing,  do  no  murder ; 

You  feel  not — you  go  to  this  butcher-work 

As  if  these  high-born  men  were  steers  for  shambles ! 

When  all  is  over,  you’ll  be  free  and  merry. 

And  calmly  wash  those  hands  incarnadine ; 

But  I,  outgoing  thee  and  all  thy  fellows 
In  this  surpassing  massacre,  shall  be, 

Shall  see  and  feel — oh  God  ! oil  God ! ’tis  true* 

And  thou  dost  well  to  answer  that  it  was 
“ My  own  free  will  and  act,”  and  yet  you  err, 

For  I will  do  this  ! Doubt  not — fear  not ; I 
Will  be  your  most  unmerciful  accomplice ! 

And  yet  I act  no  more  on  my  free  will, 

Nor  my  own  feelings — both  compel  me  back  ; 

But  there  is  hell  within  me  and  around, 

And  like  the  demon  who  believes  and  trembles 
Must  I abhor  and  do.  Away  ! away  ! 

Get  thee  unto  thy  fellows,  I will  hie  me 
To  gather  the  retainers  of  our  house. 

Doubt  not,  Saint  Mark’s  great  bell  shall  wake  fj] 
Venice, 

Except  her  slaughter’d  senate : ere  the  sun 
Be  broad  upon  the  Adriatic  there 
Shall  be  a voice  of  weeping,  which  shall  drown 
The  roar  of  waters  in  the  cry  of  blood  ! 

I am  resolved — come  on. 

I.  Ber  With  all  my  soul ! 

Keep  a firm  rein  upon  these  bursts  of  passion ; 
Remember  what  these  men  have  dealt  to  thee, 

And  that  this  sacrifice  will  be  succeeded' 

By  ages  of  prosperity  and  freedom 
To  this  unshackled  city : a true  tyrant 
Would  have  depopulated  empires,  nor 
Have  felt  the  strange  compunction  wliicn  nath  w mng 
you 

To  punish  a few  traitors  to  the  people. 

Trust  me,  such  were  a pity  more  misplaced 
Than  the  late  mercy  of  the  state  to  Steno. 

Doge.  Man,  thou  hast  struck  upon  the  chord  which 
jars 

All  nature  from  my  heart.  Hence  to  our  task ! 


morse  and  mercy  any  other  character  than  that  of  hypocriticJ 
whining.  The  sentiments  are  certainly  good,  but  lamentably  act 
of  time  and  place,  and  remind  of  Scarron’s  remark  upon  the  ;no- 
ralizing  Fhlegyas  in  the  infernal  regions, — 

“ Cette  sentence  est  vrai  et  belle, 

Mais  dans  enfer  de  quoi  sert-tlle?' 

Yet,  though  wholly  repugnant  to  dramatic  congruity,  the  passage 
has  Aireat  poetic  power. — Eel.  Rev.] 


aCT  TV.  SCENE  I. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.' 

Palazzo  of  the  Patrician  Lioni.  Lioni  laying  aside 
the  mask  and  cloak  which  the  Venetian  Nobles  wore 
in  public , attended  by  a Domestic. 

I Lioni.  I will  to  rest,  right  weary  of  this  revel, 

The  gayest  we  have  held  for  many  moons, 

And  yet,  I know  not  why,  it  cheer’d  me  not ; 

There  came  a heaviness  across  my  heart. 

Which,  in  the  lightest  movement  of  the  dance. 

Though  eye  to  eye,  and  hand  in  hand  united 
Evenwith  the  lady  of  my  love,  oppress’d  me, 

And  through  my  spirit  chill’d  my  blood,  until 
A damp  like  death  roso  o’er  my  brow ; I strove 
To  laugh  the  thought  away,  but  ’twould  not  be  : 
Through  all  the  music  ringing  in  my  ears, 

A knell  was  sounding  as  distinct  and  clear, 

Though  low  and  far,  as  e’er  the  Adrian  wave 
Rose  o’er  the  city’s  murmur  in  the  night, 

Dashing  against  the  outward  Lido’s  bulwark : 

So  that  I left  the  festival  before 

It  reach’d  its  zenith,  and  will  woo  my  pillow 

For  thoughts  more  tranquil,  or  forgetfulness. 

Antonio,  take  my  mask  and  cloak,  and  light 
The  lamp  within  my  chamber. 

Ant.  Yes,  my  lord: 

Command  you  no  refreshment  ? 

Lioni.  " Nought,  save  sleep ; 

Which  will  not  be  commanded.  Let  me  hope  it. 

[Exit  Antonio. 

Though  my  breast  feels  too  anxious : I will  try 
Whether  the  air  will  calm  my  spirits  ; ’tis 
A goodly  night ; the  cloudy  wind  which  blew 
From  the  Levant  hath  crept  into  its  cave, 

And  the  broad  moon  has  brighten’d.  What  a stillness  ! 

[Goes  to  an  open  lattice. 
And  what  a contrast  with  the  scene  I left. 

Where  the  tall  torches’  glare,  and  silver  lamps’ 

More  pallid  gleam  along  the  tapestried  walls, 

Spread  over  the  reluctant  gloom  which  haunts 
Those  vast  and  dimly-latticed  galleries 
A dazzling  mass  of  artificial  light, 

Which  sliow’d  all  things,  but  nothing  as  they  were. 
There  Age  essaying  to  recall  the  past. 

After  long  striving  for  the  hues  of  youth 

At  the  sacl  labour  of  the  toilet,  and 

Full  many  a glance  at  the  too  faithful  mirror, 

Prank’d  forth  in  all  the  pride  of  ornament, 

Forgot  itself,  and  trusting  to  the  falsehood 
Of  the  indulgent  beams,  which  show,  yet  hide, 
Believed  itself  forgotten,  and  was  fool’d. 

There  Youth,  which  needed  not,  nor  thought  of  such 
Vain  adjuncts,  lavish’d  its  true  bloom,  and  health, 
And  bridal  beauty,  in  the  unwholesome  press 
Of  flush’d  and  crowded  wassailers,  and  wasted 
Its  hours  of  rest  in  dreaming  this  was  pleasure, 

And  so  shall  waste  them  till  the  sunrise  streams 


(1)  [The  fourth  act  opens  with  the  most  poetical  and  brilliantly 
written  scene  in  the  play — though  it  is  a soliloquy,  and  altogether 
alien  from  the  business  of  the  piece.  Lioni,  a young  nobleman, 
returns  home  from  a splendid  assembly,  rather  out  of  spirits;  and, 
opening  his  palace  window  for  air,  contrasts  the  tranquillity  of  the 
night  scene  which  lies  before  him  with  the  feverish  turbulence  and 
glittering  enchantments  of  that  which  he  has  just  quitted.  Nothing 
ea a be  finer  than  this  picture,  in  both  its  compartments.  There  is 


217 

On  sallow  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes,  which  should  not 
Have  worn  this  aspect  yet  for  many  a year. 

The  music,  and  the  banquet,  and  the  wine — 

The  garlands,  the  rose  odours,  and  the  flowers — 

The  sparkling  eyes,  and  flashing  ornaments— 

The  white  arms  and  the  raven  hair — the  braids 
And  bracelets  ; swanlike  bosoms,  and  the  necklace, 

An  India  in  itself,  yet  dazzling  not 

The  eye  like  what  it  circled  ; the  thin  robes, 

Floating  like  light  clouds  ’twixt  our  gaze  nnd  heaven ; 
The  many-t. winkling  feet  so  small  and  sylphlike, 
Suggesting  the  more  secret  symmetry 
Of  the  fair  forms  which  terminate  so  well — 

All  the  delusion  of  the  dizzy  scene, 

Its  false  and  true  enchantments— art  and  nature, 
Which  swam  before  my  giddy  eyes,  that  drank 
The  sight  of  beauty  as  the  parch’d  pilgrim’s 
On  Arab  sands  the  false  mirage,  which  offers 
A lucid  lake  to  his  eluded  thirst, 

Are  gone. — Around  me  are  the  stars  and  waters- 
Worlds  mirror’d  in  the  ocean,  goodlier  sight 
Than  torches  glared  back  by  a gaudy  glass  ; 

And  the  great  element,  which  is  to  space 
What  ocean  is  to  earth,  spreads  its  blue  depths, 
Soften’d  with  the  first  breathings  of  the  spring ; 

The  high  moon  sails  upon  her  beauteous  way, 
Serenely  smoothing  o’er  the  lofty  walls 
Of  those  tall  piles  and  sea-girt  palaces, 

Whose  porphyry  pillars,  and  whose  costly  fronts, 
Fraught  with  the  orient  spoil  of  many  marbles. 

Like  altars  ranged  along  the  broad  canal, 

Seem  each  a trophy  of  some  mighty  deed 
Rear’d  up  from  out  the  waters,  scarce  less  strangely 
Than  those  more  massy  and  mysterious  giants 
Of  architecture,  those  Titanian  fabrics, 

Which  point  in  Egypt’s  plains  to  times  that  have 
No  other  record.  All  is  gentle  : nought 
Stirs  rudely;  but,  congenial  with  the  night. 
Whatever  walks  is  gliding  like  a spirit. 

The  tinklings  of  some  vigilant  guitars 
Of  sleepless  lovers  to  a wakeful  mistress, 

And  cautious  opening  of  the  casement,  sh owing 
That  he  is  not  unheard ; while  her  young  hand,. 

Fair  as  the  moonlight  of  which  it  seems  part, 

So  delicately  white,  it  trembles  in 
The  act  of  opening  the  forbidden  lattice, 

To  let  in  love  through  music,  makes  his  heart 
Thrill  like  his  lyre-strings  at  the  sight ; — the  dash 
Phosphoric  of  the  oar,  or  rapid  twinkle 
Of  the  far  lights  of  skimming  gondolas, 

And  the  responsive  voices  of  the  choir 
Of  boatmen  answering  back  with  verse  for  verse ; 
Some  dusky  shadow  checkering  the  Rialto ; _ 

Some  glimmering  palace  roof,  or  tapering  spire, 

Are  all  the  sights  and  sounds  which  here  pervade 
The  ocean-born  and  earth-commanding  city — 

How  sweet  and  soothing  is  this  hour  of  calm  ! 

I thank  thee,  Night ! for  thou  hast  chased  away 
Those  horrid  bodements  which,  amidst  the  throng. 

I could  not  dissipate  ; and  with  the  blessing 


a truth  and  a luxuriance  in  the  description  of  the  rout,  which  mark 
at  once  the  hand  of  a master,  and  raise  it  to  a very  high  rank  as  <» 
piece  of  poetical  painting; — while  the  moonlight  view  from  the 
window  is  equally  grand  and  beautiful,  and  reminds  us  of  those 
magnificent  and  enchanting  lookings  forth  in  “ Manfred,”  which 
have  left,  we  will  confess,  far  deeper  traces  on  our  fancy  than  anv 
thing  in  the  more  elaborate  work  before  us. — Jeffrey.] 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


Y Y 


218 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  l\ 


Of  tliv  benign  and  quiet  influence, — 

Now  will  1 to  my  couch,  although  to  rest 

Is  almost  wronging  such  a night  us  this 1 

[A.  knocking  is  heard  from  without. 
Hark ! what  is  that  ? or  who  at  such  a moment  ? 2 

Enter  Antonio. 

Art.  My  lord,  a man  without,  on  urgent  business, 
Implores  tc  be  admitted. 

Li  mi.  Is  he  a stranger  ? 

Ant.  His  face  is  muffled  in  his  cloak,  but  boil 
His  voice  and  gestures  seem  familiar  to  me  ; 

I craved  his  name,  but  this  he  seem’d  reluctant 
To  trust,  save  to  yourself ; most  earnestly 
He  sues  to  be  permitted  to  approach  you. 

Lioni.  ’Tis  a strange  hour,  and  a suspicious  bearing  ! 
And  yet  there  is  slight  peril : ’tis  not  in 
Their  houses  noble  men  are  struck  at ; still, 

Although  I know  not  that  I have  a foe 
In  Venice,  ’twill  be  wise  to  use  some  caution. 

Admit  him,  and  retire  ; but  call  up  quickly 
Some  of  thy  fellows,  who  may  wait  without. — 

Who  can  this  man  be  ? — 

[Exit  Antonio,  and  returns  with  Bertram  muffled. 
Ber.  My  good  lord  Lioni, 

I have  no  time  to  lose,  nor  thou — dismiss 
This  menial  hence ; I would  be  private  with  you. 
IAoni.  It  seems  the  voice  of  Bertram — Go,  Antonio. 

[Exit  Antonio. 

Now,  stranger,  what  would  you  at  such  an  hour  ? 

Ber.  [discovering  himself}.  A boon,  my  noble  patron; 
you  have  granted 

Many  to  your  poor  client,  Bertram  ; add 
This  one.  and  make  him  happy. 

Lioni.  Thou  hast  known  me 

From  boyhood,  ever  ready  to  assist  thee 
In  all  fair  objects  of  advancement,  which 
Beseem  one  of  thy  station ; I would  promise 
Ere  thy  request  was  heard,  but  that  the  hour, 

Thy  bearing,  and  this  strange  and  hurried  mode 
Of  suing,  gives  me  to  suspect  this  visit 
Hath  some  mysterious  import — but  say  on — 

What  has  occurr’d,  some  rash  and  sudden  broil  ? — 

A.  cup  too  much,  a scuffle,  and  a stab  ? — 

Mere  tilings  of  every  day ; so  that  thou  hast  not 
Spilt  noble  blood,  I guarantee  thy  safety ; 

But  then  thou  must  withdraw,  for  angry  friends 
And  relatives,  in  the  first  burst  of  vengeance. 

Are  things  in  Venice  deadlier  than  the  laws. 

Ber.  My  lord,  I thank  you  ; but 

Jjioni.  But  what  ? You  have  not 

Raised  a rash  hand  against  one  of  our  order  ? 

If  so,  withdraw  and  fly,  and  own  it  not ; 

I would  not  slay — but  then  I must  not  save  thee  ! 

He  who  has  shed  patrician  blood 

Ber.  I come 

To  save  patrician  blood,  and  not  to  shed  it ! 

And  thereunto  I must  be  speedy,  for 

Each  minute  lost  may  lose  a life  ; since  Time 

Has  changed  his  slow  scythe  for  the  two-edged  sword, 


(1)  [This  soliloquy  is  exquisite,  and  increases  our  regret  that, 
with  such  powers  of  pleasing,  Lord  Byron  should  not  always  have 
condescended  to  please. — Hkbkk.] 

(2)  [The  soliloquy  of  Lioni  is  a fine  instance  of  repose,  as  the 
painters  term  it,  amidst  the  horrors  of  the  scene,  and  of  that 
obscure  but  ruthless  presentiment  of  evil,  of  which  Shakspeare 
frequently  made  i use  somewhat  similar.  Yet  this  splendid  pas- 
sage, jvith  referei  ce  to  the  romantic  character  of  the  poem,  is 


And  is  about  to  take,  instead  of  sand, 

The  dust  from  sepulchres  to  fill  his  hour-glass! — 

Go  not  thou  forth  to-morrow  ! 

Lioni.  Wherefore  not  ? — 1 

What  means  this  menace  ? 

Ber.  Do  not  seek  its  meaninp 

But  do  as  I implore  thee ; — stir  not  forth, 

Whate’er  be  stirring  ; though  the  roar  of  crowds—  * 
The  cry  of  women,  and  the  shrieks  of  babes — 

The  groans  of  men — the  clash  of  arms — the  sound 
Of  rolling  drum,  shrill  trump,  and  hollow  bell, 

Peal  in  one  wide  alarum ! — Go  not  forth 
Until  the  tocsin’s  silent,  nor  even  then 
Till  I return ! 

Lioni.  Again,  what  does  this  mean  ? 

Ber.  Again,  I tell  thee,  ask  not ; but  by  all 
Thou  boldest  dear  on  earth  or  heaven — by  all 
The  souls  of  thy  great  fathers,  and  thy  hope 
To  emulate  them,  and  to  leave  behind 
Descendants  worthy  both  of  them  and  thee — 

By  all  thou  hast  of  bless’d  in  hope  or  memory — 

By  all  thou  liast  to  fear  here  or  hereafter— 

By  all  the  good  deeds  thou  hast  done  to  me, 

Good  I would  now  repay  with  greater  good, 

Remain  within — trust  to  thy  houschola  gods, 

And  to  my  word  for  safety,  if  thou  dost 
As  I now  counsel  — but  if  not,  thou  art  lost ! 

Lioni.  I am  indeed  already  lost  in  wonder ; 

Surely  thou  ravest ! what  have  I to  dread  ? 

Who  are  my  foes  ? or  if  there  be  such,  why 

Art  thou  leagued  with  them  ? — thou!  or  if  so  leagued, 

Why  comest  thou  to  tell  me  at  this  hour, 

And  not  before  ? 

Ber.  I cannot  answer  this. 

Wilt  thou  go  forth  despite  of  this  true  warning  ? 

Lioni.  I was  not  born  to  shrink  from  idle  threats, 
The  cause  of  which  I know  not : at  the  hour 
Of  council,  be  it  soon  or  late,  I shall  not 
Be  found  among  the  absent. 

Ber.  Say  not  so  ! 

Once  more,  art  thou  determined  to  go  forth  ? 

Lioni.  I am  Nor  is  there  aught  which  shall  im 
pede  me  ! 

Ber.  Then  Heaven  have  mercy  on  thy  soul ! — 

Earewcll ! [Going. 

Lioni.  Stay — there  is  more  in  this  than  my  own 
safety 

Which  makes  me  call  thee  back;  we  must  not  part 
thus  : 

Bertram,  I have  known  thee  long. 

Ber.  Erom  childhood,  signor, 

You  have  been  my  protector  : in  the  days 
Of  reckless  infancy,  when  rank  forgets. 

Or,  rather,  is  not  yet  taught  to  remember 
Its  cold  prerogative,  we  play’d  together ; _ 

Our  sports,  our  smiles,  our  tears,  were  mingled  oft ; 
My  father  was  your  father’s  client,  I 
Iils  son’s  scarce  less  than  foster-brother  ; years 
Saw  us  together — happy,  heart-full  hours  ! 

Oh  God ! the  difference  ’twixt  those  hours  and  this  ! 
Lioni.  Bertram,  ’tis  thou  who  hast  forgotten  them 


adventitious,  and  obviously  transplanted  from  the  mind  of  th* 
poet.  It  is  the  habitual  cast  of  thought,  tinged  with  misanthropy, 
which  is  peculiar  to  Lord  Byron,  and  does  not  adapt  itself  to  tin 
situation  or  feelings  of  the  personages  of  his  poem.  It  is  the  cool 
contemplation  of  a mind  raised  above  the  storms  of  human  life, 
and  the  perturbation  of  its  passions,  and  viewing,  as  from  “a  pecu- 
liar mount.”  the  strife  and  conflicts  of  a world  in  which  it  disdain* 
to  mix — Eel.  Rtv.] 


(SCENE  I. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


219 


Ber.  Nor  now,  nor  never  ; whatsoe’er  betide, 

I would  have  saved  you : when  to  manhood’s  growth 
YV e sprung,  and  you,  devoted  to  the  state, 

As  suits  your  station,  the  more  humble  Bertram 
Was  left  unto  the  labours  of  the  humble. 

Still  you  forsook  me  not ; and  if  my  fortunes 
Have  not  been  towering,  ’twas  no  fault  of  him 
Who  ofttimes  rescued  and  supported  me 
When  struggling  with  the  tides  of  circumstance 
Which  bear  away  the  weaker ; noble  blood 
Ne’er  mantled  in  a nobler  heart  than  thine 
Has  proved  to  me,  the  poor  plebeian  Bertram. 

Would  that  thy  fellow  senators  were  like  thee  ! 

Lioni.  Why,  what  hast  thou  to  say  against  the 
senate  ? 

Ber.  Nothing. 

Lioni.  I know  that  there  are  angry  spirits 

And  turbulent  mutterers  of  stifled  treason. 

Who  lurk  in  narrow  places,  and  walk  out 
Muffled  to  whisper  curses  to  the  night ; 

Disbanded  soldiers,  discontented  ruffians. 

And  desperate  libertines  who  brawl  in  tavern 
Thou  herdest  not  with  such : ’tis  true,  of  late 
I have  lost  sight  of  thee,  but  thou  wert  wont 
To  lead  a temperate  life,  and  break  thy  bread 
With  honest  mates,  and  bear  a cheerful  aspect. 

What  hath  come  to  thee  ? in  thy  hollow  eye 
And  hueless  cheek,  and  thine  unquiet  motions, 

Sorrow  and  shame  and  conscience  seem  at  war 
To  waste  thee. 

Ber.  Rather  shame  and  sorrow  light 

On  the  accursed  tyranny  which  rides  1 
The  very  air  in  Venice,  and  makes  men 
Madden  as  ill  the  last  hours  of  the  plague 
Which  sweeps  the  soul  deliriously  from  life ! 

Lioni.  Some  villains  have  been  tampering  with  thee, 
Bertram  ; 

This  is  not  thy  old  language,  nor  own  thoughts ; 

Some  wretch  has  made  thee  drunk  with  disaffection  : 
But  thou  must  not  be  lost  so ; thou  wert  good 
And  kind,  and  art  not  fit  for  such  base  acts 
As  vice  and  villany  would  put  thee  to  : 

Confess — confide  in  me — thou  know’st  my  nature — 
What  is  it  thou  and  thine  are  bound  to  do, 

Which  should  prevent  thy  friend,  the  only  son 
Of  him  who  was  a friend  unto  thy  father, 

So  that  our  good-will  is  a heritage 
We  should  bequeath  to  our  posterity 
Such  a3  ourselves  received  it,  or  augmented ; 

I say,  what  is  it  thou  must  do,  that  I 

Should  deem  thee  dangerous,  and  keep  the  house 

Like  a sick  girl  ? 

Ber.  Nay,  question  me  no  further  : 

I must  be  gone. 

Lioni.  And  I be  murder’d  ! — say, 

Was  it  not  thus  thou  said’st,  my  gentle  Bertram? 

Ber.  Who  talks  of  murder  ? what  said  I of  murder? — 
*Tis  false  ! I did  not  utter  such  a word. 

Ijioni.  Thou  didst  not ; but  from  out  thy  wolfish  eye, 
So  changed  from  what  I knew  it,  there  glares  forth 
The  gladiator.  If  my  life’s  thine  object. 

Take  it — I am  unarm’d, — and  then  away  ! 

I would  not  hold  my  breath  on  such  a tenure 

As  the  capricious  mercy  of  such  things 

Ab  thou  and  those  who  have  set  thee  to  thy  task-work. 


Ber.  Sooner  than  spill  thy  blood,  I peril  mine ; 
Sooner  than  harm  a hair  of  thine,  I place 
In  jeopardy  a thousand  heads,  and  some 
As  noble,  nay,  even  nobler  than  thine  own. 

Lioni.  Ay,  is  it  even  so  ? Excuse  me,  Bertram ; 

I am  not  worthy  to  be  singled  out 

Erom  such  exalted  hecatombs — who  are  they 

That  are  in  danger,  and  that  niake  the  danger  ? 

Ber.  Venice,  and  all  that  she  inherits,  are 
Divided  like  a house  against  itself, 

And  so  will  perish  ere  to-morrow’s  twilight ! 

Lioni.  More  mysteries,  and  awful  ones  ! But  now. 
Or  thou,  or  I,  or  both,  it  may  be,  are 
Upon  the  verge  of  ruin ; speak  once  out, 

And  thou  art  safe  and  glorious  ; for  ’tis  more 
Glorious  to  save  than  slay,  and  slay  i’  the  dark 
too — 

Fie,  Bertram ! that  was  not  a craft  for  thee  ! 

How  would  it  look  to  see  upon  a spear 
The  head  of  him  whose  heart  was  open  to  thee 
Borne  by  thy  hand  before  the  shuddering  people  ? 
And  such  may  be  my  doom ; for  here  I swear, 
Whate’er  the  peril  or  the  penalty 
Of  thy  denunciation,  I go  forth, 

Unless  thou  dost  detail  the  cause,  and  show 
The  consequence  of  all  which  led  thee  here  1 
Ber.  Is  there  no  way  to  save  thee  ? minutes  fly, 
And  thou  art  lost ! — thou  ! my  sole  benefactor. 

The  only  being  who  was  constant  to  me 

Through  every  change.  Yet,  make  me  not  a traitor  ! 

Let  me  save  thee — but  spare  my  honour  ! 

Lioni.  Where 

Can  lie  the  honour  in  a league  of  murder  ? 

And  who  are  traitors  save  unto  the  state  ? 

Ber.  A league  is  still  a compact,  and  more  bindiug 
In  honest  hearts  when  words  must  stand  for  law ; 

And  in  my  mind,  there  is  no  traitor  like 
He  whose  domestic  treason  plants  the  poniard 
Within  the  breast  which  trusted  to  his  truth. 

Lioni.  And  who  will  strike  the  steel  to  mine? 

Ber.  Not  I* 

I could  have  wound  my  soul  up  to  all  things 
Save  this.  Thou  must  not  die  ! and  think  how  de*r 
Thy  life  is,  when  I risk  so  many  lives, 

Nay,  more,  the  life  of  lives,  the  liberty 

Of  future  generations,  not  to  be 

The  assassin  thou  miscall’st  me  ; — once,  once  more 

I do  adjure  thee,  pass  not  o’er  thy  threshold! 

Lioni.  It  is  in  vain — this  moment  I go  forth. 

Ber.  Then  perish  Venice  rather  than  my  friend  1 
I will  disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 

Oh,  what  a villain  1 become  for  thee ! 

Lioni.  Say,  rather  thy  friend’s  saviour  and  th* 
state’s  ! — 

Speak — pause  not — all  rewards,  all  pledges  tor 
Thy  safety  and  thy  welfare ; wealth  such  as 
The  state'  accords  her  worthiest  servants  ; nay, 
Nobility  itself  I guarantee  thee,  _ 

So  that  t hou  art  sincere  and  penitent. 

Ber.  I have  thought  again  : it  must  not  be — 1 love 
thee — 

Thou  knowest  it — that  I stand  here  is  the  proof, 

Not  least  though  last ; but  having  done  my  duty 
By  thee,  I now  must  do  it  by  my  country ! 

Farewell — we  meet  no  more  in  life ! — farewell ! 

Lioni.  What,  ho  ! — Antonio  — Pedro  — to  tht 
door ! 

See  that  none  pass — arrest  this  man 


<1)  f"  Or.  the  accursed  tyrannj  which  [ rides*”— MS.] 


220 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  IT 


Enter  Antonio  and  other  armed  Domestics,  who  seize 
Bertram. 

Lioni  ( continues ).  Take  care 

He  hath  no  harm  ; bring  me  my  sword  and  cloak  ; 
And  man.  the  gondola  with  four  oars — quick — 

[Exit  Antonio. 

We  will  unto  Giovanni  Gradenigo’ s, 

And  send  lor  Marc  Cornaro ; — fear  not,  Bertram  ; 

This  needful  violence  is  for  thy  safety, 

No  less  than  for  the  general  weal. 

Ber.  Where  wouldst  thou 

Bear* me  a prisoner  ? 

Lioni.  Firstly  to  “ the  Ten  ; ” 

Next  to  the  Doge. 

Ber.  To  the  Doge  ? 

Lioni.  Assuredly : 

Is  he  not  chief  of  the  state  ? 

Ber.  Perhaps  at  sunrise — • 

Lioni.  What  mean  you? — but  we’ll  know  anon. 

Ber.  Art  sure  ? 

Lioni.  Sure  as  all  gentle  means  can  make  ; and  if 
T'liev  fail,  von  know  “ the  Ten”  and  their  tribunal. 
And  that  St.  Mark’s  has  dungeons,  and  the  dungeons 
A rack. 

Ber.  Apply  it  then  before  the  dawn 
Now  hastening  into  heaven. — One  more  such  word, 
And  you  shall  perish  piecemeal,  by  the  death 
You  think  to  doom  to  me. 

ELe-enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  The  bark  is  ready, 

My  lord,  and  all  prepared. 

Lioni.  Look  to  the  prisoner. 

Bertram,  I’ll  reason  with  thee  as  we  go 
To  the  Magnifico’s,  sage  Gradenigo.  [ Exeunt . 

SCENE  11. 

The  Ducal  Palace. — The  Doge's  Apurtment. 

The  Doge  and  his  nepheio  Bertuccio  Faliero. 

Doge.  Are  all  the  people  of  our  house  in  muster  ? 

Ber.  F.  They  are  array’d,  and  eager  for  the  signal. 
Within  our  palace  precincts  at  San  Polo.1 
L come  for  your  last  orders. 

Doge.  It  had  been 

As  well  had  there  been  time  to  have  got  together. 
From  my  own  fief,  Val  di  Marino,  more 
Of  our  retainers — but  it  is  too  late. 

Ber.  F.  Methinks,  my  lord,  ’tis  better  as  it  is : 

A sudden  swelling  of  our  retinue 

Had  waked  suspicion ; and,  though  fierce  and  trusty, 

The  vassals  of  that  district  are  too  rude 

And  quick  in  quarrel  to  have  long  maintain’d 

The  secret  discipline  we  need  for  such 

A serrice,  till  our  foes  are  dealt  upon. 

Doge.  True;  but  when  once  the  signal  has  been 
These  are  the  men  for  such  an  enterprise ; [given, 
These  city  slaves  have  all  their  private  bias, 

Their  prejudice  against  or  for  this  noble, 

Which  may  induce  them  to  o’erdo  or  spare 
Where  mercy  may  be  madness  ; the  fierce  peasants, 
Serfs  of  my  county  of  Yal  di  Marino, 

Would  do  the  bidding  of  their  lord  without 
Distinguishing  for  love  or  hate  his  foes ; 

Alike  to  them  Marcello  or  Cornaro, 


A Gradenigo  or  a Foscari ; 

They  are  not  used  to  start  at  those  vain  names. 

Nor  bow  the  knee  before  a civic  senate  ; 

A chief  in  armour  is  their  Suzerain, 

And  not  a thing  in  robes. 

Ber.  F.  We  are  enough ; 

And  for  the  dispositions  of  our  clients 
Against  the  senate  I will  answer. 

Doge.  _ Well, 

The  die  is  thrown  ; but  for  a warlike  service. 

Done  in  the  field,  commend  me  to  my  peasants : 

They  made  the  sun  shine  through  the  host  of  Huns 
When  sallow  burghers  slunk  back  to  their  tents, 

And  cower’d  to  hear  their  own  victorious  trumpet 
If  there  be  small  resistance,  you  will  find 
These  citizens  all  lions,  like  their  standard ; 

But  if  there’s  much  to  do,  you’ll  wish,  with  me, 

A band  of  iron  rustics  at  our  backs. 

Ber.  F.  Thus  thinking,  I must  marvel  you  resolve 
To  strike  the  blow  so  suddenly. 

Doge.  Such  blows 

Must  be  struck  suddenly  or  never.  When 
I had  o’ermaster’d  the  weak  false  remorse 
Which  yearn’d  about  my  heart,  too  fondly  yielding 
A moment  to  the  feelings  of  old  days, 

I was  most  fain  to  strike ; and,  firstly,  that 
I might  not  yield  again  to  such  emotions  ; 

And,  secondly,  because  of  all  these  men, 

Save  Israel  and  Philip  Calendaro, 

I know  not  well  the  courage  or  the  faith : 

To-day  might  find  ’mongst,  them  a traitor  to  us, 

As  yesterday  a thousand  to  the  senate ; 

But  once  in,  with  their  hilts  hot  in  their  hands, 

They  must  on  for  their  own  sakes  : one  stroke  si  ruck. 
And  the  mere  instinct  of  the  first-born  Cain, 

Which  ever  lurks  somewhere  in  human  hearts, 
Though  circumstance  may  keep  it  in  abeyance, 

Will  urge  the  rest  on  like  to  wolves ; the  sight 
Of  blood  to  crowds  begets  the  thirst  of  more, 

As  the  first  wine-cup  leads  to  the  long  revel . 

And  you  will  find  a harder  task  to  quell 

Than  urge  them  when  they  have  commenced,  but  till 

That  moment,  a mere  voice,  a straw,  a shadow, 

Are  capable  of  turning  them  aside. — 

How  goes  the  night  ? 

Ber.  F.  Almost  upon  the  dawn. 

Doge.  Then  it  is  time  to  strike  upon  the  bell. 

Are  the  men  posted  ? 

Ber.  F.  By  this  time  they  are ; 

But  they  have  orders  not  to  strike,  until 

They  have  command  from  you  through  me  in  person. 

Doge.  ’Tis  well. — Will  the  morn  never  put  to  rest 
These  stars  which  twinkle  yet  o’er  all  the  heavens  ? 

I am  settled  and  bound  up,  and  being  so, 

The  very  effort  which  it  cost  me  to 

Resolve  to  cleanse  this  commonwealth  with  fire, 

Now  leaves  my  mind  more  steady  1 have  wept. 

And  trembled  at  the  thought  of  this  dread  duty ; 

But  now  I have  put  down  all  idle  passion, 

And  look  the  growing  tempest  in  the  face, 

As  doth  the  pilot  of  an  admiral  galley  : 

Yet  (wouldst  thou  think  it,  kinsman?)  it  hath  been 
A greater  struggle  to  me,  than  when  nations 
Beheld  their  fate  merged  in  the  approaching  fight, 
Where  I was  leader  of  a phalanx,  where 
Thousands  were  sure  to  perish — Yes,  to  spill 
The  rank  polluted  current  from  the  veins 
Of  a few  bloated  despots  needed  more 


(1)  The  Doge’s  family  palace. 


SCENE  II. 

To  steel  me  io  a purpose  sucb  as  made 
Timoleou  immortal,  than  to  lace 
The  toils  and  dangers  of  a life  of  war.  . , 

Ber.  F.  It  gladdens  me  to  see  your  forme*  wisdom 
Subdne  the  furies  which  so  wrung  you  ere 
You  were  decided. 

Done.  It  wa?  ev.er  ™us 

With  me  ; the  hour  of  agitation  came 
In  the  hist  glimmerings  of  a purpose,  when 
Passion  had  too  much  room  to  sway  ; but  in 
The  hour  of  action  I have  stood  as  calm 
As  were  the  dead  who  lay  around  me : this 
They  knew  who  made  me  what  I am,  and  tiusted 
To  the  subduing  power  which  I preserved 
Over  my  mood,  when  its  first  burst  was  spent. 

But  they  were  not  aware  that  there  are  things 
Which  make  revenge  a virtue  by  reflection 
And  not  an  impulse  of  mere  anger ; though 
The  laws  sleep,  justice  wakes,  and  injured  souls 
Oft  do  a public  right  with  private  wrong, 

And  justify  their  deeds  unto  themselves 
Metliinks  the  day  breaks— is  it  not  so  . look. 

Thine  eyes  are  clear  with  youth ; — the  air  puts  on 
A morning  freshness,  and,  at  least  to  me, 

The  sea  looks  greyer  through  the  lattice. 

Ber.F.  lrue’ 

Th"  ^ daPPUUS  Away  then ! 

See  that  they  strike  without  delay,  and  with 
The  first  toll  from  St.  Mark’s,  march  on  tire  pa lace 
With  all  our  house’s  strength : here  I will  meet 
you — . 

The  Sixteen  and  their  companies  will  move 
In  separate  columns  at  the  self-same  moment 
Be  sure  you  post  yourself  at  the  great  gate  : 

1 would  not  trust  “the  Ten”  except  to  us— 

The  rest,  the  rabble  of  patricians,  may 

Glut  the  more  careless  swords  of  those  leagued  with  us. 

Remember  that  the  cry  is  still  “ Saint  Mark . 

The  Genoese  are  come — ho  ! to  the  rescue  • 

Saint  Mark  and  Liberty  ! ’’—Now— now  to  action  ! 

Ber . F.  Farewell  then,  noble  uncle  l we  will  meet 
In  freedom  and  true  sovereignty,  or  never  ! 

Doge.  Come  hither,  my  Bertuccio— one  embrace— 
Speed,  for  the  day  grows  broader— Send  me  soon 
A messenger  to  tell  me  how  all  goes 
When  you  rejoin  our  troops,  and  then  sound— sound 

The  storm-bell  from  Saint  Mark’s  1 

[Exit  Bertuccio  Faliero. 

Doge  {solus).  . He  is  gone, ^ 

And  on  each  footstep  moves  a life  — lis  done. 

Now  the  destroying  angel  hovers  o’er 
Venice,  and  pauses  ere  he  pours  the  vial, 

Even  as  the  eagle  overlooks  his  prey, 

And  for  a moment,  poised  in  middle  air, 

Suspends  the  motion  of  his  mighty  wings, 

Then  swoops  with  his  unerring  beak. — Thou  day  ! 
That  slowly  walk’st  the  waters  ! march— march  on— 
1 would  not  smite  i’  the  dark,  but  rather  see 
That  no  stroke  errs.  And  you,  ye  blue  sea-waves  . 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


221 


I have  seen  you  dyed  ere  now,  and  deeply  too, 

With  Genoese,  Saracen,  and  Hunnish  gore, 

While  that  of  Venice  flow’d  too,  but  victorious ; 

Now  thou  must  wear  an  unmix’d  crimson  ; no 
Barbaric  blood  can  reconcile  us  now 
Unto  that  horrible  incarnadine, 

But  friend  or  foe  will  roll  in  civic  slaughter. 

And  have  I lived  to  fourscore  years  for  this  ? 

I,  who  was  named  Preserver  of  the  City  ? 

T at  whose  name  the  million’s  caps  were  flung 
Into  the  air,  and  cries  from  tens  of  thousands 
Rose  up,  imploring  Heaven  to  send  me  blessings, 

And  fame,  and  length  of  days— to  see  this  day  ? 

But  this  day,  black  within  the  calendar, 

Shall  be  succeeded  by  a bright  millennium. 

Uoo-e  Dandolo  survived  to  ninety  summers 
To  vanquish  empires,  and  refuse  their  crown ; 

I will  resi°Ti  a crown,  and  make  the  state 
Renew  its  freedom — but  oh  ! by  what  means  ? 

The  noble  end  must  justify  them— What 
Are  a few  drops  of  human  blood?  ’tis  ialse, 

The  blood  of  tyrants  is  not  human  ; they. 

Like  to  incarnate  Molochs,  feed  on  ours, 

Until  ’tis  time  to  give  them  to  the  tombs 
Which  they  have  made  so  populous.— Oh  world  , 

Oh  men  ! what  are  ye,  and  our  best  designs, 

That  we  must  work  by  crime  to  punish  crime  ? 

And  slay  as  if  Death  had  but  this  one  gate. 

When  a few  years  would  make  the  sword  superfluous 
And  I,  upon  the  verge  of  th’  unknown  realm, 

Yet  send  so  many  heralds  on  before  me  ? 

I must  not  ponder  this.  . >-  put*»» 

Hark ! was  there  not. 

A murmur  as  of  distant  voices,  and 

The  tramp  of  feet  in  martial  unison?  ( 

What  phantoms  even  of  sound  our  wishes  raise 
It  cannot  be — the  signal  hath  not  rung 
Why  pauses  it  ? My  nephew’s  messenge* 

Should  be  upon  his  way  to  me,  and  lie 
Himself  perhaps  even  now  draws  grating  back 
Upon  its  ponderous  hinge  the  steep  tow er  portal, 
Where  swings  the  sullen  huge  oracular  bell, 

Which  never  knells  but  for  a princely  death. 

Or  for  a state  in  peril,  pealing  forth 
Tremendous  bodements ; let  it  do  its  otnce, 

And  be  this  peal  its  awfullest  and  last. 

Sound  till  the  strong  tower  rock  ! — V\  hat . silent 
still  ? . 

I would  go  forth,  but  that  my  post  is  here. 

To  be  the  centre  of  re-union  to 
The  oft-discordant  elements  which  form 
Leagues  of  this  nature,  and  to  keep  compact 
The  wavering  of  the  weak,  m case  of  conflict ; 

For  if  they  should  do  battle,  ’twill  be  here, 

Within  the  palace,  and  the  strife  will  thicken . 

Then  here  must  be  my  station,  as  becomes 

The  master-mover. Hark  ! he  comes— he  comes, 

Mv  nephew,  brave  Bertuccio’s  messenger. 

What  tidings  ? Is  he  marching  ? hath  lie  sped  ^ 
here !— all’s  lost— yet  will  I make  an  effort. 


in 


[“  Ihe  night  is  clearing  from  the  sky.”— MS.] 


(2)  [At  last  the  moment  arrives  when  the  bell  is  to  be  sounded, 
and  the  whole  of  th  t conspiring  bands  are  watching  in  impatience 
for  the  signal.  The  nephew  of  the  Doge,  and  the  heir  of  his  house 
(for  he  is  childless),  leaves  Faliero  in  his  palace,  and  goes  to  strike 
nth  his  own  hand  the  fatal  summons.  The  Doge  is  left  alone;  and 
English  poetry,  we  think,  contains  few  passages  superior  to  that 
wh.ch  follows  -Lockhart.] 


, ,,  f iron  oracle 

(3)  [“Where  swings  the  sullen  ^ huge  oracuiar  bell.  — MS.] 

<4\  TA  relenting  conspirator,  whom  the  contemplative  Lioni  ha-j 

¥heels°en“ immediue),  feeding  this  catastrophe  is  noble  ar.d 
thrilling.— Jeff  ret]  , 


222 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  IV 


Enter  a Sign  ok.  op  the  Night,1  with  Guards, 

Spc.  Sfc. 

Sig.  Doge,  I arrest  thee  of  high  treason  ! 

Doge.  Me ! 

The  prince,  of  treason  F— Who  are  they  that  dare 
Cloak  their  own  treason  under  such  an  order  ? 

Sig.  (shouing  his  order).  Behold  my  order  from  the 
assembled  Ten. 

Doge.  And  where  are  they,  and  why  assembled  ? no 
Such  council  can  be  lawful,  till  the  prince 
Preside  there,  and  that  duty’s  mine  : on  thine 
I charge  thee,  give  me  way,  or  marshal  me 
To  the  council  chamber. 

Sig.  Duke  ! it  may  not  be  : 

Nor  are  they  in  the  wonted  Hall  of  Council, 

But  sitting  in  the  convent  of  Saint  Saviour’s. 

Doge.  You  dare  to  disobey  me,  then  ? 

Sig.  I serve 

The  state,  and  needs  must  serve  it  faithfully ; 

My  warrant  is  the  will  of  those  who  rule  it.  * 

Doge.  And  till  that  warrant  has  my  signature 
It  is  illegal,  and,  as  now  applied, 

Rebellious — Hast  thou  weigh’d  well  thy  life’s  worth. 
That  thus  you  dare  assume  a lawless  function  F 2 
Sig.  ’Tis  not  my  office  to  reply,  but  act — 

I am  placed  here  as  guard  upon  thy  person, 

And  not  as  judge  to  hear  or  to  decide. 

Doge  (aside).  I must  gain  time  — So  that  the 
storm-bell  sound  [speed ! — 

All  may  be  well  yet.  — Kinsman,  speed  — speed  — 
Our  fate  is  trembling  in  the  balance,  and 
Woe  to  the  vanquish’d  i be  they  prince  and  people. 

Or  slaves  and  senate— 

[ The  great  hell  of  Saint  Mark's  tolls. 
Lo  ! it  sounds — it  tolls  ! 

(Aloud?)  Hark,  Signor  of  the  Night ! and  you,  ye 
hirelings, 

Who  wield  your  mercenary  staves  in  fear, 

It  is  your  knell — Swell  on,  thou  lusty  peal ! 

Now,  knaves,  what  ransom  for  your  lives  F 
Sig.  Confusion ! 

Stand  to  your  arms,  and  guard  the  door — all’s  lost 
Unless  that  fearful  bell  be  silenced  soon. 

The  officer  hath  miss’d  his  path  or  purpose, 

Or  met  some  unforeseen  or  hideous  obstacle.3 

Anselmo,  with  thy  company  proceed 

Straight  to  the  Tower ; the  rest  remain  with  me. 

[Exit  part  of  the  Guard. 
Doge.  Wretch ! if  thou  wouldst  have  thy  vile  life, 
implore  it ; 

It  is  not  now  a lease  of  sixty  seconds. 

Ay,  send  thy  miserable  ruffians  forth ; 

They  never  shall  return. 

Sig.  So  let  it  be  ! 

They  die  then  in  their  duty,  as  will  I. 

Doge.  Pool ! the  high  eagle  flies  at  nobler  game 
Than  thou  and  thy  base  myrmidons, — live  on, 

So  thou  provok’st  not  peril  by  resistance, 

And  learn  (if  souls  so  much  obscured  can  bear 
To  gaze  upon  the  sunbeams)  to  be  free. 

Sig.  And  learn  thou  to  be  captive — It  hath  ceased, 
[The  bell  ceases  to  toll. 

The  traitorous  signal,  which  was  to  have  set 


The  bloodhound  mob  on  their  patrician  prey — 

The  knell  hath  rung,  but  it  is  not  the  senate’s ! 

Doge  (after  a pause).  All’s  silent,  and  all’s  lost! 

Sig.  Now,  Doge,  dcnouuce  me 

As  rebel  slave  of  a revolted  council ! 

Have  I not  done  my  duty  F 

Doge.  Peace,  thou  thing ! 

Thou  hast  done  a worthy  deed,  and  earn’d  the  price 
Of  blood,  and  they  who  use  thee  will  reward  thee. 

But  thou  wert.  sent  to  watch  and  not  to  prate, 

As  thou  saidst  even  now — then  do  thine  office, 

But  let  it  be  in  silence,  as  behoves  thee, 

Since,  though  thy  prisoner,  I am  thy  prince. 

Sig.  I did  not  mean  to  fail  in  the  respect 
Due  to  your  rank  •.  in  this  I shall  obey  you. 

Doge  (aside).  There  now  is  nothing  left  me  save  to 
die ; 

And  yet  how  near  success ! I would  have  fallen, 

And  proudly,  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  but 
To  miss  it  thus  !■ 

Enter  other  Signors  of  the  Night,  with  Bertuccio 
Palieiio  prisoner. 

2 d Sig.  We  took  him  in  the  act 

Of  issuing  from  the  Tower,  where,  at  his  order, 

As  delegated  from  the  Doge,  the  signal 
Had  thus  begun  to  sound. 

Are  all  the  passes 

up  to  the  palace  well  secured  F [chiefs 
2d  Sig.  They  are  — besides,  it  matters  not ; the 
Are  all  in  chains,  and  some  even  now  on  trial — 

Their  followers  are  dispersed,  and  many  taken. 

Ber.  F.  Uncle ! 

Doge.  It  is  in  vain  to  war  with  Fortune ; 

The  Glory  hath  departed  from  our  house. 

Ber.  F.  Who  would  have  deem’d  it  F — Ah  ! one 
moment  sooner  ! [of  ages  ; 

Doge.  That  moment  would  have  changed  the  face 
This  gives  us  to  eternity — We’ll  meet  it 
As  men  whose  triumph  is  not  in  success, 

But  who  can  make  their  own  minds  all  in  all, 

Equal  to  every  fortune. — Droop  not,  ’tis 
But  a brief  passage — I would  go  alone, 

Yet  if  they  send  us,  as  ’tis  like,  together, 

Let  us  go  worthy  of  our  sires  and  selves. 

Ber.  F.  I shall  not  shame  you,  uncle. 

1st  Sig.  Lords,  our  orders 

Are  to  keep  guard  on  both  in  separate  chambers, 
Until  the  council  call  ye  to  your  trial. 

Doge.  Our  trial ! will  they  keep  their  mockery  up 
Even  to  the  last  F but  let  them  deal  upon  us, 

As  we  had  dealt  on  them,  but  with  less  pomp. 

’Tis  but  a game  of  mutual  homicides, 

Who  have  cast  lots  for  the  first  death,  and  they 
Have  won  with  false  dice.  — Who  hath  been  oui 
Judas  F 

1st  Sig.  I am  not  warranted  to  answer  that. 

Ber.  F.  I ’ll  answer  for  thee — ’tis  a certain  Bertram, 
Even  now  deposing  to  the  secret  Giunta.  [tools 

Doge.  Bertram  the  Bergamask  ! With  what  vile 
We  operate  to  slay  or  save  ! This  creature, 

Black  with  a double  treason,  now  will  earn 
Rewards  and  honours,  and  be  stamp’d  in  story 
With  the  geese  in  the  Capitol,  which  gabbled 


1st  Sig. 
Which  lead 


(1)  “1  signori  di  Notte”  held  an  important  charge  in  the  old 
republic. 


(2)  [“That  thus  you  dare  assume  a 


1 lawless  function  ? 
origand’s  power?" — MS.J 


(3)  [“Or  met  some  unforeseen  and  { hfdeous 
MS.] 


obstacle  ” — 


SCENE  I. 

Till  Rome  awoke,  and  had  an  annual  triumph, 

While  Manlius,  who  hurl’d  down  the  Gauls,  was  cast 

Fr<S  Sig. laip0ian’  He  aspired  to  treason, 
fought  to  rule  the  state.  ^ ^ ^ ^ 

And°sought  but  to  reform  what  lie  revived— 

But  this  is  idle Come,  sirs,  do  your  work. 

1 st  sig.  Noble  Bertuccio,  we  must  now  remove  you 

Into  an  iimer  chamber. 

fie).  -p  Farewell,  uncle ! 

If  we  shall  meet  again  in  life  I know  not, 

But  they  perhaps  will  let  our  ashes  mingle. 

Doae.  Yes,  and  our  spirits,  which  shall  yet  go  forth, 
And  do  what  our  frail  clay,  thus  clogg’d,  hath  fail  d in ; 
They  cannot  quench  the  memory  of  those 
Who  would  have  hurl’d  them  from  their  guilty  thrones, 
And  such  examples  will  find  heirs,  though  distant. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


223 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 


The  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Ten  assembled  with  the 
additional  Senators,  who,  on  the  T/ials  of  the  Con- 
spirators for  the  Treason  of  Marino  Faliero, 
composed  what  was  called  the  Giunta.  Guards, 
Officers,  8pc.  Israel  Bertuccio  and  Philip 
Calendaro  as  Prisoners. — Bertram,  Lioni,  and 
Witnesses,  SfC ? 

The  Chief  of  the  Ten,  Benintende .3 
Ben.  There  now  rests,  after  such  conviction  of 
Their  manifold  and  manifest  offences, 

But  to  pronounce  on  these  obdurate  men 
The  sentence  of  the  law  : — a grievous  task 
To  those  who  hear,  and  those  who  speak.  Alas ! 

That  it  should  fall  to  me  ! and  that  my  days 
Of  office  should  be  stigmatised  through  all 
The  years  of  coming  time,  as  bearing  record 
To  this  most  foul  and  complicated  treason 
Against  a just  and  free  state,  known  to  all 
The  earth  as  being  the  Christian  bulwark  ’gainst 
The  Saracen  and  the  schismatic  Greek, 

The  savage  Hun,  and  not  less  barbarous  Frank ; 

A city  which  has  open’d  India’s  wealth 
To  Europe : the  last  Roman  refuge  from 
O’erwhelming  Attila;  the  ocean’s  queen ; 

Proud  Genoa’s  prouder  rival ! ’Tis  to  sap 
The  throne  of  such  a city,  these  lost  men 
Have  risk’d  and  forfeited  then  worthless  lives — ■ 

So  let  them  die  the  death. 

I.  Ber.  We  are  prepared  ; 

Your  racks  have  done  that  for  us.  Let  us  die. 

Ben.  If  ye  have  that  to  say  which  would  obtain 
Abatement  of  your  punishment,  the  Giunta 
Will  hear  you  : if  you  have  aught  to  confess, 

Now  is  your  time,  perhaps  it  may  avail  ye. 

I.  Ber.  We  stand  to  hear  and  not  to  speak. 

Ben.  Your  crimes 

Are  fully  proved  by  your  accomplices. 

And  all  which  circumstance  can  add  to  aid  them ; 

;i)  ["While  Manlius,  who  hurl’d  {db°^j}  the  Gauls,”  Sic.— 

MS.] 

<2;  [The  fifth  Act,  which  begins  with  the  arraignment  of  the 
•riginal  conspirators,  is  much  in  the  style  of  that  of  Pierre  and 


Yet  we  wo  ild  hear  from  your  ows  lips  complete 
Avowal  of  your  treasou : on  the  verge 
Of  that  dread  gulf  which  none  repass,  the  truth 
Alone  can  profit  you  on  earth  or  heaven — 

Say,  then,  what  was  your  motive  ? 

p per  Justice! 

Ben.  ' 

Your  object  ? 

I.  Ber.  Freedom ! 

Berl  You  are  brief,  sir. 

I.  Ber.  So  my  life  grows  : I 
Was  bred  a soldier,  not  a senator. 

Ben.  Perhaps  you  think  by  this  blunt  brevity 
To  brave  your  judges  to  postpone  the  sentence  ? 

I.  Ber.  Do  you  be  brief  as  I am,  and-  believe  me, 

I shall  prefer  that  mercy  to  your  pardon. 

Ben.  Is  this  your  sole  reply  to  the  tribunal  ? 

I.  Ber.  Go,  ask  your  racks  what  they  have  wrung 
from  us, 

Or  place  us  there  again ; we  have  still  some  blood  left. 
And  some  slight  sense  of  pain  in  these  wrench’d 
limbs  : 

But  this  ye  dare  not  do ; for  if  we  die  there— 

And  you  have  left  us  little  life  to  spend 
Upon  your  engines,  gorged  with  pangs  already 
Ye  lose  the  public  spectacle,  with  which 
You  would  appal  your  slaves  to  further  slavery  ! 
Groans  are  not  words,  nor  agony  assent, 

Nor  affirmation  truth,  if  nature’s  sense 
Should  overcome  the  soul  into  a lie, 

For  a short  respite — must  we  bear  or  die  ? 

Ben.  Say,  who  were  your  accomplices  ? 
j per  The  Senate  ! 

Ben.  What  do  you  mean? 

/ per%  Ask  of  the  suffering  people, 

Whom  your  patrician  crimes  have  driven  to  crime. 
Ben.  You  know  the  Doge  ? . 

p ££er  I served  with  him  at  Zara 

In  the  field,  when  you  were  pleading  here  your  way 
To  present  office  ; we  exposed  our  lives. 

While  you  but  hazarded  the  lives  of  others, 

Alike  by  accusation  or  defence ; 

And,  for  the  rest,  all  Venice  knows  her  Doge, 
Through  his  great  actions,  and  the  Senate’s  insults. 
Ben.  You  have  held  conference  with  him  ? 

£ ££er  I am  weary — 

Even  wearier  of  your  questions  than  your  tortures  : 

I pray  you  pass  to  judgment. 

Ben.  R is  coming.— 

And  you,  too,  Philip  Calendaro,  what 

Have  you  to  say  why  you  should  not  be  doom  d . 

Cal.  I never  was  a man  of  many  words, 

And  now  have  few  left  worth  the  utterance. 

Ben.  A further  application  of  yon  engine 
May  change  your  tone. 

Ca£  Most  true,  it  wnl  do  so  ; 

A former  application  did  so  ; but 

It  will  not  change  my  words,  or,  if  it  did — 

Ben.  What  then  ? 

Cal.  Will  my  avowal  on  yon  rack 

Stand  good  in  law  ? 

Ben.  Assuredly. 


his  associates  in  the  old  play.  After  them,  the  Doge  is  brought  in  ; 
his  part  is  very  forcibly  written  throughout. — Jeffkev.] 

(3)  [“  In  the  notes  to  Marino  Faliero,  it  may  be  as  well  to  say 
that  Benintende  was  not  really  of  the  Ten,  but  merely  Grand  Chan 
ce)lor — a separate  office,  though  an  important  one.  It  was  a* 
arbitrary  alteration  of  mine.” — Byron  Letter.' s.] 


LOUD  BYRON’B  WORKS. 


ACT  V. 


224 

Cal.  • Whoe’er 

i’he  culprit  be  whom  I accuse  A treason  ? 

Ben.  Without  doubt,  lie  win  be  brought  up  to  trial. 
Cal.  And  on  this  testimony  would  he  perish  ? 

Ben.  So  your  confession  be  detail’d  and  full, 
tie  will  stand  here  in  peril  of  his  life. 

Cal.  Then  look  well  to  thy  proud  self,  President ! 
For  by  the  eternity  which  yawns  before  me, 

I swear  that  thou , and  only  thou,  shalt  be 
The  tradcor  I denounce  upon  that  rack, 

If  1 be  stretch’d  there  for  the  second  time. 

One  of  the  Giunta.  Lord  President,  ’twere  best 
proceed  to  judgment ; 

there  is  no  more  to  be  drawn  from  these  men. 

Ben.  Unhappy  men  ! prepare  for  instant  death, 
i’he  nature  of  your  crime — our  law — and  peril 
1'he  state  now  stands  in,  leave  not  an  hour’s  respite — 
Guards  ! lead  them  forth,  and  upon  the  balcony 
Of  the  red  columns,  where,  on  festal  Thursday,1 
The  Doge  stands  to  behold  the  chase  of  bulls, 

Let  them  be  justified : and  leave  exposed 
Their  wavering  relics,  in  the  place  of  judgment, 
to  the  full  view  of  the  assembled  people  ! — 

And  Heaven  have  mercy  on  their  souls ! 

The  Giunta.  Amen ! 

/.  Ber.  Signors,  farewell!  we  shall  not  all  again 
Meet  in  one  place. 

Ben.  And  lest  they  should  essay 

To  stir  up  the  distracted  multitude — 

Guards  ! let  their  mouths  be  gagg’d,2  even  in  the  act 
Of  execution. — Lead  them  hence  ! 

Cal.  What ! must  we 

Not  even  say  farewell  to  some  fond  friend, 

Nor  leave  a last  word  with  our  confessor  ? 

Ben.  A priest  is  waiting  in  the  antechamber ; 

But,  for  your  friends,  such  interviews  would  be 
Painful  to  them,  and  useless  all  to  you. 

Cal.  1 knew  that  we  were  gagg’d  in  life ; at  least 
Ail  those  who  had  not  heart  to  risk  their  lives 
Upon  their  open  thoughts  ; but  still  I deem’d 
That  in  the  last  few  moments,  the  same  idle 
Freedom  of  speech  accorded  to  the  dying, 

Would  not  now  be  denied  to  us  ; but  since 

I.  Ber.  Even  let  them  have  their  way,  brave  Calen- 
daro ! 

W bat  matter  a few  syllables  ? let ’s  die 
W ithout  the  slightest  show  of  favour  from  them ; 

Bo  shall  our  blood  more  readily  arise 
To  Heaven  against  them,  and  more  testify 
1 o their  atrocities,  than  could  a volume 
Bpoken  or  written  of  our  dying  words  ! 

They  tremble  at  our  voices — nay,  they  dread 
Our  very  silence— let  them  live  in  fear  ! 

Leave  them  unto  their  thoughts,  and  let  us  now 
Address  our  own  above  ! — Lead  on  ; we  are  ready. 


J ) " Giovedi  grasso” — “ fat  or  greasy  Thursday,” — which  I can- 
not literally  translate  in  the  text,  was  the  day. 

.2’,  Historical  fact.  See  Sanuto,  Appendix  : Marino  Faliero, 
Note  A. 

i3j  [‘‘  1 know  what  Foscolo  means,  about  Calendaro’s  spitting  at 
Bertram;  that’s  national — the  objection,  I mean.  The  Italians 
and  French,  with  those  ‘ flags  of  abomination’  their  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, spit  there,  and  here,  ami  every  where  else — In  your  face 
almost,  and  therefore  abject  to  it  on  the  stage  as  too  familiar.  But 
ws  who  spit  nowhere — but  in  a man’s  face  when  we  grow  savage — 
ait  not  likely  to  feel  this.  Remember  Massinger,  and  Kean’s  Sir 
l.  ..«*  Overreach- 

Lord  1 thus  l spit  at  thee  and  at  thy  counsel ! ’ 


Cal.  Israel,  hadst  thou  but  hearken’d  unto  me 
It  had  not  now  been  thus ; and  yon  pale  villain, 

The  coward  Bertram,  would 

I-  Ber.  Peace,  Calendaro ! 

What  brooks  it  now  to  ponder  upon  this  ? 

Ber.  Alas  ! I lain  you  died  in  peace  with  me ; 

I did  not  seek  this  task ; ’twas  forced  upon  me  : 

Say,  you  forgive  me,  though  I never  can 
Retrieve  my  own  forgiveness— frown  not  thus  ! 

I.  Ber.  1 die  and  pardon  thee  ! 

Cal.  (spitting at  him)}'  I die  and  scorn  thee! 

\_Exeunt  Israel  Bertuccio  and  Philu 
Calendaro,  Guards , fye. 

Ben.  Now  that  these  criminals  have  been  disposed  of, 
’Tis  time  that  we  proceed  to  pass  our  sentence 
Upon  the  greatest  traitor  upon  record 
In  any  annals,  the  Doge  Faliero  ! 

The  proofs  and  process  are  complete ; the  time 
And  crime  require  a quick  procedure  : shall 
He  now  be  call’d  in  to  receive  the  award  ? 

The  Giunta.  Ay,  ay. 

Ben.  Avogadori,  order  that  the  Doge 
Be  brought  before  the  council. 

One  of  the  Giunta.  And  the  rest, 

When  shall  they  be  brought  up  ? 

Ben.  When  all  the  chieCu 

Have  been  disposed  of.  Some  have  fled  to  Chiozza ; 
But  there  are  thousands  in  pursuit  of  them. 

And  such  precaution  ta’en  on  terra  flrma, 

As  well  as  in  the  islands,  that  we  hope 
None  will  escape  to  utter  in  strange  lands 
His  libellous  tale  of  treasons  ’gainst  the  senate. 

Enter  the  Doge  as  Prisoner , with  Guards , fye.  fyc, 

Ben.  Doge — for  such  still  you  are,  and  by  the  law 
Must  be  consider’d,  till  the  hour  shall  come 
When  you  must  doff  the  ducal  bonnet  from 
That  head,  which  could  not  wear  a crown  more  noble 
Than  empires  can  confer,  in  quiet  honour, 

But  it  must  plot  to  overthrow  your  peers, 

Who  made  you  what  you  are,  and  quench  in  blood 
A city’s  glory — we  Lave  laid  already 
Before  you  in  your  chamber  at  full  length, 

By  the  Avogadori,  all  the  proofs 

Which  have  appear’d  against  you  ; and  more  ample 

Ne’er  rear’d  tneir  sanguinary  shadows  to 

Confront  a traitor.  What  have  you  to  say 

In  your  defence  ? 

Doge.  What  shall  I say  to  ye, 

Since  my  defence  must  be  your  condemnation  ? 

You  are  at  once  offenders  and  accusers, 

Judges  and  executioners  ! — Proceed 
Upon  your  power. 

Ben.  Your  chief  accomplices 

Having  confess’d,  there  is  no  hope  for  you. 


Besides,  Calendaro  does  not  spit  in  Bertram’s  face  ; he  spits  at  him, 
as  I have  seen  the  Mussulmans  do  upon  the  ground  when  they  are 
in  a rage.  Again,  he  does  not  in  fact  despise  Bertram,  though  he 
aflects  it, — as  we  all  do,  when  angry  with  one  we  think  our  inferior. 
He  is  angry  at  not  being  allowed  to  die  in  his  own  way  (although 
not  afraid  of  death);  and  recollect  that  he  suspected  and  hated 
Bertram  from  the  first.  Israel  Bertuccio,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a 
cooler  and  more  concentrated  fellow  ; he  acts  upon  principle  and 
impulse;  Calendaro  upon  impulse  and  example.  So  there’s  argu- 
ment for  you. — ‘ The  Doge  repeats — true,  but  it  is  from  engrossing 
passion,  and  because  he  sees  different  persons,  and  is  always  obliged 
to  recur  to  the  cause  uppermost  in  his  mind.  1 His  speeches  are 
long;’ — true,  but  I wrote  for  the  closet , and  on  the  French  and 
Italian  model  rather  than  yours,  which  I think  not  very  highly  of 
for  all  your  old  dramatists,  who  are  long  enough  too,  God  knows 
look  into  any  of  them.” — Byron  Letters .1 


•C'BNE  L 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


225 


Doge.  And  who  be  they  ? 

Ben . In  number  many ; but 

The  mst  now  stauds  before  you  and  the  court, 
Bertram,  of  Bergamo, — would  you  question  him  ? 

Doge  ( looking  at  him  contemptuously).  No. 

Ben.  And  two  others,  Israel  Bertuccio, 

And  Philip  Calendaro,  have  admitted 
Their  fellowship  in  treason  with  the  Doge ! 

Doge.  And  where  are  they  ? 

Bru.  Gone  to  their  place,  and  now 

Answering  to  Heaven  for  what  they  did  on  earth. 

Doge.  All ! the  plebeian  Brutus,  is  he  gone  F 
And  Ihe  quick  Cassius  of  the  arsenal  ? — 

How  did  they  meet  their  doom  ? 

Ben.  Think  of  your  own : 

It  is  approaching.  You  decline  to  plead,  then? 

Doge.  I cannot  plead  to  my  inferiors,  nor 
Cau  recognise  your  legal  power  to  try  me. 

Show  me  the  law ! 

Ben.  On  great  emergencies, 

The  law  must  be  remodel!  d or  amended  : 

Our  fathers  had  not  fix’d  the  punishment 

Of  such  a crime,  as  on  the  old  Roman  tables 

The  sentence  against  parricide  was  left 

In'  pure  forgetfulness  ; they  could  not  render 

That  penal,  which  had  neither  name  nor  thought 

In  their  great  bosoms  : who  would  have  foreseen 

That  nature  could  be  filed  to  such  a crime 

As  sons  ’gainst  sires,  and  princes  ’gainst  their  realms? 

Your  sin  hath  made  us  make  a law  which  will 

Become  a precedent  ’gainst  such  Iiaught  traitors, 

As  would  with  treason  mount  to  tyranny; 

Not  even  contented  with  a sceptre,  till 
They  ran  convert  it  to  a two-edged  sword ! 

AV  as  not  the  place  of  Doge  sufficient  for  ye  ? 

What’s  nobler  than  the  signory  of  Venice  ? 

Doge.  The  signory  of  Venice  ! You  betray’d  me — 
You — you , who  sit  there,  traitors  as  3 e are ! 

From  my  equality  with  you  in  birth, 

And  my  superiority  in  action, 

You  drew  me  from  my  honourable  toils 
In  distant  lands — on  flood — in  field — in  cities — 
lou  singled  me  out  like  a victim  to 
Stand  crown’d,  but  bound  and  helpless,  at  the  altar 
Where  you  alone  could  minister.  I knew  not — 

I sought  not — wish’d  not — dream’ d not  the  election 
Whici;  reach’d  me  first  at  Rome,  and  I obey’d ; 

But  found  on  my  arrival,  that,  besides 
The  jealous  vigilance  which  always  led  you 
To  moik  and  mar  your  sovereign’s  best  intents, 

You  ha: , even  in  the  interregnum  of 1 2 
My  joun  cy  to  the  capital,  curtail’d 
And  muti  ated  the  few  privileges 
\ et  left  th  *.  duke : all  this  I bore,  and  would 
Have  borm. . until  my  very  hearth  was  stain’d 
By  the  poll  lion  of  your  ribaldry, 

And  he,  th ibald,  whom  I see  amongst  you — 

Fit  judge  ir  inch  tribunal ! 

Ben  (interacting  him).  Michel  Steno 
Is  here  in  vi,  tue  or  his  office,  as 


(I)  [One  source  cf  feebleness  in  this  passage,  and  it  is  one  of 
frequen:  o<  curren  > in  all  Lord  Byron’s  plays,  is  his  practice  of 
ending  his  lines  v »Ji  insignificant  monosyllables.  "Of,"  “ to 
and,  “ till,"  “ t\  t,”  "from,"  all  concur  in  the  course  of  a very 
few  pages.  :r.  sitnst’  -ns  where,  had  the  harmony  or  vigour  of  the 
line  been  c.  -mulled,  he  voice  would  have  been  allowed  to  pause, 
and  the  et  ,1  • • sentiment  would  have  been  carried  to  its 
l*ighe*t  fon-  *i  uV*  ion.  This  we  should  have  set  down  to  the 
•ecount  of  i v.  el  s,  had  it  not  been  so  frequent,  and  had  not 


One  of  the  Forty ; “ the  Ten”  having  craved 
A Giunta  of  patricians  from  the  senate 
To  aid  our  judgment  in  a trial  arduous 
And  novel  as  the  present : he  was  set 
Free  from  the  penalty  pronounced  upon  him, 

Because  the  Doge,  who  should  protect  the  law. 
Seeking  to  abrogate  all  law,  can  claim 
No  punishment  of  others  by  the  statutes 
Which  lie  himself  denies  and  violates ! 

Doge.  TIis  punishment  ! I rather  sec  him  there % 
Where  lie  now  sits,  to  glut  him  with  my  death. 

Than  in  the  mockery  of  castigation, 

Which  your  foul,  outward,  juggling  show  of  justice 
Decreed  as  sentence  ! Base  as  was  his  crime, 

’Tvvas  purity  compared  with  your  protection. 

Ben.  And  can  it  be,  that  the  great  Doge  of  Venice 
With  three  parts  of  a century  of  years 
And  honours  on  his  head,  could  thus  allow 
His  fury,  like  an  angry  boy’s,  to  master 
All  feeling,  wisdom,  faith,  and  fear,  on  such 
A provocation  as  a young  man’s  petulance  ? 

Doge.  A spark  creates  the  flame — ’tis  the  last  .\Top 
Which  makes  the  cup  run  o’er,  and  mine  was  full 
Already  : you  oppress’d  the  prince  and  people  ; 

I would  have  freed  both,  and  have  fail’d  in  both : 

The  price  of  such  success  would  have  been  glory, 
Vengeance,  and  victory,  and  such  a name 
As  would  have  made  Venetian  history 
Rival  to  that  of  Greece  and  Syracuse 
When  they  were  freed,  and  flourish’d  ages  after, 

And  mine  to  Gclon  and  to  Thrasybulus  : — 

Failing,  I know  the  penalty  of  failure 
Is  present  infamy  and  death — the  future 
Will  judge,  when  Venice  is  no  more,  or  free  ; 

Till  then,  the  truth  is  in  abeyance.  Pause  not; 

I would  have  shown  no  mercy,  and  I seek  none  , 

My  life  was  staked  upon  a mighty  hazard, 

And  being  lost,  take  what  I would  have  taken  ! 

I would  have  stood  alone  amidst  your  tombs  : 

Now  you  may  flock  round  mine,  and  trample  on  it, 

As  you  have  done  upon  my  heart  while  living. 

Ben.  Yrou  do  confess  then,  and  admit  the  justice 
Of  our  tribunal  ? 

Doge.  I confess  to  have  fail’d  ; 

Fortune  is  female  : from  my  youth  her  favours 
Were  not  withheld,  the  fault  was  mine  to  hope 
Her  former  smiles  again  at  this  late  hour. 

Ben.  You  do  not  then  in  aught  arraign  our  equity  ? 

Doge.  Noble  Venetians ! stir  me  not  with  questions. 
I am  resign’d  to  the  worst ; but  in  rne  still 
Have  something  of  the  blood  of  brighter  days, 

And  am  not  over-patient.  Pray  you,  spare  me 
Further  interrogation,  which  boots  nothing, 

Except  to  turn  a trial  to  debate. 

I shall  but  answer  that  which  will  offend  you, 

And  please  your  enemies — a host  already  ; 

’Tis  true,  these  sullen  walls  should  yield  no  echo : 

But  walls  have  ears — nay,  more,  they  have  tongues  ; 
and  if 

There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to  o’erleap  them,3 


the  stiffness  and  labour  of  the  author’s  general  style  almost  tempted 
us  to  believe  it  systematic.  A more  inharmonious  system  of  ve«:- 
fication,  or  one  more  necessarily  tending  to  weight  and  let  t,k»LT»<», 
could  hardly  have  been  invented.  But  with  all  these  defects,  thew 
is  much  to  praise  in  the  Doge  of  Venice. — Heiier.] 


(2)  [“  There  were  no  other  way  for  truth  to 
MS.] 


pierce  ) 
o’ertop  ) 


them."— 


a Q 


2 26 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  v. 


You  who  condemn  me,  you  who  fear  and  slay  me. 

Yet  could  not  bear  in  silence  to  your  graves 
What  you  would  hear  from  me  of  good  or  evil; 

The  secret  were  too  mighty  for  your  souls  : 

Then  let  it  sleep  in  mine,  unless  you  court 
A danger  which  would  double  that  you  escape. 

Such  my  defence  would  be,  had  I full  scope 
To  make  it  famous  ; for  true  words  are  things, 

And  dying  men’s  are  things  which  long  outlive, 

And  oftentimes  avenge  them  ; bury  mine. 

If  ye  would  fain  survive  me  : take  this  counsel, 

And  though  too  oft  ye  made  me  live  in  wrath, 

Let  me  die  calmly ; you  may  grant  me  this  ; — 

I deny  nothing — defend  nothing — nothing 
I ask  of  you,  but  silence  for  myself. 

And  sentence  from  the  court ! 

Ben.  This  full  admission 

Spares  us  the  harsh  necessity  of  ordering 
The  torture  to  elicit  the  whole  truth.1 2 

Doge.  The  torture!  you  have  put  me  there  already, 
Daily  since  I was  Doge  : but  if  you  will 
Add  the  corporeal  rack,  you  may  : these  limbs 
Will  yield  with  age  to  crushing  iron  ; but 
There’s  that  within  my  heart  shall  strain  your  engines. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Officer.  Noble  Venetians  ! Duchess  Faliero  3 
Requests  admission  to  the  Giunta’s  presence. 

Ben.  Say,  conscript  fathers,3  shall  she  be  admitted  ? 
One  of  the  Giunta.  She  may  have  revelations  of 
importance 

Unto  the  state,  to  justify  compliance 
With  her  request. 

Ben.  Is  this  the  general  will  ? 

All.  It  is. 

Doge.  Oh,  admirable  laws  of  Venice  ! 

Which  would  admit  the  wife,  in  the  full  hope 
That  she  might  testify  against  the  husband. 

What  glory  to  the  chaste  Venetian  dames  ! 

But  such  blasphemers  ’gainst  all  honour,  as 
Sit  here,  do  well  to  act  in  their  vocation. 

Now,  villain  Steno  ! if  this  woman  fail, 

I’ll  pardon  thee  thy  lie,  and  thy  escape, 

And  my  own  violent  death,  and  thy  vile  life.4 

The  Duchess  enters. 

Ben.  Lady ! this  just  tribunal  has  resolved, 

Though  the  request  be  strange,  to  grant  it,  and 
Whatever  be  its  purport,  to  accord 
A patient  hearing  with  the  due  respect 
Which  fits  your  ancestry,  your  rank,  and  virtues  : 

But  you  turn  pale — ho ! there,  look  to  the  lady ! 

Place  a chair  instantly. 

Ang.  A moment’s  faintness — 

’Tis  past ; I pray  you  pardon  me, — I sit  not 


...  roan..  f for  the  exposure  of  the  truth. 

(3)  [“The  torture  ( tQ  ^ ^ who,e  truth.-._MS>] 

( Doge  Faliero’s  consort 

(2)  [“  Noble  Venetians ! < with  respect  the  Duchess 

( Duchess  Faliero.” — MS.] 

(3)  The  Venetian  senate  took  the  same  title  as  the  Roman,  of 
“ conscript  fathers.” 

(4)  [The  drama,  which  has  the  merit,  uncommon  in  modern 
performances,  of  embodying  no  episodical  deformity  whatever, 
now  hurries  in  full  career  to  its  close.  Every  thing  is  despatched 
with  the  stern  decision  of  a tyrannical  aristocracy.  There  is  no 
hope  of  mercy  on  any  side, — there  is  no  petition — nay,  there  is  no 
wish  for  mercy.  Even  the  plebeian  conspirators  have  too  much 
Venetian  blood  in  them  to  be  either  scared  by  the  approach,  or 


In  presence  of  my  pnAce,  and  of  my  husband. 

While  lie  is  on  his  feet. 

Ben.  Your  pleasure,  lady  ? 

Ang.  Strange  rumours,  but  most  true,  if  all  I ht.tr 
And  see  be  sooth,  have  reach’d  me,  and  I come 
To  know  the  worst,  even  at  *Ae  worst ; forgive 
The  abruptness  of  my  entrance  and  my  bearing. 

Is  it 1 cannot  speak — I cannot  shape 

The  question  - but  you  answer  it  ere  spoken, 

With  eyes  averted,  and  with  gloomy  brows  — 

Oh  God ! this  is  the  silence  of  the  grave  ! 

Ben.  [after  a 'pause').  Spare  us,  and  spare  thyseb 
the  repetition 

Of  our  most  awful,  but  inexorable 
Duty  to  heaven  and  man ! 

Ang.  Yet  speak  ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even  now  believe  these  tilings. 

Is  he  condemn’d  ? 

Ben.  Alas ! 

Ang.  And  was  he  guilty  ? 

Ben.  Lady!  the  natural  distraction  of 
Thy  thoughts  at  such  a moment  makes  the  question 
Merit  forgiveness ; else  a doubt  like  this 
Against  a just  and  paramount  tribunal 
Were  deep  offence.  But  question  even  the  Doge, 
And  if  he  can  deny  the  proofs,  believe  him 
Guiltless  as  thy  owu  bosom. 

Ang.  Is  it  so  ? 

My  lord — my  sovereign — my  poor  father’s  friend — 
The  mighty  in  the  field,  the  sage  in  council ; 

Unsay  the  words  of  this  man  1 - Thou  art  silent ! 

Beh.  He  hath  already  own’d  to  his  own  guilt,4 
Nor,  as  thou  seest,  doth  he  deny  it  now. 

Ang.  Ay,  but  he  must  not  die  ! Spare  his  few  years, 
Which  grief  and  shame  will  soon  cut  down  to  days ! 
One  day  of  baffled  crime  must  not  efface 
Near  sixteen  lustres  crowded  with  brave  acts. 

Ben.  His  doom  must  be  fulfill’d  without  remission 
Of  time  or  penalty — ’tis  a decree. 

Ang.  He  hath  been  guilty,  but  there  may  be  mercy. 
Ben.  Not  in  this  case  with  justice. 

Ang.  Alas ! signor, 

He  who  is  only  just  is  cruel ; who 
Upon  the  earth  would  live  were  all  judged  justly  ? 
Ben.  His  punishment  is  safety  to  the  state. 

Ang.  He  was  a subject,  and  hath  served  the  state. 
He  was  your  general,  and  hath  saved  the  state ; 

He  is  your  sovereign,  and  hath  ruled  the  state. 

One  of  the  Council.  He  is  a traitor,  and  betray’d  thu 
state. 

Ang.  And,  but  for  him,  there  now  had  been  no  state 
To  save  or  to  destroy ; and  you,  who  sit 
There  to  pronounce  the  death  of  your  deliverer, 

Had  now  been  groaning  at  a Moslem  oar, 

Or  digging  in  the  Hunnish  mines  in  fetters ! 


shaken  in  the  moment,  of  death ; and  as  for  the  Doge,  he  bear? 
himself  as  becomes  a warrior  of  sixty  yes-rs,  and  a deeply  insulted 
prince.  At  the  moment,  however,  which  immediately  precede4 
the  pronouncing  of  the  sentence,  admission  is  asked  and  obtained 
by  one  from  whom  less  of  the  Spartan  firmness  might  have  been 
expected.  This  is  Angiolina.  She  indeed  hazards  one  fervent 
prayer  to  the  unbending  senate  ; but  sl’-e  sees  in  a moment  that  it 
is  in  vain,  and  she  recovers  herself  on  the  instant;  and  turning  to 
her  lord,  who  stands  calm  and  collected  at  the  foot  of  the  council 
table,  speaks  words  worthy  of  him  and  of  her.  Nothing  can  be 
more  unexpected,  or  more  beautiful,  than  the  behaviour  of  iho 
young  patrician  who  interrupts  their  conversation. — Locks. a Rt.] 

(5;  [“  He  hath  already  j girted*  } *11S  own 


SCENE  I. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


227 


One  of  the  Council.  No,  lady,  there  are  others  who 
would  die 

Rather  than  breathe  in  slavery ! 

Ang.  If  there  are  so 

Within  these  walls,  thou  art  not  of  the  number : 

The  truly  brave  are  generous  to  the  fallen ! — 

Is  there  no  hope  ? 

Ben.  Lady,  it  cannot  be. 

Ang.  ( turning  to  the  Doge).  Then  die,  Faliero  ! 
since  it  must  be  so  ; 

But  with  the  spirit  of  my  father’s  friend. 

Thou  hast  been  guilty  of  a great  offence, 

Half-cancell’d  by  the  harshness  of  these  men. 

I would  have  sued  to  them — have  pray’d  to  them — 
Have  begg’d  as  famish’d  mendicants  for  bread — 

Have  wept  as  they  will  cry  unto  their  God 
For  mercy,  and  be  answer’d  as  they  answer — 

Had  it  been  fitting  for  thy  name  or  mine, 

And  if  the  cruelty  in  their  cold  eyes 

Had  not  announced  the  heartless  wrath  within. 

Then,  as  a prince,  address  thee  to  thy  doom ! 

Doge . I have  lived  too  long  not  to  know  how  to  die ! 
Thy  suiug  to  these  men  were  but  the  bleating 
Of  the  lamb  to  the  butcher,  or  the  cry 
Of  seamen  to  the  surge  : I would  not  take 
A life  eternal,  granted  at  the  hands 
Of  wretches,  from  whose  monstrous  villanies 
I sought  to  free  the  groaning  nations  ! 

Michel  Steno.  Doge, 

A word  with  thee,  and  with  this  noble  lady, 

Whom  I have  grievously  offended.  Would 
Sorrow,  or  shame,  or  penance  on  my  part, 

Could  cancel  the  inexorable  past ! 

But  since  that  cannot  be,  as  Christians  let  us 
Say  farewell,  and  in  peace  : with  full  contrition 
I crave,  not  pardon,  but  compassion  from  you, 

And  give,  however  weak,  my  prayers  for  both. 

Ang.  Sage  Benintende,  now  chief  judge  of  Venice, 

I speak  to  thee  in  answer  to  yon  signor. 

Inform  the  ribald  Steno,  that  his  words 
Ne’er  weigh’d  in  mind  with  Loredano’s  daughter 
Further  than  to  create  a moment’s  pity 
For  such  as  he  is : would  that  others  had 
Despised  him  as  I pity  ! I prefer 
My  honour  to  a thousand  lives,  could  such 
Be  multiplied  in  mine,  but  would  not  have 
A single  life  of  others  lost  for  that 
Which  nothing  human  can  impugn— the  sense 
Of  virtue,  looking  not  to  what  is  call’d 
A good  name  for  reward,  but  to  itself. 

To  me  the  scorner’s  words  were  as  the  wind 
Unto  the  rock : but  as  there  are — alas ! 

Spirits  more  sensitive,  on  which  such  things 
Light  as  the  whirlwind  on  the  waters ; souls 
To  whom  dishonour’s  shadow  is  a substance 
More  terrible  than  death,  here  and  hereafter ; 

Men  whose  vice  is  to  start  at  vice’s  scoffing, 

And  who,  though  proof  against  all  blandishments 
Of  pleasure,  and  all  pangs  of  pain,  are  feeble 
When  the  proud  name  on  which  they  pinnacled 
Their  hopes  is  breathed  on,  jealous  as  the  eagle 


(I)  [rhe  Duchess  is  formal  and  cold,  without  even  that  degree 
of  love  for  her  old  husband  which  a child  might  have  for  her 
parent,  or  a pupil  for  her  instructor.  Even  in  this  her  longest 
and  best  speech,  at  the  most  touching  moment  of  the  catastrophe, 
•he  can  moralise,  in  a strain  of  pedantry  less  natural  to  a woman 
than  to  any  other  person  similarly  circumstanced,  on  lions  stung  by 
gnats,  Achilles,  Helen,  Lucretia,  the  siege  of  Clusium,  Caligula, 
Caaba,  and  Persepolis  1 Tlw  '.ines  are  fine  in  themselves,  indeed ; 


Of  her  high  aiery  ; let  what  we  now 
Behold,  and  feel,  and  suffer,  be  a lesson 
To  wretches  how  they  tamper  in  their  spleen 
With  beings  of  a higher  order.  Insects 
Have  made  the  lion  mad  ere  now  ; a shaft 
I’  the  heel  o’erthrew  the  bravest  of  the  brave ; 

A wife’s  dishonour  was  the  bane  of  Troy ; 

A wife’s  dishonour  unking’d  Rome  for  ever ; 

An  injured  husband  brought  the  Gauls  to  Clusium, 
And  thence  to  Rome,  which  perish’d  for  a time  ; 

An  obscene  gesture  cost  Caligula 

His  life,  while  Earth  yet  bore  his  cruelties  ; 

A virgin’s  wrong  made  Spain  a Moorish  province ; 
And  Steno’s  lie,  couch’d  in  two  worthless  lines, 

Hath  decimated  Venice,  put  in  peril 
A senate  which  hath  stood  eight  hundred  years, 
Discrown’d  a prince,  cut  off  his  crownless  head. 

And  forged  new  fetters  for  a groaning  people ! 

Let  the  poor  wretch,  like  to  the  courtesan 
Wrho  fired  Persepolis,  be  proud  of  this, 

If  it  so  please  him — ’twere  a pride  fit  for  him  ! 

But  let  him  not  insult  the  last  hours  of 
Him,  who,  whate’er  he  now  is,  was  a hero. 

By  the  intrusion  of  his  very  prayers : 

Nothing  of  good  can  come  from  such  a source. 

Nor  would  we  aught  ■with  him,  nor  now,  nor  ever : 
We  leave  him  to  himself,  that  lowest  depth 
Of  human  baseness.  Pardon  is  for  men, 

And  not  for  reptiles — we  have  none  for  Steno, 

And  no  resentment : things  like  him  must  sting. 

And  higher  beings  suffer ; ’tis  the  charter 
Of  life.  The  man  who  dies  by  the  adder’s  fang 
May  have  the  crawler  crush’d,  but  feels  no  anger : 
’Twas  the  worm’s  nature ; and  some  men  are  worms 
In  soul,  more  than  the  living  things  of  tombs.1 

Doge  {to  Ben.).  Signor!  complete  that  which  you 
deem  your  duty. 

Ben.  Before  we  can  proceed  upon  that  duty. 

We  would  request  the  princess  to  withdraw  ; 

’Twill  move  her  too  much  to  be  witness  to  it. 

Ang.  I know  it  will,  and  yet  I must  endure  it, 

For  ’tis  a part  of  mine — I will  not  quit, 

Except  by  force,  my  husband’s  side. — Proceed ! 

Nay,  fear  not  either  shriek,  or  sigh,  or  tear ; 

Though  my  heart  burst,  it  shall  be  silent. — Speak ! 

I have  that  within  which  shall  o’ermaster  all. 

Ben.  Marino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice, 

Count  of  Val  di  Marino,  Senator, 

And  some  time  General  of  the  Fleet  and  Army, 

Noble  Venetian,  many  times  and  oft 
Intrusted  by  the  state  with  high  employments. 

Even  to  the  highest,  listen  to  the  sentence. 

Convict  by  many  witnesses  and  proofs, 

And  by  thine  own  confession,  of  the  guilt 
Of  treachery  and  treason,  yet  unheard  of 
Until  this  trial — the  decree  is  death. 

Thy  goods  are  confiscate  unto  the  state. 

Thy  name  is  razed  from  out  her  records,  save 

Upon  a public  day  of  thanksgiving 

For  this  our  most  miraculous  deliverance. 

When  thou  art  noted  in  our  calendars 


and  if  they  had  been  spoken  by  Benintende  as  a funeral  oraticn 
over  the  Duke’s  body,  or  still  more,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been 
spoken  by  the  Duke’s  counsel  on  his  trial,  they  would  have  been 
perfectly  in  place  and  character.  But  that  is  not  the  highest  crdei 
of  female  intellect  which  is  disposed  to  be  long  winded  in  distress 
nor  does  any  one,  either  male  or  female,  who  is  really  and  deeplj 
affected,  find  time  for  wise  saws  and  instances  ancient  and  modern 
— Hebek.] 


228 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT.  ¥, 


With  earthquakes,  pestilence,  and  foreign  foes, 

And  the  great  enemy  of  man,  as  subject 
Of  grateful  masses  for  Heaven’s  grace  in  snatching 
Our  lives  and  country  from  thy  wickedness. 

The  place  wherein  as  Doge  thou  shouldst  be  painted, 
With  thine  illustrious  predecessors,  is 
To  be  left  vacant,  with  a death-black  veil 
Flung  over  these  dim  words,  engraved  beneath, — 

“ This  place  is  of  Marino  Faliero, 

Decapitated  for  his  crimes.” 

Doge.  “ His  crimes  ! ’* 

But  let  it  be  so  : — it  will  be  in  vain. 

The  veil  which  blackens  o’er  this  blighted  name. 

And  hides,  or  seems  to  hide,  these  lineaments, 

Shall  draw  more  gazers  than  the  thousand  portraits 
Which  glitter  1 ound  it  in  their  pictured  trappings — 
Your  delegated  slaves — the  people’s  tyrants  ! 

“ Decapitated  for  his  crimes  ! ” — What  crimes  ? 

Were  it  not  better  to  record  the  facts, 

So  that  the  contemplator  might  approve, 

Or  at  the  least  learn  whence  the  crimes  arose  ? 

When  the  beholder  knows  a Doge  conspired, 

Let  him  be  told  the  cause — it  is  your  history. 

Ben.  Time  must  reply  to  that ; our  sons  will  judge 
Their  fathers’  judgment,  which  I now  pronounce. 

As  Doge,  clad  in  the  ducal  robes  and  cap, 

Thou  shalt  be  led  hence  to  the  Giants’  Staircase, 
Where  thou  and  all  our  princes  are  invested  ; 

And  there,  the  ducal  crown  being  first  resumed 
Upon  the  spot  where  it  was  first  assumed, 

Thy  head  shall  be  struck  off ; and  Heaven  have  mercy 
Upon  thy  soul ! 

Doge.  Is  this  the  Giunta’s  sentence  P 

Ben.  It  is. 

Doge.  I can  endure  it. — And  the  time? 

Ben.  Must  be  immediate. — Make  thy  peace  with 
God : 

Within  an  hour  thou  must  be  in  His  presence. 

Doge.  I am  already  ; and  my  blood  will  rise 
To  Heaven  before  the  souls  of  those  who  shed  it. — 
Are  ah  my  lands  confiscated  ? 

Ben.  They  are ; 

And  goods,  and  jewels,  and  all  kind  of  treasure, 
Except  two  thousand  ducats — these  dispose  of. 

Doge.  That’s  harsh. — I would  have  fain  reserved 
the  lands 

Near  to  Treviso,  which  I hold  by  investment 
From  Laurence  the  Count-bishop  of  Ceneda, 

In  fief  perpetual  to  myself  and  heirs, 

To  portion  them  (leaving  my  city  spoil, 

My  palace  and  my  treasures,  to  your  forfeit) 

Between  my  consort  and  my  kinsmen. 

Ben.  These 

Lie  under  the  state’s  ban  ; their  chief,  thy  nephew, 

In  peril  of  his  own  life  ; but  the  council 
Postpones  his  trial  for  the  present.  If 
Thou  will’st  a state  unto  thy  widow’d  princess, 

Fear  not,  for  we  will  do  her  justice. 

Ang.  Signors, 

I share  not  in  your  spoil ! From  henceforth,  know 
I am  devoted  unto  God  alone, 

And  take  my  refuge  in  the  cloister. 

Doge.  Come ! 

The  hour  may  be  a hard  one,  but  ’twill  end. 

Have  I aught  else  to  undergo  save  death  ? 

Ben.  You  have  nought  to  do,  except  confess  and 
die.. 

The  priest  is  robed,  the  scimitar  is  bare. 


And  both  await  without. — But,  above  all 
Think  not  to  speak  unto  the  people  ; they 
Are  now  by  thousands  swarming  at  the  gates, 

But  these  are  closed  : the  Ten,  the  Avogadori, 

The  Giunta,  and  the  chief  men  of  the  Forty, 

Alone  will  be  beholders  of  thy  doom, 

And  they  are  ready  to  attend  the  Doge. 

Doge.  The  Doge ! 

Ben.  Yes,  Doge,  thou  hast  lived  and  thou  shalt  die 
A sovereign  ; till  the  moment  which  precedes 
The  separation  of  that  head  and  trunk, 

That  ducal  crown  and  head  shall  be  united. 

Thou  hast  forgot  thy  dignity  in  deigning 
To  plot  with  petty  traitors  ; not  so  we, 

Who  in  the  very  punishment  acknowledge 
The  prince.  Thy  vile  accomplices  have  died 
The  dog’s  death,  and  the  wolf’s ; but  thou  shalt  fall 
As  falls  the  lion  by  the  hunters,  girt 
By  those  who  feci  a proud  compassion  for  thee, 

And  mourn  even  the  inevitable  death 
Provoked  by  thy  wild  wrrath,  and  regal  fierceness. 
Now  we  remit  thee  to  thy  preparation  : 

Let  it  be  brief,  and  we  ourselves  will  be 
Thy  guides  unto  the  place  where  first  we  were 
United  to  thee  as  thy  subjects,  and 
Thy  senate  ; and  must  now  be  parted  from  thee 
As  such  for  ever,  on  the  self-same  spot. — 

Guards ! form  the  Doge’s  escort  to  his  chamber. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

The  Doge’s  Apartment . 

The  Doge  as  Prisoner , and  the  Duchess  attending 
him. 

Doge.  Now,  that  the  priest  is  gone,  ’twere  useless  a] 
To  linger  out  the  miserable  minutes  ; 

But  one  pang  more,  the  pang  of  parting  from  thee. 
And  I will  leave  the  few  last  grains  of  sand 
Which  yet  remain  of  the  accorded  hour, 

Still  falling — I have  done  with  Time. 

Ang.  Alas ! 

And  I have  been  the  cause,  the  unconscious  cause ; 
And  for  this  funeral  marriage;,  this  black  union, 

Which  thou,  compliant  with  my  father’s  wish, 

Didst  promise  at  his  death,  thou  hast  seal’d  thine  own. 

Doge.  Not  so  : there  was  that  in  my  spirit  ever 
Which  shaped  out  for  itself  some  great  reverse  ; 

The  marvel  is,  it  came  not  until  now — 

And  yet  it  was  foretold  me. 

Ang.  How  foretold  you  ? 

Doge  Long  years  ago — so  long,  they  are  a doubt 
In  memory,  and  yet  they  live  in  annals  : 

When  I was  in  my  youth,  and  served  the  senate 
And  signory  as  podesta  and  captain 
Of  the  town  of  Treviso,  on  a day 
Of  festival,  the  sluggish  bishop  who 
Convey’d  the  Host  aroused  my  rash  young  anger, 

By  strange  delay,  and  arrogant  reply 

To  my  reproof ; I raised  my  hand  and  smote  him, 

Until  he  reel’d  beneath  his  holy  burthen; 

And  as  he  rose  from  earth  again,  he  raised 
His  tremulous  hands  in  pious  wrath  towards  Heaven. 
Thence  pointing  to  the  Host,  which  had  fallen  frone 
him. 

He  turn’d  to  me,  and  said,  “ The  hour  will  come 
When  lie  thou  hast  o’erthrown  shall  overthrow  thee  : 


SCENE  II. 


MARINO  FALIERO. 


229 


The  glory  shall  depart  from  out  thy  house, 

The  wisdom  shall  be  shaken  from  thy  soul. 

And  in  thy  best  maturity  of  mind 
A madness  of  the  heart  shall  seize  upon  thee ; 1 
Passion  shall  tear  thee  when  all  passions  cease 
In  other  men,  or  mellow  into  virtues; 

And  majesty,  which  decks  all  other  heads. 

Shall  crown  to  leave  thee  headless ; honours  shall 
But  prove  to  thee  the  heralds  of  destruction, 

And  hoary  hairs  of  shame,  and  both  of  death, 

But  not  such  death  as  fits  an  aged  man.” 

Thus  saying,  he  pass’d  on. — That  hour  is  come. 

Ang.  And  with  this  warning  couldst  thou  not  have 
striven 

To  avert  the  fatal  moment,  and  atone 
By  penitence  for  that  which  thou  hadst  done  ? 

Doge.  I own  the  words  went  to  my  heart,  so  much 
That  [ remember’d  them  amid  the  maze 
Of  life,  as  if  they  form’d  a spectral  voice. 

Which  shook  me  in  a supernatural  dream  ; 

And  I repented  ; but  ’twas  not  for  me 
To  pull  in  resolution : what  must  be 
I could  not  change,  and  would  not  fear. — Nay  more, 
Thou  canst  not  have  forgot,  what  all  remember, 

That  on  my  day  of  landing  here  as  Doge, 

On  my  return  from  Rome,  a mist  of  such 
Unwonted  destiny  went  on  before 
The  Bucentaur,  like  the  columnar  cloud 
Which  usher’d  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  till 
The  pilot  was  misled,  and  disembark’d  us 
Between  the  pillars  of  Saint  Mark’s,  where  ’tis 
The  custom  of  the  state  to  put  to  death 
Its  criminals,  instead  of  touching  at 
The  Riva  della  Paglia,  as  the  wont  is, — 

So  that  all  Venice  shudder’d  at  the  omen. 

Ang.  Ah ! little  boots  it  now  to  recollect 
Such  things. 

Doge.  " And  yet  I find  a comfort  in 
The  thought  that  these  things  are  the  work  of  Eate ; 
Eor  I would  rather  yield  to  gods  than  men, 

Or  cling  to  any  creed  of  destiny, 

Rather  than  deem  these  mortals,  most  of  whom 
I know  to  be  as  worthless  as  the  dust, 

And  weak  as  worthless,  more  than  instruments 
Of  an  o’er-ruling  power ; they  in  themselves 
Were  all  incapable — they  could  not  be 
Victors  of  him  who  oft  had  conquer’d  for  them  ! 

Ang.  Employ  the  minutes  left  in  aspirations 
Of  a more  healing  nature,  and  in  peace 
Even  with  these  wretches  take  thy  flight  to  Heaven. 

Doge.  I am  at  peace  : the  peace  of  certainty 
That  a sure  hour  will  come,  when  their  sons’  sons, 
And  this  proud  city,  and  these  azure  waters, 

And  all  which  makes  them  eminent  and  bright, 

Shall  be  a desolation  and  a curse, 

A hissing  and  a scoff  unto  the  nations, 

A Cart  hage,  and  a Tyre,  an  Ocean  Babel ! 

Ang.  Speak  not  thus  now ; the  surge  of  passion  still 
Sweeps  o’er  thee  to  the  last  ; thou  dost  deceive 
Thyself,  and  cans*  ^ot  injure  them — be  calmer. 

Doge.  I stand  within  eternity,  and  see 
Into  eternity,  and  I behold — 


(1)  i*‘  A madness  of  the  heart  shall  rise  within.” — MS.] 

(2)  [*•  With  unimpair’d  but  not  outrageous  grief.” — MS.] 

(3)  This  was  the  actual  reply  of  Bailli,  maire  of  Paris,  to  a 
Frenchman  who  made  him  the  same  reproach  on  his  way  to  exe- 
rutioc,  in  the  earliest  part  of  their  revolution.  I find  in  reading 


Ay,  palpable  as  I see  thy  sweet  face 

Eor  the  last  time  — the  days  which  I denounce 

Unto  all  time  against  these  wave-girt  walls, 

And  they  who  arc  indwellers. 

Guard  ( coming  forward .)  Doge  of  Venice, 

The  Ten  are  in  attendance  on  your  highness. 

Doge.  Then  farewell,  Angiolina  ! — one  embrace — 
Forgive  the  old  man  who  hath  been  to  thee 
A fond  but  fatal  husband — love  my  memory — ■ 

I would  not  ask  so  much  for  me  still  living, 

But  thou  canst  judge  of  me  more  kindly  now. 

Seeing  my  evil  feelings  are  at  rest. 

Besides,  of  all  the  fruit  of  these  long  years, 

Glory,  and  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame,  and  name, 
Which  generally  leave  some  flowers  to  bloom 
Even  o’er  the  grave,  I have  nothing  left,  not  even 
A little  love,  or  friendship,  or  esteem, 

No,  not  enough  to  extract  an  epitaph 
I From  ostentatious  kinsmen;  in  one  hour 
I have  uprooted  all  my  former  life, 

And  outlived  every  thing,  except  thv  heart, 

The  pure,  the  good,  the  gentle,  which  will  oft 
With  unimpair’d  but  not  a clamorous  grief 2 

Still  keep Thou  turn’st  so  pale!  — Alas!  she 

faints, 

Sbe  has  no  breath,  no  pulse  ! — Guards ! lend  your 
aid — 

I cannot  leave  her  thus,  and  yet  ’tis  better, 

Since  every  lifeless  moment  spares  a pang. 

When  she  shakes  off  this  temporary  death, 

I shall  be  with  the  Eternal. — Call  her  women — 

One  look  ! — how  cold  her  hand  ! — as  cold  as  mine 
Shall  be  ere  she  recovers. — Gently  tend  her. 

And  take  my  last  thanks 1 am  ready  now. 

[The  Attendants  of  Angiolina  enter , and  sur- 
round tlieir  mistress,  who  has  fainted. — Exeunt 
the  Doge,  Guards , Sfc.  Syc. 

scene  in. 

The  Court  of  the  Ducal  Palace:  the  outer  gates  are 
shut  against  the  people.  — The  Doge  enters  in  his 
ducal  robes,  in  procession  with  the  Council  of  Ten  and 
other  Patricians,  attended  by  the  Guards,  till  they 
arrive  at  the  top  of  the  “ Giants'  Staircase ” ( where 
the  Doges  took  the  oaths)  ; the  Executioner  is  sta- 
tioned there  with  his  sword. — On  arriving,  a Chief 
of  the  Ten  takes  off  the  ducal  cap  from  the  Doge's 
head. 

Doge.  So  now  the  Doge  is  nothing,  and  at  last 
I am  again  Marino  Faliero  : 

’Tis  well  to  be  so,  though  but  for  a moment. 

Here  was  I crown’d,  and  here,  bear  witness,  Heaven ! 
With  how  much  more  contentment  I resign 
That  shining  mockery,  the  ducal  bauble, 

Than  I received  the  fatal  ornament. 

One  of  the  Ten.  Thou  treniblest,  Faliero  ! 

Doge.  ’Tis  with  age,  then.3 

Ben.  Faliero  ! hast  thou  aught  further  to  commend, 
Compatible  with  justice,  to  the  senate  ? 

Doge.  I would  commend  my  nephew  to  their  mercy, 
My  consort  to  their  justice  ; for  methinks 


over  (since  the  completion  of  this  tragedy),  for  the  first  time  these 
six  years,  ‘ Venice  Preserved,”  a similar  reply  on  a different  occa- 
sion by  Renault,  and  other  coincidences  arising  from  the  subject. 
I need  hardly  remind  the  gentlest  reader,  that  such  coincidences 
must  be  accidental,  from  the  very  facility  of  their  detection  by 
referei  ne  to  so  popular  a ulay  on  the  stage  and  in  the  closet  as 
Otway  s chef-d'oeuvre. 


230 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACI  ? 


My  death,  and  such  a death,  might  settle  all 
Between  the  state  and  me. 

Ben.  t _ They  shall  be  cared  for ; 

Even  notwithstanding  thine  unheard-of  crime. 

Doge.  Unheard  of ! ay,  there’s  not  a history 
But  shows  a thousand  crown’d  conspirators 
Against  the  people  ; but  to  set  them  free 
One  sovereign  only  died,  and  one  is  dying. 

Ben.  And  who  were  they  who  fell  in  such  a cause  ? 
Doge.  The  King  of  Sparta,  and  the  Doge  of 
Venice— 

Agis  and  Ealiero ! 

Ben.  Hast  thou  more 

To  utter  or  to  do  ? 

Doge.  May  I speak  ? 

Den.  Thou  may’st ; 

But  recollect  the  people  are  without, 

Beyond  the  compass  of  the  human  voice. 

Doge.  I speak  to  Time  and  to  Eternity,1 
Of  which  I grow  a portion,  not  to  man. 

Ye  elements  l in  which  to  be  resolved 

I hasten,  let  my  voice  be  as  a spirit 

Upon  you  ! Ye  blue  waves  ! which  bore  my  banner, 

Ye  winds  ! which  flutter’d  o’er  as  if  you  loved  it, 

And  fill’d  my  swelling  sails  as  they  were  wafted  ’ 

To  many  a triumph  ! Thou,  my  native  earth, 

Which  I have  bled  for,  and  thou  foreign  earth. 

Which  drank  this  willing  blood  from  many  a wound ! 
Ye  stones,  in  which  my  gore  will  not  sink,  but 
Reek  up  to  Heaven ! Ye  skies,  which  will  receive  it ! 
Thou  sun  ! which  shinest  on  these  things,  and  Thou ! 
Who  kindlest  and  who  quenchest  suns  ! 2 — Attest ! 

I am  not  innocent — but  are  these  guiltless  ? 


(1)  [Sentence  being  passed  upon  the  Doge,  he  is  brought  with 
much  pomp  to  the  place  of  execution.  His  last  speech  is  a grand 
prophetic  rant;  something  strained  and  elaborate— but  eloquent 
and  terrible. — Jeffrey.] 

(2)  [ “and  Thou! 

Who  makest  and  destroyest  suns ! MS.] 

(3)  Should  the  dramatic  picture  seem  harsh,  let  the  reader  look 
to  the  historical,  of  the  period  prophesied,  or  rather  of  the  few 
years  preceding  that  period.  Voltaire  calculated  their  “ nostre 
bene  merite  Meretrici”  at  12,000  of  regulars,  without  including 
volunteers  and  local  militia,  on  what  authority  I know  not,  but  it 
is,  perhaps,  the  only  part  of  the  population  not  decreased.  Venice 
once  contained  two  hundred  thousand  inhabitants : there  are  now 
about  ninety  thousand  ; and  these  ! ! few  individuals  can  conceive, 
and  none  could  describe,  the  actual  state  into  which  the  more  than 
infernal  tyranny  of  Austria  has  plunged  this  unhappy  city.  From 
the  present  decay  and  degeneracy  of  Venice  under  the  Barba- 
rians, there  are  some  honourable  individual  exceptions.  There  is 
Pasqualigo,  the  last,  and,  alas!  posthumous  son  of  the  marriage  of 
the  Doges  with  the  Adriatic,  who  fought  his  frigate  with  far  greater 
gallantry  than  any  of  his  French  coadjutors  in  the  memorable  action 
off  Lissa.  I came  home  in  the  squadron  with  the  prizes  in  1811 
and  recollect  to  have  heard  Sir  William  Hoste,  and  the  other  offi- 
cers engaged  in  that  glorious  conflict,  speak  in  the  highest  terms  of 
Pasqualigo’s  behaviour.  There  is  the  Abbate  Morelli.  There  is 
Alvise  Querini,  who.  after  a long  and  honourable  diplomatic 
career,  finds  some  consolation  for  the  wrongs  of  his  country,  in  the 
pursuits  of  literature  with  his  nephew,  Vittor  Benzon,  the  son  of 
the  celebrated  beauty,  the  heroine  of  “La  Biondina  in  Gondo- 
letta.”  There  are  the  patrician  poet  Morosini,  and  the  poet  Lam- 
berti,  the  author  of  the  “ Biondina,”  &c.  and  many  other  estimable 
productions  ; and,  not  least  in  an  Englishman’s  estimation,  Ma- 
dame Michelli,  the  translator  of  Shakspeare.  There  are  the  your.g 
Dandolo  and  the  improvvisatore  Carrer,  and  Giuseppe  Albrizzi,  the 
accomplished  son  of  an  accomplished  mother.  There  is  Aglietti, 
and,  were  there  nothing  else,  there  is  the  immortality  of  Canova’ 
Cicognara,  Mustoxithi,  Bucati,  &c.  &c.  1 do  not  reckon,  because 
the  one  is  a Greek,  and  the  others  were  born  at  least  a hundred 
miles  off,  which,  throughout  Italy,  constitutes,  if  not  a foreigner,  at 
least  a stranger  (forestiere). 

( lazars  "l 

(.4)  [“  Beggars  for  noble*,  j lepers  } for  a people  !”— MS.] 
wretches  I 


I I perish,  but  not  unavenged ; far  ages 
Float  up  from  the  abyss  of  time  to  be, 

And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  close,  the  doom 
Of  this  proud  city,  and  I leave  my  curse 

On  her  and  hers  for  ever ! Yes,  the  hours 

Are  silently  engendering  of  the  day, 

When  she,  who  built  ’gainst  Attila  a bulwark, 

Shall  yield,  and  bloodlessly  and  basely  yield 
Unto  a bastard  Attila,  without 
Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence 
As  these  old  veins,  oft  drain’d  in  shielding  her. 

Shall  pour  in  sacrifice. — She  shall  be  bought 
And  sold,  and  be  an  appanage  to  those 
Who  shall  despise  her  !3 — She  shall  stoop  to  be 
A province  for  an  empire,  petty  town 
In  lieu  of  capital,  with  slaves  for  senates, 

Beggars  for  nobles,4  panders  for  a people  ! 5 6 
Then  when  the  Hebrew’s  in  thy  palaces,0 
The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 
Walks  o’er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his ; 
When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 
In  narrow  streets,  and  in  their  shameful  need 
Make  their  nobility  a plea  for  pity ; 

Then,  when  the  few  who  still  retain  a wreck 
Of  their  great  fathers’  heritage  shall  fawn 
Round  a barbarian  Vice  of  Kings’  Vice-gerent, 

Even  in  the  palace  where  they  sway’d  as  sovereigns, 
Even  in  the  palace  where  they  slew  their  sovereign,* 
Proud  of  some  name  they  have  disgraced,  or  sprung 
From  an  adulteress  boastful  of  her  guilt 
With  some  large  gondolier  or  foreign  soldier, 

Shall  bear  about  their  bastardy  in  triumph 
To  the  third  spurious  generation  ;7 — when 


(5)  [The  following  sketch  of  the  indigent  Venetian  noble  is  bj 
Gritti 

“ Sono  un  povero  ladro  aristocratico 
Errante  per  la  Veneta  palude, 

Che  i denti  per  il  mio  duro  panatico 
Aguzzo  in  su  la  cote  e in  su  1’  incude ; 

Mi  slombo  in  piedi,  e a seder’  mi  snatico, 

Ballotando  or  la  fame,  or  la  virtude  : 

Prego,  piango,  minaccio,  insisto,  adulo, 

Ed  ho  me  stesso,  e la  mia  patria  in  culo 

“ I ’m  a poor  peer  of  Venice  loose  among  her 
Marshes  ! With  standing  bows  I ’ve  double  grown, 

And  in  my  trade  of  place  and  pension-monger, 

Sate  till  I ’ve  ground  my  buttocks  to  the  bone; 

Balloting  now  for  merit , now  for  hunger  ; 

Breaking,  myself,  my  teeth,  upon  a stone, 

I crave,  cringe,  storm,  and  strive,  through  life’s  short 
farce, 

And  vote  friends,  self,  and  country  all.” — Rose.] 

(6)  The  chief  palaces  on  the  Brenta  now  belong  to  the  Jews; 
who  in  the  earlier  times  of  the  republic  were  only  allowed  to 
inhabit  Mestri,  and  not  to  enter  the  city  of  Venice.  The  whole 
commerce  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews  and  Greeks,  and  the  Hun* 
form  the  garrison. 

(7)  [“It  must  be  owned,”  says  Bishop  Heber,  “that  the  Duke 
bears  his  calamities  with  a patience  which  would  be  more  heroic  if 
it  were  less  wordy.  It  is  possible  that  a condemned  man  might  re- 
collect his  quarrel  with  the  Bishop  of  Treviso,  and  the  evil  omen 
which  accompanied  his  solemn  landing  at  Venice.  But  there  are 
not  many  condemned  men  who,  during  a last  and  stinted  inter- 
view with  a beloved  wife,  would  have  employed  so  much  time  in 
relating  anecdotes  of  themselves;  and  we  should  least  of  all  ex- 
pect it  in  one  whose  fiery  character  would  have  induced  him  to 
hurry  forward  to  his  end.  The  same  objection  applies  to  his  pro- 
phecy of  the  future  miseries  of  Venice.  Its  language  and  imagery 
are,  doubtless,  extremely  powerful  and  impressive;  but  we  cannot 
allow  that  it  is  either  dramatic  or  characteristic.  A prophecy 
(which  we  know  to  be  ex  post  facto ) is,  under  any  circumstances, 
one  of  the  cheapest  and  least  artificial  of  poetical  machines.  But, 
under  such  circumstances  as  the  present,  no  audience  could  have 
endured  so  long  a speech  without  disgust  and  weariness ; and 
Marino  Faliero  was  most  likely  to  have  met  his  death  like  our  own 
Sydney — 


SCENE  III. 


MARINO  EALIERO. 


Thy  sons  are  in  the  lowest  scale  of  being, 

Slaves  turn’d  o’er  to  the  vanquish’d  by  the  victors, 
Despised  by  cowards  for  greater  cowardice. 

And  scorn’d  even  by  the  vicious  for  such  vices 
As  in  the  monstrous  grasp  of  their  conception 
Defy  all  codes  to  image  or  to  name  them  ; 

Then,  when  of  Cyprus,  now  thy  subject  kingdom, 

All  thine  inheritance  shall  be  her  shame 
Entail’d  on  thv  less  virtuous  daughters,  grown 
A wider  proverb  for  worse  prostitution  ; — 

When  ad  the  ids  of  conquer’d  states  shall  cling  thee, 
Yicc  without  splendour,  sin  without  relief 
Even  from  the  gloss  of  love  to  smooth  it  o’er. 

Rut  in  its  stead,  coarse  lusts  of  habitude,* 1 
Prurient  yet  passionless,  cold  studied  lewdness, 
Depraving  nature’s  frailty  to  an  art ; — 

When  these  and  more  are  heavy  on  thee,  when 
Smiles  without  mirth,  and  pastimes  without  pleasure, 
Youth  without  honour,  age  without  respect, 

Meanness  and  weakness,  and  a sense  of  woe 
’Gainst  which  thou  wilt  not  strive,  and  dar’st  not 
murmur,2 

Have  made  thee  last  and  worst,  of  peopled  deserts, 
Then,  in  the  last  gasp  of  thine  agony, 

Amidst  thy  many  murders,  think  of  mine! 

Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  ! 3 
Gehenna  of  the  waters  ! thou  sea  Sodom ! 

Thus  I devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods ! 

Thee  and  thy  serpent  seed  ! 

[Here  the  Doge  turns  and  addresses  the  Execu- 
tioner. 

Slave,  do  thine  office  ! 

Strike  as  I struck  the  foe ! Strike  as  I would 
Have  struck  those  tyrants  ! Strike  deep  as  my  curse ! 
Strike — and  but  once ! 

[The  Doge  throws  himself  upon  his  knees,  and  as 
the  Executioner  raises  his  sword  the  scene  closes. 


SCENE  IV. 

The  Piazza  and  Piazzetta  of  Saint  Mark's. — The 
People  in  crowds  gathered  round  the  grated  gates  of 
the  Ducal  Palace , which  are  shut. 

First  Citizen.  I have  gain’d  the  gate,  and  can 
discern  the  Ten, 

Robed  in  their  gowns  of  state,  ranged  round  the  Doge. 


‘ With  no  harangue  idly  proclaim’d  aloud 
To  catch  the  worthless  plaudit  of  the  crowd; 

No  feeble  boast,  death’s  terrors  to  defy, 

Yet  still  delaying,  as  afraid  to  die  ! ’ 

We  are  surprised  that  Bishop  Ileber  did  not  quote  Andrew  Marvell’s 
magnificent  lines  on  Charles  I. : — 

“ While  round  the  armed  bands 
Did  clap  their  bloody  hands, 

He  nothing  common  did,  or  mean, 

Upon  that  memorable  scene ; 

But  with  his  keener  eye 
The  axe’s  edge  did  try; 

Nor  cal^d  the  Gods  with  vulgar  spight 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right, 

But  bow’d  his  comely  head 
Down,  as  upon  a bed.”] 

(1)  'See  Appendix  ; Marino  Faliero,  Note  C.] 

(2)  If  the  Doge’s  prophecy  seem  remarkable,  look  to  the  follow- 

ing. made  by  Alamanni  two  hundred  and  seventy  years  ago  : — 
“There  is  one  very  singular  prophecy  concerning  Venice:  ‘If 

theu  dost  not  change,’  it  says  to  that  proud  republic,  ‘thy  liberty, 
which  is  already  on  the  wing,  will  not  reckon  a century  more  than 
the  thousandth  year.’  If  we  carry  back  the  epocha  of  Venetian 
freedom  to  the  establishment  of  the  government  under  which  the 
republic  flourished,  we  shall  find  that  the  date  of  the  election  of  the 
Srst  Doge  is  697 ; and  if  we  add  one  century  to  a thousand,  that  is, 
alcven  hundred  years,  we  shall  find  the  sense  of  the  prediction  to  be 


231 

Seeond  Cit.  I cannot  reach  thee  with  mine  utmost 
How  is  it  ? let  us  hear  at  least,  since  sight  [effort. 
Is  thus  prohibited  unto  the  people,  . 

Except  the  occupiers  of  those  bars. 

First  Cit.  One  has  approach’d  the  Doge,  and  now 
they  strip 

The  ducal  bonnet  from  his  head — and  now 
He  raises  his  keen  eyes  to  Heaven ; I see 
Them  glitter,  and  his  lips  move — Hush ! hush ! — no, 
’Twas  but  a murmur — Curse  upon  the  distance  ! 

His  words  are  inarticulate,  but  the  voice 
Swells  up  like  mutter’d  thunder ; would  we  could 
But  gather  a sole  sentence  ! 

Second  Cit.  Hush  ! we  perhaps  may  catch  the  sound. 
First  Cit.  ’Tis  vain, 

I cannot  hear  him. — How  his  hoary  hair 
Streams  on  the  wind  like  foam  upon  the  wave  ! 

Now — now — he  kneels — and  now  they  form  a circle 
Round  him,  and  all  is  hidden— but  I see 

The  lifted  sword  in  air Ah  ! hark ! it  falls  ! 

[The  People  murmur. 
Third  Cit.  Then  they  have  murder’d  him  who  would 
have  freed  us. 

Fourth  Cit.  He  was  a kind  man  to  the  commons 
ever. 

Fifth  Cit.  Wisely  they  did  to  keep  their  portals 
barr’d. 

Would  we  had  known  the  work  they  were  preparing 
Ere  we  were  summon’d  here — we  would  have  brought 
Weapons,  and  forced  them ! 

Sixth  Cit.  Are  you  sure  he’s  dead? 

First  Cit.  I saw  the  sword  fall — Lo  ! what  have  we 
here  ? 

Enter  on  the  Balcony  of  the  Palace  which  fronts  Saint 
Mark's  Place  a Chief  of  the  Ten,  with  a bloody 
sword.  He  waves  it  thrice  before  the  People,  and 
exclaims , 

“ Justice  hath  dealt  upon  the  mighty  Traitor !” 

[The  gates  are  opened  ; the  populace  rush  in  towards 
the  “ Giants'  Staircase,"  where  the  execution  has 
taken  place.  The  foremost  of  them  exclaims  to 
those  behind. 

The  gory  head  rolls  down  the  Giants’  Steps  ! 

[ The  curtain  falls} 


literally  this : ‘ Thy  liberty  will  not  last  till  1797.’  Recollect  that 
Venice  ceased  to  be  free  in  the  year  1796,  the  fifth  year  of  the 
French  republic ; and  you  will  perceive,  that  there  never  was  pre- 
diction more  pointed,  or  more  exactly  followed  by  the  event.  You 
will,  therefore,  note  as  very  remarkable  the  three  lines  of  Alamanni 
addressed  to  Venice ; which,  however,  no  one  has  pointed  out  •— 

1 Se  non  cangi  pensier,  un  secol  solo 
Non  contera  sopra  ’1  millesimo  anno 
Tua  libertft,  che  va  fuggendo  a volo.' 

Many  prophecies  have  passed  for  such,  and  many  men  have  been 
called  prophets,  for  much  less.” — Ginguene',  t.  ix.  p.  144. 

(3)  Of  the  first  fifty  Doges,  five  abdicated  —five  ^ere  banished 
with  their  eyes  put  out— five  were  massacrkd— and  nine  deposed; 
so  that  nineteen  out  of  fifty  lost  the  throne  by  violence,  besides  two 
who  fell  in  battle : this  occurred  long  previous  to  the  reign  of 
Marino  Faliero.  One  of  his  more  immediate  predecessors,  Andrea 
Dandolo,  died  of  vexation.  Marino  Faliero  himself  perished  as 
related.  Amongst  his  successors,  Foscari,  after  seeing  his  son  re- 
peatedly tortured  and  banished,  was  deposed,  and  died  of  breaking 
a blood-vessel,  on  hearing  the  bell  of  Saint  Mark’s  toll  for  the  elec- 
tion of  his  successor.  Morosini  was  impeached  for  the  loss  of 
Candia  ; but  this  was  previous  to  his  dukedom,,  during  which  he 
conquered  the  Morea,  and  was  styled  the  Peloponnesian.  Faliero 
might  truly  say, 

“ Thou  den  of  drunkards  with  the  blood  of  princes  1 ” 

(4)  [As  a play,  Marino  Faliero  is  deficient  in  the  attrac'ivc 
passions,  in  probability,  and  in  depth  and  variety  of  interest 


i^eafcen  antr  : 

A MYSTERY, 

FOUNDED  ON  TTIE  FOLLOWING  PASSAGE  IN  GENESIS,  CHAP.  VI. 

w Ajld  it  came  to  pass  . . . that  th'j  sons  of  God  saw  the  daughters  of  men  that  they  were  ir : and  they  took  thsfp 
Wia  of  all  which  they  choss.”  (1; 


*'  And  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover." — Coleridge. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAL 


Angels. — Samiasa. 

Azaziel. 

Raphael  the  Archangel. 

Men. — Noah  and  his  Sons. 

Ikad. 

Japiiet. 

Women. — Anah. 

Aiiolibamah. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  of  the  Earth. — Chorus  of  Mortals. 


and  revolts  throughout,  by  the  extravagant  disproportion  which 
the  injury  bears  to  the  unmeasured  resentment  with  which  it  is 
. pursued.  As  a poem,  though  it  occasionally  displays  great  force 
and  elevation,  it  obviously  wants  both  grace  and  facility.  The 
diction  is  often  heavy  and  cumbrous,  and%he  versification  without 
sweetness  or  elasticity.  It  is  generally  very  verbose,  and  sometimes 
exceedingly  dull.  Altogether,  it  gives  us  the  impression  of  a thing 
worked  out  against  the  grain,  and  not  poured  forth  from  the  fulness 
of  the  heart  or  the  fancy;  — the  ambitious  and  elaborate  work  of  a ! 
powerful  mind  engaged  with  an  unsuitable  task— not  the  sponta- 
neous effusion  of  an  exuberant  imagination,  sporting  in  the  fulness 
of  its  strength.  Every  thing  is  heightened  and  enforced  with  visible 
effort  and  design;  and  the  noble  author  is  often  contented  to  be 
emphatic  by  dint  of  exaggeration,  and  eloquent  by  the  common 
topics  of  declamation.  Lord  Byron  is,  undoubtedly,  a poet  of  the 
very  first  order,  and  has  talents  to  reach  the  very  highest  honours  of 
the  drama.  But  he  must  not  again  disdain  love,  and  ambition,  and 
jealousy;  he  must  not  substitute  what  is  merely  bizarre  and  ex-  l 
traordinary,  for  what  is  naturally  and  universally  interesting,  nor 
expect,  by  any  exaggerations,  so  to  rouse  and  rule  our  sympathies 
by  the  senseless  anger  of  an  old  man,  and  the  prudish  proprieties  of 
an  untempted  woman,  as  by  the  agency  of  the  great  and  simple 
passions  with  which,  in  some  of  their  degrees,  all  men  are  familiar, 
and  by  which  alone  the  Dramatic  Muse  has  hitherto  wrought  her 
miracles. — Jeffrey. 

On  the  whole,  the  Doge  of  Venice  is  the  effect  of  a powerful 
and  cultivated  mir.d.  It  has  all  the  requisites  of  tragedy,  sub- 
limity. terror,  and  pathos  — all  but  that  without  which  the  rest  are 
unavailing,  interest!  With  many  detached  passages  which  neither 
derogate  from  Lord  Byron’s  former  fame,  nor  would  have  derogated 
from  the  refutation  of  our  best  ancient  tragedians,  it  is,  as  a whole, 
neither  sustained  nor  impressive.  The  poet,  except  in  the  soliloquy 
of  Lioni,  scarcely  ever  seems  to  have  written  with  his  own  thorough 
good  liking.  He  may  be  suspected  throughout  to  have  had  in  his 
eye  some  other  model  than  nature;  and  we  rise  from  his  work  with 
the  same  feeling  as  if  we  had  been  reading  a translation.  For  this 
want  of  interest  the  subject  itself  is,  doubtless,  in  some  measure  to 
blame ; though,  if  the  same  subject  had  been  differently  treated, 
we  are  inclined  to  believe  a very  different  effect  would  have  been 
produced.  But  for  the  consiraint  and  stiffness  of  the  poetry,  we 
have  nothing  to  blame  but  the  apparent  resolution  of  its  author  to 
fwt  (at  whatever  risk)  an  example  of  classical  correctness  to  his  un- 
civilised countrymen,  and  rather  to  forego  success  than  to  succeed 
after  the  manner  of  Shakspeare. — Hebeh.] 

(1)  ["Heaven  and  Earth”  was  written  at  Ravenna,  in  October, 
1821.  In  forwarding  it  to  Mr.  Murray,  in  the  following  month, 
laird  Byi  • «-»ys  Enclosed  is  a lyrical  drama,  entitled  ‘ A Mys 


pjeaben  antf  lEartfj. 


PART  I. 

SCENE  1. 

A woody  and  mountainous  district  near  Mourn 
Ararat. — Time,  Midnight . 

Enter  Anaii  and  Aiiolibamah.2 

Anah.  Our  father  sleeps  ; it  is  the  hour  when  the  j 
Who  love  us  are  accustom’d  to  descend 
Through  the  deep  clouds  o’er  rocky  Ararat : — 
j How  my  heart  heats  ! 


I , 1 

tery.'  You  will  find  it  pious  enough,  I trust— at  least  some  of  tha 
choruses  might,  have  been  written  by  Sternliold  and  Hopkins  them- 
selves for  that,  and  perhaps  for  melody.  As  it  is  longer,  and  more 
lyrical  and  Greek,  than  I intended  at  first,  I have  not  divided  it 
into  acts,  but  called  what  I have  sent  Part  First;  as  there  is  a sus- 
pension of  the  action,  which  may  eithef  close  there  without  impro- 
priety, or  be  continued  in  a way  that  I have  in  view.  I wish  the 
first  part  to  be  published  before  the  second ; because,  if  it  don’t 
succeed,  it  is  1 etter  to  stop  there,  than  to  go  on  in  a fruitless  ex- 
periment.” Though  without  delay  revised  by  Mr.  Gifford,  and 
printed,  this  " First  Part”  was  not  published  till  1822,  when  it  ap- 
peared in  the  second  number  of  the  "Liberal.”  The  "Mystery” 
was  never  completed.] 

(2)  ["  It  is  impossible  to  suppose  two  poems  more  nearly  diame- 
trically opposite  to  each  other  in  object  and  execution,  than  the 
‘ Loves  of  the  Angels’  by  Mr.  Moore,  and  ‘Heaven  and  Earth,  a 
Mystery,’  by  Lord  Byron.  The  first  is  all  glitter  and  point,  like  a 
piece  of  Derbyshire  spar  ; and  the  other  is  dark  and  massy,  like  a 
block  of  marble.  In  the  one,  angels  harangue  each  other,  like 
authors  wishing  to  make  a great  public  impression ; in  the  other, 
they  appear  silent  and  majestic,  even  when  their  souls  have  been 
visited  with  human  passions.  In  the-  one,  the  women  whom  the 
angels  love,  although  beautiful  and  amiable,  are  blue-stockingish 
and  pedantic,  and  their  sins  proceed  from  curiosity  and  the  love  of 
knowledge.  In  the  other,  they  are  the  gentle,  or  the  daring,  daughters 
of  flesh  and  blood,  dissolving  in  tenderness,  or  burning  with  passion 
for  the  Sons  of  the  Morning.  In  the  one,  we  have  sighs,  tears, 
kisses,  shiverings,  thrillings,  perfumes,  feathered  angels  on  beds  of 
down,  and  all  the  transports  of  the  honey-moon ; in  the  other, 
silent  looks  of  joy  or  despair,  passion  seen  blending  in  vain  union 
between  the  spirits  of  mortal  and  immortal,  love  shrieking  on  the 
wild  shore  of  death,  and  all  the  thoughts  that  ever  agitated  human 
hearts  dashed  and  distracted  beneath  the  blackness  and  amidst  the 
howling  of  commingled  earth  and  heaven.  The  one  is  extremely 
pretty,  and  the  other  is  something  terrible.  The  great  power  of 
this  ‘ Mystery’  is  in  its  fearless  and  daring  simplicity.  Lord  Byron 
faces  at  once  all  the  grandear  of  his  sublime  subject.  He  seeks  for 
nothing,  but  it  rises  before  him  in  its  deaih-doomed  magnificence. 
Man,  or  angel,  or  demon,  the  being  who  mourns,  or  laments,  m 
exults,  is  driven  to  speak  by  his  own  soul.  The  angels  deign  not 
to  use  many  words,  even  to  their  beautiful  paramours  ; and  thev 
scorn  Noah  and  his  sententious  sons.  The  first  scene  is  a woody 
and  mountainous  district,  near  Mount  Ararat,  and  the  time  mid 
night.  Mortal  creatures,  conscious  of  their  own  wickedness,  have 
heard  awful  predictions  of  the  threatened  flood,  and  all  their  lives 
are  darkened  with  terror.  But  the  sons  of  God  have  been  dwellers 
on  earth,  and  women’s  hearts  have  been  stirred  by  the  beautj 


6C£KE  I. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


233 


Aho . Let  us  proceed  upon 

Our  invocation. 

Anah.  -But  the  stars  are  hidden. 

■ I tremble. 

Aho.  So  do  I,  but  not  with  fear 
Of  aught  save  their  delay. 

Anah.  My  sister,  though 

I love  Azaziel  more  than oh,  too  much  ! 

What  was  I going  to  say  ? my  heart  grows  impious. 

Aho.  And  where  is  the  impiety  of  loving 
Celestial  natures  ? 

Anah.  But,  Aholibamah, 

I love  our  God  less  since  his  angel  loved  me  : 

This  cannot  be  of  good  ; and  though  I know  not 
That  I do  wrong,  I feel  a thousand  fears 
Which  are  not  ominous  of  right. 

Aho.  Then  wed  thee 

Unto  some  son  of  clay,  and  toil  and  spin  ! 

There ’s  Japhet  loves  thee  well,  hath  loved  thee  long : 
Marry,  and  bring  forth  dust ! 

Anah.  I should  have  loved 

Azaziel  not  less,  were  he  mortal ; yet 
I am  glad  he  is  not.  I can  not  outlive  him. 

And  when  I think  that  his  immortal  wings 
Will,  one  day  hover  o’er  the  sepulchre 
Of  the  poor  child  of  clay  which  so  adored  him, 

As  he  adores  the  Highest,  death  becomes 
Less  terrible  ; but  yet  I pity  him  : 

- His  grief  will  be  of  ages,  or  at  least 
Miue  would  be  such  for  him,  were  I the  Seraph, 

And  he  the  perishable. 

Aho.  Rather  say, 

I That  he  will  single  forth  some  other  daughter 
Of  Earth,  and  love  her  as  he  once  loved  Anah. 

Anah.  And  if  it  should  be  so,  and  she  loved  him, 

! Better  thus  than  that  he  should  weep  for  me. 

Aho.  If  I thought  thus  of  Samiasa’s  love, 

I All  Seraph  as  he  is,  I’d  spurn  him  from  me.  t 
But  to  our  invocation  ! — Tis  the  hour. 

Anah.  Seraph ! 

Erom  thy  sphere  ! 

Whatever  star  contain  thy  glory ; 

In  the  eternal  depths  of  heaven 
Albeit  thou  watchest  with  “ the  seven,” *  1 

Though  through  space  infinite  and  hoary 
Before  thy  bright  wings  worlds  be  driven, 

Yet  hear ! 

Oh  ! think  of  her  who  holds  thee  dear  ! 

And  though  she  nothing  is  to  thee, 

Yet  think  that  thou  art  all  to  her. 

Thou  canst  not  tell, — and  never  be 
Such  pangs  decreed  to  aught  save  me, — 

The  bitterness  of  tears. 

Eternity  is  in  thine  years, 

Unborn,  undying  beauty  in  thine  eyes ; 

With  me  thou  canst  not  sympathise, 

Except  in  love,  and  there  thou  must 
Acknowledge  that  more  loving  dust 

Ne’er  wept  beneath  the  skies. 

Thou  walk’st  thy  many  worlds,  thou  seest 
The  face  of  lnm  who  made  thee  great, 

As  he  hath  made  me  of  the  least 
Of  those  cast  out  from  Eden’s  gate  : 


of  these  celestial  visitants.  Anah  and  Aholibamah,  two  of  these 
angel-stricken  maidens,  come  wandering  along  while  others  sleep, 
to  pour  forth  their  invocations  to  their  demon  lovers.  They  are  of 
very  different  characters  : Anah,  soft,  gentle,  and  submissive ; Aholi- 


Yet,  Seraph  dear ! 

Oh  hear ! 

Eor  thou  hast  loved  me,  and  I would  not  die, 

Until  I know  what  I must  die  in  knowing, 

That  thou  forget’st  in  thine  eternity 

Her  whose  heart  death  could  not  keep  from 
o’erflowing 

For  thee,  immortal  essence  as  thou  art ! 

Great  is  their  love  who  love  in  sin  and  fear  ; 

And  such,  I feel,  are  waging  in  my  heart 
A war  unworthy  : to  an  Adamite 
Forgive,  my  Seraph  ! that  such  thoughts  appear, 
For  sorrow  is  our  element ; 

Delight 

An  Eden  kept  afar  from  sight, 

Though  sometimes  with  our  visions  blent. 

The  hour  is  near 

Which  tells  me  we  are  not  abandon’d  quite. — 
Appear ! Appear  ! 

Seraph ! 

My  own  Azaziel ! be  but  here, 

And  leave  the  stars  to  their  own  light. 

Aho.  Samiasa ! 

Wheresoe’er 

Thou  rulest  in  the  upper  air — 

Or  warring  with  the  spirits  who  may  dare 
Dispute  with  Him 

Who  made  all  empires,  empire ; or  recalling 
Some  wandering  star,  which  shoots  through  the 
abyss, 

Whose  tenants  dying,  while  their  world  is 
falling, 

Share  the  dim  destiny  of  day  in  this  ; 

Or  joining  with  the  inferior  cherubim, 

Thou  deignest  to  partake  their  hymn — 
Samiasa ! 

I call  thee,  I await  thee,  and  I love  thee. 

Many  may  m>rship  thee,  that  will  I not : 

If  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move  thee. 
Descend  and  share  my  lot ! 

Though  I be  form’d  of  clay, 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 
On  Eden’s  streams, 

Thine  immortality  can  not  repay 
With  love  more  warm  than  mine 
My  love.  There  is  a ray 

In  me,  which,  though  forbidden  yet  to  shine, 

I feel  was  lighted  at  thy  God’s  and  thine. 

It  may  be  hidden  long : death  and  decay 

Our  mother  Eve  bequeath’d  us — but  my  heart 
Defies  it : though  this  life  must  pass  away, 

Is  that  a cause  for  thee  and  me  to  part  ? 

Thou  art  immortal — so  am  I : I feel — 

I feel  my  immortality  o’ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and  peal, 

Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep, 

Into  my  ears  this  truth — “ Thou  liv’st  for  ever ! ” 
But  if  it  be  in  joy 
I know  not,  nor  would  know  ; 

That  secret  rests  with  the  Almighty  giver 

Who  folds  in  clouds  the  fonts  of  bliss  and  woe. 
But  thee  and  me  he  never  can  destroy ; 


bamah,  proud,  impetuous,  and  aspiring— the  one  loving  in  fear,  an«l 
the  other  in  ambition. — Wilson.] 

(1)  The  archangels,  said  to  be  seven  in  number,  and  to  occupy 
the  eighth  rank  in  the  celestial  hierarchy. 

H H 


234 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


PART  l 


Change  ns  he  may,  but  not  o’er  whelm ; we  are 
Of  as  eternal  essence,  and  must  war 
With  him  if  he  will  war  with  us  : with  thee 
I can  share  all  things,  even  immortal  sorrow ; 

For  thou  hast  ventured  to  share  life  with  me. 

And  shall  I shrink  from  thine  eternity  ? 

No  ! though  the  serpent’s  sting  should  pierce  me 
thorough, 

And  thou  thyself  wert  like  the  serpent,  coil 
Around  me  still ! and  I will  smile, 

And  curse  thee  not ; but  hold 
Thee  in  as  warm  a fold 

As but  descend,  and  prove 

A mortal’s  love 

For  an  immortal.  If  the  skies  contain 

More  joy  than  thou  canst  give  and  take,  remain  ! 1 

Anah.  Sister  ! sister  ! I view  them  winging 
Their  bright  way  through  the  parted  night. 

Aho.  The  clouds  from  off  their  pinions  flinging, 
As  though  they  bore  to-morrow’s  light. 
dnah.  But  if  our  father  see  the  sight ! 

Aho.  He  would  but  deem  it  was  the  moon 
Rising  unto  some  sorcerer’s  tune 
Ad  hour  too  soon. 

Anah.  They  come  ! he  comes  ! — Azaziel ! 

Aho.  Haste 

To  meet  them  ! Oh  ! for  wings  to  bear 
My  spirit,  while  they  hover  there, 

To  Samiasa’s  breast ! 

Anah.  Lo ! they  have  kindled  all  the  west, 

Like  a returning  sunset ; — lo  ! 

On  Ararat’s  late  secret  crest 
A mild  and  many-colour’d  bow, 

The  remnant  of  their  flashing  path, 

Now  shines  I and  now,  behold  ! it  hath 
Return’d  to  night,  as  rippling  foam, 

Which  the  leviathan  hath  lash’d 
From  his  unfathomable  home,  % 

When  sporting  on  the  face  of  the  calm  deep, 
Subsides  soon  after  he  again  hath  dash’d 
Down,  down,  to  where  the  ocean’s  fountains  sleep.2 
Aho.  They  have  touch’d  earth ! Samiasa ! 

Anah.  My  Azaziel ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  Irad  and  Japhet. 

Lrad.  Despond  not : wherefore  wilt  thou  wander 
thus 

To  add  thy  silence  to  the  silent  night, 

And  lift  thy  tearful  eye  unto  the  stars  ? 

They  cannot  aid  < hee. 

Japh.  But  they  soothe  me — now 

Perhaps  she  looks  upon  them  as  I look. 

Metliinks  a being  that  is  beautiful 
Becometh  more  so  as  it  looks  on  beauty, 

The  eternal  beauty  of  undving  things. 

Oh,  Anah ! 

Irad.  But  she  loves  thee  not. 


(1)  [This  invocation  is  extremely  beautiful:  its  chief  beauty 
lies  in  the  continuous  and  meandering  flow  of  its  impassioned 
versification.  At  its  close, — and  it  might  well  win  down  to 
earth  erring  angels  from  heaven, — the  maidens  disappear  in  the 
midnight  darkness,  hoping  the  presence  of  their  celestial  lovers. 
— Wilson.] 

(2)  [Lord  Byron  here  takes  a wide  career,  and  is  sometimes 

obscure  and  confused;  but  the  flashes  of  fire  continually  break 
through,  and  Illumine  the  clouds  of  smoke  and  vapour.  The 


Japh.  Alas.! 

Irad.  And  proud  Aholibaman.  spurns  me  also. 

Japh.  I feel  for  tliee  too. 

Irad.  Let  her  keep  her  pride, 

Mine  hath  enabled  me  to  bear  her  scorn : 

It  may  be,  time  too  will  avenge  it. 

Japh.  * Canst  thou 

Find  joy  in  such  a thought  ? 

Irad.  Nor  joy.  nor  sorrow. 

I loved  her  well ; I would  have  loved  lier  better, 

Had  love  been  met  with  love  ; as  ’tis,  I leave  her 
To  brighter  destinies,  if  so  she  deems  them. 

Japh.  What  destinies  ? 

Irad.  I have  some  cause  to  think 

She  loves  another. 

Japh.  Anah ! 

Irad.  No  ; her  sister. 

Japh.  What  other  ? 

Irad.  That  I know  not ; but  her  air, 

If  not  her  words,  tells  me  she  loves  another. 

Japh.  Ay,  but  not  Anah : she  but  loves  her  God. 

Irad.  Whate’er  she  loveth,  so  she  loves  thee  not, 
What  can  it  profit  thee  ?3 

Japh.  True,  nothing ; but 

I love. 

Irad.  And  so  do  I. 

Japh.  And  now  thou  lov’st  not, 

Or  think’st  thou  lov’st  not,  art  thou  happier  ? 

Irad.  Yes. 

Japh.  I pity  thee, 

Irad.  Me  ! why  ? 

Japh.  For  being  happy, 

Deprived  of  that  which  makes  my  misery. 

Irad.  I take  thy  taunt  as  part  of  thy  distemper, 
And  would  not  feel  as  thou  dost  for  more  shekels 
Than  all  our  father’s  herds  would  bring  if  weigh’d 
Against  the  metal  of  the  sons  of  Cain — 

The  yellow  dust  they  try  to  barter  with  us, 

As  if  suCh  useless  and  discolour’d  trash, 

The  refuse  of  the  earth,  could  be  received 
For  milk,  and  wool,  and  flesh,  and  fruits,  and  all 
Our  flocks  and  wilderness  afford. — Go,  Japhet, 

Sigh  to  the  stars,  as  wolves  howl  to  the  moon — 

I must  back  to  my  rest. 

Japh.  And  so  would  I 

If  I could  rest. 

Irad.  Thou  wilt  not  to  our  tents  then  f 

Japh.  No,  Irad ; I will  to  the  cavern,  whose 
Mouth  they  say  opens  from  the  internal  world 
To  let  the  inner  spirits  of  the  earth 
Forth  when  they  walk  its  surface. 

Irad.  Wherefore  so  ? 

What  wouldst  thou  there  ? 

Japh.  Soothe  further  my  sad  spirit 

With  gloom  as  sad  : it  is  a hopeless  spot. 

And  I am  hopeless. 

Irad.  But  ’tis  dangerous  ; 

Strange  sounds  and  sights  have  peopled  it  with 
terrors. 

I must  go  with  thee. 


extravagance  is  dictated  by  passion.  His  muse,  even  in  hei 
riddles  and  digressions,  has  a sibyl-like,  prophetic  fury.  — Jef- 
frey.] 

(3)  [This  is  one  of  those  bitter,  taunting  sarcasms  that  escape 
from  Lord  Byron’s  pen,  in  spite  of  himself.  Japhet  is  afterward* 
introduced  alone,  in  a mountainous  cave;  and  his  soliloquy,  be- 
moaning his  own  fate,  and  the  approaching  destruction  of  man- 
kind, is  interrupted  by  a laugh  of  demons,  rejoicing  over  the  event 
This  scene  is  terrific. — Jeffrey.] 


SCENE  III. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


235 


fauh  Irad,  no  ; believe  me 

I feel  no  evil  thought,  and  fear  no  evil. 

Irad.  But  evil  things  will  be  thy  foe  the  more 
As  not  being  of  them  . turn  thy  steps  aside, 

Or  let  mine  be  with  thine. 

Japh.  No,  neither,  Irad; 

I must  proceed  alone. 

Irad.  Then  peace  be  with  thee  ! * 

[ Exit  Irad. 

Japh  (solus) . Peace!  I have  sought  it  where  it 
should  be  found, 

In  love — with  love,  too,  which  perhaps  deserved  it ; 
And,  in  its  stead,  a heaviness  of  heart — 

A weakness  of  the  spirit — listless  days, 

And  nights  inexorable  to  sweet  sleep  — 

Have  come  upon  me.  Peace  ! what  peace  ? the  calm 

Of  desolation,  and  the  stiflness  of 

The  untrodden  forest,  only  broken  by 

The  sweeping  tempest  through  its  groaning  boughs ; 

Such  is  the  sullen  or  the  fitful  state 

Of  my  mind  overworn.  The  earth’s  grown  wicked, 

And  many  signs  and  portents  have  proclaim’d 

A change  at  hand,  and  an  o’erwhelming  doom 

To  perishable  beings.  Oh,  my  Anah  ! 

When  the  dread  hour  denounced  shall  open  wide 
The  fountains  of  the  deep,  how  mightest  thou 
Have  lain  within  this  bosom,  folded  from 
The  elements ; this  bosom,  which  in  vain 
Hath  beat  for  thee,  and  then  will  beat  more  vainly, 

While  thine Oh,  God  ! at  least  remit  to  her 

Thy  wrath ! for  she  is  pure  amidst  the  failing 
As  a star  in  the  clouds,  which  cannot  quench, 
A_though  they  obscure  it  for  an  hour.  My  Anah  ! 
How  would  I have  adored  thee,  but  thou  wouldst 
not ; 

And  still  would  I redeem  thee — see  thee  live 
When  ocean  is  earth’s  grave,  and,  unopposed 
By  rock  or  shallow,  the  leviathan, 

Lord  of  the  shoreless  sea  and  watery  world, 

Shall  wonder  at  his  boundlessness  of  realm. 

[ Exit  Japiiet. 

Enter  Noah  and  Shem. 

Noah.  Where  is  thy  brother  Japhet  ? 

Shem.  He  went  forth. 

According  to  his  wont,  to  meet  with  Irad, 

He  said  ; but,  as  I fear,  to  bend  his  steps 
Towards  Anah’s  tents,  round  which  he  hovers  nightly. 
Like  a dove  round  and  round  its  pillaged  nest ; 

Or  else  he  walks  the  wild  up  to  the  cavern 
Which  opens  to  the  heart  of  Ararat. 

Noah.  What  doth  he  there  ? It  is  an  evil  spot 
Upon  an  earth  all  evil ; for  things  worse 
Than  even  wicked  men  resort  there  : he 
Still  loves  this  daughter  of  a fated  race, 

Although  he  could  not  wed  her  if  she  loved  him. 

And  that  she  doth  not.  Oh,  the  unhappy  hearts 
Of  men  ! that  one  of  my  blood,  knowing  well 
The  destiny  and  evil  of  these  days, 

And  that  the  hour  approacheth,  should  indulge 
In  such  forbidden  yearnings  ! Lead  the  way  ; 

He  must  be  sought  for  ! 

Shem.  Go  not  forward,  father  : 

I will  seek  Japhet. 

Noah.  Do  not  fear  for  me  : 

All  evil  things  are  powerless  on  the  man 
Selected  by  Jehovah. — Let  us  on 


Shem.  To  the  tents  of  the  father  of  the  sisters  ? 

Noah.  No;  to  the  cavern  of  the  Caucasus. 

[ Exeunt  Noah  and  Shem. 

SCENE  III. 

The  mountains. — A cavern,  and  the  rocks  of  Caucasus. 

Japh.  (solus).  Ye  wilds,  that  look  eternal;  and 
thou  cave, 

Which  secm’st  unfathomable  ; and  ye  mountains, 

So  varied  and  so  terrible  in  beauty  ; 

Here,  in  your  rugged  majesty  of  rocks 

And  toppling  trees  that  twine  their  roots  with  stone 

In  perpendicular  places,  where  the  foot 

Of  man  would  tremble,  could  he  reach  them — yes, 

Ye  look  eternal ! Yet,  in  a few  days, 

Perhaps  even  hours,  ye  will  be  changed,  rent,  hurl’d 
Before  the  mass  of  waters  ; and  yon  cave. 

Which  seems  to  lead  into  a lower  world. 

Shall  have  its  depth  search’d  by  the  sweeping  wave, 
And  dolphins  gambol  in  the  lion’s  den  ! 

And  man Oh,  men ! my  fellow-beings  ! Who 

Shall  weep  above  your  universal  grave, 

Save  I ? Who  shall  be  left  to  weep  ? My  kinsmen. 
Alas  ! what  am  I better  than  ye  are, 

That  I must  live  beyond  ye  ? Where  shall  be 
The  pleasant  places  where  I thought  of  Anah 
While  I had  hope  ? or  the  more  savage  haunts. 

Scarce  less  beloved,  where  I despair’d  for  her  ? 

And  can  it  be  ! — Shall  yon  exulting  peak, 

Whose  glittering  top  is  like,  a distant  star, 

Lie  low  beneath  the  boiling  of  the  deep  r 
No  more  to  have  the  morning  sun  break  forth, 

And  scatter  back  the  mists  in  floating  folds 
Erorn  its  tremendous  brow?  no  more  to  have 
Day’s  broad  orb  drop  behind  its  head  at  even. 

Leaving  it  with  a crown  of  many  hues  ? 

No  more  to  be  the  beacon  of  the  world, 

Eor  angels  to  alight  on,  as  the  spot 

Nearest  the  stars?  And  can  those  words  “ n,  ftv-n-  r 

Be  meant  for  thee,  for  all  things,  save  for  us, 

And  the  predestined  creeping  things  reserved 
By  my  sire  to  Jehovah’s  bidding  ? May 
He  preserve  them,  and  I not  have  the  power 
To  snatch  the  loveliest  of  earth’s  daughters  from 
A doom  which  even  some  serpent,  with  his  mate. 

Shall  ’scape  to  save  his  kind  to  be  prolong’d, 

To  hiss  and  sting  through  some  emerging  world. 
Reeking  and  dank  from  out  the  slime,  whose  ooz« 
Shall  slumber  o’er  the  wreck  of  this  until 
The  salt  morass  subside  into  a sphere 
Beneath  the  sun,  and  be  the  monument, 

The  sole  and  undistinguish’d  sepulchre, 

Of  yet  quick  myriads  of  all  life  ? How  much 
Breath  will  be  still’d  at  once  ! All-beauteous  world  , 
So  young,  so  mark’d  out  for  destruction,  I 
With  a cleft  heart  look  on  thee  day  by  day, 

And  night  by  night,  thy  number’d  days  and  nights  : 

I cannot  save  thee,  cannot  save  even  ner 
Whose  love  had  made  me  love  thee  more  ; but  as 
A portion  of  thy  dust,  I cannot  think 
Upon  thy  coming  doom  without  a feeling 
Such  as— Oh  God  ! and  canst  thou — [He  pauses. 

A rushing  sound  from  the  cavern  is  heard,  and  shouts 
of  laughter — afterwards  a Spirit  passes. 

Japh.  In  the  name 

Of  the  Most  High,  what  art  thou  ? 

Spirit  (laughs). 


Ha!  ha!  ha! 


236 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


TAUT  l 


Japh.  By  all  that  earth  holds  holiest,  speak  ! 

Spirit  {laughs).  Ha ! ha  ! 

Japh.  By  the  approaching  deluge  ! by  the  earth 
Which  will  be  strangled  by  the  ocean  ! by 
The  deep  which  will  lay  open  all  her  fountains  ! 

The  heaven  which  will  convert  her  clouds  to  seas, 

And  the  Omnipotent  who  makes  and  crushes  ! 

Thou  unknown,  terrible,  and  indistinct, 

Yet  awful  Thing  of  Shadows,  speak  to  me  ! 

Why  dost  thou  laugh  that  horrid  laugh  ? 

Spirit.  Why  weep’st  thou  ? 

Japh.  For  earth  and  all  her  children. 

Spirit.  Ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! [ Spirit  vanishes. 

Japh.  Tfow  the  fiend  mocks  the  tortures  of  a world, 
The  coming  desolation  of  an  orb, 

On  which  the  sun  shall  rise  and  warm  no  life  ! 

How  the  earth  sleeps  ! and  all  that  in  it  is 
Sleep  too  upon  the  very  eve  of  death  ! 

Why  should  they  wake  to  meet  it  ? What  is  here, 
Which  look  like  death  in  life,  and  speak  like  things 
Born  ore  this  dying  world  ? They  come  like  clouds  ! 

[Various  Spirits  pass  from  the  cavern. 
Spirit.  Rejoice ! 

The  abhorred  race 

Which  could  not  keep  in  Eden  their  high  place, 

But  listen’d  to  the  voice 
Of  knowledge  without  power, 

Are  nigh  the  hour 
Of  death ! 

Not  slow,  not  single,  not  by  sword,  nor  sorrow, 

Nor  years,  nor  heart-break,  nor  time’s  sapping 
motion, 

Shall  they  drop  off.  Behold  their  last  to-morrow ! 
Earth  shall  be  ocean  ! 

And  no  breath, 

save  of  the  winds,  be  on  the  unbounded  wave  ! 

Angels  shall  tire  their  wings,  but  find  no  spot : 

Not  even  a rock  from  out  the  liquid  grave 
Shall  lift  its  point  to  save, 

Or  show  the  place  where  strong  Despair  hath  died, 
After  long  looking  o’er  the  ocean  wide 
For  the  expected  ebb  which  cometh  not : 

All  shall  be  void, 

Destroy’d  ! 

Another  element  shall  be  the  lord 
Of  life,  and  the  abhorr’d 
Children  of  dust  be  quench’d ; and  of  each  hue 
Of  earth  nought  left  but  the  unbroken  blue ; 

And  of  the  variegated  mountain 
Shall  nought  remain 
Unchanged,  or  of  the  level  plain ; 

Cedar  and  pine  shall  lift  their  tops  in  vain  : 

All  merged  within  the  universal  fountain, 

Man,  earth,  and  fire,  shall  die, 

And  sea  and  sky 

Look  vast  and  lifeless  in  the  eternal  eye. 

Upon  the  foam 
Who  shall  erect  a home  ? 

Japh.  {coming  forward).  My  sire  ! 

Earth’s  seed  shall  not  expire  ; 

Only  the  evil  shall  be  put  away 
From  day. 

Avaunt ! ye  exulting  demons  of  the  waste ! 

Who  howl  your  hideous  joy 
When  God  dest  roys  whom  you  dare  not  destroy ; 
Hence  ! haste ! 

Back  to  your  inner  cave^  ! 

Until  the  whv^s 


Shall  search  you  in  your  secret  piace, 

And  drive  your  sullen  race 
Forth,  to  be  roll’d  upon  the  tossing  winds 
In  restless  wretchedness  along  all  space ! 

Spirit.  Son  of  the  saved  ! 

When  thou  and  thine  have  braved 
The  wide  and  warring  element ; 

* When  the  great  barrier  of  the  deep  is  rent, 

Shall  thou  and  thine  be  good  or  happy  ? — No  ! 

Thy  new  world  and  new  race  shall  be  of  woe — 

Less  goodly  in  their  aspect,  in  their  years 
Less  than  the  glorious  giants,  who 
Yet  walk  the  world  in  pride, 

The  Sons  of  Heaven  by  many  a mortal  bride. 

Thine  shall  be  nothing  of  the  past,  save  tears. 

And  art  thou  not  ashamed 
Thus  to  survive, 

And  eat,  and  drink,  and  wive  ? 

With,  a base  heart  so  far  subdued  and  tamed, 

As  even  to  hear  this  wide  destruction  named. 

Without  such  grief  and  courage,  as  should  rather 
Bid  thee  await  the  world-dissolving  wave, 

Than  seek  a shelter  with  thy  favour’d  father. 

And  build  thy  city  o’er  the  drown’d  Earth1 1 
grave  ? 

Who  would  outlive  their  kind, 

Except  the  base  and  blind  ? 

Mine 

Hateth  thine, 

As  of  a different  order  in  the  sphere, 

But  not  our  own. 

There  is  not  one  who  hath  not  left  a throne 
Vacant  in  heaven  to  dwell  in  darkness  here, 

Rather  than  see  his  mates  endure  alone. 

Go,  wretch  ! and  give 
A life  like  thine  to  other  wretches — live  ! 

And  when  the  annihilating  waters  roar 
Above  what  they  have  done. 

Envy  the  giant  patriarchs  then  no  more, 

And  scorn  thy  sire  as  the  surviving  one  ! 

Thyself  for  being  his  son ! 

Chorus  of  Spirits  issuing  from  the  cavern. 
Rejoice  ! 

No  more  the  human  voice 
Shall  vex  our  joys  in  middle  air 
With  prayer ; 

No  more 
Shall  they  adore ; 

And  we,  who  ne’er  for  ages  have  adored 
The  prayer-exacting  Lord, 

To  whom  the  omission  of  a sacrifice 
Is  vice ; 

We,  we  shall  view  the  deep’s  salt  sources  pour’d 
Until  one  element  shall  do  the  work 
Of  all  in  chaos  ; until  they. 

The  creatures  proud  of  their  poor  clay, 

Shall  perish,  and  their  bleached  bones  shall  lurk 
In  caves,  in  dens,  in  clefts  of  mountains,  where 
The  Deep  shall  follow  to  their  latest  lair ; 

Where  even  the  brutes,  in  their  despair, 

Shall  cease  to  prey  on  man  and  on  each  other, 

And  the  striped  tiger  shall  lie  down  to  die 
Beside  the  lamb,  as  though  he  were  his  brother 
Till  all  things  shall  be  as  they  were. 

Silent  and  uncreated,  save  the  sky : 

While  a brief  truce 

Is  made  with  Death,  who  shall  forbear 


te*wE  m. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


237 


The  little  remnant  of  the  past  creation. 

To  generate  new  nations  for  his  use  ; 

This  remnant,  floating  o’er  the  undulation 
Of  the  subsiding  deluge,  from  its  slime, 

When  the  hot  sun  hath  baked  the  reeking  soil 
Into  a world,  shall  give  again  to  Time 
New  beings — years — diseases: — sorrow — crime — 
With  all  companionship  of  hate  and  toil, 

Until— 

Japh.  {interrupting  them).  The  eternal  will 
Shall  deign  to  expound  this  dream 
Of  good  and  evil ; and  redeem 
Unto  himself  all  times,  all  things ; 

And,  gather’d  under  his  almighty  wings. 
Abolish  hell ! 

And  to  the  expiated  Earth 
Restore  the  beauty  of  her  birth, 

Her  Eden  in  an  endless  paradise, 

Where  man  no  more  can  fall  as  once  he  fell. 

And  even  the  very  demons  shall  do  well ! 

Spirits.  And  when  shall  take  effect  this  wondrous 
spell  ? 

Japh.  When  the  Redeemer  cometli ; first  in  pain, 
And  then  in  glory. 

. Spirit.  Meantime  still  struggle  in  the  mortal  chain, 
Till  earth  wax  hoary  ; 

War  with  yourselves,  and  hell,  and  heaven,  in  vain. 
Until  the  clouds  look  gory 
With  the  blood  reeking  from  each  battle  plain  : 

New  times,  new  climes,  new  arts,  new  men : but 
still, 

The  same  old  tears,  old  crimes,  and  oldest  ill. 

Shall  be  amongst  your  race  in  different  forms ; 

But  the  same  moral  storms  . 

Shall  oversweep  the  future,  as  the  waves 
In  a few  hours  the  glorious  giants’  graves.1 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 

Brethren,  rejoice ! 

Mortal,  farewell ! 

Hark  ! hark ! already  we  can  hear  the  voice 
Of  growing  ocean’s  gloomy  swell.; 

The  winds,  too,  plume  their  piercing  wings  ; 

The  clouds  have  nearly  fill’d  their  springs  ; 

The  fountains  of  the  great  deep  shall  be  broken, 

Aud  heaven  set  wide  her  windows;2  while  man- 
kind 

View,  unacknowledged,  each  tremendous  token — 
Still,  as  they  were  from  the  beginning,  blind. 

We  hear  the  sound  they  cannot  hear,  [sphere; 
The  mustering  thunders  of  the  threatening 
Yet  a few  hours  their  coming  is  delay’d — 
Their  flashing  banners,  folded  still  on  high. 

Yet  undisplay’d, 

Save  to  the  Spirit’s  all-pervading  eye. 

Howl ! howl ! oh  Earth  ! 

Thy  death  is  nearer  than  thy  recent  birth  : 

Tremble,  ve  mountains,  soon  to  shrink  below 
The  ocean’s  overflow ! 

The  wave  shall  break  upon  your  cliffs  ; and  shells. 

The  little  shells,  of  ocean’s  least  things  be 
Deposed  where  now  the  eagle’s  offspring  dwells — 
How  shall  lie  shriek  o’er  the  remorseless  sea  ! 


H)  “ And  there  were  giants  in  the  earth  in  those  days,  and 
«itei ; mighty  men,  which  were  of  old,  men  of  renown.” — Genesis. 

■ 1 2 ) “ The  same  day  were  all  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep 


And  call  his  nestlings  up  with  fruitless  y sh, 
Unanswer’d  save  by  the  encroaching  swell ; — 

While  man  shall  long  in  vain  for  his  broad  wings, 

The  wings  which  could  not  save  : — [brings 

Wnere  could  he  rest  them,  while  the  whole  space 
Nought  to  his  eye  beyond  the  deep,  his  grave  ? 
Brethren,  rejoice ! 

And  loudly  lift  each  superhuman  voice — 

All  die, 

Save  the  slight  remnant  of  Seth’s  seed — 

The  seed  of  Seth, 

Exempt  for  future  Sorrow’s  sake  from  death. 

But  of  the  sons  of  Cain 
None  shall  remain ; 

And  all  his  goodly  daughters 
Must  lie  beneath  the  desolating  waters — 

Or,  floating  upward,  with  their  long  hair  laid 
Along  the  wave,  the  cruel  heaven  upbraid, 

Which  would  not  spare  , 

Beings,  even  in  death  so  fair. 

It  is  decreed, 

All  die ! 

And  to  the  universal  human  cry 
The  universal  silence  shall  succeed ! 

Ely,  brethren,  fly ! 

But  still  rejoice  ! 

We' fell ! 

They  fall  ! 

So  perish  all 

These  petty  foes  of  Heaven  who  shrink  from  hell ! 

[The  Spirits  disappear , soaring  upward s. 
Japh.  {solus).  God  hath  proclaim’d  the  destiny  of 
earth ; 

My  father’s  ark  of  safety  hath  announced  it ; 

The  very  demons  shriek  it  from  their  caves ; 

The  scroll 3 of  Enoch  prophesied  it  long 
In  silent  books,  which,  in  their  silence,  say 
More  to  the  mind  than  thunder  to  the  ear : 

And  yet  men  listen’d  not,  nor  listen  ; but 

Walk  darkling  to  their  doom  ; which,  though  so  nigh, 

Shakes  them  no  more  in  their  dim  disbelief, 

Than  their  last  cries  shall  shake  the  Almighty  purpose, 
Or  deaf  obedient  ocean,  which  fulfils  it. 

No  sign  yet  hangs  its  banner  in  the  air  ; 

The  clouds  are  few,  and  of  their  wonted  texture, 

The  sun  will  rise  upon  the  earth’s  last  day 

As  on  the  fourth  day  of  creation,  when 

God  said  unto  him,  “ Shine  !”  and  he  broke  forth 

Into  the  dawn,  which  lighted  not  the  yet 

Unform’d  forefather  of  mankind — but  roused 

Before  the  human  orison  the  earlier 

Made  and  far  sweeter  voices  of  the  birds. 

Which  in  the  open  firmament  of  heaven 
Have  wings  like  angels,  and  like  them  salute 
Heaven  first  each  day  before  the  Adamites ! 

Their  matins  now  draw  nigh — the  east  is  kindling — 
And  they  will  sing  ! and  day  will  break  ! Both  near, 
So  near  the  awful  close  ! For  these  must  drop 
Their  outworn  pinions  on  the  deep ; and  day, 

After  the  bright  course  of  a few  brief  morrows, — 

Ay,  day  will  rise  ; but  upon  what  ? — a chaos, 

Which  was  ere  day ; and  which,  renew’d,  makes  time 
Nothing  ! for,  without  life,  what  are  the  hours  ? 


broken  up;  and  the  windows  of  heaven  were  opened."  — 

Ibid. 

(3)  The  book  of  Enoch,  preserved  by  the  Ethiopians,  is  said  bj 
them  to  be  anterior  to  the  flood. 


238 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


I AUT  l 


No  more  to  dust  than  is  eternity 
Unto  Jehovah,  who  created  both. 

Without  him,  even  eternity  would  be 
A void ; without  man,  time,  as  made  for  man, 

Dies  with  man,  and  is  swallow’d  in  that  deep 
W hich  has  no  fountain ; as  his  race  will  be 
Devour  d by  that  which  drowns  his  infant  world. — - 
What  have  we  here  ? Shapes  of  both  earth  and  air  ? 
No — all  of  heaven,  they  are  so  beautiful. 

I cannot  trace  their  features ; but  their  forms, 

How  lovelily  they  move  along  the  side 
Of  the  grey  mountain,  scattering  its  mist ! 

And  after  the  swart  savage  spirits,  whose 
Infernal  immortality  pour’d  forth 
Jheir  impious  hymn  of  triumph,  they  shall  be 
Welcome  as  Eden.  It  may  be  they  come 
To  tell  me. the  reprieve  of  our  young  world. 

For  which  I have  so  often  pray’d. — they  come ! 

AnaJi ! oh,  God ! and  with  her 

Enter  Samiasa,  Azaziel,  Anah,  and  Aiiolibamah. 
Anah.  Japhet ! 

Sam.  Lo  j 

A son  of  Adam  ! 

Aza.  What  doth  the  earth-born  here. 

While  all  his  race  are  slumbering  ? 

Japh.  Angel ! what 

Dost  thou  on  earth  when  thou  shouldst  be  on  high  ? 

Aza.  Know’st  thou  not,  or  forget’st  thou,  that  a part 
Of  our  great  function  is  to  guard  thine  earth  ? 

Japh.  But  all  good  angels  have  forsaken  earth. 
Which  is  condemn’d  ; nay,  even  the  evil  fly 
The  approaching  chaos.  Anah  ! Anah ! my 
In  vain,  and  long,  and  still  to  be  beloved  ! 

Why  walk  st  thou  with  this  spirit,  in  those  hours 
When  no  good  spirit  longer  lights  below  ? 

Anah.  Japhet,  I cannot  answer  thee  ; yet,  yet 
Forgive  me 

Way  the  Heaven,  which  soon  no  more 
Will  pardon,  do  so  ! for  thou  art  greatly  tempted. 

Aho.  Back  to  thy  tents,  insulting  son  of  Noah  ! 

We  know  thee  not. 

Japh.  The  hour  may  come  when  thou 

May’st  know  me  better;  and  thy' sister  know 
Me  still  the  same  which  I have  ever  been. 

Sam.  Son  of  the  patriarch,  who  hath  ever  been 
Upright  before  his  God,  whate’er  thy  gifts, 

And  thy  words  seem  of  sorrow,  mix’d  with  wrath. 
How  have  Azaziel,  or  myself,  brought  on  thee 
Wrong  ? 

Japh.  Wrong ! the  greatest  of  all  wrongs  ; but  thou 
Say’st  well,  though  she  be  dust,  I did  not,  could  not. 
Deserve  her.  Farewell,  Anah  ! I have  said 
That  word  so  often ! but  now  sav  it,  ne’er 
To  be  repeated.  Angel ! or  whate’er 
Thou  art,  or  must  be  soon,  hast  thou  the  power 
To  save  this  beautiful — these  beautiful 
Children  of  Cain  ? 

Aza.  From  what  ? 

Japh.  And  is  it  so, 

That  ye  too  know  not  ? Angels  ! angels  ! ye 
Have  shared  man’s  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  now  must 
Partake  his  punishment ! or,  at  thy  least, 

My  sorrow. 

Sam.  Sorrow ! I ne’er  thought  till  now 
To  hear  an  Adamite  speak  riddles  me. 

Japh.  And  hath  not  the  Most  High  expounded  them  ? 
Then  ye  are  lost,  as  they  arc  lost. 


Tf  \ °'  So  it ! 

if  they  love  as  they  are  loved,  they  will  not  shrink 
More  to  be  mortal,  than  I would  to  dare 
An  immortality  of  agonies 
With  Samiasa ! 

Anah.  Sister  ! sister  ! speak  not 

Thus. 

Aza.  Fearest  thou,  my  Anah? 

Anah.  . Yes,  for  thee : 

I would  resign  the  greater  remnant  of 
This  little  life  of  mine,  before  one  hour 
Of  thine  eternity  should  know  a pang. 

Japh.  It  is  for  him , then ! for  the  seraph  thou 
Hast  left  me ! That  is  nothing,  if  thou  hast  not 
Left  thy  God  too  ! for  unions  like  to  these, 

Between  a mortal  and  an  immortal,  cannot 
Be  happy  or  be  hallow’d.  We  are  sent 
Upon  the  earth  to  toil  and  die ; and  they 
Are  made  to  minister  on  high  unto 
The  Highest  : but  if  he  can  save  thee,  soon 
The  hour  will  come  in  which  celestial  aid 
Alone  can  do  so. 

Anah.  Ah ! he  speaks  of  death. 

Sam.  Of  death  to  us  ! and  those  who  arc  with  us ! 
But  that  the  man  seems  full  of  sorrow,  I 
Could  smile. 

Japh.  I grieve  not  for  myself,  nor  fear ; 

I am  safe,  not  for  my  own  deserts,  but  those 
Of  a well-doing  sire,  who  hath  been  found 
Righteous  enough  to  save  his  children.  Would 
His  power  was  greater  of  redemption  ! or 
That  by  exchanging  my  own  life  for  hers. 

Who  could  alone  have  made  mine  happy,  she, 

The  last  and  loveliest  of  Cain’s  race,  could  share 
The  ark  which  shall  receive  a remnant  of 
The  seed  of  Seth  ! 

Aho.  _ And  dost  thou  think  that  we. 

With  Cain’s,  the  eldest  born  of  Adam’s,  blood 
Warm  in  our  veins, — strong  Cain  ! who  was  begotten 
In  Paradise, — would  mingle  with  Seth’s  children  P 
Seth,  the  last  offspring  of  old  Adam’s  dotage  P 
No,  not  to  save  all  earth,  were  earth  in  peril ! 

Our  race  hath  always  dwelt  apart  from  thine 
From  the  beginning,  and  shall  do  so  ever. 

Japh.  I did  not  speak  to  thee,  Aiiolibamah  ! 

Too  much  of  the  forefather  whom  thou  vauntest 
Has  come  down  to  that  haughty  blood  which  springs 
From  him  who  shed  the  first,  and  that  a brother’s  ! 
But  thou,  my  Anah ! let  me  call  thee  mine, 

Albeit  thou  art  not ; ’tis  a word  I cannot 
Part  with,  although  I must  from  thee.  My  Anah ! 
Thou  who  dost  rather  make  me  dream  that  Abel 
Had  left  a daughter,  whose  pure  pious  race 
Survived  in  thee,  so  much  unlike  thou  art 
The  rest  of  the  stern  Cainites,  save  in  beauty, 

For  all  of  them  are  fairest  in  their  favour 

Aho.  ( interrupting  him)  And  wouldst  thou  have  her 
like  our  father’s  foe 

In  mind,  in  soul  ? If  / partook  thy  thought. 

And  dream’d  that  aught  of  Abel  was  in  her  ! — 

Get  thee  hence,  son  of  Noah  : thou  makest  strife. 
Japh.  Offspring  of  Cain,  thy  father  did  so ! 

Aho.  • Bui 

He  slew  not  Seth : and  what  hast  thou  to  do 
With  other  deeds  between  his  God  and  him  ? 

Japh.  Thou  speakest  well : his  God  hath  judged 
him,  and 

I had  not  named  his  deed,  but  that  thyself 


iCENE  HI 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


239 


Didst  seem  to  glory  in  him,  nor  to  shrink 
From  what  he  had  done. 

He  was  our  fathers  father ; 
The  eldest  born  of  man,  the  strongest,  bravest, 

And  most  enduring : — Shall  I blush  for  him 
From  whom  we  had  our  being  ? Look  upon 
Our  race ; behold  their  stature  and  their  beauty, 

Their  courage,  strength,  and  length  of  days 

japh,.  They  are  number  d. 

Aho.  Be  it  so ! but  while  yet  their  hours  endure, 

I glory  in  my  brethren  and  our  fathers. 

*Japh.  My  sire  and  race  but  glory  in  their  God, 

Anali ! and  thou  ? 

Anah.  Wliate’er  our  God  decrees, 

Hie  God  of  Seth  as  Cain,  I must  obey. 

And  will  endeavour  patiently  to  obey. 

But  could  1 dare  to  pray  in  his  dread  hour 
Of  universal  vengeance  (if  such  should  be), 

It  would  not  be  to  live,  alone  exempt 
Of  all  my  house.  My  sister ! oh,  my  sister ! 

What  were  the  world,  or  other  worlds,  or  all 
The  brightest  future,  without  the  sweet  past— 

Thy  love— my  father’s— all  the  life,  and  all 

The  things  which  spring  up  with  me,  like  the  stars, 

Making  my  dim  existence  radiant  with 

Soft  lights  which  were  not  mine  ? Aliolibamah ! 

Oh  ! if  there  should  be  mercy — seek  it,  find  it : 

I abhor  death,  because  that  thou  must  die. 

Aho.  What,  hath  this  dreamer,  with  his  father’s  ark, 
The  bugbear  he  hath  built  to  scare  the  world, 

Shaken  my  sister  ? Are  we  not  the  loved 
Of  seraphs  ? and  if  we  were  not,  must  we 
Cling  to  a son  of  Noah  for  our  lives  ? 

Rather  than  thus But  the  enthusiast  dreams 

The  worst  of  dreams,  the  fantasies  engendered 
By  hopeless  love  and  heated  vigils.  Who 
Shall  shake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm  earth, 

And  bid  those  clouds  and  waters  take  a shape 
Distinct  from  that  which  we  and  all  our  sires 
Have  seen  them  wear  on  their  eternal  way  ? 

Who  shall  do  this  ? 

Japh.  He  whose  one  word  produced  them. 

Aho.  Who  heard  that  word ! 

Japh.  The  universe,  which  leap’d 

To  life  before  it.  Ah  ! smilest  thou  still  in  scorn  ? 
Turn  to  thy  seraphs  : if  they  attest  it  not, 

They  are  none. 

Sam.  Aholibamah,  own  thy  God  ! 

Aho.  I have  ever  hail’d  our  Maker,  Samiasa, 

As  thine,  and  mine  : a God  of  love,  not  sorrow. 

Japh.  Alas ! what  else  is  love  but  sorrow  ? Even 
He  who  made  earth  in  love  had  soon  to  grieve 
Above  its  first  and  best  inhabitants. 

Aho.  ’Tis  said  so. 

Japh.  It  is  even  so. 

Enter  Noah  and  Siiem. 

Noah.  Japlict ! What 

Dost  thou  here  with  these  cnildren  of  the  wicked  F 
Dread’st  thou  not  to  partake  their  coming  doom  ? 

Japh.  Father,  it  cannot  be  a sin  to  seek 
To  save  an  earth-born  being  ; and  behold, 

Tkese  are  not  of  the  sinful,  since  they  have 
The  fellowship  of  angels. 


Noah.  These  are  they,  then, 

Who  leave  the  throne  of  God,  to  take  them  wives 
From  out  the  race  of  Cain  ; the  sons  of  heaven, 

Who  seek  earth’s  daughters  for  their  beauty  ? 

Aza.  Patnarcn ! 

Thou  hast  said  it.  . 

Noah.  Woe,  woe,  woe  to  such  commumon  ! 

Has  not  God  made  a barrier  between  earth 
And  heaven,  and  limited  each,  kind  to  kind  ? 

Sam.  Was  not  man  made  in  high  Jehovah’s 
image  ? 

Did  God  not  love  what#he  had  made  ? And  what 
Do  we  but  imitate  and  emulate 
His  love  unto*3reated  love  ? 

Noah.  lam 

But  man,  and  was  not  made  to  judge  mankind, 

Far  less  the  sons  of  God  ; but  as  our  God 

Has  deign’d  to  commune  with  me,  and  reveal  < 

His  judgments,  I reply,  that  the  descent 

Of  seraphs  from  their  everlasting  seat 

Unto  a perishable  and  perishing, 

Even  on  the  very  eve  of  perishing , world, 

Cannot  be  good.  , _ 

jza,  What ! though  it  were  to  save  ? 

Noah.  Not  ye  in  all  your  glory  can  redeem 
What  he  who  made  you  glorious  hath  condemn’d. 
Were  your  immortal  mission  safety,  ’twould 
Be  general,  not  for  two,  though  beautiful ; 

And  beautiful  they  are,  but  not  the  less 
Condemn’d. 

Japh  Oh,  father ! say  it  not. 

Noah.  , rSon!  son! 

If  that  thou  wouldst  avoid  their  doom,  forget 
That  they  exist : they  soon  shall  cease  to  be ; 

While  thou  shalt  be  the  sire  of  a new  world, 

And  better. 

Japh.  Let  me  die  with  this,  and  them  ! 

Noah.  Thou  shouldst  for  such  a thought,  but  shalt 
not ; he 

Who  can  redeems  thee. 

Sam.  And  why  him  and  thee. 

More  than  what  he,  thy  son,  prefers  to  both  ? 

Noah.  Ask  him  who  made  thee  greater  than  myself 
And  mine,  but  not  less  subject  to  his  own 
Almiglrtiness.  And  lo!  his  mildest  and 
Least  to  be  tempted  messenger  appears ! 

Enter  Raphael,1  the  Archangel. 

Raph.  Spirits ! 

Whose  seat  is  near  the  throne, 

What  do  ye  here  P 

Is  thus  a seraph’s  duty  to  be  shown. 

Now  that  the  hour  is  near 
When  earth  must  be  alone  ? 

Return ! 

Adore  and  burn 

In  glorious  homage  with  the  elected  “seven. 

Your  place  is  heaven. 

Sam.  Raphael ! 

The  first  and  fairest  of  the  sons  of  God, 

How  long  hath  this  been  law, 

That  earth  by  angels  must  be  left  untrod  ? 

Earth  ! which  oft  saw 
Jehovah’s  footsteps  not  disdain  her  sod ! 


(1)  fin  the  original  MS.  “Michael.” — “I  return  you,”  says 
Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray,  “ the  revise.  I have  softened  the  part 
which  Gifford  objected,  and  changed  the  name  of  Michael  to 


Raphael,  who  was  an  angel  of  gentler  sympathies.  — Byron  Lit- 
ters, July  6,  1822.] 


240 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


PAkC  L 


The  world  he  lovad,  and  made 
Bor  love  ; and  oft  have  we  obey’d 
His  frequent  mission  with  delighted  pinions : 

Adoring  him  in  his  least  works  display’d ; 
Watching  this  youngest  star  of  his  dominions  ; 

And  as  the  latest  birth  of  his  great  word, 

Eager  to  keep  it  worthy  of  our  Lord. 

Why  is  thy  brow  severe  ? 

And  wherefore  speak’st  thou  of  destruction  near  ? 

Raph.  Had  Samiasa  and  Azaziel  been 
In  their  true  place,  with  the  angelic  choir. 

Written  in  fire# 

They  would  have  seen 
Jehovah’s  late  decree,  « 

And  not  inquired  their  Maker’s  breath  of  me  : 

But  ignorance  must  ever  be 
A part  of  sin  ; 

And  even  the  spirits’  knowledge  shall  grow  less 
As  they  wax  proud  within  ; 

Eor  Blindness  is  the  first-born  of  Excess. 

When  all  good  angels  left  the  world,  ye  stay’d. 
Stung  with  strange  passions,  and  debased 
By  mortal  feelings  for  a mortal  maid  : 

But  ye  are  pardon’d  thus  far,  and  replaced 
With  your  pure  equals.  Hence  ! away ! away  ! 

Or  stay, 

And  lose  eternity  by  that  delay. 

Aza.  And  thou ! if  earth  be  thus  forbidden 
In  the  decree 

To  us  until  this  moment  hidden. 

Dost  thou  not  err  as  we 
In  being  here  ? 

Raph.  I came  to  call  ye  back  to  your  fit  sphere, 

In  the  great  name  and  at  the  word  of  God. 

Dear,  dearest  in  themselves,  and  scarce  less  dear 
That  which  I came  to  do : till  now  we  trod 
Together  the  eternal  space  ; together 

Let  us  still  walk  the  stars.  True,  earth  must  die  ! 
Her  race,  return’d  into  her  womb,  must  wither, 

And  much  which  she  inherits  : but  oh ! why 
Cannot  this  earth  be  made,  or  be  destroy’d, 

Without  involving  ever  some  vast  void 
In  the  immortal  ranks  ? immortal  still 
In  their  immeasurable  forfeiture. 

Our  brother  Satan  fell ; his  burning  will 
Rather  than  longer  worship  dared  endure  ! 

But  ye  who  still  are  pure  ! 

Seraphs  ! less  mighty  than  that  mightiest  one, 

Think  how  he  was  undone  ! 

And  think  if  tempting  man  can  compensate 
Eor  heaven  desired  too  late  ? 

Long  have  I warr’d, 

Long  must  I war 
With  him  who  deem’d  it  hard 
To  be  created,  and  to  acknowledge  him 
Who  midst  the  cherubim 
Made  him  as  suns  to  a dependent  star, 

Leaving  the  archangels  at  his  right  hand  dim. 

1 loved  him — beautiful  he  was  : oh  heaven ! 

Save  his  who  made,  what  beauty  and  what  power 
Was  ever  like  to  Satan’s  1 Would  the  hour 
In  which  he  fell  could  ever  be  forgiven ! 

The  wish  is  impious  : but,  oh  ye ! 

Yet  undestroy’d,  be  warn’d  ! Eternity 

With  him,  or  with  his  God,  is  in  your  choice  : 

He  hath  not  tempted  you  : he  cannot  tempt 
The  angels,  from  his  further  snares  exempt : 

But  man  hath  listened  to  his  voice, 


And  ye  to  woman’s — beautiful  she  is, 

The  serpent’s  voice  less  subtle  than  her  kiss. 

The  snake  but  vanquish’d  dust ; but  she  will  draw 
A second  host  from  heaven,  to  break  heaven’s  law, 
Yet,  yet,  oh  lly ! 

Ye  cannot  die ; 

But  they 
Shall  pass  away, 

While  ye  shall  fill  with  shrieks  the  upper  sky 
For  perishable  clay. 

Whose  memory  in  your  immortality 

Shall  long  outlast  the  sun  which  gave  them  day. 
Think  how  your  essence  differeth  from  theirs. 

In  all  but  suffering ! why  partake 
The  agony  to  which  they  must  be  heirs — 

Born  to  be  plough’d  with  years,  and  sown  with  car  ni 
And  reap’d  by  Death,  lord  of  the  human  soil  ? 

Even  had  their  days  been  left  to  toil  their  path 
Through  time  to  dust,  unshorten’d  by  God’s  wratb 
Still  they  are  Evil’s  prey  and  Sorrow’s  spoil. 

Aho.  Let  them  fly  ! 

I hear  the  voice  which  says  that  all  must  die 
Sooner  than  our  white-bearded  patriarchs  died; 

And  that  on  high 
An  ocean  is  prepared. 

While  from  below 

The  deep  shall  rise  to  meet  heaven’s  overflow. 

Few  shall  be  spared, 

It  seems  ; and,  of  that  few,  the  race  of  Cain 
Must  lift  their  eyes  to  Adam’s  God  in  vain. 

Sister  ! since  it  is  so, 

And  the  eternal  Lord 
•In  vain  would  be  implored 
For  the  remission  of  one  hour  of  woe, 

Let  us  resign  even  what  we  have  adored, 

And  meet  the  wave,  as  we  would  meet  the  sword, 

If  not  unmoved,  yet  undismay’d, 

And  wailing  less  for  us  than  those  who  shall 
Survive  in  mortal  or  immortal  thrall, 

And,  when  the  fatal  waters  are  allay’d, 

Weep  for  the  myriads  who  can  weep  no  more. 

Fly,  seraphs  ! to  your  own  eternal  shore, 

Where  winds  nor  howl  nor  waters  roar. 

Our  portion  is  to  die, 

And  yours  to  live  for  ever  ; 

But  which  is  best,  a dead  eternity, 

Or  living,  is  but  known  to  the  great  Giver. 

Obey  him,  as  we  shall  obey  ; 

I would  not  keep  this  life  of  mine  of  clay 
An  hour  beyond  his  will ; 

Nor  see  ye  lose  a portion  of  his  grace. 

For  all  tiie  mercy  which  Seth’s  race 
Find  still. 

Fly! 

And  as  your  pinions  bear  ye  back  to  heaven, 

Think  that  my  love  still  mounts  with  thee  on  ) igh 
Samiasa ! 

And  if  I look  up  with  a tearless  eye, 

’Tis  that  an  angel’s  bride  disdains  to  weep — 
Farewell ! Now  rise,  inexorable  Deep  ! 

Anah.  And  must  we  die  ? 

And  must  I lose  thee  too, 

Azaziel ! 

Oh  my  heart ! my  heart ! 

Thy  prophecies  were  true ! 

And  yet  thou  wert  so  happy  too  ! 

The  blow,  though  not  unlook’d  for,  falls  as  new  * 

Bu^  yet  depart1 


SCENE  III. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


241 


Ah ! why  ? 

l et  let  me  not  retain  thee — fly  ! 

My  pangs  can  be  but  brief ; but  thine  would  be 
Eternal,  if  repulsed  from  heaven  for  me. 

Too  much  already  hast  thou  deign’d 
To  one  of  Adam’s  race  ! 

Our  doom  is  sorrow  : not  to  us  alone, 

But  to  the  spirits  who  have  not  disdain’d 
To  love  us,  cometh  anguish  with  disgrace. 

The  first  who  taught  us  knowledge  hath  been  hurl’d 
From  his  once  archangelic  throne 
Into  some  unknown  world  : 

And  thou,  Azaziel ! No — 

Thou  slialt  not  suffer  woe 
For  me.  Away  ! nor  weep  ! 

Thou  canst  not  weep ; but  yet 
May’st  suffer  more,  not  weeping : then  forget 
Her,  whom  the  surges  of  the  all-strangling  Deep 
Can  bring  no  pang  like  this.  Ely  ! fly  ! 

Being  gone,  ’twill  be  less  difficult  to  die. 

Japh.  Oh  say  not  so ! 

Father  ! and  thou,  archangel,  thou ! 

Surely  celestial  Mercy  lurks  below 
That  pure  severe  serenity  of  brow  : 

Let  them  not  meet  this  sea  without  a shore, 

Save  in  our  ark,  or  let  me  be  no  more  ! 

Noah.  Peace,  child  of  passion,  peace  ! 

If  not  within  thy  heart,  yet  with  thy  tongue 
Do  God  no  wrong ! 

Live  as  he  wills  it — die,  when  he  ordains, 

A righteous  death,  unlike  the  seed  of  Cain’s. 

Cease,  or  be  sorrowful  in  silence ; cease 
To  weary  Heaven’s  ear  with  thy  selfish  plaint. 
Wouldst  thou  have  God  commit  a sin  for  thee  ? 
Such  would  it  be 
To  alter  his  intent 

For  a mere  mortal  sorrow.  Be  a man  ! 

And  bear  what  Adam’s  race  must  bear,  and  can. 

Japh.  Ay,  father  ! but  when  they  are  gone, 

And  we  are  all  alone, 

Floating  upon  the  azure  desert,  and 

The  depth  beneath  us  hides  our  own  dear  land, 

And  dearer,  silent  friends  and  brethren,  all 
Buried  in  its  immeasurable  breast. 

Who,  who,  our  tears,  our  shrieks,  shall  then  command? 
Can  we  in  desolation’s  peace  have  rest  ? 

Oh  God  ! be  thou  a God,  and  spare 
Yet  while  ’tis  time  ! 

Renew  not  Adam’s  fall : 

Mankind  were  then  but  twain, 
out  they  are  numerous  now  as  are  the  waves 
And  the  tremendous  rain,  [graves, 

Whose  drops  shall  be  less  thick  than  would  their 
Were  graves  permitted  to  the  seed  of  Cain. 

Noah.  Silence,  vain  boy ! each  word  of  thine ’s  a 


crime. 

Angel ! forgive  this 
Raph.  Seraphs ! 
Ye! 


stripling’s  fond  despair, 
these  mortals  speak  in  passion : 


ho  are,  or  should  be,  passionless  and  pure, 

May  now  return  with  me. 

Sam.  It  may  not  be  : 

We  have  chosen,  and  will  endure. 

Raph.  Say’st  thou  ? 

Aza.  He  hath  said  it,  and  I say,  Amen  ! 

Raph.  Again ! 

Then  from  this  hour, 

Shorn  as  ye  arc  of  all  celestial  power, 


I 

i 

j 


And  aliens  from  your  God, 

Farewell ! 

Japh.  Alas  ! where  shall  they  dwell 0 

Hark  ! hark  ! Deep  sounds,  and  deeper  still. 

Are  howling  from  the  mountain’s  bosom  : 

There’s  not  a breath  of  wind  upon  the  hill, 

Yet  quivers  every  leaf,  and  drops  each  blossom  : 
Earth  groans  as  if  beneath  a heavy  load. 

Noah.  Hark,  hark  ! the  sea-birds  cry  ! 

In  clouds  they  overspread  the  lurid  sky, 

And  hover  round  the  mountain,  where  before 
Never  a white  wing,  wetted  by  the  wave, 

Yet  dared  to  soar, 

Even  when  the  waters  wax’d  too  fierce  to  brave. 
Soon  it  shall  be  their  only  shore, 

And  then,  no  more ! 

Japh.  The  sun ! the  sun  ! 

He  riseth,  but  his  better  light  is  gone, 

And  a black  circle,  bound 
His  glaring  disk  around, 

Proclaims  earth’s  last  of  summer  days  hath  shone  ! 

The  clouds  return  into  the  hues  of  night, 

Save  where  their  brazen- colour’d  edges  streak 
The  verge  where  brighter  morns  were  wont  to  breut. 

Noah.  And  lo  ! yon  flash  of  light. 

The  distant  thunder’s  harbinger,  appears ! 

It  cometh  ! hence,  away  ! 

Leave  to  the  elements  their  evil  prey ! 

Hence  to  where  our  all-ha’llow’d  ark  uprears 
Its  safe  and  wreckless  sides 
Japh.  Oh,  father,  stay  ! 

Leave  not  my  Anah  to  the  swallowing  tides  ! 

Noah.  Must  we  not  leave  all  life  to  such?  Begone! 
Japh.  Not  I. 

Noah.  Then  die 

With  them ! 

How  darest  thou  look  on  that  prophetic  sky. 

And  seek  to  &ave  what  all  things  now  condemn, 

In  overwhelming  unison 

With  just  Jehovah’s  wrath ! 

Japh.  Can  rage  and  justice  join  in  the  same  path  ? 
Noah.  Blasphemer  ! darest  thou  murmur  even  now  ? 
Raph.  Patriarch,  be  still  a father ! smooth  thy  brow: 
Thy  son,  despite  his  folly,  shall  not  sink. 

He  knows  not  what  he  says,  yet  shall  not  drink 
With  sobs  the  salt  foam  of  the  swelling  waters ; 
But  be,  when  Passion  passeth,  good  as  thou. 

Nor  perish  like  Heaven’s  children  with  Man’s 
daughters.  [unite 

Alio.  The  tempest  cometh  ; Heaven  and  Earth 
For  the  annihilation  of  all  life. 

Unequal  is  the  strife 

Between  our  strength  and  the  Eternal  Might ! 

Sam.  But  ours  is  with  thee  : we  will  bear  ye  far 
To  some  untroubled  star, 

Where  thou  and  Anah  shall  partake  our  lot : 

And  if  thou  dost  not  weep  for  thy  lost  earth. 

Our  forfeit  heaven  shall  also  be  forgot.  [birth  ! 

Anah.  Oh  ! my  dear  father’s  tents,  my  place  of 
And  mountains,  land,  and  woods  ! when  ye  are  not, 
Who  shall  dry  up  my  tears  ? 

Aza.  Thy  Spirit-lord. 

Fear  not ; though  we  are  shut  from  heaven, 

Yet  much  is  ours,  whence  we  can  not  be  driven. 

Raph.  Rebel ! thy  words  are  wicked  as  thy  deeds 
Shall  henceforth  be  but  weak  : the  flaming  sword. 
Which  chased  the  first-born  out  of  Paradise, 

Still  flashes  in  the  angelic  hands. 

I I 


242 


LORD  L IRON’S  WORKS. 


PART  1 


Aza.  It  cannot  slay  us  : threaten  dust  with  death, 
And  talk  of  weapons  unto  that  which  bleeds. 

What  are  thy  swords  in  our  immortal  eyes  ? 

Raph.  The  moment  cometh  to  approve  thy  strength; 
And  learn  at  length 

How  vain  to  war  with  what  thy  God  commands  : 

Tliy  former  force  was  in  thy  faith. 

Enter  Mortals,  flying  for  refuge. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

The  heavens  and  earth  are  mingling — God  ! oh  God  ! 
What  have  we  done  ? Yet  spare  ! 

Hark ! even  the  forest  beasts  howl  forth  their  prayer! 
The  dragon  crawls  from  out  his  den, 

To  herd,  in  terror,  innocent  with  men  ; 

And  the  birds  scream  their  agony  through  air. 

Yet,  yet,  Jehovah  ! yet  withdraw  thy  rod 
Of  wrath,  and  pity  thine  own  world’s  despair ! 

Hear  not  Man  only  but  all  Nature  plead ! 

Raph.  Farewell,  thou  earth!  ye  wretched  sons  of 
clay, 

I cannot,  must  not,  aid  you.  ’Tis  decreed  ! 

[Exit  Raphael. 

Japh.  Some  clouds  sweep  on  as  vultures  for  their 
Prey, 

While  others,  fix’d  as  rocks,  await  the  word 
At  which  their  wrathful  vials  shall  be  pour’d. 

No  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament, 

Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious  : Death  hath  risen  : 

In  the  Sun’s  place  a pale  and  ghastly  glare 
Hath  wound  itself  around  the  dying  air.1 2 

Aza.  Come,  Anah  ! quit  this  chaos-founded  prison, 
To  which  the  elements  again  repair, 

To  turn  it  into  what  it  was  ; beneath 
The  shelter  of  these  wings  thou  shalt  be  safe. 

As  was  the  eagle’s  nestling  once  within 
Its  mother’s — Let  the  coming  chaos  chafe 
With  all  its  elements  ! Heed  not  their  din  ! 

A brighter  world  than  this,  where  thou  shalt  breathe 
Ethereal  life,  will  we  explore  : 

These  darken’d  clouds  are  not  the  only  skies. 

[Azaziel  and  Samiasa  fly  off,  and  disappear  with 
Anah  and  Aholibamah. 

Japh.  They  are  gone!  They  have  disappear’d 
amidst  the  roar 

Of  the  forsaken  world  ; and  never  more, 

Whether  they  live,  or  die  with  all  earth’s  life, 

Now  near  its  last,  can  aught  restore 
Anah  unto  these  eyes.3 

Chorus  of  Mortals 

Oh  son  of  Noah  ! mercy  on  thy  kind  ! 

What ! wilt  thou  leave  us  all — all — all  behind  ? 
"While  safe  amidst  the  elemental  strife, 

Thou  sitt’st  within  thy  guarded  ark  ? 

A Mother  {offering  her  infant  to  Japhet).  Oh  let 
this  child  embark  ! 

I brought  him  forth  in  woe, 

But  thought  it  joy 
To  see  him  to  my  bosom  clinging  so. 

Why  was  he  born  F 


(1)  [In  Ills  description  of  the  deluge,  which  is  a varied  and  recur- 
ring master-piece,— (we  hear  it  foretold,  and  we  see  it  come,) — 
Lord  Byron  appears  to  us  to  have  had  an  eye  to  Poussin’s  cele- 
brated picture,  with  the  sky  hanging  like  a weight  of  lead  upon 
the  waters,  the  sun  quenched  and  lurid,  the  rocks  and  trees  upon 


What  hath  he  done — 

My  unwean’d  son — 

To  move  Jehovah’s  wrath  or  scorn  F 
What  is  there  in  this  milk  of  mine,  that  Death 
Should  stir  all  heaven  and  earth  up  to  destroy 
My  boy, 

And  roll  the  waters  o’er  his  placid  breath  F 
Save  him,  thou  seed  of  Seth  ! 

Or  cursed  be — with  him  who  made 

Thee  and  thy  race,  for  which  we  are  betray’d  ! 

Japh.  Peace ! ’tis  no  hour  for  curses,  but  for  prayer. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

For  prayer  ! ! I 
And  where 
Shall  prayer  ascend, 

When  the  swoln  clouds  unto  the  mountains  bend 
And  burst, 

And  gushing  oceans  every  barrier  rend. 

Until  the  very  deserts  know  no  thirst  F 
Accurst 

Be  lie  who  made  thee  and  thy  sire  ! 

We  deem  our  curses  vain  ; we  must  expire  ; 

But  as  we  know  the  worst, 

Why  should  our  hymn  be  raised,  our  knees  be  bent. 
Before  the  implacable  Omnipotent, 

Since  we  must  fall  the  same  F 

If  he  hath  made  earth,  let  it  be  his  shame, 

To  m^ke  a world  for  torture. — Lo  ! they  come, 
The  loathsome  waters,  in  their  rage  ! 

And  with  their  roar  make  wholesome  Nature  dumb ! 

The  forest’s  trees  (coeval  with  the  hour 
When  Paradise  upsprung, 

Ere  Eve  gave  Adam  knowledge  for  her  dower. 

Or  Adam  his  first  hymn  of  slavery  sung). 

So  massy,  vast,  yet  green  in  their  old  age. 

Are  overtopp’d, 

Their  summer  blossoms  by  the  surges  lopp’d. 

Which  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise. 

Vainly  we  look  up  to  the  lowering  skies — 

They  meet  the  seas, 

And  shut  out  God  from  our  beseeching  eyes. 

Fly,  son  of  Noah,  fly  ! and  take  thine  ease 
In  thine  allotted  ocean-tent ; 

I And  view,  all  floating  o’er  the  element, 

The  corpses  of  the  world  of  thy  young  days : 

Then  to  Jehovah  raise 
Thy  song  of  praise ! 

A Mortal.  Blessed  are  the  dead 
Who  die  in  the  Lord  ! 

And  though  the  waters  be  o’er  earth  outspread. 

Yet,  as  his  word, 

Be  the  decree  adored ! 

He  gave  me  life — he  taketli  but 
The  breath  which  is  his  own : 

And  though  these  eyes  should  be  for  ever  shut, 

Nor  lono-er  this  weak  voice  before  his  throne 
Be  heard  in  supplicating  tone, 

Still  blessed  be  the  Lord, 

For  what  is  past, 

For  that  which  is : 

For  all  are  his, 

From  first  to  last — 


them  gloomily  watching  their  fate,  ana  a few  figures  ntuggling 
vainly  with  the  overwhelming  waves. — Jeffrey.] 

(2)  [The  despair  of  the  mortal  lovers  for  the  loss  of  their  mortal 

mistresses  ;s  well  and  pathetically  expressed. — Jeffrey.] 


/ 


SCENE  III. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


243 


Time — space — eternity — life— death — 

The  vast  known  and  immeasurable  unknown. 
He  made,  and  can  unmake  ; 

And  shall  I,  for  a little  gasp  of  breath. 
Blaspheme  and  g'roan  ? 

No  let  me  die,  as  I have  lived,  in  faith, 

Nor  quiver,  though  the  universe  may  quake  ! 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

Where  shall  we  fly  ? 

Not  to  the  mountains  high ; 

For  now  their  torrents  rush,  with  double  roar, 
To  meet  the  ocean,  which,  advancing  still. 
Already  grasps  each  drowning  hill. 

Nor  leaves  an  unsearch’d  cave. 

Enter  a Woman. 

Woman.  Oh,  save  me,  save ! 

Our  valley  is  no  more  : 

My  father  and  my  father’s  tent, 

My  brethren  and  my  brethren’s  herds, 

The  pleasant  trees  that  o’er  our  noonday  bent 


n [This  poem  carries  with  it  the  peculiar  impress  of  the  writer’s 
genius.  It  displays  great  vigour,  and  even  a severity  of  style, 
throughout;  which  is  another  proof,  if  proof  were  needed,  that 
elevation  of  writing  is  to  be  obtained  only  by  a rigid  regard  to  sim- 
plicity. It  may  be  perused  without  shocking  the  feelings  of  the 
sensitive,  or  furnishing  an  object  for  the  discriminating  morality  of 
th3  Lord  Chancellor.  Lord  Byron  has  evidently  endeavoured  to 
sustain  the  interest  of  this  po'em,  by  depicting  natural  but  deep- 
drawn  thoughts,  in  all  their  freshness  and  intensity,  with  as  little 
fictitious  aid  as  possible.  Nothing  is  circumlocutory:  there  is  no 
;oing  about  and  about  to  enter  at  length  upon  his  object,  but  he 
impetuously  rushes  into  it  at  once.  All  over  the  poem  there  is  a 
gloom  cast  suitable  to  the  subject : an  ominous  fearful  hue,  like 
that  which  Poussin  has  flung  over  his  inimitable  picture  of  the 
Deluge.  We  see  much  evil,  but  we  dread  more.  All  is  out  of 
earthly  keeping,  as  the  events  of  the  time  are  out  of  the  course  of 
nature.  Man's  wickedness,  the  perturbed  creation,  fear-struck 
mortals,  demons  passing  to  and  fro  in  the  earth,  an  overshadowing 
solemnity,  and  unearthly  loves,  form  together  the  materials.  That 
it  has  faults  is  obvious:  prosaic  passages,  and  too  much  tedious 
soliloquising  : but  there  is  the  vigour  and  force  of  Byron  to  fling 
into  the  scale  against  these:  there  is  much  of  the  sublime  in 
description,  and  the  beautiful  in  poetry.  Prejudice,  or  ignorance, 
or  both,  may  condemn  it;  but,  while  true  poetical  feeling  exists 
amongst  us,  it  will  be  pronounced  not  unworthy  of  its  distinguished 
author. — Cam  p bell. 

It  appears  that  this  is  but  the  first  part  of  a poem ; but  it  is  like- 
wise a poem,  and  a fine  one  too,  within  itself.  We  confess  that  we 
see  little  or  nothing  objectionable  in  it,  either  as  to  theological 
orthodoxy,  or  general  human  feeling.  It  is  solemn,  lofty,  fearful, 
wild,  tumultuous,  and  shadowed  all  over  with  the  darkness  of  a 
dreadful  disaster.  Of  the  angels  who  love  the  daughters  of  men 
we  see  little,  and  know  less— and  not  too  much  of  the  love  and 
passion  of  the  fair  lost  mortals.  The  inconsolable  despair  preceding 
and  accompanying  an  incomprehensible  catastrophe  pervades  the 
whole  composition ; and  its  expression  is  made  sublime  by  the 
noble  strain  of  poetry  in  which  it  is  said  or  sung. — Wilson. 

This  “Mystery”  has  more  poetry  and  music  in  it  than  any  of 
Lord  Byron’s  dramatic  writings  since  “ Manfred ; ” and  has  also 
the  peculiar  merit  of  throwing  us  back,  in  a great  degree,  to  the 
strange  and  preternatural  time  of  which  it  professes  to  treat.  It  is 
truly,  and  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  a meeting  of  “Heaven  and 
Earth:”  angels  are  seen  ascending  and  descending,  and  the  win- 
dows of  the  sky  are  opened  to  deluge  the  face  of  nature.  We  have 
an  impass  oned  picture  of  the  strong  and  devoted  attachment 
inspired  into  the  daughters  of  men  by  angel  forms,  and  have  placed 
before  us  the  emphatic  picture  of  “ woman  wailing  for  her  demon 
lover.”  There  is  a like  conflict  of  the  passions  as  of  the  elements — 
all  wild,  chaotic,  uncontrollable,  fatal;  but  there  is  a discordant 
harmony  in  all  this— a keeping  in  the  colouring  and  the  time.  In 
handling  the  unpolished  page,  we  look  upon  the  world  before  the 
Flood,  and  gaze  upon  a doubtful  blank,  with  only  a few  straggling 
figures,  part  human  and  part  divine ; while,  in  the  expression  of 
the  former  wc  read  the  fancies,  ethereal  and  lawless,  that  lifted 


And  sent  forth  evening  songs  from  sweetest  birds,  * 
The  little  rivulet  which  freshen’d  all 
Our  pastures  green. 

No  more  are  to  be  seen. 

When  to  the  mountain  cliff  I climb’d  this  morn, 

I turn’d  to  bless  the  spot, 

And  not  a leaf  appear’d  about  to  fall ; — 

And  now  they  are  not ! — 

Why  was  I born  ? 

Japh.  To  die  ! in  youth  to  die  ! 

And  happier  in  that  doom, 

Than  to  behold  the  universal  tomb 
Which  I 

Am  thus  condemn’d  to  weep  above  in  vain. 

Why,  when  all  perish,  why  must  I remain  ? 1 

[ The  waters  rise ; Men  fly  in  every  direction  ; 
many  are  overtaken  by  the  waves  ; the  Chorus 
of  Mortals  disperses  in  search  of  safety  up 
the  mountains  ; Japhet  remains  upon  a rock, 
while  the  Ark  floats  towards  him  in  the 
distance . 


the  eye  of  beauty  to  the  skies,  and,  in  the  latter,  the  human  pas- 
sions that  “ drew  angels  down  to  earth.” — Jeffrey. 

Among  all  the  wonderful  excellences  of  Milton,  nothing  sur- 
passes the  pure  and  undisturbed  idealism  with  which  he  has  drawn 
our  first  parents,  so  completely  human  as  to  excite  our  most  ardent 
sympathies,  yet  so  far  distinct  from  the  common  race  of  men  as 
manifestly  to  belong  to  a higher  and  uncorrupted  state  of  being. 
In  like  manner,  his  Paradise  is  formed  of  the  universal  productions 
of  nature — the  flowers,  the  fruits,  the  trees,  the  waters,  the  cool 
breezes,  the  soft  and  sunny  slopes,  the  majestic  hills  that  skirt  the 
scene ; yet  the  whole  is  of  an  earlier,  a more  prolific,  a more  luxu- 
riant vegetation:  it  fully  comes  up  to  our  notion  of  what  the  earth 
might  have  been  before  it  was  “ cursed  of  its  Creator.”  This  is 
the  more  remarkable,  as  Milton  himself  sometimes  destroys,  or  at 
least  mars,  the  general  effect  of  his  picture,  by  the  introduction  of 
incongruous  thoughts  or  images.  The  poet’s  passions  are,  on 
occasions,  too  strong  for  his  imagination,  drag  him  down  to  earth, 
and,  for  the  sake  of  some  ill-timed  allusion  to  some  of  those  cir- 
cumstances, which  had  taken  possession  of  his  mighty  mind,  he 
runs  the  hazard  of  breaking  the  solemn  enchantment  with  which 
he  has  spell  bound  our  captive  senses.  Perhaps,  of  later  writers, 
Lord  Byron  alone  has  caught  the  true  tone,  in  his  short  drama 
called  “ Heaven  and  Earth.”  Here,  notwithstanding  that  we  can- 
not but  admit  the  great  and  manifold  delinquencies  against  correct 
taste,  particularly  some  perfectly  ludicrous  metrical  whimsies,  yet 
all  is  in  keeping — all  is  strange,  poetic,  oriental ; the  lyric  abrupt- 
ness, the  prodigal  accumulation  of  images  in  one  part,  and  the 
rude  simplicity  in  others — above  all,  the  general  tone  of  description 
as  to  natural  objects,  and  of  language  and  feeling  in  .the  scarcely 
mortal  beings  which  come  forth  upon  the  scene,  seem  to  throw 
us  upward  into  the  age  of  men  before  their  lives  were  shortened  to 
the  narrow  span  of  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  when  all  that 
walked  the  earth  were  not  born  of  woman. — Milman. 

The  Mystery  of  “Heaven  and  Earth”  is  conceived  in  the  best 
style  of  the  greatest  masters  of  poetry  and  painting.  It  is  not 
unworthy  of  Dante,  and  of  the  mighty  artist  to  whom  we  have 
alluded.  As  a picture  of  the  last  deluge,  it  is  incomparably  grand 
and  awful.  The  characters,  too,  are  invested  with  great  dignity 
and  grace.  Nothing  can  be  more  imposing  and  fascinating  than 
the  haughty,  and  imperious,  and  passionate  beauty  of  the  daughter 
of  Cain  ; nor  any  thing  more  venerable  than  the  mild  but  inflexible 
dignity  of  the  patriarch  Noah.  We  trust  that  no  one  will  be  found 
with  feelings  so  obtuse,  with  taste  so  perverted,  or  with  malignity 
so  undisguised,  as  to  mar  the  beauties  of  pictures  like  these,  by  im- 
puting to  their  author  the  cool  profession  of  those  sentiments  which 
he  exhibits  as  extorted  from  perishing  mortals,  in  their  last  instant 
of  despair  and  death.  Such  a poem  as  this,  if  read  aright,  is  calcu- 
lated, by  its  lofty  passion  and  sublime  conceptions,  to  exalt  the 
mind  and  to  purify  the  heart  beyond  the  power  of  many  a sober 
homily.  It  will  remain  an  imperishable  monument  of  the  tran- 
scendent talents  of  its  author ; whom  it  has  raised,  in  our  eitima- 
tion,  to  a higher  pitch  of  pre-eminence  than  he  ever  before  attained. 
— M.  May.] 


^artranappalug : 


A TRAGEDY.* 1 


TO 

THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  GOETHE 

A ST1  ANGER  PRESUMES  TO  OFFER  THE  HOMAGE 
OP  A literary  vassal  to  his  liege  lore,  the  first  of  existing  writers, 

WHO  HAS  CREATED  THE  LITERATURE  OF  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY, 

AND  ILLUSTRATED  THAT  OF  EUROPE. 


T„K  „»w„„T11V  rRoBU(.IIOH  WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  „„„E,  IO  INSCRI  HE  TO 
IS  ENTITLED 


SARDANAPALUS.2 


PREFACE. 

iSnoHt0Sn?,the  f°U0wing  Tragedi^3 * 1 have  only  to 
repeat,  that  they  were  not  composed  with  the  most 

&rWt°thVt!>ge-.  0n  the  attemPt  made  by 
hos  W,  S?re  !?  a former  lnstance>  the  public  opinion 
nrLte  f rCadj  eXpl-fssed'  With  regard  to  my  own 

ca&Jf  4 si”  “ “ » -- 

*“e  AUt ™ one  ^stance  attempted  to  pre- 
serve^ and  in  tne  other  to  approach,  the  “unities-” 

themIV.hLthat  Wf  ^ **  ****  departure  from 
them,  there  may  be  poetry,  but  can  be  no  drama. 


Ravenna)  Say”f' S,,"8 * *',  ’jf”1  Er"  „has 

January  1821  ? nn,i  ! »•  1 ,be&an  th*s  drama  on  the  13th  of 

yhir„,r,rs"  = ^ 

Greece  where  he  rartl  • P£SSage  lnt  the  ninth  voIume  of  Mitford’s 
A«vrGm.  n • 7tber  vindicates  the  memory  of  this  last  of  the 
Sappho  Shp3™^  n7eSa  ,he  Italian  translation  of  Grillparzer’s 
thftfUesl ^theme  letdraWi?  me’  ^?USe  1 Said  that  love  w«“  o< 

native  language, 6 * and  naturaWemale  ^ f Vantage  °f  her 

fewer  arguments  I beHevpI  e oquence.  she  overcame  my 
in.UA Safari,  J.tlnei„tndWed8."8h‘-  1 »««  P»*  ■"•>«  love 

palus  brave  (thouah  *”Ur  fC<S'  b have  made  Sardana- 

also  as  amiable  ^ 38 * * *  “St°,7  re!’resem.s  him,)  and 

™ rZVenst™’D  * 

nine  hours  or  less-  though  i/wiM  w*’  3 sunirTiers  n’ght,  about 
sunrise.  It  is  not  for  fhe  st^l  bef°re  SU"Set’  and  ends  after 
intended  for  7t ; and  I shaH  SK’lSXr®0”  °ther  WaS 

don’t  get  hold  on  V’  Care  th,s  tlme  that  they 

. “I'1  "?lbe,">ls“-  for 


He  is  aware  of  the  unpopularity  of  this  notion  ii 
present  English  literature ; but  it  is  not  a system  o 
is  own,  being  merely  an  opinion,  which,  not  ver 

u3/?0’riMaS  ri!e  la.w  °/  literature  throughout  trJ 
» an(l  1S  so  in  the  more  civilized  parts  of  1 
5™  t noi;s  avon«  cjang^  tout  ccla,”  and  are  reap  in 
the  advantages  of  the  change.  The  writer  is  far  fron 
conceiving  that  any  thing  he  can  adduce  by  per- 

rPmaLPreCept  °r-  exa™Ple  can  at  aH  approach  his 
regular,  or  even  irregular  predecessors ; he  is  merely 
giving  a reason  why  he  preferred  the  more  regular 
formation  of  a structure  however  feeble,  to  an  entire 
abandonment  of  all  rules  whatsoever.  Where  he 
has  failed,  the  failure  is  in  the  architect,  and  not  in 


mvthilowj  Yn  , Striking  Passages  of  history  an, 

much  the^'henpr^n  find  & lr1S  yery  wwhke  Shakspeare;  and  s, 
^ models  Jh  b ib  SenSe’  for  1 look  ul)on  him  n>  be  the  wors 
mv  object  fn  Ip8  h "?0St  extMorfinary  of  writers.  It  has  beei 
7“bj.?c  to  be  as  simple  and  severe  as  Alfieri,  and  I have  brokei 
down  the  poetry  as  nearly  as  I could  to  common  language  Th< 
hardship  is  that,  in  these  times,  one  can  neither  speak  of  kings  no 
queens  wuhuut  suspicion  of  politics  Qr  peisonJ°£ 

th‘‘tJTUlL2v;  Print  ETay’  and  publish-  1 think  they  must  owr 
almost  a eLT,0rlS  y !C  th?n  °ne-  ‘ ^ardanapalus’  is,  however, 
tS4  *7? character:  but,  for  that  matter,  so  is  Richard  the 

I am^lad  r'ifFi  M ™ltle.s>  whic‘h  ^ my  great  object  of  research, 

l am  glad  Gifford  likes  it:  as  for  the  million,  you  see  I have  care- 

‘ coJpTSrthlitre.”*  g tUf  the  taSte  °f  the  day  tor  extravaganl 

JZtrTll re^apprS^f  in  DeCen,ber’  I82'>  ““  re“irea 

SorSluti  ‘f  ,hiS  d'dic“«°".  interpret* them^nit  as  tire 

generous  tribute  of  a superior  genius,  no  less  original  in  the  choice 

tha"  “Iff  aostible  in  the  materials  of  his  subjecff-GoETHEO 

wiS)‘fT?,i1voTos“^°fginalIy  appeared  in  the  same  volu™ 

his4 protest  £7 (SayS  Mn  Jeffrey)  “ Lord  %™n  renew* 

con.Eosed  ‘S  fL  °°kl?g  Upon  any  of  his  p,ays  as  having  been 

composed  with  the  most  remote  view  to  the  sta-»e-’  and  at  the 

eiTstencTofS^8  in  behalf°f  the  unities-  a^  £«Xl  £ £ 

of  literah.rl  ihr  dra.ma-accord>og  to  what  ‘ was  till  lately,  the  law 

lized  nalts  nf7  °Ugw°Ui  the  W?r!d’  and  is  sti11  s«  in  the  more  civk 

and  wp  thint  iv.  nolt  link  these  opinions  very  consistent; 

and  we  think  that  neither  of  ti:em  could  pw-iihly  fiad  Ar«»  with 


A.CT  1.  SCENE  I 


SARDANAPALUS 


245 


DRAMATIS  PERSON^.* 1 * 1 2 


[ 


S'atlmnapalus.* 


MEN. 

Sirdanapalus,  King  of  Nineveh  and  Assyria,  Syc. 
Arbaces,  the  Merle  toho  aspired  to  the  Ihrone. 
i Beleses,  a Chaldean  and  Soothsayer . 

| Salemenes,  the  King's  Brother-in-law. 

| Altada,  an  Assyrian  Officer  of  the  Palace. 

Pania. 

Zames. 

Sfero. 

Balea. 

WOMEN. 


Zarina,  the  Queen. 

Myrrha,  an  Ionian  female  Slave , and  the  Favourite 
of  Sardanapalus. 

Women  composing  the  Harem  of  Sardanapalus, 
Guards,  Attendants , Chaldean  Priests,  Medes , 
Spc.  Spc. 

Scene— a Hall  in  the  Royal  Palace  of  Nineveh. 


a person  whose  genius  had  a truly  dramatic  character.  We  should 
as  soon  expect  an  orator  to  compose  a speech  altogether  unfit  to 
be  spoken.  A drama  is  not  merely  a dialogue,  but  an  action ; 
and  necessarily  supposes  that  something  is  to  pass  before  the 
eyes  of  assembled  spectators.  Whatever  is  peculiar  to  its  written 
part,  should  derive  its  peculiarity  from  this  consideration  Its  style 
should  be  an  accompaniment  to  action,  and  should  be  calculated  to 
excite  the  emotions,  and  keep  alive  the  attention,  of  gazing  multi- 
tudes If  an  author  does  not  bear  this  continually  in  his  mind,  and 
'does  not  write  in  the  ideal  presence  of  an  eager  and  diversified 
assemblage,  he  may  be  a poet  perhaps,  but  assuredly  he  will  never 
be  a dramatist.  If  Lord  Byron  really  does  not  wish  to  impregnate 
his  elaborate  scenes  with  the  living  part  of  the  drama— if  he  has  no 
hankering  after  stage-effect— if  he  is  not  haunted  with  the  visible 
presentiment  of  the  persons  he  has  created— if,  in  setting  down  a 
vehement  invective,  he  does  not  fancy  the  tone  in  which  Mr.  Kean 
| would  deliver  it.  and  anticipate  the  long  applauses  of  the  pit,  then 
he  may  be  sure  that  neither  his  feelings  nor  his  genius  are  m unison 
with  the  stage  at  all.  Why,  then,  should  he  affect  the  form,  with- 
out the  power  of  tragedy?  Didactic  reasoning  and  eloquent  de- 
scription  will  not  compensate,  in  a play,  for  a dearth  of  dramatic 
I spirit  and  invention : and,  besides,  sterling  sense  and  poetry,  as 
such,  ought  to  stand  by  themselves,  without  the  unmeaning 
I mockery  of  a dramatis  personce  As  to  Lord  Byron  pretending  to 
’ set  up  the  unities  at  this  time  of  day,  as  ‘ the  law  of  literature 
throughout  the  world,’  it  is  mere  caprice  and  contradiction.  He,  if 

I ever  man  was,  is  a law  to  himself—  ‘ a chartered  libertine  — and 
now,  when  he  is  tired  of  this  unbridled  license,  he  wants  to  do 
penance  within  the  unities  ! English  dramatic  poetry  soars  above 
the  unities,  just  as  the  imagination  does.  The  only  pretence  for 
insisting  on  them  is,  that  we  suppose  the  stage  itself  to  be,  actually 
and  really,  the  very  spot  on  which  a given  action  is  performed ; and, 
if  so,  this  space  cannot  be  removed  to  another.  But  the  sup- 
position is  manifestly  quite  contrary  to  truth  and  experience.”— 
Edinb.  Rev.  xo'..  xxxvi. 


The  reader  may  be  pleased  to  compare  the  above  with  the  fol- 
i lowing  passage  from  Dr.  Johnson : — 

« Whether  Shakspeare  knew  the  unities,  and  rejected  them  by 
I design,  or  deviated  from  them  by  happy  ignorance,  it  is,  I think, 
impossible  to  decide  and  useless  to  inquire.  We  may  reasonably 
; juppose,  that  when  he  rose  to  notice,  he  did  not  want  the  counsels 
and  admonitions  of  scholars  and  critics  : and  that  he  at  last  de- 
! liberated  persisted  in  a practice  which  he  might  have  begun  by 
i chance.  ' As  nothing  is  essential  to  the  fable  but  unity  of  action, 
and  as  the  unities  cf  time  and  place  arise  evidently  from  false 
! assumptions,  and,  by  circumscribing  the  extent  of  the  drama,  lessen 
! its  variety,  I cannot  think  it  much  to  be  lamented  that  they  were 
' not  known  by  him,  or  not  observed : nor,  if  such  another  poet  could 
I arise,  should  1 very  vehemently  reproach  him,  that  his  first  act 
passed  at  Venice,  and  his  next  in  Cyprus.  Such  violations  of  rules 
V merely  positive  become  the  comprehensive  genius  of  Shakspeare, 
and  such  censures  are  suitable  to  the  minute  and  slender  criticism 
of  Voltaire : — 

‘ Non  usque  adeo  permiscuit  imis 

Lengus  summa  dies,  ut  non,  si  voce  Metelli 
Serveutur  leges,  malinfc  a Caesare  tolli.’ 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I 

A Hall  in  the  Palace. 

Salemenes  {solus).  He  hath  wrong’d  hi»  queen,  but 
still  he  is  her  lord ; 

He  hath  wrong’d  my  sister,  still  he  is  my  brother; 

He  hath  wrong’d  his  people,  still  he  is  their  sovereign, 
And  I must  be  his  friend  as  well  as  subject : 

He  must  not  perish  thus.  I will  not  see 
The  blood  of  Nimrod  and  Semiramis 
Sink  in  the  earth,  and  thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  empire  ending  like  a shepherd’s  tale  ; 

He  must  be  roused.  In  his  effeminate  heart 
There  is  a careless  courage  which  corruption 
Has  not  all  quench’d,  and  latent  energies, 

Repress’d  by  circumstance,  but  not  destroy'd — 


Yet,  when  I speak  thus  slightly  of  dramatic  rules,  I cannot  Dut 
recollect  how  much  wit  and  learning  may  he  produced  against 
me  : before  such  authorities  I am  afraid  to  stand,  not  that  I think 
the  present  question  one  of  those  that  are  to  be  decided  by  mere 
authority,  but  because  it  is  to  be  suspected,  that  these  precepts 
have  not  been  so  easily  received,  but  for  far  better  reasons  than  1 
have  yet  been  able  to  find.  The  result  of  my  inquiries,  in  which  it 
would  be  ludicrous  to  boast  of  impartiality,  is,  that  the  unities  of 
time  and  place  are  not  essential  to  a just  drama : that  though  they 
may  sometimes  conduce  to  pleasure,  they  are  always  to  be  sacrificed 
to  the  nobler  beauties  of  variety  and  instruction  ; and  that  a play 
written  with  nice  observation  of  critical  rules,  is  to  be  contem- 
plated as  an  elaborate  curiosity,  as  the  product  of  superfluous  and 
ostentatious  art,  by  which  is  shown  rather  what  is  possible  than  what 
is  necessary.  He  that  without  diminution  of  any  other  excellence 
shall  preserve  all  the  unities  unbroken,  deserves  the  like  applause 
with  tlfe  architect,  who  shall  display  all  the  orders  of  architecture 
in  a citadel,  without  any  deduction  from  its  strength  : but  the 
principal  beauty  of  a citadel  is  to  exclude  the  enemy;  and  the 
greatest  graces  of  a play  are  to  copy  nature  and  instruct  life.  — 
Preface  to  Shakspeare .] 

(1)  In  this  tragedy  it  has  been  my  intention  to  follow  the  ac- 
count of  Diodorus  Siculus;  reducing  it,  however,  to  such  dramatic 
regularity  as  I best  could,  and  trying  to  approach  the  unities.  I 
therefore  suppose  the  rebellion  to  explode  and  succeed  in  one 
day  by  a sudden  conspiracy,  instead  of  the  long  war  of  the  history. 

(2)  [Sardanapalus  is,  beyond  all  doubt,  a work  of  great  beauty 
and  power;  and  though  the  heroine  has  many  traits  in  common 
with  the  Medoras  and  Gulnares  of  Lord  Byron’s  undramatic  poetry, 
the  hero  must  be  allowed  to  be  a new  character  in  his  hands. 
He  has,  indeed,  the  scorn  of  war,  and  glory,  and  priestcraft,  and 
regular  morality,  which  distinguishes  the  rest  of  his  lordship’s 
favourites  ; but  he  has  no  misanthropy,  and  very  little  pride— and 
may  be  regarded,  on  the  whole,  as  one  of  the  most  truly  good- 
humoured,  amiable,  and  respectable  voluptuaries  to  whom  we  have 
ever  been  presented.  In  this  conception  of  his  character,  the 
author  has  very  wisely  followed  nature  and  fancy  rather  than  his- 
tory. His  Sardanapalus  is  not  an  effeminate,  worn-out  debauchee, 
with  shattered  nerves  and  exhausted  senses,  the  slave  of  indolence 
and  vicious  habits;  but  a sanguine  votary  of  pleasure,  a princely 
epicure,  indulging,  revelling  in  boundless  luxury  while  he  can,  but 
with  a soul  so  inured  to  voluptuousness,  so  saturated  with  delights, 
that  pain  and  danger,  when  they  come  uncalled  for,  give  him  neither 
concern  nor  dread ; and  he  goes  forth  from  the  banquet  to  the 
battle,  as  to  a dance  or  measure,  attired  by  the  Graces,  and  with 
youth,  joy,  and  love  for  his  guides.  He  dallies  with  Beliona  as  ;\ 
bridegroom— for  his  sport  and  pastime ; and  the  spear  or  fan,  the 
shield  or  shining  mirror,  become  his  hands  equally  well.  He  en- 
joys life,  in  short,  and  triumphs  in  death : and  whether  in  pro- 
sperous or  adverse  circumstances,  his  soul  smiles  out  superior  to 
evil. — Jeffrey. 1 

The  Sardanapalus  of  Lord  Byron  is  pretty  nearly  such  a person 
as  the  Sardanapalus  of  history  may  be  supposed  to  have  bee:-.. 
Young,  thoughtless,  spoiled  by  flattery  and  unbounded  self- 
indulgence,  but  with  a temper  naturally  amiable,  and  abilities  of  a. 
superior  order,  he  affects  to  undervalue  the  sanguinary  renown  of 


246 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


AL1  L 


Steep’d,  but  not  drown’d,  in  deep  voluptuousness. 

If  bom  a peasant,  he  had  been  a man 

To  have  reach’d  an  empire  ; to  an  empire  born, 

He  will  bequeath  none  : nothing  but  a name, 

Which  his  sons  will  not  prize  in  heritage : — 

Yet,  not  all  lost,  even  yet  he  may  redeem 
His  sloth  and  shame,  by  only  being  that 
\Vhich  he  should  be,  as  easily  as  the  thing 
He  should  not  be  and  is.  Were  it  less  toil 
To  sway  his  nations  than  consume  his  life  ? 

To  head  an  army  than  to  rule  a harem  ? 

He  sweats  in  palling  pleasures,  dulls  his  soul,1 
And  saps  his  goodly  strength,  in  toils  which  yieid 
not 

Health  like  the  chase,  nor  glory  like  the  war. — 

He  must  be  roused.  Alas  ! there  is  no  sound 

[Sound  of  soft  music  heard  from,  within. 
To  rouse  him  short  of  tnunder.  Hark  ! the  lute, 

The  lyre,  the  timbrel ; the  lascivious  tinklings 
Of  lulling  instruments,  the  softening  voices 
Of  women,  and  of  beings  less  than  women, 

Must  chime  in  to  the  echo  of  his  revel, 

While  the  great  king  of  all  we  know  of  earth 
Lolls  crown’d  with  roses,  and  his  diadem 
Lies  negligently  by  to  be  caught  up 
By  the  first  manly  hand  which  dares  to  snatch  it. 

Lo,  where  they  come  ! already  I perceive 
The  reeking  odours  of  the  perfumed  trains, 

And  see  the  bright  gems  of  the  glittering  girls,2 
At  once  his  chorus  and  his  council,  flash 
Along  the  gallery,  and  amidst  the  damsels, 

As  femininely  garb’d,  and  scarce  less  female, 

The  grandson  of  Semiramis,  the  man-queen. — 

He  comes ! Shall  I await  him  F yes,  and  front 
him, 

And  tell  him  what  all  good  men  tell  each  other, 
Speaking  of  him  and  his.  They  come,  the  slaves, 

Led  by  the  monarch  subject  to  his  slaves.3 


his  ancestors  as  an  excuse  for  inattention  to  the  most  necessary 
duties  of  his  rank ; and  flatters  himself,  while  he  is  indulging  his 
own  sloth,  that  he  is  making  his  people  happy.  Yet,  even  in  his 
fondness  for  pleasure,  there  lurks  a love  of  contradiction.  Of  the 
whole  picture,  selfishness  is  the  prevailing  feature  — selfishness 
admirably  drawn  indeed;  apologized  for  by  every  palliating  circum- 
stance of  education  and  habit,  and  clothed  in  the  brightest  colours 
of  which  it  is  susceptible  from  youth,  talents,  and  placability.  But 
it  is  selfishness  still ; and  we  should  have  been  tempted  to  quarrel 
with  the  art  which  made  vice  and  frivolity  thus  amiable,  if  Lord 
Byron  had  not  at  the  same  time  pointed  out  with  much  skill  the 
bitterness  and  weariness  of  spirit  which  inevitably  wait  on  such  a 
character  ; and  if  he  had  not  given  a fine  contrast  to  the  picture  in 
the  accompanying  portraits  of  Salemenes  and  of  Myrrha.— Bishop 
Heber.] 

(1)  [ Ha  sweats  in  dreary,  dulled  effeminacy.” — MS.] 

(2)  [“  And  see  the  gewgaws  of  the  glittering  girls.” — MS.] 

(3)  [Salemenes  is  the  direct  opposite  to  selfishness;  and  the 
character,  though  slightly  sketched,  displays  little  less  ability  than 
that  of  Sardanapalus.  He  is  a stern,  loyal,  plain-spoken  soldier 
and  subject;  clear-sighted,  just  and  honourable  in  his  ultimate 
views,  though  not  more  punctilious  about  the  means  of  obtaining 
them  than  might  be  expected  from  a respectable  satrap  of  ancient 
Nineveh,  or  a respectable  vizier  of  the  modern  Turkish  empire.  To 
his  king,  in  spite  of  personal  neglect  and  family  injuries,  he  is, 
throughout,  pertinaciously  attached  and  punctiliously  faithful.  To 
the  king’s  rebels  he  is  inclined  to  be  severe,  bloody,  and  even 
treacherous;  an  imperfection,  however,  in  his  character,  to  want 
which  would,  in  his  situation,  be  almost  unnatural,  and  which  is 
skilfully  introduced  as  a contrast  to  the  instinctive  perception  of 
virtue  and  honour  which  flashes  out  from  the  indolence  of  his  mas- 
ter. Of  the  satrap,  however,  the  faults  as  well  as  the  virtues  are 
alike  the  offspring  of  disinterested  loyalty  and  patriotism.  It  is  for 
hia  country  and  king  that  he  is  patient  of  injury ; for  them  he  is 
valiant ; for  them  cruel.  He  has  no  ambition  of  personal  power, 
no  thirst  of  individual  fame.  In  battle  and  in  victory,  “ Assyria ! ” 
Is  uis  only  war-cry.  When  he  sends  off  the  queen  and  princes, 


SCENE  II. 

Enter  Sardanapalus  effeminately  dressed,  hv>  Head 
crowned  with  Flowers,  and  his  Robe  negligently 
Jlowing,  attended  by  a Train  of  Women  and  young 
Slaves. 

Sar.  ( speaking  to  some  of  his  attendants).  Let  the 
pavilion  over  the  Euphrates 
Be  garlanded,  and  lit,  and  furnish’d  forth 
For  an  especial  banquet : at  the  hour 
Of  midnight  we  will  sup  there : see  nought  wanting, 
And  bid  the  galley  be  prepared.  There  is 
A cooling  breeze  which  crisps  the  broad  clear  river  • 
We  will  embark  anon.  Fair  nymphs,  who  deign 
To  share  the  soft  hours  of  Sardanapalus, 

We’ll  meet  again  in  that  the  sweetest  hour, 

When  we  shall  gather  like  the  stars  above  us, 

And  you  will  form  a heaven  as  bright  as  theirs  ; 

Till  then,  let  each  be  mistress  of  her  time, 

And  thou,  my  own  Ionian  Myrrha,4 5  choose, 

Wilt  thou  along  with  them  or  me  ? 

Myr.  My  lord 

Sar.  My  lord,  my  life ! why  answerest  thou  so 
coldly  ! 

It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  so  answer’d. 

Rule  thy  own  hours,  thou  rulest  mine — say,  wouldst 
thou 

Accompany  our  guests,  or  charm  away 
The  moments  from  me  F 

Myr.  The  king’s  choice  is  mine.1' 

Sar.  I pray  thee  say  not  so  : my  chiefest  joy 
Is  to  contribute  to  thine  every  wish. 

I do  not  dare  to  breathe  my  own  desire, 

Lest  it  should  clash  with  thine ; for  thou  art  still 
Too  prompt  to  sacrifice  thy  thoughts  for  others.6 
Myr.  I would  remain  : I have  no  happiness 

Save  in  beholding  thine  ; yet 

Sar.  Yet!  what  yet P 


he  is  less  anxious  for  his  nephews  and  sister  than  for  the  pre- 

servation of  the  line  of  Nimrod;  and,  in  his  last  moments,  it  is 

the  supposed  flight  of  his  sovereign  which  alone  distresses  and 
overcomes  him. — Heber.] 

(4)  “ The  Ionian  name  had  been  still  more  comprehensive, 
having  included  the  Acliaians  and  the  Boeotians,  who,  together 
with  those  to  whom  it  was  afterwards  confined,  would  make  nearly 
the  whole  of  the  Greek  nation ; and  among  the  Orientals  it  was 
always  the  general  name  for  the  Greeks”  — Miteord’s  Greece , 
vol.  i.  p.  199. 

(5)  [The  chief  charm  and  vivifying  angel  of  the  piece  is  Myrrha, 
the  Greek  slave  of  Sardanapalus — a beautiful,  heroic,  devoted, 
and  ethereal  being — in  love  with  the  generous  and  infatuated  mon- 
arch— ashamed  of  loving  a barbarian — and  using  all  her  influence 
over  him  to  ennoble  as  well  as  to  adorn  his  existence,  and  to  arm 
him  against  the  terrors  of  his  close.  Her  voluptuousness  is  that 
of  the  heart — her  heroism  of  the  affections.  If  the  part  she  takes 
in  the  dialogue  he  sometimes  too  subdued  and  submissive  for  the 
lofty  daring  of  her  character,  it  is  still  such  as  might  become  a 
Greek  slave  — a lovely  Ionian  girl,  in  whom  the  love  of  liberty 
and  the  scorn  of  death  were  tempered  by  the  consciousness  of  what 
she  regarded  as  a degrading  passion,  and  an  inward  sense  of  fit- 
ness and  decorum  with  reference  to  her  condition. — Jeifrey.] 

(6)  [Myrrha  is  a female  Salemenes,  in  whom,  with  admirable 
skill,  attachment  to  the  individual  Sardanapalus  is  substituted  for 
the  gallant  soldier’s  loyalty  to  the  descendant  of  kings;  ana  whose 
energy  of  expostulation,  no  less  than  the  natural  high  tone  of  he> 
talents,  her  courage,  and  her  Grecian  pride,  is  softened  into  a sub 
dued  and  winning  tenderness  by  the  constant  and  painful  recol- 
lection of  her  abasement  as  a slave  in  the  royal  harem ; and  stn. 
more  by  the  lowliness  of  perfect  womanly  love  in  the  presence  oi 
and  towards  the  object  of  her  passion.  No  character  can  be  drawn 
more  natural  than  hers ; few  ever  have  been  drawn  more  touch- 
ing and  amiable.  Of  course  she  is  not,  nor  could  be,  a Jewish 
or  a Christian  heroine;  but  she  is  a model  of  Grecian  P1®4?  and 
nobility  of  spirit,  and  she  is  one  whom  a purer  faith  would  ha>* 
raised  to  the  level  of  a Rebecca  or  a Miriam. — Heber.] 


SAKDANAPALUb. 


247 


SC£K»  II. 

Thy  own  sweet  will  shall  be  the  only  barrier 
Which  ever  rises  betwixt  thee  and  me 

Myr.  I think  the  present  is  the  wonted  hour 
Of  council ; it  were  better  I retire. 

Sal.  (comes  forward  and  says).  The  Ionian  slave 
says  well : let  her  retire. 

Sar.  Who  answers  ? How  now,  brother  ? 

Sal.  The  queen's  brother, 

And  your  most  faithful  vassal,  royal  lord. 

Sar.  (addressing  his  train).  As  1 have  said,  let  all 
dispose  their  hours 

Till  midnight,  when  again  we  pray  your  presence. 

[The  court  retiring. 
(To  Myrrha,1  who  is  going)  Myrrha ! I thought  thou 
wouldst  remain. 

Myr.  Great  king, 

Thou  didst  not  say  so. 

Sar.  But  thou  lookedst  it : 

I know  each  glance  of  those  Ionic  eyes,2 
Which  said  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me. 

Myr.  Sire  ! your  brother 

Sal.  His  consort's  brother,  minion  of  Ionia  ! 

How  darest  thou  name  me  and  not  blush  ? 

Sar.  Not  blush ! 

Thou  hast  no  more  eyes  than  heart  to  make  her 
crimson 

Like  to  the  dying  day  on  Causasus, 

Where  sunset  tints  the  snow  with  rosy  shadows, 

And  then  reproach  her  with  thine  own  cold  blindness. 
Which  will  not  see  it.  What,  in  tears,  my  Myrrha  ? 
Sal.  Let  them  flow  on : she  weeps  for  more  than 
one, 

And  is  herself  the  cause  of  bitterer  tears. 

Sar.  Cursed  be  he  who  caused  those  tears  to  flow  ! 
Sal.  Curse  not  thyself — millions  do  that  already. 
Sar.  Thou  dost  forget  thee  : make  me  not  re- 
member 

I am  a monarch. 

Sal.  Would  thou  couldst ! 

Myr.  My  sovereign, 

I pray,  and  thou,  too,  prince,  permit  my  absence. 

Sar.  Since  it  must  be  so,  and  this  churl  has 
check’d 

Thy  gentle  spirit,  go ; but  recollect 

That  we  must  forthwith  meet : I had  rather  lose 

An  empire  than  thy  presence.  [Exit  Myreiia. 

Sal.  It  may  be, 

Thou  wilt  lose  both,  and  both  for  ever ! 

Sar.  Brother, 

I can  at  least  command  myself,  who  listen 
To  language  such  as  this  : yet  urge  me  not 
Beyond  my  easy  nature. 

Sal.  ’Tis  beyond 

That  easy,  far  too  easy,  idle  nature, 

Which  I would  urge  thee.  0 that  I could  rouse  thee ! 
Though  ’twere  against  myself. 

Sar.  By  the  god  Baal ! 

The  man  would  make  me  tyrant. 

Sal.  ' So  thou  art. 

Think’st  thou  there  is  no  tyranny  but  that 
()1  blood  and  chains ! The  despotism  of  vice — 

The  weakness  and  the  wickedness  of  luxury — 

The  negligence — the  apathy — the  evils 
Of  sensual  sloth — produce  ten  thousand  tyrants, 
Whose  delegated  cruelty  surpasses 


The  worst  acts  of  one  energetic  master. 

However  harsh  and  hard  in  his  own  bearing. 

The  false  and  fond  examples  of  thy  lusts 
Corrupt  no  less  than  they  oppress,  and  sap 
In  the  same  moment  all  thy  pageant  power 
And  those  who  should  sustain  it ; so  that  whether 
A foreign  foe  invade,  or  civil  broil 
Distract  within,  both  will  alike  prove  fatal : 

The  first  thy  subjects  have  no  heart  to  conquer ; 

The  last  they  rather  would  assist  than  vanquish. 

Sar.  Why,  what  makes  thee  the  mouth-piece  of  the 
people  ? 

Sal.  Forgiveness  of  the  queen,  my  sister’s  wrongs  ; 
A natural  love  unto  my  infant  nephews  ; 

Faith  to  the  king,  a faith  he  may  need  shortly, 

In  more  than  words  ; respect  for  Nimrod’s  line  ; 

Also,  another  thing  thou  knowest  not. 

Sar.  What’s  that? 

Sal.  To  thee  an  unknown  word. 

Sar.  Yet  speak  it ; 

I love  to  learn. 

Sal.  Virtue. 

Sar.  Not  know  the  word  ! 

Never  was  word  yet  rung  so  in  my  ears — • 

Worse  than  the  rabble’s  shout,  or  splitting  trumpet : 
I’ve  heard  thy  sister  talk  of  nothing  else.  [vice. 
Sal.  To  change  the  irksome  theme,  then,  hear  of 
Sar.  From  whom  ? 

Sal.  Even  from  the  winds,  if  thou  couldst  listen 
Unto  the  echoes  of  the  nation’s  voice. 

Sar.  Come,  I’m  indulgent,  as  thou  knowest,  pa- 
tient, [thee  ? 

As  thou  hast  often  proved — speak  out,  what  moves 
Sal.  Thy  peril. 

Sar.  Say  on. 

Sal.  Thus,  then  ; all  the  nations, 

For  they  are  many,  whom  thy  father  left 
In  heritage,  are  loud  in  wrath  against  thee. 

Sar.  ’Gainst  me!  What  would  the  slaves? 

Sal.  A king. 

Sar.  And  what 

Am  I then  ? 

Sal.  In  their  eyes  a nothing : but 

In  mine  a man  who  might  be  something  still. 

Sar.  The  railing  drunkards  ! why,  what  would,  they 
have  ? 

Have  they  not  peace  and  plenty  ? 

Sal.  Of  the  first 

More  than  is  glorious  ; of  the  last,  far  less 
Than  the  king  recks  of. 

Sar.  Whose  then  is  the  crime, 

But  the  false  satraps,  who  provide  no  better  ? 

Sal.  And  somewhat  in  the  monarch  who  ne’er  looki 
Beyond  his  palace  walls,  or  if  he  stirs 
Beyond  them,  ’tis  but  to  some  mountain  palace. 

Till  summer  heats  wear  down.  0 glorious  Baal ! 
Who  built  up  this  vast  empire,  and  wert  made 
A god,  or  at  the  least  shinest  like  a god 
Through  the  long  centuries  of  thy  renown, 

This,  thy  presumed  descendant,  ne’er  beheld 
As  king  the  kingdoms  thou  didst  leave  as  hero, 

Won  with  thy  blood,  and  toil,  and  time,  and  peril ! 
For  what?  to  furnish  imposts  for  a revel, 

Or  multiplied  extortions  for  a minion. 

Sar.  I understand  thee — thou  wouldst  have  me  go 


(1)  fin  the  original  draught,  “ Byblit."] 


(2)  [“  I know  each  glance  of  those  deep  Greek -soul’d  cytx.n^ 
MS.] 


248 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  K 


Forth  as  a conqueror.  By  all  the  stars 
Which  the  Chaldeans  read  ! the  restless  slaves  1 
Deserve  that  I should  curse  them  with  their  wishes, 
And  lead  them  forth  to  glory. 

Sal.  Wherefore  not  ? 

Semiramis — a woman  only — led 
These  our  Assyrians  to  the  solar  shores 
Of  Ganges. 

Sar.  ’Tis  most  true.  And  how  return’d  ? 

Sal.  Why,  like  a man— a hero;  baffled,  but 
Not  vanquish’d.  With  but  twenty  guards,  she  made 
Good  her  retreat  to  Bactria. 

Sar.  And  how  many 

Left  she  behind  in  India  to  the  vultures  ? 

Sal.  Our  annals  say  not. 

Sar.  Then  I will  say  for  them — 

That  she  had  better  woven  within  her  palace 
Some  twenty  garments,  than  with  twenty  guards 
Have  fled  to  Bactria,  leaving  to  the  ravens. 

And  wolves,  and  men — the  fiercer  of  the  three, 

Her  myriads  of  fond  subjects.  Is  this  glory  ? 

Then  let  me  live  in  ignominy  ever. 

Sal.  All  warlike  spirits  have  not  the  same  fate. 
Semiramis,  the  glorious  parent  of 
A hundred  kings,  although  she  fail’d  in  India, 

Brought  Persia,  Media,  Bactria,  to  the  realm 
Which  she  once  sway’d — and  thou  might' si  sway. 

Sar.  I swag  them — 

She  but  subdued  them. 

Sal.  It  may  be  ere  long 

That  they  will  need  her  sword  more  than  your 
sceptre. 

Sar.  There  was  a certain  Bacchus,  was  there  not  ? 
I’ve  heard  my  Greek  girls  speak  of  such  - they  say 
He  was  a god,  that  is,  a Grecian  god, 

An  idol  foreign  to  Assyria’s  worship, 

Who  conquer’d  this  same  golden  realm  of  Ind 
Thou  prat’st  of,  where  Semiramis  was  vanquish’d. 

Sal.  I have  heard  of  such  a man ; and  thou  per- 
ceiv’st 

That  he  is  deem’d  a god  for  what  he  did. 

Sar.  And  in  his  godship  I will  honour  him — 

Not  much  as  man.  What,  ho  ! my  cupbearer  ! 

Sal.  What  means  the  king  ! 

Sar.  To  worship  your  new  god 

And  ancient  conqueror.  Some  wine,  1 say. 

Enter  Cupbearer. 

Sar.  ( addressing  the  Cupbearer).  Bring  me  the 
golden  goblet  thick  with  gems. 

Which  bears  the  name  of  Nimrod’s  chalice.  Hence, 
Fill  full,  and  bear  it  quickly.  [Exit  Cupbearer. 

Sal.  Is  this  moment 

A fitting  one  for  the  resumption  of 
Thy  yet  unslept-off  revels  ? 

Re-enter  Cupbearer , with  wine. 

Sat.  {taking  the  cup  from  him).  Noble  kinsman, 

If  these  barbarian  Greeks  of  the  far  shores 

And  skills  of  these  our  realms  lie  not,  this  Bacchus 

Conquer’d  the  whole  of  India,  did  he  not  ? 

Sal.  He  did,  and  thence  was  deem’d  a deity.2 


(1)  [ “ I have  a mind 

To  curse  the  restless  slaves  with  their  own  wishes.” — MS.] 

(2)  [“  He  did,  and  thence  was  deem’d  a god  in  story.”— MS.] 

t3)  [In  many  parts  of  this  play,  it  strikes  me  that  Lord  Byron 


Sar.  Not  so  of  all  his  conquests  a few  column*, 
Which  may  be  his,  and  might  be  mine,  if  I 
Thought  them  worth  purchase  and  conveyance,  are 
The  landmarks  of  the  seas  of  gore  he  shed, 

The  realms  he  wasted,  and  the  hearts  he  broke. 

But  here,  here  in  this  goblet  is  his  title 
To  immortality — the  immortal  grape 
From  which  he  first  express’d  the  soul,  and  gave 
To  gladden  that  of  man,  as  some  atonement 
For  the  victorious  mischiefs  he  had  done. 

Had  it  not  been  for  this,  he  would  have  been 
A mortal  still  in  name  as  in  his  grave  ; 

And,  like  my  ancestor  Semiramis, 

A sort  of  semi-glorious  human  monster. 

Here’s  that  which  deified  him — let  it  now 
Humanise  thee  ; my  surly,  chiding  brother, 

Pledge  me  to  the  Greek  god  ! 

Sal.  For  all  thy  realms 

I would  not  so  blaspheme  our  country’s  creed. 

Sar.  That  is  to  say,  thou  thinkest  liim  a hero, 

That  he  shed  blood  by  oceans  ; and  no  god, 

Because  he  turn’d  a fruit  to  an  enchantment, 

Which  cheers  the  sad,  revives  the  old,  inspires 
The  young,  makes  weariness  forget  his  toil. 

And  fear  her  danger ; opens  a new  world 
When  this,  the  present,  palls.  Well,  then,  / pledge  thee 
And  him  as  a true  man,  who  did  his  utmost 
In  good  or  evil  to  surprise  mankind.  [ Brinks . 

Sal.  Wilt  thou  resume  a revel  at  this  hour? 

Sar.  And  if  I did,  ’twere  better  than  a trophy. 
Being  bought  without  a tear.  But  that  is  not 
My  present  purpose  : since  thou  wilt  not  pledge  me, 
Continue  what  thou  pleasest. 

{To  the  Cupbearer .)  Boy,  retire. 

[ Exit  Cupbearer. 

Sal.  I would  but  have  recall’d  thee  from  thy  dream  : 
Better  by  me  awaken’d  than  rebellion. 

Sar.  Who  should  rebel  ? or  why  ? whi.t  cause  r 
pretext  ? 

I am  the  lawful  king,  descended  from 
A race  of  kings  who  knew  no  predecessors. 

What  have  I done  to  thee,  or  to  the  people, 

That  thou  shouldst  rail,  or  they  rise  up  against  me  ? 
Sal.  Of  what  thou  hast  done  to  me,  I speak  not. 
Sar.  But 

Thou  think’st  that  I have  wrong’d  the  queen : is ’t 
not  so  ? 

Sal.  Think  ! Thou  hast  wrong’d  her  ! 3 
Sar.  Patience,  prince,  and  hear  me. 

She  has  all  power  and  splendour  of  her  station, 
Respect,  the  tutelage  of  Assyria’s  heirs, 

The  homage  and  the  appanage  of  sovereignty. 

I married  her  as  monarchs  wed — for  state, 

And  loved  her  as  most  husbands  love  their  wives. 

If  she  or  thou  supposedst  I could  link  me 
Like  a Chaldean  peasant  to  his  mate, 

Ye  knew  nor  me,  nor  monarchs,  nor  mankind. 

Sal.  I pray  thee,  change  the  theme  : my  bio  ad 
disdains 

Complaint,  and  Salemenes’  sister  seeks  not 
Reluctant  love  even  from  Ayssria’s  lord ! 

Nor  would  she  deign  to  accept  divided  passion 
With  foreign  strumpets  and  Ionian  g’aves. 

The  queen  is  silent. 


has  more  in  his  eye  the  case  of  a sinful  ChristjJii  hat  has  bu*. 
one  wife,  and  a sly  business  or  so  which  she  and  her  ki:i  do 
not  approve  of;  than  a bearded  Oriental,  like  Sardanapalus,  with 
three  hundred  wives  and  seven  hundred  concubines. — He  so.J 


SCENE  II. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Sa> , And  why  not  her  brother  ? 

Sal.  I only  echo  thee  the  voice  ol  empires, 

Which  he  who  long  neglects  not  long  will  govern. 

Sar.  The  ungrateful  and  ungracious  slaves!  they 
murmur 

Because  I have  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led  them 
To  dry  in  the  desert’s  dust  by  myriads, 

Or  whiten  with  their  bones  the  banks  of  Ganges  ; 

Nor  decimated  them  with  savage  laws, 

Nor  sweated  them  to  build  up  pyramids. 

Or  Babylonian  walls. 

Sal.  Yet  these  are  trophies 

More  worthy  of  a people  and  their  prince 
Than  songs, "and  lutes,  and  feasts,  and  concubines, 
And  lavish’d  treasures,  and  contemned  virtues. 

Sar.  Or  for  my  trophies  I have  founded  cities : 
There’s  Tarsus  and  Anchialus,  both  built 
In  one  day — what  could  that  blood-loving  beldame, 
My  martial  grandam,  chaste  Semiramis, 

Do  more,  except  destroy  them  ? 

Sal.  ’Tis  most  true : 

I own  thy  merit  in  those  founded  cities, 

Built  for  a whim,  recorded  with  a verse 
Which  shames  both  them  and  thee  to  coming  ages. 
Sar.  Shame  me  ! by  Baal,  the  cities,  though  well 
built, 

Are  not  more  goodly  than  the  verse  ! Say  what 
Thou  wilt  ’gainst  me,  my  mode  of  life  or  rule, 

But  nothing  ’gainst  the  truth  of  that  brief  record. 
Why,  those  few  lines  contain  the  history 
Of  all  things  human : hear — “ Sardanapalus, 

The  king,  and  son  of  Anacyndaraxes, 

In  one  day  built  Anchialus  and  Tarsus. 

Eat,  drink,  and  love;  the  rest’s  not  worth  a fillip.”1 
Sal.  A worthy  moral,  and  a wise  inscription, 

For  a king  to  put  up  before  his  subjects  ! 

Sar.  Oh,  thou  wouldst  have  me  doubtless  set  up 
edicts — 

“ Obey  the  king — contribute  to  his  treasure — 

Recruit  his  phalanx — spill  your  blood  at  bidding — 
Fall  down  and  worship,  or  get  up  and  toil.” 

Or  thus — “ Sardanapalus  on  this  spot 
Slew  fifty  thousand  of  his  enemies. 

These  are  their  sepulchres,  and  this  his  trophy.” 

I leave  such  things  to  conquerors  ; enough 
For  me,  if  I can  make  my  subjects  feel 
The  weight  of  human  misery  less,  and  glide 
Ungroaning  to  the  tomb  : i take  no  license 
Which  I deny  to  them.  We  all  are  men. 

Sal.  Thy  sires  have  been  revered  as  gods — 

Sar.  In  dust 

And  death,  where  they  are  neither  gods  nor  men. 


(1)  “For  this  expedition  he  took  only  a small  chosen  body  of 
the  phalanx,  but  all  his  light  troops.  In  the  first  day’s  march  he 
reached  Anchialus,  a town  said  to  have  been  founded  by  the  king 
of  Assyria,  Sardanapalus.  The  fortifications,  in  their  magnitude 
and  extent,  still  in  Arrian’s  time  bore  the  character  of  greatness, 
which  the  Assyrians  appear  singularly  to  have  affected  in  works  of 
the  kind.  A monument  representing  Sardanapalus  was  found 
there,  warranted  by  an  inscription  in  Assyrian  characters,  of 
course  in  the  old  Assyrian  language,  which  the  Greeks,  whether 
well  or  ill,  interpreted  thus : * Sardanapalus,  son  of  Anacyndaraxes, 
in  one  day  founded  Anchialus  and  Tarsus.  Eat,  drink,  play  : all 
other  human  joys  are  not  worth  a fillip.’  Supposing  this  version 
nearly  exact  (for  Arrian  says  it  was  not  quite  so),  whether  the  pur- 
pose has  not  been  to  invite  to  civil  order  a people  disposed  to 
turbulence,  rather  than  to  recommend  immoderate  luxury,  may 
perhaps  reasonably  be  questioned.  What,  indeed,  could  be  the 
object  of  a king  of  Assyria  in  founding  such  towns  in  a country  so 
diitant  from  his  capital,  and  so  divided  from  it  by  an  immense 
extent  of  sandy  deserts  and  lofty  mountains,  and,  still  more,  how 


n a 

Talk  not  of  such  to  me  ! the  worms  arc  gods  ; 

At  least  they  banqueted  upon  your  gods, 

And  died  for  lack  of  further  nutriment. 

Those  gods  were  merely  men : look  to  their  issue- — 

I feel  a thousand  mortal  things  about  me, 

But  noth  ng  godlike, — unless  it  may  be 
The  thing  which  you  condemn,  a disposition 
To  love  and  to  be  merciful,  to  pardon 
The  follies  of  my  species,  and  (that ’s  human) 

To  be  indulgent  to  my  own. 

Sal.  Alas ! 

The  doom  of  Nineveh  is  seal’d. — Woe — woe 
To  the  unri vail’d  city ! 

Sar.  What  dost  dread  ? 

Sal.  Thou  art  guarded  by  thy  foes:  in  a few  hours 
The  tempest  may  break  out  which  overwhelms  '.'nee, 
And  thine  and  mine ; and  in  another  day 
What  is  shall  be  the  past  of  Belus’  race. 

Sar.  What  must  we  dread  ? 

Sal.  Ambitious  treachery, 

Which  has  environ’d  thee  with  snares  ; but  yet 
There  is  resource  : empower  me  with  thy  signet 
To  quell  the  machinations,  and  I lay 
The  heads  of  thy  chief  foes  before  thy  feet. 

Sar.  The  heads — how  many  ? 

Sal.  Must  I stay  to  number 

When  even  thine  own ’s  in  peril  ? Let  me  go  ; 

Give  me  thy  signet — trust  me  with  the  rest. 

Sar.  I will  trust  no  man  with  unlimited  lives. 

When  we  take  those  from  others,  we  nor  know 
What  we  have  taken,  nor  the  thing  we  give. 

Sal.  Wouldst  thou  not  take  their  lives  who  seek 
for  thine  ? 

Sar.  That’s  a hard  question — But  I answer,  Yes. 
Cannot  the  thing  be  done  without  ? Who  are  they 
Whom  thou  suspectest  ? — Let  them  be  arrested. 

Sal.  I would  thou  wouldst  not  ask  me  ; the  next 
moment 

Will  send  my  answer  through  thy  babbling  troop 
Of  paramours,  and  thence  fly  o’er  the  palace, 

Even  to  the  city,  and  so  baffle  all. — 

Trust  me. 

Sar.  Thou  knowest  I have  done  so  ever  ; 

Take  thou  the  signet.  [Gives  the  signet. 

Sal.  I have  one  more  request. — 

Sar.  Name  it. 

Sal.  That  thou  this  night  forbear  the  banquet 
In  the  pavilion  over  the  Euphrates. 

Sar.  Eorbear  the  banquet ! Not  for  all  the  plotters 
That  ever  shook  a kingdom.  Let  them  come, 

And  do  their  worst ; I shall  not  blench  for  them  ; 

Nor  rise  the  sooner;  nor  forbear  the  goblet ; 


the  inhabitants  could  be  at  once  in  circumstances  to  abandon 
themselves  to  the  intemperate  joys  which  their  prince  has  been 
supposed  to  have  recommended,  is  not  obvious  : but  it  may  deserve 
observation  that,  in  that  line  of  coast,  the  southern  of  Lesser  Asia, 
ruins  of  cities,  evidently  of  an  age  after  Alexander,  yet  barely 
named  in  history,  at  this  day  astonish  the  adventurous  traveller  by 
their  magnificence  and  elegance.  Amid  the  desolation  which, 
under  a singularly  barbarian  government,  has  for  so  many  centuries 
been  daily  spreading  in  the  finest  countries  of  the  globe,  whether 
more  from  soil  and  climate,  or  from  opportunities  for  commerce, 
extraordinary  means  must  have  been  found  for  communities  to 
flourish  there  ; whence  it  may  seem  that  the  measures  of  Sardana- 
palus were  directed  by  juster  views  than  have  been  commonly 
ascribed  to  him : but  that  monarch  having  been  the  last  of  a 
dynasty,  ended  by  a revolution,  obloquy  on  his  memory  would 
follow  of  course  from  the  policy  of  his  successors  and  their  parti- 
sans. The  inconsistency  of  traditions  concerning  Sardanapalus  ia 
striking  in  Diodorus’s  account  of  him.” — Mitford’s  Greece , vol.x 
p.  311. 


K K 


250 


LORD  b\  RON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  I 


Nor  crown  me  with  a single  rose  the  less ; 

Nor  iose  one  joyous  hour. — I fear  them  not. 

Sal.  But  thou  wouldst  arm  thee,  wouldst  thou  not, 
if  needful  ? 

Sar.  Perhaps.  I have  the  goodliest  armour,  and 
A sword  of  such  a temper  ; and  a bow 
Amd  javelin,  which  might  furnish  Nimrod  forth  : 

A little  heavy,  but  yet  not  unwieldy. 

And  now  I think  on’t,  ’tis  long  since  I’ve  used  them. 
Even  in  the  chase.  Hast  ever  seen  them,  brother? 

Sal.  Is  this  a time  for  such  fantastic  trifling  ? — 

If  need  be,  wilt  thou  wear  them  ? 

Sar.  Will  I not  ? 

Oh ! if  it  must  be  so,  and  these  rash  slaves 
Will  not  be  ruled  with  less,  I’ll  use  the  sword 
Till  tliev  shall  wish  it  turn’d  into  a distaff. 

Sal.  The^;  say  thy  sceptre’s  turn’d  to  that  already. 

Sar.  That's  false-!  but  let  them  say  so : the  old 
Greeks, 

Of  whom  our  captives  often  sing,  related 
fbo  same  of  their  chief  hero,  Hercules, 
because  he  loved  a Lydian  queen  : thou  seest, 

Trie  populace  of  all  the  nations  seize 

Each  calumny  they  can  to  sink  their  sovereigns. 

Sal.  They  did  not  speak  thus  of  thy  fathers. 

Sar.  No : 

They  dared  not.  They  were  kept  to  toil  and  combat ; 
And  never  changed  their  chains  but  for  their  armour : 
Now  they  have  peace  and  pastime,  and  the  license 
To  revel  and  to  rail ; it  irks  me  not. 

I would  not  give  the  smile  of  one  fair  girl 
Eor  all  the  popular  breath  that  e’er  divided 
A name  from  nothing.  What  are  the  rank  tongues 
Of  this  vile  herd,  grown  insolent  with  feeding, 

That  I should  prize  their  noisy  praise,  or  dread 
Their  noisome  clamour  ? 

Sal.  You  have  said  they  are  men 

As  such  their  hearts  are  something. 

Sar.  So  my  dogs’  are ; 1 2 

And  better,  as  more  faithful : — but,  proceed  ; 

Thou  hast  my  signet : — since  they  are  tumultuous, 
Let  them  be  temper’d,  yet  not  roughly,  till 
Necessity  enforce  it.  I hate  all  pain, 

Given  or  received  ; we  have  enough  within  us, 

The  meanest  vassal  as  the  loftiest  monarch, 

Not  to  add  to  each  other’s  natural  burthen 
Of  mortal  misery,  but  rather  lessen, 

By  mild  reciprocal  alleviation, 

The  fatal  penalties  imposed  on  life  : 

But  this  they  know  not,  or  they  will  not  know. 

I have,  by  Baal ! done  all  I could  to  soothe  them  : 

I made  no  wars,  I added  no  new  imposts, 

I interfered  not  with  their  civic  lives, 

I let  them  pass  their  days  as  best  might  suit  them, 
Passing  my  own  as  suited  me. 

Sal.  Thou  stopp’st 

Short  of  the  duties  of  a king  ; and  therefore 
They  say  thou  art  unfit  to  be  a monarch. 

Sar  They  lie. — Unhappily,  I am  unfit 
To  be  aught  save  a monarch ; else,  for  me, 

The  meanest  Mede  might  be  the  king  instead. 

Sal.  There  is  one  Mede,  at  least,  who  seeks  to  be  so. 

Sar.  What  mcan’st  thou  ? — ’tis  thy  secret ; thou 
dcsirest 


(1)  [See  Miscelt.anie3,  “Inscription  on  the  Monument  of  a 
Newf  »undland  Dog.”] 


Pew  questions,  and  I’m  pot  of  curious  nature. 

Take  the  fit  steps  ; and,  since  necessity 
Requires,  I sanction  and  support  thee.  Ne’er 
Was  man  who  more  desired  to  rule  in  peace 
The  peaceful  only  : if  they  rouse  me,  better 
They  had  conjured  up  stern  Nimrod  from  his  ashes, 

“ The  mighty  hunter.”  I will  turn  these  realms 
To  one  wide  desert  chase  of  brutes,  who  were, 

But  would  no  more,  by  their  own  choice,  be  human. 
What  they  have  found  me,  they  belie ; that  which 
They  yet  may  find  me — shall  defy  their  wish 
To  speak  it  worse  ; and  let  them  thank  themselves. 

Sal.  Then  thou  at  last  canst  feel  ? 

Sal.  Peel ! who  feels  net 

Ingratitude  ? 

Sal.  I will  not  pause  to  answer 

With  words,  but  deeds.  Keep  thou  awake  that  energv 
Which  sleeps  at  times,  but  is  not  dead  within  thee, 
And  thou  may’st  yet  be  glorious  in  thy  reign, 

As  powerful  in  thy  realm.  Farewell ! 

[Exit  Salemenes. 

Sar.  {solus).  Farewell! 

He’s  gone  ; and  on  his  finger  bears  my  signet, 

Which  is  to  him  a sceptre.  He  is  stern 
As  I am  heedless ; and  the  slaves  deserve 
To  feel  a master.  What  may  be  the  danger, 

I know  not : — he  hath  found  it,  let  him  quell  it. 

Must  I consume  my  life — this  little  life — 

In  guarding  against  all  may  make  it  less  ? 3 
It  is  not  worth  so  much ! It  were  to  die 
Before  my  hour,  to  live  in  dread  of  death, 

Tracing  revolt ; suspecting  all  about  me, 

Because  they  are  near ; and  all  who  are  remote, 
Because  they  are  far.  But  if  it  should  be  so — 

If  they  should  sweep  me  off  from  earth  and  empire, 
Why,  what  is  earth  or  empire  of  the  earth  ? 

I have  loved,  and  lived,  and  multiplied  my  image ; 

To  die  is  no  less  natural  than  those — 

Acts  of  this  clay ! ’Tis  true  I have  not  shed 
Blood  as  I might  have  done,  in  oceans,  till 
My  name  became  the  synonyme  of  death — 

A terror  and  a trophy.  But  for  this 
I feel  no  penitence  ; my  life  is  love  : 

If  I must  shed  blood,  it  shall  be  by  force. 

Till  now,  no  drop  from  an  Assyrian  vein 
Hath  flow’d  for  me,  nor  hath  the  smallest  coin 
Of  Nineveh’s  vast  treasures  e’er  been  lavish’d 
On  objects  which  could  cost  her  sons  a tear  : 

If  then  they  hate  me,  ’tis  because  I hate  not ; 

If  they  rebel,  ’tis  because  I oppress  not. 

Oh,  men ! ye  must  be  ruled  with  scythes,  not  sceptres, 
And  mow’d  down  like  the  grass,  else  all  we  reap 

s rank  abundance,  and  a rotten  harvest 
Of  discontents  infecting  the  fair  soil, 

‘ Making  a desert  of  fertility. — 

I’ll  think  no  more. Within  there,  ho  ! 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Sar.  Slave,  tell 

The  Ionian  Myrrha  we  would  crave  her  presence. 

Attend.  King,  she  is  here. 

Myrriia  enters. 

Sar.  {apart  to  Attendant).  Away  ! 


opportunity,  in  his  conferences  with  his  stern  ar<d  confident^* 
adviser,  Salemenes,  to  contrast  his  own  imputed  and  fatal  vices  o< 
ease  and  love  of  pleasure  with  the  boasted  virtues  of  his  predeo«»- 
sors,  war  and  conquest. — Jkffuey.] 


(2)  [The  epicurean  philosophy  of  Sardanapalus  gives  him  a fine 


•CENE  II. 


SAB  DAN  AP  ALU  S. 


251 


(. Addressing  Myrrha.)  Beautiful  being  ! 

rl'liou  dost  almost  anticipate  my  heart ; 

It  throbb’d  for  tliee,  and  here  thou  comest : let  me 
Deem  that  some  unknown  influence,  some  sweet 
oracle, 

Communicates  between  us,  though  unseen, 

In  absence,  and  attracts  us  t.o  each  other. 

Myr.  There  doth. 

Sar.  I know  there  doth,  but  not  its  name : 

What  is  it  P 

Myr.  In  my  native  land  a God, 

And  in  my  heart  a feeling  like  a God’s, 

Exalted  ; yet  I own  ’tis  only  mortal ; 

For  what  I feel  is  humble,  and  yet  happy — 

That  is,  it  would  be  happy  ; but 

[Myrrha  pauses. 
Sar.  There  comes 

For  ever  something  between  us  and  what 
We  deem  our  happiness  : let  me  remove 
The  barrier  which  that  hesitating  accent 
Proclaims  to  thine,  and  mine  is  seal’d. 

Myr.  My  lord  ! — 

Sar.  My  lord — my  king — sire — sovereign  ! thus  it 
is — 

For  ever  thus,  address’d  with  awe.  I ne’er 
Can  see  a smile,  unless  in  some  broad  banquet’s 
Intoxicating  glare,  when  the  buffoons 
Have  gorged  themselves  up  to  equality, 

Or  I have  quaff’d  me  down  to  their  abasement. 
Myrrha,  I can  hear  all  these  things,  these  names, 

Lord — king — sire — monarch— nay,  time  was,  I prized 
them ; 

That  is,  I suffer’d  them — from  slaves  and  nobles  ; 

But  when  they  falter  from  the  lips  I love, 

The  lips  which  have  been  press’d  to  mine,  a chill 
Comes  <^er  my  heart,  a cold  sense  of  the  falsehood 
Of  this  my  station,  which  represses  feeling 
In  those  for  whom  I have  felt  most,  and  makes  me 
Wish  that  I could  lay  down  the  dull  tiara, 

And  share  a cottage  on  the  Caucasus 
With  thee,  and  wear  no  crowns  but  those  of  flowers. 
Myr.  Would  that  we  could ! 

Sar.  And  dost  thou  feel  this  ? — Why  ? 

Myr.  Then  thou  wouldst  know  what  thou  canst 
never  know. 

Sar.  And  that  is 

Myr.  The  true  value  of  a heart ; 

At  least,  a woman’s. 

Sar.  1 have  proved  a thousand — 

A thousand,  and  a thousand. 

Myr.  Hearts  ? 

Sar.  I think  so. 

Myr.  Not  one  ! the  time  may  come  thou  may’st. 
Sar.  It  will. 

Hear,  Myrrha ; Salcmenes  has  declared — 

Or  why  or  how  he  hath  divined  it,  Belus, 

Who  founded  our  great  realm,  knows  more  than  I — 
But  Salemenes  hath  declared  my  throne 
In  peril. 

Myr.  He  did  well. 

Sar.  And  say’st  thou  so  ? 

Thou  whom  he  spurn’d  so  harshly,  and  now  dared 1 
Drive  from  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers. 

And  made  thee  weep  and  blush  ? 


0)  [ “ and  even  dared 

Profane  our  presence  with  his  savage  jeers.”— MS.] 

(2)  [To  speak  of  “ the  tragic  song”  as  the  favourite  pastime  of 

9»-eeoe.  two  hundred  years  before  Thespis,  is  an  anachronism. 


Myr.  I should  do  both. 

More  frequently,  and  he  did  well  to  call  me 
Back  to  my  duty.  But  thou  spakest  of  peril — 

Peril  to  thee 

Sar.  Ay,  from  dark  plots  and  snares 

From  Medes — and  discontented  troops  and  nations. 

I know  not  what — a labyrinth  of  things — 

A maze  of  mutter’d  threats  and  mysteries  : 

Thou  know’st  the  man — it  is  his  usual  custom. 

But  he  is  honest.  Come,  we’ll  think  no  more  on’t — > 
But  of  the  midnight  festival. 

Myr.  ’Tis  time 

To  think  of  aught  save  festivals.  Thou  hast  not 
Spurn’d  his  sage  cautions  ? 

Sar.  What  ? — and  dost  thou  fear  ? 

Myr.  Fear  ! — I’m  a Greek,  and  how  should  I fear 
death  F 

A slave,  and  wherefore  should  I dread  my  freedom  ? 
Sar.  Then  wherefore  dost,  thou  turn  so  pale  ? 

Myr.  I love. 

Sar.  And  do  not  I ? I love  thee  far — far  more 
Than  either  the  brief  life  or  the  wide  realm, 

Which,  it  may  be,  are  menaced; — yet  I blench  not. 

Myr.  That  means  thou  lovest  not  thyself  nor  me  ; 
For  he  who  loves  another  loves  himself, 

Even  for  that  other’s  sake.  This  is  too  rash  . 
Kingdoms  and  lives  are  not  to  be  so  lost. 

Sar.  Lost ! — why,  who  is  the  aspiring  chief  who 
dared 

Assume  to  win  them  ? 

Myr.  W7ho  is  he  should  dread 

To  try  so  much  ? When  he  who  is  their  ruler 
Forgets  himself,  will  they  remember  him  ? 

Sar.  Myrrha ! 

Myr.  Frown  not  upon  me  : you  have  smiled 

Too  often  on  me  not  to  make  those  frowns 
Bitterer  to  bear  than  any  punishment 
Which  they  may  augur. — King,  I am  your  subject ! 
Master,  I am  your  slave  ! Man,  I have  loved  you  ! — 
Loved  you,  I know  not  by  what  fatal  weakness, 
Although  a Greek,  and  born  a foe  to  monarchs — • 

A slave,  and  hating  fetters — an  Ionian, 

And,  therefore,  when  I love  a stranger,  more 
Degraded  by  that  passion  than  by  chains  ! 

Still  I have  loved  you.  If  that  love  were  strong 
Enough  to  overcome  all  former  nature, 

Shall  it  not  claim  the  privilege  to  save  you  ? 

Sar.  Save  me,  my  beauty  ! Thou  art  very  fair, 

And  what  I seek  of  thee  is  love— not  safety. 

Myr.  And  without  love  where  dwells  security  ? 

Sar.  I speak  of  woman’s  love. 

Myr.  The  very  first 

Of  human  life  must  spring  from  woman’s  breast, 

Your  first  small  words  are  taught  you  from  her  lips, 
Your  first  tears  quench’d  by  her,  and  your  last  sighs 
Too  often  breathed  out  in  a woman’s  hearing, 

When  men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  led  them. 

Sar.  My  eloquent  Ionian  ! thou  speak’st  music, 

The  very  chorus  of  the  tragic  song  2 * 
I have  heard  thee  talk  of  as  the  favour! ’e  pastime 
Of  thy  far  father-land.  Nay,  weep  not — calm  thee. 

Myr.  I weep  not. — But  I pray  thee,  do  not  speal 
About  my  fathers  or  their  land. 


Nor  could  Myrrha,  at  so  early  a period  of  her  country  s history, 
have  spoken  of  their  national  hatred  of  kings,  or  of  that  which 
was  equally  the  growth  of  a later  age, — their  contempt  for  "bar 
barians.’— Hebek.] 


252 


LURD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  I 


Sar.  Yet  oft 

Thou  speakest  of  them. 

Myr.  True — true  : constant  thought 

Will  overflow  in  words  unconsciously ; 

But  when  another  speaks  of  Greece,  it  wounds  me. 
Sar.  Well,  then,  how  wouldst  thou  save  me,  a' 
thou  saidst  ? 

Myr.  By  teaching  thee  to  save  thyself,  and  not 
Thyself  alone,  but  these  vast  realms,  from  all 
The  rage  of  the  worst  war — the  war  of  brethren  ! 

Sar.  Why,  child,  I loathe  all  war,  and  warriors  ; 

I live  in  peace  and  pleasure  : what  can  man 
Do  more  ? 

Myr.  Alas  ! my  lord,  with  common  men 
There  needs  too  oft  the  show  of  war  to  keep 
The  substance  of  sweet  peace  ; and  for  a king, 

'Tis  sometimes  better  to  be  fear’d  than  loved. 

Sar.  And  I have  never  sought  but  for  the  last. 

Myr.  And  now  art  neither. 

Sar.  Dost  thou  say  so,  Myrrha  ? 

Myr.  I speak  of  civic  popular  love,  self-love, 

Which  means  that  men  are  kept  in  awe  and  law, 

Yet  not  oppress’d — at  least  they  must  not  think  so ; 
Or  if  they  think  so,  deem  it  necessary, 

To  ward  off  worse  oppression,  their  own  passions. 

A king  of  feasts,  and  flowers,  and  wine,  and  revel, 

And  love,  and  mirth,  was  never  king  of  glory. 

Sar.  Glory  ! what’s  that  ? 

Myr.  Ask  of  the  gods  thy  fathers. 

Sar.  They  cannot  answer ; when  the  priests  speak 
for  them, 

’Tis  for  some  small  addition  to  the  temple. 

Myr.  Look  to  the  annals  of  thine  empire’s  founders. 
Sar.  They  are  so  blotted  o’er  with  blood,  I cannot. 
But  what  wouldst  have  ? the  empire  has  been  founded. 
I cannot  go  on  multiplying  empires. 

Myr.  Preserve  thine  own. 

Sar.  At  least,  I will  enjoy  it. 

Come,  Myrrha,  let  us  go  on  to  the  Euphrates  : 

The  hour  invites,  the  galley  is  prepared, 

And  the  pavilion,  deck’d  for  our  return, 

In  fit  adornment  for  the  evening  banquet, 

Shall  blaze  with  beauty  and  with  light,  until 
It  seems  unto  the  stars  which  are  above  us 
Itself  an  opposite  star  ; and  we  will  sit 

Crown’d  with  fresh  flowers  like 

Myr.  Victims, 

Sar.  No,  like  sovereigns, 

The  shepherd  kings  of  patriarchal  times, 

Who  knew  no  brighter  gems  than  summer  wreaths,1 
And  none  but  tearless  triumphs.  Let  us  on. 

Enter  Pania. 

Fan.  May  the  king  live  for  ever ! 

Sar.  Not  an  hour 

Longer  than  he  can  love.  How  my  soul  hates 
This  language,  which  makes  life  itself  a lie. 

Blattering  dust  with  eternity.2  Well,  Pania  ! 

Be  brief. 

Pan.  I am  charged  by  Salemeues  to 
Reiterate  his  prayer  unto  the  king, 

That  for  this  day,  at  least,  he  will  not  quit 
The  palace  : when  the  general  returns, 

He  will  adduce  such  reasons  as  will  warrant 
His  daring,  and  perhaps  obtain  the  pardon 
Of  his  presumption. 


Sar.  What ! am  I then  coop’d  ? 

Already  captive  ? can  I not  even  breathe 
The  breath  of  heaven  ? Tell  prince  Salemeues, 

Were  all  Assyria  raging  round  the  walls 
In  mutinous  myriads,  I would  still  go  forth. 

Pan.  I must  obey,  and  yet — 

Myr.  Oh,  monarch,  listen.— 

How  many  a day  and  moon  thou  hast  reclined 
W'tliin  these  palace  walls  in  silken  dalliance, 

And  never  shown  thee  to  thy  people’s  longing ; 
Leaving  thy  subjects’  eyes  ungratified, 

The  sat.’aps  uncontroll’d,  the  gods  unworshipp’d. 

And  all  things  in  the  anarchy  of  sloth, 

Till  all,  save,  evil,  slumber’d  through  the  realm  ! 

And  wilt  thou  not  now  tarry  for  a day, — 

A day  which  may  redeem  thee  ? Wilt  thou  not 
Yield  to  the  few  Hill  faithful  a few  hours, 

Eor  them,  for  thee,  for  thy  past  fathers’  race, 

And  for  thy  sons’  inheritance  ? 

Pan.  ’Tis  true  ! 

Erom  the  deep  urgency  with  which  the  prince 
Despatched  me  to  your  sacred  presence,  I 
Must  dare  to  add  my  feeble  *'cice  to  that 
Which  now  has  spoken. 

Sar.  No,  L mvH  not  be. 

Myr.  Eor  the  sake  of  thy  realm  1 

Sar.  Away ! 

Pan.  Eor  that 

Of  all  thy  faithful  subjects,  who  will  rally 
Round  tiiee  and  thine  ! 

Sar.  These  are  mere  fantasies  ; 

There  is  no  peril : — ’tis  a sullen  scheme 
Of  Salemenes,  to  approve  his  zeal. 

And  sIioav  himself  more  necessary  to  us.  [c  urxei. 
Myr.  By  all  that’s  good  and  glorious  take  thi« 
Sar.  Business  to-morrow. 

Myr.  Ay,  or  death  t#-n  ght. 

Sar.  Why  let  it  come  then  unexpectedly 
’Midst  joy  and  gentleness,  and  mirth  and  love  ; 

So  let  me  fall  like  the  pluck’d  rose  ! — far  better 
Thus  than  be  wither’d. 

Myr.  Then  thou  wilt  not  yield. 

Even  for  the  sake  of  all  that  ever  stirr’d 
A monarch  into  action,  to  forego 
A trifling  revel  ? 

Sar.  No. 

Myr.  Then  yield  for  mine  ; 

Eor  my  sake ! 

Sar.  Thine,  my  Myrrha  ! 

Myr.  ’Tis  the  first 

Boon  which  I ever  ask’d  Assyria’s  king. 

Sar.  That’s  true,  and  wer’t  my  kingdom,  must  be 
granted. 

Well,  for  thy  sake,  I yield  me.  Pania,  hence  ! 

Thou  hear’st  me. 

Pan.  And  obey.  Exit  Pania 

Sar.  I marvei  at,  thee. 

What  is  thy  motive,  Myrrha,  thus  to  urge  me  ? 

Myr.  Thy  safety  ; and  the  certainty  that  nougut 
Could  urge  the  prince  thy  kinsman  to  require 
Thus  much  from  thee,  but  some  impending  danger. 
Sar.  And  if  I do  not  dread  it,  why  shouldst  thou  ? 
Myr.  Because  thou  dost  not  fear,  I fear  for  thee. 
Sar.  To-morrow  thou  wilt  smile  at  these  vain 
fancies.  [weep, 

Myr.  If  the  worst  come,  I shall  be  where  none 


(1)  [“  Who  loved  no  gems  so  well  as  those  of  nature." — MS.] 


(2)  [“  Wishing  eternity  to  dust.” — MS.] 


»CEXE  I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


253 


And  that  is  better  than  tne  power  to  smile. 

And  thou  ? 

Sar.  I shall  be  king,  as  heretofore. 

Myr.  Where? 

gar  With  Baal,  Nimrod,  and  Semiramis, 

Sole  in  Assyria,  or  with  them  elsewhere. 

Fate  made  me  what  I am— may  make  me  nothing— 
But  either  that  or  nothing  must  I be : 

I will  not  live  degraded. 

Myr.  Hadst  thou  felt 

Thus  always,  none  would  ever  dare  degrade  thee. 

Sar.  And  who  will  do  so  now  ? 

2 \fyT'  Dost  thou  suspect  none  ? 

Sar.  Suspect ! — that’s  a spy’s  office.  Oh  ! we  lose 
Ten  thousand  precious  moments  in  vain  words, 

And  vainer  fears.  Within  there  ! — Ye  slaves,  deck 
The  hall  of  Nimrod  for  the  evening  revel : 

If  I must  make  a prison  of  our  palace, 

At  least  we’ll  wear  our  fetters  jocundly : 

If  the  Euphrates  be  forbid  us.  and 

The  Summer  dwelling  on  its  beauteous  border, 

Here  we  are  still  unmenaced.  Ho  ! within  there  ! 

{Exit  Sardanapalus. 
Myr.  {sola).  Why  do  I love  this  man  ? My 
country’s  daughters 

Love  none  but  heroes.  But  I have  no  country  ! 

The  slave  hath  lost  all  save  her  bonds.  I love  him  ; 
And  that’s  the  heaviest  link  of  the  long  chain — 

To  love  whom  we  esteem  not.  Be  it  so : 

The  hour  is  coming  when  he’ll  need  all  love, 

And  find  none.  To  fall  from  him  now  were  baser 
Than  to  have  stabb’d  him  on  his  throne  when  highest 
Would  have  been  noble  in  my  country’s  creed : 

I was  not  made  for  either.  Could  I save  him, 

I should  not  love  him  better,  but  myself ; 

And  I have  need  of  the  last,  for  I have  fallen 
In  my  own  thoughts,  by  loving  this  soft  stranger  : 
And  yet  methinks  I love  him  more,  perceiving 
That  he  is  hated  of  his  own  barbarians, 

The  natural  foes  of  all  the  blood  of  Greece. 

Could  I but  wake  a single  thought  like  those 
Which  even  the  Phrygians  felt  when  battling  long 
’Twixt  Ilion  and  the  sea,  within  his  heart, 

He  would  tread  down  the  barbarous  crowds,  and 
triumph. 

He  loves  me,  and  I love  him  ; the  slave  loves 
Her  master,  and  would  free  him  from  his  vices. 

If  not,  I have  a means  of  freedom  still, 

And  if  I cannot  teach  him  how  to  reign, 

May  show  him  how  alone  a king  can  leave 
His  throne.  I must  not  lose  him  from  my  sight. 

{Exit} 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I 

The  Portal  of  the  same  Hall  of  the  Palace. 

Beleses  {solus).  The  sun  goes  down : methinks  he 
sets  more  slowly, 


(1)  [There  are  two  of  T.ord  Byron’s  characteristic  excellencies, 
which  he  never  leaves  behind  in  his  most  fantastic  expeditions, 
and  which  he  has  accordingly  brought  into  his  new  domain  of 
classic  tragedy.  One  of  these  is  his  intense  feeling  of  the  loveliness 
of  woman— his  power,  not  only  of  picturing  individual  forms,  but 
of  infusing  into  the  very  atmosphere  which  surrounds  them  the 
spirit  of  beauty  and  of  love.  A soft  roseate  light  is  spread  over 
them,  which  seems  to  sink  into  the  soul.  The  other  faculty  to 
which  we  allude  is  his  comprehensive  sympathy  with  the  vastest 


Taking  his  las.,  look  of  Assyria’s  empire. 

How  red  lie  glares  amongst  those  deepening  Ciouda, 
Like  the  blood  he  predicts ! If  not  in  vain, 

Thou  sun  that  sinkest,  and  ye  stars  which  rise, 

I have  out  watch’d  ye,  reading  ray  by  ray 
The  edicts  of  your  orbs,  which  make  Time  tremble 
For  what  he  brings  the  nations,  ’tis  the  furthest 
Hour  of  Assyria’s  years.  And  yet  how  calm  ! 

An  earthquake  should  announce  so  great  a fall — 

A summer’s  sun  discloses  it.  Yon  disk, 

To  the  star-read  Chaldean,  bears  upon 
Its  everlasting  page  the  end  of  what 
Seem’d  everlasting ; but  oh  ! thou  true  sun ! 

The  burning  oracle  of  all  that  live, 

As  fountain  of  all  life,  and  symbol  of 
Him  who  bestows  it,  wherefore  dost  thou  limit 
Thy  lore  unto  calamity  ? Why  not 
Unfold  the  rise  of  days  more  worthy  thine 
All-glorious  burst  from  ocean  ? why  not  dart 
A beam  of  hope  athwart  the  future  years, 

As  of  wrath  to  its  days  ? Hear  me  ! oh,  hear  me  ! 

I am  thy  worshipper,  thy  priest,  thy  servant — 

I have  gazed  on  thee  at  thy  rise  and  fall, 

And  bow’d  my  head  beneath  thy  mid-day  beams, 
When  my  eye  dared  not  meet  thee.  I have  watch’d 
For  thee,  and  after  thee,  and  pray’d  to  thee, 

And  sacrificed  to  thee,  and  read,  and  fear’d  thee, 

And  ask’d  of  thee,  and  thou  hast  answer’d — but 
Only  to  thus  much  : while  I speak,  he  sinks — 

Is  gone — and  leaves  his  beauty,  not  his  knowledge. 
To  the  delighted  west,  which  revels  in 
Its  hues  of  dying  glory.  Yet  what  is 
Death,  so  it  be  but  glorious  ? ’Tis  a sunset ; 

And  mortals  may  be  happy  to  resemble 
The  gods  but  in  decay. 

Enter  Arbaces,  by  an  inner  door. 

Arb.  Beleses,  why 

So  rapt  in  thy  devotions  ? Dost  thou  stand 
Gazing  to  trace  thy  disappearing  god 
Into  some  realm  of  undiscover’d  day  ? 

Our  business  is  with  night — ’tis  come. 

Bel.  But  not 

Gone. 

Arb.  Let  it  roll  on — we  are  ready. 

Bel.  Yes. 

Would  it  were  over  1 

Arb.  Does  the  prophet  doubt, 

To  whom  the  very  stars  shine  victory  ? 

Bel.  I do  not  doubt  of  victory — but  the  victor. 

Arb.  Well,  let  thy  science  settle  that.  Meantime 
I have  prepared  as  many  glittering  spears 
As  will  out-sparkle  our  allies — your  planets. 

There  is  no  more  to  thwart  us.  The  she-king. 

That  less  than  woman,  is  even  now  upon 
The  waters  with  his  female  mates.  The  order 
Is  issued  for  the  feast  in  the  pavilion. 

The  first  cup  which  he  drains  will  be  the  last 
Quaff’d  by  the  line  of  Nimrod. 

Bel.  ’Twas  a brave  one 


objects  in  the  material  universe.  There  is  scarcely  any  pure  de- 
scription of  individual  scenes  in  all  his  works ; but  the  noblest 
allusions  to  the  grandeurs  of  earth  and  heaven.  He  pays  “ no 
allegiance  but  to  the  elements.”  The  moon,  the  stars,  the  oceai., 
the  mountain  desert,  are  endowed  by  him  with  new  “ speech  and 
language,”  and  send  to  the  heart  their  mighty  voices.  He  can 
interpret  between  us  and  the  firmament,  or  give  us  all  the  senti- 
ment of  an  everlasting  solitude. — Anon.] 


254 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  II 


Arb.  And  is  a weak  one — ’tis  worn  out — we’ll 
mend  it. 

Bel.  Art  sure  of  that  ? 

Arb  Its  founder  was  a hunter — 

I am  c soldier — what  is  there  to  fear  ? 

Bel.  The  soldier. 

Arb.  And  the  priest,  it  may  be  : but 

If  you  thought  thus,  or  think,  why  not  retain 
Your  king  of  concubines  ? why  stir  me  up  ? 

Why  spur  me  to  this  enterprise  ? your  own 
No  less  than  mine  ? 

Bel.  Look  to  the  sky  ! 

Arb.  I look. 

Bel.  What  seest  thou  ? 

Arb.  A fair  summer’s  twilight,  and 

The  gathering  of  the  stars. 

Bel.  And  midst  them,  mark 

Yon  earliest,  and  the  brightest,  which  so  quivers, 

As  it  would  quit  its  place  in  the  blue  ether. 

Arb.  Well? 

Bel.  ’Tis  thy  natal  ruler — thy  birth  planet. 

Arb.  ( touching  his  scabbard ).  My  star  is  in  this 
scabbard  : when  it  shines, 

It  shall  out-dazzle  comets.  Let  us  think 

Of  what  is  to  be  done  to  justify 

Thy  planets  and  their  portents.  When  we  conquer, 

They  shall  have  temples—  ay,  and  priests — and  thou 

Shalt  be  the  pontiff  of — what  gods  thou  wilt ; 

For  I observe  that  they  are  ever  just, 

And  own  the  bravest  for  the  most  devout. 

Bel.  Ay,  and  the  most  devout  for  brave  — thou 
hast  not 

Seen  me  turn  back  from  battle. 

Arb.  No  ; I own  thee 

As  firm  in  fight  as  Babylonia’s  captain. 

As  skilful  in  Chaldea’s  worship  : now, 

Will  it  but  please  thee  to  forget  the  priest, 

And  be  the  warrior  ? 

Bel.  Why  not  both  ? 

At  b The  better ; 

And  yet  it  almost  shames  me,  we  shall  have 
So  little  to  effect.  This  woman’s  warfare 
Degrades  the  very  conqueror.  To  have  pluck’d 
A bold  and  bloody  despot  from  his  throne, 

And  grappled  with  him,  clashing  steel  with  steel, 

That  were  heroic  or  to  win  or  fall ; 

But  to  upraise  my  sword  against  this  silkworm, 

And  hear  him  whine,  it  may  be 

Bel.  Do  not  deem  it ; 

He  lias  that  in  him  which  may  make  you  strife  yet ; 
And  were  he  all  you  think,  his  guards  are  hardy. 

And  headed  by  the  cool,  stern  Salemenes. 

Arb.  They’ll  not  resist. 

Bel.  Why  not  ? they  are  soldiers. 

Arb.  True, 

And  therefore  need  a soldier  to  command  them. 

Bel.  That  Salemenes  is. 

Arb.  But  not  their  king. 

Besides,  he  hates  the  effeminate  thing  that  governs, 
For  the  queen’s  sake,  his  sister.  Mark  you  not 
He  keeps  aloof  from  all  the  revels  ? 

Bel.  But 

Not  from  the  council — there  he  is  ever  constant. 

Arb.  And  ever  thwarted  : what  would  you  have 
more 

To  make  a rebel  out  of?  A fool  reigning, 

His  blood  dishonour’d,  and  himself  disdain’d  : 

Why,  it  is  his  revenge  we  work  for. 


Bel.  Could 

He  but  be  brought  to  think  so  : this  I doubt  of. 

Arb.  What,  if  we  sound  him  ? 

ddel.  Yes — if  the  time  served 

Enter  Balea. 

Bal.  Satraps  ! The  king  commands  your  presence  al 
The  feast  to-night. 

Bel.  To  hear  is  to  obey. 

In  the  pavilion  ? 

Bal.  No  ; here  in  the  palace. 

Arb.  How  ! in  the  palace  ? it  was  not  thus  order’d 
Bal.  It  is  so  order’d  now. 

Arb.  And  why  ? 

Bal.  I know  not . 

May  I retire  ? 

Arb.  Stay. 

Bel.  (to  Arb.  aside).  Flush!  let  him  go  his  way. 

( Alternately  to  Bal.)  Yes,  Balea,  thank  the  monarch, 
kiss  the  hem 

Of  his  imperial  robe,  and  say,  his  slaves 
Will  take  the  crumbs  he  deigns  to  scatter  from 
His  royal  table  at  the  hour — was’t  midnight  ? 

Bal.  It  was:  the  place,  the  hall  of  Nimrod.  Lords, 
I humble  me  before  you,  and  depart.  [Exit  Balea. 

Arb.  I like  not  this  same  sudden  change  of  place  ; 
There  is  some  mystery : wherefore  should  he  change 
it  ? 

Bel.  Doth  he  not  change  a thousand  times  a day  ? 
Sloth  is  of  all  things  the  most  fanciful — 

And  moves  more  parasangs  in  its  intents 
Than  generals  in  their  marches,  when  they  seek 
To  leave  their  foe  at  fault. — Why  dost  thou  muse  f 
Arb.  He  loved  that  gay  pavilion, — it  was  ever 
His  summer  dotage. 

Bel.  And  he  loved  his  queen—  ■ 

And  thrice  a thousand  harlotry  besides — 

And  he  has  loved  all  things  by  turns,  except 
Wisdom  and  glory. 

Arb.  Still — I like  it  not. 

If  lie  has  changed — why,  so  must  we  : the  attack 
Were  easy  in  the  isolated  bower, 

Beset  with  drowsy  guards  and  drunken  courtiers : 

But  in  the  hall  of  Nimrod 

Bel.  Is  it  so  ? 

Methought  the  haughty  soldier  fear’d  to  mount 
A throne  too  easily — does  it  disappoint  thee 
To  find  there  is  a slipperier  step  or  two 
Than  what  was  counted  on  ? 

Arb.  When  the  hour  comes, 

Thou  shalt  perceive  how  far  I fear  or  no. 

Thou  hast  seen  my  life  at  stake — and  gaily  play’d 
for ; 

But  here  is  more  upon  the  die — a kingdom 
Bel.  I have  foretold  already — thou  wilt  win  it : 
Then  on,  and  prosper. 

Arb.  Now,  were  I a soothsayer, 

I would  have  boded  so  much  to  myself. 

But  be  the  stars  obey’d — I cannot  quarrel 
With  them,  nor  their  interpreter.  Who’s  here? 

Enter  Salemenes. 

Sal.  Satraps ! 

Bel.  My  prince ! 

Sal.  “ Well  met  — I sought  ye  both. 

But  elsewhere  than  the  palace. 

Arb.  Wherefore  so  ? 

Sal.  ’Tis  not  the  hour. 


SCENE  I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


255 


jrb'  The  hour ! — what  hour  ? 

Sal.  0f  midnight. 

Bel.  Midnight,  my  lord ! 

gal  What,  are  you  not  invited  ? 

Bel.  Oh  ! yes —we  had  forgotten. 

Sal.  ^ usual 

Thus  to  forget  a sovereign’s  invitation  ? 

Arb.  Why — we  but  now  received  it. 

Sal.  “ Then  why  here  ? 

Arb.  On  duty. 

Sal.  On  what  duty  ? 

gel  On  the  state’s. 

We  have  the  privilege  to  approach  the  presence ; 

But  found  the  monarch  absent.1 

Sal.  And  I too 

Am  unon  dutv. 

Arb.  " May  we  crave  its  purport  ? 

Sal.  To  arrest  two  traitors.  Guards  ! Within  there  ! 


Eater  Guards. 


Satraps, 


Sal.  {continuing). 

Your  swords. 

Bel.  {delivering  his).  My  lord,  behold  my  scimitar. 
Arb.  {drawing  his  sword).  Take  mine. 

Sal.  {advancing) . I will. 

Arb.  Bulkin  your  heart  the  blade — 

The  hilt  quits  not  this  hand.2 

Sal.  {drawing).  How  ! dost  thou  brave  me  ? 

Mis  well — this  saves  a trial,  and  false  mercy. 

Soldiers,  hew  down  tire  rebel ! 

Arb.  Soldiers  ! Ay — 

Alone  you  dare  not. 

Sal.  Alone  ! foolish  slave — 

Wni  s there  in  thee  that  a prince  should  shrink  from 
(Jr  open  force?  We  dread  thy  treason,  not  [venom— 
Tiiy  strength:  thy  tooth  is  nought  without  its 

The  serpent’s,  not  the  lion’s.  Cut  him  down. 

Bel  ( interposing ).  Arbaces ! are  you  mad?  Have 
I not  render’d  [justice. 

My  sword?  Then  trust  like  me  our  sovereign’s 
Arb.  No — I will  sooner  Irust  the  stars  thou  prat’st 
And  this  slight  arm,  and  die  a king  at  least  [of, 

Of  my  own  breath  and  body — so  far  that 
None  else  shall  chain  them. 

Sal.  {to  the  Guards).  You  hear  him,  and  me. 
Take  him  not, — kill. 

[The  Guards  attach  Arbaces,  ivho  defends  him- 
self valiantly  and  dexterously  till  they  waver. 
Sal.  Is  it  even  so  ? and  must 

1 do  the  hangman’s  office  ? Recreants  ! see 
How  you  should  fell  a traitor. 

[Salemenep  attacks  Arbaces 

Enter  Sardanaeai  ^s  and  Train. 

Sar.  Hold  your  hands — 

Upon  your  lives,  I say.  What,  deaf  or  drunken  ? 

My  sword  ! 0 fool,  I wear  no  sword  : here,  fellow, 

Give  me  thy  weapon.  T To  a Guard. 

[Sardanapalus  snatches  a sword  from  one  of  the 
soldiers , and  rushes  between  the  combatants — 
they  separate. 

Sar.  In  my  very  palace  ! 

What  hinders  me  from  cleaving  you  in  twain, 
Audacious  brawlers  ? 


(1^  [“  But  found  the  monarch  claim’d  his  privacy.” — MS.] 


Bel.  Sire,  your  justice. 

Sal.  ’ Or— 

Your  weakness. 

Sar.  { raising  his  sword).  How  ? 

Sal.  Strike  ! so  the  blow’s  repeated 

Upon  yon  traitor — whom  you  spare  a moment, 

I trust  for  torture — I’m  content. 

Sar.  What — him ! 

Who  dares  assail  Arbaces  ? 

Sal.  I ! 

Sar.  Indeed ! 

Prince,  you  forget  yourself.  Upon  what  warrant? 

Sal.  {showing  the  signet .)  Thine. 

Arb.  {confused.)  The  king’s  ! 

Sal.  Yes  ! and  let  the  king  confirm  it. 

Sar.  I parted  not  from  this  for  such  a purpose. 

Sal.  You  parted  with  it  for  your  safety — I 
Employ’d  it  for  the  best.  Pronounce  m person. 

Here  i am  but  your  slave — a moment  past 
I was  your  representative. 

Sar.  Then  sheatne 

Your  swords. 

[Arbaces  and  Salemenes  return  their  swords 
to  the  scabbards. 

Sal.  Mine’s  sheathed  : I pray  you  sheathe  not  yours; 
’Tis  the  sole  sceptre  left  you  now  with  safety. 

Sar.  A heavy  one  ; the  hilt,  too,  hurts  my  hand. 

{To  a Guard .)  Here,  fellow,  take  thy  weapon  back 
Well,  sirs, 

'What  doth  this  mean  ? 

Bel  The  prince  must  answer  tuat 

Sal.  Truth  upon  my  part,  treason  upoo  Jmirs. 

Sar.  Treason — Arbaces  ! treachery  ana  Belesis  ! 
That  were  an  union  I will  not  believe. 

Bel.  Where  is  the  proof  ? 

Sal.  I’ll  answer  that,  if  once 

The  king  demands  your  fellow-traitor  o sword. 

Arb.  {to  Sal.).  A sword  which  hath  been  drawn  as 
oft  as  thine 
Against  his  foes. 

Sal.  And  now  against  l/.is  brother. 

And  in  an  hour  or  so  against  himseli. 


Sar.  That  is  not  possible  : he  dared  not ; no — 
No — I’ll  not  hear  of  such  things.  These  vain  bi 


bicker 


1 

Are  spawn’d  in  courts  by  base  intrigues,  and  baser 
Hirelings,  who  live  by  lies  on  good  men’s  lives. 

You  must  have  been  deceived,  my  brother. 

Sal.  First 

Let  him  deliver  up  his  weapon,  and 
Proclaim  himself  your  subject  by  that  duty. 

And  I will  answer  all. 

Sar.  Why,  if  I thought  so — 

But  no,  it  cannot  be  : the  Mede  Arbaces — 

The  trusty,  rough,  true  soldier — the  best  captain 

Of  all  who  discipline  our  nations No, 

I’ll  not  insult  him  thus,  to  bid  him  render 

The  scimitar  to  me  he  never  yielded 

Unto  our  enemies.  Chief,  keep  your  weapon. 

Sal.  {delivering  back  the  signet).  Monarch,  tas. 
back  your  signet. 

Sar.  No,  retain  it; 

But  use  it  with  more  moderation. 

Sal.  Sire, 

I used  it  for  your  honour,  and  restore  it 


(2, 


[ “ not  else 

It  quits  this  living  hand.” — MS.] 


256' 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


ACT  II. 


Because  ] cannot  keep  it  with  my  own. 

Bestow  it  on  Arbaces. 

Sar.  So  I should  : 

He  never  ask’d  it. 

Sal.  Doubt  not,  lie  will  have  it, 

Without  that  hollow  semidance  of  respect. 

Bel.  I know  not  what  hath  prejudiced  the  prince 
So  strongly  ’gainst  two  subjects,  than  whom  none 
Have  been  more  zealous  for  Assyria’s  weal. 

Sal.  Peace,  factious  priest  and  faithless  soldier ! 
thou 

Unit’st  in  thy  own  person  the  worst  vices 
Of  the  most  dangerous  orders  of  mankind. 

Keep  thy  smooth  words  and  juggling  homilies 
Por  those  who  know  thee  not.  Thy  fellow’s  sin 
Is,  at  the  least,  a bold  one,  and  not  temper’d 
By  the  tricks  taught  thee  in  Chaldea. 

Bel.  Hear  him, 

My  liege — the  son  of  Bclus  ! he  blasphemes 
The  worship  of  the  land,  which  bows  the  knee 
Before  your  fathers. 

Sar.  Oh ! for  that  I pray  you 

Let  him  have  absolution.  I dispense  with 
The  worship  of  dead  men  ; feeling  that  I 
Am  mortal,  and  believing  that  the  race  [ashes. 

Prom  whence  I sprung  are  — what  1 see  them — 
Bel.  King  ! do  not  deem  so  : they  are  with  the 

. id [stars, 

Sar.  You  shall  join  them  there  ere  they  will  rise, 

If  you  preach  farther — Whv,  this  is  rank  treason. 

Sal.  My  lord! 

Sar.  To  school  me  in  the  worship  of 

Assyria’s  idols  ! Let  him  be  released — 

Give  him  his  sword. 

Sal.  My  lord,  and  king,  and  brother, 

I pray  ye  pause. 

Sar.  Yes,  and  be  sermonized, 

And  dinn’d,  and  deafen’d  with  dead  men  and  Baal, 
And  all  Chaldea’s  starry  mysteries. 

Bel.  Monarch ! respect  them. 

Sai.  Oh  ! for  that — I love  them? 

I love  to  watch  them  in  the  deep  blue  vault, 

And  to  compare  them  with  my  Myrrha’s  eyes  ; 

I love  to  see  their  rays  redoubled  in 
The  tremulous  silver  of  Euphrates’  wave, 

As  the  light  breeze  of  midnight  crisps  the  broad 
And  rolling  water,  sighing  through  the  sedges 
Which  fringe  his  banks : but  whether  they  may  be 
Gods,  as  some  say,  or  the  abodes  of  gods, 

As  others  hold,  or  simply  lamps  of  night, 

Worlds,  or  the  lights  of  worlds,  I know  nor  care  not. 
There’s  something  sweet  in  my  uncertainty 
I would  not  change  for  your  Chaldean  lore  ; 

Besides,  I know  of  these  all  clay  can  know 
Of  aught  above  it,  or  below  it — nothing. 

I see  their  brilliancy  and  feel  their  beauty — 1 
When  they  shine  on  my  grave  I shall  know  neither. 
Bel.  Eor  neither , sire,  say  better. 

Sar.  I will  wait, 

Tr  it  so  please  you,  pontiff,  for  that  knowledge. 

In  the  mean  time  receive  your  sword,  and  know 
That  I prefer  your  service  militant 
Unto  your  ministry — not  loving  either. 


(1)  [“  I know  them  beautiful,  and  see  them  brilliant.” — MS.] 

:2)  [The  second  Act  is,  we  think,  a failure.  The  cwspirators 
have  a tedious  dialogue,  which  is  interrupted  by  Salemenes  with 
h guard.  Salemenes  is  followed  by  the  king,  who  reverses  all 


SAl.  {aside).  His  lusts  have  made  him  mad.  Then 
must  I save  him, 

Spite  of  himself. 

Sar.  Please  you  to  hear  me,  Satrap*,  ( 

And  chiefly  thou,  my  priest,  because  I doubt  thee 
More  than  the  soldier ; and  would  doubt  thee  all 
Wert  thou  not  half  a warrior  : let  us  part 
In  peace — I’ll  not  say  pardon — which  must  be 
Earn’d  by  the  guilty  : this  I’ll  not  pronounce  ye, 
Although  upon  this  breath  of  mine  depends 
Your  own ; and,  deadlier  for  ye,  on  my  fears. 

But  fear  not — for  that  I am  soft,  not  fearful — 

And  so  live  on.  Were  I the  thii.g  some  think  me. 
Your  heads  would  now  be  dripping  the  last  drops 
Of  their  attainted  gore  from  the  high  gates 
Of  this  our  palace,  into  the  dry  dust, 

Their  only  portion  of  the  coveted  kingdom 
They  would  be  crown’d  to  reign  o’er — let  that  pass. 

As  I have  said,  I will  not  deem  ye  guilty, 

Nor  doom  ye  guiltless.  Albeit  better  men 
Than  ye  or  I stand  ready  to  arraign  you ; 

And  should  I leave  your  fate  to  sterner  judges, 

And  proofs  of  all  kinds,  I might  sacrifice 
Two  men,  who,  whatsoe’er  they  now  are,  were 
Once  honest.  Ye  are  free,  sirs. 

Arb.  Sire,  this  clemency 

Bel.  {interrupting  him),  is  worthy  of  yourself ; and, 
although  innocent, 

We  thank 

Sar.  Priest ! keep  your  thanksgivings  for  Belus  ; 
His  offspring  needs  none. 

Bel.  But  being  innocent 

Sar.  Be  silent. — Guilt  is  loud.  If  ye  are  loyal, 

Ye  are  injured  men,  and  should  be  sad,  not  grateful 

Bel.  So  we  should  be,  were  justice  always  done 
By  earthly  power  omnipotent ; but  innocence 
Must  oft  receive  her  right  as  a mere  favour. 

Sar.  That’s  a good  sentence  for  a homily, 

Though  not  for  this  occasion.  Prithee  keep  it 
To  plead  thy  sovereign’s  cause  before  his  people. 

Bel.  I trust  there  is  no  cause. 

Sar.  No  cause , perhaps 

But  many  causers  if  ye  meet  with  such 
In  the  exercise  of  your  inquisitive  function 
On  earth,  or  should  you  read  of  it  in  heaven 
In  some  mysterious  twinkle  of  the  stars. 

Which  are  your  chronicles,  I pray  you  note, 

That  there  are  worse  things  betwixt  earth  and 
heaven 

Than  him  who  ruletli  many  and  slays  none ; 

And,  hating  not  himself,  yet  loves  his  fellows 
Enough  to  spare  even  those  who  would  not  spare  him 
Were  they  once  masters — but  that’s  doubtful.  Sa- 
Your  swords  and  persons  are  at  liberty  [traps  ! 

To  use  them  as  ye  will— but  from  this  hour 
1 have  no  call  for  either.  Salemenes  ! 

Follow  me.2  l 

[Exeunt  Sardanapalus,  Salemenes,  and  t.ie 
Train , 8pc.  leaving  Arbaces  and  Beleses. 

Arb.  Beleses ! 

Bel.  Now,  what  think  you  ? 

Arb.  That  we  are  lost. 

Bel.  That  we  have  won  the  kingduy  >. 


his  measures,  pardons  Arbaces,  because  he  will  not  believe  hiic 
guilty,  and  Beleses,  in  order  to  escape  from  his  long  speeches 
about  the  national  religion.  This  incident  only  is  well  managed 
— Heber.] 


SrEXE  I 

Arb.  What  > thus  suspected— with  the  sword  slung 
o’er  us 

Bit  by  a single  hair,  and  that  still  wavering. 

To  be'blowii  down  by  his  imperious  breath, 

Which  spared  us — why,  I know  not. 

Bel.  Seek  not  why ; 

But  let  us  profit  by  the  interval. 

The  hour  is  still  our  own— our  power  the  same  — 

The  night  the  same  we  destined.  He  hath  changed 
Nothing  except  our  ignorance  of  all 
Suspicion  into  such  a certainty 
As  must  make  madness  of  delay. 

Arb.  . And  yet 

Bel.  What,  doubting  still  ? 

Arb.  He  spared  our  lives,  nay,  more, 

Saved  them  from  Salemenes. 

Bel.  And  how  long 

Will  he  so  spare  ? till  the  first  drunken  minute. 

Arb.  Or  sober,  rather.  Yet  he  did  it  nobly ; 

Gave  royally  what  we  had  forfeited 
Basely 

Bel.  Say  bravely. 

Arb.  Somewhat  of  both,  perhaps. 

But  it  has  touch’d  me,  and,  whate’er  betide, 

I will  no  farther  on. 

Bel.  And  lose  the  world  ! 

Arb.  Lose  any  thing  except  my  own  esteem. 

Bel.  I blush  that  we  should  owe  our  lives  to  such 
A king  of  distaffs  ! 

Arb.  But  no  less  we  owe  them  ; 

And  I should  blush  far  more  to  take  the  grantor’s  ! 

Bel.  Thou  may’st  endure  whate’er  thou  wilt — the 
Have  written  otherwise.  [stars 

Arb.  Though  they  came  down, 

And  marshall’ d me  the  way  in  all  their  brightness, 

I would  not  follow. 

Bel.  This  is  weakness — worse 

Than  a scared  beldam’s  dreaming  of  the  dead, 

And  waking  in  the  dark. — Go  to — go  to. 

Arb.  Metkougkt  he  look’d  like  Nimrod  as  he  spoke, 
Even  as  the  proud  imperial  statue  stands 
Looking  the  monarch  of  the  kings  around  it, 

And  sways,  while  they  but  ornament,  the  temple. 

Bel.  I told  you  that  you  had  too  much  despised 
him, 

And  that  there  was  some  royalty  within  him — 

What  then  ? he  is  the  nobler  foe. 

Arb.  But  we 

The  meaner : — Would  he  had  not  spared  us  ! 

Bel.  So — 

Wouldst  thou  be  sacrificed  thus  readily  ? 

Arb.  No— but  it  had  been  better  to  have  died 
Than  live  ungrateful. 

Bel.  01>.,  the  souls  of  some  men  ! 

Thou  wouldst  digest  what  some  call  treason,  and 
Fools  treachery— and,  behold,  upon  the  sudden. 
Because  for  something  or  for  nothing,  this 
Bash  reveller  steps,  ostentatiously, 

’Twixt  thee  and  Salemenes,  thou  art  turn’d 
Into — what  shall  I say  ?— Sardanapalus  ! 

1 know  no  name  more  ignominious. 

Arb.  But 

An  hour  ago,  who  dared  to  term  me  such 
Had  held  his  life  but  lightly — as  it  is, 

I must  forgive  you,  even  as  he  forgave  us — 

Semiramis  herself  would  not  have  done  it. 

Bel.  No— the  queen  liked  no  sharers  of  the  king- 
Not  even  a husband  [dom, 


257 

Arb.  I must  serve  him  truly 

Bel.  And  humbly  ? 

Arb.  No,  sir,  proudly — being  honest. 

I shall  be  nearer  thrones  than  you  to  heaven  ; 

And  if  not  quite  so  haughty,  yet  more  lofty. 

You  may  do  your  own  deeming — you  have  codes, 

And  mysteries,  and  corollaries  of 

Bight  and  wrong,  which  I lack  for  my  direction, 

And  must  pursue  but  what  a plain  heart  teaches. 

And  now  you  know  me. 

Bel.  Have  you  finish’d  ? 

Arb.  Yes— 

With  you. 

Bel.  And  would,  perhaps,  betray  as  well 
As  quit  me  ? 

Arb.  That’s  a sacerdotal  thought. 

And  not  a soldier’s. 

Bel.  Be  it  what  you  will — 

Truce  with  these  wranglings,  and»  but  hear  me. 

Arb.  No— 

There  is  more  peril  in  your  subtle  spirit 
Than  in  a phalanx. 

Bel.  If  it  must  be  so — 

I’ll  on  alone. 

Arb.  Alone ! 

Bel.  Thrones  hold  but  one. 

Arb.  But  this  is  fill’d. 

Bel.  With  worse  than  vacancy — 

A despised  monarch.  Look  to  it,  Arbaces  : 

I have  still  aided,  cherish’d,  loved,  and  urged  you; 
Was  willing  even  to  serve  you,  in  the  hope 
To  serve  and  save  Assyria.  Heaven  itself 
Seem’d  to  consent,  and  all  events  were  friendly, 

Even  to  the  last,  till  that  your  spirit  shrunk 
Into  a shallow  softness ; but  now,  rather 
Than  see  my  country  languish,  I will  be  ' 

Her  saviour  or  the  victim  of  her  tyrant, 

Or  one  or  both,  for  sometimes  both  are  one ; 

And,  if  I win,  Arbaces  is  my  servant. 

Arb.  Your  servant ! 

Bel.  Why  not  F better  than  be  slave, 

The  pardon'd  slave  of  she  Sardanapalus  ! 

Enter  Pania. 

Ban.  My  lords,  I bear  an  order  from  the  king. 

Arb.  It  is  obey’d  ere  spoken. 

Bel.  Notwithstanding, 

Let’s  hear  it. 

Pan.  Forthwith,  on  this  very  night, 

Bepair  to  your  respective  satrapies 
Of  Babylon  and  Media. 

Bel.  With  our  troops  ? 

Pan.  My  order  is  unto  the  satraps  and 
Their  household  train. 

Arb.  But 

Bel.  It  must  be  obey’d  : 

Say,  we  depart. 

Pan.  My  order  is  to  see  you 

Depart,  and  not  to  bear  your  answer. 

Bel.  {aside).  Ay ! 

Well,  sir,  we  will  accompany  you  hence. 

Pan.  I will  retire  to  marshal  forth  the  guard 
Of  honour  which  befits  your  rank,  and  wait 
Your  leisure,  so  that  it  the  hour  exceeds  not. 

[Exit  Pania. 

Bel.  Now  then  obey  ! 

Arb.  Doubtless. 

Bel . Yes,  to  the  gates 


SARDANAPALUS. 


Ll 


LORD  BYROjYS  WORKS. 


ACT  II. 


258 


That  grate  the  palace,  which  is  now  our  prison — 

N o farther. 

Arb.  Thou  hast  harp’d  the  truth  indeed  ! 

The  realm  tself,  in  all  its  wide  extension, 

Yawns  dungeons  at  each  step  for  thee  and  me. 

Bel.  Graves  ! 

Arb.  If  1 thought  so,  this  good  sword  should  dig 
One  more  than  mine. 

Bel.  It  shall  have  work  enough. 

Let  me  hope  better  than  thou  augurest ; 

At  present,  let  us  hence  as  best  we  may. 

Thou  dost  agree  with  me  in  understanding 
This  order  as  a sentence  ? 

Arb.  Why,  what  other 

Interpretation  should  it  bear  ? it  is 
The  very  policy  of  orient  monarchs — 

Pardon  and  poison — favours  and  a sword — 

Y distant  voyage  and  an  eternal  sleep. 

How  many  satraps  iifchis  father’s  time — 

For  he  I own  is,  or  at  least  was , bloodless — 

Bel.  But  will  not,  can  not  be  so  now. 

Arb.  I doubt  it. 

How  many  satraps  have  I seen  set  out 
In  his  sire’s  day  for  mighty  vice-royalties, 

Whose  tombs  are  on  their  path  ! I know  not  how, 

But  they  all  sicken’d  by  the  way,  it  was 
So  long  and  heavy. 

Bel.  Let  us  but  regain 

The  free  air  of  the  city,  and  we’ll  shorten 
The  journey. 

Arb.  ’Twill  be  shorten’d,  at  the  gates, 

It  may  be. 

Bel.  No  ; they  hardly  will  risk  that. 

They  mean  us  to  die  privately,  but  not 
Within  the  palace  or  the  city  walls, 

Where  we  are  known,  and  may  have  partisans  : 

If  they  had  meant  to  slay  us  here,  we  were 
No  longer  with  the  living.  Let  us  hence. 

Arb.  If  I but  thought  he  did  not  mean  my  life— — 
Bel.  Fool  ! hence  — what  else  should  despotism 
aiarm’d 

Mean  ? Let  us  but  rejoin  our  troops,  and  march. 
Arb.  Towards  our  provinces  ? 

Bel.  No;  towards  your  kingdom. 

There’s  time,  there’s  heart,  and  hope,  and  power,  and 
means, 

Which  their  half  measures  leave  us  in  full  scope. — 
Away ! 

Arb.  And  I even  yet  repenting  must 
Relapse  to  guilt ! 

Bel.  Self-defence  is  a virtue. 

Sole  bulwark  of  all  right.  Away,  I say  ! 


(1)  [Arbaces  is  a mere  common-place  warrior;  and  Beleses,  on 
whom,  we  suspect,  Lord  Byron  has  bestowed  more  than  usual 
pains,  is  a very  ordinary  and  uninteresting  villain.  Sardanapalus, 
indeed,  and  Salemenes,  are  both  made  to  speak  of  the  wily  Chal- 
dean as  the  master-mover  of  the  plot,  as  a politician  in  whose 
hands  Arbaces  is  but  a “warlike  puppet;”  and  Diodorus  Siculus 
has  represented  him,  in  fact,  as  the  first  instigator  of  Arbaces  to 
bis  treason,  and  as  making  use  of  his  priestly  character,  and  his 
supposed  power  of  foretelling  future  events,  to  inflame  the  ambi- 
tion, to  direct  the  measures,  to  sustain  the  hopes,  and  to  reprove 
the  despondency  of  his  comrade.  But  of  all  this  nothing  appears 
in  the  tragedy.  Lord  Byron  has  been  so  anxious  to  show  his  own 
contempt  for  the  priest,  that  he  has  not  even  allowed  him  that 
share  of  Claiming  and  evil  influence  which  was  necessary  for  the 
part  which  he  had  to  fill.  Instead  of  being  the  original,  the  rest- 
less, and  unceasing  prompter  to  bold  and  wicked  measures,  we  find 
him,  on  his  first  appearance,  hanging  back  from  the  enterprise, 
and  chilling  the  energy  of  Arbaces  by  an  enumeration  of  the  real 
or  possible  difficulties  which  might  yet  impede  its  execution. 


Let’s  leave  this  place,  the  air  grows  thick  and  chokin'', 
And  the  walls  have  a scent  of  night-shade — hence  ! 
Let  us  not  leave  them  time  for  further  council. 

Our  quick  departure  proves  our  civic  zeal ; 

Our  quick  departure  hinders  our  good  escort, 

The  worthy  Paiiia,  from  anticipating 
The  orders  of  some  parasangs  from  hence  : 

Nay,  there’s  no  other  choice,  but hence,  I say. 

{Exit  with  Arbaces,  who  follows  r eluctantl )/. 

Enter  Sardanapalus  and  Salemenes. 

Sar.  Well,  all  is  remedied,  and  without  bloodshed. 
That  worst  of  mockeries  of  a remedy ; 

We  are  now  secure  by  these  men’s  exile. 

Sal.  Yes, 

As  he  who  treads  on  flow'^s  is  from  the  adder 
Twined  round  their  rook. 

Sar.  Why,  w»..  ••  "ldst  have  me  do  ? 

Sal.  Undo  what  you  have  done. 

Sar.  Rev0  0 my  pardon  ? 

Sal.  Replace  the  crown  now  tottering  on  your 
temples. 

Sar.  That  were  tyrannical. 

Sal.  But  sure. 

Sar.  We  are  so. 

What  danger  can  they  work  upon  the  frontier  ? 

Sal.  They  are  not  there  yet — never  should  they  be 
Were  I well  listen’d  to.  ’[so, 

Sar.  Nay,  I have  listen’d 

Impartially  to  thee — why  not  to  them  ? 

Sal.  You  may  know  that  hereafter ; as  it  is, 

I take  my  leave,  to  order  forth  the  guard. 

Sar.  And  you  will  join  us  at  the  banquet  ? 

Sal.  Sire, 

Dispense  with  me — I am  no  wassailer  : 

Command  me  in  all  service  save  the  Bacchant’s. 

Sar.  Nay,  but  ’tis  fit  to  revel  now  and  then. 

Sal.  And  fit  that  some  should  watch  for  those  who 
Too  oft.  Am  I permitted  to  depart  ? [revel 

Sar.  Yes Stay  a moment,  my  good  Salemenes, 

My  brother,  my  best  subject,  better  prince 

Than  I am  king.  You  should  have  been  the  monarch, 

And  I — I know  not  what,  and  care  not ; but 

Think  not  I am  insensible  to  all 

Thine  honest  wisdom,  and  thy  rough  yet  kind. 

Though  oft-proving,  sufferance  of  my  follies. 

If  I have  spared  these  men  against  thy  counsel, 

That  is,  their  lives — it  is  not  that  I doubt 

The  advice  was  sound  ; but,  let  them  live  : we  will  not 

Cavil  about  their  lives — so  let  them  mend  them. 

Their  banishment  will  leave  me  still  sound  sleep. 
Which  their  death  had  not  left  me. 


Instead  of  exercising  that  power  over  the  mind  of  his  comrade 
which  a religious  impostor  may  well  possess  over  better  and  more 
magnanimous  souls  than  his  own,  Beleses  is  made  to  pour  his  pre- 
dictions into  incredulous  ears ; and  Arbaces  is  as  mere  an  epicurean 
in  his  creed  as  Sardanapalus.  When  we  might  have  expected  to 
find  him  gazing  with  hope  and  reverence  on  the  star  which  the 
Chaldean  points  out  as  his  natal  planet,  the  Median  warrior  speaks, 
in  the  language  of  Mezentius,  of  the  sword  on  which  his  confidence 
depends,  and  instead  of  being  a tool  in  the  hand  of  the  pontiff,  he 
says  almost  every  thing  which  is  likely  to  affront  him.  Though 
Beleses  is  introduced  to  us  as  engaged  in  devotion,  and  as  a fervent 
worshipper  of  the  Sun,  he  is  nowhere  made  either  to  feel  or  to 
counterfeit  that  professional  zeal  against  Sardanapalus  which  his 
open  contempt  of  the  gods  would  naturally  call  for;  and  no  reason 
appears,  throughout  the  play,  why  Arbaces  should  follow,  against 
his  own  conscience  and  opinion,  the  counsels  of  a man  of  whom  he 
speaks  with  dislike  and  disgust,  and  whose  pretences  to  inspira- 
tion and  sanctity  he  treats  with  unmingled  ridicule.  — Bishc/ 
IIebjck.] 


SCENE  I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


259 


gal.  Thus  you  run 

The  risk  to  sleep  for  ever,  to  save  traitors — 

A moment’s  pang  now  changed  for  years  of  crime. 
Still  let  them  be  made  quiet. 

gar.  Tempt  me  not : 

Mv  word  is  past. 

gal.  But  it  may  be  recall’d. 

Sar.  ’Tis  royal. 

Sal.  And  should  therefore  be  decisive. 

This  half  indulgence  of  an  exile  serves 
But  to  provoke — a pardon  should  be  full. 

Or  it  is  none. 

Sar.  And  who  persuaded  me 

After  I had  repeal’d  them,  or  at  least 
Only  dismiss’d  them  from  our  presence,  who 
Urged  me  to  send  them  to  their  satrapies  ? 

Sal.  True;  that  I had  forgotten ; that  is,  sire. 

If  they  e’er  reach’d  their  satrapies — why,  then. 
Reprove  me  more  for  my  advice  ? 

Sar.  # And  if 

They  do  not  reach  them — look  to  it ! — in  safety, 

In  safety,  mark  me — and  security — 

Look  to  thine  own. 

Sal.  Permit  me  to  depart ; 

Their  safety  shall  be  cared  for. 

Sar.  Get  thee  hence,  then  ; 

And,  prithee,  thinx  more  gently  of  thy  brother. 

Sal.  Sire,  I shall  ever  duly  serve  my  sovereign. 

[Exit  Salemenes. 

Sar.  (solus).  That  man  is  of  a temper  too  severe; 
Hard,  but  as  lofty  as  the  rock,  and  free 
From  all  the  taints  of  common  earth — while  I 
Am  softer  clay,  impregnated  with  flowers ; 

But  as  our  mould  is,  must  the  produce  be. 

If  I have  err’d  this  time,  ’tis  on  the  side 
Where  error  sits  most  lightly  on  that  sense, 

I know  not  what  to  call  it ; but  it  reckons 
With  me  ofttimes  for  pain,  and  sometimes  pleasure ; 

A spirit  which  seems  placed  about  my  heart 
To  count  its  throbs,  not  quicken  them,  and  ask 
Questions  which  mortal  never  dared  to  ask  me. 

Nor  Baal,  though  an  oracular  deity — 1 
Albeit  his  marble  face  majestical 
Frowns  as  the  shadows  of  the  evening  dim 
His  brows  to  changed  expression,  till  at  times 
I think  the  statue  looks  in  act  to  speak. 

Away  with  these  vain  thoughts,  1 will  be  joyous — 

And  here  comes  Joy’s  true  herald. 

Enter  Myrrha. 

Myr.  King!  the  sky 

[s  overcast,  and  musters  muttering  thunder, 

In  clouds  that  seem  approaching  fast,  and  show 
Li  forked  flashes  a commanding  tempest.2 
Will  you  then  quit  the  palace  ? 

Sar.  Tempest,  say’st  thou  ? 

Myr.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Sar.  For  my  own  part,  I should  be 

Not  ill  content  to  vary  the  smooth  scene, 

And  watch  the  warring  elements  ; but  this 
Would  little  suit  the  silken  garments  and 
Smooth  faces  of  our  festive  friends.  Say,  Myrrha, 

Art  thou  of  those  who  dread  the  roar  of  clouds  P 


(i)  [“  Nor  silent  Baal,  our  imaged  deity, 

Although  his  marble  face  looks  frowningly 
As  the  dull  shauows,”  &c. — MS.] 


Myr.  In  my  own  country  we  respect  their  voice* 
As  auguries  of  Jove.3 

Sar.  Jove  ! — ay,  your  Ba*  / — 

Ours  also  has  a property  in  thunder. 

And  ever  and  anon  some  falling  bolt 
Proves  his  divinity, — and  yet  sometimes 
Strikes  his  own  altars. 

Myr.  That  were  a dreai  omen. 

Sar.  Yes — for  the  priests.  Well,  we  will  net  go 
forth 

Beyond  the  palace  walls  to-night,  but  make 
Our  feast  within. 

Myr.  Now,  Jove  be  praised  ! that  Lr 

Hath  heard  the  prayer  thou  wouldst  not  hear.  '.0»» 
gods 

Are  kinder  to  thee  than  thou  to  thyself, 

And  flash  this  storm  between  thee  and  thy  foe3. 

To  shield  thee  from  them. 

Sar.  Child,  if  there  be  peril, 

Methinks  it  is  the  same  within  these  walls 
As  on  the  river’s  brink. 

Myr.  Not  so  ; these  walls 

Are  high,  and  strong,  and  guarded.  Treason. 

To  penetrate  through  many  a winding  way 
And  massy  portal;  but  in  the  pavilion 
There  is  no  bulwark. 

Sar.  No,  nor  in  the  palace, 

Nor  in  the  fortress,  nor  upon  the  top 
Of  cloud-fenced  Caucasus,  where  the  eagle  sits 
Nested  in  pathless  clefts,  if  treachery  be  : 

Even  as  the  arrow  finds  the  airy  king, 

The  steel  will  reach  the  earthly.  But  be  calm  : 

The  men,  or  innocent  or  guilty,  are 
Banish’d,  and  far  upon  their  way. 

Myr.  They  live,  then 

Sar.  So  sanguinary  ? Thou! 

Myr.  I would  not  shrink 

Rrom  just  infliction  of  due  punishment 
On  those  who  seek  your  life  : wer’t  otherwise, 

I should  not  merit  mine.  Besides,  you  heard 
The  princely  Salemenes. 

Sar.  This  is  strange  ; 

The  gentle  and  the  austere  are  both  against  me. 

And  urge  me  to  revenge. 

Myr.  ’Tis  a Greek  virtue. 

Sar.  But  not  a kingly  one — I’ll  none  on’t ; oi 
If  ever  I indulge  in ’t.  it  shall  be 
With  kings — my  equals. 

Myr.  These  men  sought  to  be  so 

Sar.  Myrrha,  this  is  too  feminine,  and  springs 
From  fear 

Myr.  For  you. 

Sar.  No  matter,  still  ’tis  fear. 

I have  observed  your  sex,  once  roused  to  wrath, 

Are  timidly  vindictive  to  agpitch 
Of  perseverance,  which  I would  not  copy. 

I thought  you  were  exempt  from  this,  as  from 
The  childish  helplessness  of  Asian  women.4 

Myr.  My  lord,  I am  no  boaster  of  my  love, 

Nor  of  my  attributes ; I have  shared  your  splendour. 
And  will  partake  your  fortunes.  You  may  live 
To  find  one  slave  more  true  than  subject  myriads  : 

But  this  the  gods  avert ! I am  content 
To  be  beloved  on  trust  for  what  I feel, 


,2,  [-  flashes  M81 

(3)  [“  As  from  the  gods  to  augur.” — MS.] 

(4)  [“  The  weaker  merit  of  our  Asian  women.”— MS.] 


260 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  III. 


Rather  than  prove  it  to  you  in  your  griefs,1 
Which  might  not  yield  to  any  cares  of  mine. 

Sar.  Grief  cannot  come  where  perfect  love  exists, 
Except  to  heighten  it,  and  vanish  from 
That  which  it  could  not  scare  away.  Let’s  in — 

The  hour  approaches,  and  we  must  prepare 
To  meet  the  invited  guests,  who  grace  our  feast. 

[Exeunt.2 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Hall  of  the  Palace  illuminated. — Sardanapalus 
and  his  Guests  at  Table. — A Storm  without , and 
Thunder  occasionally  heard  during  the  Banquet. 

Sar.  Fill  full ! why  this  is  as  it  should  be  : here 
Is  my  true  realm,  amidst  bright  eyes  and  faces 
Happy  as  fair ! Here  sorrow  cannot  reach. 

Zam.  Nor  elsewhere — where  the  king  is,  pleasure 
sparkles. 

Sar.  Is  not  this  better  now  than  Nimrod’s  huntings, 
Or  my  wild  grandam’s  chase  in  search  of  kingdoms 
She  could  not  keep  when  conquer’d  ? 

Alt.  Mighty  though 

They  were,  as  all  thy  royal  line  have  been, 

Yet  none  of  those  who  went  before  have  reach’d 

The  acme  of  Sardanapalus,  who 

Has  placed  his  joy  in  peace — the  sole  true  glory. 

Sar.  And  pleasure,  good  Altada,  to  which  glory 
Is  but  the  path.  What  is  it  that  we  seek  ? 

Enjoyment  ! We  have  cut  the  way  short  to  it, 

And  not  gone  tracking  it  through  human  ashes. 
Making  a grave  with  every  footstep. 

Zam.  No ; 

All  hearts  are  happy,  and  all  voices  bless 
The  king  of  peace,  who  holds  a world  in  jubilee. 

Sar.  Art  sure  of  that  ? I have  heard  otherwise  ! 
Some  say  that  there  be  traitors. 

Zam.  Traitors  they 

Who  dare  to  say  so  F — ’Tis  impossible. 

What  cause  F 

Sar.  What  cause  F true, — fill  the  goblet  up ; 

We  will  not  think  of  them  : there  are  none  such, 

Or  if  there  be,  they  are  gone. 

Alt.  Guests,  to  my  pledge ! 

Down  on  your  knees,  and  drink  a measure  to 
The  safety  of  the  king — the  monarch,  say  I F 
The  god  Sardanapalus  ! 

[Zames  and  the  Guests  kneel , and  exclaim — 
Mightier  than 
His  father  Baal,  the  god  Sardanapalus  ! 

[It  thunders  as  they  kneel ; some  start  up  in 
confusion. 

Zam.  Why  do  you  rise,  my  friends  F in  that  strong 
peal 

His  father  gods  consented. 

Myr.  Menaced,  rather. 

King,  wilt  thou  bear  this  mad  impiety  F 

Sar.  Impiety  ! — nay,  if  the  sires  who  reign’d 
Before  me  can  be  gods,  I ’ll  not  disgrace 
Then  lineage.  But  arise,  my  pious  friends ; 


(1)  [“  Rather  than  prove  that  love  to  you  in  griefs.” — MS.] 

(2)  [Tiie  second  Act,  which  contains  the  details  of  the  conspiracy 
of  Arbaces,  its  detection  by  the  vigilance  of  Salemenes,  and  the 

too  rash  and  hasty  forgiveness  of  the  rebels  by  the  king,  is,  on  the 
whole,  heavy  and  uninteresting. — Jeffrey.] 


Hoard  your  devotion  for  the  thundercr  there  : 

I seek  but  to  be  loved,  not  worshipp’d. 

Alt.  Both— 

Both  you  must  ever  be  by  all  true  subjects. 

Sar.  Methinks  the  thunders  still  increase : it  is 
An  awful  night. 

Myr.  Oh  yes,  for  those  who  have 

No  palace  to  protect  their  worshippers. 

Sar.  That’s  true,  my  Mvrrha;  and  could  I convert 
My  realm  to  one  wide  shelter  for  the  wretched, 

I’d  do  it. 

Myr.  Thou’rt  no  god,  then,  not  to  be 
Able  to  work  a will  so  good  and  general, 

As  thy  wish  would  imply. 

Sar.  And  your  gods,  then. 

Who  can,  and  do  not  F 
Myr.  ' Do  not  speak  of  that. 

Lest  we  provoke  them. 

Sar.  True,  they  love  not  censun 

Better  than  mortals.  Friends,  a thought  has  struch 
me : 

Were  there  no  temples,  would  there,  think  ye,  be 
Air  worshippers  F that  is,  when  it  is  angry. 

And  pelting  as  even  now. 

Myr.  The  Persian  prays 

Upon  his  mountain. 

Sar.  Yes,  when  the  sun  shines. 

Myr.  And  I would  ask,  if  this  your  palace  were 
Unroof’d  and  desolate,  how  many  flatterers 
Would  lick  the  dust  in  which  the  king  lay  low  F 
Alt.  The  fair  Ionian  is  too  sarcastic 
Upon  a nation  whom  she  knows  not  well ; 

The  Assyrians  know  no  pleasure  but  their  king’s. 

And  homage  is  their  pride. 

Sar.  Nay,  pardon,  guests, 

The  fair  Greek’s  readiness  of  speech. 

Alt.  Pardon!  sire  : 

We  honour  her  of  all  things  next  to  thee. 

Hark  ! what  was  that  F 

Zam.  That ! nothing  but  the  jai 

Of  distant  portals  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Alt.  It  sounded  like  the  clash  of — Hark,  again  i 
Zam.  The  big  rain  pattering  on  the  roof. 

Sar.  No  more. 

Myrrlia,  my  love,  hast  thou  thy  shell  in  order  F 
Sing  me  a song  of  Sappho,  her,  thou  know’st, 

Who  in  thy  country  threw 

Enter  Pant  a,  with  his  sword  and  garments  bloody , and 
disordered.  The  Guests  rise  in  confusion .3 

Pan.  {to  the  Guards').  Look  to  the  portals  ; 
And  with  your  best  speed  to  the  walls  without. 

Your  arms  ! To  arms  ! The  king’s  in  danger.  Mon- 
arch ! 

Excuse  this  haste, — ’tis  faith. 

Sar.  Speak  on. 

Pan.  It  is 

As  Salemenes  fear’d  ; the  faithless  satraps 

Sar.  You  are  wounded — give  some  wine.  Take 
breath,  good  Pauia. 

Pan.  ’Tis  nothing — a mere  flesh  wound.  I am  worn 
More  with  my  speed  to  warn  my  sovereign. 

Than  hurt  in  his  defence. 


(3)  [Early  in  the  third  Act,  the  royal  banquet  is  disturbed  by 
sudden  tidings  of  treason  and  revolt  ; and  then  the  reveller  blazes 
out  into  the  hero,  and  the  Greek  blood  of  Myrrha  mounts  to  its 
proper  office  ! — Jeffrey.] 


SCENE  I. 


SARDANAPALTJS. 


Myr.  Well,  sir,  the  rebels  ? 

Pan.  Soon  as  Arbaces  and  Beleses  reach’d 
Their  stations  in  the  city,  they  refused 
To  march  ; and  on  my  attempt  to  use  the  power 
Which  I was  delegated  with,  they  call’d 
Jpou  their  troops,  who  rose  in  fierce  defiance. 

Myr.  All? 

Pan.  Too  many. 

Sar.  Spare  not  of  thy  free  speech 

To  spare  mine  ears  the  truth. 

Pan.  My  own  slight  guard 

Were  faithful — and  what’s  left  of  it  is  still  so. 

Myr.  And  are  these  all  the  force  still  faithful  ? — 

Pan.  No — 

The  Bactrians,  now  led  on  by  Salemenes, 

Who  even  then  was  on  his  w;ty,  still  urged 
By  strong  suspicion  of  the  Median  chiefs, 

Are  numerous,  and  make  strong  head  against 
The  rebels,  fighting  inch  by  inch,  and  forming 
An  orb  around  the  palace,  where  they  mean 
To  centre  all  their  force,  and  save  the  king. 

{He  hesitates .)  I am  charged  to 

Myr.  ’Tis  no  time  for  hesitation. 

Pan.  Prince  Salemenes  doth  implore  the  king 
To  arm  himself,  although  but  for  a moment, 

And  show  himself  unto  the  soldiers  : his 
Sole  presence  in  this  instant  might  do  more 
Than  hosts  can  do  in  his  behalf. 

Sar.  What,  ho ! 

My  armour  there. 

Myr.  And  wilt  thou  ? 

Sar.  Will  I not  ? 

Ho,  there  ! — But  seek  not  for  the  buckler ; ’tis 
Too  heavy : — a light  cuirass  and  my  sword. 

Where  are  the  rebels  ? 

Pan.  Scarce  a furlong’s  length 

From  the  outward  wall,  the  fiercest  conflict  rages. 

Sar.  Then  I may  charge  on  horseback.  Sfero,  ho  ! 
Order  my  horse  out. — There  is  space  enough 
Even  in  our  courts,  and  by  the  outer  gate. 

To  marshal  half  the  horsemen  of  Arabia. 

[Exit  Sfero  for  the  armour. 

Myr.  How  I do  love  thee  ! 

Sar.  I ne’er  doubted  it. 

Myr.  But  nov»  I know  thee. 

Sar.  {to  his  Attendant).  Bring  down  my  spear,  too — 
"VV  here’s  Salemenes  ? 

Pan.  Where  a soldier  should  be, 

In  the  thick  of  the  fight. 

Sar.  Then  hasten  to  him Is 

The  path  still  open,  and  communication 
Left  ’twixt  the  palace  and  the  phalanx  ? 

Pan.  ’Twas 

When  I late  left  him,  and  I have  no  fear : 

Our  troops  were  steady,  and  the  phalanx  form’d. 

Sar.  Tell  him  to  spare  his  person  for  the  present, 
And  that  I will  not  spare  my  own — and  say, 

I come. 

Pan.  There’s  victory  in  the  very  word. 

[Exit  Pania. 


(1)  [“In  the  third  Act,  where  Sardanapalus  calls  for  a mirror 
to  look  at  himself  in  his  armour,  recollect  to  quote  the  Latin  pass- 
age from  Juvenal  upon  Otho  (a  similar  character,  who  did  the 
same  thing).  Gifford  will  help  you  to  it.  The  trait  is,  perhaps, 
too  familiar,  but  it  is  historical  (of  Otho,  at  least),  and  natural  in 
an  effeminate  character.”—  Lord  B.  to  Mr.  Jf.] 

(2)  [“  Ille  tenet  speculum  pathici  gestamen  Othonis, 

Actoris  Arunci  spolium,  quo  se  ille  videbat 
\rnratum,  cum  jam  tolli  vexilla  juberet. 


261 

Sar.  Altada — Zames — forth,  and  arm  ye  ! There 
Is  all  in  readiness  in  the  armoury. 

See  that  the  women  are  bestow’d  in  safety 
In  the  remote  apartments  : let  a guard 
Be  set  before  them,  with  strict  charge  to  quit 
The  post  but  with  their  lives — command  it,  Zames. 
Altada,  arm  yourself,  and  return  here ; 

Your  post  is  near  our  person. 

[Exeunt  Zames,  Altada,  and  all  save  Myrrh  a 

Enter  Sfero  and  others  with  the  King's  arms,  8yc. 

Sfe.  King ! your  armour  ! 

Sar.  {arming  himself).  Give  me  the  cuirass — so  : 
my  baldric ; now 

My  sword  : I had  forgot  the  helm — where  is  it  ? 
That’s  well — no,  ’tis  too  heavy  : you  mistake,  too — 
It  was  not  this  I meant,  but  that  which  bears 
A diadem  around  it. 

Sfe.  Sire,  I deem’d 

That  too  conspicuous  from  the  precious  stones 
To  risk  your  sacred  brow  beneath — and,  trust  me. 
This  is  of  better  metal,  though  less  rich. 

Sar.  You  deem’d ! Are  you,  too,  turn’d  a rebel  ? 
Fellow ! 

Your  part  is  to  obey  : return,  and — no — 

It  is  too  late — 1 will  go  forth  without  it. 

Sfe.  At  least,  wear  this. 

Sar.  Wear  Caucasus  ! why,  ’tis 

A mountain  on  my  temples. 

Sfe.  Sire,  the  meanest 

Soldier  goes  not  forth  thus  exposed  to  battle. 

All  men  will  recognise  you — for  the  storm 
Has  ceased,  and  the  moon  breaks  forth  in  her  bright- 
ness. 

Sar.  I go  forth  to  be  recognised,  and  thus 
'Shall  bo  so  sooner.  Now — my  spear  ! I’m  arm’d. 

[In  going  stops  short  and  turns  to  Sfero. 
Sfero — I had  forgotten — bring  the  mirror.1 
Sfe.  The  mirror,  sire  ? 

Sar.  Yes,  sir,  of  polish’d  brass, 

Brought  from  the  spoils  of  India — but  be  speedy.2 

[Exit  Sfero. 

Sar.  Myrrha,  retire  unto  a place  of  safety. 

Why  went  you  not  forth  with  the  other  damsels  ? 
Myr.  Because  my  place  is  here. 

Sar.  And  when  I am  gone 

Myr.  I follow. 

Sar.  You  ! to  battle  ? 

Myr.  If  it  were  so, 

’Twere  not  the  first  Greek  girl  had  trod  the  path. 

I will  await  here  your  return. 

Sar.  The  place 

Is  spacious,  and  the  first  to  be  sought  out, 

If  they  prevail ; and,  if  it  be  so, 

And  I return  not 

Myr.  Still,  we  meet  again. 

Sar.  How  ? 

Myr.  In  the  spot  where  all  must  meet  at  last — 

In  Hades  ! if  there  be,  as  I believe, 


Res  memoranda  novis  annalibus,  atque  recentj 
Historia,  speculum  civilis  farcina  belli.” — Juv.  Sat.  ii. 

Tins  grasps  a mirror — pathic  Otho’s  boast 
(Auruncan  Actor's  spoil),  where,  while  his  host, 

With  shouts,  the  signal  of  the  fight  required, 

He  view’d  his  mailed  form  ; view’d,  and  admit  ^d  ! 

Lo,  a new  subject  for  the  historic  page, 

A mirror,  ’midst  the  arms  of  civil  rage  !’’—  Gifford.) 


262 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  m. 


A shore  beyond  the  Styx : and  if  there  be  not, 

In  ashes. 

Sar.  Darest  thou  so  much  ? 

Myr.  I dare  all  things, 

Except  survive  what  I have  loved,  to  be 
A rebel’s  booty  : forth,  and  do  your  bravest. 


Re-enter  Sfero  with  the  mirror. 

Sar.  ( looking  at  himself).  This  cuirass  fits  me  well, 
the  baldric  better, 

And  the  helm  not  at  all.  Methinks  I seem 

[ Flings  away  the  helmet  after  trying  it  again. 
Passing  well  in  these  toys  ; and  now  to  prove  them. 
Altada  ! Where ’s  Altada  ? 

Sfe.  Waiting,  sire, 

Without : he  has  your  shield  in  readiness. 

Sar.  True  ; I forgot  he  is  my  shield-bearer 
By  right  of  blood,  derived  from  age  to  age. 

Myrrha,  embrace  me  ; — yet  once  more — once  more — 
Love  me,  whate’er  betide.  My  chiefest  glory 
Shall  be  to  make  me  worthier  of  your  love. 

Myr.  Go  forth,  and  conquer  ! 

[ Exeunt  Sardanapalus  and  Sfero.1 

Now,  I am  alone. 

All  are  gone  forth,  and  of  that  all  how  few 
Perhaps  return.  Let  him  but  vanquish,  and 
Me  perish  ! If  he  vanquish  not,  I perish ; 

For  I will  not  outlive  him.  He  has  wound 
About  my  heart,  I know  not  how  nor  why. 

Not  for  that  he  is  king ; for  now  his  kingdom 
Rocks  underneath  his  throne,  and  the  earth  yawns 
To  yield  him  no  more  of  it  than  a grave  ; 

And  yet  I love  him  more.  Oh,  mighty  Jove  ! 

Forgive  this  monstrous  love  for  a barbarian, 

Who  knows  not  of  Olympus ! yes,  I love  him 

Now,  now,  far  more  than Hark  ! — to  the  war- 

shout  ! 

Methinks  it  nears  me.  If  it  should  be  so, 

[She  draws  forth  a small  vial. 
This  cunning  Colchian  poison,  which  my  father 
Learn’d  to  compound  on  Euxine  shores,  and  taught 
me 

How  to  preserve,  shall  free  me ! It  had  freed  me 
Long  ere  this  hour,  but  that  I loved,  until 
I half  forgot  I was  a slave  : — where  all 
Are  slaves  save  one,  and  proud  of  servitude, 

So  they  are  served  in  turn  by  something  lower 
In  the  degree  of  bondage,  we  forget 
That  shackles  worn  like  ornaments  no  less 
Are  chains.  Again  that  shout ! and  now  the  clash 
Of  arms — and  now — and  now 


Enter  Altada. 

Alt.  Ho,  Sfero,  ho ! 

Myr.  He  is  not  here  ! what  wouldst  thou  with 
him  ? How 
Goes  on  the  conflict  ? 

Alt.  Dubiously  and  fiercely. 

Myr.  And  the  king  ? 

AU.  Like  a king.  I must  find  Sfero, 

And  bring  him  a new  spear  and  his  own  helmet. 

He  fights  till  now  bareheaded,  and  by  far 
Too  much  exposed.  The  soldiers  knew  his  face, 


And  the  foe  too  ; and  in  the  moon’s  broad  light, 

II is  silk  tiara  and  his  flowing  hair 
Make  him  a mark  too  royal.  Every  arrow 
Is  pointed  at  the  fair  hair  and  fair  features. 

And  the  broad  fillet  which  crowns  both. 

Myr.  Ye  gods. 

Who  fulminate  o’er  my  father’s  land,  protect  him  ! 
Were  you  sent  by  the  king? 

Alt.  By  Salemenes, 

Who  sent  me  privily  upon  this  charge, 

Without  the  knowledge  of  the  careless  sovereign. 

The  king ! the  king  fights  as  he  revels  ! ho  ! 

What,  Sfero  ! I will  seek  the  armoury — 

He  must  be  there.  [Exit  Altada. 

Myr.  ’Tis  no  dishonour — no — 

’Tis  no  dishonour  to  hare  loved  tins  man. 

I almost  wish  now,  what  I never  wish’d 
Before,  that  he  were  Grecian.  If  Alcides 
Were  shamed  in  wearing  Lydian  Omphale’s 
She-garb,  and  wielding  her  vile  distaff,  surely 
He,  who  springs  up  a Hercules  at  once, 

Nursed  in  effeminate  arts  from  youth  to  manhood, 
And  rushes  from  the  banquet  to  the  battle, 

As  though  it  were  a bed  of  love,  deserves 
That  a Greek  girl  should  be  his  paramour, 

And  a Greek  bard  his  minstrel,  a Greek  tomb 
His  monument.  How  goes  the  strife,  sir  ? 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Officer.  Lost, 

Lost  almost  past  recovery.  Zames  ! Where 
Is  Zames  ? 

Myr.  Posted  with  the  guard  appointed 
To  wateh  before  the  apartment  of  the  women. 

[Exit  Officer. 

Myr.  {sola).  He’s  gone  ; and  told  no  more  than 
that  all ’s  lost ! 

What  need  have  I io  know  more  ? In  those  words, 
Those  little  words,  a kingdom  and  a king, 

A line  of  thirteen  ages,  and  the  lives 
Of  thousands,  and  the  fortune  of  all  left 
With  life,  are  merged  ; and  I,  too,  with  the  great, 
Like  a small  bubble  breaking  with  the  wave 
Which  bore  it,  shall  be  nothing.  At  the  least, 

My  fate  is  in  my  keeping  : no  proud  victor 
Shall  count  me  with  his  spoils. 

Enter  Pania. 

Pan.  Away  with  me, 

Myrrha,  without  delay  ; we  must  not  lose 
A moment — all  that’s  left  us  now. 

Myr.  The  king  ? 

Pan.  Sent  me  here  to  conduct  you  hence,  beyond 
The  river,  by  a secret  passage. 

Myr.  Then 

He  lives 

Pan.  And  charged  me  to  secure  your  life. 

And  beg  you  to  live  on  for  his  sake,  till 
He  can  rejoin  you. 

Myr.  Will  he  then  give  way  ? 

Pan.  Not  till  the  last.  Still,  still  he  does  whate’ei 
Despair  can  do ; and  step  by  step  disputes 
The  very  palace. 

Myr.  They  are  here,  then : — ay, 


(1)  [In  the  third  Act,  the  king  and  his  courtiers  are  disturbed  at 
their  banauet  by  the  breaking  out  of  the  conspiracy.  The  battle 
vhich  follows,  if  we  overlook  the  absurdity,  winch  occurs  during 
?ne  part  of  it,  of  hostile  armies  drawn  up  against  each  other  in  a 


dining-room,  is  extremely  well  told ; and  Sardanapalus  displays 
the  precise  mixture  of  effeminacy  and  courage,  levity  ond  talent, 
which  belongs  to  his  character. — Hebeh.] 


SCENE  I. 


SARD AN AP ALU  S.  • 


2<>3 


Their  shouts  come  ringing  through,  the  ancient  halls. 

Never  profaned  by  rebel  echoes  till 

This  fatal  night.  Farewell,  Assyria’s  line  ! 

Farewell  to  all  of  Nimrod  ! Even  the  name 
Is  now  no  more. 

Pan.  Away  with  me — away  ! 

Myr.  No  : I’ll  die  here  ! — Away,  and  tell  your 
king 

I loved  him  to  the  last. 

Enter  Sardanapalus  and  Salemenes  with  Soldiers. 
Pania  quits  Myrrha,  and  ranges  himself  with 
them. 

Sar.  Since  it  is  thus, 

We’ll  die  where  we  were  born — in  our  own  halls. 

Serry  your  ranks — stand  firm.  I have  despatch’d 
A-trusty  satrap  for  the  guard  of  Zames, 

All  fresh  and  faithful ; they  ’ll  be  here  anon. 

All  is  not  ever. — Pania,  look  to  Myrrha. 

[Pania  returns  towards  Myrrita. 
Sal.  We  have  breathing  time : yet  once  more 
charge,  my  friends — 

One  for  Assyria ! 

Sar.  "Rather  say  for  Bactria  ! 

My  faithful  Bactrians,  I will  henceforth  be 
King  of  your  nation,  and  we’ll  hold  together 
This  realm  as  province. 

Sal.  Hark  ! they  come — they  come. 

Enter  Beleses  and  Arbaces  with  the  Rebels. 

Arb.  Set  on,  we  have  them  in  the  toil.  Charge ! 
charge  ! 

Rel.  On  ! on  ! — Heaven  fights  for  us,  and  with  us, 
—On! 

[ They  charge  the  King  and  Salemenes  with  their 
Troops,  who  defend  themselves  till  the  arrival  of 
Zames,  with  the  Guard  before  mentioned.  The 
Rebels  are  then  driven  off,  and  pursued  by 
Salemenes,  Spc.  As  the  King  is  going  to  join 
the  pursuit,  Beleses  crosses  him. 

Bel.  Ho  ! tyrant — I will  end  this  war. 

Sar.  Even  so, 

My  warlike  priest,  and  precious  prophet,  and 
Grateful  and  trusty  subject : — yield,  I pray  thee. 

I would  reserve  thee  for  a fitter  doom, 

Rather  than  dip  my  hands  in  holy  blood. 

Bel.  Thine  hour  is  come. 

Sar.  No,  thine. — I’ve  lately  read. 

Though  but  a young  astrologer,  the  stars  ; 

And  ranging  round  the  zodiac,  found  thy  fate 
In  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion,  which  proclaims 
That  thou  wilt  now  be  crush’d. 

Bel.  But  not  by  thee, 

[They  fight ; Beleses  is  wounded  arid  disarmed. 
Sar.  ( raising  his  sword  to  despatch  him , exclaims ) — 
Now  call  upon  thy  planets,  will  they  shoot 
From  the  sky  to  preserve  their  seer  and  credit  ? 

[A  Party  of  Rebels  enter  and  rescue  Beleses. 
They  assail  the  King,  who,  in  turn,  is  rescued 
by  a Party  of  his  Soldiers,  who  drive  the  Rebels 
. off. 

The  villain  was  a prophet  after  all. 

Upon  them — ho  ! there — victory  is  ours. 

[Exit  in  pursuit. 


Myr.  {to  Pan.).  Pursue!  Why  stand’ st  thou  here, 
and  leav’st  the  ranks 

Of  fellow-soldiers  conquering  without  thee  ? 

Pan.  The  king’s  command  was  not  to  quit  thee. 
Myr.  Me ! 

Think  not  of  me — a single  soldier’s  arm 
Must  not  be  wanting  now.  I ask  no  guard, 

I need  no  guard  : what,  with  a world  at  stake, 

Keep  watch  upon  a woman  ? Hence,  I say. 

Or  thou  art  shamed  ! Nay,  then,  / will  go  forth, 

A feeble  female,  ’midst  their  desperate  strife, 

And  bid  thee  guard  me  there — where  thou  shouldst 
shield 

Thy  sovereign.  [Exit  Myrrha. 

Pan.  Yet  stay,  damsel ! — She  is  gone. 

If  aught  of  ill  betide  her,  better  1 
Had  lost  my  life.  Sardanapalus  holds  her 
Far  dearer  than  his  kingdom,  yet  he  fights 
For  that  too  ; and  can  I do  less  than  lie. 

Who  never  flash’d  a scimitar  till  now  ? 

Myrrha,  return,  and  I obey  you,  though 
In  disobedience  to  the  monarch.  [Exit  Pania. 

Enter  Altada  and  Sfero  by  an  opposite  door. 

Alt.  Myrrha ! 

WTiat,  gone  ? yet  she  was  here  when  the  fight  raged, 
And  Pania  also.  Can  aught  have  befallen  them  ? 

Sfe.  I saw  both  safe,  when  late  the  rebels  fled; 

They  probably  are  but  retired  to  make 
Their  way  back  to  the  harem. 

Alt.  If  the  king 

Prove  victor,  as  it  seems  even  now  he  must, 

And  miss  his  own  Ionian,  we  are  doom’d 
To  worse  than  captive  rebels. 

Sfe.  Let  us  trace  them ; 

She  cannot  be  fled  far ; and,  found,  she  makes 
A richer  prize  to  our  soft  sovereign 
Than  his  recover’d  kingdom. 

Alt.  Baal  himself 

Ne’er  fought  more  fiercely  to  win  empire,  than 
His  silken  son  to  save  it ; he  delies 
All  augury  of  foes  or  friends ; and  like 
The  close  and  sultry  summer’s  day,  which  bodes 
A twilight  tempest,  bursts  forth  in  such  thunder 
As  sweeps  the  air  and  deluges  the  earth. 

The  man’s  inscrutable. 

Sfe.  Not  more  than  others. 

All  are  the  sons  of  circumstance  : away — 

Let ’s  seek  the  slave  out,  or  prepare  to  be 

Tortured  for  his  infatuation,  and 

Condemn’d  without  a crime.  [Exeunt 

Enter  Salemenes  and  Soldiers,  8pc. 

Sal.  The  triumph  is 

Flattering : they  are  beaten  backward  from  the  palace, 
And  we  have  open’d  regular  access 
To  the  troops  station’d  on  the  other  side 
Euphrates,  who  may  still  be  true ; nay,  must  be, 

W hen  they  hear  of  our  victory.  But  where 
Is  the  chief  victor?  where’s  the  king? 

Enter  Sardanapalus,  cum  suis,  Spc.  and  Myr  rha. 
Sar.  Here,  brother.' 

Sal.  Unhurt,  I hope. 


..(L  [The  king,  by  his  daring  valour,  restores  the  fortune  of 
Uie  tight,  and  returns,  with  all  his  train,  to  the  palace.  The 


scene  that  ensues  is  very  masterly  and  characteristic. — Jki* 

FKJiY.] 


264 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


A. 


Sar.  Not  quite  ; but  let  it  pass, 

We’ve  clear’d  the  palace 

Sal.  And  I trust  the  city. 

Our  numbers  gather ; and  I’ve  order’d  onward 
A cloud  of  Parthians,  hitherto  reserved, 

All  fresh  and  fiery,  to  be  pour’d  upon  them 
In  their  retreat,  which  soon  will  be  a flight. 

Sar.  It  is  already,  or  at  least  they  march’d 
Faster  than  I could  follow  with  my  Bactrians, 

Who  spared  no  speed.  I am  spent : give  me  a seat. 

Sal.  There  stands  the  throne,  sire. 

Sar.  ’Tis  no  place  to  rest  on, 

For  mind  nor  body  : let  me  have  a couch, 

[They  place  a seat. 

A peasant’s  stool,  I care  not  what : so — now 
I breathe  more  freely. 

Sal.  This  great  hour  has  piovcd 

The  brightest  and  most  glorious  of  your  life,  [bearer  F 

Sar.  And  the  most  tiresome.  Where’s  my  cup- 
Bring  me  some  water. 

Sal.  {smiling).  ’Tis  the  first  time  he 

Ever  had  such  an  order  : even  I, 

Your  most  austere  of  counsellors,  would  now 
Suggest  a purpler  beverage. 

Sar.  Blood — doubtless. 

But  there’s  enough  of  that  shed  ; as  for  wine, 

I have  learn’d  to-night  the  price  of  the  pure  element : 
Thrice  have  I drank  of  it,  and  thrice  renew’d, 

With  greater  strength  tlian  the  grape  ever  gave  me, 
My  charge  upon  the  rebels.  Where’s  the  soldier 
Who  gave  me  water  in  his  helmet  F 

One  of  the  Guaids.  Slain,  sire  ! 

An  arrow  pierced  his  brain,  while,  scattering 
The  last  drops  from  his  helm,  he  stood  in  act 
To  place  it  on  his  brows. 

Sar.  Slain  l unrewarded  ! 

And  slain  to  serve  my  thirst : that’s  hard,  poor  slave  ! 
Had  he  but  lived,  I would  have  gorged  him  with 
Gold  : all  the  gold  of  earth  coul.d  ne’er  repay 
The  pleasure  of  that  draught ; for  I was  parch’d 
As  I am  now.  {They  bring  water — he  drinks. 

I live  again — from  henceforth 
The  goblet  I reserve  for  hours  of  love, 

But  war  on  water. 

Sal.  And  that  bandage,  sire, 

Which  girds  your  arm  F 

Sar.  A scratch  from  brave  Beleses. 

Myr.  Oh  ! he  is  wounded  ! 

Sar.  Not  too  much  of  that ; 

And  yet  it  feels  a little  stiff  and  painful, 

Now  I am  cooler. 

Myr.  You  have  bound  it  with 

Sar.  The  fillet  of  my  diadem  : the  first  time 
That  ornament  was  ever  aught  to  me 
Save  an  incumbrance. 

Myr.  (to  the  Attenda?its) . Summon  speedily 
A leech  of  the  most  skilful : pray,  retire  ; 
l will  unbind  your  wound  and  tend  it. 

Sar.  Do  so. 

For  now  it  throbs  sufficiently  : but  what 
Ivuow’st  thou  of  wounds  F yet  wherefore  do  I ask  F 
Know’st  thou,  my  brother,  where  I lighted  on 
This  minion  F 4 


Sal.  Herding  with  the  other  females, 

Like  frighten’d  antelopes. 

Sar.  No  : like  the  dam 

Of  the  young  lion,  femininely  raging, 

(And  femininely  meancth  furiously, 

Because  all  passions  in  excess  arc  female,) 

Against  the  hunter  flying  with  her  cub. 

She  urged  on  with  her  voice  and  gesture,  and 
Her  floating  hair  and  flashing  eyes,  the  soldiers, 

In  the  pursuit. 

Sal.  Indeed ! 

Sar.  You  see,  this  night 

Made  warriors  of  more  than  me.  I paused 
To  look  upon  her,  and  her  kindled  cheek  ; 

Her  large  black  eyes,  that  flash’d  through  her  long  hail 
As  it  streamed  o’er  her ; her  blue  veins  that  rose 
Along  her  most  transparent  brow  ; her  nostril 
Dilated  from  its  symmetry ; her  lips 
Apart ; her  voice  that  clove  through  all  the  din, 

As  a lute’s  pierceth  through  the  cymbal’s  clash, 

Tarr’d  but  not  drown’d  by  the  loud  brattling  ; her 
Waved  arms,  more  dazzling  with  their  own  born 
whiteness 

Thar  the  steel  her  hand  held,  which  she  caught  up 
From  a dead  soldier’s  grasp  ; — all  these  things  made 
Her  seem  unto  the  troops  a prophetess 
Of  victory,  or  Victory  herself, 

Come  down  to  hail  us  hers. 

Sal.  (aside).  This  is  too  much, 

Again  the  love -fit’s  on  him,  and  all’s  lost, 

Unless  we  turn  his  thoughts. 

{Aloud.)  But  pray  thee,  s re, 
Think  of  your  wo'md — you  said  even  now  ’twas  painful. 

Sar.  That’s  true,  too  : but  I must  not  think  of  it. 

Sal.  I have  look’d  to  all  things  needful,  and  will  now  1 
Receive  reports  of  progress  made  in  such 
Orders  as  I had  given,  and  then  return 
To  hear  your  further  pleasure. 

Sar.  Be  it  so. 

Sal.  {in  retiring).  Myrrlia  ! 

Myr.  Prince ! 

Sal.  You  have  shown  a soul  to-night,  ? 

Which,  were  he  not  my  sister’s  lord But  now 

1 have  no  time ; thou  West  the  king  ? 

, Myr.  I love 

Sardanapalus. 

Sal.  But  wouldst  have  him  king  still  F 

Myr.  I would  not  have  him  less  than  what 
should  be. 

Sal.  Well  then,  to  have  him  king,  and  yours,  and 
He  should,  or  should  not  be  ; to  have  him  live. 

Let  him  not  sink  back  into  luxury. 

You  have  more  power  upon  his  spirit  than 
Wisdom  within  these  walls,  or  fierce  rebellion 
Raging  without : look  well  that  he  relapses  not. 

Myr.  There  needed  not  the  voice  of  Salemenes 
To  urge  me  on  to  this  : I will  not  fail. 

All  that  a woman’s  weakness  can 

Sal.  Is  power 

Omnipotent  o’er  such  a heart  as  his  : 

Exert  it  wisely.  [Exit  Salemeius 

Sar.  Myrrlia  ! what,  °t  whispers 

With  my  stern  brother  F I shall  soon  be  jealous1 


he 


(1)  [The  rebels  are  at  length  repulsed.  The  king  re-enters 
wounded,  and  retires  to  rest,  after  a short  and  very  character- 
istic conversation  between  Salemenes  and  Myrrha,  in  which  the 
two  kindred  spirits  show  their  mutual  understanding  of  each  other, 
and  the  loyal  warrior,  postponing  ali  the  selfish  domestic  feelings 


which  led  him  to  dislike  the  fair  Ionian,  exhorts  her  to  use  bet 
utmost  power  to  keep  her  lover  from  relaxing  intv  luxury.  Tht 
transient  effect  which  their  whispers  produce  on  Sardanap'vlu.  i* 
well  imagined. — Bishop  Heber.] 


SCENE  I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


265 


Myr.  {smiling).  You  have  cause,  sire ; for  on  the 
earth  there  breathes  not 
A man  more  worthy  of  a woman’s  love — 

A soldier’s  trust— a subject’s  reverence— 

A king’s  esteem — the  whole  world’s  admiration  ! 

Sar.  Praise  him,  but  not  so  warmly.  I must  not 
Hear  those  sweet  lips  grow  eloquent  in  aught 
That  throws  me  into  shade : yet  you  speak  truth. 

Myr.  And  now  retire,  to  have  your  wound  look’d  to. 
Pray,  lean  on  me. 

Sar.  Yes,  love ! but  not  from  pam. 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


ACT  IY. 

SCENE  I 

Sardanapalus  discovered  sleeping  upon  a Couch,  and 
occasionally  disturbed  in  his  /Slumbers,  icith  Myrrha 
watching. 

Myr.  {sola,  gazing).  I have  stolen  upon  his  rest,  if 
rest  it  be, 

Which  thus  convulses  slumber : shall  I wake  him  ? 
No,  he  seems  calmer.  Oh,  thou  God  of  Quiet ! 
Whose  reign  is  o’er  seal’d  eyelids  and  soft  dreams, 

Or  deep,  deep  sleep,  so  as  to  be  unfathom’d. 

Look  like  thy  brother,  Death — so  still — so  stirless — 
Por  then  we  are  happiest,  as,  it  may  be,  we 
Are  happiest  of  all  within  the  realm 
Of  thy  stern,  silent,  and  unwakening  twin. 

Again  he  moves — again  the  play  of  pain 
Shoots  o’er  his  features,  as  the  sudden  gust 
Crisps  the  reluctant  lake  that  lay  so  calm  1 
Beneath  the  mountain  shadow  ; or  the  blast 
Ruffles  the  autumn  leaves,  that  drooping  cling 
Paintly  and  motionless  to  their  loved  boughs. 

I must  awake  him — yet  not  yet : who  knows 
From  what  I rouse  him  ? It  seems  pain;  but  if 
I quicken  him  to  heavier  pain  ? The  fever 
Of  this  tumultuous  night,  the  grief  too  of 
His  wound,  though  slight,  may  cause  all  this,  and  shake 
Me  more  to  see  than  him  to  suffer.  No  : 

Let  Nature  use  her  own  maternal  means, — 

And  I await  to  second,  not  disturb  her.2 
Sar.  {awakening).  Not  so  — although  ye  multiplied 
the  stars. 


(1)  [“Crisps  the  unswelling  wave,”  &c. — MS.] 

(2)  [The  fourth  Act  opens  with  Myrrha  watching  over  the  slum- 
bers of  Sardanapalus  He  wakens  and  tells  a horrid  dream,  which 
we  do  not  much  admire,  except  that  part  of  it  which  describes  the 
form  of  his  warlike  ancestress  Semiramis,  with  whom,  and  the  rest 
of  his  regal  predecessors,  he  had  fancied  himself  at  a ghostly  ban- 
quet.— Hebe  r.] 

(3)  [The  general  tone  of  Myrrha’s  character  (in  perfect  con- 
sistency with  the  manners  of  her  age  and  nation,  and  with  her  own 
elevated  but  pure  and  feminine  spirit,)  is  that  of  a devout  wor- 
shipper of  her  country’s  gods.  She  reproves,  with  dignity,  the  im- 
pmus  flattery  of  the  Assyrian  courtiers  and  the  libertine  scoffs  of 
the  king.  She  does  not  forget,  while  preparing  for  death,  that 
libation  which  was  the  latest  and  most  solemn  act  of  Grecian  piety ; 
and  she,  more  particularly,  expresses  her  belief  in  a future  state  of 
existence.  Yet  this  very  Myrrha,  when  Sardanapalus  is  agitated 
by  his  evil  dream,  and  by  the  natural  doubt  as  to  what  worse 
visions  death  may  bring,  is  made  to  console  him,  in  the  strain  of  his 
own  Epicurean  philosophy,  with  the  doctrine  that  death  is  really 
nothing,  except 

“ Unto  the  timid  who  anticipate 
That  which  may  never  be;” 

»nd  with  the  insinuation  that  all  which  remains  of  “ the  dead  is  the 


And  gave  them  to  me  as  a realm  to  share 

Erom  you  and  with  you  ! I would  not  so  purchase 

The  empire  of  eternity.  Hence — lienee — 

Old  hunter  of  the  earliest  brutes  ! and  ye, 

Who  hunted  fellow-creatures  as  if  brutes  ! 

Once  bloody  mortals — and  now  bloodier  idols, 

If  your  priests  lie  not ! And  thou,  ghastly  beldame  ! 
Dripping  with  dusky  gore,  and  trampling  on 
The  carcasses  of  Inde — away  ! away ! 

Where  am  I ? Where  the  spectres  ? Where 

No — that 

Is  no  false  phantom  : 1 should  know  it  ’midst 

All  that  the  dead  dare  gloomily  raise  up 

Erom  their  black  gulf  to  daunt  the  living. — Myrrha ! 

Myr.  Alas  ! thou  art  pale,  and  on  thy  brow  the  drops 
Gather  like  night-dew.  My  beloved,  hush — 

Calm  thee.  Thy  speech  seems  of  another  world, 

And  thou  art  lord  of  this.  Be  of  good  cheer ; 

All  will  go  well. 

Sar.  Thy  hand — so — ’tis  thy  hand ; 

’Tis  flesh  ; grasp — clasp — yet  closer,  till  I feel 
Myself  that  which  I was. 

Myr.  At  least  know  me 

Eor  what  I am,  and  ever  must  be — thine. 

Sar.  I know  it  now.  I know  this  life  again. 

Ah,  Myrrha ! I have  been  where  we  shall  be. 

Myr.  My  lord ! 

Sar.  I ’ve  been  i’  the  grave — where 

worms  are  lords, 

And  kings  are But  I did  not  deem  it  so : 

I thought  ’twas  nothing. 

Myr.  So  it  is ; except 

Unto  the  timid,  who  anticipate 
That  which  may  never  be.3 

Sar.  Oh,  Myrrha  ! if 

Sleep  shows  such  things,  what  may  not  death  disclose  ." 

Myr.  I know  no  evil  death  can  show,  which  life 
Has  not  already  shown  to  those  who  live 
Embodied  longest.  If  there  be  indeed 
A shore  where  mind  survives,  ’twill  be  as  mina, 

Ali  unincorporate  : or  if  there  flits 
A shadow  of  this  cumbrous  clog  of  clay, 

Which  stalks,  methinks,  between  our  souls  and  heaven, 
And  fetters  us  to  earth — at  least  the  phantom, 

W hate’er  it  have  to  fear,  will  not  fear  death. 

Sar.  I fear  it  not ; but  I have  felt — have  seen — 

A legion  of  the  dead. 

Myr.  And  so  have  1 . 

The  dust  we  tread  upon  was  once  alive. 


dust  we  tread  upon.”  We  do  not  wish  to  ask,  we  do  not  like  tc 
conjecture,  whose  sentiments  these  are,  but  they  are  certainly  not 
the  sentiments  of  an  ancient  Grecian  heroine.  They  are  not  the 
sentiments  which  Myrrha  might  have  learned  from  the  heroes  of  her 
native  land,  or  from  the  poems  whence  those  heroes  derived  their 
heroism,  their  contempt  of  death,  “ and  their  love  of  virtue.” 
Myrrha  would  rather  have  told  her  lover  of  those  happy  islands 
wliere  the  benevolent  and  the  brave  reposed  after  the  toils  of  their 
mortal  existence;  of  that  venerable  society  of  departed  warriors  r id 
sages,  to  which,  if  he  renounced  his  sloth  and  lived  for  his  people 
and  for  glory,  he  might  yet  expect  admission.  She  would  have  told 
him  of  that  joy  with  which  his  warlike  ancestors  would  move  along 
their  meads  of  asphodel,  when  the  news  reached  them  of  them 
descendant’s  prowess ; she  should  have  anticipated  those  songs 
which  denied  that  “ Harmodius  was  dead,”  however  he  might  be 
removed  from  the  sphere  of  mortality  ; which  told  her  countrymen 
of  the  “roses  and  the  golden-fruited  bowers,  where,  beneath  the 
light  of  a lower  sun,  departed  warriors  reined  their  shadowy  cars,  or 
struck  their  harps  amid  altars  steaming  with  frankincense.” — (Horn. 
Odyss.  \.  539.  Callistratus  ap.  Athenaeum,  1,  xv.  Pindar,  Fragm. 
Heyne,  vol.  iii.  p.  31.)  Such  were  the  doctrines  which  naturally  lei 
men  to  a contempt  for  life  and  a thirst  for  g'ory  : but  the  opposite 
opinions  were  the  doubts  of  a later  day;  and  of  those  sophists 
under  whose  influence  Greece  soon  ceased  to  be  free,  or  valiant,  or 
virtu  »us.—  Heber.] 


M M 


2 6e 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  JV 


And  wretched.  But  proceed  : what  hast  thou  seen  ? 
Speak  it,  ’twill  lighten  thy  dimm’d  mind. 

Sar.  Methought — 

Myr.  Yet  pause,  thou  art  tired  — in  pain  — ex- 
hausted ; all 

Which  can  impair  both  strength  and  spirit : seek 
Rather  to  sleep  again. 

Sar.  Not  now — I would  not 

Dream  ; though  I know  it  now  to  be  a dream 
What  I have  dreamt : — and  canst  thou  bear  to 
hear  it  ? 

Myr.  I can  bear  all  things,  dreams  of  life  or  death, 
Which  I participate  with  you,  in  semblance 
Or  full  reality. 

Sar.  And  this  look’d  real, 

I tell  you  : after  that  these  eyes  wrere  open, 

I saw  them  in  their  flight — for  then  they  fled. 

Myr.  Say  on. 

Sar.  I saw,  that  is,  I dream’d  myself 

Here — here — even  where  we  are,  guests  as  we  were, 
Myself  a host  that  deem’d  himself  but  guest, 

Willing  to  equal  all  in  social  freedom  ; 

But,  on  my  right  hand  and  my  left,  instead 
Of  thee  and  Zames,  and  our  custom’d  meeting, 

Was  ranged  on  my  left  hand  a haughty,  dark, 

And  deadly  face — I could  not  recognise  it, 

Yet  I had  seen  it,  though  I knew  not  where  : 

The  features  were  a giant’s,  and  the  eye 
Was  still,  yet  lighted : his  long  locks  curl’d  down 
On  his  vast  bust,  whence  a huge  quiver  rose 
Witli  shaft-heads  feather’d  from  the  eagle’s  wing,1 
That  peep’d  up  bristling  through  his  serpent  hair. 

I invited  him  to  fill  the  cup  which  stood 
Between  us,  but  he  answer’d  not — I fdl’d  it — 

He  took  it  not,  but  stared  upon  me,  till 
I trembled  at  the  fix’d  glare  of  his  eye  : 

I frown’d  upon  him  as  a king  should  frown — 

He  frown’d  not  in  his  turn,  but  look’d  upon  me 
With  the  same  aspect,  which  appall’d  me  more, 
Because  it  changed  not ; and  I turn’d  for  refuge 
To  milder  guests,  and  sought  them  on  the  right, 
Where  thou  wert  wont  to  be.  But 

[He  pauses. 

Myr.  What  instead  F 

Sar.  In  thy  own  chair  — thy  own  place  in  the 
banquet — 

1 sought  thy  sweet  face  in  the  circle — but 
Instead— a grey-hair’d,  wither’d,  bloody-eyed, 

And  bloody-handed,  ghastly,  ghostly  thing. 

Female  in  garb,  and  crown’d  upon  the  brow, 

Burrow’d  with  years,  yet  sneering  with  the  passion 
Of  vengeance,  leering  too  with  that  of  lust, 

Sate  : — my  veins  curdled. 

Myr.  Is  this  all  ? 

Sar.  Upon 

Her  right  hand — her  lank,  bird-like,  right  hand — 
stood 

A goblet,  bubbling  o’er  with  blood ; and  on 
Her  left,  another,  fill’d  with — what  I saw  not, 

But  turn’d  from  it  and  her.  But  all  along 
The  table  sate  a range  of  crowned  wretches, 

Of  various  aspects,  but  of  one  expression. 

Myr.  And  felt  you  not  this  a mere  vision  ? 

Sar.  No : 

It  was  so  palpable,  I could  have  touch’d  them. 

[ turn’d  from  one  face  to  another,  in 


The  hope  to  find  at  last  one  which  I knew 
Ere  I saw  theirs  : but  no — all  turn’d  upon  me, 

And  stared,  but  neither  ate  nor  drank,  but  stared, 
Till  I grew  stone,  as  they  seem’d  half  to  be, 

Yet  breathing  stone,  for  I felt  life  in  them, 

And  life  in  me  : there  was  a horrid  kind 
Of  sympathy  between  us,  as  if  they 
Had  lost  a part  of  deatli  to  come  to  me, 

And  I the  half  of  life  to  sit  by  them. 

We  were  in  an  existence  all  apart 

Erom  heaven  or  earth And  rather  let  me  see 

Death  all  than  such  a being  ! 

Myr.  And  the  end  ? 

Sar.  At  last  I sate,  marble,  as  they,  when  rose 
The  hunter  and  the  crone  ; and  smiling  on  me — 
Yes,  the  enlarged  but  noble  aspect  of  " 

The  hunter  smiled  upon  me — I should  say, 

His  lips,  for  his  eyes  moved  not — and  the  woman  s 
Thin  lips  relaxed  to  something  like  a smile. 

Both  rose,  and  the  crown’d  figures  on  each  hand 
Rose  also,  as  if  aping  their  chief  shades — 

Mere  mimics  even  in  death — but  I sate  still : 

A desperate  courage  crept  through  every  limb, 

And  at  the  last  I fear’d  them  not,  but  laugh’d 
Full  in  their  phantom  faces.  But  then — then 
The  hunter  laid  his  hand  on  mine  : I took  it. 

And  grasp’d  it — but  it  melted  from  my  own ; 

While  he  too  vanish’d,  and  left  nothing  but 
The  memory  of  a hero,  for  he  look’d  so. 

Myr.  And  was  ; the  ancestor  of  heroes,  too, 

And  thine  no  less. 

Sar.  Ay,  Myrrha,  but  the  woman, 

I The  female  who  remain’d,  she  flew  upon  me, 

I And  burnt  my  lips  up  with  her  noisome  kisses ; 

And,  flinging  down  the  goblets  on  each  hand, 
Methought  their  poisons  flow’d  around  us,  till 
Each  form’d  a hideous  river.  Still  she  clung ; 

The  other  phantoms,  like  a row  of  statues, 

Stood  dull  as  in  our  temples,  but  she  still 
Embraced  me,  while  I shrunk  from  her,  as  if. 

In  lieu  of  her  remote  descendant,  I 

Had  been  the  son  who  slew  her  for  her  incest. 

Then — then — a chaos  of  all  loathsome  things 
Throng’d  thick  and  shapeless : I was  dead,  yet 
feeling — 


Buried,  and  raised  again — consumed  by  worms, 

Purged  by  the  flames,  and  wither’d  in  the  air  ! 

I can  fix  nothing  further  of  my  thoughts, 

Save  that  I long’d  for  thee,  and  sought  for  thee. 

In  all  these  agonies, — and  woke  and  found  thee. 

Myr.  So  slialt  thou  find  me  ever  at  thy  side, 

I Here  and  hereafter,  if  the  last  may  be. 

! But  think  not  of  these  things — the  mere  creations  < 


Of  late  events,  acting  upon  a frame 
Unused  to  toil,  yet  over-wrought  by  toil 
Such  as  might  try  the  sternest. 

Sar.  I am  better. 

Now  that  I see  thee  once  more,  what  was  seen 
Seems  nothing. 

Enter  Salemenes. 

Sal.  Is  the  king  so  soon  awake  ? 

Sar.  Yes,  brother,  and  I would  I had  not  slept 
| For  all  the  predecessors  of  our  line 
j Rose  up,  methought,  to  drag  me  down  to  them. 

My  father  was  amongst  them,  too ; but  tie, 

| 1 know  not' why,  kept  from  me,  leaving  me 
i Between  the  hunter-founde?  of  our  race. 


(1)  [ ‘With  arrows  peeping  through  his  Vi’ing  hair.” — MS.] 


SCENE  " 

, ^er,  the  homicide  and  husband-killer, 

Whom  you  call  glorious. 

gal.  So  I term  you  also, 

Now  you  have  shown  a spirit  like  to  hers. 

By  day-break  I propose  that  we  set  forth, 

And  charge  once  more  the  rebel  crew  who  still 
Xeep  gathering  head,  repulsed,  but  not  quite  quell’d. 
Sar.  How  wears  the  night  ? 

galm  There  yet  remain  some  hours 

Of  darkness  : use  them  for  your  further  rest. 

Sar.  No,  not  to-night,  if  ’tis  not  gone  : methouglit 
I pass’d  hours  in  that  vision. 

J[yr.  Scarcely  one ; 

I watch’d  by  you  : it  was  a heavy  hour, 

But  an  hour  only. 

gar.  Let  us  then  hold  council : 

To-morrow  we  set  forth. 

Sal.  But  ere  that  time, 

I had  a grace  to  seek. 

Sar.  ’Tis  granted. 

Sal.  Hear  it 

Ere  you  reply  too  readily  ; and  ’tis 
For  your  ear  only. 

Myr.  Prince,  I take  my  leave. 

[ Exit  Mykrha. 

Sal.  That  slave  deserves  her  freedom. 

Sar.  Freedom  only ! 

That  slave  deserves  to  share  a throne. 

Sal.  Your  patience — 

’Tis  not  yet  vacant,  and  ’tis  of  its  partner 
I come  to  speak  with  you. 

Sar.  How ! of  the  queen  ? 

Sal.  Even  so.  I judged  it  fitting  for  their  safety. 
That,  ere  the  dawn,  she  sets  forth  with  her  children 
Eor  Paphlagonia,  where  our  kinsman  Cotta 
Governs  : and  there  at  all  events  secure 
My  nephews  and  your  sons  their  lives,  and  with 
them 

Their  just  pretensions  to  the  crown  in  case 

Sar.  I perish — as  is  probable  : well  thought — 

Let  them  set  forth  with  a sure  escort. 

Sal.  ' That 

Is  all  provided,  and  the  galley  ready 
To  drop  down  the  Euphrates  j1  but  ere  they 

Depart,  will  you  not  see 

Sar.  My  sons  ? It  may 

"Unman  my  heart,  and  the  poor  boys  will  weep  ; 

And  what  can  I reply  to  comfort  them, 

Save  with  some  hollow  hopes  and  ill-worn  smiles  ? 
You  know  I cannot  feign. 

Sal.  But  you  can  feel ; 

At  least,  I trust  so : in  a word,  the  queen 
Bequests  to  see  you  ere  you  part — for  ever. 

Sar.  Unto  what  end?  what  purpose?  I will  grant 
Aught — all  that  she  can  ask — but  such  a meeting. 

Sal.  You  know,  or  ought  to  know,  enough  of  women, 
Since  you  have  studied  them  so  steadily, 

That  what  they  ask  in  aught  that  touches  on 
The  heart,  is  dearer  to  their  feelings  or 
Their  fancy,  than  the  whole  external  world. 

I think  as  you  do  of  my  sister’s  wish  ; 

But  ’twas  her  wish — she  is  my  sister — you 
Her  husband — will  you  grant  it? 

Sar.  ’Twill  be  useless  : 

But  let  her  come. 


267 

Sal.  I go.  [Exit  Sai  emenes. 

Sar.  We  have  lived  asunder 

Too  long  to  meet  again — and  now  to  meet ! 

Iiave  I not  cares  enow,  and  pangs  enow, 

To  bear  alone,  that  we  must  mingle  sorrows. 

Who  have  ceased  to  mingle  love  ? 


Re-enter  Salemenes  and  Zakina. 

Sal.  My  sister  ! Courage  : 

Shame  not  our  blood  with  trembling,  but  remember 
From  whence  we  sprung.  The  queen  is  present,  sire. 
Zar.  I pray  thee,  brothei,  leave  me. 

Sal.  Since  you  ask  it. 

[Exit  Salemenes. 
Zar.  Alone  with  him  ! How  many  a year  has  pass’d, 
Though  we  are  still  so  young,  since  we  have  met, 
Which  I have  worn  in  widowhood  of  heart. 

He  loved  me  not : yet  he  seems  little  changed — 
Changed  to  me  only — would  the  change  were  mutual  1 
He  speaks  not — scarce  regards  me — not  a word — 
Nor  look — yet  he  was  soft  of  voice  and  aspect, 
Indifferent,  not  austere.  My  lord  ! 

Sar.  Zarina ! 

Zar.  No,  not  Zarina — do  not  say  Zarina. 

That  tone — that  word — annihilate  long  years, 

And  things  which  make  them  longer. 

Sar.  ’Tis  too  late 

To  think  of  these  past  dreams.  Let’s  not  reproach — 

That  is,  reproach  me  not — for  the  last  time 

Zar.  And  first.  I ne’er  reproach’d  you. 

Sar.  ’Tis  most  true ; 

And  that  reproof  comes  heavier  on  my  heart 

Than But  our  hearts  are  not  in  our  own  power. 

Zar.  Nor  hands  ; but  I gave  both. 

Sar.  Your  brother  said 

It  was  your  will  to  see  me,  ere  you  went 

From  Nineveh  with ( lie  hesitates). 

Zar.  Our  children  : it  is  true. 

I wish’d  to  thank  you  that  you  have  not  divided 
My  heart  from  all  that’s  left  it  now  to  love — 

Those  who  are  yours  and  mine,  who  look  like  you, 
And  look  upon  me  as  you  look’d  upon- me 

Once But  they  have  not  changed.  . 

Sar.  Nor  ever  will. 

I fain  would  have  them  dutiful. 

Zar.  I cherish 

Those  infants,  not  alone  from  the  blind  love 
Of  a fond  mother,  but  as  a fond  woman. 

They  are  now  the  only  tie  between  us. 

Sar.  Deem  not 

I have  not  done  you  justice : rather  make  them 
Resemble  your  own  line,  than  their  own  sire. 

I trust  them  with  you — to  you  : fit  them  for 

A throne,  or,  if  that  be  denied You  have  heard 

Of  this  night’s  tumults  ? 

Zar.  I had  half  forgotten, 

And  could  have  welcomed  any  grief,  save  yours, 
Which  gave  me  to  behold  your  face  again. 

Sar.  The  throne — I say  it  not  in  fear— but  ’tis 
In  peril ; they  perhaps  may  never  mount  it ! 

But  let  them  not  for  this  lose  sight  of  it. 

I will  dare  all  things  to  bequeath  it  them  ; 

But  if  I fail,  then  they  must  win  it  back 


SARD  AN  AP  ALLS. 


(1)  [We  hardly  know  why  Lord  Byron,  who  has  not  in  other 
respects  shown  a slavish  oeference  for  Diodorus  Siculus,  should  thus 
follow  him  in  the  manifest  geographical  blunder  of  placing  Nineveh 


on  the  Euphrates  instead  of  the  Tigris,  in  opposition  not  or  ly  tc 
the  uniform  tradition  of  the  East,  but  to  the  express  assertions  of 
Ferodc‘us,  Pliny,  and  Ptolemy. — Heber.] 


268 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS 


Br  avely — and,  won,  wear  it  wisely,  not  as  I 
Have  wasted  down  my  royalty. 

Zar.  They  ne’er 

Shall  know  from  me  of  aught  but  what  may  honour 
Their  father’s  memory. 

Sar.  Rather  let  them  hear 

The  truth  from  you  than  from  a trampling  world. 

If  they  be  in  adversity,  they  ’ll  learn 

Too  soon  the  scorn  of  crowds  for  crownless  princes, 

And  find  that  all  their  father’s  sins  are  theirs. 

My  boys  ! — I could  have  borne  it  were  1 childless. 

Zar.  Oh  ! do  not  say  so — do  not  poison  all 
My  peace  left,  by  unwishing  that  thou  wert 
A father.  If  thou  conquerest,  they  shall  reign, 

And  honour  him  who  saved  the  realm  for  them, 

So  little  cared  for  as  his  own ; and  if 

Sar.  ’Tis  lost,  all  earth  will  cry  out,  Thank  your 
father ! 

And  they  will  swell  the  echo  with  a curse. 

Zar.  That  they  shall  never  do ; but  rather  honour 
The  name  of  him,  who,  dying  like  a king, 

In  his  last  hours  did  more  for  his  own  memory 
Than  many  monarchs  in  a length  of  days, 

Which  date  the  flight  of  time,  but  make  no  annals. 

Sar.  Our  annals  draw  perchance  unto  their  close  ; 
But  at  the  least,  whate’er  the  past,  their  end 
Shall  be  like  their  beginning — memorable. 

Zar.  Yet,  be  not  rash— be  careful  of  your  life, 

Live  but  for  those  who  love. 

Sar.  And  who  are  they  ? 

A slave,  who  loves  from  passion — I ’ll  not  say 
Ambition — she  has  seen  thrones  shake,  and  loves  ; 

A few  friends  who  have  revell’d  till  we  are 
As  one,  for  they  are  nothing  if  I fall ; 

A brother  I have  injured — children  whom 

I have  neglected,  and  a spouse 

Zar.  Who  loves. 

Sar.  And  pardons  ? 

Zar.  I have  never  thought  of  this, 

And  cannot  pardon  till  I have  condemn’d. 

Sar.  My  wife ! 

Zar.  Now  blessings  on  thee  for  that  word  ! 

I never  thought  to  hear  it  more — from  thee. 

Sar.  Oh  ! thou  wilt  hear  it  from  my  subjects.  Yes — 
These  slaves,  whom  I have  nurtured,  pamper’d,  fed, 
And  swo-ln  with  peace,  and  gorged  with  plenty,  till 
They  reign  themselves — all  monarchs  in  their  man- 
sions— 

Now  swarm  forth  in  rebellion,  and  demand 
His  death,  who  made  their  lives  a jubilee  ; 

While  the  few  upon  whom  I have  no  claim 
Are  faithful ! This  is  true,  yet  monstrous. 

Zar.  ’Tis 

Perhaps  too  natural ; for  benefits 
Turn  poison  in  bad  minds. 

Sar.  And  good  ones  make 

Good  out  of  evil.  Happier  than  the  bee, 

Which  hives  not  but  from  wholesome  flowers. 

Zar.  Then  reap 

The  honey,  nor  inquire  whence  ’tis  derived. 

Be  satisfied — you  are  not  all  abandon’d. 


(1)  [ We  are  not  sure,  whether  there  is  not  a considerable  vio- 
lation of  costume  in  the  sense  of  degradation  with  which  Myrrha 
seems  to  regard  her  situation  in  the  harem,  no  less  than  in  the  re- 
sentment of  Salemenes,  and  the  remorse  of  Sardanapalus  on  the 
score  of  his  infidelity  to  Zarina.  Little  as  we  know  of  the  domestic 
kibits  of  Assyria,  we  have  reason  to  conclude,  from  the  habits  of 
eontemporary  nations,  and  from  the  manners  of  the  East  in  every 
■ge,  that  polygamy  was  neither  accounted  a crime  in  itself,  nor  as  a 


ACT  IT  I 

Sar.  My  life  insures  me  that.  How  long,  belhinl 
you, 

Were  not  I yet  a king,  should  I be  mortal 

That  is,  where  mortals  are , not  where  they  must  be  ? 

Zar.  I know  not.  But  yet  live  for  my — that  is, 
Your  children’s  sake ! 

Sar.  My  gentle,  wrong’d  Zarina  ! ‘ 

I am  the  very  slave  of  circumstance 

And  impulse— borne  away  with  every  breath! 

Misplaced  upon  the  throne — misplaced  in  life. 

I know  not  what  I could  have  been,  but  feel 
I am  not  what  I should  be — let  it  end. 

But  take  this  with  thee  : if  I was  not  form’d 
To  prize  a love  like  thine,  a mind  like  thine, 

Nor  dote  even  on  thy  beauty — as  I’ve  doted 

On  lesser  charms,  for  no  cause  save  that  such 

Devotion  was  a duty,  and  I hated 

All  that  look’d  iike  a chain  for  me  or  others 

(This  even  rebellion  must  avouch) ; yet  hear 

These  words,  perhaps  among  my  last — that  none 

E’er  valued  more  thy  virtues,  though  he  knew  not 

To  profit  by  them — as  the  miner  lights 

Upon  a vein  of  virgin  ore,  discovering 

That  which  avails  him  nothing : he  hath  found  it, 

But  ’tis  not  his — but  some  superior’s,  who 
Placed  him  to  dig,  but  not  divide  the  wealth 
Which  sparkles  at  his  feet ; nor  dare  he  lift 
Nor  poise  it,  but  must  grovel  on,  upturning 
The  sullen  earth. 

Zar.  Oh  ! if  thou  hast  at  length 

Discover’d  that  my  love  is  worth  esteem, 

I ask  no  more — but  let  us  hence  together, 

And  I — let  me  say  we — shall  yet  be  happy. 

Assyria  is  not  all  the  earth — we’ll  find 
A world  out  of  our  own — and  be  more  bless’d 
Than  I have  ever  been,  or  thou,  with  all 
An  empire  to  indulge  thee. 

Enter  Salemenes. 

Sal.  I must  part  ye — 

The  moments,  which  must  not  be  lost,  are  passing. 

Zar.  Inhuman  brother  ! wilt  thou  thus  weigh  out 
Instants  so  high  and  blest  F 

Sal.  Blest ! 

Zar.  He  hath  been 

So  gentle  with  me,  that  I cannot  think 
Of  quitting. 

Sal.  So — this  feminine  farewell 

Ends  as  such  partings  end,  in  no  departure. 

I thought  as  much,  and  yielded  against  all 
My  better  bodings.  But  it  must  not  be. 

Zar.  Not  be  ? 

Sal.  Remain,  and  perish 

Zar.  With  my  husband 

Sal.  And  children. 

Zar.  Alas ! 

Sal.  Hear  me,  sister,  like 

My  sister: — all’s  prepared  to  make  your  safety 
Certain,  and  of  the  boys  too,  our  last  hopes  ; 

’Tis  not  a single  question  of  mere  feeling, 

Though  that  were  much — but  ’tis  a point  of  state  : 


measure  of  which  the  principal  wife  was  justified  in  complaining. 
And  even  in  Greece,  in  those  times  when  Myrrha’s  character  must 
have  been  formed, — to  be  a captive,  and  subject  to  the  captor's, 
pleasure,  was  accounted  a misfortune  indeed,  but  could  hardly  be 
regarded  as  an  infamy.  But  where  is  the  critic  who  would  object 
to  an  inaccuracy  which  has  given  occasion  to  such  sentimerts  and 
such  poetry? — Hebe*.] 


SCENE  1. 


SARD  AN  AP  ALL7  S. 


269 


The  rebels  would  do  more  to  seize  upon 

The  offspring  of  tlieijr  sovereign,  and  so  crusli 

Zar.  Ah ! do  not  name  it.  ^ 

$al  Weil,  then,  mark  me : when 

They  are  safe  beyond  the  Median’s  grasp,  the  rebels 
Have  miss’d  their  chief  aim— the  extinction  of 
The  line  of  Nimrod.  Though  the  present  king 
Pall,  his  sons  live  for  victory  and  vengeance. 

Zar.  But  could  not  I remain,  alone  ? 

Sal.  What ! leave 

Your  children,  with  two  parents  and  yet  orphans — 

In  a strange  land— so  young,  so  distant  ? 

Zar.  _ No— 

My  heart  will  break. 

Sal.  Now  you  know  all — decide. 

Sar.  Zarina,  he  hath  spoken  well,  and  we 
Must  yield  awhile  to  this  necessity. 

Remaining  here,  you  may  lose  all  ; departing, 

You  save  the  better  part  of  what  is  left, 

To  both  of  us,  and  to  such  loyal  hearts 
As  yet  beat  in  these  kingdoms. 

Sal.  The  time  presses. 

Sar.  Go,  then.  If  e’er  we  meet  again,  perhaps 
I may  be  worthier  of  you — and,  if  not, 

Remember  that  my  faults,  though  not  atoned  for. 

Are  ended.  Yet,  I dread  thy  nature  will 
Grieve  more  above  the  blighted  name  and  ashes 

Which  once  were  mightiest  in  Assyria— than 

But  I grow  womanish  again,  and  must  not ; 

I must  learn  sternness  now.  My  sins  have  all 
Been  of  the  softer  order — hide  thy  tears — 

I do  not  bid  thee  not  to  shed  them — ’twere 
Easier  to  stop  Euphrates  at  its  source 
Than  one  tear  of  a true  and  tender  heart — 

But  let  me  not  behold  them  ; they  unman  me 
Here  when  I had  re-mann’d  myself.  My  brother, 
Lead  her  away. 

Zar.  Oh,  God  ! I never  shall 

behold  him  more  ! [obey’d. 

Sal.  ( striving  to  conduct  her).  Nay,  sister,  I must  be 

Zar.  I must  remain — away  ! you  shall  not  hold  me. 
What,  shall  he  die  alone — /live  alone  ? 

Sal.  He  shall  not  die  alone  ; but  lonely  you 
Have  lived  for  years. 

Zar.  That ’s  false  ! I knew  he  lived. 

And  lived  upon  his  image — let  me  go ! 

Sal.  {conducting  her  off  the  stage').  Nay,  then,  I 
must  use  some  fraternal  force, 

Which  you  will  pardon. 

Zar.  Never.  Help  me  ! Oh ! 

Sardanapalus,  wilt  thou  thus  behold  me 
Tom  from  thee  ? 

Sal.  Nay — then  all  is  lost  again. 

If  that  this  moment  is  not  gain’d. 

• Zar.  My  brain  turns — 

My  eyes  fail — where  is  he  ? [She  faints. 

Sar.  {advancing).  No — set  ! er  down — 

She’s  dead — and  you  have  slain  her. 

Sal.  ’Tis  the  mere 

Faintness  of  o’erwrought  passion  : in  the  air 
She  will  recover.  Pray,  keep  back. — [Aside.  ] 1 must 


• (1)  [This  scene  has  been,  by  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  we  know 
not  why,  called  ‘‘useless,”  “ unnatural,”  and  “ tediously  written  ” 
For  ourselves,  we  are  not  ashamed  to  own  tnat  we  have  read  it 
with  emotion.  It  is  an  interview  between  Sardanapalus  and  his 
neglected  wife,  whom,  with  her  children,  he  is  about  to  send  to  a 
place  ot  safety.  Here,  too,  however,  he  is  represented,  with  much 
•oe-ical  art  and  justice  of  delineation,  as,  in  the  midst  of  his 


Avail  myself  of  this  sole  moment  to 

Bear  her  to  where  her  children  arc  embark’d, 

I’  the  royal  galley  on  the  river. 

[Salemenes  beats  her  off. 1 

Sar.  (solus).  This,  too — 

And  this  too  must  I suffer — I,  who  never 
Inflicted  purposely  on  human  hearts 
A voluntary  pang  ! But  that  is  false — 

She  loved  me,  and  I loved  her. — Fatal  passion! 

Why  dost  thou  not  expire  at  once  in  hearts 
Which  thou  hast  lighted  up  at  once  P Zarina  ! 

I must  pay  dearly  for  the  desolation 
Now  brought  upon  thee.  Had  I never  loved 
But  thee,  I should  have  been  an  unopposed 
Monarch  of  honouring  nations.  To  what  gulfs 
A single  deviation  from  the  track 
Of  human  duties  leads  even  those  who  claim 
The  homage  of  mankind  as  their  born  due. 

And  find  it,  till  they  forfeit  it  themselves  ! 

Enter  Myrrha. 

Sar.  You  here  ! Who  call'd  you  ? 

Mgr.  No  one — but  I heard 

Far  off  a voice  of  wail  and  lamentation, 

And  thought 

Sar  It  forms  no  portion  of  your  duties 

To  enter  here  till  sought  for. 

Mgr.  Though  I might, 

Perhaps,  recall  some  softer  words  of  yours 
(Although  they  too  were  chiding ),  which  reproved  me, 
Because  I ever  dreaded  to  intrude  ; 

Resisting  my  own  wish  and  your  injunction 
To  heed  no  time  nor  presence,  but  approach  you 
Uncall’d  for : — I retire. 

Sar.  Yet  stay — being  here. 

I pray  yon  pardon  me : events  have  sour’d  me 
Till  I wax  peevish — heed  it  not : I shall 

con  be  myself  again. 

Mgr.  I wait  with  patience, 

What  I shall  see  with  pleasure. 

Sar.  Scarce  a moment 

efore  your  entrance  in  this  hall,  Zarina, 

Queen  of  Assyria,  departed  hence. 

Mgr.  Ah!  ’ 

Sar.  Wherefore  do  you  start  ? 

Mgr.  Did  I do  so  ? 

Sar.  ’Twas  well  you  enter’d  by  another  portal, 

se  you  had  met.  That  pang  at  least  is  spared  her ! 

Mgr.  I know  to  feel  for  her. 

Sar.  That  is  too  much, 

And  beyond  nature — ’tis  nor  mutual,2 
Nor  possible.  You  cannot  pity  her, 

Nor  she  aught  but 

Mgr.  Despise  the  favourite  slave  ? 

Not  more  than  I have  ever  scorn’d  lpyself. 

Sar.  Scorn’d  ! what,  to  be  the  envy  of  your  sex, 
And  lord  it  o’er  the  heart  of  the  world’s  lord  ? 

Mgr.  Were  you  the  lord  of  twice  ten  thousand 
worlds — 

As  you  are  like  to  lose  the  one  you  sway’d — 

I did  abase  myself  as  much  in  being 


deepest  regrets  for  Zarina,  chiefly  engrossed  with  himself  and  his 
own  sorrows,  and  inclined,  immediately  afterwards,  to  visit  on 
poor  Myrrha  the  painful  feelings  which  his  own  reproaches  of 
himself  have  occasioned.— Heber.] 

(2)  IFor  mutual,  the  MS.  in  our  hands  has  natural ; hut  wre  ar« 
not  quite  sure  that  there  has  been  merely  a misprint  in  the  fore- 
going editions.] 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  iv 


270 


Your  paramour,  as  though  you  were  a peasant — 

Kay,  more,  if  that  the  peasant  were  a Greek. 

Sar.  You  talk  it  well 

Myr.  And  truly. 

Sar.  In  the  hour 

Of  man’s  adversity  all  things  grow  daring 
Against  the  falling ; but  as  I am  not 
Quite  fall’n,  nor  now  disposed  to  bear  reproaches, 
Perhaps  because  I merit  them  too  often, 

Let  us  then  part  while  peace  is  still  between  us. 

Myr.  Part ! 

Sar.  Have  not  all  past  human  beings  parted. 

And  must  not  all  the  present  one  day  part  ? 

. Myr.  Why  ? 

Sar.  Por  your  safety,  which  I will  have  look’d  to, 
With  a strong  escort  to  your  native  land; 

And  such  gifts,  as,  if  you  had  not  been  all 
A queen,  shall  make  your  dowry  worth  a kingdom. 
Myr.  I pray  you  talk  not  thus. 

Sar.  The  queen  is  gone  : 

You  need  not  shame  to  follow.  I would  fall 
Alone — I seek  lo  partners  but  in  pleasure. 

Myr.  And  I no  pleasure  but  in  parting  not. 

You  shall  not  force  me  from  you. 

Sar.  Think  well  of  it — 

It  soon  may  be  too  late. 

Myr.  So  let  it  be ; 

For  then  you  cannot  separate  me  from  you. 

Sar.  And  will  not ; but  I thought  you  wish’d  it. 
Myr.  I ! 

Sar.  You  spoke  of  your  abasement. 

Myr.  And  I feel  it 

Deeply — more  deeply  than  all  things  but  love. 

Sar.  Then  fly  from  it. 

Myr.  ’Twill  not  recall  the  past — 

’Twill  not  restore  my  honour,  nor  my  heart. 

No — here  I stand  or  fall.  If  that  you  conquer, 

I live  to  joy  in  your  great  triumph  : should 
Your  lot  be  different,  I’ll  not  weep,  but  share  it. 

You  did  not  doubt  me  a few  hours  ago. 

Sar.  Your  courage  never — nor  your  love  till  now  ; 
And  none  could  make  me  doubt  it  save  yourself. 
Those  words 

Myr.  Were  words.  I pray  you,  let  the  proofs 
Be  in  the  past  acts  you  were  pleased  to  praise 
This  very  night,  and  in  my  further  bearing. 

Beside,  wherever  you  are  borne  by  fate, 

Sar.  I am  content ; and,  trusting  in  my  cause. 
Think  we  may  yet  be  victors  and  return 
To  peace — the  only  victory  I covet. 

To  me  war  is  no  glory — conquest  no 

Renown.  To  be  forced  thus  to  uphold  my  right 

Sits  heavier  on  my  heart  than  all  the  wrongs 

These  men  would  bow  me  down  with.  Never,  never, 

Can  I forget  this  night,  even  should  I live 

To  add  it  to  the  memory  of  others. 

I thought  to  have  made  mine  inoffensive  rule 
An  era  of  sweet  peace  ’midst  bloody  annals, 

A green  spot  amidst  desert  centuries, 

On  which  the  future  would  turn  back  and  smile, 

And  cultivate,  or  sigh  when  it  could  not 
Recall  Sardanapalus  golden  reign. 

I thought  to  have  made  my  realm  a paradise, 

And  every  moon  an  epoch  of  new  pleasures. 

I took  the  rabble’s  shouts  for  love — the  breath 
Of  friends  for  truth— the  lips  of  woman  for 
My  only  guerdon — so  they  are,  my  Myrrha : 

[He  /cisses  her. 


Kiss  me.  Now  let  them  take  my  realm  and  life  : 

They  shall  have  both,  but  never  Rice ! 

Myr.  \ No,  never ! 

Man  may  despoil  his  brother  man  of  all 
That ’s  great  or  glittering  — kingdoms  fall  — hosts 
yield — 

Friends  fail — slaves  fly — and  all  betray — and,  . 

Than  all,  the  most  indebted — but  a heart  [it. 

That  loves  without  self-love  ! ’Tis  here — now  prove 

Enter  Salemenes. 

Sal.  I sought  you — How  ! she  here  again  ? 

Sar.  Return  not 

Now  to  reproof : methinks  your  aspect  speaks 
Of  higher  matter  than  a woman’s  presence. 

Sal.  The  only  woman  whom  it  much  imports  me 
At  such  a moment  now  is  safe  in  absence — 

The  queen’s  embark’d. 

Sar.  And  well  ? say  that  much. 

Sal.  Yes. 

Her  transient  weakness  has  pass’d  o’er  ; at  least, 

It  settled  into  tearless  silence  : her 
Pale  face  and  glittering  eye,  after  a glance 
Upon  her  sleeping  children,  were  still  fix’d 
Upon  the  palace  towers  as  the  swift  galley 
Stole  down  the  hurrying  stream  beneath  the  star- 
light ; 

But  she  said  nothing. 

Sar.  Would  I felt  no  more 

Than  she  has  said  ! 

Sal.  ’Tis  now  too  late  to  feel ! 

Your  feelings  cannot  cancel  a sole  pang  : 

To  change  them,  my  advices  bring  sure  tidings 
That  the  rebellious  Medes  and  Chaldees,  marshall’d 
By  their  two  leaders,  are  already  up 
In  arms  again;  and,  serrying  their  ranks, 

Prepare  to  attack  : they  have  apparently 
Been  join’d  by  other  satraps. 

Sar.  What!  more  rebel* T 

Let  us  be  first,  then. 

Sal.  That  were  hardly  prudent 

Now,  though  it  was  our  fiist  intention.  If 
By  noon  to-morrow  we  are  join’d  by  those 
I’ve  sent  for  by  sure  messengers,  we  shall  be 
In  strength  enough  to  venture  an  attack, 

Ay,  and  pursuit  too : but  till  then,  my  voice 
Is  to  await  the  onset. 

Sar.  I detest 

That  waiting  : though  it  seems  so  safe  to  fight 
Behind  high  walls,  and  hurl  down  foes  into 
Deep  fosses,  or  behold  them  sprawl  on  spikes 
Strew’d  to  receive  them,  still  I like  it  not — 

My  soul  seems  lukewarm ; but  when  I set  on  them, 
Though  they  were  piled  on  mountains,  I would  have 
A pluck  at  them,  or  perish  in  hot  blood ! — 

Let  me  then  charge  ! 

Sal.  You  talk  like  a young  soldier. 

Sar.  I am  no  soldier,  but  a man : speak  not 
Of  soldiership,  I loathe  the  word,  and  those 
Who  pride  themselves  upon  it ; but  direct  me 
Where  I may  pour  upon  them. 

Sal.  You  must  spare 

To  expose  your  life  too  hastily  ; ’tis  not 
Like  mine  or  any  other  subject’s  breatli : 

The  whole  war  turns  upon  it — with  it ; this 
Alone  creates  it,  kindles,  and  may  quench  it  • 
Prolong  it — end  it. 

Sar.  Then  let-  us  end  both  ! 


<CENE  I. 


SARDANAPALUS. 


271 


’Twere  better  thus,  perhaps,  than  prolong  either ; 

I’m  sick  of  one,  perchance  of  both. 

[A  trumpet  sounds  without. 
Sat.  Hark ! 

Sar.  Let  us 

Reply,  not  listen. 

Sal.  And  your  wound  ! 

Sar.  ’Tis  bound — 

’Tis  heal’d— I had  forgotten  it.  Away  ! 

A leech’s  lancet  would  have  scratch’d  me  deeper.1 
The  slave  that  gave  it  might  be  well  ashamed 
To  have  struck  so  weakly. 

Sal.  Now,  may  none  this  hour 

Strike  with  a better  aim  ! 

Sar.  Ay,  if  we  conquer  ; 

But  if  not,  they  will  only  leave  to  me 
A task  they  might  have  spared  their  king.  Upon 
them  ! [Trumpet  sounds  again. 

Sal.  1 am  with  you. 

Sar.  Ho,  my  arms  ! again,  my  arms  ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  Y.  1 

SCENE  I. 

The  same  Hall  in  the  Palace. 

Myrrh  a and  Bale  a. 

Mgr.  {at  a window').  The  day  at  last  has  broken. 

What  a night 

Hat  h usher’d  it ! How  beautiful  in  heaven  ! 

Though  varied  with  a transitory  storm, 

More  beautiful  in  that  variety  ! 

Plow  hideous  upon  earth  ! where  peace  and  hope, 

And  love  and  revel,  in  an  hour  were  trampled 
Bv  human  passions  to  a human  chaos, 

Not  yet  resolved  to  separate  elements. — 

’Tis  warring  still ! And  can  the  sun  so  rise. 

So  bright,  so  rolling  back  the  clouds  into 
Vapours  more  lovely  than  the  unclouded  sky. 

With  golden  pinnacles,  and  snowy  mountains. 

And  billows  purpler  than  the  ocean’s,  making 
In  heaven  a glorious  mockery  of  the  earth, 

So  like  we  almost  deem  it  permanent ; 

So  fleeting,  we  can  scarcely  call  it  aught 
Beyond  a vision,  ’tis  so  transiently 
Scatter’d  along  the  eternal  vault  •. 2 and  yet 
It  dwells  upon  the  soul,  and  soothes  the  soul, 

And  blends  itself  into  the  soul,  until 
Sunrise  and  sunset  form  the  haunted  epoch 
Of  sorrow  and  of  love  ; which  they  who  mark  not, 
Know  not  the  realms  where  those  twin  genii 3 
(Who  chasten  and  who  purify  our  hearts, 

So  that  we  would  not  change  their  sweet  rebukes 
Por  all  the  boisterous  joys  that  ever  shook 
The  air  with  clamour),  build  the  palaces 
Where  their  fond  votaries  repose  and  breathe 
Briefly ; — but  in  that  brief  cool  calm  inhale 
Enough  of  heaven  to  enable  them  to  bear 
The  rest  of  common,  heavy,  human  hours. 


(1)  [“A  leech’s  lancet  would  have  done  as  much.” — MS.] 

(2)  [This  description  of  the  sun  rolling  back  the  vapours  is 
apparently  imitated  from  a magnificent  scene  in  the  second  book 
«f  Wordsworth’s  Excursion 

“ Round  them  and  above, 

Glitter,  with  dark  recesses  interposed, 

Casement,  and  cottage-roof,  and  stems  of  trees 


And  dream  them  through  in  placid  sufferance ; 
Though  seemingly  employ’d  like  ail  the  rest 
Of  toiling  breathers  in  allotted  tasks  4 
Of  pain  or  pleasures,  two  names  for  one  feeling, 

Which  our  internal,  restless  agony 
Would  vary  in  the  sound,  although  the  sense 
Escapes  our  highest  efforts  to  be  happy. 

Pal.  You  muse  right  calmly:  and  can  you  so  waten 
The  sunrise  which  may  be  our  last  ? 

Mgr.  ' It  is 

Therefore  that  I so  watch  it,  and  reproach 
Those  eyes,  which  never  may  behold  it  more, 

Eor  having  look’d  upbn  it  oft,  too  oft. 

Without  the  reverence  and  the  rapture  due 
To  that  which  keeps  all  earth  from  being  as  fragile 
'As  I am  in  this  form.  Come,  look  upon  it, 

The  Chaldee’s  god,  which,  when  I gaze  upon, 

I grow  almost  a convert  to  your  Baal 

Pal.  As  now  lie  reigns  in  heaven,  so  once  on  earth 
He  sway’d. 

Mgr.  He  sways  it  now  far  more,  then  ; never 
Had  earthly  monarch  half  the  power  and  glory 
Which  centres  in  a single  ray  of  his. 

Pal.  Surely  he  is  a god  ! 

Mgr.  So  we  Greeks  deem  too  j 

And  yet  I sometimes  think  that  gorgeous  orb 
Must  rather  be  the  abode  of  gods  than  one 
Of  the  immortal  sovereigns.  Now  he  breaks 
Through  all  the  clouds,  and  fills  my  eyes  with  lio-ht 
That  shuts  the  world  out.  I can  look  no  more. 

Pal.  Hark  ! heard  you  not  a sound  ? 

Mgr.  No,  ’twas  mere  fancy  , 

They  battle  it  beyond  the  wall,  and  not 
As  in  late  midnight  conflict  in  the  very 
Chambers  : the  palace  has  become  a fortress 
Since  that  insidious  hour  : and  here,  within 
The  very  centre,  girded  by  vast  courts 
And  regal  halls  of  pyramid  proportions, 

Which  must  be  carried  one  by  one  before 
They  penetrate  to  where  they  then  arrived, 

We  are  as  much  shut  in  even  from  the  sound 
Of  peril  as  from  glory. 

Pal  But  they  reach’d 

Thus  far  before. 

Mgr.  Yes,  by  surprise,  and  were 

Beat  back  by  valour  : now  at  once  we  have 
Courage  and  vigilance  to  guard  us. 

Pal.  May  they 

Prosper  ! 

Mgr.  That  is  the  prayer  of  many,  and 
The  dread  of  more  : it  is  an  anxious  hour ; 

I strive  to  keep  it  from  my  thoughts.  Alas  ! 

How  vainly ! 

Pal.  It  is  said  the  king’s  demeanour 

In  the  late  action  scarcely  more  appall’d 
The  rebels  than  astonish’ d his  true  subjects. 

Mgr.  ’Tis  easy  to  astonish  or  appal 
The  vulgar  mass  which  moulds  a horde  of  slaves ; 

But  he  did  bravely. 

Pal.  Slew  he  not  Beleses  ? 

I heard  the  soldiers  say  he  struck  him  down. 


Half-veil’d  in  vapouring  cloud,  the  silver  steam 
Of  dews  fast  melting  on  their  leafy  boughs 
By  The  strong  sunbeams  smitten.”] 

(3)  [“  Sunrise  and  sunset  form  the  epoch  of 

Sorrow  and  love : and  they  who  mark  them  not 
Can  ne’er  hold  converse  with,”  &c. — MS.] 

(4)  [“  Of  labouring  wretches  in  allotted  tasks." — MS.] 


272 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  V 


il Eyr.  The  wretch  was  overthrown,  but  rescued  to 
Triumph,  perhaps,  o’er  one  who  vanquish’d  him 
In  fight,  as  he  had  spared  him  in  his  peril ; 

And  by  that  heedless  pity  risk’d  a crown. 

Bal.  Hark ! [slowly. 

Myr.  You  are  right : some  steps  approach,  but 

Enter  Soldiers,  bearing  in  Salemenes  wounded,  with 
a broken  Javelin  in  his  Side : they  seat  him  upon  one 
of  the  Couches  which  f urnish  the  Apartment. 

Myr.  Oh,  Jove ! 

Bal.  Then  ail  is  over. 

Sal.  That  is  false, 

llew  down  the  slave  who  says  so,  if  a soldier. 

Myr.  Spare  him — lie’s  none:  a mere  court  but- 
terfly, 

That  flutters  in  the  pageant  of  a monarch. 

Sal.  Let  him  live  on,  then. 

Myr.  So  wilt  thou,  I trust. 

Sal.  I fain  would  live  this  hour  out,  aud  the  event, 
But  doubt  it.  Wherefore  did  ye  bear  me  here  ? 

Sol.  By  tiie  kiug’s  order.  When  the  javelin  struck 

you. 

You  fell  and  fainted:  ’twas  his  strict  command 
To  bear  you  to  this  hall. 

Sal.  ’Twas  not  ill  done  : 

For  seeming  slain  in  that  cold  dizzy  trance, 

The  sight  might  shake  our  soldiers — but — ’tis  vain, 

I feel  it  ebbing ! 

Myr.  Let  me  see  the  wound  ! 

I am  not  quite  skilless : in  my  native  land 
’Tis  part  of  our  instruction.  War  being  constant, 

We  are  nerved  to  look  on  such  things.1 

Sol.  Best  extract 

The  javelin. 

Myr.  Hold ! no,  no,  it  cannot  be. 

Sal.  Iam  sped,  then  ! 

Myr.  With  the  blood  that  fast  must  follow 

The  extracted  weapon,  I do  fear  thy  life. 

Sal.  And  I not  death.  Where  was  the  king  when 
you 

Convey’d  me  from  the  spot  where  1 was  stricken  ? 

Sol.  Upon  the  same  ground,  and  encouraging 
With  voice  and  gesture  the  dispirited  troops 
Who  had  seen  you  fab,  and  falter’d  back. 

Sal.  Whom  heard  ye 

Named  next  to  the  command  ? 

Sol.  I did  not  hear. 

Sal.  Fly,  then,  and  tell  him,  ’twas  my  last  request 
That  Zames  take  my  post  until  the  junction. 

So  hoped  for,  yet  delay’d,  of  Ofratanes, 

Satrap  of  Susa.  Leave  me  here  : our  troops 
Are  not  so  numerous  as  to  spare  your  absence. 

Sol.  But  prince 

Sal.  Hence,  I say ! Here’s  a courtier  and 

A woman,  the  best  chamber  company. 

As  you  would  not  permit  me  to  expire 

Upon  the  field,  I’ll  have  no  idle  soldiers 

About  my  sick  couch.  Hence  1 and  do  my  bidding  ! 

[ Exeunt  the  Soldiers. 

Myr.  Gallant  and  glorious  spirit ! must  the  earth 
So  soon  resign  thee  ? 

Sal.  Gentle  Myrrha,  ’tis 

The  end  I would  have  chosen,  had  I saved 
The  monarch  or  the  monarchy  by  this ; 

As  ’tis,  I have  not  outlived  them. 

(1)  [“  We  are  used  to  such  inflictions.”— MS.] 


I Myr.  You  wax  palci. 

Sal.  Your  hand  : this  broken  weapon  but  prolongs 
My  pangs,  without  sustaining  life  enough 
To  make  me  useful : I would  draw  it  forth, 

And  my  life  with  it,  could  1 but  hear  how 
The  fight  goes. 

Enter  Sard  an  a talus  and  Soldiers. 

Sar.  My  best  brother  ! 

Sal.  And  the  battle 

Is  lost  ? 

Sar.  ( despondingly ).  You  see  me  here. 

Sul.  I ’d  rather  see  you  thus  / 

[He  draws  out  the  weapon  from  the  wound, 
and  dies. 

Sar.  And  thus  I will  be  seen ; unless  the  succour, 
file  last  frail  reed  of  our  beleaguer’d  hopes, 

Arrive  with  Ofratanes. 

Myr.  Did  you  not 

Receive  a token  from  your  dying  brother, 

Appointing  Zames  chief  ? 

Sar.  I did. 

Myr.  Where’s  Zames? 

Sar.  Dead. 

Myr.  And  Altada  F 

Sar.  Dying. 

Myr.  Pania?  Sfero  ? 

Sar.  Pania  yGt  lives;  but  Sfero ’s  fled,  or  captive 
I am  alone. 

Myr.  And  is  all  lost  ? 

Sar.  Our  walls, 

Though  thinly  mann’d,  may  still  hold  out  against 
Their  present  force,  or  aught  save  treachery  : 

But  i’  the  field 

Myr.  I thought  ’twas  the  intent 

Of  Salemenes  not  to  risk  a sally 
Till  ye  were  strengthen’d  by  the  expected  succours. 

I Sar.  I over-ruled  him. 

Myr.  Well,  the  fault’s  a brave  one 

Sar.  But  fatal.  Oh,  my  brother,  I would  give 
These  realms,  of  which  thou  wert  the  ornament, 

The  sword  and  shield,  the  sole-redeeming  honour, 

To  call  back But  I will  not  weep  for  thee  ; 

Thou  shalt  be  mourn’d  for  as  thou  wouldst  be  mourn’d 
It  grieves  me  most  that  thou  couldst  quit  this  life 
Believing  that  I could  survive  what  thou 
Hast  died  for— our  long  royalty  of  race. 

If  I redeem  it,  I will  give  thee  blood 
Of  thousands,  tears  of  millions,  for  atonement, 

(The  tears  of  all  the  good  are  thine  already). 

If  not,  we  meet  again  soon, — if  the  spirit 
Within  us  lives  beyond  : — thou  readest  mine, 

And  dost  me  justice  now.  Let  me  once  clasp 
That  yet  warm  hand,  and  fold  that  throbless  heart 

[. Embraces  the  body. 

To  this  which  beats  so  bitterly.  Now,  bear 
The  body  hence. 

Soldier.  Where  ? 

Sar.  To  my  proper  chamber. 

Place  it  benealh  my  canopy,  as  though 
The  king  lay  there  : when  this  is  done,  we  will 
Speak  further  of  the  rites  due  to  such  ashes. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers  with  the  body  of  Salemenes 

Enter  Pania. 

Sar.  Well,  Pania  ! have  you  placed  the  guards,  and 
issued 

The  orders  fix’d  on  ? 


SCENE  I. 


SARDAXAi  ALUS. 


273 


parL , Sire,  I have  obey’d. 

Sar  \nd  do  the  soldiers  keep  their  hearts  up  ? 

pan,  Sire? 

Sar.  I’m  answer’d!  When  a king  asks  twice,  and 

has 

A question  as  an  answer  to  his  question, 

It  is  a portent.  What ! they  are  dishearten’d  ? 

Pan.  The  death  of  Salemenes,  and  the  shouts 
Of  the  exulting  rebels  on  his  fall. 

Have  made  them 

Sar.  Rage — not  droop — it  should  have  been. 

We  ’ll  find  the*7  means  to  rouse  them. 

parl . Such  a loss 

Might  sadden  even  a victory. 

Sar.  Alas ! 

Who  can  so  feel  it  as  I feel  ? but  yet,  [and  we 

Though  coop’d  within  these  walls,  they  arc  strong, 
Have  those  without  will  break  their  way  through  hosts, 
To  make  their  sovereign’s  dweliing  what  it  was — 

A palace  ; not  a prison,  nor  a fortress. 

Enter  an  Officer  hastily. 

Sar.  Thy  face  seems  ominous.  Speak  ! 

Offi.  I dare  not. 

Sar.  Dare  not  ? 

While  millions  dare  revolt  with  sword  in  hand ! 

That’s  strange.  I pray  thee  break  that  loyal  silence 
Which  loathes  to  shock  its  sovereign ; we  can  hear 
Worse  than  thou  hast  to  tell. 

Pan.  Proceed,  thou  hearest. 

Offi.  The  wall  which  skirted  near  the  river’s  brink 
Is  thrown  down  by  the  sudden  inundation 
Of  the  Euphrates,  which  now  rolling,  swoln 
Erom  the  enormous  mountains  where  it  rises, 

By  the  late  rains  of  that  tempestuous  region. 
O’erfioods  its  banks,  and  hath  destroyed  the  bulwark. 

Pan.  That’s  a black  augury  ! it  has  been  said 
Eor  ages,  “That  the  city  ne’er  should  yield 
To  man,  until  the  river  grew  its  foe.” 

Sar.  I can  forgive  the  omen,  not  the  ravage. 

How  much  is  swept  down  of  the  wall  ? 

Offi.  About 

Some  twenty  stadii.1 

Sar.  And  all  this  is  left 

Pervious  to  the  assailants  ? 

Offi.  Eor  the  present 

The  river’s  fury  must  impede  the  assault ; 

But  when  he  shrinks  into  his  wonted  channel, 

And  may  be  cross’d  by  the  accustom’d  barks, 

The  palace  is  their  own. 

Sar.  That  shall  be  never. 

Though  men,  and  gods,  and  elements,  and  omens, 
Have  risen  up  ’gainst  one  who  ne’er  provoked  them, 
My  fathers’  house  shall  never  be  a cave 
Eor  wolves  to  horde  and  howl  in. 

Pan.  With  your  sanction 

I will  proceed  to  the  spot,  and  take  such  measures 
Eor  the  assurance  of  the  vacant  space 
As  time  aL  1 means  permit. 

Sar.  About  it  straight ; 

And  bring  me  back,  as  speedily  as  full 
And  fair  investigation  may  permit. 


(1)  About  two  miles  and  a half. 

(2)  [“  Complexions,  climes,  eras,  and  intellects.”— MS.] 

(S)  [“  Athenaeus  makes  these  treasures  amount  to  a thousand 

ta>r;.a.ds  of  talents  of  gold,  and  ten  times  as  many  talents  of  silver, 
«hic-s  is  a sum  that  exceeds  all  credibility.  A man  is  lost  if  he 


Report  of  the  true  state  of  this  irruption 

Of  waters.  [ Exeunt  Pania  and  the  Office*. 

Myr.  Thus  the  very  waves  rise  up 
Against  you. 

Sar.  They  are  not  my  subjects,  girl, 

And  may  be  pardon’d,  since  they  can’t  be  punish’d. 

Myr.  I joy  to  see  this  portent  shakes  you  not. 

Sar.  I am  past  the  fear  of  portents  : they  can  tell  me 
Nothing  I have  not  told  myself  since  midnight : 
Despair  anticipates  such  things. 

Myr.  Despair ! 

Sar.  No  ; not  despair  precisely.  When  we  know 
All  that  can  come,  and  how  to  meet  it,  our 
Resolves,  if  firm,  may  merit  a more  noble 
Word  than  this  is  to  give  it  utterance. 

But  what  are  words  to  us  ? we  have  well-nigh  done 
With  them  and  all  things. 

Myr.  Save  one  deed — the  last 

And  greatest  to  all  mortals  ; crowning  act 
Of  all  that  was — or  is — or  is  to  be — 

The  only  thing  common  to  all  mankind, 

So  different  in  their  births,  tongues,  sexes,  natures, 
Hues,  features,  climes,  times,  feelings,  intellects,2 
Without  one  point  of  union  save  in  this, 

To  which  we  tend,  for  which  we’re  born,  and  thread 
The  labyrinth  of  mystery,  call’d  life.  [cheerful. 

Sar.  Our  clew  being  well-nigh  wound  out,  let’s  be 
They  who  have  nothing  more  to  fear  may  well 
Indulge  a smile  at  that  which  once  appall’d ; 

As  children  at  discover’d  bugbears. 

Re-enter  Pania. 

Pan.  ’Tis 

As  was  reported : I have  order’d  there 
A double  guard,  withdrawing  from  the  wall 
Where  it  was  strongest  the  required  addition 
To  watch  the  breach  occasion’d  by  the  waters. 

Sar.  You  have  done  your  duty  faithfully,  and  as 
My  worthy  Pania  ! Further  ties  between  us 
Draw  near  a close.  I pray  you  take  this  key : 

[_Gives  a key , 

It  opens  to  a secret  chamber,  placed 
Behind  the  couch  in  my  own  chamber.  (Now 
Press’d  by  a nobler  weight  than  e’er  it  bore — 

Though  a long  line  of  sovereigns  have  lain  down 
Along  its  golden  frame — as  bearing  for 
A time  what  late  was  Salemenes.)  Search 
Tire  secret  covert  to  which  this  will  lead  you; 

’Tis  full  of  treasure  ;3  take  it  for  yourself 

And  your  companions  : there’s  enough  to  load  ye 

Though  ye  be  many.4  Let  the  slaves  be  freed,  too  ; 

And  all  the  inmates  of  the  palace,  of 

Whatever  sex,  now  quit  it  in  an  hour.  [pleasure. 

Thence  launch  the  regal  barks,  once  form’d  for 

And  now  to  serve  for  safety,  and  embark. 

The  river’s  broad  and  swoln,  and  uncommanded 
(More  potent  than  a king)  by  these  besiegers. 

Fly  ! and  be  happy  ! 

Pan.  Under  your  protection! 

So  you  accompany  your  faithful  guard. 

Sar.  No,  Pania ! that  must  not  be;  get  thee  hence. 
And  leave  me  to  my  fate. 


attempts  to  suin  up  the  whole  value;  which  induces  me  to  bt..eve, 
that  Athenaeus  must  have  very  much  exaggerated ; however,  we 
may  be  assured,  from  his  account,  that  the  treasures  were  im- 
mensely great.” — Rollin.] 

(4)  — “Ye  will  find  the  crevice 

To  which  the  key  fits,  with  a little  care.” — MS.] 

N N 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  7. 


iT74 


Pan.  ’Tis  the  first  time 

I ever  disobey’d  > but  now 

Sar.  So  all  men 

Dare  beard  me  now,  and  Insolence  within 
Apes  Treason  from  without.  Question  no  further ; 
'Tis  my  command,  my  last  command.  Wilt  thou 
Oppose  it  ? thou  ! 

Fan.  But  yet — not  yet. 

Sar.  Well,  then, 

Swear  that  you.  will  obey  when  I shall  give 
The  signal. 

Pan.  With  a heavy  but  true  heart, 

I promise. 

Sar.  ’Tis  enough.  Now  order  here 

Faggots,  pine-nuts,  and  wither’d  leaves,  and  such 
Things  as  catch  fire  and  blaze  with  one  sole  spark ; 
Bring  cedar,  too,  and  precious  drugs,  and  spices, 

And  mighty  planks,  to  nourish  a tall  pile ; 

Bring  frankincense  and  myrrh,  too,  for  it  is 
For  a great  sacrifice  I build  the  pyre  ! 

And  heap  them  round  yon  throne. 

Pan.  My  lord ! 

Sar.  I have  said  it, 

And  you  have  sworn. 

Pan.  And  could  keep  my  faith 

Without  a vow.  [Exit  Pania. 

Myr.  What  mean  you  ? 

Sar.  You  shall  know 

Anon — what  the  whole  earth  shall  ne’er  forget. 

Pania,  returning  with  a Herald. 

Pan.  My  king,  in  going  forth  upon  my  duty, 

This  herald  has  been  brought  before  me,  craving 
An  audience. 

Sar.  Let  him  speak. 

Her.  The  King  Arbaces 

Sar.  What,  crown’d  already  ? — But,  proceed. 

Her.  Beleses, 

The  anointed  high-priest- 


Sar. 


Of  what  god.  or  demon  ? 


With  new  kings  rise  new  altars.  But,  proceed  : 

You  are  sent  to  prate  your  master’s  will,  and  not 
Reply  to  mine. 

Her.  And  Satrap-Ofratanes 

Sar.  Why,  he  is  ours. 

Her.  ( showing  a ring').  Be  sure  that  he  is  now 
In  the  camp  of  the  conquerors  ; behold 
His  signet  ring. 

Sar.  ’Tis  his.  A worthy  triad  ! 

Poor  Salemenes  ! thou  hast  died  in  time 
To  see  one  treachery  the  less : this  man 
Was  thy  true  friend  and  my  most  trusted  subject. 
Proceed. 

Her.  They  offer  thee  thy  life,  and  freedom 
Of  choice  to  single  out  a residence 
In  any  of  the  further  provinces, 

Guarded  and  watch’d,  but  not  confined  in  person, 
Where  thou  shalt  pass  thy  days  in  peace  : but  on 
Condition  that  the  three  young  princes  are 
Given  up  as  hostages. 

Sar.  (ironically).  The  generous  victors  ! 

Her.  I wait  the  answer. 

Sar.  Answer,  slave  ! How  long 

Have  slaves  decided  on  the  doom  of  kings  ? 

Her.  Since  they  were  free. 

Sar.  Mouthpiece  of  mutiny  ! 

Thou  at  the  least  shall  learn  the  penalty 
Of  treason,  though  its  proxy  only.  Pania  1 


Let  his  head  be  thrown  from  our  wall  within 
The  rebels’  lines,  his  carcass  down  the  river. 

Away  with  him  ! 

[Pania  and  the  Guards  seizing  him 
Pan.  I never  yet  obey’d 

Your  orders  with  more  pleasure  than  the  present. 
Hence  with  him,  soldiers  ! do  not  soil  this  hall 
Of  royalty  with  treasonable  gore  ; 

Put  him  to  rest  without. 

Her.  A single  word  : 

My  office,  king,  is  sacred. 

Sar.  And  what’s  mine? 

That  thou  shouldst  come  and  dare  to  ask  of  me 
To  lay  it  down  ? 

Her.  I but  obey’d  my  orders, 

At  the  same  peril  if  refused,  as  now 
Incurr’d  by  my  obedience. 

Sar.  So  there  are 

New  monarehs  of  an  hour’s  growth  as  despotic 
As  sovereigns  swathed  in  purple,  and  enthroned 
From  birth  to  manhood  I 

Her.  My  life  waits  your  breath. 

Yours  (I  speak  humbly) — but  it  may  be— yours 
May  also  be  in  danger  scarce  less  imminent : 

Would  it  then  suit  the  last  hours  of  a line 
Such  as  is  that  of  Nimrod,  to  destroy 
A peaceful  herald,  unarm’d,  in  his  office : 

And  violate  not  only  all  that  man 
Holds  sacred  between  man  and  man — but  that 
More  holy  tie  which  links  us  with  the  gods  ? [act 
Sar.  He’s  right. — Let  him  go  free. — My  life’s  last 
Shall  not  be  one  of  wrath.  Here,  fellow,  take 

[ Gives  him  a golden  cup  from  a table  near. 
This  golden  goblet,  let  it  hold  your  wine, 

And  think  of  me ; or  melt  it  into  ingots, 

And  think  of  nothing  but  their  weight  and  value. 

Her.  I thank  you  doubly  for  my  life,  and  this 
Most  gorgeous  gift,  which  renders  it  more  precious. 
But  must  I bear  no  answer  ? 

Sar.  Yes, — T ask 

An  hour’s  truce  to  consider. 

Her.  But  an  hour’s  ? 

Sar.  An  hour’s  : if  at  the  expiration  of 
That  time  your  masters  hear  no  further  from  me, 
They  are  to  deem  that  I reject  their  terms. 

And  act  befittingly. 

Her.  I shall  not  fail 

To  be  a faithful  legate  of  your  pleasure. 

Sar.  And  hark  ! a word  more. 

Her . I shall  not  forget  it, 

Wliate’er  it  be. 

Sar.  Commend  me  to  Beleses ; 

And  tell  him,  ere  a year  expire,  I summon 
Him  hence  to  meet  me. 

Her.  Where  ? 

Sar.  At  Babylon. 

At  least  from  thence  he  will  depart  to  meet  me. 

Her.  I shall  obey  you  to  the  letter.  [Exit  Herald. 
Sar.  Pania ! — 

Now,  my  good  Pania  ! — quick  ! with  what  I order’d. 

Pan.  My  lord,  - the  soldiers  are  already  charged. 
And,  see  ! they  enter. 

[Soldiers  enter,  and  form  a Pile  about  the 
Throne , Sfc. 

Sar.  Higher,  my  good  soldiers, 

And  thicker  yet  ;•  and  see  that  the  foundation 
Be  such  as  will  not  speedily  exhaust 
Its  own  too  subtle  flame ; nor  yet  be  quench’d 


SCENE  I. 


S A III) AN  AP ALUS. 


cy 7% 


With  aught  officious  aid  would  bring  to  quell  it. 

Let  the  throne  form  the  core  of  it ; I would  not 
Leave  that,  save  fraught  with  fire  unquenchable, 

To  the  new  comers.  Frame  the  whole  as  if 
’Twere  to  enkindle  the  strong  tower  of  our 
Inveterate  enemies.  Now  it  bears  an  aspect ! 

Low  say  you,  Pania,  will  this  pile  suffice 
For  a king’s  obsequies  ? 

pan,  Ay,  for  a kingdom’s. 

I understand  you,  now. 

gar.  And  blame  me  ? 

Pan.  No— 

Let  me  but  fire  the  pile,  and  share  it  with  you. 

Myr.  That  duty’s  mine. 

Pan.  A woman’s ! 

Myr.  ’Tis  the  soldier’s 

Part  to  dit  for  his  sovereign,  and  why  not 
The  woman’s  with  her  lover  ? 

Pan.  ’Tis  most  strange ! 

Myr.  But  not  so  rare,  my  Pania,  as  thou  think’st  it. 
In  the  mean  time,  live  thou. — Farewell ! the  pile 
Is  ready. 

Pan.  I should  shame  to  leave  my  sovereign 
With  but  a single  female  to  partake 
His  death. 

Sar.  Too  many  far  have  heralded 
Me  to  the  dust,  already.  Get  thee  hence  ; 

Enrich  thee. 

Pan.  And  live  wretched ! 

Sar.  Think  upon 

Thy  vow  : — ’tis  sacred  and  irrevocable. 

Pan.  Since  it  is  so,  farewell. 

Sar.  Search  well  my  chamber, 

Feel  no  remorse  at  bearing  off  the  gold  ; 

Remember,  what  you  leave  you  leave  the  slaves 
Who  slew  me : and  when  you  have  borne  away 
All  safe  off  to  your  boats,  blow  one  long  blast 
Upon  the  trumpet  as  you  quit  the  palace. 

The  river’s  brink  is  too  remote,  its  stream 
Too  loud  at  present  to  permit  the  echo 
To  reach  distinctly  from  its  banks.  Then  fly, — ■ 

And  as  you  sail,  turn  back  ; but  still  keep  on 
Your  way  along  the  Euphrates  : if  you  reach 
The  land  of  Paphlagonia,  where  the  queen 
Is  safe  with  my  three  sons  in  Cotta’s  court. 

Say  what  you  saw  at  parting,  and  request 
That  she  remember  what  I said  at  one 
Parting  more  mournful  still. 

Pan.  That  royal  hand ! 

Let  me  then  once  more  press  it  to  my  lips  : 

And  these  poor  soldiers  who  throng  round  you,  and 
Would  fain  die  with  you ! 

[The  Soldiers  and  Pania  throng  round  him , 
kissing  his  hand  and  the  hem  of  his  robe. 

Sar.  My  best — my  last  friends  ! 

Let’s  not  unman  each  other — part  at  once  : 

All  farewells  should  be  sudden,  when  for  ever. 

Else  they  make  an  eternity  of  moments, 

And  clog  the  last  sad  sands  of  life  with  tears. 

Hence,  and  be  happy  : trust  me,  I am  not 

Now  to  be  pitied ; or  far  more  for  what 

Is  past  than  present ; — for  the  future,  ’tis 

In  the  hands  of  the  deities,  if  such 

There  be : I shall  know  soon.  Farewell — Farewell. 

[Exeunt  Pania  and  Soldiers. 

Myr.  These  men  were  honest : it  is  comfort  still 
That  our  last  looks  should  be  on  loving  faces. 

Sar.  And  lovely  ones,  my  beautiful ! — out  hear  me  ! 


If  at  this  moment, — for  we  now  are  on 

The  brink, — thou  feel’st  an  inward  shrinking  from 

This  leap  through  flame  into  the  future,  say  it : 

I shall  not  love  thee  less ; nay,  perhaps  more, 

For  yielding  to  thy  nature  : and  there’s  time 
Yet  for  thee  to  escape  hence. 

Myr.  _ Shall  I light 

One  of  the  torches  which  lie  heap’d  beneath 
The  ever-burning  lamp  that  burns  without, 

Before  Baal’s  shrine,  in  the  adjoining  hall  F 

Sar.  Do  so.  Is  that  thy  answer  F 

Myr.  Thou  shalt  see. 

[Exit  Myrrha. 

Sar.  [solus).  She’s  firm.  My  fathers  ! whom  I will 
It  may  be,  purified  by  death  from  some  [rejoin, 

Of  the  gross  stains  of  too  material  being, 

I would  not  leave  your  ancient  first  abode 
To  the  defilement  of  usurping  bondmen ; 

If  I have  not  kept  your  inheritance 
As  ye  bequeath’d  it,  this  bright  part  of  it, 

Your  treasure,  your  abode,  your  sacred  relics 
Of  arms,  and  records,  monuments,  and  spoils, 

In  which  they  would  have  revell’d,  I bear  with  me 
To  you  in  that  absorbing  element, 

Which  most  personifies  the  soul  as  leaving 
The  least  of  matter  unconsumed  before 
Its  fiery  workings  : — and  the  light  of  this 
Most  royal  of  funereal  pyres  shall  be 
Not  a mere  pillar  form’d  of  cloud  and  flame, 

A beacon  in  the  horizon  for  a day, 

And  then  a mount  of  ashes,  but  a light 
To  lesson  ages,  rebel  nations,  and 
Voluptuous  princes.  Time  shall  quench  full  many 
A people’s  records,  and  a hero’s  acts ; 

Sweep  empire  after  empire,  like  this  first 
Of  empires,  into  nothing  ; but  even  then 
Shall  spare  this  deed  of  mine,  and  hold  it  up 
A problem  few  dare  imitate,  and  none 
Despise — but,  it  may  be,  ayoid  the  life 
Which  led  to  such  a consummation. 

Myrrha  returns  with  a lighted  Torch  in  one  Hand,  ana 
a Cup  in  the  other. 

Myr.  Lo ! 

I ’ve  lit  the  lamp  which  lights  us  to  the  stars. 

Sar.  And  the  cup  F 

Myr.  ’Tis  my  country’s  custom  to 

Make  a libation  to  the  gods. 

Sar.  And  mine 

To  make  libations  amongst  men.  I’ve  not 
Forgot  the  custom ; and  although  alone, 

Will  drain  one  draught  in  memory  of  many 
A joyous  banquet  past. 

[Sardanapalus  takes  the  cup,  and  after  drink- 
ing and  tinkling  the  reversed  cup,  as  a drop 
falls,  exclaims — 

And  this  libation 
Is  for  the  excellent  Beleses. 

Myr.  Why 

Dwells  thv  mind  rather  upon  that  man’s  name 
Than  on  his  mate’s  in  villany  F 

Sar.  The  one 

Is  a mere  soldier,  a mere  tool,  a kind 
Of  human  sword  in  a friend’s  hand ; the  other 
Is  master-mover  of  his  warlike  puppet : 

But  I dismiss  them  from  my  mind. — Yet  pause. 

My  Myrrha  ! dost  thou  truly  follow  me, 

Freely  and  fearlessly  F 


276 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


AU7  «r 


Myr.  And  dost  thou  think 

A Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love,  that  which 
An  Indian  widow  braves  for  custom  P1 

Sar  Then 

We  but  await  the  signal. 

Myr.  It  is  long 

In  sounding. 

Sar.  Now,  farewell ; one  last  embrace. 

Myr.  Embrace,  but  not  the  last ; there  is  one  more. 

Sar.  True,  the  commingling  fire  will  mix  our  ashes. 

Myr.  And  pure  as  is  my  love  to  thee,  shall  teliy, 
Purged  from  the  dross  of  earth,  and  earthly  passion, 
JVlix  pale  with  thine.  A single  thought  yet  irks  me. 

Sar.  Say  it. 

Myr.  It  is  that  no  kind  hand  will  gather 

The  dust  of  both  into  one  urn. 

Sar.  The  better : 

Rather  let  them  be  borne  abroad  upon 
The  winds  of  heaven,  and  scatter’d  into  air, 

Than  be  polluted  more  by  human  hands 
Of  slaves  and  traitors.  In  this  blazing  palace, 

And  its  enormous  walls  of  reeking  ruin, 

We  leave  a nobler  monument  than  Egypt 
Hath  piled  in  her  brick  mountains,  o’er  dead  kings,2 
Or  kine,  for  none  know  whether  those  proud  piles 
Be  for  their  monarch,  or  their  ox-god  Apis  ; 


(1)  [ “ And  what  is  there 

An  Indian  widow  dares  for  custom,  which 
A Greek  girl  dare  not  do  for  love?” — MS.] 

(2)  [These  lines  are  in  bad  taste  enough,  from  the  jingle  between 
kinys  and  kine,  down  to  the  absurdity  of  believing  that  Sardana- 
palus  at  such  a moment  would  be  likely  to  discuss  a point  of  anti- 
quarian curiosity.  But  they  involve  also  an  anachronism,  inasmuch 
as,  whatever  date  be  assigned  to  the  erection  of  the  earlier  pyra- 
mids, there  can  be  no  reason  for  apprehending  that,  at  the  fall  of 
Nineveh,  and  while  the  kingdom  and  hierarchy  of  Egypt  subsisted 
in  their  full  splendour,  the  destination  of  those  immense  fabrics 
could  have  been  a matter  of  doubt  to  any  who  might  inquire  con- 
cerning them.  Herodotus,  three  hundred  years  later,  may  have 
been  misinformed  of  these  points;  but  when  Sardanapalus  lived, 
the  erection  of  pyramids  must,  in  all  probability,  have  not  been 
still  of  unfrequent  occurrence,  and  the  nature  of  their  contents  no 
subject  of  mistake  or  mystery. — Heber.] 

(3)  [Here  an  anonymous  critic  suspects  Lord  Byron  of  having 
read  old  Fuller,  who  says,  in  his  quaint  way,,“  the  pyramids,  doting 
with  age,  have  forgotten  the  names  of  their  founders.”] 

(4)  [In  “ Sardanapalus”  Lord  Byron  has  been  far  more  fortunate 
than  in  the  “ Doge  of  Venice,”  inasmuch  as  his  subject  is  one 
eminently  adapted  not  only  to  tragedy  in  general,  but  to  that 
peculiar  kind  of  tragedy  which  Lord  Byron  is  anxious  to  recom- 
mend. The  history  ol  the  last  of  the  Assyrian  kings  is  at  once 
sufficiently  well  known  to  awaken  that  previous  interest  which 
belongs  to  illustrious  names  and  early  associations ; and  sufficiently 
remote  and  obscure  to  admit  of  any  modification  of  incident  or 
character  which  a poet  may  find  convenient.  All  that  we  know  of 
Nineveh  and  its  sovereigns  is  majestic,  indistinct,  and  mysterious. 
<Ve  read  of  an  extensive  and  civilized  monarchy  erected  in  the  ages 
immediately  succeeding  the  deluge,  and  existing  in  full  might  and 
majesty  while  the  shores  of  Greece  and  Italy  were  unoccupied, 
except  by  roving  savages.  We  read  of  an  empire  whose  influence 
extended  from  Samarcand  to  Troy,  and  from  the  mountains  of 
Judah  to  those  of  Caucasus,  subverted,  after  a continuance  of 
thirteen  hundred  years,  and  a dynasty  of  thirty  generations,  in  an 
almost  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  less  by  the  revolt  of  two  pro- 
vinces than  by  the  anger  of  Heaven  and  the  predicted  fury  of 
natural  and  inanimate  agents.  And  the  influence  which  both  the 
conquests  and  the  misfortunes  of  Assyria  appear  to  have  exerted 
over  the  fates  of  the  people  for  whom,  of  all  others  in  ancient  his- 
tory, our  strongest  feelings  are  (from  religious  motives)  interested, 
throws  a sort  of  sacred  pomp  over  the  greatness  and  the  crimes  of 
the  descendants  of  Nimrod,  and  a reverence  which  no  other  equally 
remote  portion  of  profane  history  is  likely  to  obtain  with  us.  At 
the  same  time,  all  which  we  know  is  so  brief,  so  general,  and  so 
disjointed,  that  we  have  few  of  those  preconceived  notions  of  the 
persons  and  facts  represented  which  in  classical  dramas,  if  servilely 
fol  -wed,  destroy  the  interest,  and  if  rashly  departed  from  offend 
the  prejudices  of  tin  vJader  or  the  auditor.  An  outline  is  given  of 


So  much  for  monuments  that  have  forgotten 
Their  very  record  ! 3 4 

Myr.  Then  farewell,  thou  earth  ! 

And  loveliest  spot  of  earth  ! farewell,  Ionia ! 

Be  thou  still  free  and  beautiful,  and  far 
Aloof  from  desolation ! My  last  prayer 
Was  for  thee,  my  last  thoughts,  save  oney  were  ol 
thee ! 

Sar.  And  that  ? 

Myr.  Is  yours. 

[The  trumpet  o/Pania  sounds  without. 
Sar.  Hark ! 

Myr.  Now ! 

Sar.  Adieu,  Assyria ! 

I loved  thee  well,  my  own,  my  fathers’  land, 

And  better  as  my  country  than  my  kingdom. 

I sated  thee  with  peace  and  joys  ; and  this 
Is  my  reward ! and  now  I owe  thee  nothing, 

Not  even  a grave.  [He  mounts  the  pile. 

Now,  Myrrha ! 

Myr.  Art  thou  ready  ? 

Sar.  As  the  torch  in  thy  grasp. 

[Myrrha  fires  the  pile. 
Myr.  ’Tis  fired  ! I come. 

[As  Myrrha  springs  forward  to  throw  herselj 
into  the  flames,  the  Curtain  falls} 


the  most  majestic  kind ; but  it  is  an  outline  only,  which  the  poet 
may  fill  up  at  pleasure  ; and  in  ascribing,  as  Lord  Byron  has  done 
for  the  sake  of  his  favourite  unities,  the  destruction  of  the  Assyrian 
empire  to  the  treason  of  one  night,  instead  of  the  war  of  several 
years,  he  has  neither  shocked  our  better  knowledge,  nor  incurred 
any  conspicuous  improbability.  . . . Still,  however,  the  develop- 
ment of  Sardanapalus’s  character  is  incidental  only  to  the  plot  of 
Lord  Byron’s  drama,  and  though  the  unities  have  confined  his 
picture  within  far  narrower  limits  than  he  might  otherwise  have 
thought  advisable,  the  character  is  admirably  sketched:  nor  is 
there  any  one  of  the  portraits  of  this  great  master  which  gives  us 
a more  favourable  opinion  of  his  talents,  his  force  of  conception, 
his  delicacy  and  vigour  of  touch,  or  the  richness  and  harmony  o i 
his  colouring.  He  had,  indeed,  no  unfavourable  groundwork,  even 
in  the  few  hints  supplied  by  the  ancient  historians,  as  to  the  con 
duct  and  history  of  the  last  and  most  unfortunate  of  the  line  of 
Belus.  Though  accused  (whether  truly  or  falsely),  by  his  tri- 
umphant enemies,  of  the  most  revolting  vices,  and  an  effeminacy 
even  beyond  what  might  be  expected  from  the  last  dregs  of  Asiatic 
despotism,  we  find  Sardanapalus,  when  roused  by  the  approach  of 
danger,  conducting  his  armies  with  a courage,  a skill,  and,  for  some 
time  at  least,  with  a success  not  inferior  to  those  of  his  most  warlike 
ancestors.  We  find  him  retaining  to  the  last  the  fidelity  of  his  most 
trusted  servants,  his  nearest  kindred,  and  no  small  proportion  of 
his  hardiest  subjects.  We  see  him  providing  for  the  safety  of  his 
wife,  his  children,  and  his  capital  city,  with  all  the  calmness  and 
prudence  of  an  experienced  captain.  We  see  him  at  length  sub- 
dued, not  by  man,  but  by  Heaven  and  the  elements,  and  seeking 
his  death  with  a mixture  of  heroism  and  ferocity  which  little 
accords  with  our  notions  of  a weak  or  utterly  degraded  character. 
And  even  the  strange  story,  variously  told,  and  w thout  further 
explanation  scarcely  intelligible,  which  represents  him  as  building 
(or  fortifying)  two  cities  in  a single  day,  and  then  deforming  his 
exploits  with  an  indecent  image  and  inscription,  would  seem  to 
imply  a mixture  of  energy  with  his  folly  not  impossible,  perhaps, 
to  the  madness  of  absolute  power,  and  which  may  lead  us  to  imy  te 
his  fall  less  to  weakness  than  to  an  injudicious  and  ostentatioas 
contempt  of  the  opinions  and  prejudices  of  mankind.  Such  a 
character, — luxurious,  energetic,  misanthropical, — affords,  beyond 
a doubt,  no  common  advantages  to  the  work  of  poetic  delineation ; 
and  it  is  precisely  the  character  which  Lord  Byron  most  delights 
to  draw,  and  which  he  has  succeeded  best  in  drawing. — Heber. 

I remember  Lord  Byron’s  mentioning,  that  the  story  of  Sardana 
palus  had  been  working  in  his  brain  for  seven  years  before  b» 
commenced  it. — Trelawney. 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  The  Life  of  Dr.  Parr: — “ In 
the  course  of  the  evening  the  Doctor  cried  out  — * Have  you  read 
Sardanapalus?’ — ‘Yes,  Sir.’ — ‘Right;  and  you  couldn’t  sleep  * 
wink  after  it?’  — ‘ No.’ — ‘Right,  right--now  don’t  say  a word  mori 
about  it  to-night.’  The  memory  of  that  fine  poem  seemed  to  act 
like  a spell  of  horrible  fascination  upon  him.”] 


Zf)t  dfoftarf: 


AN  HISTORICAL  TRAGEDY.1 


Th e father  softens,  but  the  governor’s  resolved.— Critic. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


MEN. 

Francis  Eoscari,  Doge  of  Venice. 
Jacopo  Foscari,  Son  of  the  Doge. 
James  Loredano,  a Patrician. 
Marco  Memmo,  a Chief  of  the  Forty. 
Barbarigo,  a Senator. 

Other  Senators , the  Council  of  Ten , 
Guards,  Attendants,  Sfc.  8fc. 

WOMAN. 

Marina,  Wife  of  young  Eoscari. 
Scene — The  Ducal  Palace,  Venice. 


oo  Jfoscnri.2 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

A Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Enter  Loredano3  and  Barbarigo,  meeting. 

Lor.  Where  is  the  prisoner  ? 

Bar.  Reposing  from 

The  Question. 


(1)  [“  Begun  June  the  12th,  completed  July  the  9th,  Ravenna, 
1811." — Byron  MS. 

“ The  Two  Foscari”  was  composed  at  Ravenna,  between  the  11th 
of  June  and  the  10th  of  July,  1821,  and  published  with  “ Sardana- 
palus”  in  the  following  December.  “ The  Venetian  story,”  writes 
Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray,  “is  strictly  historical.  I am  much 
mortified  that  Gifford  don’t  take  to  my  new  dramas.  To  be  sure, 
they  are  as  opposite  to  the  English  drama  as  one  thing  can  be  to 
another;  but  I have  a notion  that,  if  understood,  they  will,  in  time, 
find  favour  (though  not  on  the  stage)  with  the  reader.  The  sim- 
plicity of  plot  is  intentional,  and  the  avoidance  of  rant  also,  as  also 
the  compression  of  the  speeches  in  the  more  severe  situations. 
What  I seek  to  show  in  ‘ the  Foscaris’  is  the  suppressed  passions 
rather  than  the  rant  of  the  present  day.  For  that  matter — 

‘ Nay,  if  thou ’It  mouth, 

I ’ll  rant  as  well  as  thou — ’ 

would  not  be  difficult,  as  I think  I have  shown  in  my  younger  pro- 
ductions— not  dramatic  ones,  to  be  sure.” — An  account  of  the  inci- 
dents on  which  this  play  is  founded,  is  given  in  the  Appendix.]  * 

(2)  [The  disadvantage,  and,  in  truth,  absurdity,  of  sacrificing 
higher  objects  to  a formal  adherence  to  the  unities  (see  ante, 
p.  244)  is  strikingly  displayed  in  this  drama.  The  whole  interest 
here  turr.s  upon  the  Younger  Foscari  having  returned  from  banish- 
ment, in  defiance  of  the  law  and  its  consequences,  from  an  uncon- 
querable longing  after  his  own  country.  Now,  the  only  way  to  have 


Lor.  The  hour’s  past — fix’d  yesterday 

For  the  resumption  of  his  trial. — Let  us 
Rejoin  our  colleagues  in  the  council,  and 
Urge  his  recall. 

Bar.  Nay,  let  him  profit  by 

A few  brief  minutes  for  his  tortured  limbs  ; 

He  was  o’erwrought  by  the  Question  yesterday, 

And  may  die  under  it  if  now  repeated. 

Lor.  Well? 

Bar.  I yield  not  to  you  in  love  of  justice, 

Or  hate  of  the  ambitious  Eoscari, 

Father  and  son,  and  all  their  noxious  race  ; 

But  the  poor  wretch  has  suffer’d  beyond  nature’s 
Most  stoical  endurance. 

Jjor.  Without  owning 

His  crime. 

Bar.  Perhaps  without  committing  any. 

But  he  avow’d  the  letter  to  the  Duke 
Of  Milan,  and  his  sufferings  half  atone  for 
Such  weakness. 

Lor.  Wre  shall  see. 

Bar.  You,  Loredano, 

Pursue  hereditary  hate  too  far. 

Lor.  How  far  ? 

Bar.  To  extermination. 

Lor.  When  they  are 

Extinct,  you  may  say  this. — Let’s  in  to  council. 

Bar.  Yet  pause — the  number  of  our  colleagues  is 
not 

Complete  yet ; two  are  wanting  ere  we  can 
Proceed. 

Lor.  And  the  chief  judge,  the  Doge  ? 


made  this  sentiment  palatable,  the  practicable  foundation  of  stu- 
pendous sufferings,  would  have  been,  to  have  presented  him  to  the 
audience  wearing  out  his  heart  in  exile,  and  forming  his  resolution 
to  return,  at  a distance  from  his  country,  or  hovering,  in  excruciat- 
ing suspense,  within  sight  of  its  borders.  We  might  then  have 
caught  some  glimpse  of  the  nature  of  his  motives,  and  of  so  extra- 
ordinary a character.  But  as  this  would  have  been  contrary  to  one 
of  the  unities,  we  first  meet  with  him  led  from  “ the  Question,”  and 
afterwards  taken  back  to  it  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  or  clinging  to  the 
dungeon-walls  of  his  native  city,  and  expiring  from  his  dread  of 
leaving  them  ; and  therefore  feel  more  wonder  than  sympathy,  when 
we  are  told,  that  these  agonizing  consequences  have  resulted,  not 
from  guilt  or  disaster,  but  merely  from  the  intensity  of  his  love  for 
his  country. — Jeffrey.] 

(3)  [The  character  of  Loredano  is  well  conceived  and  truly 
tragic.  The  deep  and  settled  principle  of  hatred  which  animates 
him,  and  which  impels  him  to  the  commission  of  the  most  atrocious 
cruelties,  may  seem,  at  first,  unnatural  and  overstrained.  But  not 
only  is  it  historically  true;  but,  when  the  cause  of  that  hatred  (the 
supposed  murder  of  his  father  and  uncles),  and  when  the  atrocious 
maxims  of  Italian  revenge,  and  that  habitual  contempt  of  all  the 
milder  feelings  are  taken  into  consideration,  which  constituted  the 
glory  of  a Venetian  patriot,  we  may  conceive  how  such  a principle 
might  be  not  only  avowed  but  exulted  in  by  a Venetian  who  re- 
garded the  house  of  Foscari  as,  at  once,  the  enemies  of  his  family 
and  his  country. — Heber.] 


l*  [S»e  Appendix:  The  Two  Foscari,  Note  A.] 


278 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  JL 


Bar.  No — lie, 

With  more  than  Roman  fortitude,  is  ever 
First  at  the  board  in  this  unhappy  process 
Against  his  last  and  only  son. 

Lor.  True — true — 

Ilis  last. 

Ba  <■.  Will  nothing  move  you  ? 

Lor . Feels  he , think  you  ? 

Bar . He  shows  it  not. 

Lor.  I have  marked  that — the  wretch ! 

Bar.  Hut  yesterday,  I hear,  on  his  return 
To  the  ducal  chambers,  as  he  pass’d  the  threshold, 
The  old  m au  fainted. 

Lor.  It  begins  to  work,  then. 

Bar.  The  work  is  half  your  own. 

Lor.  And  should  be  all  mine — 

My  father  anc1  my  uncle  are  no  more. 

Bar.  I have  read  their  epitaph,  which  says  they  died 
By  poison.1 

Lor.  W Hen  the  Doge  declared  that  he 
Should  never  deem  himself  a sovereign  till 
The  deatli  of  Peter  Loredano,  both 
The  brothers  sickevi’d  shortly  : — he  is  sovereign. 

Bar.  A wretchciv  one. 

Lor.  What  should  they  be  who  make 

Orphans  ? 

Bar.  But  did  t\  e Doge  make  you  so  ? 

Ijor.  Yes. 

Bar.  What  solid  pmfs  ? 

Lor.  When  princes  set  themselves 

To  work  in  secret,  proof  * and  process  are 
Alike  made  difficult ; but  .1  have  such 
Of  the  first,  as  shall  make  the  second  needless. 

Bar . But  you  will  move  by  law  ? 

Lor.  By  all  the  laws 

Which  he  would  leave  us. 

Bar.  They  are  such  in  this 

Our  state  as  render  retributii  u easier 
Than  ’mongst  remoter  nations  Is  it  true 
That  you  have  written  in  your  books  of  commerce, 
(The  wealthy  practice  of  our  hig  hest  nobles) 

“ Doge  Foscari,  my  debtor  for  the  deaths 
Of  Marco  and  Pietro  Loredano, 

My  sire  and  uncle  ?” 

Lor.  It  is  written  thus. 

Bar.  And  will  you  leave  it  unerased  ? 

Ijor.  Till  balanced. 

Bar.  And  how  ? 

[Toco  Senators  pass  over  the  stage,  as  in  their 
way  to  “ the  Hall  of  the  Council  of  Ten.” 

Jjor.  You  see  the  number  is  complete. 

Follow  me.  [Exit  Loredano. 

Bar.  (solus).  Follow  thee  ! I have  follow’d  long2 
Thy  path  of  desolation,  as  the  wave 
Sweeps  after  that  before  it,  alike  whelming 
The  wreck  that  creaks  to  the  wild  winds,  and  wretch 
Who  shrieks  within  its  riven  ribs,  as  gush 
The  waters  through  them ; but  this  son  and  sire 
Might  move  the  elements  to  pause,  and  yet 
Must  I on  hardily  like  them — Oh  ! would 
I could  as  blindly  and  remorselessly  ! — 

Lo,  where  he  oomes ! — Be  still,  my  heart ! they  are 


(1)  [“  Veneno  tublatus.”  The  tomb  is  in  the  church  of  Santa 
Elena. J 

[2)  [ I. oredano  is  accompanied,  upon  all  emergencies,  by  a sena- 

tor called  Barbarigo — a sort  of  confidant  or  chorus — who  conies  for 
so  end  that  we  can  discover,  but  to  twit  him  with  conscientious 


Thy  foes,  must  be  thy  victims  : wilt  thou  beat 
For  those  who  almost  broke  thee  ?3 

Enter  Guards , with  young  Foscari  as  prisoner,  8fc. 

Guard.  Let  him  rest. 

Signor,  take  time. 

Jac.  Fos.  I thank  thee,  friend,  I’m  feeble:  ' 

But  thou  may’st  stand  reproved. 

Guard.  I’ll  stand  the  hazard. 

Jac.  Fos.  That ’s  kind  : — I meet  some  pity,  but  no 
mercy ; 

This  is  the  first. 

Guard.  And  might  be  last,  did  they 

Who  rule  behold  us. 

Bar.  ( advancing  to  the  Guard).  There  is  one  who  does : 
Yet  fear  not ; I will  neither  be  thy  judge 
Nor  thy  accuser:  though  the  hour  is  past, 

Wait  their  last  summons 1 am  of  “ the  Ten,” 

And  waiting  for  that  summons,  sanction  you 
Even  by  my  presence : when  the  last  call  sounds, 

We’ll  in  together. — Look  well  to  the  prisoner  ! [Ah! 

Jac.  Fos.  What  voice  is  that  ? — ’Tis  Barbarigo’s 1 
Our  house’s  foe,  and  one  of  my  few  judges. 

Bar.  To  balance  such  a foe,  if  such  there  be, 

Thy  father  sits  amongst  thy  judges. 

Jac.  Fos.  True, 

He  judges. 

Bar.  Then  deem  not  the  laws  too  harsh 

Which  yield  so  much  indulgence  to  a sire 
As  to  allow  his  voice  in  such  high  matter 
As  the  state’s  safety 

Jac.  Fos.  And  his  son’s.  I’m  faint; 

Let  me  approach,  I pray  you,  for  a breath 
Of  air,  yon  window  which  o’erlooks  the  waters. 

Enter  an  Officer , who  whispers  Barbarigo. 

Bar.  (to  the  Guard).  Let  him  approach.  I must  " 
not  speak  with  him 

Further  than  thus  : I have  transgress’d  my  duty 
In  this  brief  parley,  and  must  now  redeem  it 
Within  the  Council  Chamber.  [Exit  Barbarigo. 

[Guard  conducthig  Jacopo  Foscari  to  the  window. 

Guard.  There,  sir,  ’tis 

Open — How  feel  you  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Like  a boy — Oh  Venice  * 

Guard.  And  your  limbs  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Limbs  ! how  often  have  they  borne  me 
Bounding  o’er  yon  blue  tide,  as  1 have  skimm’d 
The  gondola  along  in  childish  race, 

And,  masqued  as  a young  gondolier,  amidst 
My  gay  competitors,  noble  as  I, 

Raced  for  our  pleasure,  in  the  pride  of  strength ; 

While  the  fair  populace  of  crowding  beauties, 

Plebeian  as  patrician,  cheer’d  us  on 
With  dazzling  smiles,  and  wishes  audible, 

And  waving  kerchiefs,  and  applauding  hands, 

Even  to  the  goal ! — How  many  a time  have  I 
Cloven  with  arm  still  lustier,  breast  more  daring, 

The  wave  all  roughen’d ; with  a swimmer’s  stroke 
Flinging  the  billows  back  from  my  drench’d  hair, 

And  laughing  from  my  lip  the  audacious  brine, 

Which  kiss’d  it  like  a wine-cup,  rising  o’er 


cavils  and  objections,  and  then  to  second  him  by  his  persona' 
countenance  and  authority. — Jeffrey.] 

(3)  [Loredano  is  the  only  personage  above  mediocrity.  The 
remaining  characters  are  all  unnatural,  or  feeble.  Barbarigo  is  as 
tame  and  insignificant  a confidant  as  ever  swept  after  the  train  e* 
his  principal  over  the  Parisian  stage. — Heber.] 


SCENE  ±. 


THE  TWO  EOSCARI. 


279 


The  waves  as  they  arose,  and  prouder  still 
The  loftier  they  uplifted  me  ; and  oft, 

IH  wantonness  of  spirit,  plunging  down 
Into  their  green  and  glassy  gulfs,  and  making 
My  way  to  shells  and  sea- weed,  all  unseen 
By  those  above,  till  they  wax’d  fearful ; then 
Returning  with  my  grasp  full  of  such  tokens 
As  sliow’a  that  I had  search’d  the  deep  : exulting, 
With  a far-dashing  stroke,  and  drawing  deep 
The  long-suspended  breath,  again  I spurn’d 
The  foain  which  broke  around  me,  and  pursued 
My  track  like  a sea-bird. — I was  a boy  then.1 

Guard.  Be  a man  now  : there  never  was  more  need 
Of  manhood’s  strength.  [my  own, 

Jac.  Fos.  ( looking  from  the  lattice).  My  beautiful, 
My  only  Venice — this  is  breath  ! Thy  breeze, 

Thine  Adrian  sea-breeze,  how  it  fans  my  face  ! 

Thy  very  winds  feel  native  to  my  veins, 

And  cool  them  into  calmness  ! How  unlike 
The  hot  gales  of  the  horrid  Cvciades, 

Which  howl’d  about  my  Candiote  dungeon,  and 
Made  my  heart  sick. 

Guard.  I see  the  colour  comes 

Back  to  your  cheek  : Heaven  send  you  strength  to  bear 
What  more  may  be  imposed ! — I dread  to  think  on’t. 

Jac.  Fos.  They  will  not  banish  me  again  ? — No — no. 
Let  them  wring  on ; I am  strong  yet. 

Guard.  Confess, 

And  the  rack  will  be  spared  you. 

Jac.  Fos  I confess’d 

Once — twice  before : both  times  they  exiled  me. 

Guard.  And  the  third  time  will  slay  you. 

Jac.  Fos.  Let  .them  do  so, 

So  I be  buried  in  my  birth-place  : better 
Be  ashes  here  than  aught  that  lives  elsewhere 

Guard.  And  can  you  so  much  love  the  soil  which 
hates  you  ? [soil 

Jac.  Fos.  The  soil ! — Oh  no,  it  is  the  seed  of  the 
Which  persecutes  me  ; but  my  native  earth 
Will  take  me  as  a mother  to  her  arms. 

I ask  no  more  than  a Venetian  grave, 

A dungeon,  what  they  will,  so  it  be  here.2 

Fnter  an  Officer. 

Off.  Bring  in  the  prisoner  ! 

Guard.  Signor,  you  hear  the  order. 

Jac  Fos.  Ay,  I am  used  to  such  a summon  : 
rIhe  third  time  they  have  tortured  me  : — -then  lend  me 
Thine  arm.  " [To  the  Guard. 

Off.  Take  mine,  sir  ; ’tis  my  duty  to 
Be  nearest  to  your  person. 

Jac.  Fos.  You ! — you  are  he 

Who  yesterday  presided  o’er  my  pangs — 

Away  ! — I’ll  walk  alone. 

Off  As  you  please,  signor ; 


(1)  [This  speech  of  Jacopo  from  the  window,  while  describing 
the  amusements  of  his  youth,  is  written  with  a full  feeling  of  th* 
objects  which  it  paints  — Hkber.] 

(2)  [And  the  hero  h ir.self.  what  is  he  ? If  there  ever  existed  in 
nature  a case  so  extraordinary  as  that  of  a man  who  gravely  pre- 
ferred tortures  arid  a dungeon  at  home,  to  a temporary  residence  in 
a beautiful  island  and  a fine  climate,  at  the  distance  of  three  days' 
sail,  it  is  what  few  can  he  made  to  believe,  and  still  fewer  to  sym- 
pathize with;  and  which  is,  therefore,  no  very  promising  subject 
l?r  ~iamat:c  ^presentation.  For  ourselves,  we  have  little  doubt 
that  Foscari  wrote  the  fatal  letter  with  the  view,  which  was  imputed 
to  hint  by  his  accuses,  of  obtaining  an  honourable  recall  from 
banishment,  through  foreign  influence ; and  that  the  colour  which, 
when  detected,  he  endeavoured  to  give  to  the  transaction,  was  the 


The  sentence  was  not  of  my  signing,  but 
I dared  not  disobey  the  Council  when 
They 

Jac.  Fos.  Bade  thee  stretch  me  on  theii  horrid 
engine. 

I pray  thee  touch  me  not — that  is,  just  now  ; 

The  time  will  come  they  will  renew  that  order, 

But  keep  off  from  me  till  ’tis  issued.  As 
I look  upon  thy  hands,  my  curdling  limbs 
Quiver  with  the  anticipated  wrenching, 

And  the  cold  drops  strain  througli  my  brow,  as  if 

But  onward — I have  borne  it — I can  bear  it. — 

How  looks  my  father  F 

Off.  With  his  wonted  aspect. 

Jac.  Fos.  So  does  the  earth,  and  sky,  the  blue  of 
ocean, 

The  brightness  of  our  city,  and  her  domes, 

The  mirth  of  her  Piazza ; eveu  now 
Its  merry  hum  of  nations  pierces  here, 

Evan  here,  into  these  chambers  of  the  unknown 
Who  govern,  and  the  unknown  and  the  unnumber’d 
Judged  and  destroy’d  in  silence, — all  things  wear 
The  self-same  aspect,  to  my  very  sire ! 

Nothing  can  sympathize  with  Eoscari, 

Not  even  a Eoscari.' — Sir,  I attend  you. 

[Exeunt  Jacopo  Eoscari,  Officer  fyc. 

Enter  Memmo  and  another  Senator. 

Mem.  He’s  gone — we  are  too  late: — think  rc>u 
“ the  Ten” 

Will  sit  for  any  length  of  time  to-day  ? 

Sen.  They  say  the  prisoner  is  most  obdurate, 
Persisting  in  his  first  avowal ; but 
More  I know  not. 

Mem.  And  that  is  much ; the  secrets 

Of  yon  terrific  chamber  are  as  hidden 
Erom  us,  the  premier  nobles  of  the  state, 

As  from  the  people. 

Sen.  Save  the  wonted  rumours, 

Which — like  the  tales  of  spectres,  that  are  rife 
Near  ruin’d  buildings — never  have  been  proved, 

Nor  wholly  disbelieved  : men  know  as  little 
Of  the  state’s  real  acts  as  of  the  grave’s 
Unfathom’d  mysteries. 

Mem.  But  with  length  of  time 

We  gain  a step  in  knowledge,  and  I look 
Forward  to  be  one  day  of  the  decemvirs. 

Sen.  Or  Doge  ? 

Mem.  Why,  no  ; not  if  I can  avoid  it. 

Sen.  ’Tis  the  first  station  of  the  state,  and  may 
Be  lawfully  desired,  and  lawfully 
Attain’d  by  noble  aspirants. 

Mem.  To  such 

I leave  it ; though  born  noble,  my  ambition 
Is  limited : I’d  rather  be  an  unit 


evasion  of  a drowning  man,  who  is  reduced  to  catch  at  straws  and 
shadows.  But,  if  Lord  Byron  chose  to  assume  this  alleged  motive 
of  his  conduct  as  the  real  one,  it  behoved  him,  at  least,  to  set 
before  our  eyes  the  intolerable  separation  from  a beloved  country, 
the  lingering  home-sickness,  the  gradual  alienation  of  intellect, 
and  the  fruitless  hope  that  his  enemies  had  at  length  relented, 
which  were  necessary  to  produce  a conduct  so  contrary  to  all  usual 
principles  of  action  as  that  which  again  consigned  him  to  the  racks 
and  dungeons  of  his  own  country.  He  should  have  shown  him  to 
us,  first,  taking  leave  of  Venice,  a condemned  and  banished  man; 
next  pining  in  Candia;  next  tampering  with  the  agents  of  govern- 
ment; by  which  time,  and  not  till  then,  we  should  have  been  pre- 
pared to  listen  with  patience  to  his  compiaints,  and  to  witness  l.i* 
sufferings  with  interest  as  well  as  hortor. — He  her.] 


zao 


. LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  t. 


Of  an  united  and  imperial  “ Ten,” 

Than  shine  a lonely,  though  a gilded  cipher. — 

Wliom  have  we  here  ? the  wife  of  Foscari  ? 

'Enter  Marina,  with  a female  Attendant. 

Mar.  What,  no  one  F — I am  wrong,  there  still  are 
Rut  they  are  senators.  [two  ; 

Mem.  Most  noble  lady, 

Command  us. 

Mar.  I command  ! — Alas  ! my  life 

Has  been  one  long  entreaty,  and  a vain  one. 

Mem.  I understand  thee,  but  I must  not  answer. 
Mar.  (fiercely).  True — none  dare  answer  here  save 
on  the  rack, 

v)r  question  save  those 

Mem.  ( interrupting  her).  High-born  dame  l1  bethink 
thee 

Where  thou  now  art. 

Mar.  Where  I now  am  ! — It  was 

My  husband's  father’s  palace. 

Mem.  The  Duke’s  palace. 

Mar.  And  his  son’s  prison  ! — true,  I have  not  for- 
got it ; 

And  if  there  were  no  other  nearer,  bitterer 
Remembrances,  would  thank  the  illustrious  Memmo 
vor  pointing  out  the  pleasures'  of  the  place. 

Mem.  Be  calm  ! 

Mar.  ( looking  up  towards  heaven).  I am  ; but  oh, 
thou  eternal  God ! 

Canst  thou  continue  so,  with  such  a world  ? 

Mem.  Thy  husband  yet  may  be  absolved. 

Mar.  He  is, 

In  heaven.  I pray  you,  signor  senator, 

Speak  not  of  that ; you  are  a man  of  office, 

So  is  the  Doge  ; he  has  a son  at  stake, 

Now,  at  this  moment,  and  I have  a husband, 

Or  had ; they  are  there  within,  or  were  at  least 
An  hour  since,  face  to  face,  as  judge  and  culprit. 

Will  he  condemn  him  ? 

Mem.  I trust  not. 

Mar.  But  if 

He  does  not,  there  are  those  will  sentence  both. 

Mem.  They  can. 

Mar.  And  with  them  power  and  will  are  one 

In  wickedness  : — my  husband’s  lost ! 

Mem.  Not  so; 

Justice  is  judge  in  Yenice. 

Mar.  If  it  were  so, 

There  now  would  be  no  Yenice.  But  let  it 
Live  on,  so  the  good  die  not,  till  the  hour 
Of  nature’s  summons ; but  “ the  Ten’s”  is  quicker, 
And  we  must  wait  on’t.  Ah ! a voice  of  wail ! 

[A  faint  crv  within,. 

Sen.  Hark! 

Mem.  ’Twas  a cry  of — 

Mar.  No,  no ; not  my  husfoand’s — 

Not  Foscajl’s. 

Mem.  The  voice  was — 

Mar.  Not  his:  no. 

He  shriek  ! No  ; that  should  be  his  father’s  part, 

Not  his — not  his — he’ll  die  in  silence. 

[A  faint  groan  again  ivithin. 


(1)  [She  was  a Contarini — 

“ A daughter  of  the  nouse  that  now  among 
Its  ancestors  in  monumental  brass 
Numbers  eight  Doges.” — Rogf.rs. 

On  the  occasion  cf  her  marriage  with  the  younger  Foscari,  the 
Bucentaur  came  out  in  its  splendour;  and  a bridge  of  boats  was 
thrown  across  i ue  Canal  Grande  for  the  bridegroom,  and  his 


Mem.  What  t 

Again  ? 

Mar.  His  voice  ! it  seem’d  so  : I will  not 
Believe  it.  Should  he  shrink,  I cannot  cease 
To  love  ; but — no — no — no — it  must  have  been 
A fearful  paug  which  wrung  a groan  from  him. 

Sen.  And,  feeling  for  thy  husband’s  wrongs,  wouldst 
thou 

Have  him  bear  more  than  mortal  pain,  in  silence  ? 

Mar.  We  all  must  bear  our  tortures.  I have  not 
Left  barren  the  great  house  of  Foscari, 

Though  they  sweep  both  the  Doge  and  son  from  life ; 
I have  endured  as  much  in  giving  life 
To  those  who  will  succeed  them,  as  they  can 
In  leaving  it : but  mine  were  joyful  pangs  : 

And  yet  they  wrung  me  till  I could  have  shriek’d, 

But  did  not ; for  my  hope  was  to  bring  forth 
Heroes,  and  would  not  welcome  them  with  tears.2 

Mem.  All’s  silent  now. 

Mar.  Perhaps  all’s  over ; but 

I will  not  deem  it : he  hath  nerved  himself, 

And  now  defies  them. 

Enter  an  Officer  hastily. 

Mem.  How  now,  friend,  what  seek  you  r 

Offi.  A leech.  The  prisoner  lias  fainted. 

[Exit  Officer. 

Mem.  _ Lady, 

’Twere  better  to  retire. 

Sen.  ( offering  to  assist  her).  I pray  thee  do  so. 

Mar.  Off ! I will  tend  him. 

Mem.  . You!  Remember,  lady! 

Ingress  is  given  to  none  within  those  chambers, 
Except  “the  Ten,”  and  their  familiars. 

Mar.  Well, 

I know  that  none  who  enter  there  return 
As  they  have  enter’d — many  never;  but 
They  shall  not  balk  my  entrance. 

Mem.  Alas ! this 

Is  but  to  expose  yourself  to  harsh  repulse, 

And  worse  suspense. 

Mar.  Who  shall  oppose  me  ? 

Mem.  They 

Whose  duty  ’tis  to  do  so. 

Mar.  ’Tis  their  duty 

To  trample  on  all  human  feelings,  all 
Ties  which  bind  man  to  man,  to  emulate 
The  fiends,  who  will  one  day  requite  them  in 
Variety  of  torturing!  Yet  I’ll  pass. 

Mem.  It  is  impossible. 

Mar.  That  shall  be  tried. 

Despair  defies  even  despotism  : there  is 

That  in  my  heart  would,  make  its  way  through  hosts 

With  leveil’d  spears;  and  think  you  a few  jailors 

Shall  put  me  from  my  path  F Give  me,  then,  way  ; 

This  is  the  Doge’s  palace  ; I am  wife 

Of  the  Duke’s  son,  the  innocent  Duke’s  son. 

And  they  shall  hear  this  ! 

Mem.  It  will  only  serve 

More  to  exasperate  his  judges. 

Mar.  What 


retinue  of  three  hundred  horse.  According  to  Sanuto,  the  tourna- 
ments in  the  Place  of  St.  Mark  lasted  three  days,  and  were  attended 
by  thirty  thousand  people.] 

(2)  [There  is  great  dignity  and  beauty  in  tlje  language  of  Marina 
when  she  will  not  believe  that  her  lord  can  be  so  far  overeca.o  bj 
the  rack  as  to  utter  an  unseemly  cry. — IIebe  a.] 


SCENE  I. 

Arc  judges  who  give  way  to  anger  ? they 
Who  do  so  are  assassins.  Give  me  way. 

[Exit  Marina. 

Sen.  Poor  lady  ! 

Mem.  ’Tis  mere  desperation : she 

Will  not  be  admitted  o’er  the  threshold^ 

Sen.  And 

Even  if  she  be  so,  cannot  save  her  husband. 

But,  see,  the  officer  returns. 

T The  Officer  passes  over  the  star/e  with  another  person. 
Mem.  I hardly 

Thought  that  “ the  Ten”  had  even  this  touch  of  pity, 
Or  would  permit  assistance  to  this  sufferer. 

Sen.  Pity  ! Is’t  pity  to  recall  to  feeling 
The  wretch  too  happy  to  escape  to  death, 

By  the  compassionate  trance,  poor  nature’s  last 
Resource  against  the  tyranny  of  pain  ? 

Mem.  I marvel  they  condemn  him  not  at  once. 

Sen.  That’s  not  their  policy  : they’d  have  him  live, 
Because  he  fears  not  death  ; and  banish  him, 

Because  all  earth,  except  his  native  land, 

To  him  is  one  wide  prison,  and  each  breath 
Of  foreign  air  he  draws  seems  a slow  poison, 
Consuming  but  not  killing. 

Mem.  Circumstance 

Confirms  his  crimes,  but  he  avows  them  not. 

Sen.  None,  save  the  Letter,1  which  he  says  was 
written, 

Address’d  to  Milan’s  duke,  in  the  full  knowledge 
That  it  would  fall  into  the  senate’s  hands, 

And  thus  he  should  be  re-convey’d  to  Venice. 

Mem.  But  as  a culprit. 

Sen.  Yes,  but  to  his.  country  ; 

And  that  was  all  he  sought, — so  he  avouches. 

Mem.  The  accusation  of  the  bribes  was  proved. 

Sen.  Not  clearly,  and  the  charge  of  homicide 
Has  been  annull’d  by  the  death-bed  confession 
Of  Nicolas  Erizzo,  who  slew  the  late 
Chief  of  “ the  Ten.”2 

Mem.  Then  why  not  clear  him  ? 

Sen.  That 

They  ought  to  answer  ; for  it  is  well  known 
That  Almoro  Donato,  as  I said, 

Was  slain  by  Erizzo  for  private  vengeance.  [than 
Mem.  There  must  be  more  in  this  strange  process 
The  apparent  crimes  of  the  accused  disclose — • 

But  here  come  two  of  “ the  Ten  let  us  retire. 

[Exeunt  Memmo  and  Senator. 

Enter  Loredano  and  Baiibarigo. 

Bar.  ( addressing  Lor.)  That  were  too  much : 
believe  me,  ’twas  not  meet 
The  trial  should  go  further  at  this  moment. 


(1)  [“  Night  and  day, 

Brooding  on  what  he  had  been,  what  he  was 
’Twas  more  than  he  could  bear.  His  longing  fits 
Thicken’d  upon  him.  His  desire  for  home 
Became  a madness ; and,  resolved  to  go, 

If  but  to  die,  in  his  despair,  he  writes 
A letter  to  the  sovereign-prince  of  Milan, 

(To  him  whose  name,  among  the  greatest  now,* * 
Had  perish’d,  blotted  out  at  once  and  rased, 


* Francesco  Sforza.  His  father,  when  at  work  in  the  field,  was 
accosted  by  some  soldiers,  and  asked  if  he  would  enlist.  “ Let  me 
throw  my  mattock  on  that  oak,”  he  replied  “ and  if  it  remains 
there,  I will.”  It  remained  there;  and  the  peasant,  regarding  it  as 
a sign,  enlisted.  He  became  soldier,  general,  prince;  and  his 
grandson,  in  the  palace  at  Milan,  said  to  Paulus  Jovius,  •*  You 
behold  these  guards  and  thi6  grandeur : I owe  every  thing  to  the 
branch  of  an  oak,  the  branch  that  held  my  grandfather’s  mattock.” 
-Kogjus 


281 

Lor.  And  so  the  Council  must  break  up,  and  Justice 
Pause  in  her  full  career,  because  a woman 
Breaks  in  on  our  deliberations  F 

Bar.  No, 

That ’s  not  the  cause ; you  saw  the  prisoner’s  state. 

Lor.  And  had  he  not  recover’d  ? 

Bar.  To  relapse 

Upon  the  least  renewal. 

Lor.  ’Twas  not  tried. 

Bar.  ’Tis  vain  to  murmur ; the  majority 
In  council  were  against  you. 

Lor.  Thanks  to  you,  sir. 

And  the  old  ducal  dotard,  who  combined 
The  worthy  voices  which  o’er-ruled  my  own. 

Bar.  I am  a judge  ; but  must  confess  that  part 
Of  our  stern  duty,  which  prescribes  the  Question, 

And  bids  us  sit  and  see  its  sharp  infliction, 

Makes  me  wish 

Lor.  What  ? 

Bar.  That  you  would  sometimes  feel. 

As  I do  always. 

Lor.  Go  to,  you  ’re  a child, 

Infirm  of  feeling  as  of  purpose,  blown 
About  by  every  breath,  shook  by  a sigh. 

And  melted  by  a tear— a precious  judge 
For  Venice!  and  a worthy  statesman  to 
Be  partner  in  my  policy  ! 

Bar.  He  shed 

No  tears. 

Lor.  He  cried  out  twice. 

Bar.  A saint  had  done  so, 

Even  with  the  crown  of  glory  in  his  eye, 
xYt  such  inhuman  artifice  of  pain 
As  was  forced  on  him  ; but  he  did  not  cry 
For  pity ; not  a word  nor  groan  escaped  him. 

And  those  two  shrieks  were  not  in  supplication, 

But  wrung  from  pangs,  and  follow’d  by  no  prayers. 

Lor.  He  mutter’d  many  times  between  his  teeth, 
But  inarticulately. 

Bar.  That  I heard  not ; 

You  stood  more  near  him. 

Lor.  I did  so. 

Bar.  Methought, 

To  my  surprise  too,  you  were  touch’d  with  mercy, 
And  were  the  first  to  call  out  for  assistande 
When  lie  was  failing. 

Lor.  I believed  that  swoon 

His  last. 

Bar.  And  have  I not  oft  heard  thee  name 
His  and  his  father’s  death  your  nearest  wish  ? 

Lor.  If  he  dies  innocent,  that  is  to  say, 

With  his  guilt  unavow’d,  he’ll  be  lamented. 

Bar.  What,  wouldst  thou  slay  his  memory  P 


But  for  the  rugged  limb  of  an  old  oak,) 

Soliciting  his  influence  with  the  state, 

And  drops  it  to  be  found.” — Rogers.] 

(2)  [The  extraordinary  sentence  pronounced  against  him,  still  ex- 
isting among  the  archives  of  Venice,  runs  thus  : — “ Giacopo  Kos- 
cari,  accused  of  the  murder  of  Hermolao  Donato,  has  been  arreted 
and  examined;  and.  from  the  testimony,  evidence,  and  documents 
exhibited,  it  distinctly  appears  that  he  is  guilty  of  the  atom:-;' -4 
crime;  nevertheless,  on  account  of  his  obstinacy,  and  of  enchant- 
ments and  spells,  in  his  possession,  of  which  there  are  inanities' 
proofs,  it  has  not  been  possible  to  extract  from  him  the  truth,  which 
is  clear  from  parole  and  written  evidence ; for,  while  he  was  on  the 
cord,  he  uttered  neither  word  nor  groan,  but  only  murmured  some- 
thing to  himself  indistinctly  and  under  his  breath  ; therefore,  as  the 
honour  of  the  state  requires,  he  is  condemned  to  a more  distant 
banishment  in  Candia.”  Will  it  be  credited,  that  a distinct  prool 
of  his  innocence,  obtained  by  the  discovery  of  the  real  assassin, 
wrought  no  change  in  his  unjust  and  cruel  sentence? — See  Venetian 
Sketches , vol.  ti.  p.  97.  j 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


o o 


282 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  IL 


Lor.  Would’st  tliou  have 

Ilis  state  descend  to  his  children,  as  it  must, 

If  lie  die  unattainted? 

Bar.  War  with  them  too? 

Lor.  With  all  their  house,  till  theirs  or  mine  are 
nothing. 

Bar.  And  the  deep  agony  of  his  pale  wife, 

And  the  repress’d  convulsion  of  the  high 
And  princely  brow  of  his  old  father,  which 
Broke  forth  in  a slight  shuddering,  though  rarely, 

Or  in  some  clammy  drops,  soon  wiped  away 
In  stern  serenity  ; these  moved  you  not  ? 

[Exit  Loredano. 

He’s  silent  in  his  hate,  as  Foscari 

Was  in  his  suffering ; and  the  poor  wretch  moved  me 

More  by  his  silence  than  a thousand  outcries 

Could  have  effected.  ’Twas  a dreadful  sight 

Wlien  his  distracted  wife  broke  through  into 

The  hall  of  our  tribunal,  and  beheld 

What  we  could  scarcely  look  upon,  long  used 

To  such  sights.  I must  think  no  more  of  this, 

Lest  I forget  in  this  compassion  for 
Our  foes,  their  former  injuries,  and  lose 
The  hold  of  vengeance  Loredano  plans 
For  him  and  me  ; but  mine  would  be  content 
With  lesser  retribution  than  he  thirsts  for, 

And  I would  mitigate  his  deeper  hatred 
To  milder  thoughts  ; but  for  the  present,  Foscari 
Has  a short  hourly  respite,  granted  at 
The  iustance  of  the  elders  of  the  Council, 

Move  ! doubtless  by  his  wife’s  appearance  in 
The  hall,  and  his  own  sufferings. — Lo  ! they  come  : 
How'  feeble  and  forlorn  ! I cannot  bear 
To  look  on  them  again  in  this  extremity  : 

I’ll  hence,  and  try  to  soften  Loredano. 

[Exit  Barbarigo. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

A Hall  in  the  Doge’s  Palace. 

The  Doge  and  a Senator. 

Sen.  Is  it  your  pleasure  to  sign  the  report 
Now,  or  postpone  it  till  to-morrow  ? 

Doge.  Now ; 

1 overlook’d  it  yesterday ; it  wants 
Merely  the  signature.  Give  me  the  pen — 

[The  Doge  sits  down  and  signs  the  paper. 
There,  signor. 

Sen.  {looking  at  the  paper).  You  have  forgot;  it  is 
not  sign’d. 

Doge.  Not  sign’d  ? Ah,  I perceive  my  eyes  begin 
To  wax  more  weak  with  age.  I did  not  see 
That  1 had  dipp’d  the  pen  without  effect.1 

Sen.  {dipping  the  pen  into  the  ink , and  placing  the 
paper  before  the  Doge).  Your  hand,  too, 
shakes,  my  lord : allow  me,  thus — 

Doge.  ’Tis  done,  I thank  you. 

Sen.  Thus  the  act  confirm’d 

By  you  and  by  “the  Ten”  gives  peace  to  Venice. 

Doge.  ’Tis  long  since  she  enjoy’d  it : may  it  be 
As  long  ere  she  resume  her  arms  ! 

Sen.  ’Tis  almost 

Thirty-four  years  of  nearly  ceaseless  warfare 


With  the  Turk,  or  the  powers  of  Italy; 

The  slate  had  need  of  some  repose. 

Doge.  No  doubt  t 

I found  her  Queen  of  Ocean,  and  I leave  her 
Lady  of  Lombardy  : it  is  a comfort a 
That  I have.addcd  to  her  diadem 
The  gems  oi  Brescia  and  Ravenna ; Crema 
And  Bergamo  no  less  are  hers  ; her  realm 
By  land  has  grown  by  thus  much  in  my  reign, 

While  her  sea-sway  has  not  shrunk. 

Sen.  ’Tis  most  true, 

And  merits  all  our  country’s  gratitude. 

Doge.  Perhaps  so. 

Sen.  Which  should  be  made  manifest.. 

Doge.  I have  not  complain’d,  sir. 

Sen.  My  good  lord,  forgive  me. 

Doge.  For  what  ? 

Sen.  My  heart  bleeds  for  you. 

Doge.  For  me,  signor  ? 

Sen.  And  for  your 

Doge.  Stop ! 

Sen.  It  must  have  way,  my  lord  : 

I have  too  many  duties  towards  you 
And  all  your  house,  for  past  and  present  kindness, 

Not  to  feel  deeply  for  your  son. 

Doge.  Was  this 

In  your  commission  ? 

Sen.  What,  my  lord  ? 

Doge.  This  prattle 

Of  things  you  know  not : but  the  treaty’s  sign’d  : 
Return  with  it  to  them  who  sent  you. 

Sen.  ' I 

Obey.  I had  in  charge,  too,  from  the  Council 
That  you  will  fix  an  hour  for  their  re-union. 

Doge.  Say,  when  they  will— now,  even  at  this 
moment, 

If  it  so  please  them  : I am  the  stale’s  servant. 

Sen.  They  would  accord  some  time  for  your  repose. 
Doge.  I have  no  repose ; that  is,  none  which  shall ' 
cause 

The  loss  of  an  hour’s  time  unto  the  state. 

Let  them  meet  when  they  will,  I shall  be  found 
Where  I should  be,  and  whatl  have  been  ever. 

[Exit  Senator 
[The  Doge  remains  in  silence . 


Enter  an  Attendant . 

Att.  Prince! 

Doge.  Say  on.  , j 

Att.  The  illustrious  lady  Foscari/ 

equests  an  audience. 

Doge.  Bid  her  enter.  Poor 

Cariiia  ! [Exit  Attendant, } 

[The  Doge  remains  in  silence  as  before 


Enter  Marina. 

Mar.  I have  ventured,  father,  on 
our  privacy. 

Doge.  I have  none  from  you,  my  child, 

ommand  my  time,  when  not  commanded  by 
he  state. 

Mar.  I wish’d  to  speak  to  you  of  him. 

Doge.  Your  husband  ? 

Mar.  And  your  sou. 

])oge.  Proceed,  my  daughter  1 


(2)  [“  Mistress  of  Lombardy — it  is  some  comfort.” — MS.] 


[“That  I had  dipp’d  the  pen  too  heedlessly.” — MS.] 


SCENE  L 


THE  TWO  EOSCARI. 


283 


Mar.  J had  obtain’d  permission  from  “ the  Ten” 

To  attend  my  husband  for  a limited  number 
Of  hours. 

Doge.  You  had  so. 

Mar.  ’Tis  revoked. 

Doge.  i By  whom? 

Mar.  “The  Ten.” — When  we  had  reach’d  “the 
Bridge  of  Sighs,” 

Which  I prepared  to  pass  with  Eoscari, 

The  gloomy  guardian  of  that  passage  first 
Demurr’d  : a messenger  was  sent  back  to 
“ Tire  Ten but  as  the  court  no  longer  sate, 

And  no  permission  had  been  given  in  writing, 

I was  thrust  back,  witli  the  assurance  that 
Until  that  high  tribunal  re-assembled, 

The  dungeon  walls  must  still  divide  us. 

Doge.  True, 

The  form  has  been  omitted  in  the  haste 

With  which  the  court  adjourn’d ; and  till  it  meets 

’Tis  dubious. 

Mar.  Till  it  meets ! and  when  it  meets. 

They  ’ll  torture  him  again ; and  lie  and  I 
Must  purchase,  by  renewal  of  the  rack, 

The  interview  of  husband  and  of  wife, 

The  holiest  tie  beneath  the  heavens  !—  Oh  God  ! 

Dost  thou  see  this  ? 

Doge.  Child — child 

Mar.  {abruptly).  Call  me  not  “child  !” 

You  soon  will  have  no  children — you  deserve  none — 
You,  who  can  talk  thus  calmly  of  a son 
In  circumstances  w hich  would  call  forth  tears 
Of  blood  from  Spartans  ! Though  these  did  not  weep 
Their  boys  who  died  in  battle,  is  it  written 
That  they  beheld  them  perish  piecemeal,  nor 
Stretch’d  forth  a hand  to  save  them  ? 

Doge.  You  behold  me  : 

I cannot  weep — I would  I could ; but  if 
Each  white  hair  on  this  head  were  a young  life, 

This  ducal  cap  the  diadem  of  earth, 

This  ducal  ring  with  which  I wed  the  waves 
A talisman  to  still  them — I’d  give  all 
For  him. 

Mar.  With  less  he  surely  might  be  saved. 

Doge.  That  answer  only  shows  you  know  not 
Yenice. 

Alas  ! how  should  you  ? she  knows  not  herself, 

In  all  her  mystery.  Hear  me — they  who  aim 
At  Eoscari,  aim  no  less  at  his  father ; 

The  sire’s  destruction  would  not  save  the  son ; 

They  work  by  different  means  to  the  same  end, 

And  that  is but  they  have  not  conquer’d  yet. 

Mar.  But  they  have  crush’d. 

Doge.  Nor  crush’d  as  yet — I live. 

Mar.  And  your  son, — how  long  will  he  Live  ? 

Doge.  I trust, 

Eor  all  that  yet  is  past,  as  many  years 
And  happier  than  his  father.  The  rash  boy, 

With  womanish  impatience  to  return, 

Hath  ruin’d  all  by  that  detected  letter  ; 

A.  high  crime,  which  I neither  can  deny 
Nor  palliate,  as  parent  or  as  Duke  : 

Had  he  but  borne  a little,  little  longer 

His  Candiote  exile,  I had  hopes he  has  quench’d 

them — 

He  must  return. 

Mar.  To  exile  ?• 

■Doge.  I have  said  it. 

Mar.  And  can  T not  go  with  him  ? 


Doge.  You  well  know 

This  prayer  of  yours  was  twice  denied  before 
By  the  assembled  “ Ten,”  and  hardly  now 
Will  be  accorded  to  a third  request, 

Since  aggravated  errors  on  the  part 
Of  your  lord  render  them  still  more  austere. 

Mar.  Austere  ? Atrocious  ! The  old  human  fiends. 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave,  with  dim  eyes,  strange 
To  tears  save  drops  of  dotage,  with  long  white 
And  scanty  hairs,  and  shaking  hands,  and  heads 
As  palsied  as  their  hearts  are  hard,  they  council, 

Cabal,  and  put  men’s  lives  out,  as  if  life 

Were  no  more  than  the  feelings  long  extinguish’d 

In  their  accursed  bosoms. 

Doge.  You  know  not 

Mar.  I do — I do — and  so  should  you,  methinks — • 
That  these  are  demons  : could  it  be  else  that 
Men,  who  have  been  of  women  born  and  suckled — 
Who  have  loved,  or  talk’d  at  least  of  love — have  given 
Their  bands  in  sacred  vows — have  danced  their  babes 
Upon  their  knees,  perhaps  have  mourn’d  above  them — 
In  pain,  in  peril,  or  in  death  — who  are, 

Or  were  at  least  in  seeming,  human,  could 
Do  as  they  have  done  by  yours,  and  you  yourself, 

You,  who  abet  them  ? 

Doge.  I forgive  this,  for 

You  know  not  what  you  say. 

Mar.  You  know  it  well. 

And  feel  it  nothing. 

Doge.  I have  borne  so  much, 

That  words  have  ceased  to  shake  me. 

Mar.  Oh,  no  doubt . 

You  have  seen  your  son’s  blood  flow,  and  your  flesh 
shook  not : 

And,  after  that,  what  are  a woman’s  words  ? [you. 
No  more  than  woman’s  tears,  that  they  should  shake 

Doge.  Woman,  this  clamorous  grief  of  thine,  I tell 
Is  no  more  in  the  balance  weigh’d  with  that  [thee, 
Which but  I pity  thee,  my  poor  Marina  ! 

Mar.  Pity  my  husband,  or  I cast  it  from  me ; 

Pity  thy  son  ! Thou  pity  ! — ’tis  a word 
Strange  to  thy  heart — how  came  it  on  thy  lips  ? 

Doge.  I must  bear  these  reproaches,  though  they 
wrong  me. 

Couldst  thou  but  read 

Mar.  ’Tis  not  upon  thy  brow. 

Nor  in  thine  eyes,  nor  in  thine  acts, — where  then 
Should  I behold  this  sympathy  ? or  shall  ? 

Doge  {pointing  downicards).  There! 

Mar.  In  the  earth  ? 

Doge.  To  which  I am  tending : when 

It  lies  upon  this  heart,  far  lightlier,  though 
Loaded  with  marble,  than  the  thoughts  which  press  it 
Now,  you  will  know  me  better. 

Mar.  Are  you,  then. 

Indeed,  thus  to  be  pitied  ? 

Doge.  Pitied ! None 

Shall  ever  use  that  base  word,  with  which  men 
Cloke  their  soul’s  hoarded  triumph,  as  a fit  one 
To  mingle  with  my  name ; that  name  shall  be, 

As  far  as  I have  borne  it,  what  it  was 
When  I received  it. 

Mar.  But  for  the  poor  children 

Of  him  thou  canst  not,  or  thou  wilt  not  save, 

You  were  the  last  to  bear  it. 

Doge.  Would  it  were  so  ! 

Better  for  him  he  never  had  been  born ; 

Better  for  me. — I have  seen  our  house  dishonour’d 


% 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  II, 


Mar.  That’s  false!  A truer,  nobler,  trustier  heart, 
More  loving,  or  more  loyal,  never  beat 
Within  a human  breast.  1 would  not  change 
My  exiled,  persecuted,  mangled  husband, 

Oppress’d  but  not  disgraced,  crush’d,  overwhelm’d, 
Alive,  or  dead,  for  prince  or  paladin 
In  story  or  in  fable,  with  a world 
To  back  his  suit.  Dishonour’d  ! — he — dishonour’d  ! 

I tell  thee,  Doge,  ’tis  Venice  is  dishonour’d  ; 

His  name  shall  be  her  foulest,  worst  reproach, 

For  what  he  suffers,  not  for  what  he  did. 

’Tis  ye  who  are  all  traitors,  tyrant ! — ye  ! 

Did  you  but  love  your  country  like  this  victim 
Who  totters  back  in  chains  to  tortures,  and 
Submits  to  all  things  rather  than  to  exile, 

You’d  fling  yourselves  before  him,  and  implore 
His  grace  for  your  enormous  guilt. 

Doge.  He  was 

Indeed  all  you  have  said.  I better  bore 
The  deaths  of  the  two  sons  Heaven  took  from  me, 
Than  Jacopo’s  disgrace. 

Mar.  That  word  again  ? 

Doge.  Has  he  not  been  condemn’d  ? 

Mar . Is  none  but  guilt  so  ? 

Doge.  Time  may  restore  his  memory  — I would 
hope  so. 

He  was  my  pride,  my but  ’tis  useless  now — 

I am  not  given  to  tears,  but  wept  for  joy 
When  lie  was  born  : those  drops  were  ominous. 

Mar.  I say  he’s  innocent ! And  were  he  not  so, 

Is  our  own  blood  and  kin  to  shrink  from  us 
In  fatal  moments  ? 

Doge.  I shrank  not  from  him  : 

But  I have  other  duties  than  a father’s  ? 

The  state  would  not  dispense  me  from  those  duties ; 
Twice  I demanded  it,  but  was  refused  : 

They  must  then  be  fulfill’d.1 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Aft.  A message  from 

“ The  Ten.” 

Doge.  Who  bears  it  ? 

Att.  Noble  Loredano. 

Doge.  He  ! — but  admit  him.  [Exit  Attendant. 

Mar.  Must  I then  retire  ? 

Doge.  Perhaps  it  is  not  requisite,  if  this 

Concerns  your  husband,  and  if  not Well,  signor, 

Your  pleasure  ! [To  Loredano  entering. 

Lor.  I bear  that  of  “ the  Ten.” 

Doge.  They 

Have  chosen  well  their  envoy. 

Lor.  ’Tis  their  choice 

Which  leads  me  here. 

Doge.  It  does  their  wisdom  honour, 

And  no  less  to  their  courtesy. — Proceed. 

Lor.  We  have  decided. 

Doge.  We? 

I/or.  “ The  Ten”  in  council. 

Doge.  What, ! have  they  met  again,  and  met  without 
Apprising  me  ? 

(1)  [The  interest  of  this  play  is  founded  upon  feelings  so  peculiar 
or  overstrained,  as  to  engage  no  sympathy;  and  the  whole  story 
turns  on  incidents  that  are  neither  pleasing  nor  natural.  The 
younger  Foscari  undergoes  the  rack  twice  (once  in  the  hearing  of 
the  audience),  merely  because  he  has  chosen  to  feign  himself  a 
traitor,  that  lie  might  be  brought  back  from  undeserved  banish- 
ment, and  dies  at  last  of  pure  dotage  on  this  sentiment ; while  the 
elder  Foscari  submits,  in  profound  and  immoveable  silence,  to  this 
treatment  of  his  son,  lest,  by  seeming  to  feel  for  his  unhappy  fate, 


Lor.  They  wish’d  to  spare  your  feelings, 

No  less  than  age. 

Doge.  That’s  new — when  spared  they  eit.  er  ? 

I thank  them,  notwithstanding. 

Lor.  You  know  well 

That  they  have  power  to  act  at  their  discret  ion, 

With  or  without  the  presence  of  the  Doge. 

Doge.  ’Tis  some  years  since  I learn’d  this,  long 
before 

I became  Doge,  or  dream*  d of  such  advancement. 

You  need  not  school  me,  signor  : I sate  in 
That  council  when  you  were  a young  patrician. 

Lor.  True,  in  my  father’s  time ; I have  heard  him 
and 

The  admiral,  his  brother,  say  as  much. 

Your  highness  may  remember  them  ; they  both 
Died  suddenly. 

Doge.  And  if  they  did  so,  better 

So  die  than  live  on  lingeringly  in  pain.  [days  out. 
Lor.  No  doubt  : yet  most  men  like  to  live  their 
Doge.  And  did  not  they  ? 

Lor.  The  grave  knows  best : they  died. 

As  I said,  suddenly. 

Doge.  Is  that  so  strange, 

That  you  repeat  the  word  emphatically  ? [death 

Lor.  So  far  from  strange,  that  never  was  there 
In  my  mind  half  so  natural  as  theirs. 

Think  you  not  so  ? 

Doge.  What  should  I think  of  mortals  ? 

Lor.  That  they  have  mortal  foes. 

Doge.  I understand  you ; 

Your  sires  were  mine,  and  you  are  heir  in  all  tilings. 
Lor.  You  best  know  if  I should  be  so. 

Doge.  I do. 

Your  fathers  were  my  foes,  and  I have  heard 
Foul  rumours  were  abroad ; I have  also  read 
Their  epitaph,  attributing  their  deaths 
To  poison.  ’Tis  perhaps  as  true  as  most 
Inscriptions  upon  tombs,  and  yet  no  less 
A fable. 

Lor.  Who  dares  say  so  ? 

Doge.  I ! ’Tis  true 

Your  fathers  were  mine  enemies,  as  bitter 
As  their  son  e’er  can  be,  and  I no  less 
Was  theirs  ; but  I was  openly  their  foe  : 

I never  work’d  by  plot  in  council,  nor 
Cabal  in  commonwealth,  nor  secret  means 
Of  practice  against  life  by  steel  or  drug. 

The  proof  is,  your  existence. 

Lor.  I fear  not. 

Doge.  You  have  no  cause,  being  what  I.  am ; but 
were  I 

That  you  would  have  me  thought,  you  long  ere  now  * 
Were  past  the  sense  of  fear.  Hate  on ; I care  not. 

Lor  I never  yet  knew  that  a noble’s  life 
In  Venice  had  to  dread  a Doge’s  frown, 

That  is  by  open  means. 

Doge.  But  I,  good  signor, 

Am,  or  least  was,  more  than  a mere  duke, 

In  blood,  in  mind,  in  means  ; and  that  they  know 


he  should  be  implicated  in  bis  guilt — though  he  is  supposed  guilt- 
less. He,  the  Doge,  is  afraid  to  stir  hand  or  foot,  to  look  or  speak 
while  these  inexplicable  horrors  are  transacting,  on  account  of  the 
hostility  of  one  Loredano,  who  lords  it  in  the  council  of  “ the  Ten," 
nobody  knows  why  or  how;  and  who  at  last  “enmeshes"  both 
father  and  son  in  his  toils,  in  spite  of  their  passive  obedience  and 
non-resistance  to  his  plans.  They  are  silly  flies  for  this  spider  to 
catch,  and  “ feed  fat  his  ancient  grudge  upon." — Jeffrbt.J 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCAB.L 


285 


Who  dreaded  to  elect  me,  and  liave  since 
Striven  all  they  dare  to  weigh  me  down  : be  sure. 
Before  or  since  that  period,  had  I held  you 
At  so  much  price  as  to  require  your  absence, 

A word  of  mine  had  set  sifch  spirits  to  work 
As  would  liave  made  you  nothing.  But  in  all  things 
I have  observed  the  strictest  reverence  ; 

Not  for  the  laws  aloue,  for  those  you  have  strain’d 
(I  do  not  speak  of  you  but  as  a single 
Voice  of  the  many)  somewhat  beyond  what 
[ could  enforce  for  my  authority, 

Were  I disposed  to  brawl ; but,  as  I said, 

I have  observed  with  veneration,  like 
A priest’s  for  the  high  altar,  even  unto 
The  sacrifice  of  my  own  blood  and  quiet, 

Safety,  and  all  save  honour,  the  decrees, 

'Hie  health,  the  pride,  and  welfare  of  the  state. 

And  now,  sir,  to  your  business. 

Lor.  ’Tis  decreed, 

That,  without  further  repetition  of 
The  Question,  or  continuance  of  the  trial, 

Which  only  tends  to  show  how  stubborn  guilt  is, 

(“  The  Ten,”  dispensing  with  the  stricter  law 
Which  still  prescribes  the  Question  till  a full 
Confession,  and  the  prisoner  partly  having 
Avow’d  his  crime  in  not  denying  that 
The  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan’s  his), 

James  Eoscari  return  to  banishment. 

And  sail  in  the  same  galley  which  conveyed  him. 

Mar.  Thank  God  ! At  least  they  will  not  drag  him 
more 

Before  that  horrid  tribunal.  Would  he 
But  think  so,  to  my  mind  the  happiest  doom, 

Not  he  alone,  but  all  who  dwell  here,  could 
Desire,  were  to  escape  from  such  a land. 

Doge.  That  is  not  a Venetian  thought,  my  daughter. 

Mar.  No,  ’twas  too  lnfman.  May  I share  his  exile  ? 

Lor.  Of  this  “ the  Ten”  said  nothing. 

Mar.  So  I thought ! 

That  were  too  human,  also.  But  it  was  not 
Inhibited  ? 

Lor.  It  was  not  named. 

Mar.  (to  the  Doge) . Then,  father, 

i Surely  you  can  obtain  or  grant  me  thus  much  : 

[To  Loredano. 

And  you,  sir,  not  oppose  my  prayer  to  be 
Permitted  to  accompany  my  husband, 
i Doge.  I will  endeavour. 

Mar.  And  you,  signor  ? 

Lor.  Lady ! 

i ’Tis  not  for  me  to  anticipate  the  pleasure 
Of  the  tribunal. 

Mar.  Pleasure ! what  a word 

j To  use  for  the  decrees  of 

Doge.  Daughter,  know  you 

In  what  a presence  you  pronounce  these  things  ? 

Mar.  A prince’s  and  his  subject’s. 

Aor.  Subject ! 

Mar.  Oh ! 

! It  galls  you  : — well,  you  are  his  equal,  as 
You  think ; but  that  you  are  not,  nor  would  be, 

Were  he  a peasant : — well,  then,  you’re  a prince, 

A princely  noble  ; and  what  then  am  I ? 
i.  Lor.  The  offspring  of  a noble  house. 

Mar.  And  wedded 


tl)  See  ante,  p 203. 

(2)  [‘  The  blackest  leaf,  his  heart,  and  blankest  his  brain.” 

—MS.] 


| To  one  as  noble.  What,  or  whose,  then,  is 
1 The  presence  that  should  silence  my  free  thoughts  ? 

Lor.  The  presence  of  your  husband’s  judges. 

Doge.  And 

The  deference  due  even  to  the  lightest  word 
That  falls  from  those  who  rule  in  Venice. 

Mar.  Keep 

Those  maxims  for  your  mass  of  scared  mechanics, 
Your  merchants,  your  Dalmatian  and  Greek  slaves, 
Your  tributaries,  your  dumb  citizens, 

And  mask’d  nobility,  your  sbirri,  and 
Your  spies,  your  galley  and  your  other  slaves, 

To  whom  your  midnight  carryings  off  and  drownings, 
Your  dungeons  next  the  palace  roofs,  or  under 
The  water’s  level ; your  mysterious  meetings. 

And  unknown  dooms,  and  sudden  executions,  [and 
Your  “ Bridge  of  Sighs,” 1 your  strangling  chamber, 
Your  torturing  instruments,  have  made  ye  seem 
The  beings  of  another  and  worse  world ! 

Keep  such  for  them  : I fear  ye  not.  I know  ye  ; 
Have  known  and  proved  your  worst,  in  the  infernal 
Process  of  my  poor  husband  ! Treat  me  as 
Ye  treated  him : — you  did  so,  in  so  dealing 
With  him.  Then  what  have  I to  fear  from  you, 

Even  if  I were  of  fearful  nature,  which 
I trust  I am  not  ? 

Doge.  You  hear,  she  speaks  wildly. 

Mar.  Not  wisely,  yet  not  wildly. 

Lor.  Lady ! words 

Utter’d  within  these  walls  I bear  no  further 
Than  to  the  threshold,  saving  such  as  pass 
Between  the  Duke  and  me  on  the  state’s  service. 
Doge  ! have  you  aught  in  answer  F 

Doge.  Something  from 

The  Doge ; it  may  be  also  from  a parent. 

Lor.  My  mission  here  is  to  the  Doge. 

Doge.  Then  say 

The  Doge  will  choose  his  own  ambassador, 

Or  state  in  person  what  is  meet ; and  for 
The  father 

Lor.  I remember  mine. — Farewell ! 

I kiss  the  hands  of  the  illustrious  lady, 

And  bow  me  to  the  Duke.  [Exit  Loredano. 

Mar.  Are  you  content  ? 

Doge.  I am  what  you  behold. 

Mar.  And  that ’s  a mystery. 

Doge.  All  things  are  so  to  mortals ; who  can  read 
them 

Save  he  who  made  ? or,  if  they  can,  the  few 
And  gifted  spirits,  who  have  studied  long 
That  loathsome  volume — man,  and  pored  upon 
Those  black  and  bloody  leaves,  his  heart  and  brain,2 
But  learn  a magic  which  recoils  upon 
The  adept  who  pursues  it : all  the  sins 
We  find  in  others,  nature  made  our  own ; 

All  our  advantages  are  those  8f  fortune  ; 

Birth,  wealth,  health,  beauty,  are  her  accidents, 

And  when  we  cry  out  against  Fate,  ’twere  well 
We  should  remember  Fortune  can  take  nought 
Save  what  she  gave — the  rest  was  nakedness, 

And  lusts,  and  appetites,  and  vanities, 

The  universal  heritage,  to  battle 
With  as  we  may,  and  least  in  humblest  stations. 
Where  hunger  swallows  all  in  one  low  want,3 
And  the  original  ordinance,  that  man 


(3)  [“  Where  hunger  swallows  all — where  ever  was 

The  monarch  who  could  bear  a three  days’  fast  1 " 

—MS.] 


286 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  III 


Must  sweat  for  his  poor  pittance,  keeps  all  passions 
Aloof,  save  fear  of  famine  ! All  is  low, 

And  false,  and  hollow — clay  from  first  to  last, 

The  prince’s  urn  no  less  than  potter’s  vessel. 

Our  fame  is  in  men’s  breath,1  our  lives  upon 
Less  than  their  breath  ; our  durance  upon  days. 

Our  days  on  seasons  ; our  whole  being-  on 
Something  which  is  not  us  ! — So,  we  are  slaves. 

The  greatest  as  the  meanest — nothing  rests 
Upon  our  will ; the  will  itself  no  less 
Depends  upon  a straw  than  on  a storm  ; 2 
And  when  we  think  we  lead,  we  are  most  led, 

And  still  towards  death,  a thing  which  conies  as  much 
Without  our  act  or  choice,  as  birth,  so  that 
Methinks  we  must  have  sinn’d  in  some  old  world. 
And  this  is  hell : the  best  is,  that  it  is  not 
Eternal. 

Mar.  These  are  things  we  cannot  judge 
On  earth. 

Doge.  And  how  then  shall  we  judge  each  other, 
Who  are  all  earth,  and  I,  who  am  call’d  upon 
To  judge  my  son  ? I have  administer’d 
My  country  faithfully — vict  oriously — 
f dare  them  to  the  proof,  the  chart  of  what 
She  was  and  is : my  reign  has  doubled  realms ; 

And,  in  reward,  the  gratitude  of  Venice 
Has  left,  or  is  about  to  leave,  me  single. 

Mar.  And  Foscari  ? I do  not  think  of  such  things, 
So  I be  left  with  him. 

Doge.  You  shall  be  so  : 

Thus  much  they  cannot  well  deny. 

Mar.  And  if 

They  should,  I will  fly  with  him. 

Doge.  That  can  ne’er  be. 

And  whither  would  you  fly  P 

Mar.  I know  not,  reck  not — 

To  Syria,  Egypt,  to  the  Ottoman  — 

Any  where,  where  we  might  respire  unfetter’d. 

And  live  nor  girt  by  spies,  nor  liable 

To  edicts  of  inquisitors  of  state.  [husband, 

Doge.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  a renegade  for 
And  turn  him  into  traitor? 

Mar.  He  is  none  ! 

The  country  is  the  traitress,  which  thrusts  forth 
Her  best  and  bravest  from  her.  Tyranny 
Is  far  the  worst  of  treasons.  Dost  thou  deem 
None  rebels  except  subjects  ? The  prince  who 
Neglects  or  violates  his  trust  is  more 
A brigand  than  the  robber-chief. 

Doge.  I cannot 

Charge  me  with  such  a breach  of  faith. 

Mar.  No ! thou 

Observ’st,  obey’st,  such  laws  as  make  old  Draco’s 
A code  of  mercy  by  comparison 

Doge.  I found  the  law ; I did  not  make  it.  Were  I 
A subject,  still  I might  fmd  parts  and  portions 
Fit  for  amendment ; but  as  prince,  I never 
Would  change,  for  the  sake  of  my  house,  the  charter 
Left  by  our  fathers. 

Mar.  Did  they  make  it  for 

The  ruin  of  their  children  ? 

Doge.  Under  such  laws,  Venice 

Has  risen  to  what  she  is — a state  to  rival 
In  deeds,  and  days,  and  sway,  and,  let  me  add, 

In  glory  (for  we  have  had  Roman  spirits 


(I)  [“What’s  fame?  a fancied  life  in  others’  breath. 

A thing  beyond  us,  ev’n  before  our  death.” — Pope.] 


Amongst  us),  all  that  history  has  bequeath’d 
Of  Rome  and  Carthage  in  their  best  times,  when 
The  people  sway’d  by  senates. 

Mar.  Rather  say, 

Groan’d  under  the  stern  oligarchs. 

Doge.  Perhaps  so  ; 

But  yet  subdued  the  world  : in  such  a state 

An  individual,  be  he  richest  of 

Such  rank  as  is  permitted,  or  the  meanest, 

Without  a name,  is  alike  nothing,  when 

The  policy,  irrevocably  tending 

To  one  great  end,  must  be  maintain’d  in  vigour. 

Mar.  This  means  that  you  are  more  Doge  than 
father. 

Doge.  It  means,  I am  more  citizen  than  either. 

If  we  had  not  for  many  centuries 
Had  thousands  of  such  citizens,  and  shall, 

I trust,  have  still  such,  Venice  were  no  city. 

Mar.  Accursed  be  the  city  where  the  laws 
Would  stifle  nature’s! 

Doge.  Had  I as  many  sons 

As  I have  years,  I would  have  given  them  all, 

Not  without  feeling,  but  I would  have  given  them 
To  the  state’s  service,  to  fulfil  her  wishes 
On  the  flood,  in  the  field,  or,  if  it  must  be, 

As  it,  alas  ! has  been,  to  ostracism, 

Exile,  or  chains,  or  whatsoever  worse 
She  might  decree. 

Mar.  And  this  is  patriotism  ? 

To  me  it  seems  the  worst  barbarity. 

Let  me  seek  out  my  husband  : the  sage  “ Ten,” 

With  all  its  jealousy,  will  hardly  war 
So  far  with  a weak  woman  as  deny  me 
A moment’s  access  to  his  dungeon. 

Doge.  I’ll 

So  far  take  on  myself,  as  order  that 
You  may  be  admitted. 

Mar.  And  what  shall  I say 

To  Foscari  from  his  father? 

Doge.  That  he  obey 

The  laws. 

Mar.  And  nothing  more  ? Will  you  not  see  him 
Ere  he  depart  ? It  may  be  the  last  time.  _ [see 

Doge.  The  last ! — my  boy ! — the  last  time  I shall 
My  last  of  children  ! Tell  him  I will  come. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Prison  of  Jacopo  Foscari. 

Jac.  Fos.  (solus).  No  light,  save  yon  faint  gleam 
which  shows  me  walls 

Which  never  echo’d  but  to  sorrow’s  sounds, 

The  sigh  of  long  imprisonment,  the  step 
Of  feet  on  which  the  iron  clank’d,  the  groan 
Of  death,  the  imprecation  of  despair  ! 

And  yet  for  this  1 have  return’d  to  Venice, 

With  some  faint  hope,  ’tis  true,  that  time,  which  wear* 
The  marble  down,  had  worn  away  the  hate 
Of  men’s  hearts ; but  I knew  them  not,  and  here 
Must  I consume  my  own,  which  never  beat 
For  Venice  but  with  such  a yearning  as 


(2)  [ “the  will  itself  dependent 

Upon  a storm,  a straw,  and  both  aolta 
Leading  to  death.” — MS.] 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


287 


The  dove  lias  for  her  distant  nest,  when  wheeling 

High  in  the  air  on  her  return  to  greet 

Her  callow  brood.  What  letters  are  these  which 

[. Approaching  the  wall. 
Are  scrawl’d  along  the  inexorable  wall  ? 1 
Will  the  gleam  let  me  trace  them  ? Ah  ! the  names 
Of  my  sad  predecessors  in  this  place, 

The  dates  of  their  despair,  the  brief  words  of 
A grief  too  great  for  many.  This  stone  page 
Holds  like  an  epitaph  their  history  ; 

And  the  poor  captive’s  tale  is  graven  on 
His  dungeon  barrier,  like  the  lover’s  record 
Upon  the  bark  of  some  tall  tree,  which  bears 
His  own  and  bis  beloved’s  name.  Alas  ! 

I recognise  some  names  familiar  to  me, 

And  blighted  like  to  mine,  which  I will  add, 

Fittest  for  such  a chronicle  as  this, 

Which  only  can  be  read,  as  writ,  by  wretches  2 * 

[He  engraves  his  name. 

Enter  a Familiar  of  “ the  Ten.” 3 

Fam.  I bring  you  food. 

Jac.  Fos.  I pray  you  set  it  down ; 

I am  past  hunger  : but  my  lips  are  parch’d — 

The  water ! 

Fam.  There. 

Jac.  Fos  {after  drinking').  I thank  you  : I am  better. 

Fam.  I am  commanded  to  inform  you  that 
Your  further  trial  is  postponed. 

Jac.  Fos.  Till  when  ? 

Fam.  I know  not. — It  is  also  in  my  orders 
That,  your  illustrious  lady  be  admitted. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ah ! they  relent,  then, — I had  ceased  to 
hope  it : 

’Twas  time. 

Enter  Makina. 

Mar.  My  best  beloved  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  {embracing  her).  My  true  wife, 

And  only  friend  ! What  happiness  ! 

Mar.  We’ll  part 

No  more. 

Jac.  Fos.  How ! wouldst  thou  share  a dungeon  ? 

Mar.  Ay, 

The  rack,  the  grave,  all— any  thing  with  thee, 

But  the  tomb  last  of  all,  for  there  we  shall 
Be  ignorant  of  each  other,  yet  I will 
Share  that — all  things  except  new  separation  ; 

It  is  too  much  to  have  survived  the  first. 

How  dost  thou  ? How  are  those  worn  limbs  ? Alas  ! 
Why  do  I ask  ? Thy  paleness 

Jac.  Fos.  ’Tis  the  joy 

Of  seeing  thee  again  so  soon,  and  so 
Without  expectancy,  has  sent  the  blood 
Back  to  my  heart,  and  left  my  cheeks  like  thine. 

For  thou  art  pale  too,  my  Marina  ! 

Mar.  ’Tis 

The  gloom  UF  this  eternal  cell,  which  never 
Knew  sunbeam,  and  the  sallow  sullen  glare 
Of  the  familiar’s  torch,  which  seems  akin 4 


(1)  [For  Mr.  Hobhouse’s  account  of  the  state  dungeons  of  Venice 
ice  Appendix:  Historical  Notes  to  Childe  Harold,  No.  1.] 

(2)  [“  Which  never  can  be  read  but,  as  ’twas  written, 

By  wretched  beings.” — MS.] 

p3)  [Lord  Byron,  in  this  tragedy,  has  not  ventured  upon  further 
deviation  from  historical  truth  than  is  fully  authorized  by  the  licence  I 
of  the  drama.  We  may  remark,  however,  that  after  Giacopo  had  [ 


To  darkness  more  than  light,  by  lending  t r 
The  dungeon  vapours  its  Bituminous  smoke, 

Which  cloud  whate’er  we  gaze  on,  even  thine  eyes — 
No,  not  thine  eyes — they  sparkle — how  they  sparkle  ! 
Jac.  Fos.  And  thine ! — but  I ara  blinded  by  the 
torch.  [here  ? 

Mar.  As  I had  been  without  it.  Couldst  thou  see 
Jac.  Fos.  Nothing  at  first ; but  use  and  time  had 
taught  me 

Familiarity  with  what  was  darkness  ; 

And  the  grey  twilight  of  such  glimmerings  as 
Glide  through  the  crevices  made  by  the  winds 
Was  kinder  to  mine  eyes  than  the  full  sun, 

When  gorgeously  o’ergilding  any  towers 
Save  those  of  Venice  : but  a moment  ere 
Thou  earnest  hither  I was  busy  writing. 

Mar.  What? 

Jac.  Fos.  My  name  : look,’  tis  there-recorded  next 
The  name  of  him  who  here  preceded  me, 

If  dungeon  dates  say  true. 

Mar.  And  what  of  him  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  These  walls  are  silent  of  men’s  ends  ; 
they  only 

Seem  to  hint  shrewdly  of  them.  Such  stern  walls 
Were  never  piled  on  high  save  o’er  the  dead, 

Or  those  who  soon  must  be  so. — What  of  him? 

Thou  askest. — What  of  me  ? may  soon  be  asked. 

With  the  like  answer — doubt  and  dreadful  surmise — 
Unless  thou  tell’st  my  tale. 

Mar.  I speak  of  thee  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  And  wherefore  not  ? All  then  shall  speak 
of  me  : 

The  tyranny  of  silence  is  not  lasting, 

And,  though  events  be  hidden,  just  men’s  groans 
Will  burst  all  cerement,  even  a living  grave’s ! 

I do  not  doubt  my  memory,  but  my  life ; 

And  neither  do  I fear. 

Mar.  Thy  life  is  safe. 

Jac.  Fos.  And  liberty  ? 

Mar.  the  mind  should  make  its  own 

Jac.  Fos.  That  has  a noble  sound ; but  ’tis  a sound, 
A music  most  impressive,  but  too  transient : 

The  mind  is  much,  but  is  not  all.  The  mind 
Hath  nerved  me  to  endure  the  risk  of  death, 

And  torture  positive,  far  worse  than  death 
(If  death  be  a deep  sleep),  without  a groan, 

Or  with  a cry  which  rather  shamed  my  judges 
Than  me  ; but  ’tis  not  all,  for  there  are  tilings 
More  woful— such  as  this  small  dungeon,  where 
I may  breathe  many  years. 

Mar.  Alas  ! and  this 

Small  dungeon  is  all  that  belongs  to  thee 
Of  this  wide  realm,  of  whicli  thy  sire  is  prince. 

Jac.  Fos.  That  thought  would  scarcely  aid  me  to 
endure  it. 

My  doom  is  common,  many  are  in  dungeons, 

But  none  like  mine,  so  near  their  father’s  palace  ; 

But  then  my  heart  is  sometimes  high,  and  hope 
Will  stream  along  those  moted  rays  of  light 
Peopled  with  dusty  atoms,  which  afford 


been  tortured,  he  was  removed  to  the  Ducal  apartments,  not  to  one 
of  the  Pozzi ; that  his  death  occurred,  not  at  Venice,  but  at  ('anea  ; 
that  fifteen  months  elapsed  between  his  last  condemnation  and  his 
father’s  deposition;  and  that  the  death  of  the  Doge  took  place,  not 
at  the  palace,  but  in  his  own  house. — Venet.  Sketches,  vol.  iL 
p.  105.] 

(4)  [“  Of  the  familiar’s  torch,  which  seems  to  love 

Darkness  far  more  than  light.” — Ma.] 


288 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  in. 


Our  only  day ; for,  save  the  gaoler’s  torch, 

And  a strange  firefly,  which  was  quickly  caught 
Last  night  in  yon  enormous  spider’s  net, 

X ne’er  saw  aught  here  like  a ray.  Alas ! 

I know  if  mind  may  bear  us  up,  or  no, 

For  I have  such,  and  shown  it  before  men  ; 

It  sinks  in  solitude  : 1 my  soul  is  social. 

Mar.  I will  be  with  tiiee. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ah!  if  it  were  so ! 

But  that  they  never  granted — nor  will  grant, 

And  I shall  be  alone : no  men — no  books — 

Those  lying  likenesses  of  lying  men. 

I ask’d  for  even  those  outlines  of  their  kind, 

Which  they  term  annals,  history,  what  you  will, 
Which  men  bequeath  as  portraits,  and  they  were 
Refused  me, — so  these  walls  have  been  my  study. 
More  faithful  pictures  of  Venetian  story, 

With  all  their  blank,  or  dismal  strains,  than  is 
The  Hall  not  far  from  lienee,  which  bears  on  high 
Hundreds  of  doges,  and  their  deeds  and  dates. 

Mar.  I come  to  tell  thee  the  result  of  their 
Last  council  on  thy  doom. 

Jac.  Fos.  I know  it — look  ! 

[He  points  to  his  limbs , as  referring  to  the 
Question  which  he  had  undergone. 

Mar.  No — no — no  more  of  that : even  they  relent 
From  that  atrocity. 

Jac.  Fos.  What  then  ? 

Mar.  That  you 

Return  to  Candia. 

Jac.  Fos.  Then  my  last  hope ’s  gone. 

I could  endure  my  dungeon,  for  ’twas  Venice  : 

I could  support  the  torture,  there  was  something 
In  my  native  air  that  buoy’d  my  spirits  up 
Like  a ship  on  the  ocean  toss’d  by  storms. 

But  proudly  still  bestriding  the  high  waves, 

And  holding  on  its  course  ; but  there,  afar, 

In  that  accursed  isle  of  slaves,  and  captives, 

And  unbelievers,  like  a stranded  wreck, 

My  very  soul  seem’d  mouldering  in  my  bosom, 

And  piecemeal  I shall  perish,  if  remanded. 

Mar.  And  here  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  At  once — by  better  means,  as  briefer. 
What ! would  they  even  deny  me  my  sires’  sepulchre, 
As  well  as  home  and  heritage  ? 

Mar.  My  husband  ! 

L have  sued  to  accompany  thee  hence, 


(1)  [Persons  condemned  to  solitary  confinement  generally,  we  are 
assured,  become  either  madmen  or  idiots,  as  mind  or  matter  hap- 
pens to  predominate,  when  the  mysterious  balance  between  them 
is  destroyed.  But  they  who  are  subjected  to  such  a dreadful 
punishment  are  generally,  like  most  perpetrators  of  gross  crimes, 
men  of  feeble  internal  resources.  Men  of  talents,  like  Trenck, 
have  been  known,  in  the  deepest  seclusion,  and  most  severe  con- 
finement, to  battle  the  foul  fiend  melancholy,  and  to  come  off 
conquerors  during  a captivity  of  years.  Those  who  suffer  impri- 
sonment for  the  sake  of  their  country,  or  their  religion,  have  yet  a 
stronger  support,  and  may  exclaim,  though  in  a different  sense 
from  that  of  Othello, — “It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul.” — 
Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

(2)  In  Lady  Morgan’s  fearless  and  excellent  work  upon  Italy,  I 
perceive  the  expression  of  “ Home  of  the  Ocean”  applied  to  Venice, 
The  same  phrase  occurs  in  the  “Two  Foscari.”  My  publisher  can 
vouch  for  me,  that  the  tragedy  was  written  and  sent  to  England 
some  time  before  I had  seen  Ladv  Morgan’s  work,  which  I only 
receivod  on  the  16th  of  August,  f hasten,  however,  to  notice  the 
coincidence,  and  to  yield  the  originality  of  the  phrase  to  her  who 
first  placed  it  before  the  public.  I am  the  more  anxious  to  do 
this,  as  I am  informed  (for  I have  seen  but  few  of  the  specimens, 
*nd  those  accidentally,)  that  there  have  been  lately  brought  against 
me  charges  of  plagiarism.  [See  post,  note  to  the  description  of  a 
shipwreck,  Dor  Juan,  c.  ii.  s.  xxiv.j 


And  not  so  hopelessly.  This  love  of  thine 
For  an  ungrateful  and  tyrannic  soil 
Is  passion,  and  not  patriotism ; for  me, 

So  I could  see  thee  with  a quiet  aspect, 

And  the  sweet  freedom  of  the  earth  and  air, 

I would  not  cavil  about  climes  or  regions. 

This  crowd  of  palaces  and  prisons  is  not 
A paradise;  its  first  inhabitants 
Were  wretched  exiles. 

Jac.  Fos.  Well  I know  how  wretched 

Mar.  And  yet  you  see  how  from  their  banish 

meat 

Before  the  Tartar  into  these  salt  isles, 

Their  antique  energy  of  mind,  all  that 
Remain’d  of  Rome  for  their  inheritance, 

Created  by  degrees  an  ocean-Rome ; 2 
And  shall  an  evil,  which  so  often  leads 
To  good,  depress  thee  thus? 

Jac.  Fos.  Had  I gone  forth 

From  my  own  land,  like  the  old  patriarchs,  seeking 
Another  region,  with  their  flocks  and  herds  ; 

Had  I been  cast  out  like  the  Jews  from  Zion, 

Or  like  our  fathers,  driven  by  Attila 
From  fertile  Italy,  to  barren  islets, 

I would  have  given  some  tears  to  my  late  country. 
And  many  thoughts  ; but  afterwards  address’d 
Myself,  with  those  about  me,  to  create 
A new  home  and  fresh  state  : perhaps  I could 
Have  borne  this — though  I know  not. 

Mar.  Wherefore  nol 

It  was  the  lot  of  millions,  and  must  be 
The  fate  of  myriads  more. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ay — we  but  hear 

Of  the  survivors’  toil  in  their  new  lands, 

Their  numbers  and  success ; but  who  can  number 
The  hearts  which  broke  in  silence  of  that  parting, 

Or  after  their  departure  ; of  that  malady 3 
Which  calls  up  green  and  native  fields  to  view 
From  the  rough  deep,  with  such  identity 
To  the  poor  exile’s  fever’d  eye,  that  he 
Can  scarcely  be  restrain’d  from  treading  them  ? 

That  melody,4  which  out  of  tones  and  tunes 
Collects  such  pasture  for  the  longing  sorrow 
Of  the  sad  mountaineer,  when  far  away 
From  his  snow  canopy  of  cliffs  and  clouds, 

That  he  feeds  on  the  sweet,  but  poisonous  thought, 
And  dies.  You  call  this  weakness  ! It  is  strength, 


(3)  The  calenture. — [A  distemper  peculiar  to  sailors  in  hoi 
climates — 

“ So,  by  a calenture  misled, 

The  mariner  with  rapture  sees 
On  the  smooth  ocean’s  azure  bed 
Enamell’d  fields  and  verdant  trees : 

With  eager  haste  he  longs  to  rove, 

I n that  fantastic  scene,  and  thinks 
It  must  be  some  enchanted  grove. 

And  in  he  leaps,  and  down  he  sinks.”— Swift.] 

(4)  Alluding  to  the  Swiss  air  and  its  effects. — [T^e  Ranz  des 
Vaches,  played  upon  the  bag  pipe  by  the  young  cow-keepers  on  the 
mountains  : — “ An  air,”  says  Rousseau,  “ so  dear  to  the  Swiss,  that 
it  was  forbidden,  under  the  pain  of  death,  to  play  it  lo  the  troops, 
as  it  immediately  drew  tears  from  them,  and  made  those  who  heard 
it  desert,  or  die  of  what  is  called  la  tnaladie  du  pais,  so  aruent  a 
desire  did  it  excite  to  return  to  their  country.  It  is  in  vain  to  seek 
in  this  air  for  energetic  accents  capable  of  producing  such  astonish- 
ing effects,  for  which  strangers  are  unable  to  account  from  the 
music,  which  is  in  itself  uncouth  and  wild.  But  it  is  lrom  habit, 
recollections,  and  a thousand  circumstances,  retraced  in  this  tune 
by  those  natives  who  hear  it,  and  reminding  them  of  their  country, 
former  pleasures  of  their  youth,  and  all  their  ways  of  living,  which 
occasion  a bitter  reflection  at  having  lost  them.”] 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


289 


I sav> — the  parent  of  all  honest  feeling. 

He  who  loves  not  his  country,  can  love  nothing. 

Mar.  Obey  her,  then : ’tis  she  that  puts  thee  forth. 

Jac.  Fos.  Av,  there  it  is  : ’tis  like  a mother’s  curse 
CJpou  my  soul — the  mark  is  set  upon  me. 

The  exiles  you  speak  of  went  forth  by  nations. 

Their  hands  upheld  each  other  by  the  way, 

Their  tents  were  pitch’d  together — I ’m  alone. 

Mar.  You  shall  be  so  no  more — I will  go  with  thee. 

Jac.  Fos.  My  best  Marina ! — and  our  children  ? 

Mat.  They, 

I tear,  by  the  prevention  of  the  state’s 
Abhorrent  policy,  (which  holds  all  ties 
Al  threads,  which  may  be  broken  at  her  pleasure,) 
Will  not  be  suffer’d  to  proceed  with  us. 

Jac.  Fos.  And  canst  thou  leave  them  ? 

Mar.  Yes.  With  many  a pang. 

Bi  t— I can  leave  them,  children  as  they  are. 

To  teach  you  to  be  less  a child.  From  this 
Learn  you  to  sway  your  feelings,  when  exacted 
By  duties  paramount;  and  ’tis  our  first 
On.  earth  to  bear. 

Jac.  Fos.  Have  I not  borne? 

Mar.  Too  much 

From  tyrannous  injustice,  and  enough 
To  teach  you  not  to  shrink  now  from  a lot, 

Which,  as  compared  with  what  you  have  undergone 
Of  late,  is  mercy. 

Jac.  Fos.  Ah  ! you  never  yet 

Were  far  away  from  Venice,  never  saw 
Her  beautiful  towers  in  the  receding  distance, 

While  every  furrow  of  the  vessel’s  track 
Seem’d  ploughing  deep  into  your  heart ; you  never 
Saw  day  go  down  upon  your  native  spires 
So  calmly  with  its  gold  and  crimson  glory. 

And  after  dreaming  a disturbed  vision 
Of  them  and  theirs,  awoke  and  found  them  not. 

Mar.  I will  divide  this  with  you.  Let  us  think 
Of  our  departure  from  this  much-loved  city, 

(Since  you  must  love  it,  as  it  seems,)  and  this 
Chamber  of  state,  her  gratitude  allots  you. 

Our  children  will  be  cared  for  by  the  Doge, 

And  by  my  uncles  : we  must  sail  ere  night,  [father  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  That’s  sudden.  Shall  I not  behold  my 

Mar.  You  will. 

Jac.  Fos.  Where  ? 

Mar.  Here,  or  in  the  ducal  chamber — 

B e said  not  which.  I would  that  you  could  bear 
Your  exile  as  he  bears  it. 

Jac.  Fos.  Blame  him  not. 

I sometimes  murmur  for  a moment ; but 
He  could  not  now  act  otherwise.  A show 
Of  feeling  or  compassion  on  his  part 
Would  have  but  drawn  upon  his  aged  head 
Suspicion  from  “ the  Ten,”  and  upon  mine 
Accumulated  ills. 

Mar.  Accumulated ! 

Wbjit  pangs  are  those  they  have  spared  you  ? 

*ac.  Fos.  That  of  leaving 

V enice  without  beholding  him  or  you, 

Which  might  have  been  forbidden  now,  as  ’twas 
Upon  my  former  exile. 

Mar.  That  is  true, 

And  thus  far  1 am  also  the  state’s  debtor, 

And  shall  be  more  so  when  I see  us  both 
Floating  on  the  free  waves — away — away — 

Be  it  to  the  earth’s  end,  from  this  abhorr’d, 

Ui  just,  ai  i 


Jac.  Fos.  Curse  it  not.  If  I am  silent, 

Who  dares  accuse  my  country  ? 

Mar.  Men  and  angels  ! 

The  blood  of  myriads  reeking  up  to  heaven, 

The  groans  of  slaves  in  chains,  and  men  in  dungeons, 
Mothers,  and  wives,  and  sons,  and  sires,  and  subjects^ 
Held  in  the  bondage  of  ten  bald-heads  ; and 
Though  last,  not  least,  thy  silence.  Couldst  iliou  say 
Aught  in  its  favour,  who  would  praise  like  thee  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Let  us  address  us  then,  since  so  it  must  be. 
To  our  departure.  Who  comes  here  ? 


Enter  Loiiedano,  attended  by  Familiars. 

Jjor.  (to  the  Familiars .)  Retire, 

But  leave  the  torch.  [ Exeunt  the  two  Familiars. 

Jac.  Fos.  Most  welcome,  noble  signor. 

I did  not  deem  this  poor  place  could  have  drawn 
Such  presence  hither. 

Lor.  ’Tis  not  the  first  time 

I have  visited  these  places. 

Mar.  Nor  would  oe 

The  last,  were  all  men’s  merits  well  rewarded. 

Came  you  here  to  insult  us,  or  remain 
As  spy  upon  us,  or  as  hostage  for  us  ? 

Lor.  Neither  are  of  my  office,  noble  lady  ! 

I am  sent  hither  to  your  husband,  to 
Announce  “ the  Ten’s”  decree. 

Mar.  That  tenderness 

Has  been  anticipated  : it  is  known. 

Lor.  As  how  ? 

Mar.  I have  inform’d  him,  not  so  ge  xtli 

Doubtless,  as  your  nice  feelings  would  prescribe, 

The  indulgence  of  your  colleagues  : but  he  knew  it. 

If  you  come  for  our  thanks,  take  them,  and  hence  ! 
The  dungeon  gloom  is  deep  enough  without  you, 

And  full  of  reptiles,  not  less  loathsome,  though 
Their  sting  is  honester. 

Jac.  Fos.  I pray  you,  calm  you : 

What  can  avail  such  words  ? 

Mar.  ' To  let  him  know 

That  he  is  known. 

Lor.  Let  the  fair  dame  preserve 

Her  sex’s  privilege. 

Mar.  I have  some  sons,  sir, 

Will  oue  day  thank  you  better. 

Lor.  You  do  well 

To  nurse  them  wisely.  Foscari — you  know 
Your  sentence,  then  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Return  to  Candia  ? 

Lor.  True— 

For  life. 

Jac.  Fos.  Not  long. 

Lor.  I said — for  life 

Jac.  Fos.  And  1 

Repeat — not  long. 

Lor.  A year’s  imprisonment 

In  Canea — afterwards  the  freedom  of 
The  whole  isle. 

Jac.  Fos.  Both  the  same  to  me  : the  after 
Freedom  as  is  the  first  imprisonment. 

Is’t  true  my  wife  accompanies  me  ? 

Lor.  Yes, 

If  she  so  wills  it 

Mar.  Who  obtain’d  that  justice  ? 

Lor.  One  who  wars  not  with  women. 

Mar  But  oppresses 

Men  : howsoever  let  him  have  my  thanks. 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


a ci  in, 


For  the  only  boon  I would  have  ask’d  or  taken 
From  him  or  such  as  he  is. 

Lor.  lie  receives  them 

As  they  are  offer’d. 

Mar.  May  they  thrive  with  him 

So  much  ! — no  more. 

Jac.  Fos.  Is  this,  sir,  your  whole  mission  ? 

Because  we  have  brief  time  for  preparation, 

And  you  perceive  your  presence  doth  disquiet 
This  lady,  of  a house  noble  as  yours. 

Mar.  Nobler! 

Lor.  How  nobler  ? 

Mar.  As  more  generous  ! 

We  say  the  “generous  steed”  to  express  the  purity 
Of  his  high  blood.  Thus  much  I’ve  learnt,  although 
Venetian  (who  see  few  steeds  save  of  bronze), 

From  those  Venetians  who  have  skimm’d  the  coasts 
Of  Egypt,  and  her  neighbour  Araby  : 

And  why  not  say  as  soon  the  “ generous  man 
If  race  be  aught,  it  is  in  qualities 
More  than  in  years  ; and  mine,  which  is  as  old 
As  yours,  is  better  in  its  product,  nay— 

Look  not  so  stern — but  get  you  back,  and  pore 
Upon  your  genealogic  tree’s  most  green 
Of  leaves  and  most  mature  of  fruits,  and  there 
Blush  to  find  ancestors,  who  would  have  blush’d 
For  such  a son — thou  cold  inveterate  hater  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  Again,  Marina  ! 

Mar.  Again  ! still , Marina. 

Sec  you  not,  he  comes  here  to  glut  his  hate 
With  a last  look  upon  our  misery  ? 

Let  him  partake  it ! 

Jac.  Fos.  That  were  difficult. 

Mar.  Nothing  more  easy.  He  partakes  it  now — 
Ay,  he  may  veil  beneath  a marble  brow 
And  sneering  lip  the  pang,  but  he  partakes  it. 

A few  brief  words  of  truth  shame  the  devil’s  servants 
No  less  than  master  ; I have  probed  his  soul 
A moment,  as  the  eternal  fire,  ere  long, 

Will  reach  it  always.  See  how  he  shrinks  from  me ! 
With  death,  and  chains,  and  exile  in  his  hand 
To  scatter  o’er  his  kind  as  he  thinks  fit : 

They  are  his  weapons,  not  his  armour,  for 
I have  pierced  him  to  the  core  of  his  cold  heart. 

I care  not  for  his  frowns  ! We  can  but  die, 

And  he  but  live,  for  him  the  very  worst 
Of  destinies  : each  day  secures  him  more 
His  tempter’s. 

Jac.  Fos.  This  is  mere  insanity. 

Mar.  It  maybe  so ; and  who  hath  made  ns  mad ? 

Lor.  Let  her  go  on ; it  irks  not  me. 

Mar.  That’s  false? 

You  came  here  to  enjoy  a heartless  triumph 
Of  cold  looks  upon  manifold  griefs  ! You  came 
To  be  sued  to  in  vain — to  mark  our  tears, 

And  hoard  our  groans — to  gaze  upon  the  wreck 
Which  you  have  made  a prince’s  son — my  husband ; 
In  short,  to  trample  on  the  fallen — an  office 
The  hangman  shrinks  from,  as  all  men  from  him ! 

How  have  you  sped?  We  are  wretched,  signor,  as 
Your  plots  could  make,  and  vengeance  could  desire  us, 
And  how  feel  you  ? 

ljor.  As  rocks. 

Mar.  By  thunder  blasted : 

They  feel  not,  but  no  less  are  shiver’d.  Come, 


Foscari ; now  let  us  go,  and  leave  .ms  felon, 

The  sole  fit  habitant  of  such  a cell, 

Which  he  has  peopled  often,  but  ne’er  fitly 
Till  he  himself  shall  brood  in  it  alone.1 

Enter  the  Doge. 

Jac.  Fos.  My  father ! 

Doge  ( embracing  him).  Jacopo ! my  son — my  son  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  My  father  still ! How  long  it  is  since  I 
Have  heard  thee  name  my  name — our  name  ! 

Doge.  My  boy ! 

Couldst  thou  but  know 

Jac.  Fos.  I rarely,  sir,  have  murmur’d. 

Doge.  I feel  too  much  thou  hast  not. 

Mar.  Doge,  look  there  ! 

[She  points  to  Loredano. 

Doge.  I see  the  man — what  mean’st  thou  ? 

Mar.  Caution ! 

Lor.  Being 

The  virtue  which  this  noble  lady  most 
May  practise,  she  doth  well  to  recommend  it. 

Mar.  Wretch  ! ’tis  no  virtue,  but  the  policy 
Of  those  who  fain  must  deal  perforce  with  vice : 

As  such  I recommend  it,  as  1 would 
To  one  whose  foot  was  on  an  adder’s  path. 

Doge.  Daughter,  it  is  superfluous ; I have  long 
Known  Loredano. 

Lor.  You  may  know  him  better. 

Mar.  Yes  ; worse  he  could  not. 

Jac.  Fos.  Father,  let  not  these 

Our  parting  hours  be  lost  in  listening  to 
Reproaches,  which  boot  nothing.  Is  it — is  it, 

Indeed,  our  last  of  meetings  ? 

Doge.  You  behold 

These  white  hairs ! 

Jac.  Fos.  And  I feel,  besides,  that  mine 

Will  never  be  so  white.  Embrace  me,  father  ! 

I loved  you  ever — never  more  than  now. 

Look  to  my  children — to  your  last  child’s  children : 
Let  them  be  all  to  you  which  he  was  once, 

And  never  be  to  you  what  I am  now. 

May  I not  see  them  also  ? 

Mar.  No — not  here. 

Jac.  Fos.  They  might  behold  their  parent  ai  .y 
where. 

Mar.  I would  that  they  beheld  their  father  in 
A place  which  would  not  mingle  fear  with  love, 

To  freeze  their  young  blood  in  its  natural  current. 
They  have  fed  well,  slept  soft,  and  knew  not  that 
Their  sire  was  a mere  hunted  outlaw.  Well, 

I know  his  fate  may  one  day  be  their  heritage. 

But  let  it  only  be  their  heritage , 

And  not  their  present  fee.  Their  senses,  though 
Alive  to  love,  are  yet  awake  to  terror ; 

And  these  vile  damps,  too,  and  yon  thick  green  wave 
Which  floats  above  the  place  where  we  now  stand — 
A cell  so  far  below  the  water’s  level, 

Sending  its  pestilence  through  every  crevice, 

Might  strike  them  : this  is  not  their  atmosphere, 
However  you — and  you — and  most  of  ail, 

As  worthiest — you , sir,  noble  Loredano  ! 

May  breathe  it  without  prejudice. 

Jac.  Fos.  I have  not 

Reflected  upon  this,  but  acquiesce. 

1 shall  depart,  then,  without  meeting  them  ? 


hateful  oppressor,  which  she  does  without  stint  or  measure ; and  to 
a strain  of  vehemence  not  inferior  to  that  of  the  oldque<\n  Margaret 
in  Richard  the  Third. — Jeffrey.] 


(1)  [if  the  two  Foscari  do  nothing  to  defeat  the  machinations  of 
their  remorseless  foe,  Marina,  the  wife  of  the  younger,  at  least 
revenges  them,  by  letting  loose  the  venom  of  her  tongue  upon  their 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


291 


Doge.  Not  so  : they  shall  await  you  iu  my  chamber. 
Jac.  Fos.  And  must  1 leave  them — all  ? 
lor.  You  must. 

Jac.  Fos.  Notone? 

Lor.  They  are  the  state’s. 

Mar.  I thought  they  had  been  mine. 

Lor.  They  are,  in  all  maternal  things. 

Mar.  That  is. 

In  all  things  painful.  If  they  ’re  sick,  they  will 
Be  left  to  me  to  tend  them  ; should  they  die. 

To  me  to  bury  and  to  mourn ; but  if 
They  live,  they’ll  make  you  soldiers,  senators. 

Slaves,  exiles— what  you  will;  or  if  they  are 
Females  with  portions,  brides  and  bribes  for  nobles ! 
Behold  the  state’s  care  for  its  sons  and  mothers ! 

Lor.  The  hour  approaches,  and  the  wind  is  fair. 

Jac.  Fos.  How  know  you  that  here,  where  the  genial 
wind 

Ne’er  blows  in  all  its  blustering  freedom  ? 

Lor.  ’Twas  so 

When  I came  here.  The  galley  floats  within 
A bow-shot  of  the  “ Riva  di  Schiavoni.” 

Jac.  Fos.  Father  ! 1 pray  you  to  precede  me,  and 

Prepare  my  children  to  behold  their  father. 

Doge.  Be  firm,  my  son ! 

Jac.  Fos.  I will  do  my  endeavour. 

Mar.  Farewell ! at  least  to  this  detested  dungeon, 
And  him  to  whose  good  offices  you  owe 
In  part  your  past  imprisonment. 

Lor,  And  present 

Liberation. 

Doge.  He  speaks  truth. 

Jac.  Fos.  No  doubt ! but  ’tis 

Exchange  of  chains  for  heavier  chains  I owe  him. 

He  knows  this,  or  he  had  not  sought  to  change  them. 
But  I reproach  not. 

Lor.  The  time  narrows,  signor. 

Jac.  Fos.  Alas  ! I little  thought  so  lingeringly 
To  leave  abodes  like  this  : but  when  I feel 
That  every  step  I take,  even  fr’om  this  cell, 

Is  one  away  from  Y enice,  I look  back 

Even  on  these  dull  damp  walls,  and 

Doge.  Boy  ! no  tears. 

Mar.  Let  them  flow  on : he  wept  not  on  the  rack 
To  shame  him,  and  they  cannot  shame  him  now. 

They  will  relieve  his  heart — that  too  kind  heart — 

And  I will  find  an  hour  to  wipe  away 

Those  tears,  or  add  my  own.  I could  weep  now, 

But  would  not  gratify  yon  wretch  so  far. 

Let  us  proceed.  Doge,  lead  the  way. 

Lor.  (to  the  Familiar.)  The  torch,  there  ! 

Mar.  Yes,  light  us  on,  as  to  a funeral  pyre, 

With  Loredano  mourning  like  an  heir. 

Doge.  My  son,  you  are  feeble  ; take  this  hand. 

Jac.  Fos.  Alas ! 

Must  youth  support  itself  on  age,  and  I 
Who  ought  to  oe  the  prop  of  yours  ? 

Lor.  Take  mine. 

Mar.  Touch  it  not,  Foseari ; ’twill  sting  you. 
Signor, 

Stand  off  ! be  sure,  that  if  a grasp  of  yours 
Would  raise  us  from  the  gulf  wherein  we  are  plunged, 
No  hand  of  ours  would  stretch  itself  to  meet  it. 

Come,  Foseari,  take  the  hand  the  altar  gave  you ; 

It  could  not  save,  but  will  support  you  ever. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IY. 

SCENE  I. 

A Hall  in  the  Ducal  Palace. 

Enter  Loredano  and  Barbarigo 

Bar.  And  have  you  confidence  in  such  a p roject  ? 

Lor.  I have. 

Bar.  ’Tis  hard  upon  his  years. 

Lor.  Say  rather 

Kind  to  relieve  him  from  the  cares  of  state. 

Bar.  ’Twill  break  his  heart. 

Lor.  Age  has  no  heart  to  break. 

He  has  seen  his  son’s  half  broken,  and,  except 
A start  of  feeling  in  his  dungeon,  never 
Swerved. 

Bar.  In  his  countenance,  I grant  you,  never ; 
But  I have  seen  him  sometimes  in  a calm 
So  desolate,  that  the  most  clamorous  grief 
Had  nought  to  envy  him  within.  Where  is  he  ? 

Lor.  In  his  own  portion  of  the  palace,  with 
His  son,  and  the  whole  race  of  Foscaris. 

Bar.  Bidding  farewell. 

Lor.  A last.  As  soon  he  shall 

Bid  to  his  dukedom. 

Bar.  When  embarks  the  son  ? 

Lor.  Forthwith — when  this  long  leave  is  taken.  ’Tis 
Time  to  admonish  them  again. 

Bar.  Forbear ; 

Retrench  not  from  their  moments. 

Lor.  Not  I,  now 

We  have  higher  business  for  our  own.  This  day 
Shall  be  the  last  of  the  old  Doge’s  reign. 

As  the  first  of  his  son’s  last  banishment, 

And  that  is  vengeance. 

Bar.  In  my  mind,  too  deep. 

Lor , ’Tis  moderate — not  even  life  for  life,  the  rule 
Denounced  of  retribution  from  all  time  ; 

They  owe  me  still  my  father’s  and  my  uncle’s. 

Bar.  Did  not  the  Doge  deny  this  strongly  ? 

Lor.  Doubtless. 

Bar.  And  did  not  this  shake  your  suspicion  ? 

Lor.  No. 

Bar.  But  if  this  deposition  should  take  place 
By  our  united  influence  in  the  Council, 

It  must  be  done  with  all  the  deference 
Due  to  his  years,  his  station,  and  his  deeds. 

Lor.  As  much  of  ceremony  as  you  will, 

So  that  the  thing  be  done.  You  may,  for  aught 
I care,  depute  the  Council  on  their  knees, 

(Like  Barbarossa  to  the  Pope,)  to  beg  him 
To  have  the  courtesy  to  abdicate. 

Bar.  What,  if  he  will  not  ? 

Lor.  We’ll  elect  another, 

And  make  him  null. 

Bar.  But  wili  the  laws  uphold  us  ? 

Lor.  What  laws? — “The  Ten”  are  laws;  uni  if 
they  were  not, 

I will  be  legislator  in  this  business. 

Bar.  At  your  own  peril  ? 

Lor.  There  is  none,  I tell  you 

Our  powers  are  such. 

Bar.  But  he  has  twice  already 

Solicited  permission  to  retire. 

And  twice  it  was  refused. 

• Lor.  The  better  reason 

| To  grant  it  the  third  time. 


292 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  rv. 


Bar.  Unask’d  ? 

Lor.  It  shows 

The  impression  of  his  former  instances: 

If  they  were  from  his  heart,  he  may  be  thankful : 

If  not,  ’twill  punish  his  hypocrisy. 

Come,  they  are  met  by  this  time ; let  us  join  them, 
And  be  thou  fix’d  in  purpose  for  this  once. 

I have  prepared  such  arguments  as  will  not 
Fail  to  move  them,  and  to  remove  him  : since 
Their  thoughts,  their  objects,  have  been  sounded,  do  not 
You,  with  your  wonted  scruples,  teach  us  pause. 

And  all  will  prosper. 

Bar.  Could  I but  be  certain 

This  is  no  prelude  to  such  persecution 
Of  the  sire  as  has  fallen  upon  the  son, 

I would  support  you. 

Lor.  He  is  safe,  I tell  you ; 

His  fourscore  years  and  live  may  linger  on 
As  long  as  he  can  drag  them : ’tis  his  throne 
Alone  is  aim’d  at. 

Bar.  But  discarded  princes 

Are  seldom  long  of  life. 

Lor.  And  men  of  eighty 

More  seldom  still. 

Bar.  And  why  not  wait  these  few  years  ? 

Lor.  Because  we  have  waited  long  enough,  and  he 
Lived  longer  than  enough.  Hence  ! in  to  council ! 

[Exeunt  Loredano  and  Baiibarigo. 

Enter  Memmo  and  a Senator. 

Sen.  A summons  to  “ the  Ten ! ” Why  so  ? 

Mem.  “ The  Ten” 

Alone  can  answer : they  are  rarely  wont 
To  let  their  thoughts  anticipate  their  purpose 
By  previous  proclamation.  We  are  summon’d — 

That  is  enough. 

Sen.  For  them,  but  not  for  us  ; 

I would  know  why. 

Mem.  You  will  know  why  anon, 

If  you  obey ; and,  if  not,  you  no  less 
Will  know  why  you  should  have  obey’d. 

Sen.  I mean  not 

To  oppose  them,  hut 

Mem.  In  Venice  “ hut ” ’s  a traitor. 

But  me  no  “huts,”  unless  you  would  pass  o’er 
The  Bridge  which  few  repass. 

Sen.  I am  silent. 

Mem.  Why 

Thus  hesitate?  “The  Ten”  have  call’d  in  aid 
Of  their  deliberation  five  and  twenty 
Patricians  of  the  senate — you  are  one, 

And  I another  ; and  it  seems  to  me 

Both  honour’d  by  the  choice  or  chance  which  leads  us 

To  mingle  with  a body  so  august. 

Sen.  Most  true.  I say  no  more. 

Mem.  As  we  hope,  signor, 

And  all  may  honestly,  (that  is,  all  those 
Of  noble  blood  may,)  one  day  hope  to  be 
Decemvir,  it  is  surely  for  the  senate’s 
Chosen  delegates,  a school  of  wisdom,  to 
Be  thus  admitted,  though  as  novices, 

To  view  the  mysteries. 

Sen.  Let  us  view  them  : they, 

No  doubt,  are  worth  it. 


U)  t“  Unnerved,  and  now  unsettled  in  his  mind 

From  long  and  exquisite  pain,  he  sobs  and  cries, 
Kissing  the  old  man’s  cheek,  * Help  me,  my  Father  1 
Let  me,  1 pray  thee,  live  once  more  among  ye : 


Mem.  Being  worth  our  lives 

If  we  divulge  them,  doubtless  they  are  worth 
Something,  at  least  to  you  or  me. 

Sen.  I sought  not 

A place  within  the  sanctuary  ; but  being 
Chosen,  however  reluctantly  so  chosen, 

I shall  fulfil  my  office. 

Mem.  Let  us  not 

Be  latest  in  obeying  “the  Ten’s”  summons. 

Sen.  All  are  not  met,  but  1 am  of  your  thought 
So  far — let’s  in. 

Mem.  The  earliest  are  most  we.come 

In  earnest  councils — we  will  not  be  least  so. 

[Exvunt, 

Enter  the  Doge,  Jacopo  Foscari,  and  Marina. 

Jac.Fos.  Ah ! father ! though  I must  and  will  depart, 
Yet — yet — I pray  you  to  obtain  for  me 
That  I once  more  return  unto  my  home,1 
Howe’er  remote  the  period.  Let  there  be 
A point  of  time,  as  beacon  to  my  heart, 

With  any  penalty  annex’d  they  please, 

But  let  me  still  return. 

Doge.  Son  Jacopo, 

Go,  and  obey  your  country’s  will : ’tis  not 
For  us  to  look  beyond. 

Jac.  Eos.  But  still  I must 

Look  back.  I pray  you  think  of  me. 

Doge.  Alas ! 

You  ever  were  my  dearest  offspring,  when 
They  were  more  numerous,  nor  can  be  less  so 
Now  you  are  last ; but  did  the  state  demand 
The  exile  of  the  disinterred  ashes 
Of  your  three  goodly  brothers,  now  in  earth, 

And  their  desponding  shades  came  flitting  round 
To  impede  the  act,  1 must  no  less  obey 
A duty,  paramount  to  every  duty. 

Mar.  My  husband  ! let  us  on  : this  but  prolongs 
Our  sorrow. 

Jac.  Eos.  But  we  are  not  summon’d  yet ; 

The  galley’s  sails  are  not  unfurl’d : — who  knows  ? 

The  wind  may  change. 

Mar.  And  if  it  do,  it  will  not 

Change  their  hearts,  or  your  lot : the  galley’s  oar 
Will  quickly  clear  the  harbour. 

Jac.  Eos.  O,  ye  elements  ! 

Where  are  your  storms  ? 

Mar.  In  human  breasts.  Alas  ! 

Will  nothing  calm  you  ? 

Jac.  Eos.  Never  yet  did  mariner 

Put  up  to  patron  saint  such  prayers  for  prosperous 
And  pleasant  breezes,  as  I call  upon  you, 

Ye  tutelar  saints  of  my  own  city  ! which 
Ye  love  not  with  more  holy  love  than  I, 

To  lash  up  from  the  deep  the  Adrian  waves, 

And  waken  Auster,  sovereign  of  the  tempest ! 

Till  the  sea  dash  me  back  on  my  own  shore 
A broken  corse  upon  the  barren  Lido, 

Where  I may  mingle  with  the  sands  which  skirt 
The  land  I love,  and  never  shall  see  more. 

Mar.  And  wish  you  this  with  me  beside  you  ? 

Jac.  Eos.  No- 

No — not  for  thee,  too  good,  too  kind  ! May’st  thou 
Live  long  to  be  a mother  to  those  children 


Let  me  go  home.’ — * My  son,’  returns  the  Doge, 
Mastering  his  grief,  ‘ if  thou  art  indeed  my  son, 
Obey.  Thy  country  wills  it.’  ” — Rogers.] 


SCENE  I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


293 


Thy  fond  fidelity  for  a time  deprives 
Of  such  support ! But  for  myself  alone, 

May  all  the  winds  of  heaven  howl  down  the  Gulf, 

And  tear  the  vessel,  till  the  mariners, 

Appall’d,  turn  their  despairing  eyes  on  me. 

As  the  Pheniciaus  did  on  Jonah,  then 
Cast  me  out  from  amongst  them,  as  an  offering 
To  appease  the  waves  The  billow  which  destroys  me 
Will  be  more  merciful  than  man,  and  bear  me, 

Dead,  but  still  bear  me  to  a native  grave, 

From  fishers’  hands  upon  the  desolate  strand, 

Which,  of  its  thousand  wrecks,  hath  ne’er  received 

One  lacerated  like  the  heart  which  then 

Will  be — But  wherefore  breaks  it  not  ? why  live  1 ? 

Mar.  To  man  thyself,  I trust,  with  time,  to  master 
Such  useless  passion.  Until  now  thou  wert 
A sufferer,  but  not  a loud  one  : why, 

What  is  this  to  the  things  thou  hast  borne  in  silence — 
Imprisonment  and  actual  torture  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Double, 

Triple,  and  tenfold  torture  ! But  you  are  right, 

It  must  be  borne.  Father,  your  blessing. 

Doge.  Would 

It  could  avail  thee  ! but  no  less  thou  hast  it. 

Jac.  Fos.  Forgive 

Doge.  What  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  My  poor  mother,  for  my  birth, 

And  me  for  having  lived,  and  you  yourself 
(As  I forgive  you),  for  the  gift  of  life, 

Which  you  bestow’d  upon  me  as  my  sire. 

Mar.  What  hast  thou  done  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  Nothing.  I cannot  charge 

My  memory  with  much  save  sorrow  : but 
I have  been  so  beyond  the  common  lot 
Ciiasten’d  and  visited,  I needs  must  think 
That  I was  wicked.  If  it  be  so,  may 
What  I have  undergone  here  keep  me  from 
A like  hereafter ! 

Mar.  Fear  not:  that ’s  reserved 

For  your  oppressors. 

Jac.  Fos.  Let  me  hope  not. 

Mar.  Hope  not  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  I cannot  wish  them  all  they  have  inflicted. 

Mar.  All!  the  consummate  fiends ! A thousand  fold 
May  the  worm  which  ne’er  dieth  feed  upon  them  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  They  may  repent. 

Mar.  And  if  they  do,  Heaven  will  not 

Accept  the  tardy  penitence  of  demons. 

Enter  an  Officer  and  Guards. 

Offi.  Signor  ! the  boat  is  at  the  shore — the  wind 
Is  rising — we  are  ready  to  attend  you. 

Jac.  Fos.  And  I to  be  attended.  Once  more,  father, 
Your  hand ! 

Doge.  Take  it.  Alas  ! how  thine  own  trembles  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  No — you  mistake;  ’tis  yours  that  shakes, 
my  father. 

Farewell ! 

Doge.  Farewell ! Is  there  aught  else  ? 

Jac.  Fos.  No— nothing. 

[To  the  Officer. 

Lend  me  your  arm,  good  signor. 

Offi.  You  turn  pale — 

Let  me  support  you— paler— ho  ! some  aid  there ! 
Some  water ! 

Mar.  Ah,  he  is  dying  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  Now,  I’m  ready — 

My  eyes  swim  strangely — where’s  the  door  ? 


Mar.  Away ! 

Let  rne  support  him — my  best  love  1 Oh,  God  ! 

How  faintly  beats  this  heart — this  pulse  ! 

Jac.  Fos.  The  light . 

Is  it  the  light ! — I am  faint. 

[ Officer  presents  him  with  water. 
Offi.  He  will  be  better, 

Perhaps,  in  the  air. 

Jac.  Fos.  I doubt  not.  Father — wife — 

Your  hands  ! 

Mar.  There’s  death  in  that  damp  clammy  grasp. 
Oh  God  ! — My  Foscari,  how  fare  you  F 

Jac  Fos.  Well ! 

[He  dies. 

Offi.  He’s  gone  ! 

Doge.  He’s  free. 

Mar.  No — no,  he  is  not  dead ; 

There  must  be  life  yet  in  that  heart — he  could  not 
Thus  leave  me. 

Doge.  Daughter ! 

Mar.  Hold  thy  peace,  old  man  ! 

I am  no  daughter  now — thou  hast  no  son. 

Oh,  Foscari ! 

Offi.  We  must  remove  the  body. 

Mar.  Touch  it  not,  dungeon  miscreants ! your  base 
office 

Ends  with  his  life,  and  goes  not  beyond  murder, 

Even  by  your  murderous  laws.  Leave  his  remains 
To  those  who  know  to  honour  them. 

Offi.  I must 

Inform  the  signory,  and  learn  their  pleasure. 

Doge.  Inform  the  signory  from  me,  the  Doge, 

They  have  no  further  power  upon  those  ashes  : 

While  he  lived,  he  was  theirs,  as  fits  a subject — 

Now  he  is  mine — my  broken-hearted  boy  ! 

[Exit  Officer. 

Mar.  And  I must  live  ! 

Doge.  Your  children  live,  Marina. 

Mar.  My  children  ! true — they  live,  and  I must  live 
To  bring  them  up  to  serve  the  state,  and  die 
As  died  their  father.  Oh  ! what  best  of  blessings 
Were  barrenness  in  Venice  ! Would  my  mother 

II  ad  been  so  ? 

Doge.  My  unhappy  children  ! 

Mar.  What ! 

You  feel  it  then  at  last — you  ! — Where  is  now 
The  stoic  of  the  state  ? 

Doge  ( throwing  himself  down  by  the  body).  Here  ! 
Mar.  Ay,  weep  on  ! 

I thought  you  had  no  tears — you  hoarded  them 
Until  they  are  useless  ; but  weep  on  ! he  never 
Shall  weep  more — never,  never  more. 

Enter  Lohedano  and  Bakbatligo. 

Lor.  What’s  here? 

Mar.  Ah  ! the  devil  come  to  insult  the  dead  ! 
Avaunt ! 

Incarnate  Lucifer  ! ’tis  holy  ground. 

A martyr’s  ashes  now  lie  there,  which  make  it 
A shrine.  Get  thee  back  to  thy  place  of  torment ! 

Bar.  Lady,  we  knew  not  of  this  sad  event, 

But  pass’d  here  merely  on  our  path  from  council. 

Mar.  Pass  on. 

Lor.  We  sought  the  Doge. 

Mar.  ( pointing  to  the  Doge , who  is  still  on  the 
ground  by  his  son’s  body!)  He’s  busy,  loofi. 
About  the  business  you  provided  for  him. 

Are  ye  content  F 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  if. 


294 


Bar . We  will  not  interrupt 

A.  parent’s  sorrows. 

Mar.  No,  ye  only  make  them, 

Then  leave  them. 

Boge  {rising).  Sirs,  I am  ready. 

Bar.  No — not  now. 

Lor.  Yet  ’twas  important. 

Boge.  If  ’twas  so,  I can 

Only  repeat — I am  ready. 

Bar.  It  shall  not  be 

Just  now,  though  Venice  totter’d  o’er  the  deep 
Like  a frail  vessel.  I respect  your  griefs. 

Boge.  I thank  you.  If  the  tidings  which  you  bring 
Are  evil,  you  may  say  them  ; nothing  further 
Can  touch  me  more  than  him  thou  look’st  on  there  : 
If  they  be  good,  say  on  : you  need  not  fear 
That  they  can  comfort  me. 

Bar.  I would  they  could  ! 

Boge.  I spoke  not  to  you , but  to  Loredano. 

He  understands  me. 

Mar.  Ah  ! I thought  it  would  be  so. 

Boge.  What  mean  you  ? 

Mar.  Lo  ! there  is  the  blood  beginning 

To  flow  through  the  dead  lips  of  Foscari — 

The  body  bleeds  in  the  presence  of  the  assassin. 

\_To  Loredano 

Thou  cowardly  murderer  by  law,  behold 
How  death  itself  bears  witness  to  thy  deeds  ! 

Boge.  My  child  ! this  is  a phantasy  of  grief. 

Bear  hence  the  body.  [To  his  attendants .]  Signors, 
if  it  please  you, 

Within  an  hour  I’ll  hear  you. 

[Exeunt  Doge,  Marina,  and  attendants  with  the 
body.  Manent  Loredano  and  Barbarigo. 
Bar.  He  must  not 

Be  troubled  now. 

Lor.  He  said  himself  that  nought 

Could  give  him  trouble  farther. 

Bar.  These  are  words ; 

But  grief  is  lonely,  and  the  breaking  in 
Upon  it  barbarous. 

Lor.  Sorrow  preys  upon 

Its  solitude,  and  nothing  more  diverts  it 
From  its  sad  visions  of  the  other  world, 

Than  calling  it  at  moments  back  to  this. 

The  busy  have  no  time  for  tears. 

Bar.  And  therefore 

You  would  deprive  this  old  man  of  all  business  ? 

Tjor.  The  thing’s  decreed.  The  Giunta  and  “the 
Ten” 

Have  made  it  law — who  shall  oppose  that  law  ? 

Bar.  Humanity ! 

Lor.  Because  his  son  is  dead  ? 

Bar.  And  yet  unburied. 

Lor.  Had  we  known  this  when 

The  act  was  passing,  it  might  have  suspended 
Its  passage,  but  impedes  it  not — once  past. 

Bar.  I’ll  not  consent. 

I, or.  You  have  consented  to 

All  that’s  essential — leave  the  rest  to  me. 

Bar.  Why  press  his  abdication  now  ? 

Jx)r.  The  feelings 

Of  private  passion  may  not  interrupt 
The  public  benefit ; and  what  the  state 
Decides  to-day  must  not  give  way  before 
To-morrow  for  a natural  accident. 

Bar.  You  have  a son. 

Lor.  I have — and  had  a father. 


Bar.  Still  so  inexorable  ? 

Lor.  Still. 

Bar.  But  let  him 

Inter  his  son  before  we  press  upon  him 
This  edict. 

Lor.  Let  him  call  up  into  life 

My  sire  and  uncle — I consent.  Men  may, 

Even  aged  men,  be,  or  appear  to  be, 

Sires  of  a hundred  sons,  but  cannot  kindle 
An  atom  of  their  ancestors  from  earth. 

The  victims  are  not  equal : he  has  seen 
His  sons  expire  by  natural  deaths,  and  I 
My  sires  by  violent  and  mysterious  maladies. 

I used  no  poison,  bribed  no  subtle  master 
Of  the  destructive  art  of  healing,  to 
Shorten  the  path  to  the  eternal  cure. 

His  sons — and  he  had  four — are  dead,  without 
My  dabbling  in  vile  drugs. 

Bar.  And  art  thou  sure 

He  dealt  in  such  ? 

Lor.  Most  sure. 

Bar.  And  yet  he  seems 

All  openness. 

Lor.  And  so  he  seem’d  not  long 

Ago  to  Carmagriuola. 

Bar.  The  attainted 

And  foreign  traitor  ? 

Lor.  Even  so  : when  he, 

After  the  very  night  in  which  “ the  Ten” 

(Join’d  with  the  Doge)  decided  his  destruction, 

Met  the  great  Duke  at  day -break  with  a jest, 
Demanding  whether  he  should  augur  him 
“The  good  day  or  good  night?”  his  Dogeship  an- 
swer’d, 

“ That  he  in  truth  had  pass’d  a night  of  vigil, 

In  which  (he  added  with  a gracious  smile), 

There  often  has  been  question  about  you.”  1 
’Twas  true  ; the  question  was  the  death  resolved 
Of  Carmagnuola,  eight  months  ere  he  died  ; 

And  the  old  Doge,  who  knew  him  doom’d,  smiled  on 
him 

With  deadly  cozenage,  eight  long  months  before- 
hand— 

Eight  months  of  such  hyproerisy  as  is 

Learnt  but  in  eighty  years.  Brave  Carmagnuola 

Is  dead  ; so  is  young  Foscari  and  his  brethren — 

I never  smiled  on  them. 

Bar.  Was  Carmagnuola 

Your  friend  ? 

Lor.  He  was  the  safeguard  of  the  city. 

In  early  life  its  foe,  but,  in  his  manhood, 

Its  saviour  first,  then  victim. 

Bar.  Ah  ! that  seems 

The  penalty  of  saving  cities.  He 
Whom  we  now  act  against,  not  only  saved 
Our  own,  but  added  others  to  our  sway. 

Lor.  The  Romans  (and  we  ape  them)  gave  a crown 
To  him  who  took  a city  ; and  they  gave 
A crown  to  him  who  saved  a citizen 
In  battle  : the  rewards  are  equal.  Now, 

If  we  should  measure  forth  the  cities  taken 
By  the  Doge  Foscari,  with  citizens 
Destroy’d  by  him,  or  through  him,  the  account 
Were  fearfully  against  him,  although  narrow’d 
To  private  havoc,  such  as  between  him 
And  my  dead  father. 

(1)  An  historical  fact.  See  Daru,  tom.  li. 


SCENE  1. 


THE  TWO  FOSCAR1. 


295 


Bar%  Are  you  then  thus  fix’d  ? 

Lor.  Why,  what  should  change  me  ? 

£ar  That  which  changes  me : 

But  you,  I know,  are  marble  to  retain 
A feud.  But  when  all  is  accomplish’d,  when 
The  old  man  is  deposed,  his  name  degraded, 

His  sons  all  dead,  his  family  depress’d, 

And  you  and  yours  triumphant,  shall  you  sleep  ? 

Lor.  More  soundly. 

Bar.  That’s  an  error,  and  you’ll  find  it 

Ere  you  sleep  with  your  fathers. 

jjyr.  They  sleep  not 

In  their  accelerated  graves,  nor  will 
Till  Foscari  fills  his.  Each  night  I see  them 
Stalk  frowning  round  my  couch,  and,  pointing  towards 
The  ducal  palace,  marshal  me  to  vengeance. 

Bar.  Fancy’s  distem perature  ! There  is  no  passion 
Mere  spectral  or  fantastical  than  Hate ; 

Not  even  its  opposite,  Love,  so  peoples  air 
With  phantoms,  as  this  madness  of  the  heart. 


'Enter  an  Officer. 

Lor.  Where  go  you,  sirrah  ? 

Qffi,  By  the  ducal  order 

To  forward  the  preparatory  rites 
For  the  late  Foscari’s  interment. 

Bar.  Their 

Vault  has  been  often  open’d  of  late  years. 

Lor.  ’Twill  be  full  soon,  and  may  be  closed  for  ever. 

Offi.  May  I pass  on  ? 

Lor.  ” You  may. 

Bar.  How  bears  the  Doge 

This  last  calamity  ? 

Offi.  With  desperate  firmness. 

In  presence  of  another  he  says  little, 

But  I perceive  his  lips  move  now  and  then  ; 

And  once  or  twice  I heard  him,  from  the  adjoining 
Apartment,  mutter  forth  the  words — “ My  son  ! ” 
Scarce  audibly.  I must  proceed.  [Exit  Officer. 

Bar.  This  stroke 

Will  move  all  Venice  in  his  favour. 

Lor.  Bight ! 

We  must  be  speedy : let  us  call  together 
The  delegates  appointed  to  convey 
The  council’s  resolution. 

Bar.  I protest 

Against  it  at  this  moment. 

Lor.  As  you  please — 

I’ll  take  their  voices  on  it  ne’ertheless, 

And  see  whose  most  may  sway  them,  yours  or  mine. 

[Exeunt  Baebahigo  and  Loeedano. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Doge’s  Apartment. 

The  Doge  and  Attendants. 

Att.  My  lord,  the  deputation  is  in  waiting  ; 

But  add,  that  if  another  hour  would  bctlcr 
Accord  with  your  will,  they  will  make  it  theirs. 

Doge.  To  me  all  hours  are  like.  Let  them  ap- 
proach. [Exit  Attendant. 


An  Officer.  Prince ! I have  done  your  bidding. 

Doge.  What  command  ? 

Offi.  A melancholy  one — to  call  the  attendance 
Of 

Doge.  True — true — true  : I crave  your  pardon.  I 
Begin  to  fail  in  apprehension,  and 
Wax  very  old — old  almost  as  my  years. 

Till  now  I fought  them  off,  but  they  begin 
To  overtake  me. 

Enter  the  Deputation,  consisting  of  six  of  the  Signory , 
and  the  Chief  of  the  Ten. 

Noble  men,  your  pleasure  ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  In  the  first  place,  the  Council 
doth  condole 

With  the  Doge  on  his  late  and  private  grief. 

Doge.  No  more — no  more  of  that. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Will  not  the  Duke 

Accept  the  homage  of  respect  ? 

Doge.  I do 

Accept  it  as  ’tis  given — proceed. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  “ The  Ten,” 

With  a selected  giunta  from  the  senate 
Of  twenty-five  of  the  best  born  patricians, 

Having  deliberated  on  the  state 
Of  the  republic,  and  the  o’erwhelming  cares 
Which,  at  this  moment,  doubly  must  oppress 
Your  years,  so  long  devoted  to  your  country, 

Have  judged  it  fitting,  with  all  reverence, 

Now  to  solicit  from  your  wisdom  (which 
Upon  reflection  must  accord  in  this), 

The  resignation  of  the  ducal  ring, 

Which  you  have  worn  so  long  and  venerably : 

And  to  prove  that  they  are  not  ungrateful,  nor 
Cold  to  your  years  and  services,  they  add 
An  appanage  of  twenty  hundred  golden 
Ducats,  to  make  retirement  not  less  splendid 
Than  should  become  a sovereign’s  retreat. 

Doge.  Did  I hear  rightly  ? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Need  I say  again  ? 

Doge.  No. — Have  you  done  ? 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  I have  spoken.  Twentj  feur 

Hours  are  accorded  you  to  give  an  answer. 

Doge.  I shall  not  need  so  many  seconds. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We 

Will  now  retire. 

Doge.  Stay  ! Four  and  twenty  hours 

Will  alter  nothing  which  I have  to  say.  ^ 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Speak  ! 

Doge.  When  I twice  before  reiterated 

My  wish  to  abdicate,  it  was  refused  me : 

And  not  alone  refused,  but  ye  exacted 
An  oath  from  me  that  I would  never  more 
Renew  this  instance.  I have  sworn  to  die 
In  full  exertion  of  the  functions,  which 
My  country  call’d  me  here  to  exercise, 

According  to  my  honour  and  my  conscience— 

I cannot  break  my  oath. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Reduce  ns  not 

To  the  alternative  of  a decree, 

Instead  of  your  compliance. 

Doge.  Providence 

Prolongs  my  days  to  prove  and  chasten  me ; 

But  ye  have  no  right  to  reproach  my  length 
Of  days,  since  everv  hour  has  been  the  country’s. 

I am  ready  to  lay  down  my  life  for  her, 

As  I have  laid  down  dearer  things  than  life: 

But  for  my  dignity — I hold  it  of 


296 


LORD  BYRON’S  WO  Uk>. 


ACT  7. 


Tiie  whole  republic ; when  the  general  will 
Is  mauifest,  then  you  shall  all  be  answer’d.1 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  grieve  for  such  an  answer ; 
but  it  cannot 
Avail  you  aught. 

Doge.  I can  submit  to  all  things. 

But  nothing  will  advance;  no,  not  a moment. 

What  you  decree — decree. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  With  this,  then,  must  we 

Return  to  those  who  sent  us  ? 

Doge.  You  have  heard  me. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  With  all  due  reverence  we  retire. 

[Exeunt  the  Deputation , 8fc. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Alt.  My  lord, 

The  noble  dame  Marina  craves  an  audience. 

Doge.  My  time  is  hers. 

Enter  Marina. 

Mar.  My  lord,  if  I intrude — 

Perhaps  you  fain  would  be  alone  ? 

Doge.  Alone ! 

Alone,  come  all  the  world  around  me,  I 
Am  now  and  evermore.  But  we  will  bear  it. 

Mar.  We  will ; and  for  the  sake  of  those  who  are, 

Endeavour Oh,  my  husband ! 

Doge.  Give  it  way  ; 

I cannot  comfort  thee. 

Mar.  He  might  have  lived. 

So  form’d  for  gentle  privacy  of  life, 

So  loving,  so  beloved  ; the  native  of 
Another  land,  and  who  so  blest  and  blessing 
As  my  poor  Foscari  ? Nothing  was  wanting 
Unto  his  happiness  and  mine  save  not 
To  bo  Venetian. 

)<  ge.  Or  a prince’s  son. 

Mar.  Yes ; all  things  which  conduce  to  other  men’s 
Imperfect  happiness  or  high  ambition, 

By  some  strange  destiny,  to  him  proved  deadly. 

The  country  and  the  people  whom  he  loved, 

The  prince  of  whom  he  was  the  elder  born, 

And 

Doge.  Soon  may  be  a prince- no  longer. 

Mar.  How  ? 

Doge.  They  have  taken  my  son  from  me,  and  now 
At  my  too  long  worn  diadem  and  ring.  [aim 

Let  thoati  resume  the  gewgaws  ! 

Mar.  Oh,  the  tyrants  ! 

In  such  an  hour  too  ! 

Doge.  ’Tis  the  fittest  time ; 

An  hour  ago  I should  have  felt  it. 

Mar.  And 

Will  you  not  now  resent  it  ? — Oh,  for  vengeance  ! 

But  he,  who,  had  he  been  enough  protected, 

Might  have  repaid  protection  in  this  moment, 

Cannot  assist  his  father. 

Doge.  Nor  should  do  so 

Against  his  country,  had  he  a thousand  lives 
Instead  of  that 


(l)  ["Then  was  thy  cup,  old  man,  full  to  the  brim. 

But  thou  wert  yet  alive  ; and  there  was  one, 

The  soul  and  spring  of  all  that  enmity, 

Who  would  not  leave  thee ; fastening  on  thy  flank. 
Hungering  and  thirsting,  still  unsatisfied; 

One  of  a name  illustrious  as  thine  own  ! 

One  of  the  Ten  ! one  of  the  Invisible  Three  1 
’Twas  Loredano.  When  the  whelps  were  gone, 

He  would  dislodge  the  Lion  from  his  den; 


Mar.  They  tortured  from  him.  This 

May  be  pure  patriotism.  I am  a woman  : 

To  me  my  husband  and  my  children  were 
Country  and  home.  I loved  him — how  I loved  him  ' 

I have  seen  him  pass  through  such  an  ordeal  as 
The  old  martyrs  would  have  shrunk  from  : he  is  "one 
And  1,  who  would  have  given  my  blood  for  him,  ° 
Have  nought  to  give  but  tears  ! ' But  could  I compass 
The  retribution  of  his  wrongs  ! — Well,  well ; 

I have  sons,  who  shall  be  men. 

Doge.  Your  grief  distracts  you. 

Mar.  I thought  I could  have  borne  it,  when  I saw 
him 

Bow’d  down  by  such  oppression  ; yes,  I thought 
That  I would  rather  look  upon  his  corse 
Than  his  prolong’d  captivity  ; — 1 am  punish’d 
For  that  thought  now.  Would  I were  in  his  grave  ! 
Doge.  I must  look  on  him  once  more. 

Mar.  Come  with  me ! 

Doge.  Is  he 

Mar.  Our  bridal  bed  is  now  his  bier. 

Doge.  And  he  is  in  his  shroud  ! 

Mar.  Come,  come,  old  man  ! 

[Exeunt  the  Doge  and  Marina. 

Enter  Barbarigo  and  Loredano. 

Bar.  (to  an  Attendant .)  Where  is  the  Doge  ? 

Att.  This  instant  retired  hence 

With  the  illustrious  lady  his  son’s  widow. 

Lor.  Where? 

Att.  To  the  chamber  where  the  body  lies. 

Bar.  Let  us  return,  then. 

Lor.  You  forget,  you  cannot. 

We  have  the  implicit  order  of  the  Giunta 
To  await  their  coming  here,  and  join  them  in 
Their  office  : they  ’ll  be  here  soon  after  us. 

Bar.  And  will  they  press  their  answer  on  the  Doge  ? 
Lor.  ’Twas  his  own  wish  that  all  should  be  done 
promptly. 

He  answer’d  quickly,  and  must  so  be  answer’d  ; 

His  dignity  is  look’d  to,  his  estate 
Cared  for — what  would  he  more  ? 

Bar.  Die  in  his  robes ; 

He  could  not  have  lived  long;  but  I have  done 
My  best  to  save  his  honours,  and  opposed 
This  proposition  to  the  last,  though  vainly. 

Why  would  the  general  vote  compel  me  hither  ? 

Lor.  ’Twas  fit  that  some  one  of  such  different 
thoughts 

From  ours  should  be  a witness,  lest  false  tongues 
Should  whisper  that  a harsh  majority 
Dreaded  to  have  its  acts  beheld  by  others. 

Bar.  And  not  less,  I must  needs  think,  for  the  sake 
Of  humbling  me  for  my  vain  opposition. 

You  are  ingenious,  Loredano,  in 
Your  modes  of  vengeance,  nay,  poetical, 

A very  Ovid  in  the  art  of  hating  ; 

’Tis  thus  (although  a secondary  object, 

Yet  hate  has  microscopic  eyes),  to  you 
I owe,  by  way  of  foil  to  the  more  zealous, 


And,  leading  on  the  pack  he  long  had  led, 
The  miserable  pack  that  ever  howl’d 
Against  fallen  Greatness,  moved  that  Foscari 
Be  Doge  no  longer ; urging  his  great  age  ; 
Calling  the  loneliness  of  grief,  neglect 
Of  duty,  sullenness  against  the  laws, 

— ‘ I am  most  willing  to  retire,’  said  he  : 

‘ But  I have  sworn,  and  cannot  of  myself. 

Do  with  me  as  ye  please.’/’ — Rogers.] 


SCENE  1. 


THE  TWO  EOSCAllI. 


297 


Thij  undesired  association  in 
Your  Giunta’s  duties. 
lor  How  ! — my  Giunta  ! 

Far.  1 Yours  •' 

They  speak  your  language,  watch  your  nod,  approve 
Your  plans,  and  do  your  work.  Are  they  not  yours  ? 

Lor.  You  talk  unwarily.  5 T were  best  they  hear  not 
This  from  you. 

Bur.  Oh ! they’ll  hear  as  much  one  day 

From  louder  tongues  than  mine ; they  have  gone 
beyond 

Even  their  exorbitance  of  power  : and  when 
This  happens  in  the  most  contemn’d  and  abject 
States,  stung  humanity  will  rise  to  check  it. 

Ior.  You  talk  but  idly. 

Bar.  That  remains  for  proof. 

Here  come  our  colleagues. 

Enter  the  Deputation  as  before. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  the  Duke  aware 

We  seek  his  presence  ? 

Att.  He  shall  be  inform’d. 

[ Exit  Attenda?it. 

Bar.  The  Duke  is  with  his  son. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  If  it  be  so, 

We  will  remit  him  till  the  rites  are  over. 

Let  us  return.  ’Tis  time  enough  to-inorrow. 

Lor.  ( aside  to  Bar.)  Now  the  rich  man’s  hell- fire 
upon  your  tongue, 

Unquench’d,  unquenchable  ! I’ll  have  it  torn 
From  its  vile  babbling  roots,  till  you  shall  utter 
Nothing  but  sobs  through  blood,  for  this ! Sage 
signors, 

T pray  ye  be  not  hasty.  [Aloud  to  the  others. 

Bur.  But  be  human  ! 

Lor.  See,  the  Duke  comes  ! 

Enter  the  Doge. 

Doge.  I have  obey’d  your  summons. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  come  once  more  to  urge  our 
past  request. 

Doge.  And  T \o  answer. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  What? 

Doge.  My  only  answer. 

You  have  heard  it. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Hear  you  then  the  last  decree, 

1 Definitive  and  absolute  ! 

Doge.  To  the  point — 

To  the  point ! I know  of  old  the  forms  of  office, 

{ And  gentle  preludes  to  strong  acts — Go  on ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  You  are  no  longer  Doge ; you  are 
released 

F:  om  your  imperial  oath  as  sovereign ; 
i YY  ur  ducal  robes  must  be  put  off ; but  for 
| Y’o  lr  services,  the  state  allots  the  appanage 
i Aheady  mention’d  in  our  former  congress. 

Th  ce  days  are  left  you  to  remove  from  hence, 

L ii  ler  the  penalty  to  see  confiscated 
A d your  own  private  fortune. 

Doge.  That  last  clause, 

I am  proud  to  say,  would  not  enrich  the  treasury. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Your  answer,  Duke  ! 


(1)  [“  The  act  is  passed — I will  obey  it.” — MS.] 

(2)  [ “ He  was  deposed, 

He,  who  had  reign’d  so  long  and  gloriously ; 
Ilis  ducal  bonnet  taken  from  his  brow, 

His  robes  stript  off,  his  seal  and  signet-ring 
Broken  before  him.  But  now  nothing  moved 


Lor.  Your  answer,  Francis  Fuscari  i 

Doge.  If  I could  have  foreseen  that  my  old  age 
Was  prejudicial  to  the  state,  the  chief 
Of  the  republic  never  would  have  shown 
Himself  so  far  ungrateful,  as  to  place 
His  own  high  dignity  before  his  country  ; 

But  this  life  having  been  so  many  years 
Not  useless  to  that  country,  I would  fain 
Have  consecrated  my  last  moments  to  her. 

But  the  decree  being  render’d,  I obey.1 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  If  you  would  have  the  three  days 
named  extended, 

We  willingly  will  lengthen  them  to  eight, 

As  sign  of  our  esteem. 

Doge.  Not  eight  hours,  signor. 

Nor  even  eight  minutes — There ’s  the  ducal  ring, 

[ Taking  off  his  ring  and  co.p. 
And  there  the  ducal  diadem.  And  so 
The  Adriatic’s  free  to  wed  another. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Yet  go  not  forth  so  quickly. 

Doge.  I am  old,  sir, 

And  even  to  move  but  slowly  must  begin 
To  move  betimes.  Methinks  I see  amongst  you 
A face  I know  not — Senator  ! your  name, 

You,  by  your  garb,  Chief  of  the  Forty  ! 

Mem.  Signor, 

I am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo.2 

Doge.  Ah ! 

Your  father  was  my  friend.— But  sons  and  fathers  ! — • 
What,  ho  ! my  servants  there ! 

Atten.  My  prince  ! 

Doge.  No  prince — 

There  are  the  princes  of  the  prince ! [Pointing  to  t if 
Ten's  Deputation .] — Prepare 
To  part  from  hence  upon  the  instant. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Why 

So  rashly  ? ’twill  give  scandal. 

Doge.  Answer  that : 

[To  the  7 en 

It  is  your  province. — Sirs,  bestir  yourselves  : 

[To  the  Servants. 

There  is  one  burthen  which  I beg  you  bear 
With  care,  although  ’tis  past  all  farther  harm — 

But  I will  look  to  that  myself. 

Bar.  He  means 

The  body  of  his  son. 

Doge.  And  call  Marina, 

My  daughter ! 

Enter  Marina. 

Doge.  Get  thee  ready;  we  must  mourn 

Elsewhere. 

Mar.  And  every  where. 

Doge.  True ; but  in  freed  nn 

YVithout  these  jealous  spies  upon  the  great. 

Signors,  you  may  depart : what  would  you  more  : 

We  are  going : do  you  fear  that  we  shall  bear 
The  palace  with  us  ? Its  old  walls,  ten  times 
As  old  as  I am,  and  I’m  very  old, 

Have  served  you,  so  have  I,  and  I and  they 
Could  tell  a tale : but  I invoke  them  not 
To  fall  upon  you  ! else  they  would,  as  erst 


The  meekness  of  his  soul.  All  things  alike  I 
Among  the  six  that  came  with  the  decree. 
Foscari  saw  one  he  knew  not,  and  inquired 
His  name.  ‘ I am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo.’ 
‘ Ah  1 ’ he  replied,  ‘ thy  father  was  my  friend 

—Rogers.] 


Q a 


298 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  V. 


The  pillars  of  stone  Dagon’s  temple  on 
The  Israelite  and  his  Philistine  foes. 

Such  power  I do  believe  there  might  exist 
In  such  a curse  as  mine,  provoked  by  such 
As  you ; but  I curse  not.  Adieu,  good  signors  ! 

May  the  next  duke  be  better  than  the  present. 

Lor.  The  present  duke  is  Paschal  Malipiero. 

Doge.  Not  till  I pass  the  threshold  of  these  doors. 

Lor.  Saint  Mark’s  great  bell  is  soon  about  to  toll 
For  his  inauguration. 

Doge.  Earth  and  heaven  ! 

Ye  will  reverberate  this  peal ; and  I 

Live  to  hear  this  ! — the  first  doge  who  e’er  heard 

Such  sound  for  his  successor ! Happier  he, 

My  attainted  predecessor,  stern  Faliero — 

This  insult  at  the  least  was  spared  him. 

Lor.  What ! 

Do  you  regret  a traitor  ? 

Doge.  No — I merely 

Envy  the  dead. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  My  lord,  if  you  indeed 
Are  bent  upon  this  rash  abandonment 
Of  the  state’s  palace,  at  the  least  retire 
By  the  private  staircase,  which  conducts  you  towards 
The  landing  place  of  the  canal. 

Doge.  No.  I 

Will  now  descend  the  stairs  by  which  I mounted 
To  sovereignty — the  Giants’  Stairs,  on  whose 
Broad  eminence  I was  invested  duke. 

My  services  have  called  me  up  those  steps, 

The  malice  of  my  foes  will  drive  me  down  them. 

There  five  and  thirty  years  ago  was  I 

Install’d,  and  traversed  these  same  halls,  from  which 

I never  thought  to  be  divorced  except 

A corse — a corse,  it  might  be,  fighting  for  them — 

But  not  push’d  hence  by  fellow-citizens. 

But  come  ; my  son  and  I will  go  together— 

He  to  his  grave,  and  I to  pray  for  mine. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  What ! thus  in  public  ? 

Doge.  I was  publicly 

Elected,  and  so  will  I be  deposed. 

Marina  ! art  thou  willing  ? 

Mar.  Here’s  my  arm  ! [forth. 

Doge.  And  here  my  staff : thus  propp’d  will  I go 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  It  must  not  be — the  people  will 
perceive  it.  [know  it, 

Doge.  The  people! — There’s  no  people,  you  well 
Else  you  dare  not  deal  thus  by  them  or  me. 

There  is  a populace , perhaps,  whose  looks  [you 

May  shame  you ; but  they  dare  not  groan  nor  curse 
Save  with  their  hearts  and  eyes. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  You  speak  in  passion, 

Else 

Doge.  You  have  reason.  I have  spoken  much 
More  than  my  wont : it  is  a foible  which 
Was  not  of  mine,  but  more  excusoe  you, 

Inasmuch  as  it  shows  that  I approach 
A dotage  which  may  justify  this  deed 
Of  yours,  although  the  law  does  not,  nor  will. 
Farewell,  sirs ! 

Bar.  You  shall  not  depart  without 

An  escort  fitting  past  and  present  rank. 


(1)  [The  death  of  the  elder  Eoscari  took  place,  not  at  the  palace, 
tut  in  his  own  house;  not  immediately  on  his  descent  from  the 
Claris’  Stairs,  but  five  davs  afterwards,  “ En  entendant,”  says 
M de  Sismondi,  “ le  son  des  cloches,  qui  sonnaient  en  actions  de 
graces  pour  Election  de  son  successeur,  il  mourut  subitement 
rt'une  hemoirhagie  causee  par  une  veine  qui  s’eclata  dans  sa  poi- 


We  will  accompany,  with  due  respect, 

The  Doge  unto  his  private  palace.  Say ! 

My  brethren,  will  we  not  ? 

' A fferent  voices.  Ay  ! — Ay  ! 

Doge  You  shall  not 

Stir— in  my  train,  at  least.  I enter’d  here 
As  sovereign — I go  out  as  citizen 
By  the  same  portals,  but  as  citizen. 

All  these  vain  ceremonies  are  base  insults, 

Which,  only  ulcerate  the  heart  the  more, 

Applying  poisons  there  as  antidotes. 

Pomp  is  for  princes — I am  none! — That’s  false, 

I am,  but  only  to  these  gates. — Ah ! 

Lor.  Hark ! 

[ The  great  bell  of  St.  Marlcys  tolls. 
Bar.  The  bell ! [election 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  St.  Mark’s,  which  tolls  for  the 
Of  Malipiero. 

Doge.  Well  I recognise 

The  sound ! I heard  it  once,  but  once  before, 

And  that  is  five  and  thirty  years  ago ! 

Even  then  I was  not  young. 

Bar.  Sit  down,  my  lord  ! 

You  tremble. 

Doge.  ’Tis  the  knell  of  my  poor  boy  ! 

My  heart  aches  bitterly. 

Bar.  I pray  you  sit. 

Doge.  No  ; my  seat  here  has  been  a throne  till  now. 
Marina ! let  us  go. 

Mar.  Most  readily. 

Doge  ( walks  a few  steps,  then  stops)  I feel  athirst— 
will  no  one  bring  me  here 
A cup  of  water  ? 

Bar.  I 

Mar.  And  1 

Lor.  And  1 

[The  Doge  takes  a goblet  from  the  hand 
of  Loredano. 

Doge.  I take  yours,  Loredano,  from  the  hand 
Most  fit  for  such  an  hour  as  +his. 

Lor.  Why  so  ? 

Doge.  ’Tis  said  that  our  Venetian  crystal  has 
Such  pure  antipathy  to  poisons  as 
To  burst,  if  aught  of  venom  touches  it. 

You  bore  this  goblet,  and  it  is  not  broken. 

Lor.  Well,  sir! 

Doge.  Then  it  is  false,  or  you  are  true. 

For  my  own  part,  I credit  neither  ; ’tis 
An  idle  legend. 

Mar.  You  talk  wildly,  and 

Had  better  now  be  seated,  nor  as  yet 
Depart.  Ah ! now  you  look  as  look’d  my  husband  ! 
Bar.  He  sinks  ! — support  him  ! — quick — a chair- 
support  him  ! 

Doge.  The  bell  tolls  on! — let’s  hence — my  brain’s 
on  fire  ! 

Bar.  I do  beseech  you,  lean  upon  us  ! 

Doge.  No ! 

A sovereign  should  die  standing.  My  poor  boy ! 

Off  with  your  arms  ! — That  bell! 

[The  Doge  drops  down  and  dies} 
Mar.  My  God ! My  God  ! 


trine.” — “ Before  I was  sixteen  years  of  age,”  says  Lord  Byron,  “ I 
was  witness  to  a melancholy  instance  of  the  same  effect  of  mixed 
passions  upon  a young  person ; who,  however,  did  not  die  in  con- 
sequence at  that  time,  but  fell  a victim  some  years  afterwards  to 
a. seizure  of  the  same  kind,  arising  from  causes  intimately  connected 
with  agitation  of  mind.”  See  post , Don  Juan,  c.  iv.  s.\  lix. 


SC  EXE  I. 


THE  TWO  FOSCARI. 


299 


Bar.  {to  Lor.)  Behold!  your  work’s  completed  ! 
Chief  of  the  Ten.  Is  there  then 

No  aid?  Call  in  assistance  ! 

Jtt.  ’Tis  all  over. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  If  it  be  so,  at  least  his  obsequies 
Shall  be  such  as  befits  his  name  and  nation, 

His  rank  and  his  devotion  to  the  duties 
Of  the  realm,  while  his  age  permitted  him 
To  do  himself  and  them  full  justice.  Brethren, 

Say,  shall  it  not  be  so  ? 

Bar.  He  has  not  had 

The  misery  to  die  a subject  where 
He  reign’d  : then  let  his  funeral  rites  be  princely.1 
Chief  of  lilt  Ten.  We  are  agreed,  then  ? 

All , except  Lor.,  answer , Yes. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Heaven’s  peace  be  with  him  ! 
Mar.  Signors,  your  pardon  : this  is  mockery. 

Juggle  no  more  with  that  poor  remnant,  which, 

A moment  since,  while  yet  it  had  a soul, 

(A  soul  by  whom  you  have  increased  your  empire. 

And  made  your  power  as  proud  as  was  his  glory,) 

You  banish’d  from  his  palace,  and  tore  down 
From  his  high  place,  with  such  relentless  coldness  ; 
And  now,  when  he  can  neither  know  these  honours, 
Nor  would  accept  them  if  he  could,  you,  signors, 
Purpose  with  idle  and  superfluous  pomp, 

To  make  a pageant  over  what  you  trampled. 

A princely  funeral  will  be  your  reproach, 

And  not  iiis  honour. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Lady,  we  revoke  not 
Our  purposes  so  readily. 

Mar.  I know  it, 

As  far  as  touches  torturing  the  living. 

I thought  the  dead  had  been  beyond  even  you. 

Though  (some,  no  doubt)  consign’d  to  powers  which 
may 

Resemble  that  you  exercise  on  earth. 

Leave  him  to  me  ; you  would  have  done  so  for 
His  dregs  of  life,  which  you  have  kindly  shorten’d  : 

It  is  my  last  of  duties,  and  may  prove 
A dreary  comfort  in  my  desolation. 


(1)  [By  a decree  of  the  Council,  the  trappings  of  supreme  power, 
of  which  the  Doge  had  divested  himself  while  living,  were  restored 
to  him  when  dead;  and  he  was  interred,  with  ducal  magnificence, 
in  the  church  of  the  Minorites,  the  new  Doge  attending  as  a 
mourner. — See  Daru.] 

(2)  The  Venetians  appear  to  have  had  a particular  turn  for 
breaking  the  hearts  of  their  Doges.  The  following  is  another  in- 
stance of  the  kind  in  the  Doge  Marco  Barbarigo  : he  was  succeeded 
by  his  brother  A^ostino  Barnarigo,  whose  chief  merit  is  here  men- 
tioned.— “ Le  doge,  hlesse  de  trouver  constamment  un  contradic- 
teur  et  un  eenseur  si  amer  dans  son  frere,  lui  dit  un  jour  en  plein 
conseil:  ‘ Messire  Augustin,  vous  faites  tout  votre  possible  pour 
hater  ma  mort ; vous  vous  fiattez  de  me  succeder;  mais,  si  les  au- 
tres  vous  connaissent  aussi-bien  que  je  vous  connais,  ils  n’auront 
garde  de  vous  elire.’  La-dessus  il  se  leva,  emu  de  colere,  rentra 
dans  son  appartement,  et  mourut  quelques  jours  apres.  Ce  fr&re, 
contre  lequel  il  s’etait  emporte,  fut  precisement  le  successeur  qu’on 
lui  donna.  C’etait  un  merite  dont  on  aimait  A tenir  compte ; sur- 
tout  a un  parent,  de  s'etre  mis  en  opposition  avec  le  chef  de  la  re- 
publique.” — Daru,  Hist,  de  Venisc,  vol.  ii.  p.  533. 

(3)  “ L’ha  pagata."  An  historical  fact.  See  Hist,  de  Venise 
par  P.  Daru,  t.  it.  p.  411.— [Here  the  original  MS.  ends.  The  two 
lines  which  follow  were  added  by  Mr.  Gifford.  In  the  margin  of 
th«  MS.  Lord  Byron  has  written,—"  If  the  last  line  should  appear 
obscure  to  those  who  do  not  recollect  the  historical  fact,  mentioned 
in  the  first  act,  of  Loredano’s  inscription  in  his  book  of  * Doge  Fos- 
eari,  debtor  for  the  deaths  of  my  father  and  uncle,’  you  may  add 
££-:  following  lines  to  the  conclusion  of  the  last  act:— 

Chief  of  the  Ten  For  what  has  he  repaid  thee  ? 


Grief  is  fantastical,  and  loves  Hie  dead, 

And  the  apparel  of  the  grave 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Do  you 

Pretend  still  to  this  office  ? 

Mar.  I do,  signor. 

Though  his  possessions  have  been  all  consumed 
In  the  state’s  service,  I have  still  my  dowry. 

Which  shall  be  consecrated  to  his  rites, 

And  those  of [She  stops  with  agitation , 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Best  retain  it  for  your  children. 
Mar.  Ay,  they  are  fatherless,  I thank  you. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We 

Cannot  comply  with  your  request.  His  relics 
Shall  be  exposed  with  wonted  pomp,  and  follow’d 
Unto  their  home  by  the  new  Doge,  not  clad 
As  l)oge,  but  simply  as  a senator. 

Mar.  I have  heard  of  murderers,  who  have  interr’d 
Their  victims  ; but  ne’er  heard,  until  this  hour, 

Of  so  much  splendour  in  hypocrisy 

O’er  those  they  slew.2  I’ve  heard  of  widows’  tears — 

Alas  ! I have  shed  some — always  thanks  to  you  ! 

I ’ve  heard  of  heirs  in  sables — you  have  left  none 
To  the  deceased,  so  you  would  act  the  part 
Of  such.  Well,  sirs,  your  will  be  done  ! as  one  day 
I trust,  Heaven’s  will  be  done  too  ! 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  Know  you,  lady, 

To  whom  ye  speak,  and  perils  of  such  speech  ? 

Mar  I know  the  former  better  than  yourselves; 
The  latter — like  yourselves ; and  can  face  both. 

Wish  you  more  funerals  ? 

Bar.  Heed  not  her  rash  words  : 

Her  circumstances  must  excuse  her  bearing. 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  We  will  not  note  them  down. 

Bar.  ( turning  to  Lor.,  who  is  writing  upon  his  tablets). 

What  art  thou  writing, 

With  such  an  earnest  brow,  upon  thy  tablets  ? 

Lor.  ( pointing  to  the  Doge's  body).  That  he  has 
paid  me  ! 3 

Chief  of  the  Ten.  What  debt  did  he  owe  you 
Lor.  A long  and  just  one;  Nature’s  debt  and 
mine}  [ Curtain  falls. 


Lor.  For  my  father’s 

And  father’s  brother’s  death — by  his  son’s  and  own! 

Ask  Gifford  about  this.” — E.] 

(4)  [Considered  as  poems,  we  confess  that  “ Sardanapaius”  and 
“ The  Two  Foscari”  appear  to  us  to  be  rather  heavy,  verbose,  and 
inelegant — deficient  in  the  passion  and  energy  which  belong  to 
Lord  Byron’s  other  writings— and  still  more  in  the  richness  of  im- 
agery, the  originality  of  thought,  and  the  sweetness  of  versification 
for  which  he  used  to  be  distinguished.  They  are  for  the  most  part 
solemn,  prolix,  and  ostentatious — lengthened  out  by  large  prepara- 
tions for  catastrophes  that  never  arrive,  and  tantalizing  us  with 
slight  specimens  and  glimpses  of  a higher  interest  scatti  ed  thinly 
up  and  down  many  weary  pages  of  pompous  declamation  Along 
with  the  concentrated  pathos  and  homestruck  sentimenvS  of  his 
former  poetry,  the  noble  author  seems  also — we  cannot  imagine  why 
— to  have  discarded  the  spirited  and  melodious  versification  in 
which  they  were  embodied,  and  to  have  formed  to  himself  a mea- 
sure equally  remote  from  the  spring  and  vigour  of  his  former 
compositions,  and  from  the  softness  and  inflexibility  of  the  ancient 
masters  of  the  drama.  There  are  some  sweet  lines,  and  many  of 
great  weight  and  energy ; but  the  general  march  of  the  verse  is 
cumbrous  and  unmusical.  His  lines  do  dot  vibrate  like  polished 
lances,  at  once  strong  and  light,  in  the  hands  of  his  persons,  but  are 
wielded  like  clumsy  batons  in  a bloodless  affray.  Instead  of  the 
graceful  familiarity  and  idiomatical  melodies  of  Shakspeare  it  is 
apt,  too,  to  fall  into  clumsy  prose,  in  its  approaches  to  the  easy  and 
colloquial  style ; and,  in  the  loftier  passages,  is  occasionally  de- 
formed by  low  and  common  images  that  harmonize  but  ill  will  tire 
general  solemnity  of  the  diction. — Jeff  ret.] 


53cformcU  CtansfovmeU : 


A DRAMA.1 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

5ms  production  is  founded  partly  on  the  story  of  a 
novel  called  “The  Three  Brothers,”2 3 4  published  many 
years  ago.  from  which  M.  G.  Lewis’s  “ Wood  Demon” 
was  also  taken,  and  partly  on  the  “ Eaust”  of  the 
great  Goethe.  The  present  publication  contains  the 
two  first  Parts  only,  and  the  opening  chorus  of  the 
third.  The  rest  may,  perhaps,  appear  hereafter. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAS. 


Stranger,  afterwards  Caesar. 
Arnold. 

Bourbon. 

Philibert. 

Cellini. 

Bertha. 

Olimpia. 

< Spirits , Soldiers,  Citizens  of  Rome,  Priests , 
Peasants,  Sfc. 


(1)  [This  drama  was  begun  at  Pisa  in  1821,  but  was  not  published 
till  January,  1824.  Mr.  Medwin  says, — 

“ On  my  calling  on  Lord  Byron  one  morning,  he  produced  the 
‘ Deformed  Transformed.’  Handing  it  to  Shelley,  he  said — 1 Shel- 
ley, I have  been  writing  a Faustish  kind  of  drama:  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  it.’  After  reading  it  attentively,  Shelley  returned  it, 
‘Well,’  said  Lord  B.,  ‘how  do  you  like  it?’  ‘Least,’  replied  he, 
‘ of  any  thing  I ever  saw  of  yours.  It  is  a bad  imitation  of  ‘ Faust,’ 
and  besides,  there  are  two  entire  lines  of  Southey’s  in  it.’  Lord 
Byron  changed  colour  immediately,  and  asked  hastily,  ‘ what 
lines?’  Shelley  repeated, 

‘ And  water  shall  see  thee, 

And  fear  thee,  and  flee  thee.’ 

They  are  in  the  ‘ Curse  of  Kehamah.’  His  Lordship  instantly  threw 
the  poem  into  the  fire.  He  seemed  to  feel  no  chagrin  at  seeing  it 
consume — at  least  his  countenance  betrayed  none,  and  his  con- 
versation became  more  gay  and  lively  than  usual.  Whether  it  was 
hatred  of  Southey,  or  respect  for  Shelley’s  opinion,  which  made  him 
commit  the  act  that  I considered  a sort  of  suicide,  was  always 
doubtful  to  me.  I was  never  more  surprised  than  to  see,  two  years 
afterwards,  ‘ The  Deformed  Transformed  ’ announced  (supposing 
it  to  have  perished  at  Pisa);  but  it  seems  that  he  must  have  had 
another  copy  of  the  manuscript,  or  that  he  had  re-written  it  per- 
haps, without  changing  a word,  except  omitting  the  Kehama  lines. 
His  memory  was  remarkably  retentive  of  his  own  writings.  I be- 
lieve he  could  have  quoted  almost  every  line  he  ever  wrote.” 

Mrs. Shelley,  whose  copy  of  “The  Deformed  Transformed”  lies 
before  us,  has  written  as  follows  on  the  fly-leaf: — 

“This  had  long  been  a favourite  subject  with  Lord  Byron.  I 
think  that  he  mentioned  it  also  in  Switzerland.  1 copied  it — he 
sending  a portion  of  it  at  a time,  as  it  was  finished,  to  me.  At  this 
time  he  had  a great  horror  of  its  being  said  that  he  plagiarized, 
or  that  he  studied  for  ideas,  and  wrote  with  difficulty.  Thus  he 
gave  Shelley  Aikin’s  edition  of  the  British  Poets,  that  it  might  not 
be  found  in  his  house  by  some  English  lounger,  and  reported 
home:  thus,  too,  he  always  dated  when  he  began  and  when  he 
ended  a poem,  to  prove  hereafter  how  quickly  it  was  done.  I do 
not  think  that  he  altered  a line  in  this  drama  after  he  had  once 
written  it  down.  He  composed  and  corrected  in  his  mind.  1 do 
not  know  how  he  meant  to  finish  it  ; but  he  said  himself,  that 
the  whole  conduct  of  the  story  was  already  conceived.  It  was  at 


iMormcfci  transformed  * 


PART  i. 


SCENE  I. 

A Forest. 

Enter  Arnold  and  his  mother  Bebtha. 

Bert.  Out,  hunchback ! 

An?.  I was  born  so,  mother  ,H 

Bert.  Out, 

Thou  incubus  ! Thou  nightmare ! Of  seven  sons, 
The  sole  abortion ! 

Am.  Would  that  I had  been  so, 

And  never  seen  the  light ! 

Bert.  1 would  so  too  ! 

But  as  thou  hast— hence,  hence — and  do  thy  best ! 
That  back  of  thine  may  bear  its  burthen  ; ’tis 
More  high,  if  not  so  broad  as  that  of  others. 

Am.  It  bears  its  burthen; — but,  my  heart ! Will  ii 
Sustain  that  which  you  lay  upon  it,  mother  ? 

1 love,  or,  at  the  least,  I loved  you : nothing 


this  time  that  a brutal  paragraph  alluding  to  his  lameness  ap-  : 
peared,  which  he  repeated  to  me ; lest  I should  hear  it  first  from  , 
some  one  else.  No  action  of  Lord  Byron’s  life  - scarce  a line  he 
has  written— but  was  influenced  by  his  personal  defect.”] 

(2)  [Published  in  1S03,  the  work  of  a Joshua  Pickersgill,  jun.] 

(3)  [A  clever  anonymous  critic  thus  sarcastically  opens  his  notice  ' 
of  this  poem : — “ The  reader  has  no  doubt  often  heard  of  the  : 
Devil  and  Dr.  Faustus : this  is  but  a new  birth  of  the  same  un- 
righteous couple,  who  are  christened,  however,  by  the  noble  hie- 
rophant who  presides  over  the  infernal  ceremony, — Julius  Caesar 

| and  Count  Arnold.  The  drama  opens  with  a scene  between  the 
latter,  who  is  to  all  appearance  a well-disposed  young  man,  of  a 
very  deformed  person,  and  his  mother : this  good  Jady,  with  some-  ; 
what  less  maternal  piety  about  her  than  adorns  the  mother-ape  in 
the  fable,  turns  her  dutiful  incubus  of  a son  out  of  doors  to  gather  4 
wood.  Arnold,  upon  this,  proceeds  incontinently  to  kill  himself,  : 
by  falling,  after  the  manner  of  Brutus,  on  his  wood-knife : he  is,  . 
however,  piously  dissuaded  from  this  guilty  act,  by — whom  does  the  l 
reader  think?  A monk,  perhaps,  or  a methodist  preacher?  no; — 
but  by  the  Devil  himself,  in  the  shape  of  a tall  black  man,  who  <’ 
rises,  like  an  African  water-god,  out  of  a fountain.  To  this  stranger,  '<■ 
after  the  exchange  of  a few  sinister  compliments,  Arnold,  without  : 
more  ado,  sells  his  soul,  for  the  privilege  of  wearing  the  beautiful  ' 
form  of  Achilles.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  absurdity,  we  still,  how- 
ever, recognise  the  master-mind  of  our  great  poet : his  bold  and 
beautiful  spirit  flashes  at  intervals  through  the  surrounding  horrors, 
into  which  he  has  chosen  to  plunge  after  Goethe,  his  magnus 
Apollo.”] 

(4)  [“  One  of  the  few  pages  of  Lord  Byron’s  ‘ Memoranda,’  which 
related  to  his  early  days,  was  where,  in  speaking  of  his  own  sensi.- 
tiveness  on  the  subject  of  his  deformed  foot,  he  described  the  feeling 
of  horror  and  humiliation  that  came  over  him,  when  his  mother, 
in  one  of  her  fits  of  passion,  called  him  ‘ a lame  brat  l ’ It  may 
be  questioned,  whether  this  drama  was  not  indebted  for  its  origin 
to  this  single  recollection.” — Moore. 

“ Lord  Byron’s  own  mother,  when  in  ill  humour  with  hirn,  usee 
to  make  the  deformity  in  his  foot  the  subject  of  taunts  and  re- 
proaches. She  would  (we  quote  from  a letter  written  by  one  of  her 
relations  in  Scotland)  pass  from  passionate  caresses  to  the  repulsion 
of  actual  disgust;  then  devour  him  with  kisses  again,  and  sweat 
his  eyes  were  as  beautiful  as  his  father’s.” — Quar.  Ret>.] 


SCENE  I. 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


301 


Save  you,  in  nature,  can  love  aught  like  me. 

You  nursed  me — do  not  kill  me  ! 

Bert.  Yes — I nursed  tliee. 

Because  thou  wert  my  first-born,  and  I knew  not 
If  there  would  be  another  unlike  thee, 

That  monstrous  sport  of  nature.  But  get  hence, 

And  gather  wood ! 

Am.  I will : but  when  I bring  it. 

Speak  to  me  kindly.  Though  my  brothers  are 
So  beautiful  and  lusty,  and  as  free 
As  the  free  chase  they  follow,  do  not  spurn  me ; 

Our  milk  has  been  the  same. 

Bert.  As  is  the  hedgehog’s, 

Which  sucks  at  midnight  from  the  wholesome  dam 
Of  the  young  bull,  until  the  milkmaid  finds 
The  nipple  next  day  sore  and  udder  dry.1 
Call  not  thy  brothers  brethren  ! Call  me  not 
Mother ; for  if  I brought  thee  forth,  it  was 
As  foolish  hens  at  times  hatch  vipers,  by 
Sittiug  upon  strange  eggs.  Out,  urchin,  out ! 

[ Exit  Bertha. 

Am.  {solus).  Oh  mother! She  is  gone,  and  I 

Her  bidding ; — wearily  but  willingly  [must  do 

I would  fulfil  it,  could  I only  hope 
A kind  word  in  return.  What  shall  I do  ? 

[Arnold  begins  to  cut  wood:  in  doing  this  lie 
wounds  one  of  his  hands. 

My  labour  for  the  day  is  over  now. 

Accursed  be  this  blood  that  flows  so  fast ; 

For  double  curses  will  be  my  meed  now 
At  home — What  home  ? I have  no  home,  no  kin, 

No  kind. — not  made  like  other  creatures,  or 
To  share  their  sports  or  pleasures.  Must  I bleed  too 
Like  them?  Oh  that  each  drop  which  falls  to  earth 
Would  rise  a snake  to  sting  them,  as  they  have  stung 
me ! 

Or  that  the  devil,  to  whom  they  liken  me, 

Would  aid  his  likeness  ! If  I must  partake 
His  form,  why  not  his  power  ? Is  it  because 
I have  not  his  will  too  ? For  one  kind  word 
From  her  wdio  bore  me  would  still  reconcile  me 
Even  to  this  hateful  aspect.  Let  me  wash 
The  wound. 

[Arnold  goes  to  a spring , and  stoops  to  wash 
his  hand : he  starts  back. 

They  are  right ; and  Nature’s  ndrror  shows  me, 

What  she  hath  made  me.  I will  not  look  on  it 
Again,  and  scarce  dare  think  on’t.  Hideous  wretch 
That  I am  ! The  very  waters  mock  me  with 
My  horrid  shadow — like  a demon  placed 
Deep  in  the  fountain  to  scare  back  the  cattle 
From  drinking  therein.  [He  pauses. 

And  shall  I live  on, 

A burden  to  the  earth,  myself,  and  shame 
Unto  what  brought  me  into  life  ! Thou  blood. 

Which  flowest  so  freely  from  a scratch,  let  me 
Try  if  thou  wilt  not  in  a fuller  stream 
Pour  forth  my  woes  for  ever  with  thyself 
On  earth,  to  which  I will  restore  at  once 
This  hateful  compound  of  her  atoms,  and 
Resolve  back  to  her  elements,  and  take 
The  shape  of  any  reptile  save  myself, 

And  make  a world  for  myriads  of  new  worms  ! 

Tliis  knife  ! now  let  me  prove  if  it  will  sever 
Tins  wither'd  slip  of  nature’s  nightshade — my 


Vile  form — from  the  creation,  as  it  hath 
The  green  bough  from  the  forest. 

[Arnold  places  the  knife  in  the  gtound,  with 
the  point  upwards. 

Now  ’tis  set, 

And  I can  fall  upon  it.  Yet  one  glance 
On  the  fair  day,  which  sees  no  foul  thing  like 
Myself,  and  the  sweet  sun  which  warm’d  me,  but 
In  vain.  The  birds — how  joyously  they  sing ! 

So  let  them,  for  I would  not  be  lamented : 

But  let  their  merriest  notes  be  Arnold's  knell ; 

The  fallen  leaves  my  monument ; the  murmur 
Of  the  near  fountain  my  sole  elegy. 

Now,  knife,  stand  firmly,  as  I fain  would  fall ! 

[As  he  rushes  to  throw  himself  upon  the  knife , his 
eye  is  suddenly  caught  by  the  fountain , which 
seems  in  motion. 

The  fountain  moves  without  a wind  : but  shall 
The  ripple  of  a spring  change  my  resolve  ? 

No.  Yet  it  moves  again  ! The  waters  stir, 

Not  as  with  air,  but  by  some  subterrane 
And  rocking  power  of  the  internal  world. 

What’s  here  ? A mist ! No  more  ? — 

[A  cloud  comes  from  the  fountain,  lie  stands 
gazing  upon  it ; it  is  dispelled , and  a tall  black 
man  comes  towards  him. 

Am.  What  would  you  ? Speak  ! 

Spirit  or  man  ? 

Stran.  As  man  is  both,  why  not 

Say  both  in  one  ? 

Am.  Your  form  is  man’s,  and  vet 

You  may  be  devil. 

Stran.  So  many  men  are  that 

Which  is  so  call’d  or  thought,  that  you  may  add  me 
To  which  you  please,  without  much  wrong  to  either. 
But  come  : you  wish  to  kill  yourself; — pursue 
Your  purpose. 

Am.  You  have  interrupted  me. 

Stran.  What  is  that  resolution  which  can  e’er 
Be  interrupted  ? If  I be  the  devil 
You  deem,  a single  moment  would  have  made  you 
Mine,  and  for  ever,  by  your  suicide ; 

And  yet  my  coming  saves  you. 

Am.  I said  not 

You  were  the  demon,  but  that  your  approach 
Was  like  one. 

Stran.  LTnless  you  keep  company 

With  him  (and  you  seem  scarce  used  to  such  high 
Society)  you  can’t  tell  how  he  approaches  ; 

And  for  his  aspect,  look  upon  the  fountain, 

And  then  on  me,  and  judge  which  of  us  twain 
Look  likest  what  the  boors  believe  to  be 
Their  cloven-footed  terror. 

Am.  Do  you — dare  you 

To  taunt  me  with  my  born  deformity  ? 

Stran.  Were  I to  taunt  a buffalo  with  this 
Cloven  foot  of  thine,  or  the  swift  dromedary 
With  thy  sublime  of  humps,  the  animals 
Wrould  revel  in  the  compliment.  And  yet 
Both  beings  arc  more  swift,  more  strong,  more  mighty 
In  action  and  endurance  than  thyself, 

And  all  the  fierce  and  fair  of  the  same  kind 
With  thee.  Thy  form  is  natural : ’twas  only 
Nature’s  mistaken  largess  to  bestow 
The  gifts  which  are  of  others  upon  man. 


(1)  [This  is  now  generally  believed  to  be  a vulgar  error;  the 
smallness  of  the  animal’s  mouth  rendering  it  incapable  of  the’mis- 


cliief  laid  to  ts  charge.  For  an  amusing  controversy  on  the  sub 
ject,  see  Gent.  Mag.  vols.  lxxx.  and  lxxxi.] 


I AHI  L 


302  LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Am.  Give  ine  the  strength  then  of  the  buffalo’s 
foot, 

When  he  spurs  high  the  dust,  beholding  his 
N ear  enemy  ; or  let  me  have  the  long 
And  patient  swiftness  of  the  desert-ship, 

The  helmless  dromedary  ! — and  I’ll  bear 
Thy  fiendish  sarcasm  with  a saintly  patience. 

Stran.  I will. 

Am.  ( with  surprise.)  Thou  canst  ? 

Stran.  Perhaps.  Would  you  aught  else  ? 

Am.  Thou  mockest  me. 

Stran.  Not  I.  Why  should  I mock 

What  all  are  mocking  ? That’s  poor  sport,  methinks. 
To  talk  to  thee  in  human  language  (for 
Thou  canst  not  yet  speak  mine),  the  forester 
Hunts  not  the  wretched  coney,  but  the  boar, 

Or  wolf,  or  lion,  leaving  paltry  game 
To  petty  burghers,  who  leave  once  a year 
Their  walls,  to  fill  their  household  caldrons  with 
Such  scullion  prey.  The  meanest  gibe  at  thee, — 
Now  / can  mock  the  mightiest. 

Am.  Then  waste  not 

Thy  time  on  me  : I seek  thee  not. 

Stran.  Your  thoughts 

Are  not  far  from  me.  Do  not  send  me  back : 

I am  not  so  easily  recall’d  to  do 
Good  service. 

Am.  What  wilt  thou  do  for  me  ? 

Stran.  Change 

Shapes  with  you,  if  you  will,  since  yours  so  irks  you ; 
Or  form  you  to  your  wish  in  any  shape. 

Am.  Oh  ! then  you  are  indeed  the  demon,  for 
Nought  else  would  wittingly  wear  mine. 

Stran.  I’ll  show  thee 

The  brightest  which  the  world  e’er  bore,  and  give  thee 
Thy  choice. 

Am.  On  what  condition  ? 

Stran.  There’s  a question ; 

An  hour  ago  you  would  have  given  your  soul 
To  look  like  other  men,  and  now  you  pause 
To  wear  the  form  of  heroes. 

Am.  No  ; I will  not. 

I must  not  compromise  my  soul. 

Stran.  What  soul, 

Worth  naming  so,  would  dwell  in  such  a carcass  ? 

Am.  ’Tis  an  aspiring  one,  whate’er  the  tenement 
In  which  it  is  mislodged.  But  name  your  compact : 
Must  it  be  sign’d  in  blood  ? 

Strati.  Not  in  your  own. 

Am.  Whose  blood  then  ? 

Stran.  We  will  talk  of  that  hereafter. 

But  I’ll  be  moderate  with  you,  for  I see 
Great  things  within  you.  You  shall  have  no  bond 
But  your  own  will,  no  contract  save  your  deeds. 

Are  you  content  ? 

Am.  I take  thee  at  thy  word. 

Vtran.  Now  then! — 

[The  Stranger  approaches  the  fountain , and 
turns  to  Arnold. 

A little  of  your  blood. 

Am.  Por  what  ? 

Stran.  To  mingle  with  the  magic  of  the  waters, 

And  make  the  charm  effective. 

Am.  [holding  out  his  wounded  arm).  Take  it  all. 


(1)  This  is  a well  known  German  superstition— a gigantic  shadow 
produced  by  reflection  on  the  Brocken  [The  Brocken  is  the  name 
of  the  loftiest  of  the  Harfz  mountains,  a picturesque  range  which 
lies  in  the  kingdom  of  Hanover.  From  the  earliest  periods  of 


Stran.  Not  now.  A few  drops  will  suffice  for  t.ua 

[ The  Stranger  lakes  some  of  Arnold’s  blood  in 
his  hand,  and  casts  it.  into  the  fountain. 

Stran.  Shadows  of  beauty ! 

Shadows  of  power ! 

Rise  to  your  duty — 

This  is  the  hour  ! 

Walk  lovely  and  pliant 

From  the  depth  of  this  fountain. 

As  the  cloud-shapen  giant 
Bestrides  the  Hartz  Mountain.1 
Come  as  ye  were, 

That  our  eyes  may  behold 
The  model  in  air 

Of  the  form  I will  mould, 

Bright  as  the  Iris 

When  ether  is  spann’d  ; — 

Such  his  desire  is,  [Pointing  to  Arnold. 

Such  my  command  ! 

Demons  heroic — 

Demons  who  wore 
The  form  of  the  stoic 
Or  sophist  of  yore — 

Or  the  shape  of  each  victor, 

From  M acedon’s  boy 
To  each  high  Roman’s  picture 
Who  breathed  to  destroy — 

Shadows  of  beauty  ! 

Shadows  of  power  ! 

Up  to  your  duty — 

This  is  the  hour  ! 

[Various  Phantoms  arise  from  the  routers,  and 
pass  in  succession  before  the  Stranger  and 
Arnold. 

Am.  What  do  I see  ? 

Stran.  The  black-eyed  Roman,  with. 

The  eagle’s  beak  between  those  eyes  which  ne’er 
Beheld  a conqueror,  or  look’d  along 
The  land  he  made  not  Rome’s,  while  Rome  became 
His,  and  all  theirs  who  lieir’d  his  very  name. 

Am.  The  phantom’s  bald ; my  quest  is  beauty. 
Could  I 

Inherit  but  his  fame  with  his  defects ! 

Stran.  His  brow  was  girt  with  laurels  more  than 
hairs. 

You  see  his  aspect — choose  it,  or  reject. 

I can  but  promise  you  his  form  : his  fame 
Must  be  long  sought  and  fought  for. 

Am.  I will  fight  too, 

But  not  as  a mock  Caesar.  Let  him  pass ; 

His  aspect  may  be  fair,  but  suits  me  not. 

Stran.  Then  you  are  far  more  difficult  to  please 
Than  Cato’s  sister,  or  than  Brutus’s  mother, 

Or  Cleopatra  at  sixteen — an  age 

When  love  is  not  less  in  the  eye  than  heart. 

But  be  it  so  ! Shadow,  pass  on ! 

[The  Phantom  of  Julius  Caesar  disappears. 
Am.  And  can  it 

Be,  that  the  man  who  shook  the  earth  is  gone, 

And  left  no  footstep  ? 

Stran.  There  you  err.  His  substance 

Left  graves  enough,  and  woes  enough,  and  fame 
More  than  enough  to  track  his  memory ; 

But  for  his  shadow,  ’tis  no  more  than  yours, 


authentic  history,  the  Brocken  lias  been  the  seat  of  the  marve- 
lous. For  a description  of  the  phenomenon  alluded  to  by  Lord 
Byron,  see  Sir  David  Brewster’s  “Natural  Magic,”  p.  128.] 


4CENE  I, 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


303 


Except  a little  longer  and  less  crook’d 
I’  the  sun.  Bel) old  another  ! 

[A  second  phantom  passes. 
Am.  Who  is  he  ? 

St  ran.  He  was  the  fairest  and  the  bravest  of 
Athenians.1  Look  upon  him  well. 

Am.  He  is 

More  lovely  than  the  last.  How  beautiful ! 
i Strait.  Such  was  the  curled  son  of  Clinias; — 
wouldst  thou 

Livest  thee  with  his  form  ? 

Am.  Would  that  I had 

Been  bora  with  it ! But  since  I may  choose  further, 
I will  look  further. 

[The  shade  of  Alcibiades  disappears. 
Stran.  Lo  ! behold  again  ! [eyed  satyr, 

Am.  What ! that  low.  swarthy,  short-nosed,  round- 
With  the  wide  nostrils  and  Silenus’  aspect, 

The  splay  feet  and  low  stature ! 2 I had  better 
Remain  that  which  I am. 

Stran.  And  yet  he  was 

The  earth’s  perfection  of  all  mental  beauty. 

And  personification  of  all  virtue. 

But  you  reject  him  ? 

Am.  If  his  form  could  bring  me 

That  which  redeem’d  it — no. 

Stran.  I have  no  power 

To  promise  that ; but  you  may  try,  and  find  it 
Easier  in  such  a form,  or  in  your  own. 

Am.  No.  I was  not  born  for  philosophy, 

Though  I have  that  about  me  which  has  need  on’t. 

Let  him  fleet  on. 

Stran.  Be  air,  thou  hemlock-drinker ! 

[The  shadow  of  Socrates  disappears : another  rises. 
Am.  What’s  here?  whose  broad  brow  and  whose 
curly  beard 

And  manly  aspect  look  like  Hercules,3 
Save  that  his  jocund  eye  hath  more  of  Bacchus 
Than  the  sad  purger  of  the  infernal  world, 

Leaning  dejected  on  his  club  of  conquest, 

As  if  lie  knew  the  worthlessness  of  those 
For  whom  he  had  fought. 

Stran.  It  was  the  man  who  lost 

The  ancient  world  for  love. 

Am.  1 cannot  blame  him, 

Since  I have  risk’d  my  soul  because  I find  not 
That  which  he  exchanged  the  earth  for. 

Stran.  Since  so  far 

You  seem  congenial,  will  you  wear  his  features  ? 

Am.  No.  As  you  leave  me  choice,  I am  difficult, 

If  but  to  see  the  heroes  I should  ne’er 
Have  seen  else  on  this  side  of  the  dim  shore 
Whence  they  float  back  before  us. 

Stran.  Hence,  triumvir ! 

Thy  Cleopatra’s  waiting. 

[The  shade  of  Anthony  disappears : another  rises. 


(1)  [I’.i  one  of  Lord  Byron’s  MS.  Diaries  we  find  the  following 
passage: — “Alcibiades  is  said  to  have  been  ‘successful  in  all  his 
battles' — but  what  battles ? Name  them!  If  you  mention  Caesar, 
or  Hannibal,  or  Nap  leon,  you  at  once  rush  upon  Pharsalia, 
Munda,  Alesia,  Cannae,  Thrasymene,  Trebia,  Lodi,  Marengo,  Jena, 
Austeriitz,  Friedland,  Wagram.  Moskwa:  but  it  is  less  easy  to 
pitch  upon  the  victories  orAlcibiades ; though  they  may  be  named 
too.  though  not  so  readily  as  the  Leuctra  ana  Mantinaea  of  Epami- 
nondas,  the  Marathon  of  Miltiades,  the  Salamis  of  Themistocles 
and  the  Thermopylae  of  Leonidas.  Yet,  upon  the  whole,  it  may  be 
doubted,  whether  there  be  a name  of  antiquity  which  comes  down 
with  such  a general  charm  as  that  of  Alcibiades.  Why  ? I cannot 
answer  Who  can?”] 

t2)  [*•  The  outside  of  Socrates  was  that  of  a satyr  and  buffoon,  but 


Am.  Who  is  this  ? 

Who  truly  looketh  like  a demigod, 

Blooming  and  bright,  with  golden  hair,  and  stature. 

If  not  more  high  than  mortal,  yet  immortal 
In  all  that  nameless  bearing  of  his  limbs, 

Which  he  wears  as  the  sun  his  rays — a something 
Which  shines  from  him,  and  yet  is  but  the  flash!  'g 
Emanation  of  a thing  more  glorious  still. 

Was  he  e'er  human  only  ? 4 

Stran.  Let  the  earth  speak, 

If  there  be  atoms  of  him  left,  or  even 
Of  the  more  solid  gold  that  form’d  his  urn. 

Am.  Who  was  this  glory  of  mankind  ? 

Stran.  The  shg’  ae 

Of  Greece  in  peace,  her  thunderbolt  in  war — 
Demetrius  the  Macedonian,  and 
Taker  of  cities. 

Am.  Yet  one  shadow  more. 

Stran.  ( addressing  the  shadow).  Get  thee  to  Lami  t’s 
lap  ! 

[The  shade  of  Demetrius  Poliorcetes  vanish*: 
another  rises. 

I’ll  fit  you  still, 

Fear  not,  my  hunchback  : if  the  shadows  of 
That  which  existed  please  not  your  nice  taste, 

I’ll  animate  the  ideal  marble,  till 

Your  soul  be  reconciled  to  her  new  garment. 

Am.  Content ! I will  fix  here. 

Stran.  I must  commend 

Your  choice.  The  god-like  son  of  the  sea-goddess, 
The  unshorn  boy  of  Peleus,  with  his  locks 
As  beautiful  and  clear  as  the  amber  waves 
Of  rich  Pactolus,  roll’d  o’er  sands  of  gold, 

Soften’d  by  intervening  crystals,  and 
Rippled  like  flowing  waters  by  the  wind, 

All  vow’d  to  Sperchius  as  they  were — behold  them  ! 
And  him — as  he  stood  by  Polixena, 

With  sanction’d  and  with  soften’d  love,  before 
The  altar,  gazing  on  his  Trojan  bride, 

With  some  remorse  within  for  Hector  slain 
And  Priam  weeping,  mingled  with  deep  passion 
For  the  sweet  downcast  virgin,  whose  young  hand 
Trembled  in  his  who  slew  her  brother.  So 
He  stood  i’  the  temple  ! Look  upon  him  as 
Greece  look’d  her  last  upon  her  best,  the  instant 
Ere  Paris’  arrow  flew. 

Am.  I gaze  upon  him 

As  if  I were  his  soul,  whose  form  shall  soon 
Envelope  mine. 

Stran.  You  have  done  well.  The  greatest 

Deformity  should  only  barter  with 
The  extremest  beauty,  if  the  proverb’s  true 
Of  mortals,  that  extremes  meet. 

Am.  Come  ! Be  quick ! 

I am  impatient. 

Stran.  As  a youthful  beauty 


his  soul  was  all  virtue,  and  from  within  him  carne  such  divine  and 

pathetic  things,  as  pierced  the  heart,  and  drew  tears  from  the 
hearers.” — Plato.] 

(3)  [“  His  face  was  as  the  heavens;  and  therein  stuck 

A sun  and  moon  ; which  kept  their  course,  and  lighted 
The  little  O,  the  earth. 

His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean : his  rear’d  arm 
Crested  the  world  : his  voice  was  propertied 
As  all  the  tuned  spheres,”  &c. — Sh  akspeakk.] 

(4)  [“The  beauty  and  mien  of  Demetrius  Poliorcetes  were  s<\ 
inimitable,  that  no  statuary  or  painter  could  hit  off  a likeness.  Hii 
countenance  had  a mixture  of  grace  and  dignity,  and  wat  at  once 
amiable  and  awful,  and  the  unsubdued  and  eager  air  of  youth  was 
blended  with  the  majesty  of  the  hero  and  the  king.”-  -Plutaiu/u.} 


304 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


FART  L 


Before  her  glass.  You  both  see  what  is  not, 

But  dream  it  is  what  must  be. 

Am.  Must  I wait  ? 

Stran.  No ; that  were  a pity.  But  a word  or  two  : 
His  stature  is  twelve  cubits  ; would  you  so  far 
Outstep  these  times,  and  be  a Titan  ? Or 
(To  talk  canonically)  wax  a son 
Of  Anak  P 

Am.  Why  not  ? 

Stran.  Glorious  ambition ! 

I love  thee  most  in  dwarfs  ! A mortal  of 
Philistine  stature  would  have  gladly  pared 
His  own  Goliath  down  to  a slight  David : 

But  thou,  my  manikin,  wouldst  soar  a show 
Rather  than  hero.  Thou  shalt  be  indulged. 

If  such  be  thy  desire ; and  yet,  by  being 
A little  less  removed  from  present  men 
In  figure,  thou  canst  sway  them  more ; for  all 
Would  rise  against  thee  now,  as  if  to  hunt 
A new-found  mammoth  ; and  their  cursed  engines, 
Their  culverins,  and  so  forth,  would  find  way 
Through  our  friend’s  armour  there,  with  greater  ease 
Than  the  adulterer’s  arrow  through  his  heel, 

Which  Thetis  had  forgotten  to  baptize 
In  Styx. 

Am.  Then  let  it  be  as  thou  deem’st  best,  [seest, 

Stran.  Thou  shalt  be  beauteous  as  the  thing  thou 
And  strong  as  what  it  was,  and 

Am.  I ask  not 

Por  valour,  since  deformity  is  daring.1 
It  is  its  essence  to  o’ertake  mankind 
By  heart  and  soul,  and  make  itself  the  equal — ■ 

Ay,  the  superior  of  the  rest.  There  is 
A spur  in  its  halt  movements,  to  become 
All  that  the  others  cannot,  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  to  both,  to  compensate 
For  stepdame  Nature’s  avarice  at  first. 

They  woo  with  fearless  deeds  the  smiles  of  fortune. 
And  oft,  like  Timour  the  lame  Tartar,  win  them.2 

Stran.  Well  spoken  ! And  thou  doubtless  wilt 
remain 

Jl  orm’d  as  thou  art.  I may  dismiss  the  mould 
Of  shadow,  which  must  turn  to  flesh,  to  incase 
This  daring  soul,  which  could  achieve  no  less 
Without  it. 

Am.  Had  no  power  presented  me 

The  possibility  of  change,  I would 
Have  done  the  best  which  spirit  may  to  make 
Its  way  with  all  deformity’s  dull,  deadly, 

Discouraging  weight  upon  me,  like  a mountain, 

In  feeling,  ou  my  heart  as  on  my  shoulders — 

An  hateful  and  unsightly  molehill,  to 
The  eyes  of  happier  man.  I would  have  look’d 
On  beauty  in  that  sex  which  is  the  type 
Of  all  we  know  or  dream  of  beautiful 
Beyond  the  world  they  brighten,  with  a sigh — 

Not  of  love,  but  despair ; nor  sought  to  win, 

Though  to  a heart  all  love,  what  could  not  love  me 


(i)  [“Whosoever,”  says  Lord  Bacon,  “bath  any  thing  fixed  in 
his  person  that  doth  induce  contempt,  hath  also  a perpetual  spur 
in  himself  to  rescue  and  deliver  himself  from  scorn;  therefore,  all 
deformed  persons  are  extreme  bold;  first,  as  in  their  own  defence, 
as  being  exposed  to  scorn,  but  in  process  of  time  by  a general 
nabit:  also  it  stirreth  in  them  industry,  and  especially  of  this  kind, 
?<■  watch  and  observe  the  weakness  of  others,  that  they  may  have 
somewhat  to  repay.  Again,  in  their  superiors,  it  quencheth  jealousy 
tow  irds  them,  as  persons  that  they  think  they  may  at  pleasure 
despise:  and  it  layetii  their  competitors  ami  emulators  asleep,  as 
uovei  believing  they  should  be  in  possibility  of  advancement  till 


In  turn,  because  of  this  vile  crooked  ciog, 

Which  makes  me  lonely.  Nay,  I could  have  boroe 
It  all,  had  not  my  mother  spurn’d  me  from  her. 

The  she-bcar  licks  her  cubs  into  a sort 
Of  shape ; — my  dam  beheld  my  shape  was  hopeless 
Had  she  exposed  me,  like  the  Spartan,  ere 
I knew  the  passionate  part  of  life,  I had 
Been  a clod  of  the  valley, — happier  nothing 
Than  what  I am.  But  even  thus,  the  lowest, 
Ugliest,  and  meanest  of  mankind,  what  courage 
And  perseverance  could  have  done,  perchance 
Had  made  me  something — as  it  has  made  heroes 
Of  the  same  mould  as  mine.  You  lately  saw  me 
Master  of  my  own  life,  and  quick  to  quit  it ; 

And  he  who  is  so  is  the  master  of 
Whatever  dreads  to  die. 

Stran.  Decide  between 

What  you  have  been,  or  will  be. 

Am.  I have  done  so. 

You  have  open’d  brighter  prospects  to  my  eyes, 

And  sweeter  to  my  heart.  As  I am  now, 

I might  be  fear’d,  admired,  respected,  loved 
Of  all  save  those  next  to  me,  of  whom  I 
Would  be  beloved.  As  thou  showest  me 
A choice  of  forms,  I take  the  one  I view. 

Haste ! haste  ! 

Stran.  And  what  shall  I wear  F 

Am.  Surely,  he 

Who  can  command  all  forms  will  choose  the  highest, 
Something  superior  even  to  that  which  was 
Pelides  now  before  us.  Perhaps  his 
Who  slew  him,  that  of  Paris  : or — still  higher — - 
The  poet’s  god,  clothed  in  such  limbs  as  are 
Themselves  a poetry. 

Stran.  Less  will  content  me  ; 

For  I,  too,  love  a change. 

Am.  Your  aspect  is 

Dusky,  but  not  uncomely. 

Stran.  If  I chose, 

I might  be  whiter  ; but  I have  a penchant 

For  black — it  is  so  honest,  and  besides 

Can  neither  blush  with  shame  nor  pale  with  fear  ; 

But  I have  worn  it  long  enough  of  late, 

And  now  I’ll  take  your  figure. 

Am.  Mine ! 

Stran.  Yes.  You 

Shall  change  with  Thetis’  son,  and  I with  Bertha 
Your  mother’s  offspring.  People  have  their  taste.s  ; 
You  have  yours-^-1  mine. 

Am.  Despatch  ! despatch  ! 

Stran.  Even  so. 

[ The  Stranger  takes  some  earth  and  moulds  it 
along  the  turf,  and  then  addresses  the  phan- 
tom of  Achilles. 

Beautiful  shadow 
Of  Thetis’s  boy  ! 

Who  sleeps  in  the  meadow 
Whose  grass  grows  o’er  Troy  : 


they  see  them  in  possession  ; so  that  upon  the  matter,  In  a u rea< 
wit,  deformity  is  an  advantage  to  rising.” — Essay  lv.] 

(2)  [Lord  Byron’s  chief  incentive,  when  a boy,  to  distinction 
was  that  mark  of  deformity,  by  an  acute  sense  of  which  he  was 
first  stung  into  the  ambition  of  being  great.  In  one  of  his  letters  to 
Mr,  Hunt,  he  declares  it  to  be  his  own  opinion  that  ‘an  addiction 
to  poetry  is  very  generally  the  result  of  an  uneasy  mind  in  ap 
uneasv  body;  disease  or  deformity,’  he  adds,  ‘have  been  the 
attendants  of  many  of  our  best:  Collins  mad — Chatterton.  I think, 
mad  — Cowper  mad  — Pope  crooked  — Milton  blind,’  &c.  &c.” — 
Moore.] 


SCENE  I. 


TIIE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


305 


From  the  red  earth,  like  Adam,1 
Thy  likeness  I shape, 

As  the  being  who  made  him, 

Whose  actions  I ape. 

Thou  clay,  be  all  glowing. 

Till  the  rose  in  his  cheek 
Be  as  fair  as,  when  blowing. 

It  wears  its  first  streak ! 

Ye  violets,  I scatter. 

Now  turn  into  eyes  ! 

And  thou,  sunshiny  water, 

Of  blood  take  the  guise ! 

Let  these  hyacinth  boughs 
Be  his  long  flowing  hair, 

And  wave  o’er  his  brows, 

As  thou  wavest  in  air  ! 

Let  his  neart  be  this  marble 
I tear  from  the  rock  S 
But  his  voice  as  the  warble 
Of  birds  on  yon  oak  ! 

Let  his  flesh  be  the  purest 
Of  mould,  in  which  grew 
The  lily-root  surest, 

And  drank  the  best  dew  ! 

Let  his  limbs  be  the  lightest 
Which  clay  can  compound, 

And  his  aspect  the  brightest 
On  earth  to  be  found  ! 

Elements,  near  me, 

Be  mingled  and  stirr’d. 

Know  me,  and  hear  me, 

And  leap  to  my  word  ! 

Sunbeams,  awaken 
This  earth’s  animation  ! 

’Tis  done  ! He  hath  taken 
His  stand  in  creation  1 

[Arnold  falls  senseless ; his  soul  passes  into  the 
shape  of  Achilles,  which  rises  from  Ihe  ground  ; 
while  the  phantom  has  disappeared , part  by 
part , as  the  figure  was  formed  from  the 
earth. 

Am.  [in  his  new  form).  I love,  and  I shall  be  beloved ! 
Oh  life! 

At  last  I feel  thee  ! Glorious  spirit ! 

Stran.  Stop ! 

What  shall  become  of  your  abandon’d  garment, 

Yon  hump,  and  lump,  and  clod  of  ugliness, 

Which  late  you  wore,  or  were  ? 

Am.  Who  cares  ? Let  wolves 

And  vultures  take  if,  if  they  will. 

Stran.  And  if 

They  do,  and  are  not  scared  by  it,  you’ll  say 
It  must  be  peace-time,  and  no  better  fare 
Abroad  i’  the  fields. 

Am.  Let  us  but  leave  it  there ; 

No  matter  what  becomes  on’t. 

Stran.  That’s  ungracious. 

If  not  ungrateful.  Whatsoe’er  it  be, 

It  hath  sustain’d  your  soul  full  many  a day. 

Am.  Ay,  as  the  dunghill  may  conceal  a gem 
Which  is  now  set  in  gold,  as  jewels  should  be. 

Stran.  But  if  I give  another  form,  it  must  be 
By  fair  exchange,  not  robbery.  For  they 
Who  make  men  without  women’s  aid  have  long 
Had  patents  for  the  same,  and  do  not  love 


(i)  Adam  means  11  red  earth,”  from  which  the  first  man  was 

formed. 


Your  interlopers.  The  devil  may  take  men, 

Not  make  them, — though  he  reap  the  benefit 
Of  the  original  tvorkmanship  : — and  therefore 
Some  one  must  be  found  to  assume  the  shape 
You  have  quitted. 

Am.  Who  would  do  so  P 

Stran.  That  I know  not, 

And  therefore  I must. 

Am.  You ! 

Stran.  I said  it  ere 

You  inhabited  your  present  dome  of  beauty. 

Am.  True.  I forget  all  things  in  the  new  joy 
Of  this  immortal  change. 

Stran.  In  a few  moments 

I will  be  as  you  were,  and  you  shall  see 
Yourself  for  ever  by  you,  as  your  shadow. 

Am.  I would  be  spared  this. 

Stran.  But  it  cannot  be. 

What ! shrink  already,  being  what  you  are, 

From  seeing  what  you  were  ? 

Am.  Do  as  thou  wilt. 

Strati,  {to  the  late  form  of  Arnold,  extended  on  the 
earth). 

Clay  ! not  dead,  but  soul-less  1 

Though  no  man  would  choose  thee, 

An  immortal  no  less 

Deigns  not  to  refuse  thee. 

Clay  thou  art ; and  unto  spirit 
All  clay  is  of  equal  merit. 

Fire  ! 'without  wdiicli  nought  can  h re  ; 

Fire  ! but  in  wTiicli  nought  can  live, 

Save  the  fabled  salamander, 

Or  immortal  souls,  which  wander, 

Praying  what  doth  not  forgive. 

Howling  for  a drop  of  water, 

Burning  in  a quenchless  lot : 

Fire  ! the  only  element 

WThere  nor  fish,  beast,  bird,  nor  worm, 

Save  the  worm  which  dieth  not, 

Can  preserve  a moment’s  form, 

But  must  with  thyself  be  blent : 

Fire  ! man’s  safeguard  and  his  slaughter  • 

Fire  ! Creation’s  first  born  daughter, 

And  Destruction’s  threaten’d  son. 

When  heaven  with  the  world  hath,  done  : 
Fire  ! assist  me  to  renew 
Life  in  what  lies  in  my  view 
Stiff  and  cold ! 

His  resurrection  rests  with  me  and  you . 

One  little,  marshy  spark  of  flame — 

And  he  again  shall  seem  the  same  ; 

But  I his  spirit’s  place  shall  hold ! 

[An  ignis  fatuus  fits  through  the  wood  and  rests  on 
the  brow  of  the  body.  The  Stranger  dis- 
appears : the  body  rises. 

Arn.  (in  his  new  form).  Oh  ! horrible  ! [thou  ? 

Stran.  (in  Arnold’s  late  shape).  What ! trembh  st 
Am.  Not  so  — 

I merely  shudder.  Where  is  fled  the  shape 
Thou  lately  worest  ? 

Stran.  To  the  world  of  shadows. 

But  let  us  thread  the  present.  Whither  wilt  thou  ? 
Arn.  Must  thou  be  my  companion  ? 

Stran.  Wherefore  not  ? 

Your  betters  keep  worse  company. 

Am.  My  betters ! 

Stran.  Oh  ! you  wax  proud,  I see,  of  your  new 
form  : 


306 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


PA  Iff  I. 


Dm ‘glad  of  that.  Ungrateful  too  ! That’s  well ; 

You  improve  apace  ; two  changes  in  an  instant, 

And  you  are  old  in  the  world’s  ways  already. 

But  bear  with  me  : indeed  you’ll  find  me  useful 
Upon  your  pilgrimage.  But  come,  pronounce 
Where  shall  we  now  be  errant? 

Am.  Where  the  world 

Is  thickest,  that  I may  behold  it  in 
Its  workings. 

St  ran.  That’s  to  say,  where  there  is  war 

And  woman  in  activity.  Let ’s  see  ! 

Spain — Italy — the  new  Atlantic  world — 

Afric,  with  all  its  Moors.  In  very  truth, 

There  is  small  choice  : the  whole  race  are  just  now 
Tugging  as  usual  at  each  other’s  hearts. 

Am.  I have  heard  great  things  of  Rome. 

Stran.  A goodly  choice — 

And  scarce  a better  to  be  found  on  earth, 

Since  Sodom  was  put  out.  The  field  is  wide  too ; 

For  now  the  Frank,  and  Hun,  and  Spanish  scion 
Of  the  old  Vandals  are  at  play  along 
The  sunny  shores  of  the  world’s  garden. 

Am.  How 

Shall  we  proceed  ? 

Stran.  Like  gallants  on  good  coursers. 

What  ho ! my  chargers  ! Never  yet  were  better, 
Since  Phaeton  was  upset  into  the  Po. 

Our  pages  too  ! 

Enter  two  Pages , with  four  coal-black  horses, 
irn.  A noble  sight ! 

Stran.  And  of 

A nobler  breed.  Match  me  in  Barbary, 

Or  your  Kochlini  race  of  Araby, 

With  these  ! 

Am.  The  mighty  steam,  which  volumes  high 

From  their  proud  nostrils,  burns  the  very  air  ; 

And  sparks  of  flame,  like  dancing  fire-flies,  wheel 
Around  their  manes,  as  common  insects  swarm 
Round  common  steeds  towards  sunset. 

Stran.  Mount,  my  lord : 

They  and  I are  your  servitors. 

Am.  And  these 

Our  dark -eyed  pages — what  may  be  their  names  ? 
Stran.  You  shall  baptize  them. 

Am.  What ! in  holy  water  ? 

Stran.  Why  not  ? The  deeper  sinner,  better  saint. 
Am.  They  are  beautiful,  and  cannot,  sure,  be 
demons. 

Stran.  True;  the  devil’s  always  ugly;  and  your 
beauty 

Is  never  diabolical. 

Am.  I’ll  call  him 

Who  bears  the  golden  horn,  and  wears  such  bright 
And  blooming  aspect,  Huon  ; for  he  looks 
Like  to  the  lovely  boy  lost  in  the  forest, 

And  never  found  till  now.  And  for  the  other 
And  darker,  and  more  thoughtful,  who  smiles  not, 

But  looks  as  serious  though  serene  as  night, 

He  shall  be  Memnon,  from  the  Ethiop  king 
Whose  statue  turns  a harper  once  a day. 

And  you  ? 

Stran.  I have  ten  thousand  names,  and  twice 
A s many  attributes  ; but  as  I wear 
A human  shape,  will  take  a human  name. 

Am.  More  human  than  the  shape  (though  it  was 
mine  once) 


Stran.  Then  call  me  Caesar. 

Am.  Why,  that  name 

Belongs  to  empires,  and  has  been  but  borne 
By  the  world’s  lords. 

Stran.  And  therefore  fittest  for 

The  devil  in  disguise — since  so  you  deem  me, 

Unless  you  call  me  pope  instead. 

Am.  Well,  then, 

Caesar  thou  shalt  be.  For  myself,  my  name 
Shall  be  plain  Arnold  still. 

Ones.  We’ll  add  a title — 

“ Count  Arnold  it  hath  no  ungracious  sound, 

And  will  look  well  upon  a billet-doux. 

Am.  Or  in  an  order  for  a battle-field.  [steed 

C(BS.  (sings)  To  horse  ! to  horse ! my  coal-blaeX 
Paws  the  ground  and  snuffs  the  air ! 

There’s  not  a foal  of  Arab’s  breed 
More  knows  whom  he  must  bear ; 

On  the  hill  he  will  not  tire, 

Swifter  as  it  waxes  higher ; 

In  the  marsh  he  will  not  slacken, 

On  the  plain  be  overtaken  ; 

In  the  wave  he  will  not  sink, 

Nor  pause  af  the  brook’s  side  to  drink ; 

In  the  race  he  will  not  pant, 

In  the  combat  he’ll  not  faint  ! 

On  the  stones  he  will  not  stumble, 

Time  nor  toil  shall  make  him  humble ; 

In  the  stall  he  will  not  stiffen. 

But  be  winged  as  a griffin. 

Only  flying  with  his  feet : 

And  will  not  such  a voyage  be  sweet  ? 

Merrily  ! merrily  ! never  unsound, 

Shall  our  bonny  black  horses  skim  over  the  ground ! 
From  the  Alps  to  the  Caucasus,  ride  we,  or  fly  ! 

For  we  leave  them  behind  in  the  glance  of  an  eye. 

\_They  mount  their  horses  and  disappear. 

SCENE  II. 

A Camp  before  the  Walls  of  Rome. 

Arnold  and  Caesar. 

Ones.  You  are  well  enter’d  now. 

Am.  Ay  ; but  my  path 

Has  been  o’er  carcasses  : mine  eyes  are  full 
Of  blood. 

Cces.  Then  wipe  them,  and  see  clearly.  Why  ! 
Thou  art  a conqueror ; the  chosen  knight 
And  free  companion  of  the  gallant  Bourbon, 

Late  constable  of  France  ; and  now  to  be 
Lord  of  the  city  which  hath  been  earth’s  lord 
Under  its  emperors,  and — changingsex, 

Not  sceptre,  an  hermaphrodite  of  empire — 

Lady  of  the  old  world. 

Am.  How  old ? What ! are  there 

New  worlds  ? 

Cces.  To  you.  You’ll  find  there  are  such  shortly, 
By  its  rich  harvests,  new  disease,  and  gold ; 

From  one  half  of  the  world  named  a whole  new  one. 
Because  you  know  no  better  than  the  dull 
And  dubious  notice  of  your  eyes  and  ears. 

Am.  I’ll  trust  them. 

Cces.  Do  i They  will  deceive  you  sweetly 

And  that  is  better  than  the  bitter  truth. 

Am.  Dog  ! 

Cces.  Man ! 

Am. 


I trust. 


Devil ! 


aCEJTE  II. 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


307 


Cces.  Your  obedient  humble  servant. 

Am.  Say  master  rather.  Thou  hast  lured  me  on, 
Through  scenes  of  blood  and  lust,  till  I am  here. 

Ores.  And  where  wouldst  thou  be  ? 

Ani.  Oh,  at  peace — in  peace. 

Cces.  And  where  is  that  which  is  so  ? From  the  star 
To  the  winding  worm,  all  life  is  motion ; and 
In  life  commotion  is  the  extremest  point 
Of  life.  The  planet  wheels  till  it  becomes 
A comet,  and  destroying  as  it  sweeps 
The  stars,  goes  out.  The  poor  worm  winds  its  way, 
Living  upon  the  death  of  other  tilings, 

But  still,  like  them,  must  live  and  die,  the  subject 
Of  something  which  has  made  it  live  and  die. 

You  must  obey  what  all  obey,  the  rule 
Of  fix’d  necessity : against  her  edict 
Rebellion  prospers  not. 

Am.  And  when  it  prospers 

Cces.  ’Tis  no  rebellion. 

Am.  Will  it  prosper  now  ? 

Cces.  The  Bourbon  hath  given  orders  for  the  assault, 
And  by  the  dawn  there  will  be  work. 

Am.  Alas ! 

And  shall  the  city  yield  ? I see  the  giant 
Abode  of  the  true  God,  and  his  true  saint, 

Saint  Peter,  rear  its  dome  and  cross  into 
That  sky  whence  Christ  ascended  from  the  cross, 
Which  his  blood  made  a badge  of  glory  and 
Of  joy  (as  once  of  torture  unto  him, 

God  and  God’s  Son,  man’s  sole  and  only  refuge). 

Cces.  ’Tis  there,  and  shall  be. 

Am.  What  ? 

Cces.  The  crucifix 

Above,  and  many  altar  shrines  below. 

Also  some  culverins  upon  the  walls, 

And  harquebusses,  and  what  not ; besides 
The  men  who  are  to  kindle  them  to  death 
Of  other  men. 

Am.  And  those  scarce  mortal  arches, 

Pile  above  pile  of  everlasting  wall, 

The  theatre  where  emperors  and  their  subjects 
(Those  subjects  Romans)  stood  at  gaze  upon 
The  battles  of  the  monarchs  of  the  wild 
And  wood,  the  lion  and  his  tusky  rebels 
Of  the  then  untamed  desert,  brought  to  joust 
In  the  arena  (as  right  well  they  might, 

When  they  had  left  no  human  foe  unconquer’d)  ; 

Made  even  the  forest  pay  its  tribute  of 
Life  to  their  amphitheatre,  as  well 
As  Dacia  men  to  die  the  eternal  death 
For  a sole  instant’s  pastime,  and  “ Pass  on 
To  a new  gladiator ! ” — Must  it  fall  ? 

Cces.  The  city,  or  the  amphitheatre  ? 

The  church,  or  one,  or  all  ? for  you  confound 
Both  them  and  me. 

Am.  To-morrow  sounds  the  assault 

With  the  first  cock-crow. 

Cces.  Which,  if  it  end  with 

The  evening’s  first  nightingale,  will  be 
Something  new  in  the  annals  of  great  sieges  ; 

For  men  must  have  their  prey  after  long  toil. 

Am.  The  sun  goes  down  as  calmly,  and  perhaps 
More  beautifully,  than  he  did  on  Home 
On  the  day  Remus  leapt  her  wall. 


(!)  [Suetonius  relates  of  Julius  Caesar,  that  his  baldness  gave  him 
imifh  uneasiness,  having  often  found  himself,  upon  that  account, 
J»po-.ed  to  Oi)  ridicule  of  his  enemies;  and  that,  therefore,  of  all 


Cces.  I saw  him. 

Am.  You ! 

Cces.  Yes,  sir.  You  forget  1 am  or  was 

Spirit,  till  I took  up  with  your  cast  shape 
And  a worse  name.  I’m  Caesar  and  a hunchback 
Now.  Well!  the  first  of  Caesars  was  a bald-head. 
And  loved  his  laurels  better  as  a wig 
(So  history  says)  than  as  a glory.1  Thus 
The  world'  runs  on,  but  we’ll  be  merry  still. 

I saw  your  Romulus  (simple  as  I am) 

Slay  his  own  twin,  quickborn  of  the  same  womb, 
Because  he  leapt  a ditch  (’twas  then  no  wall, 
Whate’er  it  now  be) ; and  Rome’s  earliest  cement 
Was  brother’s  blood ; and  if  its  native  blood 
Be  spilt  till  the  choked  Tiber  be  as  red 
As  e’er  ’twas  yellow,  it  will  never  wear 
The  deep  hue  of  the  ocean  and  the  earth. 

Which  the  great  robber  sons  of  fratricide 
Have  made  their  never-ceasing  scene  of  slaughter 
For  ages. 

Am.  But  what  have  these  done,  their  far 
Remote  descendants,  who  have  lived  in  peace. 

The  peace  of  heaven,  and  in  her  sunshine  of 
Piety  ? 

Cces.  And  what  had  they  done,  whom  the  old 
Romans  o’erswept  ? — Hark  ! 

Am.  They  are  soldiers  singing 

A reckless  roundelay,  upon  the  eve 
Of  many  deaths,  it  may  be  of  their  own. 

Cces.  And  why  should  they  not  sing  as  well  as 
swans  ? 

They  are  black  ones,  to  be  sure. 

Am.  So,  you  are  learn’ d, 

I see,  too  ? 

Cces.  In  my  grammar,  certes.  I 
Was  educated  for  a monk  of  all  times, 

And  once  I was  well  versed  in  the  forgotten 
Etruscan  letters,  and — were  I so  minded — 

Could  make  their  hieroglyphics  plainer  than 
Your  alphabet. 

Am.  And  wherefore  do  you  not  ? 

Cces.  It  answers  better  to  resolve  the  alphabet 
Back  into  hieroglyphics.  Like  your  statesman, 

And  prophet,  pontiff,  doctor,  alchymist, 

Philosopher,  and  what  not,  they  have  built 
More  Babels,  without  new  dispersion,  than 
The  stammering  young  ones  of  the  flood  s dull  ooze, 
Who  fail’d  and  fled  each  other.  Why  ? why,  marry, 
Because  no  man  could  understand  his  neighbour. 

They  are  wiser  now,  and  will  not  separate 
For  nonsense.  Nay,  it  is  their  brotherhood, 

Their  Shibboleth,  their  Koran,  Talmud,  their 
Cabala ; their  best  brick-work,  wherewithal 
They  build  more 

Am.  ( interrupting  him.)  Oh,  thou  everlasting 
sneerer ! 

Be  silent ! How  the  soldiers’  rough  strain  seems 
Soften’d  by  distance  to  a hymn-like  cadence  ! 

Listen ! 

Cces.  Yes.  I have  heard  the  angels  sing. 

Am.  And  demons  howl. 

Cces.  And  man  too.  Let  us 

listen : 

I love  all  music. 


the  honours  conferred  upon  him  by  the  senate  and  people,  ther2 
»as  none  which  he  either  accepted  or  used  with  so  much  pleasturi 
as  the  right  of  wearing  constantly  a laurel  crown.] 


308 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


FART  l 


Song  of  the  Soldiers  within. 

The  black  bands  came  over 
The  Alps  and  their  snow  ; 

With  Bourbon,  the  rover. 

They  pass’d  the  broad  Po. 

We  have  beaten  ail  foemen, 

We  have  captured  a king, 

We  have  turn’d  back  on  no  men, 

And  so  let  us  sing  ! 

Here’s  the  Bourbon  for  ever! 

Though  penniless  all. 

We’ll  have  one  more  endeavour 
At  yonder  old  wall. 

With  the  Bourbon  We’ll  gather 
At  day-dawn  before 
The  gates,  and  together 
Or  break  or  climb  o’er 
The  wall : on  the  ladder 
As  mounts  each  firm  foot, 

Our  shout  shall  grow  gladder. 

And  deatli  only  be  mute. 

With  the  Bourbon  we’ll  mount  o’er 
The  walls  of  old  Rome, 

And  who  then  shall  count  o’er 
The  spoils  of  each  dome  ? 

Up  ! up  with  the  lily  ! 

And  down  with  the  keys  ! 

In  old  Rome,  the  seven-hilly. 

We’ll  revel  at  ease. 

Her  streets  shall  be  gory, 

Her  Tiber  all  red, 

And  her  temples  so  hoary 
Shall  clang  with  our  tread. 

Oh,  the  Bourbon  ! the  Bourbon ! 

The  Bourbon  for  aye  ! 

Of  our  song  bear  the  burden  ! 

And  fire,  fire  away  ! 

With  Spain  for  the  vanguard. 

Our  varied  host  comes  ; 

And  next  to  the  Spaniard 
Beat  Germany’s  drums ; 

And  Italy’s  lances 

Are  couch’d  at  their  mother ; 

But  our  leader  from  France  is, 

Who  warr’d  with  his  brother. 

Oh,  the  Bourbon  ! the  Bourbon ! 

Sans  country  or  home, 

We’ll  follow  the  Bourbon, 

To  plunder  old  Rome. 

Caes.  An  indifferent  song 

For  those  within  the  walls,  methinks,  to  hear. 

Am.  Yes,  if  they  keep  to  their  chorus.  But  here 
comes 

The  general  with  his  chiefs  and  men  of  trust. 

A goodly  rebel ! 

Enter  the  Constable  Bourbon  1 “ cum  suis ,”  Sfc.  fyc. 

Phil.  Ilow  now,  noble  prince, 

You  are  not  cheerful  ? 

Boarb.  Why  should  I be  so  ? 

Phil.  Updh  the  eve  of  conquest,  such  as  ours, 
Most  men  would  be  so. 

Bourb.  If  I were  secure ! 


Phil.  Doubt  not  our  soldiers.  Were  the  walls  of 
adamant, 

They’d  crack  them.  Hunger  is  a sharp  artillery. 

Bourb.  That  they  will  falter  is  my  least  of  fears. 
That  they  will  be  repulsed,  with  Bourbon  for 
Their  chief,  and  all  their  kindled  appetites 
To  marshal  them  on — were  those  hoary  walls 
Mountains,  and  those  who  guard  them  like  the  gods 
Of  the  old  fables,  I would  trust  my  Titans ; — 

But  now 

Phil.  They  are  but  men  who  war  with  mortals. 
Bourb.  True  : but  those  walls  have  girded  in  great 
ages, 

And  sent  forth  mighty  spirits.  The  past  earth 
And  present  phantom  of  imperious  Rome 
Is  peopled  with  those  warriors ; and  methinks 
They  flit  along  the  eternal  city’s  rampart, 

And  stretch  their  glorious,  gory,  shadowy  hands, 

And  beckon  me  away ! 

Phil.  So  let  them  ! Wilt  thou 

Turn  back  from  shadowv  menaces  of  shadows  ? 

Bourb.  They  do  not  menace  me.  I could  have 
faced, 

Methinks,  a Sylla’s  menace  ; but  they  clasp, 

And  raise,  and  wring  their  dim  and  deathlike  hands, 
And  with  their  thin  aspen  faces  and  fix’d  eyes 
Fascinate  mine.  Look  there  ! 

Phil.  I look  upon 

A lofty  battlement. 

Bourb.  And  there  ! 

Phil.  Not  even 

A guard  in  sight ; they  wisely  keep  below, 

Shelter’d  by  the  gray  parapet  from  some 
Stray  bullet  of  our  lansquenets,  who  might 
Practise  in  the  cool  twilight. 

Bourb.  You  are  blind. 

Phil.  If  seeing  nothing  more  than  may  be  seen 
Be  so. 

Bourb.  A thousand  years  have  mann’d  the  walls 
With  all  their  heroes, — the  last  Cato  stands 
And  tears  his  bowels,  rather  than  survive 
The  liberty  of  that  I would  enslave. 

And  the  first  C&sar  with  his  triumphs  flits 
From  battlement  to  battlement. 

Phil.  Then  conquer 

The  walls  for  which  he  conquer’d,  and  be  greater  ! 
Bourb.  True : so  I will,  or  perish. 

Phil.  You  can  not. 

In  such  an  enterprise  to  die  is  rather 
The  dawn  of  an  eternal  day,  than  deatli. 

[Count  Arnold  and  Caesar  adctt-nce. 
Cees.  And  the  mere  men  — do  they  too  sweat 
beneath 

The  noon  of  this  same  ever-scorching  glory  ? 

Bourb.  Ah ! 

Welcome  the  bitter  hunchback  ! and  his  master. 

The  beauty  of  our  host,  and  brave  as  beauteous. 

And  generous  as  lovely.  We  shall  find 
Work  for  you  both  ere  morning. 

Cats.  You  will  find, 

So  please  your  highness,  no  less  for  yourseif. 

Bourb.  And  if  I do,  there  will  not  be  a labourer 
More  forward,  hunchback ! 

Cas.  You  may  well  sa^  so. 

For  you  have  seen  that  back — as  general, 


(1)  [Charles  of  Bourbon  was  cousin  to  Francis  I.,  and  Constable 
of  France.  Being  bitterly  persecuted  by  the  queen-mother  for 


having  declined  the  honour  of  her  hand,  and  also  by  the  king,  lit 
transferred  his  services  to  the  Emperor  Charles  V ] 


SCENE  II 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


309 


Placed  in  the  rear  in  action — but  your  foes 
Have  never  seen  it. 

Bourb.  That’s  a fair  retort, 

For  I provoked  it : — but  the  Bourbon’s  breast 
Has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  far  advanced 
In  danger’s  face  as  yours,  were  you  the  devil. 

Coes.  And  if  I were,  I might  have  saved  myself 
The  toil  of  coming  here. 

Phil.  Why  so  ? 

Coes.  m One  half 

Of  your  brave  bands  of  their  own  bold  accord 
Will  go  to  him,  the  other  half  be  sent, 

More  swiftly,  not  less  surely. 

Bourb.  * * Arnold,  your 

Slight  crooked  friend ’s  as  snake-like  in  his  words 
As  in  his  deeds. 

Coes.  Your  highness  much  mistakes  me. 

The  first  snake  was  a flatterer — I am  none ; 

And  for  my  deeds,  I only  sting  when  stung. 

Bourb.  You  are  brave,  and  that’s  enough  for  me ; 
and  quick 

In  speecli  as  sharp  in  action — and  that’s  more. 

I am  not  alone  a soldier,  but  the  soldiers’ 

Comrade. 

Coes.  They  are  but  bad  company,  your  highness  : 
And  worse  even  for  their  friends  than  foes,  as  being 
More  permanent  acquaintance. 

Phil.  How  now,  fellow ! 

Thou  waxest  insolent,  beyond  the  privilege 
Of  a buffoon. 

Coes.  You  mean  I speak  the  truth. 

I’ll  lie — it  is  as  easy  : then  you’ll  praise  me 
For  calling  you  a hero. 

Bourb.  Philibert ! 

Let  him  alone  ; he’s  brave,  and  ever  has  [der, 

Been  first,  with  that  swart  face  and  mountain  shoul- 
lu  field  or  storm,  and  patient  in  starvation  ; 

And  for  his  tongue,  the  camp  is  full  of  license, 

And  the  sharp  stinging  of  a lively  rogue 
I s,  to  my  mind,  far  preferable  to 
The  gross,  dull,  heavy,  gloomy  execration 
Of  a mere  famish’d,  sullen,  grumbling  slave, 

Whom  nothing  can  convince  save  a full  meal. 

And  wine,  and  sleep,  and  a few  maravedis, 

With  which  he  deems  him  rich. 

Coes.  It  would  be  well 

If  the  earth’s  princes  ask’d  no  more. 

Bourb.  Be  silent ! 

Coes.  Ay,  but  not  idle.  Work  yourself  with  words  ! 
You  have  few  to  speak. 

Phil.  What  means  the  audacious  prater? 

Coes.  To  prate,  like  other  prophets. 

Bourb.  Philibert ! 

Why  will  you  vex  him  ? Have  we  not  enough 
To  think  on  ? Arnold ! I will  lead  the  attack 
To-morrow. 

Am.  I have  heard  as  much,  my  lord. 

Bourb.  Amd  you  will  follow  ? 

Am.  Since  I must  not  lead. 

Bourb.  ’Tis  necessary  for  the  further  daring 
Of  our  too  needy  army,  that  their  chief 
Plant  the  first  foot  upon  the  foremost  ladder’s 
First  step. 

Coes.  Upon  its  topmost,  let  us  hope  : 

So  shall  he  have  his  full  deserts. 

Bourb.  The  world’s 

Great  capital  perchance  is  ours  to-morrow. 

Through  every  change  the  seven-hill’d  city  hath 


Retain’d  her  sway  o’er  nations,  and  the  Caesars 
But  yielded  to  the  Alarics,  the  Alarics 
Unto  the  pontiffs.  Roman,  Goth,  or  priest, 

Still  the  world’s  masters  ! Civilized,  barbarian. 

Or  saintly,  still  the  walls  of  Romulus 
Have  been  the  circus  of  an  empire.  Well ! 

’Twas  their  turn — now  ’tis  ours  ; and  let  us  hope 
That  w'e  will  fight  as  well,  and  rule  much  better. 

Coes.  No  doubt,  the  camp’s  the  school  of  civic 
rights. 

What  would  you  make  of  Rome  ? 

Bourb.  That  which  it  was. 

Coes.  In  Alaric’s  time  ? 

Bourb.  No,  slave  ! in  the  first  Caesar’s, 

Whose  name  you  bear  like  other  curs 

Coes.  And  kings  ! 

’Tis  a great  name  for  blood-hounds. 

Bourb.  There’s  a demon 

In  that  fierce  rattle-snake  thy  tongue.  Wilt  never 
Be  serious  ? 

Coes.  On  the  eve  of  battle,  no  ; — 

That  were  not  soldier-like.  ’Tis  for  the  general 
To  be  more  pensive  : we  adventurers 
Must  be  more  cheerful.  Wherefore  should  we  think  ? 
Our  tutelar  deity,  in  a leader’s  shape, 

Takes  care  of  us.  Keep  thought  aloof  from  hosts  ! 

If  the  knaves  take  to  thinking,  you  will  have 
To  crack  those  walls  alone. 

Bourb.  You  may  sneer,  since 

’Tis  lucky  for  you  that  you  fight  no  worse  for’t. 

Coes.  I thank  you  for  the  freedom  ; ’tis  the  only 
Pay  I have  taken  in  your  highness’  service. 

Bourb.  Well,  sir,  to  morrow  you  shall  pay  yourself. 
Look  on  those  towers  ; they  hold  my  treasury  : 

But,  Philibert,  we’ll  in  to  council.  Arnold, 

We  would  request  your  presence. 

Am.  Prince  ! my  service 

Is  yours,  as  in  the  field. 

Bourb.  In  both  we  prize  it, 

And  yours  will  be  a post  of  trust  at  daybreak. 

Coes.  And  mine  ? 

Bourb.  To  follow  glory  with  the  Bourbon. 

Good  night ! 

Am.  {to  Caesar).  Prepare  our  armour  for  the 
assault. 

And  wait  within  my  tent. 

[Exeunt  Bourbon,  Arnold,  Philibert,  Sfc. 
Coes,  {solus).  Within  thy  tent ! 

Think’st  thou  that  I pass  from  thee  with  my  presence  ? 

Or  that  this  crooked  coffer,  which  contain’d 

Thy  principle  of  life,  is  aught  to  me 

Except  a mask  ? And  these  are  men,  forsooth  ! 

Heroes  and  chiefs,  the  flower  of  Adam’s  bastards  ! 

This  is  the  consequence  of  giving  matter 

The  power  of  thought.  It  is  a stubborn  substance, 

And  thinks  chaotically,  as  it  acts, 

Ever  relapsing  into  its  first  elements. 

Well ! I must  play  with  these  poor  puppets  : ’tis 
The  spirit’s  pastime  in  his  idler  hours. 

When  I grow  weary  of  it,  I have  business 
Amongst  the  stars,  which  these  poor  creatures  deem 
Were  made  for  them  to  look  at.  ’Twere  a jest  nowr 
To  bring  one  down  amongst  them,  and  set  fire 
Unto  their  anthill : how  the  pismires  then 
Would  scamper  o’er  the  scalding  soil,  and,  ceasing 
From  tearing  down  each  other’s  nests,  pipe  fortn 
One  universal  orison ! Ha ! ha  ! 

\_Ex  it  Cjesar 


310 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


PART  II 


FART  II. 

SCENE  I. 

Before  the  Walls  of  Rome. — The  assault:  the  army  in 
motion,  with  ladders  to  scale  the  walls ; Bourbon, 
with  a white  scarf  over  his  armour,  foremost. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  in  the  air. 

1. 

’Tis  the  morn,  but  dim  and  dark. 

Whither  flies  the  silent  lark  ? 

Whither  shrinks  the  clouded  sun  ? 

Is  the  day  indeed  begun  ? 

Nature’s  eye  is  melancholy 
O’er  the  city  high  and  holy  : 

But  without  there  is  a din 
Should  arouse  the  saints  within, 

And  revive  the  heroic  ashes 
Round  which  yellow  Tiber  dashes. 

Oh  ye  seven  hills  ! awaken, 

Ere  your  very  base  be  shaken  ! 

2. 

Hearken  to  the  steady  stamp  ! 

Mars  is  in  their  every  tramp  ! 

Not  a step  is  out  of  tune, 

As  the  tides  obey  the  moon ! 

On  they  march,  though  to  self-slaughter, 

Regular  as  rolling  water, 

Whose  high  waves  o’ersweep  the  border 
Of  huge  moles,  but  keep  their  order, 

Breaking  only  rank  by  rank. 

Hearken  to  the  armour’s  clank ! 

Look  down  o’er  each  frowning  warrior, 

How  he  glares  upon  the  barrier : 

Look  on  each  step  of  each  ladder, 

As  the  stripes  that  streak  an  adder. 

3. 

Look  upon  the  bristling  wall, 

Mann’d  without  an  interval ! 

Round  and  round,  and  tier  on  tier, 

Cannon’s  black  mouth,  shining  spear, 

Lit  match,  bell-mouth’ d musquetoon, 

Gaping  to  be  murderous  soon ; 

Ali  the  warlike  gear  of  old, 

Mix’d  witli  what  we  now  behold, 

In  this  strife  ’twixt  old  and  new. 

Gather  like  a locusts’  crew, 

Shade  of  Remus  ! ’tis  a time 
Awful  as  thy  brother’s  crime  ! 

Christians  war  against  Christ’s  shrine  : — 

Must  its  lot  be  like  to  thine  ? 

4. 

Near — and  near — and  nearer  still, 

As  the  earthquake  saps  the  hill, 

First  with  trembling,  hollow  motion, 

Like  a scarce-awaken’d  ocean, 

Then  with  stronger  shock  and  louder, 

Till  tli®  rocks  are  crush’d  to  powder, — 

Onward  sweeps  the  rolling  host ! 

Heroes  of  the  immortal  boast ! 

Mighty  chiefs  ! eternal  shadows  ! 

First  flowers  of  the  bloody  meadows 
Which  encompass  Rome,  the  mother 
Of  a people  without  brother ! 


Will  you  sleep  when  nations’  quarrels 
Plough  the  root  up  of  your  laurels  ? 

Ye  who  weep  o’er  Carthage  burning, 

Weep  not — strike!  for  Rome  is  mourning  * 1 

5. 

Onward  sweep  the  varied  nations  ! 

Famine  long  hath  dealt  their  rations. 

To  the  wall,  with  hate  and  hunger, 
Numerous  as  wolves,  and  stronger, 

On  they  sweep.  Oh  ! glorious  city, 

Must  thou  be  a theme  for  pity  ? 

Fight,  like  your  first  sire,  each  Roman ! 

Alai  ic  was  a gentle  foeman, 

Match’d  with  Bourbon’s  black  banditti! 
Rouse  thee,  thou  eternal  city  ; 

Rouse  thee  ! Rather  give  the  torch 
With  thy  own  hand  to  thy  porch, 

Than  behold  such  hosts  pollute 
Your  worst  dwelling  with  their  foot. 

6. 

Ah  ! behold  ytm  bleeding  spectre  ! 
llion’s  children  find  no  Hector  ; 

Priam’s  offspring  loved  their  brother ; 
Rome’s  great  sire  forgot  his  mother, 

When  he  slew  his  gallant  twin, 

With  inexpiable  sin. 

See  the  giant  shadow  stride 
O’er  the  ramparts  high  and  wide ! 

•When  the  first  o’erleapt  thy  wall. 

Its  foundation  mourn’d  thy  fall. 

Now,  though  towering  like  a Babel, 

Who  to  stop  his  steps  are  able  ? 

Stalking  o’er  thy  highest  dome, 

Remus  claims  his  vengeance,  Rome  ! 

7. 

Now  they  reach  thee  in  their  anger : 

Fire  and  smoke  and  hellish  clangour 
Are  around  tlieer  thou  world’s  wonder ! 
Death  is  in  thy  walls  and  under. 

Now  the  meeting  steel  first  clashes, 
Downward  then  the  ladder  crashes, 

With  its  iron  load  all  gleaming, 

Lying  at  its  foot  blaspheming ! 

Up  again  ! for  every  warrior 
Slain,  another  climbs  the  barrier. 

Thicker  grows  the  strife : thy  ditches 
Europe’s  mingling  gore  enriches. 

Rome  ! although  thy  wall  may  perish, 

Such  manure  thy  fields  will  cherish. 

Making  gay  the  harvest-home  ; 

But  thy  hearths,  alas  ! oh,  Rome  ! — 

Yet  be  Rome  amidst  thine  anguish, 

Fight  as  thou  wast  wont  to  vanquish  ! 

S. 

Yet  once  more,  ye  old  Penates  ! 

Let  not  your  quench’d  hearths  be  At6’s! 

Yet  again,  ye  shadowy  heroes, 

Yield  not  to  these  stranger  Neros ! 

Though  the  son  who  slew  his  mother 
Shed  Rome’s  blood,  he  was  your  brother  : 


(1)  Scipio,  the  second  Africanus,  is  said  to  have  repeated  r verso 
of  Homer,  and  wept  over  the  burning  of  Carthage  He  had  nottci 
have  granted  it  a capitulation. 


8CEXF,  L 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


311 


'Twa?  Rie  Roman  curb’d  the  Roman  ; — 

Brennns  was  a baffled  foeman. 

Yet  again,  ye  saints  and  martyrs, 

Rise  ! for  yours  are  holier  charters ! 

Mighty  gods  of  temples  falling, 

Yet  in  ruin  still  appalling  ! 

Mightier  founders  of  those  altars, 

True  and  Christian, — strike  the  assaulters ! 

Tiber  ! Tiber ! let  thy  torrent 
Show  even  nature’s  self  abhorrent. 

Let  each  breathing  heart  dilated 
Turn,  as  doth  the  lion  baited  ! 

Rome  be  crush’d  to  one  wide  tomb, 

But  he  still  the  Roman’s  Rome  ! 

Bourbon,  Arnold,  Caesar,  and  others , arrive  at  the 
foot  of  the  wall.  Arnold  is  about  to  plant  his 
ladder. 

Bourb.  Hold,  Arnold  ! I am  first. 

Am.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Bourb.  Hold,  sir,  I charge  you!  Follow!  lam 
proud 

Of  such  a follower,  but  will  brook  no  leader. 

[Bourbon  plants  his  ladder , and  begins  to  mount. 
Now,  boys  ! On ! on  ! 

[ A shot  strikes  him,  and  Bourbon  falls. 
Cees.  And  off ! 

Am.  Eternal  powers ! 

The  host  will  be  appall’d,  — but  vengeance  ! ven- 
geance ! 

Bourb.  ’Tis  nothing — lend  me  your  hand. 

[Bourbon  takes  Arnold  by  the  hand,  and  rises  ; 
but  as  he  puts  his  foot  on  the  step,  falls  again. 

Arnold ! 1 am  sped. 

C onceal  my  fall — all  will  go  well — conceal  it ! 

Fling  my  cloak  o’er  what  will  be  dust  anon  ; 

Let  not  the  soldiers  see  it. 

Am.  You  must  be 

Removed ; the  aid  of 

Bourb.  No,  my  gallant  boy  ; 

Death  is  upon  me.  But  what  is  one  life  ? 

The  Bourbon’s  spirit  shall  command  them  still. 

Keep  them  yet  ignorant  that  I am  but  clay, 

Till  they  are  conquerors — then  do  as  you  may. 

Coes.  Would  not  your  highness  choose  to  kiss  the 
cross  ? 

We  have  no  priest  here,  but  the  hilt  of -sword 
May  serve  instead  : — it  did  the  same  for  Bayard.1 

Bourb.  Thou  bitter  slave ! to  name  him  at  "this  time ! 
But  I deserve  it. 

Am.  (to  Caesar) . Villain,  hold  your  peace  ! 

Cas.  What,  when  a Christian  dies?  Shall  I not 
offer 

A Christian  “ Vade  in  pace  ?” 

^rn'  ' Silence  ! Oh ! 

Those  eyes  are  glazing  which  o’erlook’d  the  world, 
And  saw  no  equal. 

Bourb.  Arnold,  shouldst  thou  see 

France But  hark  ! hark  ! the  assault  grows 

warmer — Oh ! 


O'  [“  Finding  himself  mortally  wounded,  Bayard  ordered  one  of 
his  attendants  to  place  him  under  a tree  with  his  face  towards  the 
enemy ; then,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  guard  of  his  sword,  which  he 
beid  up  instead  of  a cross,  he  addressed  his  prayers  to  God.  and  in 
th.«  posture  he  calmly  waited  the  approach  of  death.”— Robert 
•on,  Charles  V .] 

■ ^ u ^'e  May.  1527,  the  Constable  and  his  army  came 
in  sight  of  Rome,  and  the  next  morning  commenced  the  attack. 


For  but  an  hour,  a minute  more  of  life 

To  die  within  the  wall ! Hence,  Arnold,  hence ! 

You  lose  time  — they  will  conquer  Rome  wil  l cut 
thee. 

Am.  And  without  thee! 

Bourb.  Not  so;  I’ll  lead  them  still 

In  spirit.  Cover  up  my  dust,  and  breathe  not 
That  I have  ceased  to  breathe.  Away  ! and  be 
Victorious  ! 

Am.  But  I must  not  leave  thee  thus. 

Bourb.  You  must — farewell — Up  ! up  ! the  world 
is  winning.  [Bourbon  dies} 

Ones,  (to  Arnold).  Come,  count,  to  business. 

Am.  True.  I’ll  weep  hereafter. 

[Arnold  covers  Bourbon’s  body  with  a mantle , 
and  mounts  the  ladder,  crying 
The  Bourbon  ! Bourbon  ! On,  boys ! Rome  is  ours  ! 
Ones.  Good  night,  lord  constable  ! thou  wert  a man. 
[Caesar  follows  Arnold  ; they  reach  the  battle- 
ment; Arnold  and  Caesar  are  struck  down. 
Ones.  A precious  somerset  ! Is  your  countship 
injured  ? 

Am.  No.  [Remounts  the  ladder. 

Ones.  A rare  blood-hound,  when  his  own  is  heated  ! 
And  ’tis  no  boy’s  play.  Now  he  strikes  them  down ! 
His  hand  is  on  the  battlement — he  grasps  it 
As  though  it  were  an  altar  ; now  his  foot 

Is  on  it,  and What  have  we  here  ?— a Roman  ? 

[A  man  falls. 

The  first  bird  of  the  covey ! he  has  fallen 
On  the  outside  of  the  nest.  Why,  how  now,  fellow  P 
Wounded  Man.  A drop  of  water  ! 

Cves.  Blood’s  the  only  liquid 

Nearer  than  Tiber. 

Wounded  Man.  I have  died  for  Rome.  [Dies. 

Ones.  And  so  did  Bourbon,  in  another  sense. 

Oh  these  immortal  men  ! and  their  great  motives  ! 
But  I must  after  my  young  charge.  He  is 
By  this  time  i’  the  forum.  Charge  ! charge  ! 

[Caesar  mounts  the  ladder  ; the  scene  closes. 


SCENE  II. 

The  City. — Combats  between  the  Besiegers  and  Besieged 
in  the  streets.  Inhabitants  flying  in  confusion. 

Enter  Cesar. 

Cces.  I cannot  find  my  hero  ; he  is  mix’d 
With  the  heroic  crowd  that  now  pursue 
The  fugitives,  or  battle  with  the  desperate. 

What  have  wre  here  ? A cardinal  or  two 
That  do  not  seem  in  love  with  martyrdom. 

How  the  old  red-shanks  scamper  ! Could  they  doff 
Their  hose  as  they  have  doff’d  their  hats,  *t would  be 
A blessing,  as  a mark  the  less  for  plunder. 

But  let  them  fly  : the  crimson  kennels  now 
Will  not  much  stain  their  stockings,  since  the  mire 
Is  of  the  self-same  purple  hue. 


Bourbon  wore  a white  vest  over  his  armour,  in  order,  he  said,  to  be 
more  conspicuous  both  to  bis  friends  and  foes.  He  led  on  to  tie 
walls,  and  commenced  a furious  assault,  which  was  repelled  with 
equal  violence.  Seeing  that  his  army  began  to  waver,  he  seized  a 
scaling  ladder  from  a soldier  standing,  and  was  In  the  act  of  ascend 
ing,  when  he  was  pierced  by  a musket-ball,  and  feli  Feeling  that 
his  wound  was  mortal,  be  desired  that  his  body  might  be  co«- 
cealed  from  his  soldiers,  and  instantly  expired.” — Robe”  rsos.l 


312 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


PART  II 


Wider  a Party  fighting — Arnold  at  the  head  of  the 
Besiegers. 

He  comes, 

Hand  in  hand  with  the  mild  twins — Gore  and  Glory. 
Holla ! hold,  count ! 

dm.  Away  ! they  must  not  rally. 

Gres.  I tell  thee,  be  not  rash  ; a golden  bridge 
Is  for  a flying  enemy.  I gave  thee 
A form  of  beauty,  and  an 
Exemption  from  some  maladies  of  body, 

But  not  of  mind,  which  is  not  mine  to  give. 

But  though  I gave  the  form  of  Thetis’  son, 

I dipt  thee  not  in  Styx  ; and  ’gainst  a foe 
I would  not  warrant  thy  chivalric  heart 
More  than  Pelides’  heel ; why  then,  be  cautious, 

And  know  thyself  a mortal  still. 

Am.  And  who 

With  aught  of  soul  would  combat  if  he  were 
Invulnerable  ? That  were  pretty  sport. 

Think’ st  thou  I beat  for  hares  when  lions  roar  ? 

[Arnold  rashes  into  the  combat. 
Ores.  A precious  sample  of  humanity  ! 

Well,  his  blood’s  up  : and  if  a little’s  shed, 

’Twill  serve  to  curb  his  fever. 

[Arnold  engages  with  a Roman,  who  retires 
towards  a portico . 

Am.  Yield  thee,  slave  ! 

I promise  quarter. 

Rom.  That’s  soon  said. 

Am.  And  done — 

My  word  is  known. 

Rom.  So  shall  be  my  deeds. 

[They  re-engage.  Caesar  comes  foncard. 
Gres.  Why,  Arnold  ! hold  thine  own  : thou  hast  in 
hand 

A famous  artisan,  a cunning  sculptor  ; 

Also  a dealer  in  the  sword  and  dagger. 

Not  so,  my  musqueteer;  ’twas  he  who  slew 
The  Bourbon  from  the  wall. 

Am.  Ay,  did  he  so  ? 

Then  he  hath  carved  his  monument. 

Rom.  I yet 

May  live  to  carve  your  betters’. 

Ores.  Well  said,  my  man  of  marble ! Benvenuto, 
Thou  hast  some  practice  in  both  ways  ; and  he 
Who  slays  Cellini  will  have  work’d  as  hard 
As  e’er  thou  didst  upon  Carrara’s  blocks.* 

[Arnold  disarms  and  wounds  Cellini,  but 
slightly  ; the  latter  draws  a pistol,  and  fires  ; 
then  retires,  and  disappears  through  the 
portico. 

Ores.  How  farest  thou?  Thou  hast  a taste,  me- 
thinks, 

Of  red  Bellona’s  banquet. 

Am.  {staggers).  ’Tis  a scratch. 

Lend  me  thy  scarf.  He  shall  not  ’scape  me  thus. 

Ores.  Where  is  it  ? 

Am.  In  the  shoulder,  not  the  sword  arm — 

And  that’s  enough.  I am  thirsty  : would  [ had 
A ne'.rn  of  water  ! 


(1)  [“  Levelling  my  arquebuse,”  says  Benvenuto  Cellini.  “I  dis- 
charged it  with  a deliberate  aim  at  a person  who  seemed  to  be 
lifted  above  the  rest:  but  the  mist  prevented  me  from  distinguish- 
ing whether  he  was  on  horseback  or  on  foot.  Then  turning  sud- 
denly about  to  Alessandro  and  Cecchino,  I bid  them  fire  off  their 
pieces,  and  showed  them  how  to  escape  every  shot  of  the  besiegers. 
Having  accordingly  fired  twice  for  the  enemy’s  once,  1 cautiously 


Ores.  That’s  a liquid  now 

.In  requisition,  but  by  no  means  easiest 
To  come  at. 

Am.  And  my  thirst  increases ; — but 

I’ll  find  a way  to  quench  it. 

Ores  Or  be  quench'd 

Thyself? 

Am.  The  chance  is  even  ; we  will  throw 
The  dice  thereon.  But  I lose  time  in  prating : 
Prithee  be  quick.  [Cassar  binds  on  the  scarf. 

And  what  dost  thou  so  idly  ? 

Why  dost  not  strike  ? 

Ores.  Your  old  philosophers 

Beheld  mankind,  as  mere  spectators  of 
The  Olympic  games.  When  I behold  a prize 
'Worth  wrestling  for,  I may  be  found  a Milo. 

Am.  Ay,  ’gainst  an  oak. 

Ores.  A forest,  when  it  suits  me  : 

I combat  with  a mass,  or  not  at  all. 

Meantime,  pursue  thy  sport  as  I do  mine ; 

Which  is  just  now  to  gaze,  since  all  these  labourers 
Will  reap  my  harvest  gratis. 

Am.  Thou  art  still 

A fiend ! 

Ones.  And  thou — a man. 

Am.  Why,  such  I fain  would  show  me. 

Ores.  True — as  men  are. 

Am.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Ores.  Thou  feelest  and  thou  seest. 

[Exit  Arnold,  joining  in  the  combat  which  still 
continues  between  detached  parties.  The  scene 
closes. 

SCENE  HI. 

St.  Peter  s — The  Interior  of  the  Church — The  Pope  at 
the  Altar — Priests . Spc.  crowding  in  confusion,  and 
Citizens  fiying  for  refuge,  pursued  by  Soldiery. 

Enter  Caesar. 

A Spanish  Soldier.  Down  with  them,  comrades ! 
seize  upon  those  lamps  ! 

Cleave  yon  bald-pated  shaveling  to  the  chine  ! 

His  rosary’s  of  gold. 

Lutheran  Soldier.  Revenge  ! revenge  ! 

Plunder  hereafter,  but  for  vengeance  now — 

Yonder  stands  Anti-Christ ! 

Ones,  {interposing).  How  now,  schismatic  ? 

What  wouldst  thou? 

Luth.  Sold.  In  the  holy  name  of  Christ, 

Destroy  proud  Anti-Christ.  I am  a Christian. 

Cres.  Yea,  a disciple  that  would  make  the  founder 
Of  your  belief  renounce  it,  could  he  see 
Such  proselytes.  Best  stint  thyself  to  plunder. 

Luth.  Sold.  I say  he  is  the  devil. 

Cces.  Hush ! keep  that  secret, 

Lest  he  should  recognise  you  for  his  own. 

Luth.  Sold.  Why  would  you  save  him  ? I repeat  he  is 
The  devil,  or  the  devil’s  vicar  upon  earth. 

Cccs.  And  that’s  the  reason:  would  you  make  i 
quarrel 


approached  the  walls,  and  perceived  that  there  was  an  extraordi- 
nary confusion  among  the  assailants,  occasioned  by  our  having 
shot  the  Duke  of  Bourbon : he  was,  as  I understood  afterwards, 
that  chief  personage  whom  I saw  raised  above  the  rest.” — Vol.  i. 
p.  120.  This,  however,  is  one  of  the  many  stories  in  Cellini’s 
amusing  autobiography  which  noboby  seems  ever  tr  have  be- 
lieved.] 


urisNE  ill 


THE  DEFURMED  TRANSFORMED. 


313 


With  your  best  friends  ? You  had  far  best  be  quiet ; 
His  hour  is  not  yet  come. 

Lath.  Sold.  That  shall  be  seen ! 

[The  Lutheran  Soldier  rushes  forward ; a shot 
strikes  him  from  one  of  the  Pope's  Guards,  and 
he  falls  at  the  foot  of  the  Altar . 

Cats,  (to  the  Lutheran).  I told  you  so. 

Luth.  Sold.  And  will  you  not  avenge  me  ? 

Cas.  Not  I!  You  know  that  “Vengeance  is  the 
Lord’s : ” 

You  see  lie  loves  no  interlopers. 

Luth.  Sold,  (dying).  Oh  ! 

Had  I but  slain  him,  I had  gone  on  high, 

Crown’d  with  eternal  glory  ! Heaven,  forgive 
My  feebleness  of  arm  that  reach’d  him  not, 

And  take  thy  servant  to  thy  mercy.  ’Tis 
A glorious  triumph  still;  proud  Babylon’s 
No  more;  the  Harlot  of  the  Seven  Hills 
Hath  changed  her  scarlet  raiment  for  sackcloth 
And  ashes  ! [The  Lutheran  dies. 

Cas.  Yes,  thine  own  amidst  the  rest. 

Well  done,  old  Babel ! • 

\_The  Guards  defend  themseloes  desperately , while 
the  Pontiff  escapes , by  a private  passage,  to  the 
Vatican  and  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo. 1 
Cas.  Ha  ! right  nobly  battled  ! 

Now,  priest ! now,  soldier ! the  two  great  professions, 
Together  by  the  ears  and  hearts  ! I have  not 
Seen  a more  comic  pantomime  since  Titus 
Took  Jewry.  But  the  Romans  had  the  best  then  ; 
Now  they  must  take  their  turn. 

Soldiers.  He  hath  escaped ! 

Follow!  [up, 

Another  Sold.  They  have  barr’d  the  narrow  passage 
And  it  is  clogged  with  dead  even  to  the  door. 

Cas.  I am  glad  he  hath  escaped  : he  may  thank  me 
for ’t 

In  part.  I would  not  have  his  bulls  abolish’d — ■ 
Twere  worth  one  half  our  empire : his  indulgences 
Demand  some  in  return; — no,  no,  he  must  not 
Fall ; — and  besides,  his  now  escape  may  furnish 
A future  miracle,  in  future  proof 
Of  his  infallibility.  [To  the  Spanish  Soldiery. 

Well,  cut-throats  ! 

What  do  you  pause  for  ? If  you  make  not  haste. 
There  will  not  be  a link  of  pious  gold  left. 

And  you,  too,  catholics  ! Would  ye  return 
From  such  a pilgrimage  without  a relic  ? 

The  very  Lutherans  have  more  true  devotion  : 

See  how  they  strip  the  shrines  ! 

Soldiers.  By  holy  Peter 

He  speaks  the  truth ; the  heretics  will  bear 
The  best  away. 

Cas.  And  that  were  shame ! Go  to ! 

Assist  in  their  conversion. 

[The  Soldiers  disperse ; many  quit  the  Church, 
others  enter. 

Cas.  They  are  gone, 

And  others  come : so  flows  the  wave  on  wave 
Of  what  these  creatures  call  eternity, 

Deeming  themselves  the  breakers  of  the  ocean, 

While  they  are  but  its  bubbles,  ignorant 
1 hat  foam  is  their  foundation.  So,  another  ! 


(!!  [The  castle  of  St.  Angelo  was  besieged  from  the  6th  of 
ut.iy  to  the  5th  of  June,  during  which  time  slaughter  and  deso- 
iuiion,  accompanied  with  every  excess  of  impiety,  rapine,  and 
iubt,  on  the  side  of  the  Imperialists,  devastated  the  city  of 


Enter  Olimpia,  flying  from  the  pursuit — She  springs 
upon  the  Altar. 

Sold.  She’s  mine! 

Another  Sold,  (opposing  the  former).  You  lie,  1 
track’d  her  first ; and  were  she 
The  Pope’s  niece,  I’ll  not  yield  her.  [They  fight. 
3 d Sold,  (advancing  towards  Olimpia).  You  may 
settle 

Your  claims ; I’ll  make  mine  good. 

Olimp.  Infernal  slave ! 

You  touch  me  not  alive. 

od  Sold.  Alive  or  dead  ! 

Olimp.  (embracing  a massive  crucifix).  Respect 
your  God ! 

3 d Sold.  Yes,  when  he  shines  in  gold. 

Girl,  you  but  grasp  your  dowry. 

[As  he  advances,  Olimpia,  with  a strong  and 
sudden  effort,  casts  down  the  crucifix : it  strikes 
the  Soldier,  who  falls. 

3 d Sold.  Oh,  great  God  ! 

Olimp.  Ah  ! now  you  recognise  him. 

M Sold.  My  brain’s  crush’d  ! 

Comrades,  help,  ho  ! All’s  darkness  ! [He  dies. 
Other  Soldiers  (coming  up).  Slay  her,  although  she 
had  a thousand  lives  : 

She  hath  kill’d  our  comrade. 

Olimp.  Welcome  such  a death  ! 

You  have  no  life  to  give,  which  the  worst  slave 
Would  take.  Great  God ! through  thy  redeeming  Son, 
And  thy  Son’s  Mother,  now  receive  me  as 
I would  approach  thee,  worthy  her,  and  him,  and  thee ! 

Enter  Arnold. 

Arn.  What  do  1 see  ? Accursed  jackals ! 

Forbear ! 

Cas.  (aside  and  laughing).  Ha  ! ha  ! here’s  equity ! 
The  dogs 

Have  as  much  right  as  he.  But  to  the  issue  ! 
Soldiers.  Count,  she  hath  slain  our  comrade. 

Arn.  With  what  weapon  * 

Sold.  The  cross,  beneath  which  he  is  crush’d ; 
behold  him 

Lie  there,  more  like  a worm  than  man ; she  cast  it 
Upon  his  head. 

Arn.  Even  so  ; there  is  a woman 

Worthy  a brave  man's  liking.  Were  ye  such, 

Ye  would  have  honour’d  her.  But  get  ye  hence, 

And  thank  your  meanness,  other  God  you  have  none 
For  your  existence.  Had  you  touch’d  a hair 
Of  those  dishevell’d  locks,  I would  have  thinn’d 
Your  ranks  more  than  the  enemy.  Away  ! 

Ye  jackals  ! gnaw  the  bones  the  lion  leaves, 

But  not  even  these  till  he  permits. 

A Sold,  (murmuring).  The  lion 

Might  conquer  for  himself  then. 

Arn  (cuts  him  down).  Mutineer! 

Rebel  in  hell — you  shall  obey  on  earth  ! 

[The  Soldiers  assault  Arnold. 
Am.  Come  on!  I’m  glad  on’t!  I will  show  you, 
slaves, 

How  you  should  be  commanded,  and  who  led  you 
First  o’er  the  wall  you  were  so  shy  to  scale. 


Rome.  For  this  picture  of  horrors,  see  especially  the  *'  Sack.ige 
ot  Rome,”  by  Jacopo  Buonaparte,  “ gentiluomo  Samr.ii  mates**, 
che  vi  se  trovo  presente,”  and  “ Life  of  Cellini,”  vol.  i.  p.  12*L] 

S S 


pakt  IT. 


314 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Until  I waved  my  banners  from  its  height, 

As  you  are  bold  within  it. 

[Arnold  mows  down  the  foremost ; the  rest 
throw  down  their  arms. 

Soldiers.  Mercy  ! mercy  ! 

Am.  Then  learn  to  grant  it.  Have  I taught  you  who 
Led  you  o’er  Rome’s  eternal  battlements  ? 

Soldiers.  We  saw  it,  and  we  know  it;  yet  forgive 
A moment’s  error  in  the  heat  of  conquest — • 

The  conquest  which  you  led  to. 

Am.  Get  you  hence  ! 

Hence  to  your  quarters ! you  will  find  them  fix’d 
In  the  Colonna  palace. 

Olimp.  {aside).  In  my  father’s 
House  ! [no  further  need 

Am.  {to  the  Soldiers).  Leave  your  arms ; ye  have 
Of  such  : the  city’s  render’d.  And  mark  well 
You  keep  your  hands  clean,  or  I’ll  find  out  a stream 
As  red  as  Tiber  now  runs,  for  your  baptism,  [obey  !* 
Soldiers  {deposing  their  arms  and  departing).  We 
Am.  {to  Olimpia).  Lady,  you  are  safe. 

Oiimp.  I should  be  so, 

Had  1 a knife  even  ; but  it  matters  not — 

Death  hath  a thousand  gates  ; and  on  the  marble. 
Even  at  the  altar  foot,  whence  I look  down 
Upon  destruction,  shall  my  head  be  dash’d, 

Ere  thou  ascend  it.  God  forgive  thee,  man  ! 

Am.  I wish  to  merit  his  forgiveness,  and 
Thine  own,  although  I have  not  injured  thee. 

Olimp.  No ! Thou  hast  only  sack’d  my  native 
land, — 

No  injury  ! — and  made  my  father’s  house 
A den  of  thieves  ! No  injury  ! — this  temple — 
Slippery  with  Roman  and  with  holy  gore. 

No  injury ! And  now  thou  would  preserve  me, 

To  be but  that  shall  never  be  ! 

[ She  raises  her  eyes  to  Heaven,  folds  her  robe 
round  her,  and'  prepares  to  dash  herself  down 
on  the  side  of  the  Altar  opposite  to  that  where 
Arnold  stands. 

Am.  Hold  ! hold  ! 

I swear. 

Olimp.  Spare  thine  already  forfeit  soul 
A perjury  for  winch  even  hell  would  loathe  thee. 

I know  thee. 

Am.  No,  thou  know’st  me  not ; I am  not 

Of  these  men,  though 

Olimp.  I judge  thee  by  thy  mates  ; 

It  is  for  God  to  judge  thee  as  thou  art. 

1 see  thee  purple  with  the  blood  of  Rome  ; 

Take  mine,  ’tis  all  thou  e’er  shalt  have  of  me, 

And  here,  upon  the  marble  of  this  temple, 

Where  the  baptismal  font  baptized  me  God’s, 

I offer  him  a blood  less  holy 

But  not  less  pure  (pure  as  it  left  me  then, 

A redeem’d  infant)  than  the  holy  water 
The  saints  have  sanctified  ! 

[Olimpia  waves  her  hand  to  Arnold  with  dis- 
dain, and  dashes  herself  on  the  pavement  from 
the  Altar. 

Am.  Eternal  God  ! 

I feel  thee  now  ! Help ! help  ! She’s  gone. 

Cces.  {approaches).  I am  here. 

Am.  Thou  ! but  oh,  save  her  ! 

Cces.  {assisting  him  to  raise  Olimpia).  She  hath 
done  it  well ! 

The  leap  was  serious. 

Am. 


Cces.  If 

She  be  so,  I have  nought  to  do  with  that : 

The  resurrection  is  beyond  me. 

Am.  Slave ! 

Cces.  Ay,  slave  or  master,  ’tis  all  one : methinks 
Good  words,  however,  are  as  well  at  times. 

Am.  Words  ! — Canst  thou  aid  her  ? 

Cces.  I will  try.  A sprinkling 

Of  that  same  holy  water  may  be  useful 

[I/e  brings  some  in  his  helmet  from  t he  funt. 
Am.  ’Tis  mix’d  with  blood. 

Cces.  There  is  no  cleaner  now 

In  Rome. 

Am.  How  pale  ! how  beautiful ! how  lifeless  ! 
Alive  or  dead,  thou  essence  of  all  beauty, 

I love  but  thee  ! 

Cces.  Even  so  Achilles  loved 

Penthesilea : with  his  form  it  seems 
You  have  his  heart,  and  yet  it  was  no  soft  one. 

Am.  She  breathes ! But  no,  ’twas  nothing,  or  the  last 
Faint  flutter  life  disputes  with  death. 

Cces.  She  breathes. 

Am.  Thou  say’st  it  ? Then  ’tis  truth. 

Cces.  You  do  me  right  — 

The  devil  speaks  truth  much  oftener  than  lie’s  deem’d : 
He  hath  an  ignorant  audience.  [beats. 

Am.  {without  attending  to  him).  Yes ! her  heart 
Alas  ! that  the  first  beat  of  the  only  heart 
I ever  wish’d  to  beat  with  mine  should  vibrate 
To  an  assassin’s  pulse. 

Cces.  A sage  reflection,  [her  ? 

But  somewhat  late  i’  the  day.  Where  shall  we  beai 
I say  she  lives. 

Am.  And  will  she  live  ? 

Cces.  As  much 

As  dust  can. 

Am.  Then  she  is  dead  ! 

Cces.  Bah  ! bah  ! You  are  so, 

And  do  not  know  it.  She  will  come  to  life — - 
Such  as  you  think  so,  such  as  you  now  are ; 

But  we  must  work  by  human  means. 

Am  We  will 

Convey  her  unto  the  Colonna  palace, 

Where  I have  pitch’d  my  banner. 

Cces.  Come  then  ! raise  her  up  ! 

Am.  Softly! 

Cces.  As  softly  as  they  bear  the  dead. 

Perhaps  because  they  cannot  feel  the  jolting. 

Am.  But  doth  she  live  indeed  ? 

Cces.  Nay,  never  fear! 

But,  if  you  rue  it  after,  blame  not  me. 

Am.  Let  her  but  live  ! 

Cces.  The  spirit  of  her  life 

Is  yet  within  her  breast,  and  may  revive. 

Count ! count ! I am  your  servant  in  all  things. 

And  this  is  a new  office : — ’tis  not  oft 
I am  employ’d  in  such  ; but  you  perceive 
How  stanch  a friend  is  what  you  call  a fiend. 

On  earth  you  have  often  only  fiends  for  friends  ; 

No\v  I desert  not  mine.  Soft ! bear  her  hence, 

The  beautiful  half-clay,  and  nearly  spirit ! 

I am  almost  enamour’d  of  her,  as 
Of  old  the  angels  of  her  earliest  sex. 

Am.  Thou! 

Cces.  I ! But  fear  not.  I’ll  not  be  your  rival 
Am.  Rival ! 

Cces.  I could  be  one  right  formidable ; 

But  since  I slew  the  seven  husbands  of 


Oh  ! she  is  lifeless  ! 


SCENE  I. 


THE  DEFORMED  TRANSFORMED. 


315 


Tobias*  future  bride  (and  after  all 
»Twas  suck’d  out  by  some  incense),  I have  laid 
Aside  iutrigue ; ’tis  rarely  worth  the  trouble 
Of  gaining,  or — what  is  more  difficult — 

Getting  rid  of  your  prize  again  ; for  there’s 
The  rub  ! at  least  to  mortals. 

Am.  Prithee,  peace ! 

Softly  ! methinks  her  lips  move,  her  eyes  open ! 

Cces.  Like  stars,  no  doubt ; for  that’s  a metaphor 
For  Lucifer  and  Venus. 

Am.  To  the  palace 

Colonna.  as  I told  you  ! 

Cces.  Oh  ! I know 

My  way  tnrougli  Rome. 

Am.  Now  onward,  onward ! Gently  ! 

[Exeunt,  bearing  Olimpia..  The  scene  closes. 


PART  III. 

SCENE  I. 

A Castle  in  the  Apennines , surrounded  by  a wild  but 
smiling  country.  Chorus  of  Feasants  singing  before 
the  Gates. 

CHORUS. 

1. 

The  wars  are  over. 

The  spring  is  come  ; 

The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home : 

They  are  happy,  we  rejoice  ; 

Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  in  every  voice ! 

2. 

The  spring  is  come  ; the  violet ’s  gone, 

The  first-born  child  of  the  early  sun  : 

With  us  she  is  but  a winter’s  flower, 

The  snow  on  the  hills  cannot  blast  her  bower. 

And  she  lifts  up  her  dewy  eye  of  blue 
To  the  youngest  sky  of  the  self-same  hue. 

3. 

And  when  the  spring  comes  with  her  host 
Of  flowers,  that  flower  beloved  the  most 
Shrinks  from  the  crowd  that  may  confuse 
Her  heavenly  odour  and  virgin  hues. 

4. 

Pluck  the  others,  but  still  remember 
Their  herald  out  of  dim  December — 

The  morning  star  of  all  the  flowers, 

The  pledge  of  daylight’s  lengthen’d  hours  : 

Nor,  midst  the  roses,  e’er  forget 
The  virgin,  virgin  violet. 


Enter  C.ksar. 

Gees,  [singing').  The  wars  are  all  over, 

Our  swords  are  all  idle, 

The  steed  bites  the  bridle. 

The  casque’s  on  the  wall. 

There’s  rest  for  the  rover  ; 

But  his  armour  is  rusty, 

And  the  veteran  grows  crusty, 

As  he  yawns  in  the  hall. 

He  drinks — but  what’s  drinking  ? 

A mere  pause  from  thinking ! 

No  bugle  awakes  him  with  life-and-death  call 


CHORUS. 

But  the  hound  bayeth  loudly, 
The  boar’s  in  the  wood, 
And  the  falcon  longs  proudly 
To  spring  from  her  hood : 
On  the  wrist  of  the  noble 
She  sits  like  a crest, 

And  the  air  is  in  trouble 
With  birds  from  their  nest. 


CHORUS. 

But  the  wars  are  over, 

The  spring  is  come  ; 

The  bride  and  her  lover 
Have  sought  their  home  : 

They  are  happy,  and  we  rejoice ; 

Let  their  hearts  have  an  echo  from  every  voice ! 

[. Exeunt  the  Peasantry,  ringing 


Cces.  Oh  ! shadow  of  glory  ! 

Dim  image  of  war ! 

But  the  chase  hath  no  story, 

Her  hero  no  star, 

Since  Nimrod,  the  founder 
Of  empire  and  chase, 

W7ho  made  the  woods  wonder 
And  quake  for  their  race. 

When  the  lion  was  young, 

In  the  pride  of  his  might, 

Then  ’twas  sport  for  the  strong 
To  embrace  him  in  fight; 

To  go  forth,  with  a pine 

For  a spear,  ’gainst  the  mammoth. 
Or  strike  through  the  ravine 
At  the  foaming  behemoth ; 

While  man  was  in  stature 
As  towers  in  our  time, 

The  first-born  of  Nature, 

And,  like  her,  sublime ! 


©ant : 


A MYSTERY.1 


SOW  tbs  Serpent  was  more  subtil  than  any  beast  of  the  field  which  the  Lord  God  had  made.” — Ocn.  oh  vjs.  g 


TO 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART. 

THIS  MYSTERY  OF  CAIN  IS  INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS  OBLIGED  FRIEND,  AND  FAITHFUL  SERVANT, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 

i he  iollowing  scenes  are  entitled  “ A Mystery,”  in 
conformity  with  the  ancient  title  annexed  to  dramas 


< 1)  [“  Cain”  was  begun  at  Ravenna,  on  the  16th  of  July,  1821  — 
completed  on  the  9th  of  September — and  published,  in  the  same 
volume  with  “ Sardanapaius”  and  “ The  Two  Foscari,”  in  Decem- 
ber. Perhaps  no  production  of  Lord  Byron  has  been  more  gene- 
rally admired,  on  the  score  of  ability  than  this  “Mystery;” — 
certainly  none,  on  first  appearing,  exposed  the  author  to  a fiercer 
tempest  of  personal  abuse.  Besides  being  unmercifully  handled 
in  most  of  the  critical  journals  of  the  day,  “Cain”  wus  made  the 
subject  of  a solemn  separate  essay,  entitled  “ A Remonstrance 
addressed  to  Mr.  Murray  respecting  a recent  Publication  — by 
Uxcniensis  of  which  we  may  here  preserve  a specimen  : — 

“ There  is  a method  of  producing  conviction,  not  to  be  found  in 
any  of  the  treatises  on  logic,  but  which  1 am  persuaded  you  could 
be  quickly  made  to  understand ; it  is  the  aryumentum  ad  cru- 
menam;  and  this,  I trust,  will  be  brought  home  to  you  in  a variety 
of  ways ; not  least,  1 expect,  in  the  profit  you  hope  to  make  by  the 
offending  publication.  As  a bookseller,  I conclude  you  have  but 
one  standard  of  poetic  excellence — the  extent  of  jour  sale.  With- 
out assuming  any  thing  beyond  the  bounds  of  ordinary  foresight,  I 
venture  to  foretell,  that  in  this  case  you  will  be  mistaken  : the 
book  will  disappoint  your  cupidity,  as  much  as  it  discredits  your 
leeling  and  discretion.  Your  noble  employer  has  deceived  you, 
Mr.  Murray  : he  has  profited  by  the  celebrity  of  his  name  to  palm 
upon  you  obsolete  trash,  the  very  off-scourings  of  Bayle  and  Vol- 
taire, which  lie  has  made  you  pay  lor  as  though  it  weie  first-rate 
poetry  and  sound  metaphysics.  But  1 tell  you  (and  if  you  doubt 
it.  you  may  consult  any  of  the  literary  gentlemen  who  frequent 
your  reading-room)  that  this  poem,  this  ‘ Mystery,’  with  which  you 
nave  insulted  us,  is  noshing  more  than  a cento  from  Voltaire’s 
novels,  and  the  most  objectionable  articles  in  Bayle's  Dictionary, 
served  up  in  clumsy  cuttings  of  ten  syllables,  lor  the  purpose  of 
giving  it  the  guise  of  poetry. 

“ Still,  though  ‘ Cain’  has  no  claims  to  originality,  there  are 
other  objects  to  which  it  may  be  made  subservient;  and  so  well 
are  the  noble  author  s schemes  arranged,  that  in  some  of  them  he 
will  be  sure  to  succeed. 

“In  the  first  place,  this  publication  may  be  useful  as  a financial 
measure.  It  may  seem  hard  to  suspect,  that  the  high-souled  phi- 
losophy, of  which  his  Lordship  makes  profession,  could  be  * servile 
to  the  influence’  of  money ; but  you  could  tell  us,  Sir,  if  you  would, 
w hat  sort  of  a hand  your  noble  friend  is  at  a bargain ; whether 
Plutus  does  not  sometimes  go  shares  with  Apollo  in  his  inspira- 
tions. 

“ In  the  second  place  (second  I mean  in  point  of  order,  for  I do 
not  presume  to  decide  which  motive  predominates  in  his  Lordship’s 
mind),  the  blasphemous  impieties  of  ‘Cain,’  though  nothing  more 
in  reality  than  the  echo  of  often  refuted  sophisms,  by  being  newly 
dressed  and  put  forth  in  a form  easy  to  be  remembered,  may  pro- 
duce considerable  effect;  Inal  is,  they  may  mislead  the  ignorant, 


upon  similar  subjects,  which  were  styled  “Mysteries 
or  Moralities.”  The  author  has  by  no  means  taken 
the  same  liberties  with  Ins  subject  which  were  com- 
mon, formerly,  as  may  be  seen  by  any  reader  curious 


unsettle  the  wavering,  or  confirm  the  hardened  sceptic  in  his  mis- 
belief. These  are  consequences  which  Lord  Byron  must  have  con- 
templated ; with  what  degree  of  complacency  he  alone  can  tell. 

“ But,  in  the  third  place,  if  neither  of  these-  things  happens,  and 
‘Cain’  should  not  prove  either  lucrative  or  mischievous,  there  is 
another  point  which  Lord  Byron  lias  secured  to  himself,  so  that  he 
cannot  be  deprived  of  it, — the  satisfaction  of  insulting  those  from 
whom  he  differs  both  in  faith  and  practice.  . . . Now,  at  last,  he 
quarrels  with  the  very  conditions  of  humanity,  rebels  against  that 
Providence  which  guides  and  governs  all  things,  and  dares  to 
adopt  the  language  which  had  never  before  been  attributed  to  any 
being  but  one,  ‘ Evil,  be  thou  my  good.’  Such,  as  far  as  we  can 
judge,  is  Lord  Byron.” 

This  critic’s  per  ormance  is  thus  alluded  to  in  one  of  Lord 
Byron’s  letters  to  Mr.  Douglas  Kinnaird : — “1  know  nothing  of 
Rivington’s  ‘Remonstrance’  by  the  ‘ eminent  Churchman ;’  but  I 
suppose  the  man  wants  a living.”  On  hearing  that  his  publisher 
was  threatened  with  more  serious  annoyances,  in  consequence  of 
the  appearance  of  the  “ Mystery,”  Lord  Byron  addressed  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  Mr.  Murray; — 

“Pisa,  February  8,  1822. 

“ Attacks  upon  me  were  to  be  expected;  but  I perceive  one  upon 
you  in  the  papers,  which  1 confess  tiiat  I did  not  expect.  How,  or 
in  what  manner,  you  can  be  considered  lesponsible,  for  what  l 
publish,  I am  at  a loss  to  conceive. 

“If  ‘Cain’  be  ‘blasphemous,’  Paradise  Lost  is  blasphemous; 
and  the  very  words  of  the  Oxford  gentleman,  * Evil,  be  thou  my 
good,’  are  from  that  very  poem,  from  the  mouth  of  Satan ; and  is 
there  any  thing  more  in  that  of  Lucifer  in  the  Mystery?  ‘ Cain’  is 
nothing  more  than  a drama,  not  a piece  of  argument.  If  Lucifer 
and  Cain  speak  as  the  first  murderer  and  the  first  rebel  may  be 
supposed  to  speak,  surely  all  the  rest  of  the  personages  talk  also 
according  to  their  character — and  the  stronger  passions  have  ever 
been  permitted  to  the  drama. 

“ 1 have  even  avoided  introducing  the  Deity,  as  in  Scripture 
(though  Milton  does,  and  not  very  wisely  either);  but  have  adopted 
his  angel  as  sent  to  Cain  instead,  on  purpose  to  avoid  shocking  any 
feelings  on  the  subject,  by  falling  short  of  what  all  uninspired  men 
must  fall  short  in,  viz.  gi  ing  an  adequate  notion  of  the  effect  of 
the  presence  of  Jehovah.  The  old  Mysteries  introduced  him 
liberallv  enough,  and  all  this  is  avoided  in  the  new  one. 

“ The  attempt  to  bully  you,  because  they  think  it  won’t  succeed 
with  me,  seems  to  me  as  atrocious  an  attempt  as  ever  disgraced  the 
times.  What!  when  Gibbon’s,  Hume’s,  Priestley’s,  and  Drum- 
mond’s publishers  have  been  allowed  to  rest  in  peace  for  seventy 
years,  are  you  to  be  singled  out  for  a work  of  fiction,  not  of  history 
or  argument?  There  must  be  something  at  the  bottom  of  tiiis — 
some  private  enemy  of  jour  own;  it  is  otherwise  incredible. 

_ “ i can  only  say,  ‘ Me,  me;  en  adsum  qui  feci;’ — that  any  pro 


CAIN. 


enough  to  refer  to  those  very  profane  productions,1  j 
whether  in  English,  French,  Italian,  or  Spanish.  | 


ceedings  directed  against  you,  I beg,  may  be  transferred  to  me, 
who  am  willing,  and  ouy/it,  to  endure  them  all ; — that  if  you  have 
lost  money  by  the  publication,  I will  refund  any  or  all  of  the 
copvright that  I desire  that  you  will  say  that  both  you  and  Mr. 
Gifford  remonstrated  against  the  publication,  as  also  Mr.  Hob 
bouse;— that  I alone  occasioned  it,  and  I alone  am  the  person  who, 
either ’lesrally  or  otherwise,  should  bear  the  burden.  If  they  pro- 
secute. I will  come  to  England;  that  is,  if,  by  meeting  it  in  my 
own  person,  1 can  save  yours.  Let  me  know.  You  shan’t  suffer 
for  me,  if  I can  help  it.  Make  any  use  of  this  letter  you  please. 
Yours  ever,  &c.  « nvpnxr 


<<  p s.— 1 write  to  you  about  all  this  row  of  bad  passions  and 
absurdities  with  the  summer  moon  (for  here  our  winter  is  clearer 
than  your  dog-days)  lighting  the  winding  Arno,  with  all  her  build- 
ings and  bridges,  - so  quiet  and  still !— What  nothings  are  we  before 
the  least  of  those  stars ! ” 

An  individual  of  the  name  of  Benbow  having  pirated  “ Cain,” 
Mr.  Shadwell  (now,  1836,  Sir  Lancelot,  and  Vice  Chancellor)  ap- 
plied to  the  Lord  Chancellor  (Eldon)  for  an  injunction  to  protect 
Mr.  Murray’s  property  in  the  Mystery.  The  learned  counsel,  on 
the  9th  of  February,  1822,  spoke  as  follows  : — 

“ This  work  professes  to  record,  in  a dramatic  poem  of  three 
acts,  the  story  contained  in  the  book  of  Genesis.  It  is  meant 
to  represent  the  state  of  Cain’s  mind  when  it  received  those  temp- 
tations which  led  him  to  commit  the  murder  of  his  brother.  The 
actors  in  the  poem  are  few:  they  consist  of  Adam  and  Eve,  Cain 
and  Abel,  and  their  two  wives,  with  Lucifer,  and,  in  the  third  act, 
the  angel  of  the  Lord.  The  book  only  does  that  which  was  before 
done  by  Milton,  and  adheres  more  closely  to  the  words  contained 
in  Scripture.  The  book,  in  the  commencement,  represents  Cain 
in  a moody,  dissipated  disposition,  when  the  Evil  Spirit  tempts 
him  to  go  forth  with  him  to  acquire  knowledge.  After  the  first 
act,  he  leads  him  through  the  abyss  of  space ; and,  in  the  third, 
Cain  returns  with  a still  more  gloomy  spirit.  Although  the  poet 
puts  passages  into  his  mouth,  which  of  themselves  are  blasphemous 
and  impious ; yet  it  is  what  Milton  has  done  also,  both  in  his 
'Paradise  Lost,’  and  ‘Regained.’  But  those  passages  are  power- 
fully combated  by  the  beautiful  arguments  of  his  wife,  Adah.  It 
is  true  that  the  book  represents  what  Scripture  represents, — that  he 
is,  iv .withstanding,  instigated  to  destroy  the  altar  of  his  brother, 
whom  ne  is  then  led  on  to  put  to  death ; but  then  the  punish- 
ment of  his  crime  follows  in  the  very  words  of  the  Scripture  itself. 
Cain's  mind  is  immediately  visited  with  all  the  horror  of  remorse, 
and  he  goes  forth  a wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  I trust  I am 
*he  last  person  in  the  world  who  would  attempt  to  defend  a blasphe- 
mous or  impious  work  ; but  I say  that  this  poem  is  as  much  entitled 
to  the  protection  of  the  court,  in  the  abstract,  as  either  the  ' Para- 
dise Lost’  or  the  ‘ Paradise  Regained.’  So  confident  am  I of  this, 
that  I would  at  present  undertake  to  compare  it  with  those  works, 
passage  by  passage,  and  show  that  it  is  perfectly  as  moral  as  those 
productions  of  Milton.  Every  sentence  carries  with  it,  if  I may  use 
the  expression,  its  own  balsam.  The  authority  of  God  is  recognised  ; 
and  Cain’s  impiety  and  crime  are  introduced  to  show  that  its  just 
punishment  immediately  followed.  I repeat,  that  there  is  no  rea- 
son why  this  work,  taken  abstractedly,  should  not  be  protected  as 
well  as  either  of  the  books  I have  mentioned.  I therefore  trust 
that  your  Lordship  will  grant  this  injunction  in  limine , and  then 
the  defendants  may  come  in  and  show  cause  against  it.” 

The  following  is  a note  of  the  Lord  Chancellor’s  judgment: — 
“This  court,  like  the  other  courts  of  justice  in  this  country, 
acknowledges  Christianity  as  part  of  the  law  of  the  land.  The 
jurisdiction  of  this  court  in  protecting  literary  property  is  founded 
on  this,— that  where  an  action  will  lie  for  pirating  a work,  there 
the  court,  attending  to  the  imperfection  of  that  remedy,  grants 
its  injunction;  because  there  may  be  publication  afcer  publication 
which  you  may  never  be  able  to  hunt  down  by  proceeding  in  the 
other  courts.  But  where  such  an  action  does  not  lie,  1 do  not  ap- 
piehend  that  it  is  according  to  the  course  of  the  court  to  grant  an 
injunction  to  protect  the  copyright.  Now  this  publication,  if  it  is 
one  intended  to  vilify  and  bring  into  discredit  that  portion  of  Scrip- 
ture history  to  which  it  relates,  is  a publication  with  reference  to 
which,  if  the  principles  on  which  the  case  of  Dr.  Priestley,  at  War- 
wick, was  decided,  be  ju  t principles  of  law,  the  party  could  not 
recover  any  damages  in  respect  of  a piracy  of  it.  This  court  has  no 
criminal  jurisdiction;  it  cannot  look  on  any  thing  as  an  offence; 
but  in  those  cases  it  only  administers  justice  for  the  protection  of 
the  civil  rights  of  those  who  possess  them,  in  consequence  of  being 
able  to  maintain  an  action.  You  have  alluded  to  Milton’s  immortal 
work : it  did  happen  in  the  course  of  last  long  vacation,  amongst 
the  solicilec  jucunda  oblivinvitce,  I read  that  work  from  beginning 
to  end  ; it  is  therefore  quite  fresh  in  my  memory,  and  it  appears  to 
me  that  the  great  object  of  its  author  was  to  promote  the  cause  of 
Christianity  : there  are  undoubtedly  a great  many  passages  in  it,  of 
which,  if  that  were  not  its  object,  it  would  be  very  improper  by  law 
to  vindicate  the  publication;  but,  taking  it  altogether,  it  is  clear 
that  the  object  and  effect  Wire  not  to  bring  into  disrepute,  but  to 
promote,  the  reverence  of  our  relig’on.  Now  the  real  question  is, 


317 

The  author  has  endeavoured  to  preserve  the  language 
adapted  to  his  characters  ; and  wher*  it  is  (and  this 


looking  at  the  work  before  me,  its  preface,  the  poem,  its  manner  ot 
treating  the  subject,  particularly  with  reference  to  the  fall  and  ti  e 
atonement,  whether  its  intent  be  as  innocent  as  that  of  the  othei 
with  which  you  have  compared  it ; or  whether  it  be  to  traduce  ano 
bring  into  discredit  that  part  of  sacred  history.  The  question  1 
have,  no  right  to  try,  because  it  has  been  settled,  after  great  differ- 
ence of  opinion  among  the  learned,  that  it  is  for  a jury  to  deter- 
mine that  point;  and  where,  therefore,  a reasonable  doubt  is  enter- 
tained as  to  the  character  of  the  work  (and  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  say  I have  not  a doubt,  I hope  it  is  a reasonable  one),  another 
course  must  be  taken  for  determining  what  is  its  true  nature  and 
character.  There  is  a great  difficulty  in  these  cases,  because  it  ap- 
pears a strange  thing  to  permit  the  multiplication  of  copies  by  way 
of  preventing  the  circulation  of  a mischievous  work,  which  I do  not 
presume  to  determine  that  this  is;  but  that  1 cannot  help  : and  the 
singularity  of  the  case,  in  this  instance,  is  more  obvious,  because 
here  is  a defendant  who  has  multiplied  this  work  by  piracy,  and 
docs  not  think  proper  to  appear.  If  the  work  be  of  that  character 
which  a court  of  common  law  would  consider  criminal,  it  is  pretty 
clear  why  he  does  not  appear,  because  he  would  come  confiten 
reus ; and  for  the  same  reason  the  question  may  perhaps  not  be 
tried  by  an  action  at  law ; and  if  it  turns  out  to  be  the  case,  1 shall 
be  bound  to  give  my  own  opinion.  That  opinion  I express  no 
further  now  than  to  say  that,  after  having  read  the  work,  I cannot 
grant  the  injunction  until  you  show  me  that  you  can  maintain  an 
action  for  it.  If  you  cannot  maintain  an  action,  there  is  no  pre- 
tence for  granting  an  injunction ; if  you  should  not  be  able  to  try 
the  question  at  law  with  the  defendant,  I cannot  be  charged  with 
impropriety  if  I then  give  my  own  opinion  upon  it.  It  is  true  that 
this  mode  of  dealing  with  the  work,  if  it  be  calculated  to  produce 
mischievous  effects,  opens  a door  for  its  dissemination ; but  the 
duty  of  stopping  the  work  does  not  belong  to  a court  of  equity, 
which  has  no  criminal  jurisdiction,  and  cannot  punish  or  check  the 
offence.  If  the  character  of  the  work  is  such  that  the  publication  of 
it  amounts  to  a temporal  offence,  there  is  another  way  of  proceed- 
ing, and  the  publication  of  it  should  be  proceeded  against  directly 
as  an  offence;  but  whether  this  or  any  other  work  should  be  so 
dealt  with,  it  would  be  very  improper  for  me  to  form  or  intimate  an 
opinion.” 

The  injunction  was  refused  accordingly.  The  reader  is  referred 
to  Mr.  Moore’s  Notices  for  abundant  evidence  of  the  pain  which 
Lord  Byron  suffered  from  the  virulence  of  tne  attacks  on  “ Cain,’’ 
and  the  legal  procedure  above  alluded  to. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  announced  his  acceptance  of  the  dedication  in 
the  following  letter  to  Mr.  Murray  : — 

“ Edinburgh,  4th  December,  1 82 i . 

“ Mr  DfAR  Sir, — I accept  with  feelings  of  great  obligation,  the 
flattering  proposal  of  Lord’Byron  to  prefix  my  name  to  the  very 
grand  and  tremendous  drama  of  ‘ Cain.’  I may  be  partial  to  it, 
and  you  will  allow  I have  cause  ; but  I do  not  know  that  his  Muse 
lias  ever  taken  so  lofty  a flight  amid  her  former  soarings.  He  has 
certainly  matched  Milton  on  his  own  ground.  Some  part  of  the 
language  is  bold,  and  may  shock  one  class  of  readers,  whose  line 
will  be  adopted  by  others  out  of  affectation  or  envy.  But  then  they 
must  condemn  the  ‘ Paradise  Lost,’  if  they  have  a mind  to  be  con- 
sistent. The  fiend-like  reasoning  and  bold  blasphemy  of  the  fiend 
and  of  his  pupil  lead  exactly  to  the  point  which  was  to  be  ex- 
pected,— the  commission  of  the  first  murder,  and  the  ruin  and 
despair  of  the  perpetrator. 

“ I do  not  see  how  any  one  can  accuse  the  author  himself  ol 
Manieheism.  The  Devil  talks  the  language  of  that  sect,  doubtless  : 
because,  not  being  able  to  deny  the  existence  of  the  Good  Principle, 
he  endeavours  to  exalt  himself — the  Evil  Principle — to  a seeming 
equality  with  the  Good  ; but  such  arguments,  in  the  mouth  of  such 
a being,  can  only  be  used  to  deceive  and  betray.  Lord  Byron  might 
have  made  this  more  evident,  by  placing  in  the  mouth  of  Adam,  or 
of  some  good  and  protecting  spirit,  the  reasons  which  render  the  ex- 
istence of  moral  evil  consistent  with  the  general  benevolence  of  the 
Deity.  The  great  key  to  the  mystery  is,  perhaps,  the  imperfection 
of  our  own  faculties,  which  see  and  feel  strongly  the  partial  evils 
which  press  upon  us,  but  know  too  little  of  the  general  system  of  the 
universe,  to  be  aware  how  the  existence  of  these  is  to  be  reconciled 
with  the  benevolence  of  the  great  Creator. 

“To  drop  these  speculations,  you  have  much  occasion  for  some 
mighty  spirit,  like  Lord  Byron,  to  come  down  and  trouble  the 
waters;  for,  excepting  ‘ The  John  Bull,’*  you  seem  stagnating 
strangely  in  London.  Yours,  my  dear  Sir,  very  trulv, 

“WALTER  SCOTT.’ 

“ To  John  Murray,  Esq.” 

(1)  [See  note  to  “ Hints  from  Horace,”  post ; Payne  Collier’s 
“ Annals  of  the  Stage,”  vol.  i. ; the  “ Histoire  du  Theatre  Franva.'s,’ 
vol.  ii.,  &c.] 


* [The  pungent  Sunday  print  so  called  had  been  established 
some  little  time  before  this  letter  was  written,  and  had  excited 
a sensation  unequalled  in  the  recent  history  of  the  newspaper 
press.] 


318 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  L 


is  but  rarely)  taken  from  actual  Scripture , he  has 
made  as  little  alteration,  even  of  words,  as  the  rhythm 
would  permit.  The  reader  will  recollect  that  the 
book  of  Genesis  does  not  state  that  Eve  was  tempted 
by  a demon,  but  by  “ the  Serpent and  that  only 
because  he  was  “ the  most  subtil  of  all  the  beasts  of 
the  field.5*  Whatever  interpretation  the  Rabbins  and 
the  Bathers  may  have  put  upon  this,  I take  the 
words  as  I find  them,  and  reply,  with  Bishop  Watson 
upon  similar  occasions,  when  the  Fathers  were  quoted 
to  him,  as  Moderator  in  the  schools  of  Cambridge, 
“ Behold  the  Book  ! ” — holding  up  the  Scripture.1  it 
is  to  be  recollected  that  my  present  subject  has  no- 
thing to  do  with  the  New  Testament , to  which  no 
reference  can  be  here  made  without  anachronism. 
Writli  the  poems  upon  similar  topics  I have  not  been 
recently  familiar.  Since  I was  twenty,  I have  never 
read  Milton ; but  I had  read  him  so  frequently  before, 
that  this  may  make  little  difference.  Gesner’s  “ Death 
of  Abel5’  I have  never  read  since  1 was  eight  years  of 
age,  at  Aberdeen.  The  general  impression  of  my 
recollection  is  delight ; but  of  the  contents  I remem- 
ber only  that  Cain’s  wife  was  called  Mahala,  and 
Abel’s  Thirza  : in  the  following  pages  I have  called 
them  “ Adah55  and  “ Zillah,55  the  earliest  female  names 
which  occur  in  Genesis ; they  were  those  of  Lamech’s 
wives:  those  of  Cain  and  Abel  are  not  called  by  their 
names.  Whether,  then,  a coincidence  of  subject  may 
have  caused  the  same  in  expression,  I know  nothing, 
and  care  as  litttle.2 

The  reader  will  please  to  bear  in  mind  (what  few 
choose  to  recollect),  that  there  is  no  allusion  to  a 
future  state  in  any  of  the  books  of  Moses,  nor  indeed 
in  the  Old  Testament.3  For  a reason  for  this  ex- 
traordinary omission  he  may  consult  Warburton’s 
“ Di\  ine  Legation  ;55  whether  satisfactory  or  not,  no 
better  lias  yet  been  assigned.  I have  therefore  sup- 
posed it  new  to  Cain,  without,  I hope,  any  perversion 
of  Holy  Writ. 

With  regard  to  the  language  of  Lucifer,  it  was 
difficult  for  me  to  make  him  talk  like  a clergyman 
upon  the  same  subjects;  but  I have  done  what  I 
could  to  restrain  him  within  the  bounds  of  spiritual 
politeness. 

If  he  disclaims  having  tempted  Eve  in  the  shape  of 
the  Serpent,  it  is  only  because  the  book  of  Genesis 
has  not  the  most  distant  allusion  to  any  thing  of  the 
kind,  but  merely  to  the  Serpent  in  his  serpentine 
capacity. 

Note. — The  reader  will  perceive  that  the  author  has 
partly  adopted  in  this  poem  the  notion  of  Cuvier, 
that  the  world  had  been  destroyed  several  times  be- 
fore the  creation  of  man.  This  speculation,  derived 
from  the  different  strata  and  the  bones  of  enormous 


(1)  [“I  never  troubled  myself  with  answering  any  arguments 
which  the  opponents  in  the  divinity  schools  brought  against  the 
Articles  of  the  Church,  nor  even  admitted  their  authority  as  de- 
cisive of  a difficulty  ; but  I used  on  such  occasions  to  say  to  them, 
holding  up  the  New  Testament  in  my  hand,  ‘ En  sacrum  codicera  ! 
Here  is  the  fountain  of  truth;  why  do  you  follow  the  streams  de- 
rived from  it  by  sophistry,  or  polluted  by  the  passions  of  man?’” 
— Bp.  Watson’s  Life,  vol.  i.  p.  63.] 

(2)  [Here  follows,  in  the  original  draught,  — “I  am  prepared 
to  be  accused  of  Manicheism,  or  some  other  hard  name  ending 
in  ism,  which  make  a formidable  figure  and  awful  sound  in  the 
eyes  and  ears  of  those  who  would  be  as  much  puzzled  to  explain 
the  terms  so  bandied  about,  as  the  liberal  and  pious  indulgers  in 
such  epithets.  Against  such  1 can  defend  myself,  or,  if  necessary, 
I can  attack  in  turn.”] 

(3)  [There  are  numerous  passages  dispersed  throughout  the  Old 
Testament,  which  import  something  more  than  “ an  allusion  to  a 


and  unknown  animals  found  in  them,  is  not  contrary 
to  the  Mosaic  account,  but  rather  cor  firms  it;  as  no 
human  bones  have  yet  been  discovered  in  those  strata, 
although  those  of  many  known  animals  are  found  near 
the  remains  of  the  unknown.  The  assertion  of  Luci- 
fer, that  the  pre- Adamite  world  was  also  peopled  by 
rational  beings  much  more  intelligent  than  man,  and 
proportionably  powerful  to  the  mammoth,  &c.  &c.,  is, 
of  course,  a poetical  fiction  to  help  him  to  make  out 
his  case. 

I ought  to  add,  that  there  is  a “ tramelogedia5*  of 
Alfieri,  called  “ Abele.” — I have  never  read  that,  nor 
any  other  of  the  posthumous  wo’-V.s  of  the  writer, 
except  his  Life. 

Ravenna,  Sept.  20,  1821 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAL 

Men. — Adam. 

Cain. 

Abel. 

Spirits. — Angel  of  the  Lord. 
Lucifer. 

Women. — Eve. 

Adah. 

Zillah. 


(*Datn : 

A MYSTERY A 


ACT  1. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Land  without  Paradise. — Time,  Sunrise. 

Adam,  Eve,  Cain,  Abel,  Adah,  Zillah,  offering 
a Sacrifice. 

Adam.  God,  the  Eternal ! Infinite  ! All-wise  ! — 
Who,  out  of  darkness  on  the  deep  didst  make 
Light  on  the  waters  with  a word — all  hail ! 

Jehovah,  with  returning  light,  all  hail! 

Poe.  God  ! who  didst  name  the  day,  and  separate 
Morning  from  night,  till  then  divided  never — 


future  state.”  In  truth,  the  Old  Testament  abounds  in  pnrases 
which  imply  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  which  would  be.  in- 
significant and  hardly  intelligible,  but  upon  that  supposition. 
“Then  shall  the  dust  return  to  the  earth  as  it  was,  and  the  spirit 
return  unto  God  who  gave  it.”— Eccl.  xii.  7.  “ And  many  of  them 

that  sleep  in  the  dust  of  the  earth  shall  awake,  some  to  everlasting 
life,  and  some  to  shame;  and  they  that  be  wise  shall  shine  as  the 
brightness  of  the  firmament;  and  they  that  turn  many  to  right- 
eousness as  the  stars  for  ever  and  ever.”  — Dan.  x.  2.  “I  know 
that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  he  shall  stand  in  the  latter  days 
upon  the  earth  : and  though  after  my  skin  worms  shall  destroy  my 
body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I see  God." — Job.  xix.  25.  Brit. 
Rev.] 

(4)  [Lord  Byron  has  thought  proper  to  call  this  drama  a 
“Mystery;”  the  name  which  was  given  in  our  own  country, 
before  the  Reformation,  to  those  scenic  representations  of  the 


SCENE  I. 


CAIN. 


310 


Wlio  didst  divide  the  wave  from  wave,  and  call 
Part  of  thy  work  the  firmament — all  hail ! 

Abel.  God  ! who  didst  call  the  elements  into 
Eartb — ocean — air — and  fire,  and  with  the  day 
And  night,  and  worlds,  which  these  illuminate, 

Or  shadow,  madest  beings  to  enjoy  them, 

And  love  both  them  and  thee— all  hail ! all  hail  ! 

Adah.  God,  the  Eternal ! Parent  of  all  things  ! 
Who  didst  create  these  best  and  beauteous  beings. 

To  be  beloved,  more  than  all,  save  thee — 

Let  me  love  thee  and  them  : — All  hail ! all  hail ! 

Zillah.  Oh,  God  ! who  loving,  making,  blessing  all, 
Yet  didst  permit  the  Serpent  to  creep  in, 

And  drive  my  father  forth  from  Paradise, 

Keep  us  from  further  evil : — Hail ! all  hail ! 

Adam.  Son  Cain,  my  first-born,  wherefore  art  thou 
silent  ? 

Cain.  Wiiy  should  1 speak  ? 

Adam.  To  pray.1 

Cain.  Have  ye  not  pray’d  ? 

Adam.  We  have,  most  fervently. 

Cain.  And  loudly  : I 

Have  heard  you. 

Adam.  “ So  will  God,  I trust. 

Abel.  Amen ! 

Adam.  But  thou,  my  eldest  born,  are  silent  still. 
Cain.  ’Tis  better  I should  be  so. 

Adam.  Wherefore  so  ? 

Cain.  I have  nought  to  ask.2 

Adam.  Nor  aught  to  thank  for  ?3 

Gain.  No. 

Adam.  Dost  thou  not  live  ? 

Cain.  Must  I not  die  ? 

Eve.  Alas ! 

The  fruit  of  our  forbidden  tree  begins 
To  fall.4 

Adam.  And  we  must  gather  it  again. 

Oh,  God  ! why  didst  thou  plant  the  tree  of  know- 
ledge ? 

Cain.  And  wherefore  pluck’d  ye  not  the  tree  of 
life  ? 

Ye  might  have  then  defied  him. 

Adam.  Oh  ! my  son, 

Blaspheme  not : these  are  serpents’  words. 

Cain.  Why  not  ? 

The  snake  spoke  truth  : it  was  the  tree  of  knowledge  ; 
It  was  the  tree  of  life  : knowledge  is  good, 

And  life  is  good  ; and  how  can  both  be  evil  ? 


mysterious  events  of  our  religion,  which,  indecent  and  unedifying 
as  they  seem  to  ourselves,  were,  perhaps,  the  principal  means  by 
which  a knowledge  of  those  events  was  conveyed  to  our  rude  and 
uninstructed  ancestors.  But,  except  in  the  topics  on  which  it  is 
employed,  Lord  Byron’s  Mystery  has  no  resemblance  to  those  which 
it  claims  as  its  prototypes. — Heber.] 

(1)  [“  Prayer,”  said  Lord  Byron,  at  Cephalonia,  “ does  not  con- 
sist in  the  act  of  kneeling,  nor  in  repeating  certain  words  in  a solemn 
manner.  Devotion  is  the  affection  of  the  heart,  and  this  I feel;  for 
when  I view  the  wonders  of  creation,  I bow  to  the  majesty  of 
Heaven,  and  when  I feel  the  enjoyment  of  life,  health,  and  hap- 
piness, I feel  grateful  to  God  for  having  bestowed  these  upon  me.” 
— Kennedy’s  Conversations,  p.  135.] 

(2)  [“  Say  then,  shall  man,  deprived  all  power  of  choice, 

Ne'er  raise  to  Heaven  the  supplicating  voice? 

Not  so ; but  to  the  gods  his  lortunes  trust ; 

Their  thoughts  are  wise,  their  dispensations  just. 

What  best  may  profit  or  delight  they  know, 

And  real  good  for  fancied  bliss  bestow  ; 

With  eyes  of  pity  they  our  frailties  scan ; 

More  dear  to  them,  than  to  himself,  is  man.” — Juv. 

'•  Though  the  Deity  is  inclined,”  says  Owen,  “ by  his  own 


Eve.  My  boy ! thou  speakest  as  I spoke,  in  sin. 
Before  thy  birth  : let  me  not  see  renew’d 
My  misery  in  thine.  I have  repented. 

Let  me  not  see  my  offspring  fall  into 
The  snares  beyond  the  walls  of  Paradise, 

Which  e’en  in  Paradise  destroy’d  his  parents. 

Content  thee  with  what  is.  Had  we  been  so, 

Thou  now  liadst  been  contented. — Oh,  my  son  ! 

Adam.  Our  orisons  completed,  let  us  hence, 

Each  to  his  task  of  toil — not  heavy,  though 
Needful : the  earth  is  young,  and  yields  us  kindly 
Her  fruits  with  little  labour. 

Eve.  Cain,  my  son, 

Behold  thy  father  cheerful  and  resign’d. 

And  do  as  he  doth.  [ Exeunt  Adam  and  Eve. 

Zillah.  Wilt  thou  not,  mj  orvwSr  ? 

Abel.  Why  wilt  thou  wear  this  gloom  upon  thj 
brow. 

Which  can  avail  thee  nothing,  save  to  rouse 
The  Eternal  anger  ? 

Adah.  My  beloved  Cain, 

Wilt  thou  frown  even  on  me  ? 

Cain.  No,  Adah  ! no  ; 

I fain  would  be  alone  a little  while. 

Abel,  I ’m  sick  at  heart ; but  it  will  pass. 

Precede  me,  brother — I will  follow  shortly. 

And  you,  too,  sisters,  tarry  not  behind ; 

Your  gentleness  must  not  be  harshly  met : 

I’ll  follow  you  anon. 

Adah.  If  not,  I will 

Beturn  to  seek  you  here. 

Abel.  The  peace  of  God 

Be  on  your  spirit,  brother  ! 

[ Exeunt  Abel,  Zillah,  and  Adah 
Cain  {solus).  And  this  is 

Life  ! — Toil ! and  wherefore  should  I toil  ? — because 
My  father  could  not  keep  his  place  in  Eden. 

What  had  I done  in  this  ? — I was  unborn : 

I sought  not  to  be  born ; nor  love  the  state 
To  which  that  birth  has  brought  me.  Why  did  he 
Yield  to  the  serpent  and  the  woman?  or. 

Yielding,  why  suffer  ? What  was  there  in  this  ? 

The  tree  was  planted,  and  why  not  for  him  ? 

If  not,  why  place  him  near  it,  where  it  grew, 

The  fairest  in  the  centre  ? They  have  but 
One  answer  to  all  questions,  “ ’Twas  his  will, 

And  he  is  good.”  How  know  I that  ? Because 
He  is  all-powerful,  must  all-good,  too,  follow  ? 


benignity,  to  bless  his  creatures,  yet  he  expects  the  outward  ex- 

pressions of  devotion  from  the  rational  part  of  them.”  This  is 
certainly  what  Juvenal  means  to  inculcate:  hence  his  earnest  re- 
commendation of  a true  regard  to  the  public  and  ceremonial  part  of 
religion. — Gi  ffo  rd.] 

(3)  [“I  took  out  my  ‘Ogden  on  Prayer,’  and  read  some  of  it. 
Dr.  Johnson  praised  him.  ‘ Abernethy,’  said  he,  ‘ allcws  only  of  a 
physical  effect  of  prayer  upon  the  mind,  which  may  be  produced 
many  ways  as  well  as  by  prayer;  for  instance,  by  meditation. 
Ogden  goes  farther.  In  truth,  we  have  the  consent  of  all  nations 
for  the  efficacy  of  prayer,  whether  offered  up  by  individuals  or  by 
assemblies;  and  revelation  has  told  us  it  will  be  effectual.’" — 
Boswell,  vol.  iv.  p.  66,  ed.  1835.] 

(4)  [This  passage  affords  a key  to  the  temper  and  frame  of  mind 
of  Cain  throughout  the  piece.  He  disdains  the  limited  existence 
allotted  to  him ; he  lias  a rooted  horror  of  death,  attended  with 
a vehement  curiosity  as  to  his  nature ; and  he  nourishes  a sullen 
anger  against  his  parents,  to  whose  misconduct  lie  ascribes  his 
degraded  state.  Added  to  this,  he  has  an  insatiable  thirst  lor 
knowledge  beyond  the  bounds  prescribed  to  mortality ; and  this 
part  of  the  poem  bears  a strong  resemblance  to  Manfred,  whoso 
counterpart,  indeed,  in  the  main  points  of  character,  Cain  seems  tr 
be. — Campbell.] 


320 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  l 


I judge  but  by  the  fruits — and  they  are  bitter — 
Which  I must  feed  on  for  a fault  not  mine. 

Whom  have  we  here  ? — A shape  like  to  the  angels, 
Y'et  of  a sterner  and  a sadder  aspect 
Of  spiritual  essence  : why  do  I quake  ? 

Why  should  I fear  him  more  than  other  spirits, 
Whom  I see  daily  wave  their  fiery  swords 
Before  the  gates  round  which  I linger  oft, 

In  twilight’s  hour,  to  catch  a glimpse  of  those 
Gardens  which  are  my  just  inheritance, 

Ere  the  night  closes  o’er  the  inhibited  walls 
And  the  immortal  trees  which  overtop 
The  cherubim-defended  battlements  ? 

If  I shrink  not  from  these,  the  fire-arm’d  angels, 

Why  should  I quail  from  him  who  now  approaches  ? 

Yet  he  seems  mightier  far  than  them,  nor  less 

Beauteous,  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiful 

As  he  hath  been,  and  might  be  : sorrow  seems 

Half  of  his  immortality.1  And  is  it 

So  ? and  can  aught  grieve  save  humanity  ? 

He  cometh. 

Euler  Lucieeii.2 
Lucifer.  Mortal ! 

Cain.  Spirit,  who  art  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  Master  of  spirits. 

Cain.  And  being  so,  canst  thou 

Leave  them,  and  walk  with  dust  ? 

Lucifer.  I know  the  thoughts 

Of  dust,  and  feel  for  it,  and  with  you. 

Cain.  How ! 

You  know  my  thoughts  ? 

Lucifer.  They  are  the  thoughts  of  all 

Worthy  of  thought ; — ’tis  your  immortal  part 
Which  speaks  within  you. 

Cain . What  immortal  part  ? 

This  has  not  been  reveal’d  : the  tree  of  life 
Was  withheld  from  us  by  my  father’s  folly, 

While  that  of  knowledge,  by  my  mother’s  haste, 

Was  pluck’d  too  soon;  and  all  the  fruit  is  death! 
Liefer.  They  have  deceived  thee  ; thou  slialt  live. 
Cain.  I live, 


(1)  [Cain’s  description  of  the  approach  of  Lucifer  would  have 
shone  in  the  “ Paradise  Lost.”  There  is  something  spiritually  fine 
in  this  conception  of  the  terror  of  presentiment  of  coming  evil. — 
Jeffrey.] 

(2)  [Of  Lucifer,  as  drawn  by  Lord  Byron,  we  absolutely  know 
no  evil:  on  the  contrary,  the  impression  which  we  receive  of  him  is, 
from  his  first  introduction,  most  favourable.  He  is  not  only  endued 
with  all  the  beauty,  the  wisdom,  and  the  unconquerable  daring 
which  Milton  has  assigned  him,  and  which  may  reasonably  be  sup- 
posed to  belong  to  a spirit  of  so  exalted  a nature,  but  he  is  repre- 
sent;! as  unhappy  without  a crime,  and  as  pitying  our  unhappiness. 
Even  before  he  appears,  we  are  prepared  (so  far  as  the  poet  has  had 
skill  to  prepare  us)  to  sympathize  with  any  spiritual  being  who  is  op- 
posed to  the  government  of  Jehovah.  The  conversations,  the  ex- 
hibitions which  ensue,  are  all  conducive  to  the  same  conclusion, 
that  whatever  is  is  evil,  and  that,  had  the  Devil  been  the  Creator,  he 
would  have  made  his  creatures  happier.  Above  all,  his  arguments 
and  insinuations  are  allowed  to  pass  uncontradicted,  or  are  answered 
only  by  overbearing  force,  and  punishment  inflicted  not  on  himself 
but  on  his  disciple.  Nor  is  the  intention  less  apparent,  nor  the 
poison  less  subtle,  because  the  language  employed  is  not  indecorous, 
and  the  accuser  of  the  Almighty  does  not  descend  to  ribaldry  or 
scurrilous  invective  — Heber.) 

The  Satan  of  Milton  is  no  half  human  devil,  with  enough  of 
earth  about  him  to  typify  the  malignant  sceptic,  and  enough  of  hea- 
ven to  throw  a shade  of  sublimity  on  his  very  malignity.  The 
Lucifer  of  Byron  is  neither  a noble-fiend,  nor  yet  a villain-fiend — he 
does  nothing,  and  he  seems  nothing — there  is  no  poetry  either  of 
character  or  description  about  him — he  is  a poor,  sneaking,  talking 
devil — a most  wretched  metaphysician,  without  wit  enough  to  save 
kirn  even  from  the  damnation  of  criticism  — he  speaks  neither 


But  live  to  die  : and,  living,  see  no  tiling 
To  make  death  hateful,  save  an  innate  clinging, 

A loathsome,  and  yet  all  invincible 
Instinct  of  life,  which  I abhor,  as  I 
Despise  myself,  yet  cannot  overcome — 

And  so  I live.  Would  I had  never  lived  ! 

I/ucifer.  Thou  livest,  and  must  live  for  ever  : thiui 
not 

The  earth,  which  is  thine  outward  cov’ring,  is 
Existence — it  will  cease,  and  thou  wilt  be 
No  less  than  thou  art  now. 

Cain.  No  less  ! and  why 

No  more  ? 

Lucifer.  It  may  be  thou  shalt  be  as  we. 

Cain.  And  ye  ? 

Lucifer.  Are  everlasting. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy  ? 

Lucifer.  We  are  mighty. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy  ? 

Lucifer.  No:  art  thou? 

Cain.  How  should  I be  so  ? Look  on  me  ! 

Lucifer.  Poor  clay  \ 

And  thou  pretendest  to  be  wretched ! Thou  ! 

Cain.  I am  : — and  thou,  with  all  thy  might,  what 
art  thou  r 

Lucifer.  One  who  aspired  to  be  what  made  thee,  and 
Would  not  have  made  thee  what  thou  art. 

Cain.  Ah ! 

Thou  look’st  almost  a god ; and 

Lucifer.  I am  none : 

And  having  fail’d  to  be  one,  would  be  nought 
Save  what  I am.  He  conquer’d  ; let  him  reign  ! 

Cain.  Who  ? 

Lucifer.  Thy  sire’s  Maker,  and  the  earth’s. 

Cain.  And  heaven’s, 

And  all  that  in  them  is.  So  I have  heard 
His  seraphs  sing ; and  so  my  father  saith. 

Lucifer.  They  say — what  they  must  sing  and  say, 
on  pain 

Of  being  that  which  I am — and  thou  art — 

Of  spirits  and  of  men. 

Cain.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Lucifer.  Souls  wdio  dare  use  their  immortality — 3 


poetry  nor  common  sense.  Thomas  Aquinas  would  have  flogged 
him  more  for  his  bad  logic  than  his  unbelief;  and  St.  Dunstan 
would  have  caught  him  by  the  nose  ere  the  purblind  fiend  was 
aware. — Blackwood.] 

The  impiety  chargeable  on  this  Mystery  consists  mainly  in  this — 
that  the  purposeless  and  gratuitous  blasphemies  put  into  the  mouth 
of  Lucifer  and  Cain  are  left  unrefuted,  so  that  they  appear  intro- 
duced for  their  own  sake,  and  the  design  of  the  writer  seems  to  ter- 
minate in  them.  There  is  no  attempt  made  to  prevent  their  leaving 
the  strongest  possible  impression  on  the  reader’s  mind.  On  the 
contrary,  the  arguments,  if  such  they  can  be  called,  levelled  against 
the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  the  Creator,  are  put  forth  with  the 
utmost  ing«nuity.  And  it  has  been  the  noble  poet’s  endeavour  to 
palliate  as  much  as  possible  the  characters  of  the  Evil  Spirit  and  of 
the  first  Murderer ; the  former  of  whom  is  made  an  elegant,  poetical, 
philosophical  sentimentalist,  a sort  of  Manfred,— the  latter  an 
ignorant,  proud,  and  self-willed  boy.  Lucifer,  too,  is  represented 
as  denying  all  share  in  the  temptation  of  Eve,  which  he  throws 
upon  the  Serpent  “ in  his  serpentine  capacity  the  author  plead- 
ing, that  he  does  so,  only  because  the  book  of  Genesis  has  not  the 
most  distant  allusion  to  any  thing  of  the  kind,  and  that  a reference 
to  the  New  Testament  would  be  an  anachronism. — Eel.  Rev.] 

(3)  [Tn  this  long  dialogue,  the  tempter  tells  Cain  (who  is  thus  far 
supposed  to  be  ignorant  of  the  fact)  that  the  soul  is  immortal,  and 
that  “souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality”  are  condemned  by 
God  to  be  wretched  everlastingly.  . This  sentiment,  which  is  the 
pervading  moral  (if  we  may  call  it  so)  of  the  play,  is  developed 
the  lines  which  follow. — Heber.  “ There  is  nothing  against  the 
immortality  of  the  soul  in  ‘ Cain’  that  I recollect.  I hold  no  such 
opinions ; — but,  in  a drama,  the  first  rebel  and  the  first  murderer 
must  be  nwde  to  talk  according  to  their  characters.” — liyron 
Letters.] 


JICENE  I. 


CAIN. 


321 


Souls  who  dare  look  the  Omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  face,  and  tell  him,  that 
His  evil  is  not  good!  If  lie  lias  made, 

As  he  saith— which  I kuow  not,  nor  believe — 

But,  if  he  made  us — he  cannot  unmake  : 

We  are  immortal ! — nay,  he’d  have  us  so, 

That  ne  may  torture:— let  him  ! He  is  great— 

But,  in  his  greatness,  is  no  happier  than 
We  in  our  conflict ! Goodness  would  not  make 
Evil  ;*  and  what  else  hath  he  made  ? But  let  him 
Sit  on  his  vast  and  solitary  throne. 

Creating  worlds,  to  make  eternity 

Less  burthensome  to  his  immense  existence 

And  unparticipated  solitude ! 

Let  him  crowd  orb  on  orb  : he  is  alone 
Indefinite,  indissoluble  tyrant ! 1 
Could  he  but  crush  himself,  ’twere  the  best  boon 
He  ever  granted : but,  let  him  reign  on, 

And  multiply  himself  in  misery  ! 

Spirits  and  men,  at  least  we  sympathise— 

And,  suffering  in  concert,  make  our  pangs, 
Innumerable,  more  endurable, 

By  the  unbounded  sympathy  of  all — 

With  all ! But  He!  so  wretched  in  his  height, 

So  restless  in  his  wretchedness,  must  still 
Create,  and  re-create 2 

Cain . Thou  speak’st  to  me  of  things  which  long  have 
swum 

In  visions  through  my  thought : I never  could 
Reconcile  what  I saw  with  what  I heard. 

My  father  and  my  mother  talk  to  me 
Of  serpents,  and  of  fruits  and  trees  : I see 
The  gates  of  what  they  call  their  Paradise 
Guarded  by  fiery-sworded  cherubim, 

Which  shut  them  out,  and  me  : I feel  the  weight 
Of  daily  toil  and  constant  thought  : I look 
Around  a world  where  I seem  nothing,  with 
Thoughts  which  arise  within  me,  as  if  they 
Could  master  all  things : — but  I thought  alone 
This  misery  was  mine. — My  father  is 
Tamed  down ; my  mother  has  forgot  the  mind 
Which  made  her  thirst  for  knowledge  at  the  risk 
Of  an  eternal  curse  ; my  brother  is 
A watching  shepherd  boy,  who  offers  up 
The  firstlings  of  the  flock  to  him  who  bids 
The  earth  yield  nothing  to  us  without  sweat ; 

My  sister  Zillali  sings  an  earlier  hymn 
Than  the  birds’  matins ; and  my  Adah,  my 
Own  and  beloved,  she,  too,  understands  not 
The  mind  which  overwhelms  me  : never  till 
iNow  met  I aught  to  sympathise  with  me. 

*Tis  well — I rather  would  consort  with  spirits. 

Lucifer.  And  hadst  thou  not  been  fit  by  thine  own 
soul 


(1)  [The  poet  rises  to  the  sublime  in  making  Lucifer  first  inspire 
Cain  with  the  knowledge  of  his  immortality — a portion  of  truth 
which  hath  the  efficacy  of  falsehood  upon  the  victim ; for  Cain, 
feeling  himself  already  unhappy,  knowing  that  his  being  cannot  be 
abridged,  has  the  less  scruple  to  desire  to  be  as  Lucifer,  “mighty.” 
The  whole  of  this  speech  is  truly  Satanic ; a daring  and  dreadful 
description,  given  by  everlasting  despair  of  the  Deity. — Galt.] 

(2)  [“  Create,  and  re-create — perhaps  he’ll  make 

One  day  a Son  unto  himself— as  he 
Gave  you  a father — and  if  he  so  doth, 

Mark  me ! that  Son  will  be  a sacrifice! ” — MS.] 

CS)  [“  Have  stood  before  thee  as  I am ; but  chosen 

The  serpent’s  charmiug  symbol,  as  before.” — MS.] 

(4)  [The  tree  of  life  was  doubtless  a material  tree,  producing 

material  fruit,  proper  as  such  for  the  nourishment  of  the  body  ; but 
Wat  it  not  also  set  apart  to  be  partaken  of  as  a symbol  or  sacrament 


Eor  such  companionship,  I would  not  now 
Have  stood  before  thee  as  I am  : a serpent 
Had  been  enough  to  charm  ye,  as  before.3 

Cain.  Ah  ! didst  thou  tempt  my  mother  ? 

Lucifer.  I tempt  none 

Save  with  the  truth  : was  not  the  tree,  the  tree 
Of  knowledge  ? and  was  not  the  tree  of  life 
Still  fruitful  ? 4 Did  I bid  her  pluck  them  not  ? 

Did  I plant  things  prohibited  within 
The  reach  of  beings  innocent,  and  curious 
By  their  own  innocence  ?5  I would  have  made  ye 
Gods ; and  even  He  who  thrust  ye  forth,  so  thrust  ye 
Because  “ye  should  not  eat  the  fruits  of  life, 

And  become  gods  as  we.”  Were  those  his  words  ? 

Cain.  They  were,  as  I have  heard  from  those  who 
heard  them, 

In  thunder. 

Lucifer.  Then  who  was  the  demon  ? He 
Who  would  not  let  ye  live,  or  he  who  would 
Have  made  ye  live  for  ever  in  the  joy 
And  power  of  knowledge  ? 

Cain.  Would  they  had  snatch’d  both 

The  fruits,  or  neither ! 

Lucifer.  One  is  yours  already  ; 

The  other  may  be  still. 

Cain.  How  so  ? 

Lucifer.  ^ By  being 

Yourselves,  in  your  resistance.  Nothing  can 
Quench  the  mind,  if  the  mind  will  be  itself 
And  centre  of  surrounding  things — ’tis  made 
To  sway. 

Cain.  But  didst  thou  tempt  my  parents  ? 

Lucifer.  I * 

Poor  clay  ! what  should  I tempt  them  for,  or  how 

Cain.  They  say  the  serpent  was  a spirit. 

\ Lucifer.  Who 

Saith  that  ? It  is  not  written  so  on  high  : 

The  proud  One  will  not  so  far  falsify. 

Though  man’s  vast  fears  and  little  vanity 
Would  make  him  cast  upon  the  spiritual  nature 
TIis  own  low  failing.  The  snake  was  the  snake — 

No  more  ; and  yet  not  less  than  those  he  tempted, 

In  nature  being  earth  also — more  in  wisdom , 

Since  he  could  overcome  them,  and  foreknew 
The  knowledge  fatal  to  their  narrow  joys. 

Think’ st  thou  I’d  take  the  shape  of  things  that 
die  ? 

Cain.  But  the  thing  had  a demon  ? 

Lucifer.  Tie  but  woke  one 

In  those  he  spake  to  with  his  forky  tongue. 

I tell  thee  that  the  serpent  was  no  more 

Than  a mere  serpent : ask  the  cherubim 

Who  guard  the  tempting  tree.  When  thousand  ages 

Have  roll’d  o’er  your  dead  ashes,  and  your  seed’s, 


of  that  celestial  principle  which  nourishes  the  soul  to  immortality  f 
— Bishop  Horne.]. 

(5)  [The  Eclectic  reviewer,  we  believe  the  late  Robert  Hall,  says. 
— “ Innocence  is  not  the  cause  of  curiosity,  but  has,  in  every  stage 
of  society,  been  its  victim.  Curiosity  has  ruined  greater  numbers 
than  any  other  passion ; and  as,  in  its  incipient  actings,  it  is  the 
most  dangerous  foe  of  innocence,  so,  when  it  becomes  a passion,  it 
is  only  fed  by  guilt.  Innocence,  indeed,  is  gone,  when  desire  has 
conceived  the  sin.  Cain,  in  this  drama,  is  made,  like  the  Faust  of 
Goethe,  to  be  the  victim  of  curiosity  ; and  a fine  moral  might  1 are 
been  deduced  from  it.” — Dr.  Johnson,  on  the  contrary,  says,  “A 
generous  and  elevated  mind  is  distinguished  by  nothing  more  cer- 
tainly than  by  an  eminent  degree  of  curiosity.  This  passion  is,  per- 
haps, regularly  heightened  in  proportion  as  the  powers  of  the  mind 
are  elevated  and  enlarged.  Curiosity  is  the  thirst  of  the  soul ; it 
inflames  and  torments  us,  and  makes  us  taste  every  thing  with  Joy, 
however  otherwise  insipid,  by  which  it  may  be  quenched.”] 

T T 


322 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


The  seed  of  the  then  world  may  thus  array 
Their  earliest  fault  in  fable,  and  attribute 
To  me  a shape  I scorn,  as  I scorn  all 
That  bows  to  him,  who  made  things  but  to  bend 
Before  his  sullen,  sole  eternity ; 

But  we,  who  see  the  truth,  must  speak  it.  Thy 
Fond  parents  listen’d  to  a creeping  thing, 

And  fell.  Tor  what  should  spirits  tempt  them?  What 
Was  there  to  envy  in  the  narrow  bounds 
Of  Paradise,  that  spirits  who  pervade 

Space but  I speak  to  thee  of  what  thou  know’st 

not, 

With  all  thy  tree  of  knowledge. 

Cain.  But  thou  canst  not 

Speak  aught  of  knowledge,  which  I would  not  know. 
And  do  not  thirst  to  know,  and  bear  a mind 
To  know. 

Lucifer.  And  heart  to  look  on  ? 

Cain.  Be  it  proved. 

Lucifer.  Darest  thou  to  look  on  Death  ? 

Cain.  He  has  not  yet 

Been  seen 

Lucifer.  But  must  be  undergone. 

Cain.  My  father 

Says  he  is  something  dreadful,  and  my  mother 
Weeps  when  he  is  named ; and  Abel  lifts  his  eyes 
To  heaven,  and  Zillah  casts  hers  to  the  earth, 

And  sighs  a prayer;  and  Adah  looks  on  me, 

And  speaks  not. 

JMcifer.  And  thou  ? 

Cain.  Thoughts  unspeakable 

Crowd  in  my  breast  to  burning,  when  I hear 
Of  this  almighty  Death,  who  is,  it  seems, 

Inevitable.  Could  I wrestle  with  him  ? 

1 wrestled  with  the  lion,  when  a boy, 

In  play,  till  he  ran  roaring  from  my  gripe. 

Lucifer.  It  has  no  shape ; but  will  absorb  all  things 
That  bear  the  form  of  earth-born  being. 

Cain.  Ah ! 

I thought  it  was  a being : who  could  do 
Such  evil  things  to  beings  save  a being  ? 

Lucifer.  Ask  the  Destroyer. 

Cain.  Who  ? 

Lucifer.  The  Maker — call  him 

Which  name  thou  wilt ; he  makes  but  to  destroy. 

Cain.  I knew  not  that,  yet  thought  it,  since  I heard 
Of  death  : although  I know  not  what  it  is. 

Yet  it  seems  horrible.  I have  look’d  out 
In  the  vast  desolate  night  in  search  of  him ; 

And  when  I saw  gigantic  shadows  in 
The  umbrage  of  the  walls  of  Eden,  chequer’d 
By  the  far-flashing  of  the  cherubs’  swords, 

I watch’d  for  what  I thought  his  coming  for 
With  fear  rose  longing  in  my  heart  to  know 
What  ’twas  which  shook  us  all — but  nothing  came. 
And  then  I turn’d  my  weary  eyes  from  off 
Our  native  and  forbidden  Paradise, 

Up  to  the  lights  above  us,  in  the  azure, 

Which  are  so  beautiful : shall  they,  too,  die  ? 

Lucifer.  Perhaps — but  long  outlive  both  thine  and 
thee.  [die — 

Cain.  I’m  glad  of  that : I would  not  have  them 
They  are  so  lovely.  What  is  death  ? I fear, 

I feel,  it  is  a dreadful  thing ; but  what, 


ACT  X, 

I cannot  compass  : ’t is  denounced  against  us, 

Both  them  who  sinn’d  and  sinn’d  not,  as  an  ill — 

What  ill  ? 

Lucifer.  To  be  resolved  into  the  earth. 

Cain.  But  shall  I know  it  ? 

Lucifer . As  I know  not  death, 

I cannot  answer. 

Cain.  Were  I quiet  earth 

That  were  no  evil : would  I ne’er  had  been 
Aught  else  but  dust ! 

Lucifer.  That  is  a grovelling  wish, 

Less  than  thy  father’s,  for  he  wish’d  to  know. 

Cain.  But  not  to  live,  or  wherefore  pluck’d  b<?  not 
The  life-tree  ? 

Lucifer.  He  was  hinder’d. 

Cain.  Deadly  error ! 

Not  to  snatch  first  that  fruit : — but  ere  lie  pluck’d 
The  knowledge,  he  was  ignorant  of  death. 

Alas  ! 1 scarcely  now  know  what  it  Is, 

And  yet  I fear  it — fear  I know  not  what ! 

Lucifer.  And  I,  who  know  all  things,  fear  nothing . 
see 

What  is  true  knowledge. 

Cain.  Wilt  thou  teach  me  all  ? 

Lucifer.  Ay,  upon  one  condition. 

Cain.  Name  it. 

Lucifer.  That 

Thou  dost  fall  down  and  worship  me — thy  Lord. 

Cain.  Thou  art  not  the  Lord  my  father  worships. 
Lucifer.  No. 

Cain.  His  equal  ? 

Lucifer.  No  ; — I have  nought  in  common  with  him  f 
Nor  would  : I would  be  aught  above — beneath— 
Aught  save  a sharer  or  a servant  of 
His  power.  I dwell  apart ; but  I am  greal  : — 

Many  there  are  who  worship  me,  and  more 
Who  shall — be  thou  amongst  the  first. 

Cain.  I never 

As  yet  have  bow’d  unto  my  father’s  God, 

Although  my  brother  Abel  oft  implores 
That  I would  join  with  him  in  sacrifice  : — 

Why  should  I bow  to  thee  ? 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  ne’er  bow’d 

To  him  ? 

Cain.  Have  I not  said  it  ? — need  I say  it  ? 

Could  not  thy  mighty  knowledge  teach  thee  that? 
Lucifer.  He  who  bows  not  to  him  has  bow’d  to  me 
Cain.  But  I will  bend  to  neither. 

Lucifer.  Ne’er  the  less, 

Thou  art  my  worshipper : not  worshipping 
Him  makes  thee  mine  the  same. 

Cain.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Lucifer.  Thou’lt  know  here — and  hereafter. 

Cain.  Let  me  but 

Be  taught  the  mystery  of  my  being. 

Lucfer.  Polio  w 

Where  I will  lead  thee. 

Cain.  But  I must  retire 

To  till  the  earth — for  I had  promised 

Jjucifer.  What  ? 

Cain.  To  cull  some  first-fruits. 

Lucifer.  Why  ? 

Cain.  To  offer  up 

With  Abel  on  an  altar. 


(1)  [It  may  appear  a very  prosaic,  but  it  is  certainly  a very 
obvious  criticism  on  these  passages,  that  the  young  family  of 
mankind  had,  long  ere  this,  been  quite  familiar  «:th  the  death  of 


animals— some  of  whom  Abel  was  in  the  habit  of  offering  up  m 
sacrifices ; so  that  it  is  not  quite  conceivable  that  they  should  U 
so  much  at  a loss  to  conjecture  what  Dtuih  was. — jEFFREr.J 


SCENE  I. 


• CAIN. 


3%J3 


Lucifer.  Saidst  thou  not 

Thou  ne’er  liadst  bent  to  him  who  made  thee  ? 

Cain.  Yes 

But  Abel’s  earnest  prayer  has  wrought  upon  me  ; 

The  offering  is  more  his  than  mine — and  Adah 

Lucifer.  Why  dost  thou  Hesitate  ? 

Cain.  She  is  my  sister, 

Born  on  the  same  day,  of  the  same  womb  ; and 
She  wrung  from  me,  with  tears,  this  promise ; and 
Bather  than  see  her  weep,  1 would,  methinks, 

Bear  all — and  worship  aught. 

Lucifer.  Then  follow  me  ! 

Cain.  I will.1 

Enter  Adah. 

Adah.  My  brother,  I have  come  for  thee ; 

It  is  our  hour  of  rest  and  joy — and  we 
Have  less  without  thee.  Thou  hast  labour’d  not 
This  morn ; but  I have  done  thy  task  : the  fruits 
Are  ripe,  and  glowing  as  the  light  which  ripens  : 

Come  away. 

Cain.  Scest  thou  not  ? 

Adah.  I see  an  angel ; 

We  have  seen  many  : will  he  share  our  hour 
Of  rest  ? — he  is  welcome. 

Cain.  But  he  is  not  like 

The  angels  we  have  seen. 

Adah.  Are  there,  then,  others  ? 

But  he  is  welcome,  as  they  were  : they  deign’d 
To  be  our  guests — will  he  ? 

Cain  ( tc  Lucifer).  Wilt  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  I ask 

Thee  to  be  mine. 

Cain.  I must  away  with  him. 

Adah.  And  leave  us  ? 

Cain.  Ay. 

Adah.  And  me? 

Cain.  Beloved  Adah  ! 

Adah.  Let  me  go  with  thee. 

Lucifer.  No,  she  must  not. 

Adah.  Who 

Art  thou  that  steppest  between  heart  and  heart  ? 

Cain.  He  is  a god. 

Adah.  How  know’st  thou  ? 

Cain.  lie  speaks  like 

A god. 

Adah.  So  did  the  serpent,  and  it  lied. 
iAicifer.  Thou  errest,  Adah  ! — was  not  the  tree  that 
Of  knowledge  ? 

Adah.  Ay — to  our  eternal  sorrow. 

Lucifer.  And  yet  that  grief  is  knowledge — so  he 
lied  not : ^ 

And  if  he  did  betray  you,  ’twas  with  truth  ; 

And  truth  in  its  own  essence  cannot  be 
But  good. 

Adah.  But  all  we  know  of  it  has  gather’d 
Evil  on  ill : expulsion  from  our  home, 

And  dread,  and  toil,  and  sweat,  and  heaviness ; 
Remorse  of  that  which  was — and  hope  of  that 
Which  comcth  not.  Cain ! walk  not  with  this  spirit. 
Bear  with  what  we  have  borne,  and  love  me — I 
Love  thee. 

LMcifer.  More  than  thy  mother,  and  thy  sire  ? 


(1)  [The  first  interview  of  Lucifer  with  Cain  is  full  of  sublimity. 
— Jeffrey.] 

;2)  [It  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck  with  the  resemblance  be- 
tween many  of  these  passages  and  others  in  Manfred .] 

*31  [Mr  Jeffrey’s  eulogium  on  this,  perhaps  the  most  Shak- 


Adah.  I do.  Is  that  a sin,  too  ? 

Lucifer.  No,  not  yet : 

It  one  day  will  be  in  your  children. 

Adah.  What ! 

Must  not  my  daughter  love  her  brother  Enoch 

Lucifer.  Not  as  thou  lovest  Cain. 

Adah.  Oh,  mv  God  ! 

Shall  they  not  love  and  bring  forth  things  that  love 
Out  of  their  love  ? have  they  not  drawn  their  milk 
Out  of  this  bosom  ? was  not  he,  their  father, 

Born  of  the  same  sole  womb,  in  the  same  hour 
With  me?  did  we  not  love  each  other  ? and 
In  multiplying  our  being  multiply 
Things  which  will  love  each  other  as  we  love 
Them  ? — And  as  I love  thee,  my  Cain  ! go  not 
Forth  with  this  spirit ; he  is  not  of  ours. 

Lucifer.  The  sin  I speak  of  is  not  of  my  making. 
And  cannot  be  a sin  in  you — whate’er 
It  seem  in  those  who  will  replace  ye  in 
Mortality.2 

Adah.  "What  is  the  sin  which  is  not 
Sin  in  itself  ? Can  circumstance  make  sin 
Or  virtue  ? — if  it  doth,  we  are  the  slaves 
Of [higher 

Lucifer.  Higher  things  than  ye  are  slaves  : and 
Than  them  or  ye  would  be  so,  did  they  not 
Prefer  an  independency  of  torture 
To  the  smooth  agonies  of  adulation, 

In  hymns  and  harpings,  and  self-seeking  prayers, 

To  that  which  is  omnipotent,  because 
It  is  omnipotent,  and  not  from  love. 

But  terror  and  self-hope. 

Adah.  Omnipotence 

Must  be  all  goodness. 

Lucifer.  Was  it  so  in  Eden  ? 

Adah.  Fiend  ! tempt  me  not  with  beauty  ; thou  art 
fairer 

Than  was  the  serpent,  and  as  false. 

Lucifer.  As  true. 

Ask  Eve,  your  mother:  bears  she  not  the  knowledge 
Of  good  and  evil  ? 

Adah.  Oh,  my  mother ! thou 

Hast  pluck’d  a fruit  more  fatal  to  thine  offspring 
Than  to  thyself ; thou  at  the  least  hast  pass’d 
Thy  youth  in  Paradise,  in  innocent 
And  happy  intercourse  with  happy  spirits  : 

But  we,  thy  children,  ignorant  of  Eden, 

Are  girt  about  by  demons,  who  assume 
The  words  of  God,  and  tempt  us  with  our  own 
Dissatisfied  and  curious  thoughts — as  thou 
Wert  work’d  on  by  the  snake,  in  thy  most  flush’d 
And  heedless,  harmless  wantonness  of  bliss. 

I cannot  answer  this  immortal  thing 

Which  stands  before  me  ; I can  not  abhor  him  ; 

I look  upon  him  with  a pleasing  fear, 

And  yet  I fly  not  from  him  : in  his  eye 
There  is  a fastening  attraction  which 
Fixes  my  fluttering  eyes  on  his;  my  heart 
Beats  quick ; he  awes  me,  and  yet  draws  me  near, 
Nearer,  and  nearer:  — Cain  — Gaia — save  me  from 
him  ! 3 

Cain.  What  dreads  my  Adah  ? 'This  is  no  ill  spirit, 

Adah.  He  is  not  God — nor  God’s  : I have  beheld 


spearian  speech  in  Lord  Byron’s  tragedies,  seems  cold  enough. 
He  says,  “Adah,  the  wife  of  Cain,  enters,  and  shrinks  from  the 
daring  and  blasphemous  speech  which  is  passing  between  him  and 
the  Spirit.  Her  account  of  »he  fascination  which  he  exercises  o»ei 
her  is  magnificent.”] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  i 


324 


The  cherubs  and  the  seraphs  ; lie  looks  not 
Like  them. 

Cain.  But  there  are  spirits  loftier  still — 

The  archangels. 

Lucifer.  And  still  loftier  than  the  archangels. 

Adah.  Ay — but  not  blessed. 

Lucifer.  If  the  blessedness 

Consists  in  slavery — no. 

Adah.  I have  heard  it  said, 

The  seraphs  love  most — cherubim  Icnoio  most — • 

And  this  should  be  a cherub — since  he  loves  not. 
Lticifer.  And  if  the  higher  knowledge  quenches 
love, 

What  must  he  he  you  cannot  love  when  known  ? 1 
Since  the  all-knowing  cherubim  love  least, 

The  seraphs’  love  can  be  but  ignorance  : 

That  they  are  not  compatible,  the  doom 
Of  thy  fond  parents,  for  their  daring,  proves. 

Choose  betwixt  love  and  knowledge — since  there  is 
No  other  choice  : your  sire  hath  chosen  already  ; 

His  worship  is  but  fear. 

Adah.  Oh,  Cain  ! choose  love. 

Cain.  For  thee,  my  Adah,  I choose  not — it  was 
Born  with  me — but  I love  nought  else. 

Adah.  Our  parents  ? 

Cain.  Did  they  love  us  when  they  snatch’d  from 
the  tree 

That  which  hath  driven  us  all  from  Paradise  ? 

Adah.  We  were  not  born  then — and  if  we  had  been, 
Should  we  not  love  them  and  our  children,  Cain  ? 

Cain.  My  little  Enoch  ! and  his  lisping  sister  ! 

Could  I but  deem  them  happy,  I would  half 

Forget but  it  can  never  be  forgotten 

Through  thrice  a thousand  generations  ! never 
Shall  men  love  the  remembrance  of  the  man 
Who  sow’d  the  seed  of  evil  and  mankind 
In  the  same  hour  ! They  pluck’d  the  tree  of  science 
And  sin— and,  not  content  with  their  own  sorrow, 
Begot  me — thee — and  all  the  few  that  are. 

And  all  the  unnumber’d  and  innumerable 
Multitudes,  millions,  myriads,  which  may  be, 

To  inherit  agonies  accumulated 

By  ages  ! — and  I must  be  sire  of  such  things  ! 

Thy  beauty  and  thy  love — my  love  and  joy, 

The  rapturous  moment  and  the  placid  hour,2 
All  we  love  in  our  children  and  each  other, 

But  lead  them  and  ourselves  through  many  years 
Of  sin  and  pain — or  few,  but  still  of  sorrow, 
Intercheck’d  with  an  instant  of  brief  pleasure, 

To  Death — the  unknown  1 Methinks  the  tree  of 
knowledge 

Hath  not  fulfill’d  its  promise : — if  they  sinn’d, 

At  least  they  ought  to  have  known  all  things  that  are 
Of  knowledge — and  the  mystery  of  death. 

What  do  they  know  ? — that  they  arc  miserable. 

What  need  of  snakes  and  fruits  to  teach  us  that  ? 

Adah.  I am  not  wretched,  Cain,  and  if  thou 
Wert  happy 

Cain.  Be  thou  happy,  then,  alone — • 

I will  have  nought  to  do  with  happiness, 

Which  humbles  me  and  mine. 

Adah.  Alone  I could  not, 

Nor  would  be  happy  : but  with  those  around  us, 

1 think  I could  be  so,  despite  of  death, 


Which,  as  I know  it  not  T dread  not,  though 
It  seems  an  awful  shadow — if  I may 
Judge  from  what  I have  heard. 

Lucifer.  And  thou  couldst  not 

Alone , thou  say’st,  be  happy  ? 

Adah.  Alone ! Oh,  my  God  ! 

Who  could  be  happy  and  alone,  or  good  ? 

To  me  my  solitude  seems  sin  ; unless 

When  I think  how  soon  I shall  see  my  brother, 

His  brother,  and  our  children,  and  our  parents. 

Lucifer.  Yet  thy  God  is  alone ; and  is  he  happy  ? 
Lonely,  and  good  ? 

Adah.  He  is  not  so ; he  hath 

The  angels  and  the  mortals  to  make  happy, 

And  thus  becomes  so  in  diffusing  joy. 

What  else  can  joy  be,  but  the  spreading  joy  F 

Lucifer.  Ask  of  your  sire,  the  exile  fresh  from 
Eden ; 

Or  of  his  first-born  son  : ask  your  own  heart ; 

It  is  not  tranquil. 

Adah.  Alas  ! no  ! and  you — 

Are  you  of  heaven  ? 

Lucifer.  If  I am  not,  inquire 

The  cause  of  this  all-spreading  happiness 
(Which  you  proclaim)  of  the  all-great  and  good 
Maker  of  life  and  living  things  ; it  is 
Ilis  secret,  and  he  keeps  it.  We  must  bear, 

And  some  of  us  resist,  and  both  in  vain, 

His  seraphs  say  ; but  it  is  worth  the  trial, 

Since  better  may  not  be  without : there  is 
A wisdom  in  the  spirit,  which  directs 
To  right,  as  in  the  dim  blue  air  the  eye 
Of  you,  young  mortals,  lights  at  once  upon 
The  star  which  watches,  welcoming  the  morn 

Adah.  It  is  a beautiful  star  ; 1 love  it  for 
Its  beauty. 

Lucifer.  And  why  not  adore  ? 

Adah.  Our  father 

Adores  the  Invisible  only. 

Ijiicifer.  But  the  symbols 

Of  the  Invisible  are  the  loveliest 
Of  what  is  visible  ; and  yon  bright  star 
Is  leader  of  the  host  of  heaven. 

Adah.  Our  father 

Saith  that  he  has  beheld  the  God  himself 
Who  made  him  and  our  mother. 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  seen  aim  ? 

Adah.  Yes — in  his  works. 

Lucifer . But  in  his  being  ? 

Adah.  _ No- 

Save  in  my  father,  who  is  God’s  own  image  ; 

Or  in  his  angels,  who  are  like  to  thee — 

And  brighter,  yet  less  beautiful  and  powerful 
In  seeming : as  the  silent  sunny  noon, 

All  light  they  look  upon  us;  but  thou  seem’st 
Like  an  ethereal  night,  where  long  white  clouds 
Streak  the  deep  purple,  and  nnnumber’d  stars 
Spangle  the  wonderful  mysterious  vault 
With  things  that  look  as  if  they  would  be  suns  : 

So  beautiful,  unnumber’d,  and  endearing, 

Not  dazzling,  and  yet  drawing  us  to  them, 

They  (ill  my  eyes  with  tears,  and  so  dost  thou. 

Thou  seem’st  unhappy  : do  not  make  us  so, 

And  I will  weep  for  thee.3 


(I)  [“What  can  he  he  who  places  love  in  ignorance?”  — 
MS  1 

1 2)  I This  “ placid  hour”  of  Cain  is,  we  fear,  froti  a source  which 


it  will  do  Lord  B.  no  credit  to  name, — the  romance  of  Fan* 

bias.”] 

(3)  [In  the  drawing  of  Cain  himself,  there  is  much  vigorouf 


»-:en'e 


CAIN. 


325 


Lucifer.  Alas ! those  tears  ! 

Couldst  thou,  but  know  what  oceans  will  be  shed 

Adah.  By  me  ? 

Lucifer.  By  all. 

Adah.  What  all? 

Lucifer.  The  million  millions — 

The  myriad  myriads — the  all-peopled  earth 
The  unpeopled  earth— and  the  o’erpeopled  Hell, 

Of  which  thy  bosom  is  the  germ. 

Adah.  O Cain ! 

This  spirit  cuiSJoh  us. 

Cain.  Let  him  say  on  ; 

Him  will  I follow. 

Adah.  Whither  l 

Lucifer.  To  a place 

Whence  he  shall  come  back  to  thee  in  an  hour ; 

But  in  that  hour  see  things  of  many  days. 

Adah.  How  can  that  be  ? 

Lucifer.  Hid  not  your  Maker  make 

Out  of  old  worlds  this  new  one  in  few  days  ? 

And  cannot  I,  who  aided  in  this  work, 

Show  in  an  hour  what  lie  hath  made  in  many, 

Or  hath  destroy’d  in  few  ? 

Cain.  Lead  on. 

Adah.  Will  he, 

In  sooth,  return  within  an  hour  ? 

Lucifer.  He  shall. 

Witn  ns  acts  are  exempt  from  time,  and  we 
Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour, 

Or  stretch  an  hour  into  eternity  : 

We  breathe  not  by  a mortal  measurement — 

But  that’s  a mystery.  Cain,  come  on  with  me. 

Adah.  Will  he  return  ? 

Lucifer.  Ay,  woman  ! he  alone 

Of  mortals  from  that  place  (the  first  and  last 
Who  shall  return,  save  One), — shall  come  back  to 


thee, 

To  make  that  silent  and  expectant  world 
As  populous  as  this : at  present  there 
Are  few  inhabitants. 

Adah.  Where  dwellest  thou  ? 

Lucifer.  Throughout  all  space.  Where  should  I 
dwell  ? Where  are 

Thy  God  or  Gods — there  am  I : all  things  are 
Divided  with  me ; life  and  death — and  time — 
Eternity — and  heaven  and  earth — and  that 
Which  is  not  heaven  nor  earth,  but  peopled  with 
Those  who  once  peopled  or  shall  people  both — 

These  are  my  realms  ! So  that  I do  divide 
His,  and  possess  a kingdom  which  is  not 
His.  If  I were  not  that  which  I have  said, 

Could  I stand  here  ? His  angels  are  within 
Your  vision. 

Adah.  So  they  were  when  the  fair  serpent 
Spoke  with  our  mother  first. 

Lucifer.  Cain  ! thou  hast  heard. 

If  thou  dost  long  for  knowledge,  I can  satiate 
That  thirst ; nor  ask  thee  to  partake  of  fruits 


Which  shall  deprive  thee  of  a single  good 
The  conqueror  has  left  thee.  Follow  me. 

Cain.  Spirit,  I have  said  it. 

Exeunt  Lucifer  and  Cain 
Adah  ( follows , exclaiming).  Cain!  my  brother! 
Cain ! 1 2 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Abyss  of  Space? 

Cain.  I tread  on  air,  and  sink  not ; yet  I fear 
To  sink. 

Lucifer.  Have  faith  in  me,  and  thou  shalt  be 
Borne  on  the  air,  of  which  I am  the  prince. 

Cain.  Can  I do  so  without  impiety  ? 

Jjucifer.  Believe — and  sink  not!  doubt — and  perish1 
thus 

W ould  run  the  edict  of  the  other  God, 

Who  names  me  demon  to  his  angels  ; they 
Echo  the  sound  to  miserable  things, 

Which,  knowing  nought  beyond  their  shallow  senses, 
Worship  the  word  which  strikes  their  ear,  and  deem 
Evil  or  good  what  is  proclaim’d  to  them 
In  their  abasement.  1 will  have  none  such : 

W orsliip  or  worship  not,  thou  shalt  behold 
The  worlds  beyond  thy  little  world,  nor  be 
Amerced  for  doubts  beyond  thy  little  life, 

With  torture  of  my  dooming.  There  will  come 
An  hour,  when,  toss’d  upon  some  water-drops,3 
A man  shall  say  to  a man,  “Believe  in  me, 

And  walk  the  waters  and  the  man  shall  walk 
The  billows  and  be  safe.  I will  not  say, 

Believe  in  me,  as  a conditional  creed 
To  save  thee  ; but  fly  with  me  o’er  the  gulf 
Of  space  an  equal  flight,  and  I will  show 
What  thou  dar’st  not  deny, — the  history 
Of  past,  and  present,  and  of  future  worlds. 

Cain.  Oh,  god,  or  demon,  or  whate’er  thou  art, 

Is  yon  our  earth  ? 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  not  recognise 

The  dust  which  form’d  your  father  ? 

Cain.  Can  it  be  ? 

Yon  small  blue  circle,  swinging  in  far  ether, 

With  an  inferior  circlet  near  it  still, 

Which  looks  like  that  which  lit  our  earthly  night  ? 

Is  this  our  Paradise  ? Where  are  its  walls, 

And  they  who  guard  them  ? 

Lucifer.  Point  me  out  the  site 

Of  Paradise. 

Cain.  How  should  I ? As  we  move 

Like  sunbeams  onward,  it  grows  small  and  smaller. 
And  as  it  waxes  little,  and  then  less, 

Gathers  a halo  round  it,  like  the  light 
Which  shone  the  roundest  of  the  stars,  when  I 
Beheld  them  from  the  skirts  of  Paradise  : 


•xpression.  It  seems,  howjver,  as  if,  in  the  effort  to  give  to  Lucifer 
that  “ spiritual  politeness  ’ which  the  poet  professes  to  have  in 
view,  he  has  reduced  hiu  rather  below  the  standard  of  diabolic 
dignity,  which  was  necessary  to  his  dramatic  interest.  He  has 
scarcely  “given  the  devil  his  due.”  We  thought  Lord  Byron  knew 
! otter.  Milton’s  Satan,  with  his  faded  majesty,  and  blasted  but 
not  obliterated  glory,  holds  us  suspended  between  terror  and 
amazement,  with  something  like  awe  of  his  spiritual  essence  and 
lost  estate ; but  Lo~d  Byron  has  introduced  him  to  us  as  elegant, 
pensive,  and  beautiful,  with  an  air  of  sadness  and  suffering  that 
canks  him  with  the  oppressed,  and  bespeaks  our  pity. — Brit.  Crit .] 


(1)  [The  act  concludes  with  the  departure  of  Cain,  under  the 

guidance  of  his  new  monitor,  to  see  the  place  of  departed  spirits. 
Their  flight,  in  the  next,  across  the  abyss  of  space,  and  amid  the 
unnumbered  suns  and  systems  which  it  comprises,  is  very  fine. 
Heber.]  . , 

(2)  [In  the  second  act,  the  demon  carries  his  disciple  through  all 
the  limits  of  space,  and  expounds  to  him,  in  very  lofty  and  obscure 
terms,  the  destinies  of  pa-t  and  future  worlds.  They  have  a great 
deal  of  exceptionable  talk. — Jeffrey.] 

(3)  [“  An  hour,  when,  walking  on  a petty  lake. 

A man  shall  say,  &c.” — MS.] 


326 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  IL 


Metliinks  they  both,  as  we  recede  from  them, 

Appear  to  join  the  innumerable  stars 
Which  are  around  us ; and,  as  we  move  on, 

Increase  their  myriads. 

Lucifer.  And  if  there  should  be 

Worlds  greater  than  thine  own,  inhabited 
By  greater  things,  and  they  themselves  far  more 
In  number  than  the  dust  of  thy  dull  earth, 

Though  multiplied  to  animated  atoms. 

All  living,  and  all  doom’d  to  death,  and  wretched, 
What  wouldst  thou  think  ? 

Cain.  T should  be  proud  of  thought 

Which  knew  such  things. 

Imcifer.  But  if  that  high  thought  were 

Link’d  to  a servile  mass  of  matter,  and, 

Knowing  such  things,  aspiring  to  such  things, 

And  science  still  beyond  them,  were  chain’d  down 
To  the  most  gross  and  petty  paltry  wants, 

All  foul  and  fulsome,  and  the  very  best 
Of  thine  enjoyments  a sweet  degradation, 

A most  enervating  and  filthy  cheat, 

To  lure  thee  on  to  the  renewal  of 

Fresh  souls  and  bodies,  all  foredoom’d  to  be 

As  frail,  and  few  so  happy1 

Cain.  Spirit ! I 

Know  nought  of  death,  save  as  a dreadful  thing 
Of  which  I have  heard  my  parents  speak,  as  of 
A hideous  heritage  I owe  to  them 
No  less  than  life ; a heritage  not  happy. 

If  I may  judge,  till  now.  But,  spirit ! if 
It  be  as  thou  hast  said  (and  I within 
Feel  the  prophetic  torture  of  its  truth), 

Here  let  me  die  : for  to  give  birth  to  those 
Who  can  but  suffer  many  years,  and  die, 

Metliinks  is  merely  propagating  death, 

And  multiplying  murder. 

Lucifer.  Thou  canst  not 

All  die — there  is  what  must  survive. 

Cain.  The  Other 

Spake  not  of  this  unto  my  father,  when 
He  shut  him  forth  from  Paradise,  with  death 
Written  upon  his  forehead.  But  at  least 
Let  what  is  mortal  of  me  perish,  that 
I may  be  in  the  rest  as  angels  are. 

Lucifer.  I am  angelic  : wouldst  thou  be  as  I am  ? 

Cain.  I know  not  what  thou  art : I see  thy  power, 
And  see  thou  show’st  me  things  beyond  my  power, 
Beyond  all  power  of  my  born  faculties. 

Although  inferior  still  to  my  desires 
And  my  conceptions. 

Lucifer.  What  are  they  which  dwell 

So  humbly  in  their  pride,  as  to  sojourn 
With  worms  in  clay  ? 

Cain.  And  what  art  thou  who  dwellest 


(1)  [It  is  nothing  less  than  absurd  to  suppose,  that  Lucifer  cannot 
well  be  expected  t > talk  like  an  orthodox  divine,  and  that  the  con- 
versation of  the  first  Rebel  and  the  first  Murderer  was  not  likely 
to  be  very  unexceptionable  ; or  to  plead  the  authority  of  Milton, 
or  the  authors  of  the  old  mysteries,  for  such  offensive  colloquies. 
The  fact  is,  that  here  the  whole  argument — and  a very  elaborate 
and  specious  argument  it  is — is  directed  against  the  goodness  or 
ehe  power  of  the  Deity ; and  there  is  no  answer  so  much  as 
attempted  to  the  offensive  doctrines  that  are  so  strenuously  incul- 
cated. The  Devil  at  d his  pupil  have  the  field  entirely  to  them- 
selves, and  are  encountered  with  nothing  but  feeble  obtestations 
and  unreasoning  horrors.  Nor  is  this  argumentative  blasphemy  a 
mere  incidental  deformity  that  arises  in  the  course  of  an  action 
directed  to  the  common  sympathies  of  our  nature.  It  forms,  on 
tin;  contrary,  the  great  staple  of  the  piece,  and  occupies,  we  should 
think,  not  loss  than  two-thirds  of  it;  so  that  it  is  really  difficult  to 


So  haughtily  in  spirit,  and  canst  range 
Nature  and  immortality — and  yet 
Seem’st  sorrowful  ? 

Lucifer.  I seem  that  which  1 am  ; 

And  therefore  do  I ask  of  thee,  if  thou 
Wouldst  be  immortal  ? 

Cain.  Thou  hast  said,  I must  oe 

Immortal  in  despite  of  me.  I knew  not 
This  until  lately — but  since  it  must  be. 

Let  me,  or  happy  or  unhappy,  learn 
To  anticipate  my  immortality. 

Lucifer.  Thou  didst  before  I came  upon  thee. 

Cain.  How  v 

Lucifer.  By  suffering. 

Cain.  And  must  torture  be  immorta.  ? 

Lucifer.  We  and  thy  sons  will  try.  But  now, 
behold  ! 

Is  it  not  glorious  ? 

Cain.  Oh,  thou  beautiful 

And  unimaginable  ether  ! and 
Ye  multiplying  masses  of  increased 
And  still  increasing  lights  ! what  are  ye  ? what 
Is  this  blue  wilderness  of  interminable 
Air,  where  ye  roll  along,  as  I have  seen 
The  leaves  along  the  limpid  streams  of  Eden  ? 

Is  your  course  measured  for  ye  ? Or  do  ye 
Sweep  on  in  your  unbounded  revelry 
Through  an  aerial  universe  of  endless 
Expansion — at  which  my  soul  aches  to  think — 
Intoxicated  with  eternity  ? 

Oh  God ! Oh  Gods  ! or  whatsoe’er  ye  are ! 

How  beautiful  ye  are ! how  beautiful 
Your  works,  or  accidents,  or  whatsoe’er 
They  may  be ! Let  me  die,  as  atoms  die, 

(If  that  they  die)  or  know  ye  in  your  might 

And  knowledge ! My  thoughts  are  not  in  this  hour 

Unworthy  what  I see,  though  my  dust  is  ; 

Spirit ! let  me  expire,  or  see  them  nearer. 

Lucifer.  Art  thou  not  nearer?  look  back  to  thine 
earth ! 

Cain.  Where  is  it  ? I see  nothing  save  a mass 
Of  most  innumerable  lights. 

Lucifer.  Look  there ! 

Cain.  I cannot  see  it. 

Lucifer.  Yet  it  sparkles  still. 

Cain.  That ! — yonder  ! 

Lucifer.  Yea. 

Cain.  And  wilt  thou  tell  me  so  . 

Why,  I have  seen  the  fire-flies  and  fire-worms 
Sprinkle  the  dusky  groves  and  the  green  banks 
In  the  dim  twilight,  brighter  than  yon  world 
Which  bears  them. 

Lucifer.  Thou  hast  seen  both  worms  and  worlds, 
Each  bright  and  sparkling — what  dost  think  of  them  ? 


believe  that  it  was  written  for  any  other  purpose  than  to  inculcate 
these  doctrines;  or,  at  least,  to  discuss  the  question  upon  which 
they  bear.  Now,  we  can  certainly  have  no  objection  to  Lord  Byron 
writing  an  essay  on  the  origin  of  evil,  and  sifting  the  whole  of  that 
vast  and  perplexing  subject,  with  the  force  and  the  freedom  that 
would  be  expected  and  allowed  in  a fair  philosophical  discussion; 
but  we  do  not  think  it  fair  thus  to  argue  it  partially  and  con  amore. 
in  the  name  of  Lucifer  and  Cain,  without  the  responsibility  or  the 
liability  to  answer,  that  would  attach  to  a philosophical  disputant ; 
and  in  a form  which  both  doubles  the  danger,  if  the  sentiments  ate 
pernicious,  and  almost  precludes  his  opponents  from  the  possibility 
of  a reply. — Jeffrey. — “What  does  Jeffrey  mean  by  elaborate  t 
Why  ! they  were  written  as  last  as  I could  put  pen  to  paper,  in  th« 
midst  of  evolutions,  and  revolutions,  and  persecutions,  and  pur 
scriptions  of  all  who  interested  me  in  Italy.” — Byron  Lettert.] 


SCENE  II. 


C A . N. 


327 

And  men  ? 


Cain.  That  they  are  beautiful  in  their  own  sphere, 
And  that  the  night,  which  makes  both  beautiful. 

The  little  shining  fire-fly  in  its  flight, 

And  the  immortal  star  in  its  great  course, 

Must  both  be  guided. 

Lucifer . But  by  whom  or  what  ? 

Cain.  Snow  me. 

Lucifer.  Dar’st  thou  behold  ? 

Cain.  How  know  I what 

I dare  behold  ? As  yet,  thou  hast  shown  nought 
I dare  not  gaze  on  further. 

Lucifer.  On,  then,  with  me. 

"VVouldst  thou  behold  things  mortal  or  immortal  ? 
Cain.  Why,  what  are  things  ? 

Lucifer.  Both  partly  ; but  what  doth 

Sit  next  thy  heart  ? 

Cain.  The  things  I see. 

Lucifer.  But  what 

Sate  nearest  it  ? 

Cain.  The  things  I have  not  seen, 

Nor  ever  shall — the  mysteries  of  death.  [died, 

Lucifer.  What,  if  I show  to  thee  things  which  have 
As  I have  shown  thee  much  which  cannot  die  ? 

Cain.  Do  so. 

Lucifer.  Away,  then ! on  our  mighty  wings. 

Cain.  Oh ! how  we  cleave  the  blue  ! The  stars  fade 
from  us ! 

The  earth  ! where  is  my  earth  ? Let  me  look  on  it, 
For  I was  made  of  it. 

Lucifer.  ’Tis  now  beyond  thee, 

Less,  in  the  uni . erse,  than  thou  in  it ; 

Yet  deem  not  that  thou  canst  escape  it ; thou 
Shalt  soon  return  to  earth,  and  all  its  dust : 

*T\s  part  of  thy  eternity,  and  mine. 

Cain.  Where  dost  thou  lead  me  ? 

Lucifer.  To  what  was  before  thee  ! 

The  phantasm  of  the  world ; of  which  thy  world 
Is  but  the  wreck. 

Cain.  What ! is  it  not  then  new  ? 

Lucifer.  No  more  than  life  is ; and  that  was  ere 
thou 

Or  7 were,  or  the  things  which  seem  to  us 
Greater  than  either : many  things  will  have 
No  end ; and  some,  which  would  pretend  to  have 
Had  no  beginning,  have  had  one  as  mean 
As  thou ; and  mightier  things  have  been  extinct 
To  make  way  for  much  meaner  than  we  can 
Surmise  ; for  moments  only  and  the  space 
Have  been  and  must  be  all  unchangeable. 

But  changes  make  not  death,  except  to  clay ; 

But  thou  art  clay, — and  canst  but  comprehend 
That  which  was  clay,  and  such  thou  shalt  behold. 

Cain.  Clay,  spirit ! what  thou  wilt,  I can  survey. 
Lucifer.  Away,  then ! 

Cain.  But  the  lights  fade  from  me  fast. 

And  some  till  now  grew  larger  as  we  approach’d, 

And  wore  the  look  of  worlds. 

Lucifer.  And  such  they  are. 

Cain.  And  Edens  in  them  ? 

Lucifer.  It  may  be. 


(1)  [It  is  not  very  easy  to  perceive  what  natural  or  rational 
object  the  Devil  proposes  to  himself  in  carrying  his  disciple 
through  the  abyss  of  space,  to  show  him  that  repository  of  which 
we  remember  hearing  something  in  our  infant  days,  “ where  the  old 
moons  are  hung  up  to  dry.”  To  prove  that  there  is  a life  beyond 
the  grave,  was  surely  no  part  of  his  business  when  he  was  engaged 
lr  festering  the  indignation  of  one  who  repined  at  the  necessity  of 
dying.  And,  though  it  would  seem,  that  entire  Hades  is,  in  Lord 
By'on’a  picture,  a place  of  suffering,  yet,  when  Lucifer  himself  had 
premised  that  these  sufferings  were  the  lot  of  those  spirits  who  had 


Cain. 

Lucifer.  Yea,  or  tilings  higher. 

Cain.  Ay  ? and  serpents  too? 

Lucifer.  VVouldst  thou  have  men  without  them  ? 
must  no  reptiles 
Breathe  save  the  erect  ones  ? 

Cain.  How  the  lights  recede  ! 

Where  fly  we  ? 

Lucifer.  To  the  world  of  phantoms,  which 

Arc  beings  past,  and  shadows  still  to  come. 

Cain.  But  it  grows  dark  and  dark — the  stars  are 
gone! 

Lucifer.  And  yet  thou  seest. 

Cain.  ’Tis  a fearful  light 

No  sun,  no  moon,  no  lights  innumerable. 

The  very  blue  of  the  empurpled  night 
Fades  to  a dreary  twilight,  yet  I see 
Huge  dusky  masses  : but  unlike  the  worlds 
We  were  approaching,  which,  begirt  with  light, 
Seem’d  full  of  life  even  when  their  atmosphere 
Of  light  gave  way,  and  show’d  them  taking  shapes 
Unequal,  of  deep  valleys  and  vast  mountains ; 

And  some  emitting  sparks,  and  some  displaying 
Enormous  liquid  plains,  and  some  begirt 
With  luminous  belts,  and  floating  moons,  which  took, 
Like  them,  the  features  of  fair  earth : — instead, 

All  here  seems  dark  and  dreadful. 

Jjucifer.  But  distinct. 

Thou  seekest  to  behold  death,  and  dead  things  ? 

Cain.  I seek  it  not ; but  as  I know  there  are 
Such,  and  that  my  sire’s  sin  makes  him  and  me, 

And  all  that  we  inherit,  liable 

To  such,  I would  behold  at  once,  what  I 

Must  one  day  see  perforce. 

Lucifer.  Behold  !# 

Cain.  * ’Tis  darkness. 

Lucifer.  And  so  it  shall  be  ever ; but  we  will 
Unfold  its  gates  ! 

Cain.  Enormous  vapours  roll 

Apart — what ’s  this  ? 

Lucifer.  Enter ! 

Cain.  Can  I return  ? 

Lucifer.  Return ! be  sure  : how  else  should  deat  h 
be  peopled  ? 

Its  present  realm  is  thin  to  what  it  will  be. 

Through  thee  and  thine. 

Cain.  The  clouds  still  open  wide 

And  wider,  and  make  widening  circles  round  us. 

Lucifer.  Advance  ! 

Cain.  And  thou ! 

Lucifer.  Fear  not — without  me  thou 

Couldst  not  have  gone  beyond  thy  world.  On  ! on  ! 

[Theg  disappear  through  the  clouds. 

SCENE  II. 

Hades } 

Enter  Lucifer  and  Cain. 

Cain.  How  silent  and  how  vast  are  these  dim 
worlds ! 

sided  with  him  against  Jehovah,  is  it  likely  that  a more  accurate 
knowledge  of  them  would  increase  Cain’s  eagerness  for  the  alliance, 
or  that  he  would  not  rather  have  inquired  whether  a better  fortune 
did  not  await  the  adherents  of  the  triumphant  side?  At  all  events, 
the  spectacle  of  many  ruined  worlds  was  more  likely  to  awe  a 
mortal  into  submission,  than  to  rouse  him  to  hopeless  resistance; 
and,  even  if  it  made  him  a hater  of  God,  had  no  natural  tendency 
to  render  him  furious  against  a brother  who  was  tc  be  his  fellow- 
sufferer. H EBfift.  J 


, 328 


LOIlu  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  a 


For  they  seem  more  than  one,  and  yet  more  peopled 
Than  the  huge  brilliant  luminous  orbs  which  swung 
So  thickly  in  the  upper  air,  that  I 
Had  deem’d  them  rather  the  bright  populace 
Of  some  all  unimaginable  heaven, 

Than  things  to  be  inhabited  themselves, 

But  that  on  drawing  near  them  I beheld 
Their  swelling  into  palpable  immensity 
Of  matter,  which  seem’d  made  for  life  to  dwell  on. 
Rather  than  life  itself.  But  here,  all  is 
So  shadowy  and  so  full  of  twilight,  that 
It  speaks  of  a day  past. 

Lucifer.  It  is  the  realm 

Of  death. — Woiddst  have  it  present  ? 

Cain.  Till  1 know 

That  which  it  really  is,  I cannot  answer. 

But  if  it  be  as  I have  heard  my  father 
Deal  out  in  his  long  homilies,  ’tis  a thing — 

Oh  God  ! I dare  not  think  on’t ! Cursed  be 
He  who  invented  life  that  leads  to  death ! 

Or  the  dull  mass  of  life,  that,  being  life, 

Could  not  retain,  but  needs  must  forfeit  it — 

Even  for  the  innocent ! 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  curse  thy  father  ? 

Cain . Cursed  he  not  me  in  giving  me  my  birth  ? 
Cursed  he  not  me  before  my  birth,  in  daring 
To  pluck  the  fruit  forbidden  ? 

Lucifer.  Thou  say’st  well : 

The  curse  is  mutual  ’twixt  thy  sire  and  thee — 

But  for  thy  sons  and  brother  ? 

Cain.  Let  them  share  it 

With  me,  their  sire  and  brother  ? What  else  is 
Bequeath’d  to  me  ? I leave  them  my  inheritance. 

Oh,  ye  interminable  gloomy  realms 
Of  swimming  sli^dows  and  enormous  shapes, 

Some  fully  shown,  some  indistinct,  and  all 
Mighty  and  melancholy — what  are  ye  ? 

Live  ye,  or  have  ye  lived  ? 

Lucifer.  Somewhat  of  both. 

Cain.  Then  what  is  death  ? 

Lucifer.  What  ? Hath  not  he  who  made  ye 

Said  ’tis  another  life  ? 

Cain.  Till  now  he  hath 

Said  nothing,  save  that  all  shall  die.1 

Lucifer.  Perhaps 

He  one  day  will  unfold  that  further  secret. 

Cain.  Happy  the  day  i 

Lucifer.  Yes  ; happy  ! when  unfolded 


Through  agonies  unspeakable,  and  clogg’d 
With  agonies  eternal,  to  innumerable 
Yet  unborn  myriads  of  unconscious  atoms, 

All  to  be  animated  for  this  only  ! 

Cain.  What  are  these  mighty  phantoms  which  I see 
Floating  around  me  ? — They  wear  not  the  form 
Of  the  intelligences  I have  seen 
Round  our  regretted  and  unenter’d  Eden, 

Nor  wear  the  form  of  man  as  I have  view’d  it 
In  Adam’s,  and  in  Abel’s,  and  in  mine, 

Nor  in  my  sister-bride’s,  nor  in  my  children’s  : 

And  yet  they  have  an  aspect,  which,  though  not 
Of  men  nor  angels,  looks  like  something,  which 
If  not  the  last,  rose  higher  than  the  first, 

Haughty,  and  high,  and  beautiful,  and  full 
Of  seeming  strength,  but  of  inexplicable 
Shape;  for  1 never  saw  such.  They  bear  not 
The  wing  of  seraph,  nor  the  face  of  man, 

Nor  form  of  mightiest  brute,  nor  aught  that  is 
Now  breathing;  mighty  yet  and  beautiful 
As  the  most  beautiful  and  mighty  which 
Live,  and  yet  so  unlike  them,  that  I scarce 
Can  call  them  living. 

Lucifer.  Yet  they  lived. 

Cain. 

Lucifer. 

Thou  livest 

Cain. 

Lucifer. 

They  clid  inhabit. 

Cain.  Adam  is  the  first. 

Lucifer.  Of  thine,  I grant  thee — but  too  mean  to  ht 
The  last  of  these. 

Cain.  And  what  are  they  ? 

Lucifer.  That  which 

Thou  shalt  be. 

Cain.  But  what  were  they  ? 

Ijucifer.  Living,  high, 

Intelligent,  good,  great,  and  glorious  things, 

As  much  superior  unto  all  thy  sire, 

Adam,  could  e’er  have  been  in  Eden,  as 
The  sixty-thousandth  generation  shall  be, 

In  its  dull  damp  degeneracy,  to 

Thee  and  thy  son  ; — and  how  weak  they  are,  judge 

By  thy  own  flesh. 

Cain.  Ah  me  ! and  did  they  perish  ? 

Lucifer.  Yes,  from  their  earth,  as  thou  wilt  fade 
from  thine. 


Where  ? 

When 


When  ? 


On  what  thou  callest  earth 


(1)  [“Death,  the  last  and  most  dreadful  of  all  evils,  is  so  far 
from  being  one,  that  it  is  the  infallible  cure  for  all  others — 

‘ To  die,  is  landing  on  some  silent  shore. 

Where  billows  never  beat,  nor  tempests  roar : 

Ere  well  we  feel  the  friendly  stroke,  ’tis  o’er.’ 

Hut  was  it  an  evil  ever  so  great,  it  could  not  be  remedied  but  by 
one  much  greater,  which  is,  by  living  for  ever  ; by  which  means 
our  wickedness,  unrestrained  by  the  prospect  of  a future  state, 
would  grow  so  unsupportable,  our  sufferings  so  intolerable  by  per- 
severance, and  our  pleasures  so  tiresome  by  repetition,  that  no 
being  in  the  universe  could  be  so  completely  miserable  as  a species 
of  immortal  men.  We  have  no  reason,  therefore,  to  look  upon 
death  as  an  evil,  or  to  fear  it  as  a punishment,  even  without  any 
supposition  of  a future  life  : but  if  we  consider  it  as  a passage  to  a 
more  perfect  state,  or  a remove  only  in  an  eternal  succession  of 
•till  improving  states  (for  which  we  have  the  strongest  reasons),  it 
will  then  appear  a new  favour  from  the  divine  munificence;  and  a 
man  must  be  as  absurd  to  repine  at  dying,  as  a traveller  would  be 
who  proposed  to  himself  a delightful  tour  through  various  unknown 
countries,  to  lament  that  he  cannot  take  up  his  residence  at  the 
first  dirty  inn  which  he  baits  at  on  the  road.  The  instability  of 
human  life,  or  of  the  changes  of  its  successive  periods,  of  which  we 
ireruently  complain,  are  no  more  than  the  necessary  progress 


of  it  to  this  necessary  conclusion  ; and  are  so  far  from  being  evils  ; 
deserving  these  complaints,  that  they  are  the  source  of  our  greatest  ' 
pleasures,  as  they  are  the  source  of  all  novelty,  from  which  our  j 
greatest  pleasures  are  ever  derived.  The  continual  succession  of  < 
seasons  in  the  human  life,  by  daily  presenting  to  us  new  scenes,  ; 
render  it  agreeable,  and,  like  those  of  the  year,  afford  us  delighti 
by  their  change,  which  the  choicest  of  them  could  not  give  us  by  ' 
their  continuance.  In  the  spring  of  life,  the  gilding  of  the  sunshine,  ■ 
the  verdure  of  the  fields,  and  the  variegated  paintings  of  the  sky, 
are  so  exquisite  in  the  eyes  of  infants  at  their  first  looking  abroad 
into  a new  world,  as  nothing  perhaps  afterwards  can  equal.  The  I 
heat  and  vigour  of  the  succeeding  summer  of  youth  ripen  for  us 
new  pleasures, — the  blooming  maid,  the  nightly  revel,  and  the  jovial 
chase  : the  serene  autumn  of  complete  manhood  feasts  us  with  the 
golden  harvest  of  our  worldly  pursuits:  nor  is  the  hoary  winter  of 
old  age  destitute  of  its  peculiar  comforts  and  enjoyments,  of  which  i 
the  recollection  and  relation  of  those  past  are  perhaps  none  of  the 
least;  and  at  last  death  opens  to  us  a new  prospect,  from  whence 
we  shall  probably  look  back  upon  the  diversions  and  occupation* 
of  this  world  with  the  same  contempt  we  do  now  on  our  tops  and 
hobby-horses,  and  with  the  same  surprise  that  they  could  ever  s<* 
much  entertain  or  engage  us.”— Jenyns. — “ These,”  says  Dr.  John-  * 
son,  “ c ire  sentiments  which,  ihouph  not  new,  may  be  read  with 
pleasure  and  profit,  in  the  thousandth  repetition 


SCENE  II. 


CAIN. 


329 


Cain.  But  was  mine  theirs  ? 

Lucifer.  It  was. 

Cain.  But  not  as  now. 

It  is  too  little  and  too  lowly  to 
Sustain  such  creatures.1 

Lucifer.  True,  it  was  more  glorious. 

Cain.  And  wherefore  did  it  fall  ? 

Lucifer.  Ask  him  who  fells. 

Cain.  But  how  ? 

Lucifer.  By  a most  crushing  and  inexorable 

Destruction  and  disorder  of  the  elements, 

Which  struck  a world  to  chaos,  as  a chaos 
Subsiding  has  struck  out  a world  : sucli  things. 
Though  rare.in  time,  are  frequent  in  eternity. — 

Pass  on,  and  gaze  upon  the  past. 

Cain.  ’Tis  awful! 

Lucifer.  And  true.  Behold  these  phantoms ! they 
were  once 
Material  as  thou  art. 

Cain  And  must  I be 

Like  them  ? 

Lucifer.  Let  He  who  made  thee  answer  that. 

I show  thee  what  thy  predecessors  are, 

And  what  they  were  thou  feelest,  in  degree 
Inferior  as  thy  petty  feelings  and 
Thy  pettier  portion  of  the  immortal  part 
Of  high  intelligence  and  earthly  strength. 

What  ye  in  common  have  with  what  they  had 
Is  life,  and  what  ye  shall  have — death  : the  rest 
Of  your  poor  attributes  is  such  as  suits 
lleptiles  engender’d  out  of  the  subsiding 
Slime  of  a mighty  universe,  crush’d  into 
A scarcely-yet  shaped  planet,  peopled  with 
Things  whose  enjoyment  was  to  be  in  blindness — 

A.  Paradise  of  Ignorance,  from  which 
Knowledge  was  barr’d  as  poison.  But  behold 
What  these  superior  beings  are  or  were ; 

Or,  if  it  irk  thee,  turn  thee  back  and  till 

The  earth,  thy  task— I’ll  waft  thee  there  in  safety. 

Cain.  No  : I’ll  stay  here. 

Lucifer.  How  long  ? 

Cain.  Porever!  Since 

I must  one  day  return  here  from  the  earth, 

I rather  would  remain  ; I am  sick  of  all 

That  dust  has  shown  me — let  me  dwell  in  shadows. 


(1)  [“  If,  according  to  some  speculations,  you  could  prove  the 
world  many  thousand  years  older  than  the  Mosaic  chronology  — or 
if  you  could  knock  up  Adam  and  Eve,  and  the  Apple  and  Serpent 
— still,  what  is  to  be  put  up  in  their  stead  1 — or  how  is  the  difficulty 
removed!  Things  must  have  had  a beginning  : and  what  matters 
it  when,  or  how  f I sometimes  think  that  man  may  be  the  relic  of 
some  higher  material  being  wrecked  in  a former  world,  and  degene- 
rated in  the  hardship  and  struggle  through  chaos  into  conformity,  or 
something  like  it — as  we  see  Laplanders,  Esquimaux,  Szc.  inferior, 
in  the  present  date,  as  the  elements  become  more  inexorable.  But 
even  then,  this  higher  pre-Adamite  supposititious  creation  must  have 
:»ad  an  origin  and  a Creator ; for  a Creator  is  a more  natural  imagi- 
nation than  a fortuitous  concourse  of  atoms:  all  things  remount  to 
a fountain,  though  they  may  flow  to  an  ocean.” — Byron  Diary, 
1821.] 

(2)  [Mr.  GifFord  having,  through  Mr.  Murray,  suggested  the  pro- 
priety of  omitting  a portion  of  this  dialogue,  Lord  Byron  replied : — 
“ The  tvo  passages  cannot  be  altered  without  making  Lucifer  talk 
like  the  Bishop  of  London,  which  would  not  be  in  the  character  of 
ti  e former.  The  notion  is  from  Cuvier  (that  of  the  old  worlds). 

The  other  passage  is  also  in  character;  if  nonsense,  so  much  the 
better,  because  then  it  cat)  do  no  harm ; and  the  sillier  Satan  is 
m -de,  the  safer  for  every  body.  As  to  ‘ alarms,’  &c.,  do  you  really 
think  such  things  ever  led  any  body  astray?  Are  these  people 
more  impious  than  Milton’s  Satan  ? or  the  Prometheus  of  jEschy- 
lus?  or  even  than  ‘the  Sadducees,’  the  ‘ Fall  of  Jerusalem’  of  Mil- 
man,  &c?  Are  not  Adam,  Eve,  Adah,  and  Abel,  as  pious  as  the 
Catechism?  Gifford  is  too  wise  a man  to  think  that  such  things 
can  have  any  serious  effect : who  was  ever  altered  by  a poem  ? I 


Lucifer.  It  cannot  be  : thou  now  beholdest  as 
A vision  that  which  is  reality. 

To  make  thyself  lit  for  this  dwelling,  thou  LPass’(l — 
Must  pass  through  what  the  things  thou  seest  have 
The  gates  of  death. 

Cain.  By  what  gate  have  we  enter’d 

Even  now  ? 

Lucifer.  By  mine  ! But,  plighted  to  return, 

My  spirit  buoys  thee  up  to  breathe  in  regions 
Where  all  is  breathless  save  thyself.  Gaze  on; 

But  do  not  think  to  dwell  here  till  thine  hour 
Is  come. 

Cain.  And  these,  too  ; can  they  ne’er  repass 
To  earth  again  ? 

Lucifer.  Their  earth  is  gone  for  ever — 

So  changed  by  its  convulsion,  they  would  not 

Be  conscious  to  a single  present  spot 

Of  its  new  scarcely  harden’d  surface — ’twas — 

Oh,  what  a beautiful  world  it  was  ! 2 

Cain.  And  is. 

It  is  not  with  the  earth,  though  I must  tili  it,  j 

I feel  at  war,  but  that  I may  not  profit 
By  what  it  bears  of  beautiful  untoiling, 

Nor  gratify  my  thousand  swelling  thoughts 
With  knowledge,  nor  allay  my  thousand  fears 
Of  death  and  life. 

Lucifer.  What  thy  world  is,  thou  seest. 

But  canst  not  comprehend  the  shadow  of 
That  which  it  was. 

Cain.  And  those  enormous  creatures, 

Phantoms  inferior  in  intelligence 
(At  least  so  seeming)  to  the  things  we  have  pass’d. 
Resembling  somewhat  the  wild  habitants 
Of  the  deep  woods  of  earth,  the  hugest  which 
Roar  nightly  in  the  forest,  but  ten-fold 
In  magnitude  and  terror  ; taller  than 
Hie  cherub-guarded  walls  of  Eden,  with 
Eyes  flashing  like  the  fiery  swords  which  fence  them, 
And  tusks  projecting  like  the  trees  stripp’d  of 
Their  bark  and  branches — what  were  they  ? 

Lucifer.  That  which 

The  Mammoth  is  in  thy  world  ; — but  these  lie 
By  myriads  underneath  its  surface. 

Cain.  But 

None  on  it?3 


beg  leave  to  observe,  that  there  is  no  creed  or  personal  hypothesis 
of  mine  in  all  this;  but  I was  obliged  to  make  Cain  and  Lucifer 
talk  consistently;  and  surely  this  has  always  been  permitted  to 
poesy.  Cain  is  a proud  man : if  Lucifer  promised  him  kingdom, 
&c.  it  would  elate  him  : the  object  of  the  demon  is  to  depress  him 
still  further  in  his  own  estimation  than  he  was  before,  by  showing 
him  infinite  things  and  his  own  abasement,  till  he  falls  into  the 
frame  of  mind  that  leads  to  the  catastrophe,  from  mere  interna: 
irritation,  not  premeditation,  or  envy  of  Abel  (which  would  have 
made  him  contemptible),  but  from  rage  and  fury  against  the  in- 
adequacy of  his  state  to  his  conceptions,  and  which  uischare«s 
itself  rather  against  life,  and  the  Author  of  life,  than  the  mere 
living.  His  subsequent  remorse  is  the  natural  effect  of  looking  on 
his  sudden  deed.  Had  the  deed  been  premeditated,  his  repentance 
would  have  been  tardier.”]  • 

(3)  [Hades  is  a place,  in  Lord  Byron’s  description,  very  dif- 
ferent from  all  that  we  had  anticipated.  He  supposes  that  the 
world  which  we  now  inhabit  had  been  preceded  by  many  successive 
worlds,  which  had  each,  in  turn,  been  created  and  ruined ; and  the 
inhabitants  of  which  he  describes,  on  grounds  sufficiently  probable 
for  poetry,  as  proportioned,  in  bodily  and  intellectual  strength,  to 
those  gigantic  specimens  of  animal  existence  whose  remains  still 
perplex  the  naturalist.  But  he  not  only  places  the  pre  Adamite 
giants  in  Hades,  but  the  ghosts  of  the  Mammoth  and  M egatherion, 
their  contemporaries,  and,  above  all,  the  phantoms  of  the  worlds 
themselves  which  these  beings  inhabited,  with  their  mountains, 
oceans,  and  forests,  all  gloomy  and  sad  together,  and  (we  sup- 
pose he  means)  in  a state  of  eternal  suffering.  We  really  think 
that  this  belongs  to  that  species  of  sublime,  which  is  considerably 
less  than  a single  step  removed  from  the  ridiculous. — Hsbxr.] 

U U 


330 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  71. 


Lucifer.  No  : for  thy  frail  race  to  war 
With  them  would  render  the  curse  on  it  useless— 
’Twould  be  destroy’d  so  early. 

Cain.  But  why  war  ? 

Lutifer.  You  have  forgotten  the  denunciation 
Which  drove  your  race  from  Eden — war  with  ah 
things, 

And  death  to  all  things,  and  disease  to  most  things, 
And  pangs.,  and  bitterness ; these  were  the  fruits 
Of  the  forbidden  tree. 

Cain.  But  animals — 

Did  they,  too,  eat  of  it,  that  they  must  die  ? 

Lucifer.  Your  Maker  told  ye,  they  were  made  for 
you, 

As  you  for  him. — You  would  not  have  their  doom 
Superior  to  your  own  ? Had  Adam  not 
Fallen,  all  had  stood. 

Cain.  Alas ! the  hopeless  wretches  ! 

They  too  must  share  my  3ire’s  fate,  like  his  sons ; 

Like  them,  too,  without  having  shared  the  apple  ; 
Like  them,  too,  without  the  so  dear-bought  know- 
ledge ! 

It  was  a lying  tree — for  we  know  nothing. 

At  least  it  promised  knowledge  at  the  price 
Of  death  — but  knowledge  still:  but  what  knows 
man  ? 

Lucifer . It  may  be  death  leads  to  the  highest 
knowledge ; 

And  being  of  all  things  the  sole  thing  certain, 

At  least  leads  to  the  surest  science  : therefore 
The  tree  was  true,  though  deadly. 

Cain.  These  dim  realms  ! 

I see  them,  but  I know  them  not. 

Lucifer.  Because 

Thy  hour  is  yet  afar,  and  matter  cannot 
Comprehend  spirit  wholly — but  ’tis  something 
To  know  there  are  such  realms. 

Cain.  Wre  knew  already 

That  there  was  death. 

Lucifer.  But  not  what  was  beyond  it. 

Cain.  Nor  know  1 now. 

Jjucifer.  Thou  knowest  that  there  is 

A state,  and  many  states  beyond  thine  own — 

And  this  thou  knewest  not  this  morn. 

Cain.  But  all 

Seems  dim  and  shadowy. 

Lucifer.  Be  content ; it  will 

Seem  clearer  to  thine  immortality. 

Cain.  And  yon  immeasurable  liquid  space 
Of  glorious  azure  which  floats  on  beyond  us, 

Which  looks  like  water,  and  which  I should  deem 
The  river  which  flows  out  of  Paradise 
Past  my  own  dwelling,  but  that  it  is  bankless 
And  boundless,  and  of  an  ethereal  hue — 

What  is  it  ? 

Lucifer.  There  is  still  some  such  on  earth, 
Although  inferior,  and  thy  children  shall 
Dwell  near  it — 'tis  the  phantasm  of  an  ocean. 

Cain.  ’Tis  like  another  world ; a liquid  sun — 

And  those  inordinate  creatures  sporting  o’er 
Its  shining  surface  ? 

Lucifer.  Are  its  inhabitants, 

The  past  leviathans. 

Cain.  And  yon  immense 

Serpent,  which  rears  its  dripping  mane  and  vasty 
IIe%d  ten  times  higher  than  the  haughtiest  cedar 
Forth  from  the  abyss,  looking  as  he  could  coil 
Himself  around  the  orbs  we  lately  look’d  on — ■ 


Is  he  not  of  the  kind  which  bask’d  beneath 
The  tree  in  Eden  ? 

Ljucifer.  Eve,  thy  mother,  best 

Can  tell  what  shape  of  serpent  tempted  her. 

Cain.  This  seems  too  terrible.  No  doubt  the  other 
Had  more  of  beauty. 

ljucifer.  Hast  thou  ne’er  beheld  him  ? 

Cain.  Many  of  the  same  kind  (at  least  so  call’d). 

But  never  that  precisely  which  persuaded 
The  fatal  fruit,  nor  even  of  the  same  aspect. 

Lucifer.  Your  father  saw  him  not  ? 

Cain.  No  : ’twas  my  mother  j 

Who  tempted  him — she  tempted  by  the  serpent. 

Lucifer.  Good  man ! whene’er  thy  wife,  or  thy  sons’  I 
wives 

Tempt  thee  or  them  to  aught  that’s  new  or  strange, 

Be  sure  thou  seest  first  who  hath  tempted  them. 

Cain.  Thy  precept  comes  too  late:  there  is  no 
more 

For  serpents  to  tempt  woman  to. 

Lucifer.  But  there 

Are  some  things  still  which  woman  may  tempt  man  tc,  , 
And  man  tempt  woman : — let  thy  sons  look  to  it ! 

My  counsel  is  a kind  one ; for  ’tis  even 
Given  chiefly  at  my  own  expense  : ’tis  true, 

’Twill  not  be  follow’d,  so  there’s  little  lost. 

Cain.  I understand  not  this. 

Lucifer.  The  happier  thou  T — 

Thy  world  and  thou  are  still  too  young!  The v 

thinkest 

Thyself  most  wicked  and  unhappy : is  it 
Not  so  ? 

Cain.  For  crime,  I know  not ; but  for  pain, 

I have  felt  much. 

Lucifer.  First-boni  of  the  first  man  ! 

Thv  present  state  of  sin — and  thou  art  evil, 

Of  sorrow — and  thou  suflerest,  are  both  Eden 
In  all  its  innocence  compared  to  what 
Thou  shortly  may’s t be  ; and  that  state  again 
In  its  redoubled  wretchedness,  a Paradise 
To  what  thy  sons’  sons’  sons,  accumulating 
In  generations  like  to  dust  (which  they 
In  fact  but  add  to),  shall  endure  and  do.-  — 

Now  let  us  back  to  earth  ! 

Cain.  And  wherefore  didst  tnou  !l 

Lead  me  here  only  to  inform  me  this  ? 

ljucifer.  Was  not  thy  quest  for  knowledge  ? 

Cain.  Yes ; as  being 

The  road  to  happiness. 

ljucifer.  If  truth  be  so, 

Thou  hast  it. 

Cain . Then  my  father’s  God  did  well 

When  he  prohibited  the  fatal  tree. 

Lucifer.  But  had  done  better  in  not  planting  it.  ';l 
But  ignorance  of  evil  doth  not  save 
From  evil ; it  must  still  roll  on  the  same, 

A part  of  all  things. 

Cain.  * Not  of  all  things.  No : 

I’ll  not  believe  it — for  I thirst  for  good. 

Lucifer.  And  who  and  what  doth  not  ? IVko  covet*  i 
evil 

For  its  own  bitter  sake  ? — None — nothing  ! ’tis 
The  leavep  of  all  life,  and  lifelcssness. 

Cain.  Within  those  glorious  orbs  which  we  behold,  f 
Distant,  and  dazzling,  and  innumerable, 

Ere  we  came  down  into  this  phantom  realm, 

111  cannot  cqme  : they  are  too  beautiful. 

Lucifer.  Thou  hast  seen  them  from  afar — 


CAIN 


SSI 


SCBVE  II. 

Cain.  And  what  of  that  ? 

Distance  can  but  diminish  glory — they, 

Wlicn  nearer,  must  be  more  ineffable.  [tiful, 

Lucifer.  Approach  the  things  of  earth  most  beau- 
And  judge  their  beauty  near. 

Cain.  I have  done  this — 

The  loveliest  thing  I know  is  loveliest  nearest. 

Lvcifer.  Then  there  must  be  delusion. — What  is 
that. 

Which  being  nearest  to  thine  eyes  is  still 
More  beautiful  than  beauteous  things  remote  P 
Cain.  My  sister  Adah. — All  the  stars  of  heaven, 

The  deep  blue  noon  of  night,  lit  by  an  orb 
Which  looks  a spirit,  or  a spirit’s  world — 

The  hues  of  twilight — the  sun’s  gorgeous  coming — 
His  setting  indescribable,  which  fills 
My  eyes  with  pleasant  tears  as  I behold 
Him  sink,  and  feel  my  heart  float  softly  with  him 
Along  that  western  paradise  of  clouds — 

The  forest  shade  — the  green  bough  — the  bird’s 
voice — 

The  vesper  bird’s,  which  seems  to  sing  of  love, 

And  mingles  with  the  song  of  cherubim, 

As  the  day  closes  over  Eden’s  walls  ; — 

All  these  arc  nothing,  to  my  eyes  and  heart. 

Like  Adah’s  face  : I turn  from  earth  and  heaven 
To  gaze  on  it. 

Lucifer.  ’Tis  fair  as  frail  mortality, 

In  the  first  dawn  and  bloom  of  young  creation, 

And  tarliest  embraces  of  earth’s  parents, 

Can  make  its  offspring ; still  it  is  delusion. 

Cain.  You  think  so,  being  not  her  brother. 

Tjucifer.  Mortal ! 

My  brotherhood’s  with  those  who  have  no  children. 
Cain.  Then  thou  canst  have  no  fellowship  with  us. 
lvcifer.  It  may  be  that  thine  own  shall  be  for  me. 
But  if  thou  dost  possess  a beautiful 
Being  beyond  all  beauty  in  thine  eyes, 

W hv  art  thou  wretched  ? 

Cain.  Why  do  I exist  ? 

Why  art  thou  wretched  ? why  are  all  things  so  ? 

Ev’n  he  who  made  us  must  be,  as  the  maker 
Of  things  unhappy ! To  produce  destruction 
Can  surely  never  be  the  task  of  joy,  * 

And  yet  my  sire  says  he’s  omnipotent : 

Then  why  is  evil — he  being  good  ? I ask’d 
This  question  of  my  father  ; and  he  said, 

Because  this  evil  only  was  the  path 

To  good.  Strange  good,  that  must  arise  from  out 

Its  deadly  opposite.1  I lately  saw 

A lamb  stung  by  a reptile  : the  poor  suckling 

Lay  foaming  on  the  earth,  beneath  the  vain 

And  piteous  bieating  of  its  restless  dam  ; 

My  father  pluck’d  some  herbs,  and  laid  them  to 
The  wound ; and  by  degrees  the  helpless  wretch 
Resumed  its  careless  life,  and  rose  to  drain 
The  mother’s  milk,  who  o’er  it  tremulous 
Stood  licking  its  reviving  limbs  with  joy. 

Behold,  my  son ! said  Adam,  how  from  evil 
Springs  good ! 

Lucifer.  What  didst  thou  answer  ? 

Cain.  Nothing ; for 


W ) [“  God  Almighty  l 

There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
Would  men  observin^ly  distil  it  out; 

For  our  bad  neighbours  make  us  early  stirrers, 
Which  is  both  healthful  and  good  husbandry ; 
Besides,  they  are  our  outward  consciences, 


He  is  my  father ; but  I thought,  that  Twer* 

A better  portion  for  the  animal 
Never  to  have  been  stuna  at  ally  than  to 
Purchase  renewal  of  its  little  life 
With  agonies  unutterable,  though 
Dispell’d  by  antidotes. 

J/ucifer.  But  as  thou  saidst 

Of  all  beloved  things  thou  lovest  her 
Who  shared  thy  mother’s  milk,  and  giveth  hers 
Unto  thy  children 

Cain.  Most  assuredly : 

What  should  I be  without  her  ? 

Ijucifer.  What  am  I ? 

Cain.  Dost  thou  love  nothing  ? 

Jmcifer.  What  does  thy  God  love  ? 

Cain.  All  things,  my  father  says  ; but  1 confess 
l see  it  not  in  their  allotment  here. 

Lucifer.  And,  therefore,  thou  canst  not  see  if  I love 
Or  no,  except  some  vast  and  general  purpose. 

To  which  particular  things  must  melt  like  snows. 

Cain.  Snows  ! what  are  they  ? 

Jjucifer.  Be  happier  in  not  knowing 

What  thy  remoter  offspring  must  encounter  ; 

But  bask  beneath  the  clime  which  knows  no  winter ! 

Cain.  But  dost  thou  not  love  something  like  thy- 
self? 

Lucifer.  And  dost  thou  love  thyself  ? 

Cain.  Yes,  but  love  mere 

What  makes  my  feelings  more  endurable, 

And  is  more  than  myself  because  I love  it. 

Ijucifer.  Thou  lovest  it,  because  ’tis  beautiful, 

As  was  the  apple  in  thy  mother’s  eye ; 

And  when  it  ceases  to  be  so,  thy  love 
Will  cease,  like  any  other  appetite. 

Cain.  Cease  to  be  beautiful ! how  can  that  be  ? 

I/ucifer.  With  time. 

Cain.  But  time  has  past,  and  hitherto 

Even  Adam  and  my  mother  both  are  fair : 

Not  fair  like  Adah  and  the  seraphim — 

But  very  fair. 

Lucifer.  All  that  must  pass  away 
In  them  and  her. 

Cain.  I’m  sorry  for  it ; but 

Cannot  conceive  my  love  for  her  the  less. 

And  when  her  beauty  disappears,  methinks 
He  who  creates  all  beauty  will  lose  more 
Than  me  in  seeing  perish  such  a work. 

Lucifer.  I pity  thee  who  lovest  what  must  perish- 

Cain.  And  I thee  who  lov’st  nothing. 

Lucifer.  And  thy  brother — 

Sits  he  not  near  thy  heart  ? 

Cain.  Wbv  should  he  not  ? 

Lucifer.  Thy  father  loves  him  well — so  does  thy 
God. 

Cain.  And  so  do  I. 

Lucifer.  ’Tis  well  and  meekly  done. 

Cain.  Meekly! 

Ijucifer.  He  is  the  second  born  of  flesh, 

And  is  his  mother’s  favourite. 

Cain.  Let  him  keep 

Her  favour,  since  the  serpent  was  the  first 
To  win  it. 


And  preachers  to  us  all ; admonishing, 

That  we  should  dress  us  fairly  for  our  end. 
Tims  may  we  gather  honey  from  the  weed. 
And  make  a moral  of  the  devil  himself.”— 

SUAHSPEA&E.} 


332 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  T7 


Jjucijer.  And  his  father’s? 

Cain.  What  is  that 

To  me  ? should  I not  love  that  which  all  love  ? 

Lucifer.  And  the  Jehovah — the  indulgent  Lord, 
And  bounteous  planter  of  barr’d  Paradise — 

He,  t oo,  looks  smilingly  on  Abel. 

Cain.  I 

Ne’er  saw  him,  and  I know  not  if  he  smiles. 

Lucifer.  Rut  you  nave  seen  his  angels. 

Cain.  Rarely. 

Lucifer.  But 

Sufficiently  to  see  they  love  your  brother  : 

His  sacrifices  are  acceptable. 

Cain.  So  be  they  ! wherefore  speak  to  me  of  this  ? 
Lucifer.  Because  thou  hast  thought  of  this  ere  now. 
Cain.  And  if 

I have  thought,  why  recall  a thought  that ( he 

pauses , as  agitated) — Spirit ! 

Here  we  are  in  thy  world : speak  not  of  mine,  [those 
Thou  hast  shown  me  wonders ; thou  hast  shown  me 
Mighty  pre- Adamites  who  walk’d  the  earth 
Of  which  ours  is  the  wreck  ; thou  hast  pointed  out 
Myriads  of  starry  worlds,  of  which  our  own 
Is  the  dim  and  remote  companion,  in 
Infinity  of  life  : thou  hast  shown  me  shadows 
Of  that  existence  with  the  dreaded  name 
Which  my  sire  brought  us — Death  j1 2  thou  hast  shown 
me  much — 

But  not  all : show  me  where  Jehovah  dwells, 

In  his  especial  Paradise, — or  thine : 

Where  is  it  ? 

IAicifer.  Here , and  o’er  all  space. 

Cain.  But  ye 

Have  some  allotted  dwelling — as  all  things  ; 

Clay  has  its  earth,  and  other  worlds  their  tenants ; 

All  temporary  breathing  creatures  their 
Peculiar  element ; and  things  which  have 
Long  ceased  to  breathe  our  breath,  have  theirs,  the  c. 
say’st ; 

And  the  Jehovah  and  thyself  have  thine — 

Ye  do  not  dwell  together? 

Lucifer.  No,  we  reign 

Together ; but  our  dwellings  are  asunaer. 

Cain.  Would  there  were  only  one  of  ye  ! perchance 
An  unity  of  purpose  might  make  union 
In  elements  which  seem  now  jarr’d  in  storms. 

How  came  ye,  being  spirits,  wise  and  infinite. 

To  separate  ? Are  ye  not  as  brethren  in 
Your  essence,  and  your  nature,  and  your  glory  ? 
Lucifer.  Art  thou  not  Abel’s  brother? 

Cain.  Wre  are  brethren. 

And  so  we  shall  remain ; but  were  it  not  so. 

Is  spirit  like  to  fiesh  ? can  it  fall  out  ? 

Infinity  with  Immortality  ? 

Jarring  and  turning  space  to  misery — 

For  what  ? 

Ijucifer.  To  reign. 


(1)  [“  Which  my  sire  shrinks  from — Death.”— MS.] 

(2)  [In  Lord  Byron’s  Diary  for  January  28,  1821,  we  find  the 
following  entry  : — 

44  Thought  for  a Speech  of  Lucifer,  in  the  Tragedy  oj  Cain. 

* Were  Death  an  evil,  would  I let  thee  live  f 
Fooll  live  as  I live — as  thy  father  lives, 

And  thy  sons’  son s shall  live  for  evermore ! ' ”] 

(3)  [“  It  would  be  to  no  purpose  to  suppose  two  such  opposite 
principles.  For,  admit  that  a being  infinitely  mischievous  were 
infinitely  cunning,  and  infinitely  powerful,  yet  it  could  do  no  evil, 


Cain.  Did  ye  not  tell  me  that 

Ye  are  both  eternal  ? 

Lucifer.  Yea ! 

Cain.  And  what  1 have  seen. 

Yon  blue  immensity,  is  boundless  ? 

Tnicifer.  Ay. 

Cain.  And  cannot  ye  both  reign  then?  — is  there  not 
Enough  ? — why  should  ye  diller  ? 

IAicifer.  We  both  reign. 

Cain.  But  one  of  you  makes  evil. 

IAicifer.  Wliich  ? 

Cain.  Thou ! fer 

If  thou  canst  do  man  good,  why  dost  thou  not  ? 
Lucifer.  And  why  not  he  who  made  ? / made  ye 

not; 

Ye  are  his  creatures,  and  not  mine. 

Cain.  Then  leave  us 

His  creatures,  as  thou  say’st  we  are,  or  show  me 
Thy  dwelling,  or  his  dwelling. 

Lucifer.  I could  show  thee 

Both  ; but  the  time  will  come  thou  shalt  see  one 
Of  them  for  evermore.3 

Cain.  And  why  not  now  ? 

IAicifer.  Thy  human  mind  hath  scarcely  grasp  to 
gather 

The  little  I have  shown  thee  into  calm 
And  clear  thought ; and  thou  wouldst  go  on  aspiring 
To  the  great  double  Mysteries  ! the  two  Principles  ! 3 
And  gaze  upon  them  on  their  secret  thrones ! 

Dust ! limit  thy  ambition  ; for  to  see 
Either  of  these,  would  be  for  thee  to  perish  ! 

Cain.  And  let  me  perish,  so  I see  them ! 

Lucifer.  There 

The  son  of  her  who  snatch’d  the  apple  spake  ! 

But  thou  wouldst  only  perish,  and  not  see  them ; 

That  sight  is  for  the  other  state. 

Cain.  Of  death? 

Lucifer.  That  is  the  prelude. 

Cain . Then  1 dread  it  less. 

Now  that  I know  it  leads  to  something  definite. 

Lucifer.  And  now  I will  convey  thee  to  thy  world, 
Where  thou  shalt  multiply  the  race  of  Adam, 

Eat,  drink,  toil,  tremble,  laugh,  weep,  sleep,  and  die. 

Cain.  And<to  what  end  have  I beheld  these  things 
Which  thou  hast  shown  me  ? 

Lucifer.  Didst  thou  not  require 

Knowledge  ? And  have  I not,  in  what  I show’d. 
Taught  thee  to  know  thyself  ? 

Cain.  Alas  ! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer.  And  this  should  be  the  human  sum 
Of  knowledge,  to  know  mortal  nature’s  nothingness : 
Bequeath  that  science  to  thy  children,  and 
’Twill  spare  them  many  tortures. 

Cain.  Haughty  spirit ! 

Thou  speak’st  it  proudly ; but  thyself,  though  proud. 
Hast  a superior. 


because  the  opposite  principle,  of  infinite  goodness,  being  also  in- 
finitely wise  and  powerful,  they  would  tie  up  one  another's  hands  : 
so  that  upon  this  supposition,  the  notion  of  a deity  would  signify 
just  nothing;  and,  by  virtue  of  the  eternal  opposition  and  equality 
of  these  principles,  they  would  keep  one  another  at  perpetual  bay  ; 
and,  being  an  equal  match  for  one  another,  instead  of  being  two 
deities,  they  would  be  two  idols,  able  to  do  neither  good  nor  evil.’’ 
— Tillotson.  “ Moral  evil  is  occasioned  by  free  will,  which  im- 
plies choice  between  good  and  evil.  With  all  the  evil  tl  at  there  is, 
there  is  no  man  but  would  rather  bo  a free  agent,  than  a mere 
machine  without  the  evil;  and  what  is  best  for  each  individual 
must  be  best  for  the  whole.  If  a man  would  rather  he  the  machine, 
I cannot  agree  with  him.” — Johnson.] 


SCENE  I. 


CAIN. 


333 


Lucifer.  No  ! by  Heaven,  which  He 

Holds,  and  the  abyss,  and  the  immensity 
Of  worlds  and  life,  which  I hold  with  him — No ! 

I have  a victor— true ; but  no  superior. 

Homage  he  has  from  all — but  none  from  me : 

I battled  it  against  him,  as  I battled 
In  highest  heaven.  Through  all  eternity, 

And  the  unfathomable  gulfs  of  Hades, 

And  the  interminable  realms  of  space. 

And  the  infinity  of  endless  a^es, 

All.  all,  will  I dispute ! And  world  by  world. 

And  star  by  star,  and  universe  by  universe, 

Shall  tremble  in  the  balance,  till  the  great 
Conflict  shall  cease,  if  ever  it  shall  cease. 

Which  it  ne’er  shall,  till  he  or  I be  quench’d ! 

And  what  can  quench  our  immortality, 

Or  mutual  and  irrevocable  hate  ? 

He  as  a conqueror  will  crill  the  conquer’d 
Ecil;  but  what  will  be  the  good  he  gives  ? 

Were  I the  victor,  his  works  would  be  deem’d 
The  only  evil  ones.  And  you,  ye  new 
And  scarce  born  mortals,  what  have  been  his  gifts 
To  you  already,  in  your  little  world  ? 1 

Cain.  But  few ! and  some  of  those  but  bitter. 

Lucifer.  Back 

With  me,  then,  to  thine  earth,  and  try  the  rest 
Of  his  celestial  boons  to  you  and  yours. 

Evil  and  good  are  things  in  their  own  essence. 

And  not  made  good  or  evil  by  the  giver ; 

But  if  he  gives  you  good— so  call  him  ; if 
Evil  springs  from  him,  do  not  name  it  mine , 

Till  ye  know  better  its  true  fount ; and  judge 
Not  by  words,  though  of  spirits,  but  the  fruits 
Of  your  existence,  such  as  it  must  be. 

One  good  gift  has  the  fatal  apple  given — 

Your  reason : — let  it  not  be  over-sway’d 
By  tyrannous  threats  to  force  you  into  faith 
’Gainst  all  external  sense  and  inward  feeling : 

Think  and  endure,— and  form  an  inner  world 
In  your  own  bosom — where  the  outward  tails ; 

So  shall  you  nearer  be  the  spiritual 
Nature,  and  war  triumphant  with  your  own.2 

\They  disappear. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Earth  near  Eden,  as  in  Act  I. 

Enter  Cain  and  Adah. 

Adah.  Hush ! tread  softly,  Cain. 

Cam.  I will ; but  wherefore  ? 


(1)  [“  Whatever  we  enjoy  is  purely  a free  gift  from  our  Creator  ; 
Uut  that  we  enjoy  no  more,  can  never  sure  be  deemed  an  injury, 
o»-  a just  reason  to  question  his  infinite  benevolence.  All  our  hap- 
piness is  owing  to  his  goodness  ; but  that  it  is  no  greater,  is  owing 
only  to  ourselves:  that  is,  to  our  not  having  any  inherent  right  to 
any  happiness,  or  even  to  any  existence  at  all.” — Jenyns.] 

(2)  [As  to  the  question  of  the  origin  of  evil,  Lord  Byron  has 
neither  thrown  any  new  light  upon  it,  nor  darkened  the  previous 

knowledge  which  we  possessed.  It  temains  just  where  it  was,  in 
its  mighty,  unfathomed  obscurity.  His  I.ordship  may,  it  is  true, 
have  recapitulated  some  of  the  arguments  with  a more  concise  and 
cavalier  air  than  the  old  schoolmen  or  fathers;  but  the  result  is 
the  same.  There  is  no  poetical  road  to  metaphysics.  In  one  view, 
however,  which  our  rhapsodist  has  taken  of  the  subject,  we  con- 
ceive he  has  done  well.  He  represents  the  temptations  held  out 
to  Cain  by  Satan,  as  constantly  succeeding  and  corresponding  to 
101118  previous  discontent  and  gloomy  disposition  in  his  own  mind; 


Adah.  Our  little  Enocli  sleeps  upon  yon  ^ed 
Of  leaves,  beneath  the  cypress. 

Cain.  Cypress  ! ’tis 

A gloomy  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it  mourn’d 
O’er  what  jt  shadows ; wherefore  didst  thou  choose  it 
For  our  child’s  canopy  ? 

Adah.  Because  its  branches 

Shut  out  the  sun  like  nidit,  and  therefore  seem’d 
Fitting  to  shadow  slumifcr. 

Cain.  Ay,  the  last — 

And  longest ; but  no  matter — lead  me  to  him. 

[.They  gc  up  to  the  child. 
How  lovely  he  appears ! his  little  cheeks, 

In  their  pure  incarnation,  vying  with 
The  rose  leaves  strewn  beneath  them. 

Adah.  And  his  lips,  too. 

How  beautifully  parted  ! No  ; you  shall  not 
Kiss  him,  at  least  not  now  : he  will  awake  soon — 

His  hour  of  mid-day  rest  is  nearly  over ; 

But  it  were  pity  to  disturb  him  till 
’Tis  closed. 

Cain.  You  have  said  well ; I will  contain 
My  heart  till  then.  He  smiles,  and  sleeps  ! — Sleep  on 
And  smile,  thou  little,  young  inheritor 
Of  a world  scarce  less  young : sleep  on,  and  smile  ! 
Thine  are  the  hours  and  days  when  both  are  cheering 
And  innocent ! thou  hast  not  pluck’d  the  fruit — 

Thou  know’st  not  thou  art  naked ! Must  the  time 
Come  thou  shalt  be  amerced  for  sins  unknown, 

Which  were  not  mine  nor  thine  ? But  now  sleep  on  ! 
His  cheeks  are  reddening  into  deeper  smiles. 

And  shining  lids  arc  trembling  o’er  his  long 
Lashes,  dark  as  the  cypress  which  waves  o’er  them  ; 
Half  open,  from  beneath  them  the  clear  blue 
Laughs  out,  although  in  slumber.  He  must  dream- 
Of  what  ? Of  Paradise  ! — Ay  ! dream  of  it. 

My  disinherited  boy  ! ’Tis  but  a dream  ; 

For  never  more  thyself,  thy  sons,  nor  fathers. 

Shall  walk  in  that  forbidden  place  of  joy  ! 3 

Adah.  Dear  Cain  ! Nay,  do  not  whisper  o’er  our  sen 
Such  melancholy  yearnings  o’er  the  past : 

Why  wilt  thou  always  mourn  for  Paradise? 

Can  we  not  make  another  ? 

Cain.  Where  P 

Adah.  Here,  or 

Where’er  thou  wilt ; where’er  thou  art,  I feel  not 
The  want  of  this  so  much  regretted  Eden. 

Have  I not  thee,  our  boy,  our  sire,  and  brother, 

And  Zillah — our  sweet  sister,  and  our  Eve, 

To  whom  we  owe  so  much  besides  our  birth  ? 

Cain.  Yes — death,  too,  is  amongst  the  debts 

owe  her.  [hence, 

Adah.  Cain ! that  proud  spirit,  who  withdrew  tjiee 


so  that  Lucifer  is  little  more  than  the  personified  demon  of  hi* 
imagination : and  further,  the  acts  of  guilt  and  folly  into  whicii 
Cain  is  hurried  are  not  treated  as  accidental,  or  as  occasioned  L* j 
passing  causes,  but  as  springing  from  an  internal  fury,  a morbid 
state  akin  to  plirensy,  a mind  dissatisfied  with  itself  and  all  things, 
and  haunted  by  an  insatiable,  stubborn  longing  alter  knowlcuire 
rather  than  happiness,  and  a fatal  proneness  to  dwell  on  the  evil 
side  of  things  rather  than  the  good.  We  here  see  the  dreadful  con- 
sequences of  not  curbing  this  disposition  (which  is,  after  ali,  per- 
haps, the  sin  that  most  easily  besets  humanity),  exemplified  in  a 
striking  point  of  view ; and  we  so  far  think,  that  the  moral  to  hi 
derived  from  a perusal  of  this  Mystery  is  a valuable  one. — 
Jeffrey.] 

(3)  [The  censorious  may  say  what  they  will,  but  there  are 
speeches  in  the  mouth  of  Cain  and  Adah,  especially  regarding 
their  child,  which  nothing  in  English  poetry  but  the  “wood-notea 
wild”  of  Shakspeare  ever  equa'led. — Sir  Egehton  Brydcei*.] 


334 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


ACT  IU, 


Hath  sadden’d  thine  still  deeper.  I had  hoped 
The  promised  wonders  which  thou  hast  beheld, 
Visions,  thou  say’st,  of  past  and  present  worlds, 
Would  have  composed  tny  mind  into  the  calm 
Of  a contented  knowledge  ; but  I see 
Thy  guide  hath  done  thee  evil : still  I thank  him. 

And  can  forgive  him  all,  that  he  so  soon 
Hath  given  thee  back  to  us. 

Cain.  So  soon  ? 

Adah.  ’Tis  scarcely 

Two  hours  since  ye  departed : two  long  hours 
To  me,  but  only  hours  upon  the  sun. 

Cain.  And  yet  I have  approach’d  that  sun,  and  seen 
Worlds  which  he  once  shone  on,  and  never  more 
Shall  light ; and  worlds  he  never  lit  • methought 
Years  had  roll’d  o’er  my  absence. 

Adah.  Hardly  hours. 

Cain.  The  mind  then  hath  capacity  of  time. 

And  measures  it  by  that  which  it  beholds, 

Pleasing  or  nainful ; little  or  almighty. 

I had  beheld  the  immemorial  works 
Of  endless  beings  ; skirr’d  extinguish’d  worlds ; 

And,  gazing  on  eternity,  methought 
I had  borrow’d  more  by  a few  drops  of  ages 
Prom  its  immensity ; but  now  I feel 
My  littleness  again.  Well  said  the  spirit, 

That  I was  nothing  ! 

Adah.  Wherefore  said  he  so  ? 

Jehovah  said  not  that. 

Cain.  No:  he  contents  him 

With  making  us  the  nothing  which  we  are ; 

And  after  flattering  dust  with  glimpses  of 
Eden  and  Immortality,  resolves 
it  back  to  dust  again — for  what  ? 

Adah.  Thou  know’st — 

Even  for  our  parents’  error. 

Cain.  What  is  that 

To  us  ? they  sinn’d,  then  let  them  die  ! [thought 

Adah.  Thou  hast  not  spoken  well,  nor  is  that 
Thy  gwn,  but  of  the  spirit  who  was  with  thee. 

Would  I could  die  for  them,  so  they  might  live  ! 

Cain.  Why,  so  say  I — provided  that  one  victim 
Might  satiate  the  insatiable  of  life, 

And  that  our  little  rosy  sleeper  there 
Might  never  taste  of  death  nor  human  sorrow, 

Nor  hand  it  down  to  those  who  spring  from  him.  [day 

Adah.  How  know  we  that  some  such  atonement  one 
May  not  redeem  our  race  ? 

Cain.  By  sacrificing 

The  harmless  for  the  guilty  ? what  atonement 
Were  there?  why,  we  are  innocent : what  have  we 
Done,  that  we  must  be  victims  for  a deed 
Before  our  birth,  or  need  have  victims  to 
Atone  for  this  mysterious,  nameless  sin — 

If  it  be  such  a sin  to  seek  for  knowledge  ? 

Adah.  Alas  ! thou  sinnest  now,  my  Cain : thy  words 
Sound  impious  in  mine  ears. 

Cain.  Then  leave  me ! 

Adah.  Never, 

Though  thy  God  left  thee. 

Cain.  Say,  what  have  we  here  ? 

Adah.  Two  altars,  which  our  brother  Abel  made 
During  thine  absence,  whereupon  to  offer 
A sacrifice  to  God  on  thy  return. 


(1)  [The  third  Act  shows  us  Cain  gloomily  lamenting  over  the 
future  fortunes  of  his  infant  son,  and  withstanding  all  the  consola- 
tions and  entreaties  of  Adah,  who  is  anxious  to  soften  him  to  the 
tcsk  of  submission  and  to  a participation  iu  the  sacrifice  which  his 


Cain.  And  how  knew  he,  that  / would  be  so  ready 
With  the  burnt  offerings,  which  he  daily  brings 
With  a meek  brow,  whose  base  humility 
Shows  more  of  fear  than  worship,  as  a bribe 
To  the  Creator  ? 

Adah.  Surely,  ’tis  well  done. 

Cain.  One  altar  may  suffice ; I have  no  offering. 

Adah.  The  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  early,  beautiful 
Blossom  and  bud,  and  bloom  of  flowers  and  fruits, 
These  are  a goodly  offering  to  the  Lord, 

Given  with  a gentle  and  a contrite  spirit. 

Cain.  I have  toil’d,  and  till’d,  and  sweaten  in  the  sun 
/recording  to  the  curse : — must  I do  more  ? 

Por  what  should  I be  gentle  ? for  a war 
With  all  the  elements  ere  they  will  yield 
The  bread  we  eat  ? Por  what  must  I be  grateful  ? 
For  being  dust,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust, 

Till  I return  to  dust  ? If  I am  nothing — 

Por  nothing  shall  I be  an  hypocrite, 

And  seem  well-pleased  with  pain  ? Por  what  should  I 
Be  contrite  ? for  my  father’s  sin,  already 
Expiate  with  what  we  all  have  undergone. 

And  to  be  more  than  expiated  by 
The  ages  prophesied,  upon  our  seed. 

Little  deems  our  young  blooming  sleeper,  there. 

The  germs  of  an  eternal  misery 
To  myriads  is  within  him  ! better  ’twere 
I snatch’d  him  in  his  sleep,  and  dash'd  him  ’gainst 
The  rocks,  than  let  him  live  to 

Adah.  Oh,  my  God  ! 

Touch  not  the  child — my  child!  thy  child*  Oh 
Cain ! 

Cain.  Pear  not ! for  all  the  stars,  and  all  the  power 
Which  sways  them,  I would  not  accost  yon  infant 
With  ruder  greeting  than  a father’s  kiss. 

Adah.  Then,  why  so  awful  in  thy  speech  ? 

Cain.  I said, 

’Twere  better  that  he  ceased  to  live,  than  give 
Life  to  so  much  of  sorrow  as  he  must 
Endure,  and,  harder  still,  bequeath  ; but  since 
That  saying  jars  you,  let  us  only  say — 

’Twere  better  that  he  never  had  been  born. 

Adah.  Oh,  do  not  say  so ! Where  were  then  the  joys, 
The  mother’s  joys  of  watching,  nourisliing, 

And  loving  him  ? Soft ! he  awakes.  Sweet  Enoch ! 

•[She  goes  to  the  child . 
Oh  Cain ! look  on  him ; see  how  full  of  life, 

Of  strength,  of  bloom,  of  beauty,  and  of  joy, 

How  like  to  me — how  like  to  thee,  when  gentle, 

Por  then  we  are  all  alike  ; is’t  not  so,  Cain  ? 

Mother,  and  sire,  and  son,  our  features  are 
Reflected  in  each  other ; as  they  are 
In  the  clear  waters,  when  they  are  gentle , and 
When  thou  art  gentle.  Love  us,  then,  my  Cain  ! 

And  love  thyself  for  our  sakes,  for  we  love  thee. 

Look  ! how  he  laughs  and  stretches  out  his  arms. 
And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  thine. 

To  hail  his  father  ; while  liis  little  form 
Flutters  as  wing’d  with  joy.  Talk  not  of  pain  ! 

The  childless  cherubs  well  might  envy  thee 
The  pleasures  of  a parent ! Biess  him,  Cain ! 

As  yet  he  hath  no  words  to  thank  thee,  but 
His  heart  will,  and  thine  own  too.1 

Cain.  Bless  thee,  dot  ! 


brother  is  a bout  to  offer.  Here  are  some  passages  of  no  common 
beauty.  That  which  strikes  us  most  is  when  the  parent*  are  hang- 
ing over  their  sleeping  boy. — Heber.] 


SCENE  I. 


CAIN. 


[f  that  a mortal  blessing  may  avail  thee, 

I'o  save  thee  from  the  serpent’s  curse  ! 

Adah.  It  shau. 

Surely  a father’s  blessing  may  avert 
A reptile’s  subtlety. 

Cain.  Of  that  I doubt ; 

But  bless  him  ne’er  the  less. 

Adah.  Our  brother  comes. 

Cain.  Thy  brother  Abel. 

Enter  Abel. 

Abel.  Welcome,  Cain!  My  brother, 

The  peace  of  God  be  on  thee ! 

Cain.  Abel,  hail ! 

Abel.  Our  sister  tells  me  that  thou  hast  been  wan- 
dering, 

Iu  high  communion  with  a spirit,  far 
Beyond  our  wonted  range.  Was  he  of  those 
We  have  seen  and  spoken  with,  like  to  our  father  ? 
Cain.  No. 

Abel.  Why  then  commune  with  him  ? he  may  be 
A foe  to  the  Most  High. 

Cain.  And  friend  to  man. 

Has  the  Most  High  been  so — if  so  you  term  him  P 
Abel.  Term  him  ! your  words  are  strange  to-day, 
my  brother. 

My  sister  Adah,  leave  us  for  awhile — 

W e mean  to  sacrifice. 

Adah.  Farewell,  my  Cain  ; 

But  first  embrace  thy  son.  May  his  soft  spirit. 

And  Abel’s  pious  ministry,  recail  thee 
To  peace  and  holiness  ! 

[ Exit  Adah,  with  her  child. 
Abel.  Where  hast  thou  been  P 

Cain.  I know  not. 

Abel.  Nor  what  thou  hast  seen? 

Cain.  The  dead, 

The  immortal,  the  unbounded,  the  omnipotent. 

The  overpowering  mysteries  of  space — 

The  innumerable  worlds  that  were  and  are — 

A whirlwind  of  such  overwhelming  things,  [spheres 
Suns,  moons,  and  earths,  upon  their  loua-voiced 
Singing  in  thunder  round  me,  as  have  made  me 
Unfit  for  mortal  converse  : leave  me,  Abel. 

Abel.  Thine  eyes  are  flashing  with  unnatural  light — 
Thy  cheek  is  flush’d  with  an  unnatural  hue — 

Thy  words  are  fraught  with  an  unnatural  sound — 
What  may  this  mean  ? 

Cain.  It  means 1 pray  thee,  leave  me. 

Abel.  Not  till  we  have  pray’d  ana  sacrificed  together. 
Cain.  Abel,  I pray  thee,  sacrifice  alone — 

Jehovah  loves  thee  well. 

Abel.  Both  well,  I hope. 

Cain.  But  thee  the  better  : I care  not  for  that ; 
Thou  art  fitter  for  his  worship  than  I am  ; 

Revere  him,  then — but  let  it  be  alone — 

At  least,  without  me. 

Abel.  Brother,  I should  ill 

Deserve  the  name  of  our  great  father’s  son, 

[f,  as  my  elder,  I revered  thee  not,  . 

And  in  the  worship  of  our  God  call’d  not 
On  thee  to  join  me,  and  precede  me  in 
Our  priesthood — ’tis  thy  place. 

Cain.  But  I have  ne’er 

Asserted  it. 

Abel.  The  more  my  grief ; I pray  thee 
To  do  so  now  : thy  soul  seems  labouring  in 
Some  strong  delusion  ; it  will  calm  thee. 


33ft 

Cain.  No ; 

Nothing  can  calm  me  more.  Calm  ! say  I ? Never 
Knew  I what  calm  was  iu  the  soul,  although 
I have  seen  the  elements  still’d.  My  Abel,  leave  me  ! 
Or  let  me  leave  thee  to  thy  pious  purpose. 

Abel.  Neither;  we  must  perform  our  task  together. 
Spurn  me  not. 

Cain.  If  it  must  be  so well,  then. 

What  shall  I do  ? 

Abel.  Choose  one  of  those  two  altars. 

Cain.  Choose  for  me  : they  to  me  are  so  much  turf 
And  stone. 

Abel.  Choose  thou  ! 

Cain.  I have  chosen. 

Abel.  ’Tis  the  highest, 

And  suits  thee,  as  the  elder.  Now  prepare 
Thine  offerings. 

Cain.  Where  are  thine  ? 

Abel.  Behold  them  here-  • 

The  firstlings  of  the  flock,  and  fat  thereof — 

A shepherd’s  humble  offering. 

Cain.  I have  no  flocks  ; 

I am  a tiller  of  the  ground,  and  must 
Yield  what  it  yieldeth  to  my  toil — its  fruit : 

[lie  gathers  fruits. 

Behold  them  in  their  various  bloom  and  ripeness. 

[They  dress  their  altars,  and  kindle  a fiame 
upon  them. 

Abel.  My  brother,  as  the  elder,  offer  first 
Thy  prayer  and  thanksgiving  with  sacrifice. 

Cain.  No — I am  new  to  this ; lead  thou  the  way. 
And  I will  follow — as  I may. 

Abel  {kneeling').  Oh  God  ! 

Who  made  us,  and  who  breathed  the  breath  cf  lifa 
Within  our  nostrils,  who  hath  blessed  us, 

And  spared,  despite  our  father’s  sin,  to  make 
His  children  all  lost,  as  they  might  have  been, 

Had  not  thy  justice  been  so  temper’d  with 
The  mercy  wnicli  is  thy  delight,  as  to 
Accord  a pardon  like  a Paradise, 

Compared  with  our  great  crimes: — Sole  Lord  of  light! 
Of  good,  and  glory,  and  eternity ; 

Without  whom  all  were  evil,  and  with  whom 
Nothing  can  err,  except  to  some  good  end 
Of  thine  omnipotent  benevolence — 

Inscrutable,  but  still  to  be  fulfill’d — 

Accept  from  out  thy  humble  first  of  shepherd’s 
First  of  the  first-born  flocks — an  offering, 

In  itself  nothing — as  what  offering  can  be 
Aught  unto  thee  ? — but  yet  accept  it  for 
The  thanksgiving  of  him  who  spreads  it  in 
The  face  of  thy  high  heaven,  bowing  his  own 
Even  to  the  dust,  of  which  he  is,  in  honour 
Of  thee,  and  of  thy  name,  for  evermore ! 

Cain  {standing  erect  during  this  speech).  Spirit ! 
whatever  or  whosoe’er  thou  art, 

Omnipotent,  it  may  be — and,  if  good. 

Shown  in  the  exemption  of  thy  deeds  from  evil ; 
Jehovah  upon  earth  ! and  God  in  heaven! 

And  it  may  be  with  other  names,  because 
Thine  attributes  seem  many,  as  thy  works - 
If  thou  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers, 

Take  them  ! If  thou  must  be  induced  with  altars. 

And  soften’d  with  a sacrifice,  receive  them  ! 

Two  beings  here  erect  them  unto  thee.  [smokos 

If  thou  iov’st  blood,  the  shepherd’s  shrine,  which 
On  my  right  hand,  hath  shed  it  for  thy  service 
In  the  first  of  his  flock,  whose  limbs  now  reek 


336 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  in 


In  sanguinary  incense  t j>  thy  skies  ; 

Or  if  the  sweet  and  blooming  fruits  of  earth, 

And  milder  seasons,  which  the  unstain’d  turf 
I spread  them  on  now  offers  in  the  face 
Of  the  broad  sun  which  ripen’d  them,  may  seem 
Good  to  thee,  inasmuch  as  they  have  not 
Suffer’d  in  limb  or  life,  and  rather  form 
A sample  of  thy  works,  than  supplication 
To  look  on  ours ! If  a shrine  without  victim, 

And  altar  without  gore,  may  win  thy  favour. 

Look  on  it ! and  for  him  who  dresseth  it, 

He  is — such  as  thou  mad’st  him ; and  seeks  nothing 
Which  must  be  won  by  kneeling  : if  lie’s  evil, 

Strike  him ! thou  art  omnipotent,  and  may’st — 

For  what  can  he  oppose  ? If  he  be  good, 

Strike  him,  or  spare  him,  as  thou  wilt ! since  all 
Rests  upon  thee ; and  good  and  evil  seem 
To  have  no  power  themselves,  save  in  thy  will ; 

And  whether  that  be  good  or  ill  I know  not. 

Not  being  omnipotent,  nor  lit  to  judge 

Omnipotence,  but  merely  to  endure 

Its  mandate  ; which  thus  far  I have  endured. 

[The fire  upon  the  altar  o/Abel  kindles  into  a 
column  of  the  brightest  fiame , and  ascends  to 
heaven  ; while  a whirlwind  throws  down  the 
altar  of  Cain,  and  scatters  the  fruits  abroad 
upon  the  earth. 

Abel  {kneeling').  Oh,  brother,  pray!  Jehovah’s  wroth 
with  thee. 

Cain.  Why  so  ? 

Abel.  Thy  fruits  are  scatter’d  on  the  earth. 

Cain.  From  earth  they  came,  to  earth  let  them 
return ; 

Their  seed  will  bear  fresh  fruit  there  ere  the  summer: 
Thy  burnt  flesh-off’ ring  prospers  better ; see 
How  heav’n  licks  up  the  liames,  when  thick  with 
blood ! 

Abel.  Think  not  upon  my  offering’s  acceptance. 

But  make  another  of  thine  own  before 
It  is  too  late. 

Cain.  1 will  build  no  more  altars. 

Nor  suffer  any. — 

Abel  {rising).  Cain  ! what  meanest  thou  ? 

Cain.  To  cast  down  yon  vile  fiatt’rer  of  the  clouds, 
The  smoky  harbinger  of  thy  dull  pray’rs — 

Thine  aliar,  with  its  blood  of  lambs  and  kids, 

Which  fed  on  milk,  to  be  destroy’d  in  blood. 

Abel  {opposing  him).  Thou  slialt  not: — add  not  im- 
pious works  to  impious 

Words  ! let  that  altar  stand — ’tis  hallow’d  now 
By  the  immortal  pleasure  of  Jehovah, 

In  his  acceptance  of  the  victims. 

Cain.  His ! 

tiis  pleasure  ! what  was  his  high  pleasure  in 
The  fumes  of  scorching  flesh  and  smoking  blood, 


(1)  [It  is  evident  that  Lord  Byron  had  studied  his  subject  very 
deeply ; and,  though  he  has  varied  a little  from,  or  gone  a little 
beyond,  the  letter  of  Scripture,  which  is  very  concise,  yet  he  has 
apparently  entered  with  great  exactness  into  the  minds  of  Cain  and 
Abel  in  this  most  interesting  scene  : and  were  it  allowable  to  ascribe 
to  the  author  of  a dramatic  work  the  principles  or  feelings  of  all  or 
any  of  his  characters,  except  as  adopting  them  for  his  particular 
purpose,  one  would  be  at  a loss  to  say,  whether  Lord  Byron  ought 
must  to  be  identified  with  Cain,  or  with  Abel ; so  appropriately  has 
be  maintained  the  character  of  each. — Grant’s  “Nolen  on  Cain,” 
p.  401. J 

.2)  [As  a whole  this  scene  is  heavy  and  clumsily  managed.  It 
cu^i  hardly  fail  to  strike  the  reader  as  a defect  in  poetry,  no  less 
« daparture  from  history,  that  the  event  which  is  tire  cata- 


To  the  pain  of  the  bleating  mothers,  which 
Still  yearn  for  their  dead  offspring?  or  the  pangs 
Of  the  sad  ignorant  victims  underneath 
Thy  pious  knife  ? Give  way  ! this  bloody  record 
Shall  not  stand  in  the  sun,  to  shame  creation ! 

Abel.  Brother,  give  back ! thou  slialt  not  touch  my 
altar 

With  violence  : if  that  thou  wilt  adopt  it. 

To  try  another  sacrifice,  ’tis  thine. 

Cain.  Another  sacrifice  ! Give  way,  or  else 

That  sacrifice  may  be 

Abel.  What  mean’st  thou  P 

Cain.  Give- 

Give  way  ! — thy  God  loves  blood  ! — then  look  ;o 
it : — 

Give  way,  ere  he  hath  more  ! 

Abel.  In  his  great  name, 

I stand  between  thee  and  the  shrine  which  hath 
Bad  his  acceptance. 

Cain.  If  thou  lov’sf  thyself, 

Stand  back  till  I have  strew’d  this  turf  along 

Its  native  soil : — else 

Abel  {opposing  him).  I love  God  far  more 
Than  life.1 

Cain  {striking  him  with  a brand , on  the  tempUs , 
which  he  snatches  from  the  altar). 

Then  take  thy  life  unto  thy  God, 

Since  he  loves  lives. 

Abel  {falls).  What  hast  thou  done,  my  brother  ? 
Cain.  Brother  ! 

Abel.  Oh,  God  ! receive  thy  servant,  and 

Forgive  his  slayer,  for  he  knew  not  what 
He  did — Cain,  give  me — give  me  thy  hand  ; and  tell 
Poor  Zillah 

Cain  {after  a moment's  stupefaction).  My  hand ! ’tis 
all  red,  and  with — 

What  ? 

[A  long  pause. — Looking  slowly  round. 

Where  am  I?  alone!  Where’s  Abel?  where 
Cain  ? Can  it  be  that  I am  lie  ? My  brother, 

Awake  ! — why  liest  thou  so  on  the  green  earth  ? 

’Tis  not  the  hour  of  slumber ; — why  so  pale  ? 

What,  hast  thou  ! thou  wert  full  of  life  this  mom ! 

Abel ! I pray  thee,  mock  me  not ! I smote 
Too  fiercely,  but  not  fatally.  All,  why 
Wouldst  thou  oppose  me  ? This  is  mockery  ; 

And  only  done  to  daunt  me : — ’twas  a blow — 

And  but  a blow.  Stir — stir — nay,  only  stir ! 

Why,  so — that’s  well ! — thou  breath’st ! breathe  upon 
Oh,  God ! Oh,  God  ! [me  ! 

Abel  {very  faintly).  What’s  he  who  speaks  of  God? 
Cain.  Thy  murderer. 

Abel.  Then  may  God  forgive  him  ! Cain, 

Comfort  poor  Zillah  : — she  has  but  one  brother 
Now.  [Abel  dies} 


8ti*>pheof  the  drama,  is  no  otherwise  than  incidentally,  we  may  say 
accidentally,  produced  by  those  which  precede  it.  Cain,  whose 
whole  character  is  represented  in  Scripture  as  envious  and  mali- 
cious, rather  than  impious; — this  Cain,  as  painted  by  Lord  Byron, 
has  no  quarrel  with  his  brother  whatever,  nor,  except  in  a single 
word,  does  he  intimate  any  jealousy  of  him.  Two  acts,  and  hall 
the  third,  are  passed  without  our  advancing  a single  step  towards 
the  conclusion  ; and  Abel  at  length  falls  by  a random  blow  given 
in  a struggle  of  which  the  object  is  not  his  destruction,  but  the 
overthrow  of  Jehovah’s  altar.  If  we  could  suppose  a reader  to  sit 
down  to  the  perusal  of  the  drama  in  ignorance  of  its  catastrophe, 
he  could  scarcely  be  less  surprised  by  its  termination  in  sucb  « 
stroke  of  chance-medley,  than  if  Abel  had  been  made  to  drop  down 
in  an  apoplexy,  or  Cain  to  die  of  grief  over  hi*  body. — Hejjr  ] 


SCENE  I. 


CAIN. 


337 


Cain.  And  I none ! — Who  makes  me  brotherless  ? 
His  eyes  are  open ! then  he  is  not  dead ! 

Death  is  like  sleep  ; and  sleep  shuts  down  our  lids. 
His  lips,  too,  are  apart ; why  then  he  breathes  ! 

And  yet  I feel  it  not.— His  heart ! — his  heart ! — 

Let  me  see,  doth  it  beat  F methinks No  ! — no  ! 

This  is  a vision,  else  I am  become 
The  native  of  another  and  worse  world. 

The  earth  swims  round  me  . —what  is  this  ? — ’tis  wet ; 

[ Puts  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  then  looks  at  it. 
And  yet  there  are  no  dews  ! ’Tis  blood — my  blood — 
My  brother’s  and  my  own ! and  shed  by  me  ! 

Then  what  have  I further  to  do  with  life, 

Since  I have  taken  life  from  my  own  flesh  ? 

But  he  can  not  be  dead ! — Is  silence  death  ? 

No ; he  will  wake : then  let  me  watch  by  him. 

Life  cannot  be  so  slight,  as  to  be  quench’d 
Thus  quickly ! — he  hath  spoken  to  me  since — 

What  shall  I say  to  him  ? — My  brother ! — No : 

He  will  not  answer  to  that  name ; for  brethren 
Smite  not  each  other.  Yet — yet — speak  to  me. 

Oh  ! for  a wrord  more  of  that  gentle  voice. 

That  I may  bear  to  hear  my  own  again  ! 

Enter  Zillah. 

Zillah.  I heard  a heavy  sound ; what  can  it  be  ? 

’Tis  Cain  ; and  watching  by  my  husband.  What 
Dost  thou  there,  brother  ? Doth  he  sleep  ? Oh, 
heav’n ! 

What  means  this  paleness,  and  yon  stream  ? — No,  no  1 
It  is  not  blood ; for  who  would  shed  his  blood  ? 

Abel ! what ’s  this  ? — who  hath  done  this  ? He  moves 
not ; 

He  breathes  not : and  his  hands  drop  down  from  mine 
With  stony  lifelessness  ! Ah ! cruel  Cain ! 

Why  cam’st  thou  not  in  time  to  save  him  from 
This  violence  ? Whatever  hath  assail’d  him, 

Thou  .wert  the  stronger,  and  shouldst  have  stepp’d  in 
Between  him  and  aggressiou ! Father  ! — Eve  ! — 
Adah  !— come  hither  ! Death  is  in  the  world ! 

[ Exit  Zillaii,  calling  on  her  Parents , Arc. 
Cain  (solus).  And  who  hath  brought  him  there  r — 
I — who  abhor 

The  name  of  Death  so  deeply,  that  the  thought 
Empoison’d  all  my  life,  before  I knew 
His  aspect — I have  led  him  here,  and  giv’n 
My  brother  to  his  cold  and  still  embrace, 

As  if  he  would  not  have  asserted  his 
Inexorable  claim  without  my  aid. 

I am  awake  at  last — a dreary  dream 

Had  madden’d  me ; — but  he  shall  ne’er  awake  ! 

Enter  Adam,  Eve,  Adah,  and  Zillah. 

Adam.  A voice  of  woe  from  Zillah  brings  me 
here. — 

What  do  I see  ? — ’Tis  true  ! — My  son ! — my  son  ! 

H oman,  behold  the  serpent’s  work  and  thine  ! 

\_To  Eve. 

Eve.  Oh ! speak  not  of  it  now : the  serpent’s  fangs 
^re  in  my  heart.  My  best  beloved,  Abel! 

7 chovali ! this  is  punishment  beyond 
A mother’s  sin,  to  take  him  from  me  ! 

Adam.  Who, 

Or  what  hath  done  this  deed  ? — speak,  Cain,  since  thou 
W ert  present ; was  it  some  more  hostile  angel, 

1 1 I 1 three  last  lines  were  not  in  the  original  MS.  In  for- 
them  to  Mr.  Murray,  to  be  added  to  Eve’s  speech,  Lord 
jjron  say*  “1  here's  as  pretty  a piece  of  imprecation  for  you, 


Who  walks  not  with  Jehovah  ? or  some  wild 
Brute  of  the  forest  ? 

Eve.  Ah  ! a livid  light 

Breaks  through,  as  from  a thunder-cloud  ! yon  brand. 
Massy  and  bloody  ! snatch’d  from  off  the  altar, 

And  black  with  smoke,  and  red  with 

Adam.  Speak,  my  son  ! 

Speak,  and  assure  us,  wretched  as  we  are, 

That  we  are  not  more  miserable  still. 

Adah.  Speak,  Cain ! and  say  it  was  not  thou  ! 

Eve.  It  was. 

I see  it  now — he  hangs  his  guilty  head, 

And  covers  his  ferocious  eye  with  hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah.  Mother,  thou  dost  him  wrong — 

Cain  ! clear  thee  from  this  horrible  accusal. 

Which  grief  wrings  from  our  parent. 

Eve.  Hear,  Jehovah ! 

May  the  eternal  serpent’s  curse  be  on  him  ! 

For  he  was  fitter  for  his  seed  than  ours. 

May  all  his  days  be  desolate.  May 

Adah.  Hold ? 

Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  thy  son — 

Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  my  brother. 

And  my  betroth’d. 

Eve.  He  hath  left  thee  no  brother — 

Zillah  no  husband— me  no  son  ! — for  thus 
I curse  him  from  my  sight  for  evermore ! 

All  bonds  1 break  between  us ! as  he  broke 

That  of  his  nature,  in  yon Oh  death  ! death  ! 

Why  didst  thou  not  take  me,  who  first  incurr’d  thee  ? 
Why  dost  thou  not  so  now  ? 

Adam.  Eve ! let  not  tms. 

Thy  natural  grief,  lead  to  impiety  . 

A heavy  doom  was  long  forespoken  to  us 
And  now  that  it  begins,  let  it  be  borne 
In  such  sort  as  may  show  our  God,  that  we 
Are  faithful  servants  to  his  holy  will. 

Eve  {pointing  to  Cain).  His  will ! ! the  will  of  yo* 
incarnate  spirit 

Of  death,  whom  I have  brought  upon  the  earth 
To  strew  it  with  the  dead.  May  all  the  curses 
Of  life  be  on  him  ! and  his  agonies 
Drive  him  forth  o’er  the  wilderness,  like  us 
From  Eden,  till  his  children  do  by  him 
As  he  did  by  his  brother ! May  the  swords 
And  wings  of  fiery  cherubim  pursue  him 
By  day  and  night — snakes  spring  up  in  his  path — 
Earth’s  fruits  be  ashes  in  his  mouth — the  leaves 
On  which  he  lays  his  head  to  sleep  be  strew’d 
With  scorpions  ! May  his  dreams  be  of  his  victim  . 
His  waking  a continual  dread  of  death ! 

May  the  clear  rivers  turn  to  blood  as  he 
Stoops  down  to  stain  them  with  his  racing  lip  ! 

May  every  element  shun  or  change  to  Tiim  ! 

May  he  live  in  the  pangs  which  others  die  with  ! 

And  death  itself  wax  something  worse  than  death 
To  him  who  first  acquainted  him  with  man  ! 

Hence,  fratricide  ! henceforth  that  word  is  Cain, 
Through  all  the  coming  myriads  of  mankind, 

Who  shall  abhor  thee,  though  thou  wert  their  sire  ! 
May  the  grass  wither  from  thy  feet ! the  woods 
Deny  thee  shelter ! earth  a home  ! the  dust 
A grave ! the  sun  his  light ! and  heaven  her  God  ! 1 

[ Exit  Eve. 


when  joined  to  the  lines  already  sent,  as  you  may  wish  to  meet  with 
in  the  coarse  of  your  business.  Hut  don’t  forget  the  addition  ot 
these  three  lines,  which  are  clinchers  to  Eve’s  speech.  Let  me 

U 


A-C1  IIL 


33S  LOUD  BYllON’S  WORKS. 


Adam  Cain ! get  thee  forth : we  dwell  no  more 
together. 

Depart ! and  leave  the  dead  to  me 1 am 

Henceforth  alone — we  never  must  meet  more.  [not 
Adah.  Oh,  part  not  with  him  thus,  my  father : do 
Add  thy  deep  curse  to  Eve’s  upon  his  head  ! 

Adam.  I curse  him  not : his  spirit  be  his  curse. 
Come,  Zillali ! 

Zillah.  I must  watch  my  husband’s  corse. 

Adam.  We  will  return  again,  when  he  is  gone 
Who  hath  provided  for  us  this  dread  office. 

Come,  Zillah ! 

Zillah.  Yet  one  kiss  on  yon  pale  clay, 

And  those  lips  once  so  warm — my  heart ! my  heart ! 

[Exeunt  Adam  and  Zillah,  weeping. 
Adah.  Cain ! thou  hast  heard,  we  must  go  forth.  I 
am  ready, 

bo  shall  our  children  be.  I will  bear  Enoch, 

And  you  his  sister.  Ere  the  sun  declines 
Let  us  depart,  nor  walk  the  wilderness 
Under  the  cloud  of  night. — Nay,  speak  to  me. 

To  me — thine  own. 

Cain.  Leave  me ! 

Adah.  Why,  all  have  left  thee. 

Cain.  And  wherefore  lingerest  thou?  Dost  thou 
not  fear 

To  dwell  with  one  who  hath  done  this  ? 

Adah.  I fear 

Nothing  except  to  leave  thee,  much  as  I 
Shrink  from  the  deed  which  leaves  thee  brotheiiess. 

I must  not  speak  of  this — it  is  between  thee 
And  the  great  God. 

A Voice  from  within  exclaims , Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah.  Hear’st  thou  that  voice  ? 

The  Voice  within.  Cain  ! Cain  ! 

Adah.  It  soundeth  like  an  angel’s  tone. 

Enter  ihe  Angel  of  the  Lord. 

Angel.  Where  is  thy  brother  Abel  ? 

Cain.  Am  I then 

My  brother’s  keeper  ? 

Angel.  Cain ! what  hast  thou  done  ? 

The  voice  of  thy  slain  brother’s  blood  cries  out, 

Even  from  the  ground,  unto  the  Lord ! — Now  art  thou 
Cursed  from  the  earth,  which  open’d  late  her  mouth 
To  drink  thy  brother’s  blood  from  thy  rash  hand. 
Henceforth,  when  thou  shalt  till  the  ground,  it  shall 
not 

Yield  thee  her  strength ; a fugitive  shalt  thou 
Be  from  this  day,  and  vagabond  on  earth ! 

Adah.  This  punishment  is  more  than  he  can  bear. 
Behold,  thou  drivest  him  from  the  face  of  earth, 

And  from  the  face  of  God  shall  he  be  hid. 

A fugitive  and  vagabond  on  earth, 

’Twill  come  to  pass,  that  whoso  findeth  him 
Shall  slay  him. 

Cain.  Would  they  could ! but  who  are  they 

Shall  slay  me  ? Where  are  these  on  the  lone  earth 
As  yet  unpeopled  ? 

Angel.  Thou  hast  slain  thy  brother, 

And  who  shall  warrant  thee  against  thy  son  ? 


knew  what  Gifford  thinks,  for  I have  a good  opinion  of  the  piece,  as 

E>eiry ; it  is  in  my  ga y metaphysical  style,  and  in  the  Manfred 
ae.’f] 

(1)  The  “fez?  rivers”  which  flowed  round  Eden,  and  conse- 
cuentiy  the  only  waters  with  which  Cain  was  acquainted  upon 

earth. 


Adah.  Angel  of  Light ! be  merciful,  nor  say 
That  this  poor  aching  breast  now  nourishes 
A murderer  in  my  boy,  and  of  his  father. 

Angel.  Then  he  would  but  be  what  his  father  ia. 
Did  not  the  milk  of  Eve  give  nutriment 
To  him  thou  now  seest  so  besmear’d  with  blood  ? 

L'lie  fratricide  might  well  engender  parricides. — 

But  it  shall  not  be  so — the  Lord  thy  God 
And  mine  commandeth  me  to  set  his  seal 
On  Cain,  so  that  he  may  go  forth  in  safety. 

Who  slayeth  Cain,  a sevenfold  vengeance  shall 
Be  taken  on  his  head.  Come  hither  ! 

Cain.  What 

Wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

Angel.  To  mark  upon  thy  brow 

Exemption  from  such  deeds  as  thou  hast  done. 

Cain.  No,  let  me  die ! 

Angel.  It  must  not  be. 

[The  Angel  sets  the  mark  on  Cain’s  brow. 
Cain.  It  burns 

My  brow,  but  nought  to  that  which  is  within  it. 

Is  there  more?  let  me  meet  it  as  I may. 

Angel.  Stern  hast  thou  been  and  stubborn  from  '.he. 
womb, 

As  the  ground  thou  must  henceforth  tfll ; but  lie 
Thou  slew’st  was  gentle  as  the  Hocks  lie  tended. 

Cain.  After  the  fall  too  soon  was  I begotten ; 

Ere  yet  my  mother’s  mind  subsided  from 
The  serpent,  and  my  sire  still  mourn’d  for  Eden. 

That  wfncli  I am,  I am ; I did  not  seek 
For  life,  nor  did  I make  myself ; but  could  I 
With  my  own  death  redeem  him  from  the  dust — 

And  why  not  so  ? let  him  return  to  day. 

And  I lie  ghastly  ! so  shall  be  restored 
By  God  the  life  to  him  he  loved  ; and  taken 
From  me  a being  I ne’er  loved  to  bear. 

Angel.  Who  shall  heal  murder?  what  is  done  is 
done; 

Go  forth ! fulfil  thy  days  ! and  be  thy  deeds 
Unlike  the  last ! [The  Angel  disappears. 

Adah.  He’s  gone,  let  us  go  forth ; 

I hear  our  little  Enoch  cry  within 
Our  bower. 

Cain.  Ah ! little  knows  he  what  he  weeps  for ! 
And  I who  have  shed  blood  cannot  shed  tears  ! 

But  the  four’  rivers *  1 would  not  cleanse  my  soul. 
Think’st  thou  my  boy  will  bear  to  look  on  me  ? 

Adah.  If  I thought  that  he  would  not,  I would  — 
Cam  ( interrupting  her).  No, 

No  more  of  threats : we  have  had  too  many  of  them  : 
Go  to  our  children ; I will  follow  ‘mee. 

Adah.  I will  not  leave  thee  lonely  with  the  dead ; 
Let  us  depart  together.2 

Cain.  Oh  ! thou  dead 

And  everlasting  witness ! whose  unsinking 
Blood  darkens  earth  and  heaven  i what  thou  now  ari; 

I know  not ! but  if  thou  seest  wnat  I am. 

I think  thou  wilt  forgive  him,  whom  his  God 
Can  ne’er  forgive,  nor  his  own  soul. — Farewell! 

I must  not,  dare  not  touch  what  I have  made  thee. 

I,  who  sprung  from  the  same  wen:  with  thee,  drain  a 
The  same  breast,  clasp’d  thee  often  to  my  own, 


(2)  [The  eatastropho  is  brought  about  with  great  dramatic  skill 
and  effect.  The  murderer  is  sorrowful  and  confounded,  J 
parents  reprobate  and  renounce  him, — his  wife  clings  to  him  w.-s 
eager  and  unhesitating  affection ; and  they  wander  forth  togtrtatx 
into  the  vast  solitude  of  the  universe. — jEtr-KEY.] 


SCENE  I. 


CAIN. 


339 


Oh 


In  fondness  brotherly  and  boyish,  I 

Can  never  meet  thee  more,  nor  even  dare 

To  do  that  for  thee,  which  thou  shouldst  have  done 

For  me — compose  thy  limbs  into  their  grave— 

The  first  grave  yet  dug  for  mortality. 

But  who  hath  dug  that  grave  ? Oh,  earth  ! 
earth ! 

For  all  the  fruits  thou  hast  render’d  to  me,  I 
Give  thee  back  this— Now  for  the  wilderness. 

[Adah  stoops  down  and  kisses  the  body  of  Abel. 
Adah.  A dreary,  and  an  early  doom,  my  brother, 
Has  been  thy  lot* *!  Of  all  who  mourn  for  thee, 

I alone  must  not  weep.  My  office  is 
Henceforth  to  dry  up  tears,  and  not  to  shed  them : 
But  yet,  of  all  who  mourn,  none  mourn  like  me, 


(1)  [The  reader  has  seen  what  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  general  opinion 
of  “Cain”  was,  in  the  letter  appended  to  the  Dedication,  ante 
p.  317.  Mr.  Moore's  was  conveyed  to  Lord  Byron  in  these  words 

“ I have  read  Foscari  and  Cain.  The  former  does  not  please  me 
so  highly  as  Sardanapalus.  It  has  the  fault  of  all  those  violent 
Venetian  stories ; being  unnatural  and  improbable,  and  therefore, 
in  spite  of  all  your  fine  management  of  them,  appealing  but  re- 
motely to  one’s  sympathies.  But  Cain  is  wonderful -terrible— 
sever  to  be  forgotten.  If  I am  not  mistaken,  it  will  sink  deep  into 
the  world’s  heart;  and  while  many  will  shudder  at  its  blasphemy,  all 
must  fall  prostrate  before  its  grandeur.  Talk  of  /Eschylus  and  his 
Prometheus  1 here  is  the  true  spirit  both  of  the  Poet— and  the 
Devil.” 

Lord  Byron’s  answer  to  Mr.  Moore  on  this  occasion  contains 
the  substance  of  all  that  he  ever  thought  fit  to  advance  in  defence 
of  the  assaulted  points  in  his  “ Mystery  — 

“With  respect  to  religion,”  he  says,  “can  I never  convince  you 
that  1 hold  no  such  opinions  as  the  characters  in  that  drama,  which 
seems  to  have  frightened  every  body?  My  ideas  of  a character  may 
run  away  with  me  : like  all  imaginative  men,  1,  of  course,  embody 
myself  with  the  character,  while  I draw  it,  but  not  a moment  after 
the  pen  is  from  of!'  the  paper." 

He  thus  alludes  to  the  effects  of  the  critical  tempest  excited  by 

* Cain,”  in  the  eleventh  canto  of  “ Don  Juan:” — 

“ «n  twice  five  years  the  ‘ greatest  living  poet, 

Like  to  the  champion  in  the  fisty  ring, 

Is  call’d  on  to  support  his  claim,  or  show  it, 

Although  ’tis  an  imaginary  thing. 

Even  I — albeit  I’m  sure  I did  not  know  it. 

Nor  sought  of  foolscap  subjects  to  be  king — 

Was  reckon’d,  a considerable  time, 

The  grand  Napoleon  *f  the  realms  of  rhyme. 

“ But  Juan  was  my  Moscow,  and  Faliero 

My  Leipsic,  and  my  Mont  Saint  Jean  seems  Cain.” 

We  shall  now  present  the  reader  with  a few  of  the  most  elaborate 
summaries  of  the  contemporary  critics,— favourable  and  unfavour, 
able — beginning  with  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

Mr.  Jeffrey  says,— “ Though  ‘ Cain’  abounds  in  beautiful  passages, 
and  shows  more  power,  perhaps,  than  any  of  the  author's  dramatical 
compositions,  we  regret  very  much  that  it  should  ever  have  been 
published.  . . . Lord  Byron  has  no  priestlike  cant  or  priestlike  re- 
viling to  apprehend  from  us.  We  do  not  charge  him  with  being 
either  a disciple  or  an  apostle  of  Lucifer;  nor  do  we  describe  his 
poetry  as  a mere  compound  of  blasphemy  and  obscenity.  On  the 
contrary,  we  are  inclined  to  believe  that  he  wishes  well  to  the  hap- 
piness of  mankind,  and  are  glad  to  testify  that  his  poems  abound 
with  sentiments  of  great  dignity  and  tenderness,  as  well  as  passages 
of  infinite  sublimity  and  beauty.  . . . Philosophy  and  poetry  are 
both  very  good  things  in  their  way ; but,  in  our  opinion,  they  do 
not  go  very  well  together.  It  is  but  a poor  and  pedantic  sort  of 
poetry  that  seeks  to  embody  nothing  but  metaphysical  subtleties 
and  abstract  deductions  of  reason — and  a very  suspicious  philosophy 
that  aims  at  establishing  its  doctrines  by  appeals  to  the  passions 
and  the  fancy.  • Though  such  arguments,  however,  are  worth  little 
in  the  schools,  it  does  not  follow  that  their  effect  is  inconsiderable 
in  the  world.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the  mischief  of  all  poetical 
paradoxes,  that,  from  the  very  limits  and  end  of  poetry,  which 
deals  only  in  obvious  and  glancing  views,  they  are  never  brought  to 
the  fair  test  of  argument.  An  allusion  to  a doubtful  topic  will 
often  pass  for  a definitive  conclusion  on  it ; and,  clothed  in  beauti- 
ful language,  may  leave  the  most  pernicious  impressions  behind. 
We  therefore  think  that  poets  ought  fairly  to  be  confined  to  the 
established  creed  and  nnralityof  their  country,  or  to  the  actual 
passions  and  sentiments  i f mankind;  and  that  poetical  dreamers 
and  sophists  who  pretend  to  theorise  according  to  their  feverish 


Not  only  for  thyself,  but  him  who  slew  thee. 

Now,  Cain  ! I will  divide  thy  burden  with  thee. 

Cain.  Eastward  from  Eden  we  will  take  our  way : 
’Tis  the  most  desolate,  and  suits  my  steps.  [God 
Adah.  Lead  ! thou  slialt  he  my  guide,  and  may  our 
Be  thine ! Now  let  us  carry  forth  our  children. 

Cain.  And  he  who  lieth  there  was  childless.  1 
Have  dried  the  fountain  of  a gentler  race,. 

Which  might  have  graced  his  recent  marria^fc  couch, 
And  might  have  temper’d  this  stern  blood  of  mine, 
Uniting  with  our  children  Abel’s  offspring  ! 

OAbei! 

Adah.  Peace  be  with  him  ! 

Cain.  But  with  me  ! 1 

[Exeunt. 


fancies,  without  a warrant  from  authority  or  reason,  ought  to  be 
banished  the  commonwealth  of  letters.  In  the  courts  of  morality, 
poets  are  unexceptionable  witnesses : they  may  give  in  the  evidence, 
and  depose  to  facts  whether  good  or  ill ; but  we  demur  to  tneir 
arbitrary  and  self-pleasing  summing  up;  they  are  suspected  judge' 
and  not  very  often  safe  advocates,  where  great  questions  are  con- 
cerned, and  universal  principles  brought  to  issue.” 

The  Reviewer  in  the  Quarterly  was  the  late  Bishop  Heber.  D’" 
article  ends  as  follows : — 

“ We  do  not  think,  indeed,  that  there  is  much  vigour  or  poetical 
propriety  in  any  of  the  characters  of  Lord  Byron’s  Mystery.  Eve, 
on  one  occasion,  and  one  only,  expresses  herself  with  energy,  and 
not  even  then  with  any  great  depth  of  that  maternal  feeling  which 
the  death  of  her  favourite  son  was  likely  to  excite  in  her.  Adam 
moralises  without  dignity.  Abel  is  as  dull  as  he  is  pious.  .Lucifer, 
though  his  first  appearance  is  well  conceived,  is  as  sententious  and 
sarcastic  as  a Scotch  metaphysician;  and  the  gravamina  which 
drive  Cain  into  impiety  are  circumstances  which  could  only  produce 
a similar  effect  on  a weak  and  sluggish  mind, — the  necessity  of 
exertion  and  the  fear  of  death ! Yet,  in  the  happiest  climate  of 
earth,  and  amid  the  early  vigour  of  nature,  it  would  be  absurd  to 
describe  (nor  has  Lord  Byron  so  described  it)  the  toil  to  which  Cam 
can  have  been  subject  as  excessive  or  burdensome.  And  he  is 
made  too  happy  in  his  love,  too  extravagantly  fond  of  his  wile  and 
his  child,  to  have  much  leisure  for  those  gloomy  thoughts  which  be- 
long to  disappointed  ambition  and  jaded  licentiousness.  Nor, 
though  there  are  some  passages  in  this  drama  of  no  common  power, 
is  the  general  tone  of  its  poetry  so  excellent  as  to  atone  for  these 
imperfections  of  design.  The  dialogue  is  cold  and  constrained. 
The  descriptions  are  like  the  shadows  of  a phantasmagoria,  at  once 
indistinct  and  artificial.  Except  Adah,  there  is  no  person  in  whose 
fortunes  we  are  interested;  and  we  close  the  book  with  no  distinct 
or  clinging  recollection  of  any  single  passage  in  it,  and  with  the 
general  impression  only  that  Lucifer  has  said  much  and  done  little, 
and  that  Cain  has  been  unhappy  without  grounds  and  wicked  with- 
out an  object.  But  if,  as  a poem,  Cain  is  little  qualified  to  add  to 
Lord  Byron’s  reputation,  we  are  unfortunately  constrained  to  ob- 
serve that  its  poetical  defects  are  the  very  smallest  of  its  demerits. 
It  is  not,  indeed,  as  some  both  of  its  admirers  and  its  enemies  ap- 
pear to  have  supposed,  a direct  attack  on  Scripture  and  on  the 
authority  of  Moses.  The  expressions  of  Cain  and  Lucifer  are  not 
more  offensive  to  the  ears  of  piety  than  such  discourses  must  neces- 
sarily be,  or  than  Milton,  without  offence,  has  put  into  the  mouths 
of  beings  similarly  situated.  And  though  the  intention  is  evident 
which  has  led  the  Atheists  and  Jacobins  (the  terms  are  convertible) 
of  our  metropolis  to  circulate  the  work  in  a cheap  form  among  the 
populace,  we  are  not  ourselves  of  opinion  that  it  possesses  much 
power  of  active  mischief,  or  that  many  persons  will  be  very  deeply 
or  lastingly  impressed  by  insinuations  which  lead  to  no  practical  re- 
sult, and  difficulties  which  so  obviously  transcend  the  range  of 
human  experience.” 

It  is  not  unamusing  to  compare  the  above  with  the  following 
paragraph  in  one  of  the  Bishop’s  private  letters  at  the  time  :— 

“ I have  been  very  busy  since  I came  home  in  reviewing  Lord 
Byron’s  dramatic  poems.  Of  course,  I have  had  occasion  to  find  a 
reasonable  quantity  of  fault,  but  1 do  not  think  that  1 have  don« 
him  injustice.  4 Pereant  qui  ante  no*  nostra  dixerunt.  I should 
have  liked  to  have  taken  up  the  same  ground  in  a great  degree  with 
Jeffrey  ; but,  as  it  will  never  do  to  build  on  another  man  s founda 
tion,  1 have  been  obliged  to  break  ground  on  a different  side  c* 
the  fortress,  though  not,  I think,  so  favourable  a one,  and  with  the 
disadvantage  of  contending  against  a rival,  who  has  conducted  hii 
attack  with  admirable  taste  and  skill.” 

The  following  extract  ii  from  Mr.  Campbell’*  Magaxine  ; — 

“ ‘Cain’  i*  altogether  of  a higher  order  than  4 Sardanapalu*’ 
and  the  4 Two  Fo»cari.’  Lord  Byron^ias  not,  indeed,  fulfilled  oui 
expectation*  of  a gigantic  picture  of  the  first  murderer:  for  tha» 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


340 


is  scarcely  any  passion,  except  the  immediate  agony  of  rage,  which 
brings  on  the  catastrophe;  and  Cain  himself  is  little  more  than  the 
subject  of  supernatural  agency.  This  piece  is  essentially  nothing 
but  a vehicle  for  striking  allusions  to  the  mighty  abstractions  of 
Death  and  Life,  Eternity  and  Time ; for  vast  but  dim  descriptions  ' 
of  the  regions  of  space,  and  for  daring  disputations  on  that  great 
problem,  the  origin  of  evil.  The  groundwork  of  the  arguments  on 
the  awful  subjects  handled  is  very  common-place;  but  they  are 
arrayed  in  great  majesty  of  language,  and  conducted  with  a fright- 
ful audacity.  The  direct  attacks  on  the  goodness  of  God  are  not, 
perhaps,  taken  apart,  bolder  than  some  passages  of  Milton;  but 
they  inspire  quite  a different  sensation;  because,  in  thinking  of 
Paradise  Lost,  we  never  regard  the  Deity,  or  Satan,  as  other  than 
great  adverse  powers,  created  by  the  imagination  of  the  poet.  The 
personal  identity  which  Milton  has  given  to  his  spiritual  intelli- 
gences,— the  local  habitations  which  he  has  assigned  them, — the 
material  beauty  with  which  he  has  invested  their  forms, — all  these 
remove  the  idea  of  impurity  from  their  discourses.  But  we  know 
nothing  of  Lord  Byron’s  Lucifer,  except  his  speeches:  he  is  in- 
rented  only  that  he  may  utter  them ; and  the  whole  appears  an 
abstract  discussion,  held  for  its  own  sake,  not  maintained  in  order 
to  sen  e the  dramatic  consistency  of  the  persons.  He  has  made  no 
attempt  to  imitate  Milton’s  plastic  power; — that  power  by  which 
our  great  poet  has  made  his  Heaven  and  Hell,  and  the  very  regions 
of  space,  sublime  realities,  palpable  to  the  imagination,  and  has 
traced  the  lineaments  of  his  angelic  messengers  with  the  precision 
offfi  sculptor.  The  Lucifer  of  * Cain’  is  a mere  bodiless  abstraction, 

— the  shadow  of  a dogma;  and  all  the  scenery  over  which  he  pre- 
sides is  dim,  vague,  and  seen  only  in  faint  outline.  There  is,  no 
doubt,  a very  uncommon  power  displayed,  even  in  this  shadowing 
out  of  the  ethereal  journey  of  the  spirit  and  his  victim,  and  in  the 
vast  sketch  of  the  world  of  phantasms  at  which  they  arrive  : but 
they  are  utterly  unlike  the  massive  grandeurs  of  Milton’s  creation. 
We  are  far  from  imputing  intentional  impiety  to  Lord  Byron  for 
this  Mystery ; nor,  though  its  language  occasionally  shocks,  do  we 
apprehend  any  danger  will  arise  from  its  perusal.” 

So  much  for  the  professed  Reviewers.  We  shall  conclude  with  a 
passage  from  Sir  Egerton  Brydges’s  “ Letters  on  the  Character  and 
Genius  of  Lord  Byron  — 

“One  of  the  pieces  which  have  had  the  effect  of  throwing  the 
most  unfavourable  hues,  not  upon  the  brilliancy  of  Lord  Byron’s 
poetry,  but  upon  its  results  to  society,  is  ‘Cain.’  Yet,  it  must  be 
confessed,  that  there  is  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  that  poem 
which  is  second  only  to  portions  of  similar  import  in  Milton, — and 
many  of  them  not  second ; in  a style  still  sweeter  and  more  elo- 
quent, and  with  equal  force,  grandeur,  and  purity  of  sentiment  and 
conception ; such  as  the  most  rigidly-religious  mind  would  have 
read,  if  it  had  come  from  Milton,  or  any  other  poet  whose  piety  was 
not  suspected,  as  the  effusion  of  something  approaching  to  holy 
inspiration. 

“ Let  us  then  task  our  candour,  and  inquire  of  ourselves,  whether 
he  who  could  write  such  passages  could  mean  wrong  ? Let  us  re- 
collect, that  as  the  rebellious  and  blasphemous  speeches  he  has  put 
into  the  mouths  of  Lucifer  and  Cain  are  warranted  by  Milton’s  ex- 
ample, and  the  fact  of  Cain’s  transgression  recorded  in  the  Bible, 
the  omission  of  the  design  and  filling  up  a character  who  should 
answer  all  those  speeches  might  be  a mere  defect  in  the  poet’s  judg- 
ment. He  might  think  that  Lucifer’s  known  character  as  an  Evil 
Spirit  precluded  his  arguments  from  the  sanction  of  authority;  and 
that  Cain’s  punishment,  and  the  denunciations  which  accompanied 
it,  were  a sufficient  warning.  1 know  not  that  any  objection  has 
been  made  to  ‘ Heaven  and  Earth.’  It  has  the  same  cast  of  ex- 
cellence as  the  more  perfect  parts  of  ‘ Cain,’  but,  perhaps,  not  quite 
so  intense  in  degree. 

“ It  seems  as  if  Lord  Byron  persuaded  himself,  with  regard  to  his 
own  being,  that  he  had  always  within  him  two  contrary  spirits  of 
good  and  evil  contending  for  the  dominion  over  him,  and  thus  re- 
conciled those  extraordinary  flights  of  intellectual  elevation  and 
purity  with  a submission  to  the  pride,  the  ferocity,  the  worldly  pas- 
sions the  worldly  enjoyments,  the  corporeal  pastimes,  the  familiar 
humour,  the  vulgarisms,  the  rough  and  coarse  manliness,  to  which 


he  alternately  surrendered  himself,  and  which  the  good-nntwrrd 
public  chose  to  consider  as  the  sole  attributes  of  his  personal  cha- 
racter. Much  of  his  time,  however,  must  have  been  spent  in  the 
musing*  by  which  these  high  poems,  so  compacted  of  the  essence  oj 
thought,  were  produced;  and,  in  all  this  large  portion  of  his  ex- 
istence here,  his  imagination  must  have  borne  him  up  on  its  wings 
into  ethereal  regions,  far  above  the  gross  and  sensual  enjoyments  < ; 
this  grovelling  earth.  Did  he  deal,  as  minor  poets  deal,  in  mere 
splendour  of  words,  his  poetry  would  he  no  proof  of  this;  but  lie 
never  does  so : — there  is  always  a breathing  soul  beneath  his  words, 

‘ That  o’er-informs  the  tenement  of  clay  :’ 

it  is  like  the  fragrant  vapour  that  rises  in  incense  from  the  earth 
through  the  morning  dew  ; and  when  we  listen  to  his  lyre, 

‘ Less  than  a God  we  think  there  cannot  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  sings  so  sweetly  and  so  well ! ’ 

“ If  Lord  Byron  thought  that,  however  loudly  noisy  voices  might 
salute  him  with  a rude  and  indiscriminate  clamour  of  applause, 
his  poems  were  not  received  with  the  taste  and  judgment  they 
merited,  and  that  severe  and  cruel  comments  were  attached  to 
them  by  those  who  assumed  to  themselves  authority,  and  who  sel- 
dom allowed  the  genius  without  perverting  it  into  a cause  of  cen- 
sure, tiiat  more  than  outweighed  the  praise;  those  fumes  of  flattery 
which  are  imputed  as  the  causes  of  a delirium  that  led  him  into 
extravagances,  outraging  decorum  and  the  respect  due  to  the  pub- 
lic, never,  in  fact,  reached  him.  To  confer  ‘ faint  praise  is  to 
damn  to  confer  praise  in  a wrong  place  is  to  insult  and  provoke. 
Lord  Byron,  therefore,  had  not,  after  all.  the  encouragement  that 
is  most  favourable  to  ripen  the  richest  fruit;  and  it  was  a firm  and 
noble  courage  that  still  prompted  him  to  persevere. 

“ For  this  reason,  as  well  as  for  others, ’I  think  his  foreign  resi- 
dences were  more  propitious  to  the  energies  of  his  M use  than  a con- 
tinued abode  in  England  would  have  been.  The  poison,  of  the 
praises  that  were  insidious  did  not  reach  him  so  soon;  and  he  was 
not  beset  by  treacherous  companions,  mortifying  gossip,  and  that 
petty  intercourse  with  ordinary  society  which  tames  and  lowers  the 
tone  of  the  mind.  To  mingle  much  witli  the  world  is  to  be  infallibly 
degraded  by  familiarity;  not  to  mingle,  at  least,  among  the  busy 
and  tire  known,  is  to  incur  the  disrespect  to  which  insignificance  is 
subjected.  Lord  Byron’s  foreign  residence  exempted  him  from 
these  evils,  he  saw  a few  intimate  friends,  and  he  corresponded 
with  a few  others;  but  such  an  intercourse  does  not  expose  to 
similar  effects.  The  necessary  knowledge  and  necessary  hints  may 
thus  be  conveyed;  but  not  all  the  pestilent  chills  which  general 
society  is  so  officious  to  unveil. 

“ If  Lord  Byron  had  not  had  a mind  with  a strong  spring  of 
virtue  within  it,  I think  that  he  would  have  thrown  down  his  pen  at 
some  of  the  attacks  he  received,  and  given  himself  up  to  the  sensual 
pleasures  of  his  rank  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  The  finer 
parts  of  Iris  poems  were  of  such  spiritual  splendour,  and  so  pure, 
though  passionate,  an  elevation,  that  they  ought  to  have  redeemed 
any  parts  which  were  open  to  doubt  from  a malevolent  construction, 
and  even  have  eclipsed  and  rendered  unnoticeable  many  positive 
faults.  Lord  Byron’s  style,  like  his  thoughts,  had  every  variety : 
it  did  not  attempt  (as  is  the  common  practice)  to  make  poetry  by 
the  metaphorical  and  the  figurative;  it  followed  his  thoughts,  and 
was  a part  of  them : it  did  not  fatigue  itself  to  render  clear  by 
illustration  or  important  by  ornament,  because  the  thought  was 
clear  or  important  in  itself. 

“ I remember,  when  I first  read  ‘Cain,’  I thought  it,  as  a com- 
position, the  most  enchanting  and  irresistible  of  all  Lord  Byron’s 
works;  and  I think  so  still.  Some  of  the  sentiments,  taken  de- 
tachedly,  and  left  unanswered,  are  no  doubt  dangerous,  and..therc- 
fore  ought  not  to  have  been  so  left;  but  the  class  of  readers  whom 
this  poem  is  likely  to  interest  are  of  so  very  elevated  a cast,  and  the 
effect  of  the  poetry  is  to  refine,  spiritualize,  and  illumine  the  ima- 
gination with  such  a sort  of  unearthly  sublimity,  that  the  mind  of 
these.  I am  persuaded,  will  become  too  strong  to  incur  any  taint 
thus  predicted,  from  the  defect  which  has  been  so  much  insisted 
on.”] 


Center ; or,  ti)t  ffitfjcrttancc: 

A TRAGEDY.1 


\ 


TO 

THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  GOETHE, 

BY  ONE  OF  HIS  HUMBLEST  ADMIRERS, 


THIS  TRAGEDY  IS  DEDICATED. 


PREFACE. 

The  following  drama  is  taken  entirely  from  the 
“ German's  Tale , Kruitzner ,”  published  many  years 
ago  in  lice’s  Canterbury  Tales;  written  (I  believe) 
by  two  sisters,  of  whom  one  furnished  only  this  story 
and  another,  both  of  which  are  considered  superior 
to  the  remainder  of  the  collection.2  I have  adopted 
the  characters,  plan,  and  even  the  language,  of  many 
parts  of  this  story.  Some  of  the  characters  are  modi- 
fied or  altered,  a few  of  the  names  changed,  and  one 
character,  Ida  of  Stralenheim,  added  by  myself ; but 
iu  the  rest  the  original  is  chiefly  followed.  When  I 
was  young  (about  fourteen,  1 think,)  I first  read  this 
tale,  which  made  a deep  impression  upon  me ; and 
may,  indeed,  be  said  to  contain  the  germ  of  much 
that  I have  since  written.  I am  not  sure  that  it  ever 
was  very  popular  ; or,  at  any  rate,  its  popularity  has 
since  been  eclipsed  by  that  of  other  great  writers  in 
the  same  department.  But  I have  generally  found 
that  those  who  had  read  it,  agreed  with  me  in  their 
estimate  of  the  singular  power  of  mind  and  conception 
which  it  developes.  I should  also  add  conception , 


(1)  [The  tragedy  of  “ Werner”  was  begun  at  Pisa,  December 
18th,  1821,  completed  January  20th,  1822,  and  published  in  London 
in  the  November  following.  The  reviews  of Werner”  were,  without 
exception,  unfavourable.  One  critique  of  the  time  thus  opens : — 

“ Who  could  be  so  absurd  a*  to  think,  that  a dramatist  has  no 
right  to  make  free  with  other  people’s  fables  l On  the  contrary, 
we  are  quite  aware  that  that  particular  species  of  genius  which  is 
exhibited  in  the  construction  of  plots,  never  at  any  period  flourished 
in  England.  We  all  know  that  Shakspeare  himself  took  his  stories 
from  Italian  novels,  Danish  sagas.  English  Chronicles,  Plutarch’s 
Lives— from  any  where  rather  than  from  his  own  invention.  But 
did  he  take  the  whole  of  Hamlet,  or  Juliet,  or  Richard  the  Third, 
or  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  from  any  of  these  foreign  sources  ? Did 
he  not  invent,  in  the  noblest  sense  of  the  word,  all  the  character s 
of  his  pieces?  Who  dreams  that  any  old  Italian  novelist,  or  ballad- 
maker,  could  have  formed  the  imagination  of  such  a creature  as 
Juliet?  Who  dreams  that  the  Hamlet  of  Shakspeare,  the  princely 
enthusiast,  the  melancholy  philosopher,  that  spirit  refined  even  to 
pain,  that  most  incomprehensible  and  unapproachable  of  all  the 
creations  of  human  genius,  is  the  same  being,  in  any  thing  but  the 
name,  with  the  rough,  strong-hearted,  bloody-handed  Amlett  of 
the  north  ? Who  is  there  that  supposes  Goethe  to  have  taken  the 
character  of  hi*  Faust  from  the  nursery  rhymes  and  penny  pamphlets 
about  the  Devil  and  Doctor  Faustus  ? Or  who,  to  come  nearer 
nome,  imagines  that  Lord  Byron  himself  found  his  Sardanapalus 
in  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus? 

“ But  here  Lord  Byron  has  invented  nothing — absolutely 
.nothing.  There  is  not  one  incident  in  his  play,  not  even  the 
most  trivial,  that  is  not  to  be  found  in  Miss  Lee’s  novel,  occurring 
exactly  in  the  same  manner,  brought  about  by  exactly  the  same 
agents,  and  producing  exactly  the  samo  effects  on  the  plot.  And 
tfar-n  as  to  the  characters— not  only  is  every  one  of  them  to  be 


rather  than  execution ; for  the  story  might,  perhapt, 
have  been  developed  with  greater  advantage.  Amongtl 
those  whose  opinions  agreed  with  mine  upon  this  story, 
I could  mention  some  very  high  names  : but  it  is  not 
necessary,  nor  indeed  of  any  use ; for  every  one  must 
judge  according  to  his  own  feelings.  I merely  refer 
the  reader  to  the  original  story,  that  he  may  see  to 
what  extent  I have  borrowed  from  it ; and  am  not 
unwilling  that  he  should  find  much  greater  pleasure 
in  perusing  it  than  the  drama  which  is  founded  upon 
its  contents. 

I had  begun  a drama  upon  this  tale  so  far  back  as 
1S15,  (the  first,  I ever  attempted,  except  one  at  tliir 
teen  years  old,  called  “ Ulric  and  1 Ivina,"  which  I 
had  sense  enough  to  burn,)  and  had  nearly  completed 
an  act,  wrhen  I was  interrupted  by  circumstances. 
This  is  somewhere  amongst  my  papers  in  England ; 
but  as  it  has  not  been  found,  I have  re-written  the 
first,  and  added  the  subsequent  acts. 

The  whole  is  neither  intended,  nor  in  any  shape 
adapted,  for  the  stage.3 

Pisa,  February,  1822. 


found  in  ‘ Kruitzner,’  but  every  one  is  to  be  found  there  more  fully 
and  powerfully  developed.  Indeed,  but  for  the  preparation  which 
we  had  received  from  our  old  familiarity  with  Miss  Lee’s  own 
admirable  work,  we  rather  incline  to  think  that  we  should  navs 
been  unable  to  comprehend  the  gist  of  her  noble  imitator,  or  rather 
copier,  in  several  of  what  seem  to  be  meant  for  his  most  elaborate 
delineations.  The  fact  is,  that  this  undeviating  closeness,  this 
humble  fidelity  of  imitation , is  a thing  so  perfectly  new  in  any 
thing  worthy  of  the  name  of  literature,  that  we  are  sure  do  one, 
who  has  not  read  the  Canterbury  Tales,  will  be  able  to  form  the 
least  conception  of  what  it  amounts  to. 

“Those  who  have  never  read  Miss  Lee’s  book  will,  however,  be 
pleased  with  this  production;  for,  in  truth,  the  tiory  is  one  of  the 
most  powerfully  conceived,  one  of  the  most  picturesque,  and  at  tha 
same  time  instructive  stories,  that  we  are  acquainted  with. 

“ ‘ Kruitzner,  or  the  German’s  Tale,’  possesses  mystery,  and  yet 
clearness,  as  to  its  structure ; strength  of  characters,  and  admirable 
contrast  of  characters ; and,  above  all,  the  most  lively  interest, 
blended  with  and  subservient  so  the  most  affecting  of  moral 
lessons.” 

'iiie  reader  will  find  a minute  analysis,  introduced  by  the  above 
remarks,  in  Blackwood,  vol.  xii.  p.  710.] 

(2)  [This  is  not  correct.  “ The  Young  Lady’s  Tale,  or  the  Two 
Emily’s,”  and  “ The  Clergyman’s  Tale,  or  Pembroke,”  were  con- 
tributed by  Sophia  Lee,  the  author  of  “ The  Recess,”  the  comedy 
of  “The  Chapter  of  Accidents,”  and  “ Almedya,  a Tragedy,”  who 
died  in  1824  The  “German’s  Tale,”  and  all  the  others  in  the 
Canterbury  Collection,  were  written  by  Harriet,  the  your.ger  of  the 
sisters] 

(3)  [Werner  is,  however,  the  only  one  of  Lord  Byron's  dramas 
that  proved  successful  in  representation.  It  is  still  (1836)  iu  pos- 
session of  the  stage  ] 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


[act  i. 


U2 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAE. 

L 

Jfen. — Werner. 

Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 

Idenstein. 

Garor. 

Fritz. 

Henrick. 

Eric. 

Arnheim. 

Meister. 

Rodolph. 

Ludwig. 

Women. — Josephine. 

Ida  Stralenheim. 

Scene — Partly  on  the  Frontier  of  Silesia,  and  partly 
in  Siegendorf  Castle,  near  Prague. 

Time — the  Close  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War. 

♦ — 

OTcrncv. 


ACT  l. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Hall  of  a decayed  Palace  near  a small  Town  on 
the  Northern  Frontier  of  Silesia  — the  Night  tem- 
pestuous. 

Werner  1 and  Josephine  his  wife. 

Jos.  My  love,  be  calmer ! 

Wer,  I am  calm. 

Jos.  To  me — 

Yes,  but  not  to  thyself : thv  pace  is  hurried. 

And  no  one  walks  a chamber  like  to  ours 
With  steps  like  thine  when  his  heart  is  at  rest. 

Were  it  a garden,  I should  deem  thee  happy, 

And  stepping  with  the  bee  from  flower  to  flower ; 

But  here! 

Wer.  ’Tis  chill ; the  tapestry  lets  through 
The  wind  to  which  it  waves : my  blood  is  frozen. 

Jos.  Ah,  no ! 

Wer.  (smiling).  Why  ! wouldst  thou  have  it  so?  * 
Jos.  I would 

Have  it  a healthful  current. 

Wer.  Let  it  flow 

Until  ’tis  spilt  or  check’d — how  soon,  I care  not. 

Jos.  And  am  I nothing  in  thy  heart  P 


(1)  [Werner — we  mean  Kruitzner — is  admirably  drawn.  Who 
does  not  recognise  in  him  the  portrait  of  too  common  a character? 
The  man  of  Binning  talent,  ardent  mind,  powerful  connexions, 
brilliant  proipeets,  who,  after  squandering  away  all  in  wanton 
self-indulgence,  having  lived  only  for  himself,  finds  himself  bank- 
rupt in  fortune  and  character,  the  prey  of  bitter  regret,  yet 
unrepentant,  as  selfish  in  remorse  as  in  his  gaiety.  All  that  is 
inconsistent  in  the  character  of  Kruitzner  is  rendered  still  more  so 
in  the  Werner  of  the  drama. — Eel.  Rev.'] 

(2)  [In  this  play,  Lord  Byron  adopts  the  same  nerveless  and 
ointless  kind  of  blank  verse,  which  was  a sorrow  to  every  body  in 
is  former  dramatic  essayi.  It  is,  indeed,  “ mosbunmusical,  most 

melancholy.” — “ Ofs,”  “ tos,”  “ ands,”  “ fore.”  “ bys,  “ buts,”  and 
the  like,  ar«  the  most  common  conclusions  of  a line ; there  is  no 


All-all. 

Jos.  Then  oanst  thou  wish  (or  that  which  must 
break  mine? 

Wer.  (approaching  her  slowly).  But  for  thee  I had 
b°“n. — 110  matter  what, 

But  much  of  good  and  evil ; what  1 am, 

Thou  kuowest ; what  I might  or  should  have  been. 
Thou  knowest.  not : but  still  1 love  thee,  nor 
Shall  aught  divide  us. 

[Werner  walks  on  abruptly , and  then  approaches 
Josephine. 

The  storm  of  the  night 
Perhaps  affects  me ; I am  a thing  of  feelings. 

And  have  of  late  been  sickly,  as,  alas  ! 

Thou  know’st  by  sufferings  more  than  mine,  my  love  ! 
In  watching  me. 

Jos.  To  see  thee  well  is  much — 

To  see  thee  happy 

Wer.  Where  hast  thou  seen  such  ? 

Let  me  be  wretched  with  the  rest ! 

Jos.  But  think 

How  many  in  this  hour  of  tempest  shiver 
Beneath  the  biting  wind  and  heavy  rain, 

Whose  every  drop  bows  them  down  nearer  earth, 
Which  hath  no  chamber  for  them  save  beneath 
Her  surface. 

Wer.  And  that ’s  not  the  worst : who  cares 
For  chambers  ? rest  is  all.  The  wretches  whom 
Thou  namest— ay,  the  wind  howls  round  them,  and 
The  dull  and  dropping  rain  saps  in  their  bones 
The  creeping  marrow.  I have  been  a soldier, 

A hunter,  and  a traveller,  and  am 
A beggar,  and  should  know  the  thing  thou  talk’st  of. 
Jos.  And  art  thou  not  now  shelter’d  from  them  all  ? 
Wer.  Yes.  And  from  these  alone. 

Jos.  And  that  is  something. 

Wer.  True — to  a peasant. 

Jos.  Should  the  nobly  born 

Be  thankless  for  that  refuge  which  their  habits 
Of  early  delicacy  render  more 
Needful  than  to  the  peasant,  when  the  ebb 
Of  fortune  leaves  them  on  the  shoals  of  life  ? 

Wer.  It  is  not  that,  thou  know’st  it  is  not ; we 
Have  borne  all  this.  I’ll  not  say  patiently, 

Except  in  thee — but  we  have  borne  it. 

Jos.  Well? 

Wer.  Something  beyond  our  outward  sufferings 
(though 

These  were  enough  to  gnaw  into  our  souls) 

Hath  stung  me  oft,  and,  more  than  ever,  now. 

When,  but  for  this  untoward  sickness,  which 
Seized  me  upon  this  desolate  frontier,  and1  2 
Hath  wasted,  not  alone  my  strength,  but  means. 

And  leaves  us — no ! this  is  beyond  me  ! — but 
For  this  I had  been  happy 3 — thou  been  happy — 

The  splendour  of  my  rank  sustain’d — my  name — 


ease,  no  flow,  no  harmony,  “ in  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out 
neither  is  there  any  thing  of  abrupt  fiery  vigour  to  compensate  for 
these  defects. — Blackwood,.] 

(3)  [In  this  drama  there  is  absolutely  no  poetry  to  b*  found! 
and  if  the  measure  of  verse  which  is  here  dealt  to  us  be  a sample 
of  what  we  are  to  expect  for  the  future,  we  have  only  to  entreat 
that  Lord  Byron  will  drop  the  ceremony  of  cutting  up  his  prose 
into  lines  of  ten,  eleven,  or  twelve  syllables  (for  he  is  not  very 
punctilious  on  this  head),  and  favour  us  with  it  in  its  natural  state. 
It  requires  no  very  cunning  alchemy  to  transmute  his  veree  into 
prose,  nor,  reversing  the  experiment,  to  convert  his  plain  sentences 
into  verses  like  his  own. — “When,”  says  Werner,  “but  for  this 
untoward  sickness,  which  seized  me  upon  this  desolate  frontier 
and  hath  wasted,  not  alone  my  strength,  but  means,  and  leaves 


8CBNK  I. 


WERNER. 


My  father’s  name— been  still  upheld ; and,  more 

Than  those . 

Jos.  (abruptly.)  My  son— our  son— our  Uiric, 

Been  clasp’d  again  in  these  long-empty  arms, 

And  all  a mother’s  hunger  satisfied. 

Twelve  years  ! he  was  but  eight  then  : be&iunui 

He  was,  and  beautiful  he  must  be  now, 

My  Uiric  ! my  adored! 

jjrer  I have  been  lull  oft 

The  chase  of  Fortune ; now  she  hath  o’ert&ken 
My  spirit  where  it  cannot  turn  at  bay,— 

Sick,  poor,  and  lonely. 

jos  Lonely ! my  dear  husband  r 

JFer.  Or  worse — involving  all  I love,  in  tliis 
Far  worse  than  solitude.  Alone,  1 had  died, 

And  all  been  over  in  a nameless  grave. 

Jos.  And  I had  not  outlived  thee ; but  pray  take 
Comfort ! We  have  struggled  long ; and  they  who 


strive 

With  Fortune  win  or  weary  her  at  last, 

So  that  they  find  the  goal  or  cease  to  feel 
Further.  Take  comfort, — we  shall  find  our  boy. 

JFer.  We  were  in  sight  of  him,  of  every  thing 
Which  could  bring  compensation  for  past  sorrow — 
And  to  be  ballled  thus  ! 

Jos.  We  are  not  baffled. 

JFer.  Are  we  not  penniless  ? 

Jos,  We  ne’er  were  wealthy. 

JFer,  But  I was  bom  to  wealth,  and  rank,  and 


power ; 

Enjoy’d  them,  loved  them,  and,  alas ! abused  them. 
And  forfeited  them  by  my  father’s  wrath, 

In  my  o’er-fervent  youth  ; but  for  the  abuse^ 

Long  sufferings  have  atoned.  My  father’s  death 
Left  the  path  open,  yet  not  without  snares. 

This  cold  and  creeping  kinsman,  who  so  long 
Kept  his  eye  on  me,  as  the  snake  upon 
The  fluttering  bird,  hath  ere  this  time  outstept  me, 
Become  the  master  of  my  rights,  and  lord 
Of  that  which  lifts  him  up  to  princes  in 
Dominion  and  domain. 

Jos.  Who  knows  ? our  son 

May  have  return’d  back  to  his  grandsire,  and 
Even  now  uphold  thy  rights  for  thee  ? 

JFer.  ’Tis  hopeless. 

Since  his  strange  disappearance  from  my  father’s, 
Entailing,  as  it  were,  my  sins  upon 
Himself,  no  tidings  have  reveal’d  his  course. 

I parted  with  him  to  his  grandsire,  on 
The  promise  that  his  anger  would  stop  short 
Of  the  third  generation ; but  Heaven  seems 
To  claim  her  stern  prerogative,  and  visit 
Upon  my  boy  his  father’s  faults  and  follies. 

Jos.  I must  hope  better  still, — at  least  we  have  yet 
Baffled  the  long  pursuit  of  Stralenheim  [ness  ; 

JFer.  We  should  have  done,  but  for  this  fatal  sick- 
More  fatal  than  a mortal  malady, 

Because  it  takes  not  life,  but  life’s  sole  solace : 

Even  now  I feel  my  spirit  girt  about 
By  the  snares  of  this  avaricious  fiend ; — 

How  do  I know  he  hath  not  track’d  us  here  P 


o jO 

Jos.  He  does  not  know  thy  person;  and  his  spies, 
Who  so  long  watch’d  thee,  have  been  left  at  Hamburgh. 
Our  unexpected  journey,  and  this  change 
Of  name,  leaves  all  discovery  far  behind : 

None  holds  us  here  for  aught  save  what  we  seem. 

JFer.  Save  what  we  seem  ! save  what  we  arc — sic 
_ beggars, 

Even  to  our  very  hopes. — Ha  ! ha ! 

Jos.  Alas ! 

That  bitter  laugh ! 

JFer.  JFho  would  read  in  this  form 

The  high  soul  of  the  son  of  a long  line  P 
JFho,  in  this  garb,  the  heir  of  princely  lands  ? 

JFho,  in  tliis  sunken,  sickly  eye,  the  pride 
Of  rank  and  ancestry  P in  this  worn  cheek 
And  famine-hollow’a  brow,  the  lord  of  halls 
Which  daily  feast  a thousand  vassals  ? 

Jos.  You 

Ponder’d  not  thus  upon  these  worldly  things, 

My  Werner  ! when  you  deign’d  to  choose  for  bride 
The  foreign  daughter  of  a wandering  exile. 

JFer.  An  exile’s  daughter  with  an  outcast  son 
Were  a fit  marriage  ; but  I still  had  hopes 
To  lift  thee  to  the  state  we  both  were  bom  for. 

Your  father’s  house  was  noble,  though  decay’d ; 

And  worthy  by  its  birth  to  match  with  ours,  [noble ; 

Jos.  Your  father  did  not  think  so,  though  ’twaa 
But  had  my  birth  been  all  my  claim  to  match 
With  thee,  I should  have  deem’d  it  what  it  is. 

JFer.  And  what  is  that  in  thine  eyes  ? 

Jos.  All  which  it 

Has  done  in  our  behalf, — nothing. 

JFer.  How, — nothing  ? 

Jos.  Or  worse  ; for  it  lias  been  a canker  in 
Thy  heart  from  the  beginning  : but  for  this. 

We  had  not  felt  our  poverty  but  as 
Millions  of  myriads  feel  it,  cheerfully  ; 

But  for  these  phantoms  of  thy  feudal  fathers, 

Thou  inightst  have  earn’d  thy  bread,  as  thousands 
earn  it ; 

Or,  if  that  seem  too  humble,  tried  by  commerce, 

Or  other  civic  means,  to  amend  thy  fortunes. 

JFer.  (ironically).  And  been  an  Hanseatic  burgher  ? 
Excellent ! 

Jos.  Whate’er  thou  mightst  have  been,  to  me  thou  art 
What  no  state  high  or  low  can  ever  change, 

My  heart’s  first  choice ; which  chose  thee,  knowing 
neither  [sorrows : 

Thy  birth,  thy  hopes,  thy  pride;  nought  save  thy 
While  they  last,  let  me  comfort  or  divide  them : 

When  they  end,  let  mine  end  with  them,  or  thee  ! 

JFer.  My  better  angel ! such  I have  ever  found 
thee  ; 

This  rashness,  or  this  weakness  of  my  temper, 

Ne’er  raised  a thought  to  injure  thee  or  thine. 

Thou  didst  not  mar  my  fortunes  : my  own  nature 
In  youth  was  such  as  to  unmake  an  empire, 

Had  such  been  my  inheritance  ; but  now, 

Chasten’d,  subdued,  outworn,  and  taught  to  know 
Myself, — to  lose  this  for  our  son  and  thee ! 

Trust  me,  when,  in  my  two-and-twentieth  spring. 


as — no  1 this  is  beyond  me ! but  for  this  I had  been  happy.”— This 
is,  indeed,  beyond  us.  If  this  be  poetry,  then  we  were  wrong  in 
taking  his  Lordship’s  preface  for  prose.  It  will  run  on  ten  feet  as 
well  as  the  rest. 

“ Some  of  the  characters  are  modified 
Or  altered,  a few  of  the  names  changed,  and 
One  character,  Ida  of  Stralenheim, 


Added  by  myself ; but  in  the  rest  the 
Original  is  chiefly  followed.  When 
I was  young  (about  fourteen,  I think)  I 
First  read  this  tale,  which  made  a deep  impression 
Upon  me” — 

Nor  is  there  a line  in  these  so  lame  and  halting,  but  w«  cot' Id 
point  out  many  in  the  drama  as  bad.— Campbell.] 


344 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  L 


My  father  barr’d  nie  from  my  father’s  house. 

The  last  sole  scion  of  a thousand  sires 
(For  I was  then  the  last),  it  hurt  me  less 
Than  to  behold  my  boy  and  my  boy’s  mother 
Excluded  in  their  innocence  from  what 
My  faults  deserved — exclusion ; although  then 
My  passions  were  all  living  serpents,  and 
Twined  like  the  gorgon’s  round  me. 

A loud  knocking  is  heard. 

Jos.  Hark ! 

Wer.  A knocking ! 

Jos.  Who  can  it  be  at  this  lone  hour  ? We  have 
Few  visitors. 

Wer.  And  poverty  hath  none. 

Save  those  who  come  to  make  it  poorer  still. 

Well,  I am  prepared. 

[Werner  puls  his  hand  into  his  bosomy  as  if  to 
search  for  some  weapon. 

Jos.  Oil ! do  not  look  so.  I 

Will  to  the  door.  It  cannot  be  of  import 
In  this  lone  spot  of  wintry  desolation  : — 

The  very  desert  saves  man  from  mankind. 

[ She  goes  to  the  door. 

Enter  Idenstein.1 2 

Iden.  A fair  good  evening  to  my  fairer  hostess 
And  worthy What’s  your  name,  my  friend  ? 

Wer.  Are  you 

Not  afraid  to  demand  it  ? 

Iden.  Not  afraid? 

Egad ! I am  afraid.  You  look  as  if 
I ask’d  for  something  better  than  your  name, 

By  the  face  you  put  on  it. 

Wer.  Better,  sir ! 

Iden.  Better  or  worse,  like  matrimony  : what 
Shall  I say  more  ? You  have  been  a guest  this  month 
Here  in  the  prince’s  palace— (to  be  sure, 

His  highness  had  resign’d  it  to  the  ghosts 

And  rats  these  twelve  years — but  ’tis  still  a palace) — 

I say  you  have  been  our  lodger,  and  as  yet 

We  do  not  know  your  name. 

Wer.  My  name  is  Werner. 

Iden.  A goodly  name,  a very  worthy  name 
As  e’er  was  gilt  upon  a trader’s  board  : 

I have  a cousin  in  the  lazaretto 
Of  Hamburgh,  who  has  got  a wife  who  bore 
The  same.  He  is  an  officer  of  trust, 

Surgeon'*  assistant  (hoping  to  be  surgeon), 

And  has  done  miracles  i’  the  way  of  business. 

Perhaps  you  are  related  to  my  relative. 

Wer.  To  yours  ? 

Jos.  Oh,  yes  ; we  are,  but  distantly. 

[Aside  to  Werner, 

Cannot  you  humour  the  dull  gossip  till 
We  learn  his  purpose  ? 

Iden.  Well,  I’m  glad  of  that; 

I thought  so  all  along,  such  natural  yearnings 
Play’d  round  my  heart : — blood  is  not  water,  cousin ; 
And  so  let’s  have  some  wine,  and  drink  unto 
Our  better  acquaintance  : relatives  should  be 
Friends. 

Wer.  You  appear  to  have  drank  enough  aneady  ; 


And  if  you  had  not,  I ’ve  no  wine  to  offer, 

Else  it  were  yours : but  this  you  know,  or  should  know : 
You  see  I am  poor,  and  sick,  and  will  not  see 
That  I would  be  alone  ; but  to  your  business  ! 

What  brings  you  here  ? 

Iden.  Wliy,  what  should  bring  me  here  ? 

Wer.  I know  not,  though  I think  that  I could  guess 
That  which  will  send  you  hence. 

Jos.  (aside).  Patience,  dear  Werner ! 

Iden.  You  don’t  know  what  has  happen’d,  then  'i 
Jos.  How  should  we  ? 

Iden.  The  river  has  o’erflow’d. 

Jos.  Alas  ! we  have  known 

That  to  our  sorrow  for  these  five  days ; since 
It  keeps  us  here. 

Iden.  But  what  you  don’t  know  is, 

That  a great  personage,  who  fain  would  cross 
Against  the  stream  and  three  postilions’  wishes, 

Is  drown’d  below  the  ford,  with  five  pcst-horses, 

A monkey,  and  a mastiff,  and  a valet. 

Jos.  -Poor  creatures  ! are  you  sure  ? 

Iden.  Yes,  of  the  monkey, 

And  the  valet,  and  the  cattle  ; but  as  yet 
We  know  not  if  his  excellency’s  dead 
Or  no  ; your  noblemen  are  hard  to  drown. 

As  it  is  fit  that  men  in  office  should  be ; 

But  what  is  certain  is,  that  he  has  swallow’d 
Enoqgh  of  the  Oder  to  have  burst  two  peasants  ; 

And  now  a Saxon  and  Hungarian  traveller, 

Who,  at  their  proper  peril,  snatch’d  him  from 
The  whirling  river,  have  sent  on  to  crave 
A lodging,  or  a grave,  according  as 
It  may  turn  out  with  the  live  or  dead  body. 

Jos.  And  where  will  you  receive  him?  here,  I hope 
If  we  can  be  of  service — say  the  word. 

Iden.  Here  ? no  ; but  in  the  prince’s  own  apartment, 
As  fits  a noble  guest : — ’tis  damp,  no  doubt, 

Not  having  been  inhabited  these  twelve  years  ; 

But  then  he  comes  from  a much  damper  place, 

So  scarcely  will  catch  cold  in’t,  if  he  be 

Still  liable  to  cold — and  if  not,  why 

He  ’ll  be  worse  lodged  to-morrow  : ne’ertheless, 

I have  order’d  fire  and  all  appliances 
To  be  got  ready  for  the  worst — that  is, 

In  case  he  should  survive. 

Jos. 

I hope  he  will,  with  all  my  heart. 

Wer. 

Have  you  not  learn’d  his  name  ? 


Poor  gentleman ! 


Intendant, 

My  Josephine, 

[ Aside  to  his  wife. 
Retire  : I’ll  sift  this  fool.  [Exit  Josephine. 

Iden.  His  name  ? oh  Lord ! 

Who  knows  if  he  hath  now  a name  or  no  ? 

’Tis  time  enough  to  ask  it  when  lie’s  able 
To  give  an  answer  ; or  if  not,  to  put 
His  heir’s  upon  his  epitaph.  Methought 
Just  now  you  chid  me  for  demanding  names  ? 

Wer.  True,  true,  I did  so  ; you  say  well  and  wisely. 


Enter  Gabor.* 

Gab . H I intrude,  I crave 

Iden. 


Oh,  no  intrusion 


(1)  [The  most  amusing  fellow  in  the  drama  is  Monsieur  Iden- 
stein;  who  makes  the  finest  speech  too,  beyond  comparison,  of 
ar.y  of  the  personages.  The  only  wonder  is,  where  he  got  it. — 
Eel. Rev.] 

(2)  [Gabor  is  a most  inexplicable  personage : he  is  always  on 
the  point  of  tu-ning  out  something  more  than  he  proves  to  he.  A 


sort  of  mysterious  horror  is  thrown  round  his  impalpability,  in  thd  j 
tale ; but,  in  the  drama,  he  is  only  a sentimental,  moody,  high- 
mettled  soldier  of  fortune,  whose  appearances  and  disappearances  ’ 
are  alike  singularly  inopportune,  and  who  ends  in  a mere  mer- 
cenary. His  character  is,  we  think,  decidedly  a failure. — Xel. 
Rev.] 


ICENE  I. 


WERNER. 


345 


This  is  the  palace  ; this  a stranger  like 
Yourself;  I pray  you  make  yourself  at  home  : 

But  where’s  his  excellency  ? and  how  fares  he  ; 

Gab.  Wetly  and  wearily,  but  out  of  peril : 

He  paused  to  change  his  garments  in  a cottage, 
(Where  I doff’d  mine  for  these,  and  came  on  hither) 
i And  has  almost  recover’d  from  his  drenching. 

| He  will  be  here  anon. 

lderlm  What  ho,  there  ! bustle  ! 

! Without  there,  Herman,  Weilburg,  Peter,  Conrad  ! 

f Gives  directions  to  different  servants  who  enter. 

! A.  nobleman  sleeps  here  to  night — see  that 
I All  is  in  order  in  the  damask  chamber — 

1 Keep  up  the  stove— I will  myself  to  the  cellar— 

\ And  Madame  Idenstein  (my  consort,  stranger), 

Shall  furnish  forth  the  bed -apparel;  for, 

To  say  the  truth,  they  are  marvellous  scant  of  this 
I Within  the  palace  precincts,  since  his  highness 
I Left  it  some  dozen  years  ago.  And  then 
His  excellency  will  sup,  doubtless  ? 

Gab.  ” Faith ! 

I cannot  tell ; but  I should  think  the  pillow 
Would  please  him  better  than  the  table  after 
His  soaking  in  your  river  : but  for  fear 
Your  viands  should  be  thrown  away,  L mean 
To  sup  myself,  and  have  a friend  without 
Who  will  do  honour  to  your  good  cheer  with 
A traveller’s  appetite. 

Idea.  But  are  you  sure 

His  excellency But  his  name  : what  is  ti  t 

Gab.  1 do  not  know. 

[den.  And  yet  you  saved  his  life. 

Gab.  I help’d  my  friend  to  do  so. 

Iden.  “ Well,  that ’s  strange, 

To  save  a man’s  life  whom  you  do  not  know . 

Gab.  Not  so ; for  there  are  some  1 know  so  well, 

I scarce  should  give  myself  the  trouble. 

[den.  Pray, 

Good  friend,  and  who  may  you  be  ? 

Gab.  By  my  family, 

Hungarian. 

Iden.  Which  is  call’d? 

Gab.  It  matters  little. 

Iden.  (aside).  I think  that  all  the  world  are  grown 
anonymous, 

Since  no  one  cares  to  tell  me  what  he’s  call’d*! 

Pray,  lias  his  excellency  a large  suite  ? 

Gab.  Sufficient. 

Iden.  How  many  ? 

Gab.  I did  not  count  them. 

We  came  up  by  mere  accident,  and  just. 

In  time  to  drag  him  through  his  carriage  window. 
Iden.  Well,  what  would  1 give  to  save  a great 
man ! 

No  doubt  you’ll  have  a swingeing  sum  as  recompense. 
Gab.  Perhaps. 

Iden.  Now,  how  much  do  you  reckon  on  ? 

Gab.  I have  not  yet  put  up  myself  to  sale  : 

In  the  mean  time,  my  best  reward  would  be 
A glass  of  your  Hockchcimer — a green  glass, 

Wreath’d  with  rich  grapes  and  Bacchanal  devices, 
O’erflowing  with  the  oldest  of  your  vintage  ; 

For  which  I promise  you,  in  case  you  e’er 
Run  hazard  of  being  drown’d,  (although  1 own 
It  seems,  of  all  deaths,  the  least  likely  for  you,) 

I’ll  pull  you  out  for  nothing.  Quick,  my  "friend, 

And  think,  for  every  bumper  I shall  quaff, 

A wave  the  less  may  roll  above  your  head. 


Iden.  (aside).  I don’t  much  like  tnis  fellow — close 
and  dry 

He  seem4*,  two  things  which  suit  me  not : however. 
Wine  he  shall  have  ; if  that  unlock  him  not, 

I shall  not  sleep  to-night  for  curiosity. 

[Exit  Idenstein 

Gab.  (to  Werner).  This  master  of  the  ceremonies  is 
The  intendant,  of  the  palace,  I presume  : 

’Tis  a fine  building,  but  decay’d. 

Wer.  The  apartment 

Design’d  for  him  you  rescued  will  be  found 
In  fitter  order  for  a sickly  guest. 

Gab.  1 wonder  then  you  occupied  it  not, 

For  you  seem  delicate  in  health. 

Wt ir.  (quickly) . Sir  ! 

Gab.  Pray 

Excuse  me  : have  I said  aught  to  offend  yo’j  ? 

Wer.  Nothing  : but  we  are  strangers  to  each  other 

Gab.  And  that’s  the  reason  I would  have  us  less  so  : 
I thought  our  bustling  host  without  had  said 
You  were  a chance  and  passing  guest,  the  counterpart 
Of  me  and  iny  companions. 

Wer.  Very  true. 

Gab.  Then,  as  we  never  met  before,  and  never, 

It  may  be,  may  again  encounter,  why, 

1 thought  to  cheer  up  this  old  dungeon  here 
(At  least  to  me)  by  asking  you  to  share 
The  fare  of  my  companions  and  myself. 

Wer.  Pray,  pardon  me  ; my  healt  h 

Gab.  Even  as  you  please 

J have  been  a soldier,  and  perhaps  am  blunt 
In  bearing. 

Wer.  I have  also  served,  and  can 
Requite  a soldier’s  greeting. 

Gab.  In  what  sendee  f 

The  Imperial  ? 

Wer.  (< quickly , and  then  interrupting  himself).  ] 
commanded — no — -I  mean 
I served  ; but  it  is  many  years  ago, 

When  first  Bohemia  raised  her  banner  ’gainst 
The  Austrian. 

Gab.  Well,  that’s  over  now,  and  peace 

Has  turn’d  some  thousand  gallant  hearts  adrift 
To  live  as  they  best  may ; and,  to  say  truth, 

Some  take  the  shortest. 

Wer.  What  is  that  ? 

Gab.  Whate’er 

They  lay  their  hands  on.  All  Silesia  and 
Lusatia’s  woods  are  tenanted  by  bands 
Of  the  late  troops,  who  levy  on  the  country 
Their  maintenance  : the  Chatelains  must  keep 
Their  castle  walls — beyond  them  ’tis  but  doubtful 
Travel  for  your  rich  count  or  full-blown  baron. 

My  comfort  is  that,  wander  where  I may, 

I’ve  little  left  to  lose  now. 

Wer.  And  I — nothing. 

Gab.  That’s  harder  still.  You  say  you  were  a 
soldier. 

Wer.  I was. 

Gab.  You  look  one  stiff.  All  soldiers  are 

Or  should  be  comrades,  even  though  enemies. 

Our  swords  when  drawn  must  cross,  our  engines  aim 
(While  levell’d)  at  each  other’s  hearts  ; but  when 
A truce,  a peace,  or  what  you  will,  remits 
The  steel  into  its  scabbard,  and  lets  sleep 
The  spark  which  lights  the  matchlock,  we  are 
brethren. 

You  arc  poor  and  sickly — 1 am  not  rich,  but  health?  ; 

Y Y 


346 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  L 


I want  for  nothing  which  I cannot  want ; 

You  seem  devoid  of  this — wilt  share  it  ? 

[Gabor  pulls  out  his  purse. 
Wei  Who 

Told  you  1 was  a beggar  ? 

Gab.  You  yourself, 

In  saying  you  were  a soldier  during  peace-time. 

Wer.  ( looking  at  him  with  suspicion).  You  know  me 
not  ? 

Gab.  I know  no  man,  not  even 

Myself : how  should  I then  know  one  I ne’er 
Beheld  till  half  an  hour  since  ? 

Wer.  Sir,  I thank  you. 

Your  offer’s  noble  were  it  to  a friend, 

And  not  unkind  as  to  an  unknown  stranger, 

Though  scarcely  prudent ; but  no  less  I thank  you. 

I am  a beggar  in  all  save  his  trade ; 

And  when  I beg  of  any  one,  it  shall  be 
Of  him  who  was  the  first  to  offer  what 
Lew  can  obtain  by  asking.  Pardon  me.  [Exit. 

Gab.  (solus).  A goodly  fellow  by  his  looks,  though 
worn, 

As  most  good  fellows  are,  by  pain  or  pleasure. 

Which  tear  life  out  of  us  before  our  time ; 

I scarce  know  which  most  quickly  : but  he  seems 
To  have  seen  better  days,  as  who  has  not, 

Who  has  seen  yesterday  ? — B'.'t  here  approaches 
Our  sage  intendant,  with  the  wine : however, 

For  the  cup’s  sake  I’ll  bear  the  cupbearer. 

Enter  Idenstein. 

Iden.  ’Tis  here  ! the  supernaculum  ! twenty  years 
Of  age,  if  ’tis  a day. 

Gab.  Which  epoch  makes 

Young  women  and  old  wine ; and  ’tis  great;  pity, 

Of  two  such  excellent  things,  increase  of  years, 

Which  still  improves  the  one,  should  spoil  the  other. 
Pill  full — Here’s  to  our  hostess  ! — your  fair  wife ! 

[Takes  the  glass. 

Tden.  Pair ! — Well,  I trust  your  taste  in  wine  is 
equal 

To  that  you  show  for  beauty;  but  I pledge  you 
Nevertheless. 

Gab.  Is  not  the  lovely  woman 

I met  in  the  adjacent  hall,  who,  with 
An  air,  and  port,  and  eye,  which  would  have  better 
Beseem’d  this  palace  in  its  brightest  days 
(Though  in  a garb  adapted  to  its  present 
Abandonment),  return’d  my  salutation — 

Is  not  the  same  your  spouse  ? 

Tden.  I would  she  were  ! 

But  you’re  mistaken  : — that’s  the  stranger’s  wife. 

Gab.  And  by  her  aspect  she  might  be  a prince’s  : 
Though  time  hath  touch’d  her  too,  she  still  retains 
Much  beauty,  and  more  majesty. 

Tden.  And  that 

Is  more  than  I can  say  for  Madame  Idenstein, 

At  least  in  beauty  : as  for  majesty, 

She  has  some  of  its  properties  which  might 
Be  spared — but  never  mind ! 

Gab.  I don’t.  But  who 

May  be  this  stranger  ? He  too  hath  a bearing 
Above  his  outward  fortunes. 

Iden.  There  I differ. 

He’s  poor  as  Job,  and  not  so  patient ; but 
Who  he  may  be,  or  what,  or  aught  of  him, 

Except  his  name  (and  that  I only  learn’d 
To-night),  I know  not. 


Gab.  But  how  came  he  here  ? 

Iden.  In  a most  miserable  old  calechc, 

About  a month  since,  and  immediately 

Pell  sick,  almost  to  death.  He  should  have  died. 

Gab.  Tender  and  true ! — but  why  ? 

Iden.  ' Why,  what  is  lift 

Without  a living  ? He  has  not  a stiver. 

Gab.  In  that  case,  I much  wonder  that  a person 
Of  your  apparent  prudence  should  admit 
Guests  so  forlorn  into  this  noble  mansion.  [make 
Iden.  That’s  true;  but  pity,  as  you  know,  dens 
One’s  heart  commit  these  follies  ; and  besides, 

They  had  some  valuables  left  at  that  time. 

Which  paid  their  way  up  to  the  present  hour ; 

And  so  I thought  they  might  as  well  be  lodged 
Here  as  at  the  small  tavern,  and  I gave  them 
The  run  of  some  of  the  oldest  palace  rooms. 

They  served  to  air  them,  at  the  least  as  long 
As  they  could  pay  for  fire-wood. 

Gab.  Poor  souls ! 

Iden.  Ay,- 

Exceeding  poor. 

Gab.  And  yet  unused  to  poverty, 

If  I mistake  not.  Whither  were  they  going  ? 

Iden.  Oh  ! Heaven  knows  where,  unless  to  heaven 
itself. 

Some  days  ago  that  look’d  the  likeliest  journey 
Por  Werner. 

Gab.  Werner  ! I have  heard  the  name  : 

But  it  may  be  a feign’d  one. 

Iden.  Like  enough ! 

But  hark  ! a noise  of  wheels  and  voices,  and 
A blaze  of  torches  from  without.  As  sure 
As  destiny,  his  excellency’s  come. 

I must  be  at  my  post : will  you  not  join  me, 

To  help  him  from  his  carriage,  and  present 
Your  humble  duty  at  the  door  ? 

Gab.  I dragg’d  him 

From  out  that  carriage  when  he  would  have  given 
His  barony  or  county  to  repel 
The  rushing  river  from  his  gurgling  throat. 

He  has  valets  now  enough  : they  stood  aloof  then, 
Snaking  their  dripping  ears  upon  the  shore, 

All  roaring  “ Help  ! ” but  offering  none ; and  as 
For  duty  (as  you  call  it) — I did  mine  then , 

Now  do<( yours.  Hence,  and  bow  and  cringe  him  here! 

Iden.  I cringe  ! — but  I shall  lose  the  opportunity  — j 
Plague  take  it ! he’ll  be  here , and  I not  there  ! 

[ Exit  Idenstein  hastily,  j 

Re-enter  Werner. 

Wer.  (to  himself).  I heard  a noise  of  wheels  and  H 
voices.  How 
All  sounds  now  jar  me  ! 

Still  here  ! Is  he  not  [Perceiving  Gabor  i 

A spy  of  my  pursuer’s  ? His  frank  offer 
So  suddenly,  and  to  a stranger,  wore 
The  aspect  of  a secret  enemy ; 

Por  friends  are  slow  at  such. 

Gab.  Sir,  you  seem  rapt  ; 

And  ye’,  ' he  time  is  not  akin  to  thought. 

These  ole/ walls  will  be  noisy  soon.  The  baron, 

Or  count  (or  whatsoe’er  this  half  drown’d  noble 
May  be),  for  whom  this  desolate  village  and 
Its  loqp  inhabitants  show  more  respect 
Than  did  the  elements,  is  come. 

Iden.  (without).  This  way — 

This  way,  you’-  excellency  : — have  a care, 


SCENE  I. 


WERNER. 


file  staircase  is  a little  gloomy,  and 
Somewhat  decay’d  ; but  it  we  had  expected 
So  high  a guest— Pray  take  my  arm,  my  lord  ! 

Enter  Stralenheim,  Idenstein,  and  Attendants  — 
partly  his  own,  and  partly  Retainers  of  the  Domain 
of  which  Idenstein  is  Intendant. 

Stral.  I’ll  rest  me  here  a moment. 

Iden.  (to  the  servants).  Ho  ! a chair  ! 

Instantly,  knaves ! [Stralenheim  sits  down. 

Wer.  (aside).  ’Tis  he  ! 

Stral.  I’m  better  now. 

Who  are  these  strangers  ? 

Iden.  Please  you,  my  good  lord, 

One  says  he  is  no  stranger. 

Wer.  (aloud  and  hastily).  Who  says  that  ? 

[ They  look  at  him  with  surprise. 
Iden.  Why,  no  one  spoke  of  you,  or  to  you  ! — but 
Here’s  one  his  excellency  may  be  pleased 
To  recognise.  [Pointing  to  Gabor. 

Gab.  I seek  not  to  disturb 

His  noble  memory. 

Stral.  I apprehend 

This  is  one  of  the  strangers  to  whose  aid 
T owe  my  rescue.  Is  not  that  the  other  ? 

[Pointing  to  Werner. 
My  state  when  I was  succour’d  must  excuse 
My  uncertainty  to  whom  I owe  so  much. 

Iden.  He  ! — no,  my  lord,  he  rather  wants  for  rescue 
Than  can  afford  it.  ’Tis  a poor  sick  man, 

Travel-tired,  and  lately  risen  from  a bed 
Prom  whence  he  never  dream’d  to  rise. 

Stral.  Methought 

That  there  were  two.  • 

Gab.  There  were,  in  company; 

But,  in  the  service  render’d  to  your  lordship, 

I needs  must  say  but  one,  and  he  is  absent. 

The  chief  part  of  whatever  aid  was  render’d 
Was  his : it  was  his  fortune  to  be  first. 

My  will  was  not  inferior,  but  his  strength 
And  youth  outstripp’d  me  ; therefore  do  not  waste 
Your  thanks  on  me.  I was  but  a glad  second 
Unto  a nobler  principal. 

Stral.  Where  is  he  ? 

An  Alien.  My  lord,  he  tarried  in  the  cottage  where 
Your  excellency  rested  for  an  hour, 

And  said  he  would  be  here  to-morrow. 

Stral.  Till 

That  hour  arrives,  I can  but  offer  thanks. 

And  then 

Gab.  I seek  no  more,  and  scarce  deserve 

So  much.  My  comrade  may  speak  for  himself. 

Stral.  (fixing  his  eyes  upon  Werner  : then  aside) 

It  cannot  be  ! and  yet  he  must  be  look’d  to. 

’Tis  twenty  years  since  I beheld  him  with 

These  eyes ; and,  though  my  agents  still  have  kept 

Theirs  on  him,  policy  has  held  aloof 

Mv  own  from  his,  not  to  alarm  him  into 

Suspicion  of  my  plan.  YVliy  did  I leave 

At  Hamburgh  those  who  would  have  made  assurance 

d this  be  he  or  no  ? I thought,  ere  now, 

To  have  been  lord  of  Siegendorf,  and  parted 
In  haste,  though  even  the  elements  appear 
To  fight  against  me,  and  this  sudden  flood 

May  keep  me  prisoner  here  till 

[He  pauses,  and  looks  at  Werner  ; then  resumes. 

This  man  must 

ft  watch’d.  If  it  is  he,  he  is  so  changed. 


His  father,  rising  from  his  grave  again, 

Would  pass  him  by  unknown.  I must  be  wsry : 

An  error  would  spoil  all. 

Iden.  Your  lordship  seems 

Pensive.  Will  it  not  please  you  to  pass  on? 

Stral.  ’Tis  past  fatigue  which  gives  my  weigh’d 
down  spirit 

An  outward  show  of  thought.  I will  to  rest. 

Iden.  The  prince’s  chamber  is  prepared,  with  all 
The  very  furniture  the  prince  used  when 
Last  here,  in  its  full  splendour. 

(Aside.)  Somewhat  tatter’d, 
And  devilish  damp,  but  fine  enough  by  torch-light ; 
And  that’s  enough  for  your  right  noble  blood 
Of  twenty  quarterings  upon  a hatchment ; 

So  let  their  bearer  sleep  ’neatli  something  like  one 
Now,  as  he  one  day  will  for  ever  lie. 

Stral.  (rismg  and  turning  to  Gabor).  Good  night, 
good  people  ! Sir,  I trust  to-morrow 
Will  find  me  apter  to  requite  your  service. 

In  the  mean  time  I crave  your  company 
A moment  in  my  chamber. 

Gab.  I attend  you. 

Stral.  (after  a few  steps,  pauses,  and  calls  Werner). 
Priend ! 

Wer.  Sir ! 

Iden.  Sir!  Lord — oh  Lord!  Why  don’t  you  say 
His  lordship,  or  his  excellency  ? Pray, 

My  lord,  excuse  this  poor  man’s  want  of  breeding : 

He  hath  not  been  accustom’d  to  admission 
To  such  a presence. 

Stral.  (to  Idenstein).  Peace,  intendant ! 

Iden.  Oh ! 

I am  dumb. 

Stral.  (to  Werner).  Have  you  been  long  here  ? 
Wer.  Long  ? 

Stral.  I sought 

An  answer,  not  an  echo. 

Wer.  You  may  seek 

Both  from  the  walls.  I am  not  used  to  answer 
Those  whom  I know  not. 

Stral.  Indeed  ! Ne’er  the  less. 

You  might  reply  with  courtesy  to  what 
Is  ask’d  in  kindness. 

Wer.  When  I know  it  such, 

I will  requite — that  \s,  reply — in  unison. 

Stral.  The  intendant  said,  you  had  been  detain’d  by 
sickness — 

If  I could  aid  you — journeying  the  same  way  ? 

Wer.  (quickly).  I am  not  journeying  the  same  wav  ! 
Stral.  How  know  ye 

That,  ere  you  know  my  route  ? 

Wer.  Because  there  is 

But  one  way  that  the  rich  and  poor  must  tread 
Together.  You  diverged  from  that  dread  path 
Some  hours  ago,  and  I some  days : henceforth 
Our  roads  must  lie  asunder,  though  they  tend 
All  to  one  home. 

Stral.  Your  language  is  above 

Your  station. 

Wer.  (bitterly).  Is  it  ? 

Stral.  Or,  at  least,  beyond 

Your  garb. 

Wer.  ’Tis  well  that  it  is  not  beneath  it. 

As  sometimes  happens  to  tlie  better  clad. 

But,  in  a word,  what  would  you  with  me  ? 

Stral.  (startled).  I P 

Wer.  Yes — you ! You  know  me  not,  and  question  me. 


348 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  1 


And  wonder  that  I answer  not — not  knowing 
My  inquisitor.  Explain  what  you  would  have, 

And  then  I’ll  satisfy  yourself,  or  me. 

Stral.  I knew  not  that  you  had  reasons  for  reserve. 

Wer.  Many  have  such  : — Have  you  none  ? 

Stral.  None  which  can 

Interest  a mere  stranger. 

Wer.  Then  forgive 

The  same  unknown  and  humble  stranger,  if 
He  wishes  to  remain  so  to  the  man 
Who  can  have  nought  in  common  with  him. 

Stral.  Sir, 

I will  not  balk  your  humour,  though  untoward  : 

I only  meant  you  service — but  good  night ! 

Intendant,  show  the  way ! {to  Gabor.)  Sir,  you  will 
with  me  ? 

[Exeunt  Stralenheim  and  attendants  ; Iden- 
stein  and  Gabor. 

Wer.  {solus).  ’Tis  he ! I am  taken  in  the  toils. 
Before 

I quitted  Hamburgh,  Giulio,  his  late  steward, 
Inform’d  me,  that  he  had  obtain’d  an  order 
From  Brandenburg’s  elector,  for  the  arrest 
Of  Kruitzner  (such  the  name  I then  bore),  when 
I came  upon  the  frontier ; the  free  city 
Alone  preserved  my  freedom — till  I left 
Its  walls — fool  that  I was  to  quit  them  ! But 
I deem’d  this  humble  garb,  and  route  obscure. 

Had  baffled  the  slow  hounds  in  their  pursuit. 

What’s  to  be  done?  He  knows  me  not  by  person  ; 
Nor  could  aught,  save  the  eye  of  apprehension, 

Have  recognised  him,  after  twenty  years, 

We  met  so  rarely  and  so  coldly  in 

Our  youth.  But  those  about  him  ! Now  I can 

Divine  the  frankness  of  the  Hungarian,  who 

No  doubt  is  a mere  tool  and  spy  of  Stralenheim’s, 

To  sound  and  to  secure  me.  Without  means  ! 

Sick,  poor — begirt  too  with  the  flooding  rivers, 
Impassable  even  to  the  wealthy,  with 
All  the  appliances  which  purchase  modes 
Of  overpowering  peril  with  men’s  lives, — 

How  can  I hope  ! An  hour  ago  methought 
My  state  beyond  despair ; and  now,  ’tis  such, 

The  past  seems  paradise.  Another  day, 

And  I’m  detected, — on  the  very  eve 
Of  honours,  rights,  and  my  inheritance, 

When  a few  drops  of  gold  might  save  me  still 
In  favouring  an  escape. 

Enter  Idenstein  and  Fritz  in  conversation. 

Fritz.  Immediately. 

Iden.  I tell  you  ’tis  impossible. 

Fritz.  It  must 

Be  tried,  however  ; and  if  one  express 
Fail,  you  must  send  on  others,  till  the  answer 
Arrives  from  Frankfort,  from  the  commandant. 

Iden.  I will  do  what  1 can. 

Fritz.  And  recollect 

To  spare  no  trouble  ; you  will  be  repaid 
Tenfold. 

Iden.  The  baron  is  retired  to  rest  ? 

Fritz.  He  hath  thrown  himself  into  an  easy  chair 
Beside  the  fire,  and  slumbers  ; and  has  order’d 
He  may  not  be  disturb’d  until  eleven. 

When  he  will  take  him  Wf  to  bed. 

Iden.  Before 

An  Jiour  is  past  I’ll  do  my  oest  to  serve  him. 

Fritz.  Remember ! [Exit  Fritz. 


Iden.  The  devil  fake  these  great  men ! they 

Think  all  things  made  for  them.  Now  here  must  1 
Rouse  up  some  half  a dozen  shivering  vassuls 
From  their  scant  pallets,  and,  at  peril 
Of  their  lives,  despatch  them  o’er  the  river  towards 
Frankfort.  Methinks  the  baron’s  own  experience 
Some  hours  ago  might  teach  him  fellow-feeling  : 

But  no,  “ it  must”  and  there’s  an  end.  How  now  ? 
Are  you  there,  Mynheer  Werner  ? 

Wer.  You  have  left 

Your  noble  guest  right  quickly. 

Iden.  Yes — he’s  dozing. 

And  seems  to  like  that  none  should  sleep  besides. 
Here  is  a packet  for  the  commandant 
Of  Frankfort,  at  all  risks  and  all  expenses  ; 

But  I must  not  lose  time  : Good  night ! [Exit. 

Wer.  “ To  Frankfort !” 

So,  so,  it  thickens ! Ay,  “ the  commandant.” 

This  tallies  well  with  all  the  prior  steps 
Of  this  cool,  calculating  fiend,  who  walks 
Between  me  and  mv  father's  house.  No  doubt 
He  writes  for  a detachment  to  convey  me 
Into  some  secret  fortress. — Sooner  than 
This 

[Werner  looks  around , and  snatches  up  a knife 
lying  on  a table  in  a recess. 

Now  I am  master  of  myself  at  least. 

Hark, — footsteps  ! How  do  I know  that  Stralenheim 
Will  wait  for  even  the  show  of  that  authority 
Which  is  to  overshadow  usurpation? 

That  he  suspects  me’s  certain.  I’m  alone; 

He  with  a numerous  train.  I weak ; he  strong 
In  gold,  in  numbers,  rank,  authority. 

I nameless,  oj  involving  in  my  name 
Destruction,  till  I reach  my  own  domain  ; 

He  full-blown  with  his  titles,  which  impose 
Still  further  on  these  obscure  petty  burghers 
Than  they  could  do  elsewhere.  Hark  ! nearer  still ! 
I’ll  to  the  secret  passage,  which  communicates 

With  the No  ! all  is  silent — ’twas  my  fancy  ! — 

Still  as  the  breathless  interval  between 
The  flash  and  thunder  : — I must  liqsh  my  soul 
Amidst  its  perils.  Yet  I will  retire, 

To  see  if  still  be  unexplored  the  passage 
I wot  of : it  will  serve  me  as  a den 
Of  secrecy  for  some  hours,  at  the  worst. 

[Werner  draws  a panel,  and  exit , closing  it  after 
him. 

Enter  Gabor  and  J osephine. 

Gab.  Where  is  your  husband  ? 

Jos.  Here , I thought : I left  him 

Not  long  since  in  his  chamber.  But  these  rooms 
Have  many  outlets,  and  he  may  be  gone 
To  accompany  the  intendant. 

Gab.  Baron  Stralenheim 

Put  many  questions  to  the  intendant  on 
The  subject  of  your  lord,  and,  to  be  plain, 

I have  my  doubts  if  he  means  well. 

Jos.  ' > Alas ! 

What  can  there  be  in  common  with  the  proud 
And  wealthy  baron,  and  the  unknown  Werner  ? 

Gab.  That  you  know  best. 

Jos.  Or,  if  it  were  so,  cov 

Come  you  to  stir  yourself  in  his  behalf, 

Rather  than  that  of  him  whose  life  yQU  saved  ? 

Gab.  I help’d  to  save  him,  as  in  peril ; but 
I did  not  pledge  myself  to  serve  him  in 


SCENE  T. 


WERNER. 


8±9 


Oppression.  I know  weM  these  nobles,  and 
Their  thousand  modes  of  trampling  on  the ‘poor. 

I have  proved  them ; and  my  spirit  boils  up  when 
I find  them  practising  against  the  weak  : — 

This  is  my  only  motive. 

jog  It  would  be 

Not  easy  to  persuade  my  consort  of 
Your  good  intentions. 

Qa  'b . Is  he  so  suspicious  ? 

Jos.  He  was  not  once  ; but  time  and  troubles  have 
Made  him  what  you  beheld. 

Gab.  I’m  sorry  for  it. 

Suspicion  is  a heavy  armour,  and 
With  its  own  weight  impedes  more  than  protects. 
Good  niMit ! I trust  to  meet  with  him  at  daybreak. 

[Exit  Gabor. 

Re-enter  Idenstein  and  some  Peasants.  Josephine 
retires  up  the  Hall. 

First  Peasant.  But  if  I’m  drown’d  ? 

Iden.  Why,  you  will  be  well  paid  for’t, 

And  have  risk’d  more  than  drowning  for  as  much, 

I doubt  not. 

Second  Peasant.  But  our  wives  and  families  ? 

Iden.  Cannot  be  worse  off  than  they  are,  and  may 
Be  better. 

Third  Peasant.  I have  neither,  and  will  venture. 
Iden.  That’s  right.  A gallant  carle,  and  fit  to  be 
A soldier.  I’ll  promote  you  to  the  ranks 
In  the  prince’s  body-guard — if  you  succeed  ; 

And  you  shall  have  besides,  in  sparkling  coin, 

Two  thalers. 

Third  Peasant.  No  more  ! 

Iden.  Out  upon  your  avarice  ! 

Can  that  low  vice  alloy  so  much  ambition ! 

I tell  thee,  fellow,  that  two  thalers  in 
Small  change  will  subdivide  into  a treasure. 

Ho  not  five  hundred  thousand  heroes  daily 
Risk  lives  and  souls  for  the  tithe  of  one  thaler  ? 

When  had  you  half  the  sum  ? 

Third  Peasant.  Never — but  ne’er 

The  less  I must  have  three. 

Iden.  Have  yon  forgot 

Whose  vassal  you  were  born,  knave  ? 

Third  Peasant.  No — the  prince’s, 

And_not  the  stranger’s. 

Iden.  Sirrah  ! in  the  prince’s 

Absence,  I’m  sovereign ; and  the  baron  is 
My  intimate  connexion ; — “ Cousin  Idenstein  ! 

(Quoth  he)  you’ll  order  out  a dozen  villains.” 

And  so,  you  villains!  troop — march  — march,  1 
say ; 

And  if  a single  dog’s-ear  of  this  packet 
Be  sprinkled  by  the  Oder — look  to  it ! 

Eor  every  page  of  paper,  shall  a hide 
Of  yours  be  stretch’d  as  parchment  on  a drum. 

Like  Ziska’s  skin,  to  beat  alarm  to  all 
Refractory  vassals,  who  can  not  effect 
Impossibilities — Away,  ye  earth-worms  ! 

I \Fxit%  driving  them  out. 
Jos.  ( coming  forward).  1 fain  would  shun  these 
scenes,  too  oft  repeated, 

Of  feudal  tyranny  o’er  petty  victims, 

I cannot  aid,  and  will  not  witness  such. 

Even  here,  in  this  remote,  unnamed,  dull  spot. 

The  dimmest  in  the  district’s  map,  exist 

The  insolence  of  wealth  in  poverty 

O’er  something  poorer  still — the  pride  of  rank 


In  servitude,  o’er  something  still  more  servile; 

And  vice  in  misery  affecting  still 
A tatter’d  splendour.  What  a state  of  being ! 

In  Tuscany,  my  own  dear  sunny  land, 

Our  nobles  were  but  citizens  and  merchants, 

Like  Cosmo.  We  had  evils,  but  not  such 
As  these ; and  our  all-ripe  and  gushing  valleys 
Made  poverty  more  cheerful,  where  each  herb 
Was  in  itself  a meal,  and  every  vine 
Rain’d,  as  it  were,  the  beverage  which  makes  glad 
The  heart  of  man  ; and  the  ne’er  unfelt  sun 
(But  rarely  clouded,  and  when  clouded,  leaving 
His  warmth  behind  in  memory  of  his  beams) 

Makes  the  worn  mantle,  and  the  thin  robe,  less 
Oppressive  than  an  emperor’s  jewell’d  purple. 

But,  here  ! the  despots  uf  the  north  appear 
To  imitate  the  ice-wind  of  their  clime, 

Searching  the  shivering  vassal  through  his  rags. 

To  wring  his  soul — as  the  bleak  elements 

His  form.  And  ’tis  to  be  amongst  these  sovereigns 

My  husband  pants  ! and  such  his  pride  of  birth — 

That  twenty  years  of  usage,  such  as  no 

Father  born  in  a humble  state  could  nerve 

His  soul  to  persecute  a son  withal, 

Hath  changed  no  atom  of  his  early  nature  ; 

But  1,  born  nouly  also,  from  my  father’s 
Kindness  was  taught  a different  lesson.  Father  ! 

May  thy  long-tried  and  now  rewarded  spirit 
Look  down  on  us  and  our  so  long  desired 
Ulric  ! I love  my  son,  as  thou  didst  me ! 

What’s  that  ? Thou,  W erner ! can  it  be  ? and  thus  ? 


Enter  Weiiner  hastily , with  the  knife  in  his  hand , 
by  the  secret  panel , which  he  closes  hurriedly  after 
him. 


Wer.  {not  at  first  recognising  her.)  Discover’d  ! then 

I’ll  stab ( recognisiny  her.) 

Ah ! Josephine, 

Why  art  thou  not  at  rest  ? 

Jos.  What  rest  ? My  God  ! 

What  doth  this  mean  ? 

Wer.  {showing  a rouleau).  Here’s  gold — gold, 
Josephine, 

Will  rescue  us  from  this  detested  dungeon. 

Jos.  And  how  obtain’d  F — that  knife  ! 

Wer.  ’Tis  bloodless — yet. 

Away — we  must  to  our  chamber. 

Jos.  But  whence  comest  thou  ? 

Wer  Ask  not ! but  let  us  think  where  we  shall 


go— 

This— this  will  make  us  way — {showing  the  gold) — • 
I’ll  fit  them  now. 

Jos.  I dare  not  think  thee  guilty  of  dishonour. 

Wer.  Dishonour ! 

Jos.  I have  said  it. 


Wer.  Let  us  lienee.. 

’Tis  the  last  night,  1 trust,  that  we  need  pass  here. 
Jos.  And  not  the  worst,  I hope. 

Wer.  Hope  ! I make  sure. 

But  let  us  to  our  chamber. 

Jos.  Yet  one  question — 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

Wer.  {fiercely).  Left  one  thing  undone,  which 
Had  made  all  well : let  me  not  think  of  it ! 

Away  ! 

Jos.  Alas ! that  I should  doubt  of  thee  ! 

[Exeunt 


350 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  U. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

A Hall  in  the  same  Palace. 

Enter  Idenstein  and  Others . 

Iden.  Fine  doings  ! goodly  doings ! honest  doings  ! 
A baron  pillaged  in  a prince’s  palace  ! 

Where,  till  this  hour,  such  a sin  ne’er  was  heard  of. 

Fritz.  It  hardly  could,  unless  the  rats  despoil’d 
The  mice  of  a few  shreds  of  tapestry. 

Iden.  Oh ! that  I e’er  should  live  to  see  this  day  ! 
The  honour  of  our  city’s  gone  for  ever. 

Fritz.  Well,  but  now  to  discover  the  delinquent : 
The  baron  is  determined  not  to  lose 
This  sum  without  a search, 

Iden.  And  so  am  I. 

Fritz.  But  whom  do  you  suspect  ? 

Iden.  Suspect ! all  people 

Without — within — above — below — Heaven  help  me ! 

Fritz.  Is  there  no  other  entrance  to  the  chamber  ? 

Iden.  None  whatsoever. 

Fritz.  Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

Iden.  Certain.  I have  lived  and  served  here  since 
my  birth. 

And  if  there  were  such,  must  have  heard  of  such, 

Or  seen  it. 

Fritz.  Then  it  must  be  some  one  who 
Had  access  to  the  antechamber. 

Iden.  Doubtless. 

Fritz.  The  man  call’d  Werner’s  poor  ? 

Iden.  Poor  as  a miser  1 

But  lodged  so  far  off,  in  the  other  wing, 

By  which  there’s  no  communication  with 
The  baron’s  chamber,  that  it  can’t  be  he. 

Besides,  I bade  him  “good  night”  in  the  hall, 

Almost  a mile  off,  and  which  only  leads 
To  his  own  apartment,  about  the  same  time 
When  this  burglarious,  larcenous  felony 
Appears  to  have  been  committed. 

Fritz.  There’s  another, 

The  stranger 

Iden.  The  Hungarian  ? 

Fritz.  He  who  help’d 

To  fish  the  baron  from  the  Oder. 

Iden.  Not 

Unlikely.  But,  hold — might  it  not  have  been 
One  of  the  suite  ? 

Fritz.  How  ? We,  sir  ! 

Iden.  No— not  you, 

But  some  of  the  inferior  knaves.  You  say 
The  baron  was  asleep  in  the  great  chair — 

The  velvet  chair — in  his  embroider’d  night-gown ; 

His  toilet  spread  before  him,  and  upon  it 
A cabinet  with  letters,  papers,  and 
Several  rouleaux  of  gold  ; of  which  one  only 
Has  disappear’d  ; — the  door  unbolted,  with 
No  difficult  access  to  any. 

Fritz  Good  sir, 

Be  not  so  quick ; the  honour  of  the  corps 
Which  forms  the  baron’s  household’s  unimpeach’d 
From  steward  to  scullion,  save  in  the  fair  way 
Of  peculation  ; such  as  in  accompts, 

Weights,  measures,  larder,  cellar,  buttery, 


Where  all  men  take  their  prey ; as  also  in 
Postage  of  letters,  gathering  of  rents, 

Purveying  feasts,  and  understanding  with 
The  honest  trades  who  furnish  noble  masters  : 

But  for  your  petty,  picking,  downright  thievery. 

We  scorn  it  as  we  do  board-wages.  Then 
Had  one  of  our  folks  done  it,  he  would  not 
Have  been  so  poor  a spirit  as  to  hazard 
His  neck  for  one  rouleau,  but  have  swoop’d  all ; 

Also  the  cabinet,  if  portable. 

Iden.  There  is  some  sense  in  that 

Fritz.  No,  sir,  be  sure 

’Twas  none  of  our  corps  ; but  some  petty,  trivial 
Picker  and  stealer,  without  art  or  genius. 

The  only  question  is — Who  else  could  have 
Access,  save  the  Hungarian  and  yourself  ? 

Iden.  You  don’t  mean  me  ? 

Fritz.  No,  sir ; I honour  more 

Your  talents 

Iden.  And  my  principles,  l hope. 

Fritz.  Of  course.  But  to  the  point : What’s  to 

be  done  ? 

Iden.  Nothing — but  there’s  a good  deal  to  be  said. 
We’ll  offer  a reward ; move  heaven  and  earth, 

And  the  police  (though  there’s  none  nearer  than 
Frankfort) ; post  notices  in  manuscript 
(For  we’ve  no  printer) ; and  set  by  my  clerk 
To  read  them  (for  few  can,  save  he  and  I). 

We’ll  send  out  villains  to  strip  beggars,  and 
Search  empty  pockets  ; also,  to  arrest 
All  gipsies,  and  ill-clothed  and  sallow  people. 
Prisoners  we  ’ll  have  at  least,  if  not  the  culprit ; 

And  for  the  baron’s  gold — if  ’tis  not  found, 

At  least  he  shall  have  the  full  satisfaction 
Of  melting  twice  its  substance  in  the  raising 
The  ghost  of  this  rouleau.  Here's  alchemy 
For  your  lord’s  losses  ! 

Fritz.  He  hath  found  a better. 

Iden.  Where  ? 

Fritz.  In  a most  immense  inheritance. 

The  late  Count  Siegendorf,  his  distant  kinsman, 

Is  dead  near  Prague,  in  his  castle,  and  my  lord 
Is  on  his  way  to  take  possession. 

Iden.  Was  there 

No  heir  ? 

Fritz.  Oh,  yes ; but  he  has  disappear’d 
Long  from  the  world’s  eye,  and  perhaps  the  world. 

A prodigal  son,  beneath  his  father’s  ban 
For  the  last  twenty  years  ; for  whom  his  sire 
Refused  to  kill  the  fatted  calf;  and,  therefore, 

If  living,  he  must  chew  the  husks  still.  But 
The  baron  would  find  means  to  silence  him, 

Were  he  to  re-appear : he’s  politic, 

And  has  much  influence  with  a certain  court. 

Iden.  He’s  fortunate. 

Fritz.  ’Tis  true,  there  is  a grandson 

Whom  the  late  count  reclaim’d  from  his  son’s  hands, 
And  educated  as  his  heir ; but  then 
His  birth  is  doubtful. 

Iden.  How  so? 

Fritz.  His  sire  made 

A left-hand,  love,  imprudent  sort  of  marriage. 

With  an  Italian  exile’s  dark-eyed  daughter  : 

Noble,  they  say,  too ; but  no  match  for  such 
A house  as  Siegendorf ’s.  The  grandsire  ill 


strange,  but  it  is  only  a translation  of  ‘ semper  avarus  eget  l 
Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray .] 


(11  [“Your  printer  has  made  an  odd  mistake ‘ poor  as  a 
instead  of  * poor  as  a miser.’  The  expression  may  seem 


SCENE  1. 


WERNER. 


351 


Could  brook  the  alliance  , and  could  ne’er  be  brought 
To  see  the  parents,  though  he  took  the  son. 

Iden.  If  he’s  a lad  of  mettle,  he  may  yet 
Dispute  your  claim,  and  weave  a web  that  may 
Puzzle  your  baron  to  unravel. 

Fritz.  Why, 

For  mettle,  he  has  quite  enough : they  say, 

He  forms  a happy  mixture  of  his  sire 
And  grandsire’s  qualities, — impetuous  as 
The  former,  and  deep  as  the  latter ; but 
The  strangest  is,  that  he  too  disappear’d 
Some  months  ago. 

Iden.  The  devil  he  did  ! 

Fritz.  Why,  yes : 

It  must  have  been  at  his  suggestion,  at 

An  hour  so  critical  as  was  the  eve 

Of  the  old  man’s  death,  whose  heart  was  broken  by  it. 

Iden.  Was  there  no  cause  assign’d  ? 

Fritz.  Plenty,  no  doubt, 

And  none  perhaps  the  true  one.  Some  averr’d 
It  was  to  seek  his  parents  ; some  because 
The  old  man  held  his  spirit  in  so  strictly 
(But  that  could  scarce  be,  for  he  doted  on  him) ; 

A third  believed  he  wish’d  to  serve  in  war, 

Bat  peace  being  made  soon  after  his  departure, 

He  might  have  since  return’d,  were  that  the  motive ; 
A fourth  set  charitably  have  surmised, 

As  there  was  something  strange  and  mystic  in  him, 
That  in  the  wild  exuberance  of  his  nature 
He  had  join’d  the  black  bands,  who  lay  waste  Lusatia, 
The  mountains  of  Bohemia  and  Silesia, 

Since  the  last  years  of  war  had  dwindled  into 
A kind  of  general  condottiero  system 
Of  bandit  warfare  ; each  troop  with  its  chief. 

And  all  against  mankind. 

Iden.  That  cannot  be. 

A young  heir,  bred  to  wealth  and  luxury, 

To  risk  his  life  and  honours  with  disbanded 
Soldiers  and  desperadoes  ! 

Fritz.  Heaven  best  knows  ! 

But  there  are  human  natures  so  allied 
Unto  the  savage  love  of  enterprise, 

That  they  will  seek  for  peril  as  a pleasure. 

I’ve  heard  that  nothing  can  reclaim  your  Indian, 

Or  tame  the  tiger,  though  their  infancy 
Were  fed  on  milk  and  honey.  After  all, 

Your  Wallenstein,  your  Tilly  and  Gustavus, 

Your  Bannier,  and  your  Torstenson  and  Weimar, 
Were  but  the  same  thing  upon  a grand  ecale; 

And  now  that  they  are  gone,  and  peace  proclaim’d, 
They  who  would  follow  the  same  pastime  must 
Pursue  it  on  their  own  account.  Here  comes 
The  baron,  and  the  Saxon  stranger,  who 
Was  his  chief  aid  in  yesterday’s  escape, 

But  did  not  leave  the  cottage  by  the  Oder 
Until  this  morning. 

Enter  Stralenheim  and  Ulric.1 

Stral.  Since  you  have  refused 

All  compensation,  gentle  stranger,  save 
Inadequate  thanks,  you  almost  check  even  them. 
Making  me  feel  the  worthlessness  of  words. 


[The  characters  are  any  thing  but  original.  . . . Ulric  is  only 
the  Giaour,  Conrad,  Lara,  Alp,  &c.  &e.  rehashed  and  served  up  as 
a Bohemian  •*  Cesium,  non  animum  mutant.”  It  is  the  old  mess 
with  a new  sauce  Compare  him  particularly  with  Lara,  and  you 
must  be  struck  with  the  resemblance.  Both  high-born- -both  leav- 
ing heme  mysteriously — both  suspected  of  being  linked  with  des- 


And blush  at  my  own  barren  gratitude, 

They  seem  so  niggardly,  compared  with  what 
Your  courteous  courage  did  in  my  behalf 

Ulr.  I pray  you  press  the  theme  no  further. 

Stral.  But 

Can  I not  serve  you  ? You  are  young,  and  of 
Tliat  mould  which  throws  out  heroes  ; fair  in  favour  ; 
Brave,  I know,  by  my  living  now  to  say  so ; 

And  doubtlessly,  with  such  a form  and  heart, 

Would  look  into  the  fiery  eyes  of  war. 

As  ardently  for  glory  as  you  dared 
An  obscure  death  to  save  an  unknown  stranger 
In  an  as  perilous,  but  opposite,  element. 

You  are  made  for  the  service^:  I have  served ; 

Have  rank  by  birth  and  soldiership,  and  friends, 

Who  shall  be  yours.  ’Tis  true  this  pause  of  peace 
Favours  such  views  at  present  scantily ; 

But  ’twill  not  last,  men’s  spirits  are  too  stirring; 

And,  after  thirty  years  of  conflict,  peace 
Is  but  a petty  war,  as  the  times  show  us 
In  every  forest,  or  a mere  arm’d  truce. 

War  will  reclaim  his  own ; and,  in  the  meantime, 

You  might  obtain  a post,  which  would  ensure 
A higher  soon,  and,  by  my  influence,  fail  not 
To  rise.  I speak  of  Brandenburg,  wherein 
I stand  well  with  the  Jllector ; in  Bohemia, 

Like  you,  I am  a stranger,  and  we  are  now 
Upon  its  frontier. 

Ulr.  You  perceive  my  garb 

Is  Saxon,  and  of  course  my  service  due 
To  my  own  sovereign.  If  I must  decline 
Your  offer,  ’tis  with  the  same  feeling  which 
Induced  it. 

Stral.  Why,  this  is  mere  usury  ! 

I owe  my  life  to  you,  and  you  refuse 
The  acquittance  of  the  interest  of  the  debt, 

To  heap  more  obligations  on  me,  till 
I bow  beneath  them. 

Ulr.  You  shall  say  so  when 

I claim  the  payment. 

Stral.  Well,  sir,  since  you  will  not— 

You  are  nobly  born  ? 

UW.  I have  heard  my  kinsmen  say  so. 

Stral.  Ycur  actions  show  it.  Might  I ask  yew 
name  ? 

Ulr.  Ulric. 

Stral.  Your  house’s  ? 

Ulr.  When  I’m  worthy  of  it, 

I’ll  answer  you. 

Stral.  [aside).  Most  probably  an  Austrian, 

Whom  these  unsettled  times  forbid  to  boast 
His  lineage  on  these  wild  and  dangerous  frontiers, 
Where  the  name  of  his  country  is  abhorr’d. 

[ Aloud  to  Fritz  and  Idenstein 
So,  sirs  ! how  have  ye  sped  in  your  researches  ? 

Iden.  Indifferent  well,  your  excellency. 

Stral.  Then 

I am  to  deem  the  plunderer  is  caught  ? 

Iden.  Humph  ! — not  exactly. 

Stral.  Or  at  least  suspected  ? 

Iden.  Oh ! for  that  matter,  very  much  suspected. 

Stral.  Who  may  he  be  F 


perate  characters  — both  returning  to  play  the  magnifico — both 
charged  with  heavy  crimes,  by  people  who  had  met  them  while 
absent  on  their  wild  exploits,  and  both  ready  to  get  rid  of  theii 
accusers  by  the  summary  process  of  murder.  Both  are,  moreover, 
very  fine  speakers,  valiant  men,  high-browed,  briglu-eyed,  black' 
haired.— Magi  n«.] 


352 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  IL 


Iden.  Why,  don’t  you  know,  my  lord  ? 

Stral.  How  should  I ? i was  fast  asleep. 

Iden.  And  so 

Was  I,  and  that’s  the  cause  I know  no  more 
Than  does  your  excellency. 

Stral.  Dolt ! 

Iden.  Why,  if 

Your  lordship,  being  robb’d,  don’t  recognise 
The  rogue ; how  should  I,  not  being  robb’d,  identify 
The  thief  among  so  many  ? In  the  crowd. 

May  it  please  your  excellency,  your  thief  looks 
Exactly  like  the  rest,  or  rather  better  : 

’Tis  only  at  the  bar  and  in  the  dungeon 
That  wise  men  know  your  felon  by  his  features ; 

But  I’ll  engage,  that  if  seen  there  but  once. 

Whether  he  be  found  criminal  or  no. 

His  face  shall  be  so. 

Strut,  (to  Fritz).  Prithee,  Fritz,  inform  me 
What  hath  been  done  to  trace  the  fellow  ? 

Fritz.  Faith ! 

My  lord,  not  much  as  yet,  except  conjecture.  [me 

Stral.  Besides  the  loss  (which,  1 must  own,  affects 
Just  now  materially),  I needs  would  find 
The  viliaiu  out  of  public  motives  ; for 
So  dexterous  a spoiler,  who  could  creep 
Through  my  attendants,  and  so  many  peopled 
And  lighted  chambers,  on  my  rest,  and  snatch 
The  gold  before  my  scarce-closed  eyes,  would  soon 
Leave  bare  your  borough,  Sir  Intendant ! 

Iden.  True ; 

If  there  were  aught  to  carry  off,  my  lord. 

Ulr.  What  is  all  this  ? 

Stral.  You  join’d  us  but  this  morning, 

And  have  not  heard  that  I was  robb’d  last  nigiit. 

Ulr.  Some  rumour  of  it  reach’d  me  as  I pass’d 
The  outer  chambers  of  the  palace,  but 
I know  no  further. 

Stral.  It  is  a strange  business  ; 

The  intendant  can  inform  you  of  the  facts. 

Iden.  Most  willingly.  You  see 

Stral.  ( impatiently ).  Defer  your  tale. 

Till  certain  of  the  hearer’s  patience. 

Iden.  That 

Can  only  be  approved  by  proofs.  You  see 

Stral.  ( again  interrupting  him , and  addressing 
Uliuc). 

In  short,  I was  asleep  upon  a chair, 

My  cabinet  before  me,  with  some  gold 
Upon  it  (more  than  I much  like  to  lose, 

Though  in  part  only)  : some  ingenious  person 
Contrived  to  glide  through  all  my  own  attendants, 
Besides  those  of  the  place,  and  bore  away 
A hundred  golden  ducats,  which  to  find 
I would  be  fain,  and  there’s  an  end.  Perhaps 
You  (as  I still  am  rather  faint)  would  add 
To  yesterday’s  great  obligation,  this, 

Though  slighter,  yet  not  slight,  to  aid  these  men 
(Who  seem  but  lukewarm)  in  recovering  it? 

Ulr.  Most  willingly,  and  without  loss  of  time — 

(To  Idenstein).  Come  hither,  mynheer ! 

Iden.  But  so  much  haste  bodes 

Right  little  speed,  and 

Ulr.  Standing  motionless 

None ; so  let’s  march;  we’ll  talk  as  we  go  on. 

Iden.  But 

Ulr.  Show  the  spot,  and  then  I’ll  answer  you. 

Fritz.  I will,  sir,  with  his  excellency’s  leave. 

Stral.  Do  so,  and  take  yon  old  ass  with  you. 


| Fritz.  1 [one*  i 

Ulr.  Come  on,  old  oracle,  expound  thy  riddle ! 

[Exit  with  Idenstein  and  Farrs, 

Stral.  (solus).  A stalwart,  active,  soldier-looking 
stripling, 

Handsome  as  Hercules  ere  his  first  labour,  ‘ 

And  with  a brow  of  thought  beyond  his  years 
When  in  repose,  till  his  eye  kindles  up 
In  answering  yours.  I wish  I could  engage  him : 

I have  need  or  some  such  spirits  near  me  now, 

For  this  inheritance  is  worth  a struggle. 

And  though  I am  not  the  man  to  yield  without  one. 
Neither  are  they  who  now  rise  up  between  me 
And  my  desire.  The  boy,  they  say,  ’s  a bold  one ; 
But  he  hath  play’d  the  truant  in  some  hour 
Of  freakish  folly,  leaving  fortune  to 
Champion  his  claims.  That’s  well.  The  father,  whom 
For  years  I’ve  track’d,  as  does  the  blood-hound,  never 
In  sight,  but  constantly  in  scent,  had  put  me 
To  fault ; but  here  I have  him,  and  that’s  better. 

It  must  be  he!  All  circumstance  proclaims  it; 

And  careless  voices,  knowing  not  the  cause 
Of  my  inquiries,  still  confirm  it. — Yes  ! 

The  man,  his  bearing,  and  the  mystery 
Of  his  arrival,  and  the  time  ; the  account,  too. 

The  intendant  gave  (for  I have  not  beheld  her) 

Of  his  wife’s  dignified  but  foreign  aspect; 

Besides  the  antipathy  with  which  we  met, 

As  snakes  and  lions  shrink  baex  from  each  other 
By  secret  instinct  that  both  must  be  foes 
Deadly,  without  being  natural  prey  to  either ; 

All— all — confirm  it  to  my  mind.  However, 

We’ll  grapple,  ne’ertheless.  In  a few  hours 
The  order  comes  from  Frankfort,  if  these  waters 
Rise  not  the  higher  (and  the  weather  favours 
Their  quick  abatement),  and  I’ll  have  him  safe 
Within  a dungeon,  where  he  may  avouch 
His  real  estate  and  name  ; and  there ’s  no  harm  done; 
Should  he  prove  other  than  I deem.  This  robbery 
(Save  for  the  actual  loss)  is  lucky  also  : 

He’s  poor,  and  that’s  suspicious— he’s  unknown, 

And  that’s  defenceless. — True,  we  have  no  proofs 
Of  guilt, — but  what  hath  he  of  innocence  ? 

Were  he  a man  indifferent  to  my  prospects. 

In  other  bearings,  I should  rather  lay 
The  inculpation  on  the  Hungarian,  who 
Hath  something  which  I like  not ; and  alone 
Of  all  around,  except  the  intendant,  and 
The  prince’s  household  and  my  own,  had  ingress 
Familiar  to.  the  chamber. 

Enter  Gabor. 

Friend,  how  fare  you? 

Gab.  As  those  who  fare  well  everywhere,  when  tnej 
Have  supp’d  and  slumber’d,  no  great  matter  how — 
And  you,  my  lord  ? 

Stral.  Better  in  rest  than  purse  : 

Mine  inn  is  like  to  cost  me  dear. 

Gab.  I heard 

Of  your  late  loss ; but  ’tis  a trifle  to 
One  of  your  order. 

Stral.  You  would  hardly  think  so, 

Were  the  loss  yours. 

Gab.  I never  had  so  much 

(At  once)  in  my  whole  life,  and  therefore  am  not 
Fit  to  decide.  But  I came  here  to  seek  you.  [them, 
Your  couriers  are  turn’d  back — I have  outstripp’d 
In  my  return. 


SC  EKE  II. 

Strnl.  You !— Why  ? 

Qab.  I went  at  daybreak, 

To  watch  for  the  abatement  of  the  river. 

As  being  anxious  to  resume  my  journey. 

Your  messengers  were  all  check’d  like  myself; 

And,  seeing  the  case  hopeless,  I await 
The  current’s  pleasure. 

Strut . Would  the  dogs  were  in  it ! 

Why  did  they  not,  at  least,  attempt  the  passage  ? 

I order’d  this  at  all  risks. 

Qab.  Could  you  order 

The  Oder  to  divide,  as  Moses  did 
The  Red  Sea  (scarcely  redder  than  the  flood 
Of  the  swoln  stream),  and  be  obey’d,  perhaps 
They  might  have  ventured. 

Stral.  I must  see  to  it : 

The  knaves  ! the  slaves ! — but  they  shall  smart  for 
this.  [ Exit  Stralenheim. 

Gab.  {solus).  There  goes  my  noble,  feudal,  self- 
will’d  baron ! 

Epitome  of  what  brave  chivalry, 

The  preux  chevaliers  of  the  good  old  times, 

Have  left  us.  Yesterday  he  would  have  given 
His  lands  (if  he  hath  any),  and,  still  dearer, 

His  sixteen  quarteriugs,  for  as  much  fresh  air 
As  would  have  fill’d  a bladder,  while  he  lay 
Gurgling  and  foaming  half  way  through  the  window 
Of  his  o’erset  and  water-logg’d  conveyance ; 

And  now  he  storms  at  half  a dozen  wretches, 

Because  they  love  their  lives  too  ! Yet,  lie’s  right : 
’Tis  strange  they  should,  when  such  as  he  may  put  them 
To  hazard  at  his  pleasure.  Oil ! thou  world ! 

Thou  art  indeed  a melancholy  jest ! [Exit  Gabor. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Apartment  of  Werner,  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Josephine  and  Ulric. 

Jos  Stand  back,  and  let  me  look  on  thee  again  ! 
My  Ulric  ! — my  beloved  ! — can  it  be — 

After  twelve  years  ? 

Ulr.  My  dearest  mother  ! 

Jos.  Yes ! 

My  dream  is  realised — how  beautiful ! — 

How  more  than  all  I sigh’d  for  ! Heaven  receive 
A mother’s  thanks  ! — a mother’s  tears  of  joy  ! 

This  is  indeed  thy  work  ! — At  such  an  hour,  too. 
He  comes  not  only  as  a son,  but  saviour. 

Ulr.  If  such  a joy  await  me,  it  must  double 
What  I now  feel,  and  lighten  from  my  heart 
A part  of  the  long  debt  of  duty,  not 
Of  love  (for  that  was  ne’er  withheld) — forgive  me  ! 
This  long  delay  was  not  my  fault.1 

Jos.  I know  it, 

But  cannot  think  of  sorrow  now,  and  doubt 
If  I e’er  felt  it,  ’tis  so  dazzled  from 
My  memory,  by  this  oblivious  transport ! — 

My  son ! 

Enter  Werner. 

Wer.  What  have  we  here, — more  strangers  ? 

JOS.  AJq  I 

Ivook  upon  him ! What  do  you  see  ? 


(1)  [Ulric  behaves  far  too  hopefully  and  too  dutifully  for  an 
lifMissin  and  a brigand.  He  is  of  the  Giaour  and  the  Lara"  order— 

% Ucjiall  ruffian. — Eel.  Rev  i 


353 

Wer.  A stripling, 

Eor  the  first  time 

Ulr.  ( kneelinq ).  Eor  twelve  long  years,  my  father  1 

Wer.  Oh,  God! 

Jos.  He  faints  ! 

Wer.  No — I am  better  now — 

Ulric ! {Embraces  him.) 

Ulr.  My  father,  Siegendorf ! 

Wer.  {starting).  Hush  ! boy — 

The  walls  may  hear  that  name ! 

Ulr.  W hat  then  ? 

Wer.  Why,  then— 

But  we  will  talk  of  that  anon.  Remember, 

A must  be  known  here  but  as  Werner.  Come  ! 
sUome  to  my  arms  again ! WTiy,  thou  look’st  all 
I should  have  been,  and  was  not.  Josephine  ! 

Sure  ’tis  no  father’s  fondness  dazzles  me ; 

But,  had  I seen  that  form  amid  ten  thousand 
Youth  of  the  choicest,  my  heart  would  have  chosen 
This  for  my  son  ! 

Ulr.  And  yet  you  knew  me  not ! 

Wer.  Alas  ! I have  had  that  upon  my  soul, 

Wrhich  makes  me  look  on  all  men  with  an  eye 
That  only  knows  the  evil  at  first  glance. 

Ulr.  My  memory  served  me  far  more  fondly : I 
Have  not  forgotten  aught ; and  oft  times  in 
The  proud  and  princely  halls  of— (I’ll  not  name  them. 
As  you  say  that  ’tis  perilous) — but  i’  the  pomp 
Of  your  sire’s  feudal  mansion,  I look’d  back 
To  the  Bohemian  mountains  many  a sunset, 

And  wept  to  see  another  day  go  down 

O’er  thee  and  me,  with  those  huge  hills  between  us. 

They  shall  not  part  us  more. 

Wer.  I know  not  that. 

Are  you  aware  my  father  is  no  more  ? 

Ulr.  Oh,  heavens  ! I left  him  in  a green  old  age, 
And  looking  like  the  oak,  worn,  but  still  steady 
Amidst  the  elements,  whilst  younger  trees 
Eell  fast  around  him.  ’Twas  scarce  three  months  since. 

Wer.  Why  did  you  leave  him  ? 

Jos.  {embracing  Ulric).  Can  you  ask  that  question? 
Is  lie  not  here  ? * 

Wer.  True : he  hath  sought  his  parents. 

And  found  them ; but,  oh  ! how,  and  in  what  state  ! 

Ulr.  All  shall  be  better’d.  What  we  have  to  do 
Is  to  proceed,  and  to  assert  our  rights, 

Or  rather  yours ; for  I waive  all,  unless 
Your  father  has  disposed  in  such  a sort 
Of  his  broad  lands  as  to  make  mine  the  foremost. 

So  that  I must  prefer  my  claim  for  form  : 

But  I trust  better,  and  that  all  is  yours. 

Wer.  Have  you  not  heard  of  Stralenheim  ? 

Ulr.  I saved 

His  life  but  yesterday  : he’s  here. 

Wer.  You  saved 

The  serpent  who  will  sting  us  all ! 

Ulr.  You  speak 

Riddles  : what  is  this  Stralenheim  to  us  ? [lands  ; 

Wer.  Every  thing.  One  who  claims  our  father’s 
Our  distant  kinsman,  and  our  nearest  foe. 

Ulr.  I never  heard  his  name  till  now.  The  count, 
Indeed,  spoke  sometimes  of  a kinsman,  who, 

If  his  own  line  should  fail,  might  be  remotely 
Involved  in  the  succession ; but  his  titles 
Were  never  named  before  me — and  what  then  P 
His  right  must  yield  to  ours. 

Wer.  Ay,  if  at  Prague: 

But  here  he  is  all-powerful ; and  has  spread 
z z 


WERNER 


354 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  It 


Snares  for  thy  ratlici,  which,  if  hitherto 
He  hath  escaped  them,  is  by  fortune,  not 
By  favour. 

Ulr.  Doth  lie  personally  know  you  ? 

Wer.  No  ; but  he  guesses  shrewdly  at  my  person, 
As  he  betray’d  last  night ; and  I,  perhaps, 

But  owe  my  temporary  liberty 
To  his  uncertainty. 

Ulr.  I think  you  wrong  him 

(Excuse  me  for  the  phrase) ; but  Stralenheim 
Is  not  what  you  prejudge  him,  or,  if  so, 

He  owes  me  something  both  for  past  and  present. 

I saved  his  life,  he  therefore  trusts  in  me. 

He  hath  been  plunder’d  too,  since  he  came  hither : 

Is  sick  ; a stranger  ; and  as  such  not  now 
Able  to  trace  the  villain  who  hath  robb’d  him  : 

I have  pledged  myself  to  do  so ; and  the  business 
Which  brought  me  here  was  chiefly  that but  I 
Have  found,  in  searching  for  another’s  dross, 

My  own  whole  treasure — you,  my  parents  ! 

Wer.  ( agitatedly ).  Who 

Taught  you  to  mouth  that  name  of  “ villain  ?” 

Ulr.  What 

More  noble  name  belongs  to  common  thieves  ? 

Wer.  Who  taught  you  thus  to  brand  an  unknown 
being 

With  an  infernal  stigma  ? 

Ulr.  My  own  feelings 

Taught  me  to  name  a ruffian  from  his  deeds. 

Wer.  Who  taught  you,  long-sought  and  ill-found 
boy ! that 

It  would  be  safe  for  my  own  son  to  insult  me  ? 

Ulr.  I named  a villain.  What  is  there  in  common 
ith  such  a being  and  my  father  ? 

Wer.  Every  thing ! 

AHat  ruffian  is  thy  father  !1  2 
Jos.  Oh,  my  son  ! 

Relieve  him  not — and  yet ! ( her  voice  falters). 

Ulr.  ( starts , looks  earnestly  at  Werner,  and  then 
says  slowly ,)  And  you  avow  it  ? 

Wer.  Ulric  ! before  you  dare  despise  your  father, 
Learn  to  divine  and  judge  his  actions.  Young, 

Rash,  new  to  life,  and  rear’d  in  luxury’s  lap, 

Is  it  for  you  to  measure  passion’s  force, 

Or  misery’s  temptation?  Wait — (not  long, 

It  cometh  like  the  night,  and  quickly) — Wait ! — 

Wait  till,  like  me,  your  hopes  are  blighted3 — till 
Sorrow  and  shame  are  handmaids  of  your  cabin ; 
Eamine  and  poverty  your  guests  at  table; 

Despair  your  bed-fellow — then  rise,  but  not 

Erom  sleep,  and  judge  ! Should  that  day  e’er  arrive — 


(1)  [The  following  is  the  original  passage  in  the  novel:  — 
“ * Stralenheim,’  said  Conrad,  * does  not  appear  to  be  altogether 
the  man  you  take  him  for : but  were  it  even  otherwise,  he  owes  me 
gratitude  not  only  for  the  past,  but  for  what  he  supposes  to  be  my 
present  employment.  1 saved  his  life,  and  he  therefore  places 
confidence  in  me.  He  hath  been  robbed  last  night — is  sick — a 
stranger— and  in  no  condition  to  discover  the  villain  who  has  plun- 
dered him ; and  the  business  on  which  I sought  the  intendant  was 
chiefly  that,’”  &c. — Lee.] 

(2)  [“  4 And  who/  said  he,  ‘ has  entitled  you  to  brand  thus  with 

Ignominious  epithets  a being  you  do  not  know  ? Who  has  taught 

you  that  it  would  be  even  safe  for  my  son  to  insult  me?’ — ‘ It  is  not 

necessary  to  know  the  person  of  a rullian,’  replied  Conrad  in- 
dignantly, ‘ to  give  him  the  appellation  he  merits : and  what  is 

there  in  common  between  my  father  and  such  a character?’  — 

‘ Every  thing,’  said  Siegendorf,  bitterly, — ‘ for  that  ruffian  was  your 
father  ? ’ ” — Ibid. 

(8)  [“  Conrad,  before  you  thus  presume  to  chastise  me  with  your 
eye,  learn  to  undtretand  my  actions.  Young,  and  inexperienced  in 
the  world— reposing  hitherto  in  the  bosom  of  indulgence  and  luxury, 


Should  you  see  then  the  serpent,  who  hath  ceil'd 
Himself  around  all  that  is  dear  and  noble 
Of  you  and  yours,  lie  slumbering  in  your  path, 

With  but  his  folds  between  your  steps  and  happiness. 
When  he,  who  lives  but  to  tear  from  you  name. 
Lands,  life  itself,  lies  at  your  mercy,  with 
Chance  your  conductor ; midnight  for  your  mantle ; 
The  bare  knife  in  your  hand,  and  earth  asleep, 

Even  to  your  deadliest  foe  ; and  he,  as  ’twere 

Inviting  death,  by  looking  like  it,  while 

His  death  alone  can  save  you  : — Thank  your  God ! 

If  then,  like  me,  content  with  petty  plunder, 

You  turn  aside -I  did  so. 

Ulr.  But 

Wer.  {abruptly).  Hear  me  ! 

I will  not  brook  a human  voice — scarce  dare 
Listen  to  my  own  (if  that  be  human  still) — 

Hear  me ! you  do  not  know  this  man — I do.4 
He’s  mean,  deceitful,  avaricious.  You 
Deem  yourself  safe,  as  young  and  brave ; but  learn 
None  are  secure  from  desperation,  few 
From  subtilty.  My  worst  foe,  Stralenheim, 

Housed  in  a prince’s  palace,  couch’d  within 
A prince’s  chamber,  lay  below  my  knife  ! 

An  instant — a mere  motion — the  least  impulse — 

Had  swept  him  and  all  fears  of  mine  from  earth. 

He  was  within  my  power — my  knife  was  raised — 
Withdrawn — and  I’m  in  his are  you  not  so  ? 

Who  tells  you  that  he  knows  you  not  ? Who  says 
He  hath  not  lured  you  here  to  end  you  ? or 
To  plunge  you,  with  your  parents,  in  a dungeon  ? 

[He  pauses. 

Ulr.  Proceed — proceed! 

Wer.  Me  he  hath  ever  known. 

And  hunted  through  each  change  of  time— name — 
fortune — 

And  why  not  you  ? Are  you  more  versed  in  men  ? 

He  wound  snares  round  me ; flung  along  my  path 
Reptiles,  whom,  in  my  youth,  I would  have  spurn’d 
Even  from  my  presence  ; but,  in  spurning  now. 

Fill  only  with  fresh  venom.  Will  you  be 
More  patient  ? Ulric  !— Ulric  ! — there  are  crimes 
Made  venial  by  the  occasion,  and  temptations 
Which  nature  cannot  master  or  forbear.5 * * 8 

Ulr.  {looks  first  at  him , and  then  at  Josephine). 

My  mother ! 

Wer.  Ay  ! I thought  so  : you  have  now 
Only  one  parent.  I have  lost  alike 
Father  and  son,  and  stand  alone. 

Ulr.  But  stay ! 

[Werner  rushes  out  of  the  chamber. 


is  it  for  you  to  judge  of  the  force  of  the  passions,  or  the  tempta- 
tions of  misery?  Wait  till,  like  me,  you  have  blighted  your  fairest 
hopes — have  endured  humiliation  and  sorrow — poverty  and  famine 
— before  you  pretend  to  judge  of  their  effects  on  you!  Should  that 
miserable  day  ever  arrive,”  &c. — Ibid  ] 

(4)  [“  ‘ You  do  not  know  this  man/  continued  he : ‘ I do  ! I be- 
lieve him  to  be  mean,  sordid,  deceitful!  You  will  conceive  your* 
seif  safe,  because  you  are  young  and  brave ! Learn,  however, 
none  are  so  secure  but  desperation  or  subtilty  may  reach  them  i 
Stralenheim,  in  the  palace  of  a prince,  was  in  my  power ! My  knife 
was  held  over  him— I forbore — and  I am  now  in  his,  ’ &c.  &c  — 
Ibid.] 

(5)  [“  Me  he  has  known  invariably  thrown  every  change  of 
fortune  or  of  name — and  why  not  you?  Me  he  has  entrapped — 
are  you  more  discreet?  He  has  wound  the  snares  of  ldensteia 
around  me; — of  a reptile  whom,  a few  years  ago,  I would  have 
spurned  from  my  presence,  and  whom,  in  spurning  now,  1 have 
furnished  with  fresh  venom.  Will  you  be  more  patient  ? Conrau, 
Conrad,  there  are  crimes  rendered  venial  by  the  occasion,  ar.rf 
temptations  too  exquisite  for  human  fortitude  to  master  or  forbear 
&c  .—Ibid.] 


SCENE  II. 

Jos.  [to  Ulric).  Follow  him  not,  until  this  storm  of 
passion 

Abates.  Think’st  thou,  that  were  it  well  for  him, 

I had  not  follow’d  ? 

IHr.  I obey  you,  mother, 

Although  reluctantly.  My  first  act  shall  not 
Be  one  of  disobedience. 

Jos.  Oh  ! he  is  good  ! 

Condemn  him  not  from  his  own  mouth,  but  trust 
To  me,  who  have  borne  so  much  with  him,  aud  for 
him, 

Thai  this  is  but  the  surface  of  his  soul, 

And  that  the  depth  is  rich  in  better  things. 

TJlr.  These  then  are  but  my  father’s  principles  ? 

My  mother  thinks  not  with  him  F 
Jos.  Nor  doth  he 

Think  as  he  speaks.  Alas ! long  years  of  grief 
Have  made  him  sometimes  thus. 

TJlr.  Explain  to  me 

More  clearly,  then,  these  claims  of  Stralenheim, 

That,  when  I see  the  subject  in  its  bearings, 

I may  prepare  to  face  him,  or  at  least 
To  extricate  you  from  your  present  perils. 

I pledge  myself  to  accomplish  this — but  would 
I had  arrived  a few  hours  sooner ! 

Jos.  Ay ! 

Hadst  thou  but  done  so  ! 

Enter  Gabor  and  Idenstein,  with  Attenda?its. 

Gab.  [To  Ulric).  I have  sought  you,  comrade. 

So  this  is  my  reward ! 

TJlr.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gab.  ’Sdeath  ! have  I lived  to  these  years,  and  for 
this ! 

[To  Idenstein).  But  for  your  age  and  folly,  I 
would 

I den.  Help ! 

Hands  off ! Touch  an  intendant ! 

Gab.  Do  not  think 

I’ll  honour  you  so  much  as  save  your  throat 
From  the  Ravenstone 1 by  choking  you  myself. 

I den.  I thank  you  for  the  respite  : but  there  are 
Those  who  have  greater  need  of  it  than  me. 

TJlr.  Unriddle  this  vile  wrangling,  or 

Gab.  At  once,  then, 

The  baron  has  been  robb’d,  and  upon  me 
This  worthy  personage  has  deign’d  to  fix 
His  kind  suspicions — me  ! whom  he  ne’er  saw 
Till  vester’  evening. 

. Iden.  Wouldst  have  me  suspect 

My  own  acquaintances  ? You  have  to  learn 
That  I keep  better  company. 

Gab.  You  shall 

Keep  the  best  shortly,  and  the  last  for  all  men. 

The  worms  ! you  hound  of  malice  ! 

[Gabor  seizes  on  him. 
Ulr.  [interfering).  Nay,  no  violence  : 

He’s  old,  unarm’d — be  temperate,  Gabor! 

Gab.  [letting  go  Idenstein).  True  : 

I am  a fool  to  lose  myself  because 
Fools  deem  me  knave  : it  is  their  homage. 

Ulr.  [to  Idenstein).  How 

Fare  you? 

Iden.  Help ! 

Ult.  I have  help’d  you. 


(1)  The  Ravenstone,  “ Rabenstein,”  is  the  stone-gibbet  of  Ger- 
many, ar.1  sc  called  from  the  ravens  perching  on  it.  [See  antL 

P.  187.] 


355 

Iden.  Kill  him ! then 

I’ll  say  so. 

Gab.  I am  calm — live  on  ! 

Iden.  That’s  more 

Than  you  shall  do,  if  there  be  judge  or  judgment 
In  Germany.  The  baron  shall  decide  ! 

Gab.  Does  he  abet  you  in  your  accusation  ? 

Iden.  Does  he  not  ? 

Gab.  Then  next  time  let  him  go  sink 

Ere  I go  hang  for  snatching  him  from  drowning. 

But  here  he  comes  ! 

Enter  Stralenheim. 

Gab.  [goes  up  to  him).  My  noble  lord,  I’m  here  ! 

Stral.  WeH,  sir ! 

Gab.  Have  you  aught  with  me  ? 

Stral.  * What  should  1 

Have  with  you  ? 

Gab.  You  know  best,  if  yesterday’s 

Flood  has  not  wash’d  away  your  memory  ; 

But  that’s  a trifle.  I stand  here  accused. 

In  phrases  not  equivocal,  by  yon 
Intendant,  of  the  pillage  of  your  person 
Or  chamber  : — is  the  charge  your  own  or  his  ? 

Stral.  I accuse  no  man. 

Gab.  Then  you  acquit  me,  baron  ? 

Stral.  I know  not  whom  to  accuse  or  to  acquit. 

Or  scarcely  to  suspect. 

Gab.  But  you  at  least 

Should  know  whom  not  to  suspect.  I am  insulted— 
Oppress’d  here  by  these  menials,  aud  I look 
To  you  for  remedy — teach  them  their  duty ! 

To  look  for  thieves  at  home  were  part  of  it, 

If  duly  taught ; but,  in  one  word,  if  I 
Have  an  accuser,  let  it  be  a man 
Worthy  to  be  so  of  a man  like  me. 

I am  your  equal. 

Stral.  You ! 

Gab.  Ay,  sir  ; and,  for 

Aught  that  you  know,  superior ; but  proceed — 

1 do  not  ask  for  hints,  and  surmises, 

And  circumstance,  and  proofs  ; I know  enough 
Of  what  I have  done  for  you,  and  what  you  owe  me, 
To  have  at  least  waited  your  payment  rather 
Than  paid  myself,  had  I been  eager  of 
Your  gold.  I also  know,  that  were  I even 
The  villain  I am  deem’d,  the  service  render’d 
So  recently  would  not  permit  you  to 
Pursue  me  to  the  death,  except  through  shame. 

Such  as  would  leave  your  scutcheon  but  a blank. 

But  this  is  nothing  : I demand  of  you 
Justice  upon  your  unjust  servants,  and 
From  your  own  lips  a disavowal  of 
All  sanction  of  their  insolence  : thus  much 
You  owe  to  the  unknown,  who  asks  no  more. 

And  never  thought  to  have  ask’d  so  much. 

Stral.  This  tone 

May  be  of  innocence. 

Gab.  ’Sdeath  ! who  dare  douot  t, 

Except  such  villains  as  ne’er  had  it  ? 

Stral.  You 

Are  hot,  sir. 

Gab.  Must  I turn  an  icicle 
Before  the  breath  of  menials,  and  their  master  ? 

Stral  Ulric  ! you  know  this  man  ; I found  him  h 
Your  company. 

Gab.  We  found  you  in  the  Oder ; 

Would  we  had  left  you  there  ! 


WERNER. 


356 


UORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  ,1 


Stral.  I give  you  tlianks,  sir. 

Gab.  I’ve  earn’d  them;  but  might  have  earn’d 
more  from  others, 

Perchance,  if  I had  left  you  to  your  fate. 

Stral.  Ulric ! you  know  this  man  ? 

Gab.  No  more  than  you  do, 

tf  lie  avouches  not  my  honour. 

Ulr.  I 

Can  vouch  your  courage,  and,  as  far  as  my 
Own  brief  connexion  Kid  me,  honour. 

Stral.  Then 

I’m  satisfied. 

Gab.  [ironically).  Right  easily,  methinks. 

What  is  the  spell  in  his -asseveration 
More  than  is  mine  ? 

Stral.  I merely  said  that  I 

Was  satisfied — not  that  you  are’absolved. 

Gab.  Again  ! Am  I accused  or  no  ? 

Stral.  Go  to ! 

You  wax  too  insolent.  If  circumstance 
And  general  suspicion  be  against  you, 

Is  the  fault  mine  ? Is’t  not  enough  that  I 
Decline  all  question  of  your  guilt  or  innocence  ? 

Gab.  My  lord,  my  lord,  this  is  mere  cozenage, 

A vile  equivocation  ; you  well  know 

Your  doubts  are  certainties  to  all  around  you — 

Your  looks  a voice — your  frowns  a sentence ; you 
Are  practising  your  power  on  me — because 
You  have  it ; but  beware  ! you  know  not  whom 
You  strive  to  tread  on. 

Stral.  Threat’st  thou  ? 

Gab.  Not  so  much 

As  you  accuse.  You  hint  the  basest  injury, 

And  I retort  it  with  an  open  warning. 

Stral.  As  you  have  said,  ’tis  true  I owe  you  some- 
thing, 

Tor  which  you  seem  disposed  to  pay  yourself. 

Gab.  Not  with  your  gold. 

Stral.  With  bootless  insolence. 

[To  his  Attendants  and  Idenstein. 
You  need  not  further  to  molest  this  man, 

But  let  him  go  his  way.  Ulric 

[Exit  Stralenheim,  Idenstein,  and  Attend- 
ants. 

Gab.  [following).  I’ll  after  him  and 

Ulr.  [stopping  him).  Not  a step. 

Gab.  Who  shall 

Oppose  me  ? 

Ulr.  Your  own  reason,  with  a moment’s 

Thought. 

Gab.  Must  I bear  this  ? 

Ulr.  Pshaw  ! we  all  must  bear 

The  arrogance  of  something  higher  than 
Ourselves — the  highest  cannot  temper  Satan, 

Nor  the  lowest  his  vicegerents  upon  earth. 

I’ve  seen  you  brave  the  elements,  and  bear 
Things  which  had  made  this  silkworm  cast  his 
skin — 

And  shrink  you  from  a few  sharp  sneers  and  words  ? 

Gab.  Must  I bear  to  be  deem’d  a thief  ? If  ’twere 
A bandit  of  the  woods,  I could  have  borne  it — 

There’s  something  daring  in  it; — but  to  steal 
The  moneys  of  a slumbering  man  ! — 

Ulr.  It  seems,  then, 

You  are  not  guilty  ? 

Gab.  Do  I hear  aright  ? 

1 ou  t oo ! 

Ulr  I merely  ask’d  a simple  question. 


good  morrow ! 


Gab.  If  the  judge  ask’d  me,  I would  answei 

“ No”— 

To  you  I answer  thus.  [He  draws .) 

Ulr.  [drawing).  With  all  my  heart ! 

Jos.  Without  there  ! Ilo ! help  ! help  ! — 01),  God ! 
here’s  murder ! 

[Exit  Josephine,  shrieking. 

Gabor  and  Ulric  fight.  Gabor  is  disarmed  just  at 
Stralenheim,  Josephine,  Idenstein,  8pc.  re-enter. 
Jos.  Oh!  glorious  heaven  ! He’s  safe! 

Stral.  [to  Josephine.)  Who’s,  safe? 

J os . My - 

Ulr.  [interrupting  her  with  a stern  look , and  turning 
afterwards  to  Stralenheim).  Both ! 

Here’s  no  great  harm  done. 

Stral.  What  hath  caused  all  this  ? 

Ulr.  You,  baron,  I believe ; but  ns  the  effect 
Is  harmless,  let  it  not  disturb  you. — Gabor  ! 

There  is  your  sword ; and  when  you  bare  it  next,' 

Let  it  not  be  against  your  friends. 

[Ulric  pronounces  the  last  words  slowly  and  em- 
phatically in  a low  voice  to  Gabor. 

Gab.  I thank  you 

Less  for  my  life  than  for  your  counsel. 

Stral.  These 

Brawls  must  end  here. 

Gab.  [taking  his  sword).  They  shall.  You  havet 
wrong’d  me,  Ulric, 

More  with  your  unkind  thoughts  than  sword : I wouio 

The  last  were  in  my  bosom  rather  than 

The  first  in  yours.  I could  have  borne  yon  noble’s 

Absurd  insinuations — ignorance 

And  dull  suspicion  are  a part  of  his 

Entail  will  last  him  longer  than  his  lands. — 

But  I may  fit  him  yet : — you  have  vanquish’d  me. 

I was  the  fool  of  passion  to  conceive 

That  I could  cope  with  you,  whom  I had  seen 

Already  proved  by  greater  perils  than 

Rest  in  this  arm.  We  may  meet  by  and  by, 

However— but  in  friendship.  [Exit  Gabor. 

Stral.  I will  brook 

No  more ! This  outrage  following  up  his  insults, 
Perhaps  his  guilt,  has  cancell’d  all  the  little 
I owed  him  heretofore  for  the  so-vaunted 
Aid  which  he  added  to  your  abler  succour. 

Ulric,  you  are  not  hurt  r — 

Ulr.  Not  ,even  by  a scratch. 

Stral.  [to  Idenstein).  Intendant!  take  your 
measures  to  secure 

Yon  fellow  : I revoke  my  former  lenity. 

He  shall  be  sent  to  Frankfort  with  an  escort 
The  instant  that  the  waters  have  abated. 

Iden.  Secure  him ! He  hath  got  his  sword  again— 
And  seems  to  know  the  use  on’t ; ’tis  his  trade. 

Belike ; — I’m  a civilian. 

Stral.  Pool ! are  not 

Yon  score  of  vassals  dogging  at  your  heels 
Enough  to  seize  a dozen  such  ? Hence  ! after  him  ! 
Ulr.  Baron,  I do  beseech  you ! 

Stral.  I must  be 

Obey’d.  No  words  ! 

Iden.  Well,  if  it  must  be  so — 

March,  vassals  ! I’m  your  leader,  and  will  bring 
The  rear  up  : a wise  general  never  should 
Expose  his  precious  life — on  which  all  rests. 

I like  that  article  of  war. 

[Exit  Idenstein  and  Attendants 


RCEN1  Ii 


WERNER. 


357 


Stral.  Come  hitlier, 

Ulric  : what  does  this  woman  here  ? Oh  ! now 
I recognise  her,  ’tis  the  stranger’s  wife. 

Whom  they  name  “ Werner.” 

jj/r  ’Tis  his  name. 

Sir'd.  . Illdecd! 

Is  not  yonr  husband  visible,  fair  dame  ? — 

Jos.  Who  seeks  him  ? 

Stral.  No  one — for  the  present : but 

i fain  would  parley,  Ulric,  with  yourself 

Alone. 

Ulr.  I will  retire  with  you. 

Jos.  Not  so : 

You  are  the  latest  stranger,  and  command 
All  places  here.  . 

(Aside  to  Ulkic,  as  she  joes  out.)  O Ulric!  have  a 
care — 

Remember  what  depends  on  a rash  word ! 

Ulr.  (to  Josephine).  Fear  not  !— 

[Exit  Josephine. 

Stral.  Ulric,  I think  that  I may  trust  you : 

You  saved  my  life— and  acts  like  these  beget 
Unbounded  confidence. 

Ulr.  Say  on. 

Stral.  Mysterious 

And  long-engender’d  circumstances  (not 
To  be  now  fully  enter’d  on)  have  made 
This  man  obnoxious — perhaps  fatal  to  me. 

Ulr.  Who  ? Gabor,  the  Hungarian  ? 

Strut.  m No— this  “ ’Werner” — 

With  the  false  name  and  habit. 

Ulr.  How  can  this  be  ? 

He  is  the  poorest  of  the  poor— and  yellow 
Fickness  sits  cavern’d  in  his  hollow  eye  : 

’'ue  man  is  helpless. 

Stral.  He  is — ’tis  no  matter 

6-..  if  he  be  the  man  I deem  (and  that 
He  is  so,  all  around  us  here — and  much 
That  is  not  here — confirm  my  apprehension) 

He  must  be  made  secure  ere  twelve  hours  further. 
Ulr.  And  what  have  I to  do  with  this  ? 

Stral.  I have  sent 

To  Frankfort,  to  the  governor,  my  friend, 

(I  have  the  authority  to  do  so  by 
An  order  cf  the  house  of  Brandenburg), 

For  a fit  escort — but  this  cursed  flood 
Bars  all  access,  and  may  do  for  some  hours. 

Ulr.  It  is  abating. 

Stral.  That  is  well. 

Ulr.  But  how 

Am  I concern’d  ? 

Stral.  As  one  who  did  so  much 

For  me,  you  cannot  be  indifferent  to 
That  which  is  of  more  import  to  me  than 
The  life  you  rescued. — Keep  your  eye  on  him  ! 

The  man  avoids  me,  knows  that  I now  know  him. — 
Watch  him  ! — as  you  would  watch  the  wild  boar  when 
He  makes  against  you  in  the  hunter’s  gap — 

Like  him  he  must  be  spear’d. 

Ulr.  Why  so  ? 

Stral.  He  stands 

Between  me  and  a brave  inheritance ! 

Oh  ! could  you  see  it ! But  you  shall. 

Ulr.  I hope  so. 

Stral.  It  is  the  richest  of  the  rich  Bohemia, 
Unscathed  by  scorching  war.  It  lies  so  near 
The  strongest  city,  Prague,  that  fire  and  sword 
Have  skimm’d  it  lightly  : so  that  now,  besides 


Its  own  exuberance,  it  bears  double  value, 

Confronted  with  whole  realms  far  and  near 
Made  deserts, 

Ulr.  You  describe  it  faithfully.  rhut, 

Stral.  Ay — could  you  see  it,  you  would  say  so — 
As  I have  said,  you  shall. 

Ulr.  I accept  the  omen. 

Stral.  Then  claim  a recompense  from  it  and  me. 
Such  as  both  may  make  worthy  your  acceptance, 

And  services  to  me  .and  mine  for  ever. 

Ulr.  And  this  sole,  sick,  and  miserable  wretch— 
This  way-worn  stranger — stands  between  you  and 
This  Paradise  ? — (As  Adam  did  between 
The  devil  and  his) — [Aside 

Stral.  He  doth. 

Ulr.  » Hath  he  no  right  ? 

Strut.  Right ! none.  A disinherited  prodigal, 

Who  for  these  twenty  years  disgraced  his  lineage 
In  all  his  acts — but  chiefly  by  his  marriage, 

And  living  amidst  commerce-fetching  burghers, 

And  dabbling  merchants,  in  a mart  of  Jews. 

Ulr.  He  has  a wife,  then  ? 

Stral.  You’d  be  sorry  to 

Call  such  your  mother.  You  have  seen  the ’woman 
He  calls  his  wife. 

Ulr.  Is  she  not  so  ? 

Stral.  No  more 

Than  he’s  your  father  : — an  Italian  girl, 

The  daughter  of  a banish’d  man,  who  lives 
On  love  and  poverty  with  this  same  Werner. 

Ulr.  They  are  childless,  then  ? 

Stral.  There  is  or  was  a bastard. 

Whom  the  old  man — the  grandsire  (as  old  age 
Is  ever  doting)  took  to  warm  his  bosom, 

As  it  went  chilly  downward  to  the  grave  : 

But  the  imp  stands  not  in  my  path — he  has  fled, 

No  one  knows  whither  ; and  if  he  had  not, 

His  claims  alone  were  too  contemptible 
To  stand. — Why  do  you  smile  ? 

Ulr.  At  your  vain  fears  : 

A poor  man  almost  in  his  grasp — a child 
Of  doubtful  birth — can  startle  a grandee  ! 

Stral.  All’s  to  be  fear’d,  where  all  is  to  be  gain’d. 

Ulr.  True  ; and  aught  done  to  save  or  to  obtain  it. 

Stral.  You  have  harp’d  the  very  string  next  to  my 
heart. 

I may  depend  upon  you  ? 

Ulr.  ’Twere  too  late 

To  doubt  it. 

Stral.  Let  no  foolish  pity  shake 
Your  bosom  (for  the  appearance  of  the  man 
Is  pitiful) — he  is  a wretch,  as  likely 
To  have  robb’d  me  as  the  fellow  more  suspected, 
Except  that  circumstance  is  less  against  him  ; 

He  being  lodged  far  off,  and  in  a chamber 
Without  approach  to  mine : and,  to  say  truth, 

I think  too  well  of  blood  allied  to  mine, 

To  deem  he  would  descend  to  such  an  act : 

Besides,  he  was  a soldier,  and  a brave  one 
Once — though  too  rash. 

Ulr.  And  they,  my  lord,  we  know 

By  our  experience,  never  plunder  till  [heirs. 

They  knock  the  brains  out  first — which  maxes  them 
Not  thieves.  The  dead,  who  feel  nought,  can  \is* 
nothing, 

Nor  e’er  be  robb’d  : their  spoils  are  a bequest — 

No  more. 

Stral.  Go  to  ! you  are  a wag  But  say 


358 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  LLL 


I may  be  sure  yju’ll  keep  an  eye  on  this  man, 

And  let  me  know  his  slightest  movement  towards 
Concealment  or  escape  F 

Ulr.  You  may  be  sure 

You  yourself  could  not  watch  him  more  than  I 
Will  be  his  sentinel. 

Stral.  By  this  you  make  me 

lours,  and  for  ever. 

Ulr.  Such  is  my  intention.  [ Exeunt . 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

A Ilall  m the  same  Palace,  from  whence  the  secret 
Passage  leads. 

Enter  Werner  and  Gabor. 

Gab.  Sir,  I have  told  my  tale  : if  it  so  please  you 
To  give  me  refuge  for  a few  hours,  well — 

If  not,  I’ll  try  my  fortune  elsewhere. 

Wer.  How 

Can  I,  so  wretched,  give  to  Misery 
A shelter  ? — wanting  such  myself  as  much 

As  e’er  the  hunted  deer  a covert 

Gab.  Or 

The  wounded  lion  his  cool  cave.  Methinks 
You  rather  look  like  one  would  turn  at  bay, 

And  rip  the  hunter’s  entrails. 

Wer.  All ! 

Gab.  I care  not 

If  it  be  so,  being  much  disposed  to  do 
The  same  myself.  But  will  you  shelter  me  ? 

I am  oppress’d  like  you — and  poor  like  you — 

Disgraced [graced  ? 

Wer.  (abruptly).  Who  told  you  that  I was  dis- 
Gab.  No  one  ; nor  did  I say  you  were  so  : with 
Your  poverty  my  likeness  ended ; but 
1 said  I was  so — and  would  add,  with  truth, 

As  undeservedly  as  you. 

Wer.  Again  ! 

As  I? 

Gab.  Or  any  other  honest  man.  [me 

What  the  devil  would  you  have  ? You  don’t  believe 
Guilty  of  this  base  theft  ? 

Wer.  No,  no — I cannot. 

Gab.  Why  that’s  my  heart  of  honour  ! yon  young 
gallant — 

Your  miserly  intendant  and  dense  noble — 

All — all  suspected  me  ; and  why  F because 
I am  the  worst  clothed,  and  least  named  amongst 

them  ; 

Although,  were  Momus’  lattice  in  your  breasts. 

My  soul  might  brook  to  open  it  more  widely 
Than  theirs  : but  thus  it  is  —you  poor  and  helpless — 
Botl.  still  more  than  myself. 

Wer.  K.'w  know  you  that  ? 

Gab.  You’re  right : I ask  for  snclter  at  the  hand 
Which  I call  helpless  ; if  you  now  deny  it, 

I were  well  paid.  But  you,  who  seem  to  have  proved 
The  wholesome  bitterness  of  life,  know  well, 

By  sympathy,  that  all  the  outspread  gold 
Of  the  new  world  the  Spaniard  boasts  about, 

Could  never  tempt  the  man  who  knows  its  worth, 
Weigh’d  at  its  proper  value  in  the  balance, 

Save  in  such  guise  (and  there  I grant  its  power. 
Because  I feel  it,)  as  may  leave  no  nightmare 
'Jpon  his  heart  o’  nights. 


W er.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Gab.  Just  what  I say;  I thought  my  speech  was 
plain  : 

You  are  no  thief — nor  I — and,  as  true  men, 

Should  aid  each  other. 

Wer.  It  is  a damn’d  world,  sir 

Gab.  So  is  the  nearest  of  the  two  next,  as 
The  priests  say  (and  no  doubt  they  should  know 
best), 

Therefore  I’ll  stick  by  this — as  being  loth 
To  suffer  martyrdom,  at  least  with  such 
An  epitaph  as  larceny  upon  my  tomb. 

It  is  but  a night’s  lodging  which  I crave  ; 

To-morrow  I will  try  the  waters  as 

The  dove  did,  trusting  that  they  have  abated. 

Wer.  Abated  ? Is  there  hope  of  that  ? 

Gab.  There  was 

At  noontide. 

Wer.  Then  we  may  be  safe. 

Gab.  Are  you 

In  peril  ? 

Wer.  Poverty  is  ever  so. 

Gab.  That  I know  by  long  practice.  Will  you  not 
Promise  to  make  mine  less  ? 

Wer.  Your  poverty  ? 

Gab.  No — you  don’t  look  a leech  for  that  disorder ; 
I meant  my  peril  only  : you’ve  a roof, 

And  I have  none ; I merely  seek  a covert. 

Wer.  Rightly ; for  how  should  such  a wretch  as  I 
Have  gold  F 

Gab.  Scarce  honestly,  to  say  the  truth  on't, 
Although  I almost  wish  you  had  the  baron’s. 

Wer.  Dare  you  insinuate  F 
Gab.  What  F 

Wer.  Are  you  aware 

To  whom  you  speak  F 

Gab.  No  ; and  I am  not  used 

Greatly  to  care.  (A  noise  heard  without .)  But  hark 
they  come ! 

Wer.  Who  come  F 

Gab.  The  intendant  and  his  man-hounds  after  me  ; 
I’d  face  them — but  it  were  in  vain  to  expect 
Justice  at  hands  like  theirs.  Where  shall  I go  F 
But  show  me  any  place.  I do  assure  you, 

If  there  be  faith  in  man,  I am  most  guiltless  : 

Think  if  it  were  your  own  case  ! 

Wer  (aside).  Oh,  just  God ! 

Thy  hell  is  not  hereafter  ! Am  I dust  still  F 

Gab.  I see  you’re  moved ; and  it  shows  well  mytrai 
I may  live  to  requite  it. 

Wer.  Are  you  not 

A spy  of  Stralenheim’s  F 

Gab.  Not  I ! and  it 

I were,  what  is  there  to  espy  in  you  F 
Although,  I recollect,  his  frequent  question 
About  you  and  your  spouse  might  lead  to  some 
Suspicion ; but  you  best  know — what — and  why. 

I am  his  deadliest  foe. 

Wer.  You  ? 

Gab.  After  such 

A treatment  for  the  service  which  in  part 
I render’d  him,  I am  his  enemy : 

If  you  are  not  his  friend,  you  will  assist  me. 

Wer.  I will. 

Gab.  But  how  F 

Wer.  (showing  the  panel).  There  is  a secret  spring 
Remember,  I discover’d  it  by  chance, 

And  used  it  but  for  safety. 


SCENE  T. 


WERNER. 


359 


Gao.  Open  it, 

And  I will  use  it  for  the  same. 

Wer  I found  it, 

As  I have  said  : it  leads  through  winding  walls, 

(So  thick  as  to  bear  paths  within  their  ribs, 

Yet  lose  no  jot  of  strength  or  stateliness,) 

And  hollow  cells,  and  obscure  niches,  to 
I know  not  whither ; you  must  not  advance  : 

Give  me  your  word. 

Gab.  It  is  unnecessary  : 

How  should  I make  my  way  in  darkness  through 
A Gothic  labyrinth  of  unknown  windings  ? 

Wer.  Yes,  but  who  knows  to  what  place  it  may  lead? 
[ know  not — (mark  you  !) — but  who  knows  it  might 
not 

Lead  even  into  the  chamber  of  your  foe  ? 

So  strangely  were  contrived  these  galleries 
By  our  Teutonic  fathers  in  old  days, 

When  man  built  less  against  the  elements 
Than  his  next  neighbour.  You  must  not  advance 
Beyond  the  two  first  windings  ; if  you  do 
(Aibeit  I never  pass’d  them),  I’ll  not  answer 
For  what  you  may  be  led  to. 

Gab.  But  I will. 

A thousand  thanks  ! 

Wer.  You’ll  find  the  spring  more  obvious 

On  the  other  side  : and,  when  you  would  return, 

It  yields  to  the  least  touch. 

Gab.  I’ll  in — farewell ! 

[Gabor  goes  in  by  the  secret  panel. 

Wer.  {solus).  What  have  I done  ? Alas  ! what  had 
I done 

Before  to  make  this  fearful  ? Let  it  be 
Still  some  atonement  that  I save  the  man. 

Whose  sacrifice  had  saved  perhaps  my  own — 

^hey  come ! to  seek  elsewhere  what  is  before  them  ! 

Enter  Idenstein  and  Others. 

Iden.  Is  he  not  here  ? He  must  have  vanish’d  then 
Through  the  dim  Gothic  glass  by  pious  aid 
Of  pictured  saints  upon  the  red  and  yellow  [sunrise 
Casements,  through  which  the  sunset  streams  like 
On  long  pearl-colour’d  beards  and  crimson  crosses. 
And  gilded  crosiers,  and  crossed  arms,  and  cowls, 

And  helms,  and  twisted  armour,  and  long  swords, 

All  the  fantastic  furniture  of  windows 
Dim  with  brave  knights  and  holy  hermits,  whose 
Likeness  and  fame  alike  rest  in  some  panes 
Of  crystal,  which  each  rattling  wind  proclaims 
As  frail  as  any  other  life  or  glory. 

He’s  gone,  however. 

Wer.  Whom  do  you  seek  ? 

Iden.  ^ A villain. 

Wer.  Why  need  you  come  so  far,  then  ? 

Iden.  In  the  search 

Of  him  who  robb’d  the  baron. 

W °.r.  Are  you  sure 

You  ha/e  divined  the  man? 

Iden.  As  sure  as  you 

Stand  there  : but  where’s  he  gone  P 

Wer.  Who  ? 

Iden.  ' He  we  sought. 

Wer.  You  see  he  is  not  here. 

Iden.  And  yet  we  traced  him 

Up  to  this  hall.  Are  you  accomplices  ? 

Or  deal  you  in  the  black  art  ? 

Wer.  I deal  plainly, 

To  many  men  the  blackest. 


Iden.  It  may  be 

I have  a question  or  two  t >r  yourself 
Hereafter:  but  we  must  continue  now 
Our  search  for  t’other. 

Wer.  You  had  best  begin 

Your  inquisition  now  : I may  not  be 
So  patient  always. 

Iden.  I should  like  to  know, 

In  good  sooth,  if  you  really  are  the  man 
That  Stralenheim’s  in  quest  of. 

Wer.  Insolent ! 

Said  you  not  that  he  was  not  here  ? 

Iden.  Yes,  one ; 

But  there’s  another  whom  he  tracks  more  keenly, 

And  soon,  it  may  be,  with  authority 

Both  paramount  to  his  and  mine.  But,  come  ! 

Bustle,  my  boys  ! we  are  at  fault. 

[Exit  Idenstein  and  Attendants 
Wer.  In  what 

A maze  hath  my  dim  destiny  involved  me  ! 

And  one  base  sin  hath  done  me  less  ill  than 
The  leaving  undone  one  far  greater.  Down, 

Thou  busy  devil,  rising  in  my  heart ! 

Thou  art  too  late  ! I’ll  nought  to  do  with  blood. 

Enter  Ulric. 

TJlr . [ sought  you,  father. 

Wer.  Is’t  not  dangerous 

TJlr.  No  ; Stralenheim  is  ignorant  of  all 
Or  any  of  the  ties  between  us  : more — 

He  sends  me  here  a spy  upon  your  actions, 

Deeming  me  wholly  his. 

Wer.  I cannot  think  it : 

’Tis  but  a snare  lie  winds  about  us  both, 

To  swoop  the  sire  and  son  at  once. 

TJlr.  I cannot. 

Pause  in  each  petty  fear,  and  stumble  at 
The  doubts  that  rise  like  briers  in  our  path, 

But  must  break  through  them,  as  an  unarm’d  carle 
Would,  though  with  naked  limbs,  were  the  wolf 
rustling 

In  the  same  thicket  where  he  liew’d  for  bread. 

Nets  are  for  thrushes,  eagles  are  not  caught  so  : 
We’ll  overfly  or  rend  them. 

Wer.  Show  me  how  ? 

TJlr.  Can  you  not  guess  ? 

Wer.  I cannot. 

TJlr.  That  is  strange. 

Came  the  thought  ne’er  into  your  mind  last  night  ? 
Wer.  I understand  you  not. 

TJlr.  Then  we  shall  never 

More  understand  each  other.  But  to  change 
The  topic 

Wer.  You  mean  to  pursue  it,  as 

’Tis  of  our  safety. 

TJlr.  . Bight ; I stand  corrected 

1 see  the  subject  now  more  clearly,  and 
Our  general  situation  in  its  bearings. 

The  waters  are  abating ; a few  hours 

Will  bring  his  summon’d  myrmidons  from  Frankfort, 

When  you  will  be  a prisoner,  perhaps  worse, 

And  I an  outcast,  bastardized  by  practice 
Of  this  same  baron  to  make  way  for  him. 

Wer.  And  now  your  remedy  ! 1 thought  to  escape 

By  means  of  this  accursed  goid;  but  now 
I dare  not  use  it,  show  it,  scarce  look  on  it. 

Methinks  it  wears  upon  its  face  my  guilt 
For  motto,  not  the  mintage  of  the  state ; 


360 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


tcrt  in 


And,  for  the  sovereign’s  head,  my  own  begirt 
With  hissing  snakes,  which  curl  around  my  temples, 
And  cry  to  all  beholders,  Lo  ! a villain  ! 

Ulr.  You  must  not  use  it,  at  least  now ; but  take 
Tills  ring.  [He  gives  Werner  a jeicel. 

Wer.  A gem  ! It  was  my  father’s  ! 

Ulr.  And 

As  3uch  is  now  your  own.  With  tills  you  must 
Bribe  the  intendant  for  his  old  caleche 
And  horses  to  pursue  your  route  at  sunrise, 

Together  with  my  mother. 

Wer.  And  leave  you, 

So  lately  found,  in  peril  too  ? 

Ulr.  Fear  nothing ! 

The  only  fear  were  if  we  fled  together, 

For  that  would  make  our  ties  beyond  all  doubt. 

The  waters  only  lie  in  flood  between 

This  burgh  and  Frankfort ; so  far’s  in  our  favour. 

The  route  on  to  Bohemia,  though  encumber’d, 

Is  not  impassable  ; and  when  you  gain 
A few  hours’  start,  the  difficulties  will  be 
The  same  to  your  pursuers.  Once  beyond 
The  frontier,  and  you’re  safe. 

Wer.  My  noble  boy  ! 

Ulr.  Hush!  hush!  no  transports : we’ll  indulge  in 
In  Castle  Siegendorf*1  Display  no  gold : [them 

Show  Idenstein  the  gem  (I  know  the  man, 

And  have  look’d  through  him) : it  will  answer  thus 
A double  purpose.  Stralenheim  lost  gold — 

No  jewel : therefore  it  could  not  be  his ; 

And  then  the  man  who  was  possest  of  this 
Can  hardly  be  suspected  of  abstracting 
The  baron’s  coin,  when  lie  could  thus  convert 
This  ring  to  more  than  Stralenheim  has  lost 
By  his  last  night’s  slumber.  Be  not  over  timid 
In  your  address,  nor  yet  too  arrogant, 

And  Idenstein  will  serve  you. 

Wer.  I will  follow 

In  all  things  your  direction. 

Ulr.  I would  have 

Spared  you  the  trouble  ; but  had  I appear’d 
To  take  an  interest  in  you,  and  still  more 
Bv  dabbling  with  a jewel  in  your  favour, 

All  had  been  known  at  once. 

Wer.  My  guardian  angel ! 

This  overpays  the  past.  But  how  wilt  thou 
Fare  in  our  absence  ? 

Ulr.  Stralenheim  knows  nothing 

Of  me  as  aught  of  kindred  with  yourself. 

I will  but  wait  a day  or  two  with  him 
To  lull  all  doubts,  and  then  rejoin  my  father. 

Wer.  To  part  no  more ! 

Ulr.  I know  not  that ; but  at 

The  least  we’ll  meet  again  once  more. 

Wer.  My  boy ! 

My  friend  ! my  only  child,  and  sole  preserver  ! 

Oh,  do  not  hate  me  ! 

Ulr.  Hate  my  father  ! 

Wer.  Ay, 

My  lather  hated  me.  Why  not  my  son  ? 

Ulr.  Your  father  knew  you  not  as  1 do. 

Wer.  Scorpions 

Are  in  thy  words  ! Tliou  know  me  ? in  this  guise 
Thou  canst  not  know  me,  I am  not  myself; 

Yet  (hate  me  not)  I will  be  soon. 

Ulr.  I’ll  wait ! 

In  tfie  mean  time  be  sure  that  all  a son 
Can  do  for  parents  shall  be  done  for  mine. 


Wer.  I see  it,  and  I feel  it ; yet  I fee. 

Further — that  you  despise  me. 

Ulr.  Wherefore  should  1 * 

Wer.  Must  I repeat  my  humiliation? 

Ulr.  _ No! 

I have  fathom’d  it  and  you.  But  let  us  talk 
Of  this  no  more.  Or  it  it  must  be  ever, 

Not  now.  Your  error  has  redoubled  all 
The  present  difficulties  of  our  house. 

At  secret  war  with  that  of  Stralenheim  : 

All  we  have  now  to  think  of  is  to  baffle 
Him.  I have  shown  one  way. 

Wer.  The  only  one, 

And  I embrace  it,  as  I did  my  son, 

Who  show’d  himself  saxd  father’s  safety  in 
One  day. 

Ulr.  You  shall  be  safe ; let  that  suffice. 

Would  Stralenheim’s  appearance  in  Bohemia 
Disturb  your  right,  or  mine,  if  once  we  were 
Admitted  to  our  lands  ? 

Wer.  Assuredly, 

Situate  as  we  are  now,  although  the  first 
Possessor  might,  as  usual,  prove  the  strongest. 
Especially  the  next  in  blood. 

Ulr.  Blood!  ’tis 

A word  of  many  meanings  ; in  the  veins, 

And  out  of  them,  it  is  a different  tiling — 

And  so  it  should  be,  when  the  same  in  bloos 
(As  it  is  call’d)  are  aliens  to  each  other, 

Like  Theban  brethren  : when  a part  is  bad, 

A few  spilt  ounces  purify  the  rest. 

Wer.  I do  not  apprehend  you. 

Ulr.  That  may  be — 

And  should,  perhaps — and  yet but  get  ye  ready ; 

You  and  my  mother  must  away  to-night. 

Here  comes  the  intendant : sound  him  with  the  gem 
’Twill  sink  into  his  venal  soul  like  lead 
Into  the  deep,  and  bring  up  slime  and  mud, 

And  ooze  too,  from  the  bottom,  as  the  lead  doth 
With  its  greased  understratum  ; but  no  less 
Will  serve  to  warn  our  vessels  through  these  shoals. 
The  freight  is  rich,  so  heave  the  line  in  time  ! 
Farewell ! I scarce  have  time,  but  yet  your  hand, 
My  father ! 

Wer.  Let  me  embrace  thee ! 

Ulr.  We  may  be 

Observed  : subdue  your  nature  to  the  hour  ! 

Keep  off  from  me  as  from  your  foe  ! 

Wer.  Accursed 

Be  he  who  is  the  stifling  cause  which  smothers 
The  best  and  sweetest  feeling  of  our  hearts  ; 

At  such  an  hour  too  ! 

Ulr.  Yes,  curse — it  will  ease  you  ! 

Here  is  the  intendant. 

Enter  Idenstein. 

Master  Idenstein, 

How  fare  you  in  your  purpose  ? Have  you  caught 
The  rogue  ? 

I den.  No,  faith  ! 

Ulr.  Well,  there  are  plenty  mere 

You  may  have  better  luck  another  chase. 

YVhere  is  the  baron  ? 

J den.  Gone  back  to  his  chamber  : 

And  now  I think  on’t,  asking  after  you 
With  nobly-born  impatience. 

Ulr.  Y’our  great  men 

Must  be  answer’d  on  the  instant,  as  the  bound 


KCENE  I. 


WERNER. 


3CI 


Of  tlie  stung  steed  replies  unto  the  spur : 

’Tis  well  they  have  horses,  too  ; for  if  they  had  not, 

1 fear  that  men  must  draw  their  chariots,  as 
They  say  kings  did  Sesostris. 

Men.  " Who  was  he  ? 

Ulr.  An  old  Bohemian — an  imperial  gipsy. 

Men.  A gipsy  or  Bohemian,  ’tis  the  same, 

For  they  pass  by  both  names.  And  was  he  one  ? 

Ulr.  I’ve  heard  so;  but  I must  take  leave.  In- 
tendant. 

Your  servant !— Werner  (to  Werner  slightly),  if  that 
be  your  name, 

Yours.  * [Exit  Ulric. 

Men.  A well-spoken,  pretty-faced  young  man ! 

And  prettily  behaved  ! He  knows  his  station, 

You  see,  sir  : how  he  gave  to  each  his  due 
Precedence ! 

JFer.  I perceived  it,  and  applaud 
His  just  discernment  and  your  own. 

Iden.  That’s  well — 

That ’s  very  well.  You  also  know  your  place,  too  ; 
And  yet  I don’t  know  that  I know  your  place. 

Wer.  (showing  the  ring).  Would  this  assist  your 
knowledge  ? 

Men.  How ! — What ! — Eh  ! 

A jewel ! 

JFer.  ’Tis  your  own  on  one  condition. 

Men.  Mine ! — Name  it ! 

JFer.  That  hereafter  you  permit  me 

At  thrice  its  value  to  redeem  it : ’tis 
A family  ring. 

Men.  A family ! — yours  ! — a gem  ! 

I’m  breathless! 

JFer.  You  must  also  furnish  me 

An  hour  ere  daybreak  with  all  means  to  quit 
This  place. 

Men.  But  is  it  real  ? Let  me  look  on  it : 
Diamond,  by  all  that’s  glorious  ! 

JFer.  Come,  I’ll  trust  you  : 

You  have  guess’d,  no  doubt,  that  I was  born  above 
My  present  seeming. 

Men.  I can’t  say  I did, 

Though  this  looks  like  it : this  is  the  true  breeding 
Of  gentle  blood. 

JFer.  I have  important  reasons 

For  wishing  to  continue  privily 
My  journey  hence. 

Men.  So  then  you  are  the  man 

Whom  Stralenheim’s  in  quest  of? 

JFer . I am  not ; 

But  being  taken  for  him  might  conduct 
So  much  embarrassment  to  me  just  now, 

And  to  the  baron’s  self  hereafter — ’tis 
To  spare  both  that  I would  avoid  all  bustle. 

Men.  Be  you  the  man  or  no,  ’tis  not  my  business; 
Besides,  I never  should  obtain  the  half 
From  this  proud,  niggardly  noble,  who  would  raise 
The  country  for  some  missing  bits  of  coin, 

And  never  offer  a precise  reward — 

But  this  ! — another  look  ! 

W °r-  _ Gaze  on  it  freely ; 

At  day-dawn  it  is  yours. 

Iden.  Oh,  thou  sweet  sparkler  ! 

Thou  more  than  stone  of  the  philosopher ! 

Tnou  touchstone  of  Philosophy  herself ! 

Thou  bright  eye  of  the  Mine  ! thou  loadstar  of 

The  soul  ! the  true  magnetic  Pole  to  which 

All  hearts  point  duly  north,  like  trembling  needles  ! 


Thou  flaming  Spirit  of  the  Earth  ! which,  sitting 
High  on  the  monarch’s  diadem,  attractest 
More  worship  than  the  majesty  who  sweats 
Beneath  the  crown  which  makes  his  head  ache,  like 
Millions  of  hearts  which  bleed  to  lend  it  lustre ! 

Shalt  thou  be  mine  ? I am,  methinks,  already 
A little  king,  a lucky  alchymist ! — 

A wise  magician,  who  has  bound  the  devil 
Without  the  forfeit  of  his  soul.  But  come, 

Werner,  or  what  else  ? 

JFer.  Call  me  Werner  still; 

You  may  yet  know  me  by  a loftier  title. 

Men.  I do  believe  in  thee  ! thou  art  the  spirit 
Of  whom  I long  have  dream’d  in  a low  garb 
But  come,  I’ll  serve  thee  ; thou  shalt  be  as  free 
As  air,  despite  the  waters  ; let  us  hence  : 

I’ll  show  thee  I am  honest — (oh,  thou  jewel !) 

Thou  shalt  be  furnish’d,  Werner,  with  such  means 
Of  flight,  that  if  thou  wert  a snail,  not  birds 
Should  overtake  thee.  Let  me  gaze  again ! 

I have  a foster  brother  in  the  mart 
Of  Hamburgh  skill’d  in  precious  stones.  How  many 
Carate  may  it  weigh  ? — Come,  Werner,  I will  wing 
thee.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Stralenheim’s  Chamber. 

Stralenheim  and  Fritz. 

Fritz.  All’s  ready,  my  good  lord  ! 

Stral.  I am  not  sleepy, 

And  yet  I must  to  bed ; I fain  would  say 
To  rest,  but  something  heavy  on  my  spirit, 

Too  dull  for  wakefulness,  too  quick  for  slumber, 

Sits  on  me  as  a cloud  along  the  sky, 

Which  will  not  let  the  sunbeams  through,  nor  yet 
Descend  in  rain  and  end,  but  spreads  itself 
’Twixt  earth  and  heaven,  like  envy  between  man 
And  man,  an  everlasting  mist ; — 1 will 
Unto  my  pillow. 

Fritz.  May  you  rest  there  well ! 

Stral.  I feel,  and  fear,  I shall. 

Fritz.  And  wherefore  fear  ? 

Stral.  I know  not  why,  and  therefore  do  fear  more, 

Because  an  undescribable but  ’tis 

All  folly.  Were  the  locks  (as  I desired) 

Changed,  to-day,  of  this  chamber  ? for  last  night’s 
Adventure  makes  it  needful. 

Fritz.  Certainly. 

According  to  your  order,  and  beneath 

The  inspection  of  myself  and  the  young  Saxon 

Who  saved  your  life.  I think  they  call  him  “Ulric.” 

Stral.  You  think  ! you  supercilious  slave  ! what  right 
Have  you  to  tax  your  memory,  which  should  be 
Quick,  proud,  and  happy  to  retain  the  name 
Of  him  who  saved  your  master,  as  a litany 
Whose  daily  repetition  marks  your  duty. — 

Get  hence  ! “ You  think ,”  indeed ! you  who  stood  still 

Howling  and  drippling  on  the  bank,  whilst  I 

Lay  dying,  and  the  stranger  dash’d  aside 

The  roaring  torrent  and  restored  me  to  [scarce 

Thank  him — and  despise  you.  “ You  think  /”  and 

Can  recollect  his  name ! I will  not  waste 

More  words  on  you.  Call  me  betimes. 

Fritz.  Good  night  ! 

I trust  to-morrow  will  restore  your  lordship 
To  renovated  strength  and  temper. 

[The  scene  closes. 

3 A 


362 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


act  rn 


SCENE  III. 

The  secret  Passage. 

Gabor  {solus).  Four — 

Five — six  hours  have  I counted,  like  the  guard 
Of  out-posts  on  the  never-merry  clock : 

That  hollow  tongue  of  time,  which,  even  when 
It  sounds  for  joy,  takes  something  from  enjoyment 
With  every  clang.  ’Tis  a perpetual  knell, 

Though  for  a marriage  feast  it  rings : each  stroke 
Peals  for  a hope  the  less  ; the  funeral  note 
Of  Love  deep-buried  without  resurrection 
In  the  grave  of  Possession ; while  the  knoll 
Of  long-lived  parents  finds  a jovial  echo 
To  triple  Time  in  the  son’s  ear. 

I’m  cold — 

I’m  dark  ; I’ve  blown  my  fingers — number’d  o’er 
And  o’er  my  steps — and  knock’d  my  head  against 
Some  fifty  buttresses — and  roused  the  rats 
And  bats  in  general  insurrection,  till 
Their  cursed  pattering  feet  and  whirling  wings 
Leave  me  scarce  hearing  for  another  sound. 

A light ! It  is  at  distance  (if -I  can 
Mea_sure  in  darkness  distance) : but  it  blinks 
As  through  a crevice  or  a key-hole,  in 
The  inhibited  direction  : I must  on, 

Nevertheless,  from  curiosity. 

A distant  lamp-light  is  an  incident 
In  such  a den  as  this.  Pray  Heaven  it  lead  me 
To  nothing  that  may  tempt  me  ! Else — Heaven  aid 
me 

To  obtain  or  to  escape  it ! Shining  still ! 

W ere  it  the  star  of  Lucifer  himself, 

Or  he  himself  girt  with  its  beams,  I could 
Contain  no  longer.  Softly ! mighty  well ! 

That  corner’s  turn’d — so — ah  ! no  ! — right ! it  draws 
Nearer.  Here  is  a darksome  angle — so, 

That’s  weather’d. — Let  me  pause. — Suppose  it  leads 
Into  some  greater  danger  than  that  which 
I have  escaped— no  matter,  ’tis  a new  one  ; 

And  novel  perils,  like  fresh  mistresses, 

Wear  more  magnetic  aspects  : I will  on, 

And  be  it  where  it  may — I have  my  dagger, 

Which  may  protect  me  at  a pinch. — Burn  still, 

Thou  little  light ! Thou  art  my  ignis  fatuus  ! 

My  stationary  Will-o’-the-wisp  ! — So  ! so  ! 

He  hears  my  invocation,  and  fails  not. 

[The  scene  closes. 

SCENE  IV. 

A Garden. 

Enter  Werner. 

Wer.  I could  not  sleep — and  now  the  hour’s  at  hand ; 
All’s  ready.  Idenstein  has  kept  his  word ; 

And  station’d  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 

Upon  the  forest’s  edge,  the  vehicle 
Awaits  us.  Now  the  dwindling  stars  begin 
To  pale  in  heaven ; and  for  the  last  time  ! 

Look  on  these  horrible  walls.  Oh  ! never,  never 
Shall  I forget  them.  Here  I came  most  poor, 

But  not  dishonour’d  : and  I leave  them  with 
A stain, — if  not  upon  my  name,  yet  in 
My  heart ! — a never-dying  canker-worm, 

Which  all  the  coming  splendour  of  the  lands, 

And  rights,  and  sovereignty  of  Siegendorf 
Can  scarcely  lull  a moment.  I must  find 


Some  means  of  restitution,  which  would  ease 
My  soul  in  part ; but  how  without  discovery  ? — 

It  must  be  clone,  however  ; and  I’ll  pause 
Upon  the  method  the  first  hour  of  safety. 

The  madness  of  my  misery  led  to  this 
Base  infamy ; repentance  must  retrieve  it : 

I will  have  nought  of  Stralenheim’s  upon 
My  spirit,  though  he  would  grasp  all  of  mine ; 

Lands,  freedom,  life, — and  yet  he  sleeps  as  soundly. 
Perhaps,  as  infancy,  with  gorgeous  curtains 
Spread  for  his  canopy,  o’er  silken  pillows, 

Such  as  when Hark ! what  noise  is  that  ? Again 

The  branches  shake ; and  some  loose  stones  have  fallen 
From  yonder  terrace. 

[Ulric  leaps  down  from,  the  ten  ace. 

Ulric  ! ever  welcome ! 
Thrice  welcome  now  ! this  filial 

Ulr.  Stop ! Before 

We  approach,  tell  me 

Wer.  Why  look  you  so  ? 

Ulr.  Do  I 

Behold  my  father,  or 

Wer.  What  ? 

Ulr.  An  assassin  ? 

Wer.  Insane  or  insolent ! 

Ulr.  Reply,  sir,  as 

You  prize  your  life,  or  mine  ! 

Wer.  To  what  must  1 

Answer  ? 

Ulr.  Are  you  or  are  you  not  the  assassin 
Of  Stralenheim  ? 

Wer.  I never  was  as  yet 

The  murderer  of  any  man.  What  mean  you  F 

Ulr.  Did  not  you  this  night  (as  the  night  before) 
Retrace  the  secret  passage  F Did  you  not 

Again  revisit  Stralenheim’s  chamber  ? and 

[Ulric  pauses 

Wer.  Proceed. 

Ulr.  Died  he  not  by  your  hand  ? 

Wer.  Great  God! 

Ulr.  You  are  innocent,  then ! my  father’s  innocent ! 
Embrace  me!  Yes, — your  tone  — your  look — yes, 
yes,— 

Yet  say  so. 

Wer.  If  I e’er,  in  heart  or  mind, 

Conceived  deliberately  such  a thought, 

But  rather  strove  to  trample  back  to  hell 

Such  thoughts — if  e’er  they  glared  a moment  through 

The  irritation  of  my  oppressed  spirit — 

May  heaven  be  shut  for  ever  from  my  hopes 
As  from  mine  eyes  ! 

Ulr.  But  Stralenheim  is  dead. 

Wer.  ’Tis  horrible  ! ’tis  hideous,  as  ’tis  hateful  !— 
But  what  have  I to  do  with  this  ? 

Ulr.  No  bolt 

Is  forced ; no  violence  can  be  detected, 

Save  on  his  body.  Part  of  his  own  household 
Have  been  alarm’d ; but  as  the  intendant  is 
Absent,  I took  upon  myself  the  care 
Of  mustering  the  police.  His  chamber  has, 

Past  doubt,  been  enter’d  secretly.  Excuse  me, 

If  nature 

Wer.  Oh,  my  boy  ! what  unknown  woo 

Of  dark  fatality,  like  clouds,  are  gathering 
Above  our  house ! 

Ulr.  My  father ! I acquit  you ! 

But  will  the  world  do  so  ? will  even  the  judges 
If -Bit  you  must  away  this  instant 


. SCENE  IV. 


WERNER. 


363 


Wer.  No ! 

I’ll  face  it.  Who  shall  dare  suspect  me? 

Ulr.  ' Yet 

You  had  no  guests — no  visitors— no  life 
Breathing  around  you,  save  my  mother’s  ? 

Wer.  K ' Ah! 

The  Hungarian ! 

Ulr.  He  is  gone  ! he  disappear’d 

Ere  sunset. 

Wer.  No  ; I hid  him  in  that  very 
Conceal’d  and  fatal  gallery. 

Ulr.  There  I’ll  find  him. 

[Uluic  is  going. 

Wer.  It  is  too  late  : he  had  left  the  palace  ere 
I quitted  it.  I found  the  secret  panel 
Open,  and  the  doors  which  led  from  that  hall 
Which  masks  it : I but  thought  he  had  snatch’d  the 
silent 

And  favourable  moment  to  escape 
The  myrmidons  of  Idenstein,  who  were 
Dogging  him  yester-even. 

Ulr.  You  reclosed 

The  panel  ? 

Wer.  Yes ; and  not  without  reproach 
vAnd  inner  trembling  for  the  avoided  peril) 

At  his  dull  heedlessness,  in  leaving  thus 
His  shelterer’s  asylum  to  the  risk 
Cf  a discovery. 

Ulr.  You  are  sure  you  closed  it  ? 

Wer.  Certain. 

Ulr.  That’s  well;  but  had  been  better,  if 

lou  ne’er  had  turn’d  it  to  a den  for [He  pauses. 

Wer.  Thieves ! 

Thou  wouldst  say  : I must  bear  it  and  deserve  it ; 

But  not 

Ulr.  No,  father;  do  not  speak  of  this  : 

This  is  no  hour  to  think  of  petty  crimes, 

But  to  prevent  the  consequence  of  great  ones. 

Why  would  you  shelter  this  man  ? 

Wer.  Could  I shun  it  ? 

A man  pursued  by  my  chief  foe ; disgraced 
Eor  my  own  crime  ; a victim  to  my  safety, 

Imploring  a few  hours’  concealment  from 
The  very  wretch  who  was  the  cause  he  needed 
Such  refuge.  Had  he  been  a wolf,  1 could  not 
Have  in  such  circumstances  thrust  him  forth. 

Ulr.  And  like  the  wolf  he  hath  repaid  you.  But 
It  is  too  late  to  ponder  thus  : — you  must 
Set  out  ere  dawn.  I will  remain  here  to 
Trace  the  murderer,  if  ’tis  possible. 

Wer.  But  this  my  sudden  flight  will  give  the  Moloch 
Suspicion  : two  new  victims  in  the  lieu 
Of  one,  if  I remain.  The  fled  Hungarian, 

Who  seems  the  culprit,  and 

Ulr.  Who  seems  ? Who  else 

Can  be  so  ? 

Wer.  Not  7,  though  just  now  you  doubted — 
You,  my  son  ! — doubted 

Ulr.  And  do  you  doubt  of  him 

The  fugitive  ? 

Wei . Boy ' since  I fell  into 

The  abyss  of  crime  (though  not  of  such  crime),  I, 
Having  seen  the  innocent  oppress’d  for  me, 

May  doubt  even  of  the  guilty’s  guilt.  Your  heart 
Is  free,  and  quick  with  virtuous  wrath  to  accuse 
Appearances  ; and  view?  a criminal 
In  Innocence’s  shadow,  it  may  be, 

Because  ’tis  dusky. 


Ulr.  And  if  I do  so, 

What  will  mankind,  who  know  you  not,  or  knew 
But  to  oppress  ? You  must  not  stand  the  hazard. 
Away  ! — I’ll  make  all  easy.  Idenstein 
Will  for  his  own  sake  and  his  jewel’s  hold 
His  peace — he  also  is  a partner  in 

Your  flight — moreover 

Wer.  Fly  ! and  leave  my  name 

Link’d  with  the  Hungarian’s,  or  preferr’d  as  poorest, 
To  bear  the  brand  of  bloodshed  ? 

Ulr.  Pshaw  ! leave  any  thing 

Except  our  father’s  sovereignty  and  castles, 

For  which  you  have  so  long  panted  and  in  vain ! 

What  name  ? You  have  no  name,  since  that  you  bear 
Is  feign’d. 

Wer.  Most  true  ; but  still  I would  not  have  it 
Engraved  in  crimson  in  men’s  memories, 

Though  in  this  most  obscure  abode  of  men 

Besides,  the  search 

Ulr.  I will  provide  against 

Aught  that  can  touch  you.  No  one  knows  you 
here 

As  heir  of  Siegendorf : if  Idenstein 
Suspects,  ’tis  but  suspicion , and  he  is 
A fool : his  folly  shall  have  such  employment, 

Too,  that  the  unknown  Werner  shall  give  wa 
To  nearer  thoughts  of  self.  The  laws  (if  e’er 
Laws  reach’d  this  village)  are  all  in  abeyance 
With  the  late  general  war  of  thirty  years, 

Or  crush’d,  or  rising  slowly  from  the  dust, 

To  which  the  march  of  armies  trampled  them. 
Stralenheim,  although  noble,  is  unheeded 
Here,  save  as  such — without  lands,  influence, 

Save  what  hath  perish’d  with  him.  Few  prolong 
A week  beyond  their  funeral  rites  their  sway 
O’er  men,  unless  by  relatives,  whose  interest 
Is  roused  : such  is  not  here  the  case ; he  died 
Alone,  unknown, — a solitary  grave, 

Obscure  as  his  deserts,  without  a scutcheon, 

Is  all  he’ll  have,  or  wants.  If  I discover 
The  assassin,  ’twill  be  well — if  not,  believe  me 
None  else  ; though  all  the  full-fed  train  of  menials 
May  howl  above  his  ashes  (as  they  did 
Around  him  in  his  danger  on  the  Oder), 

Will  no  more  stir  a finger  now  than  then. 

Hence  ! hence ! I must  not  hear  your  answer.- 
Look ! 

The  stars  are  almost  faded,  and  the  grey 
Begins  to  grizzle  the  black  hair  of  night. 

You  shall  not  answer : — Pardon  me  that  1 
Am  peremptory ; ’tis  your  son  that  speaks, 

Your  long-lost,  late-found  son. — Let’s  call  my  mo- 
ther ! 

Softly  and  swiftly  step,  and  leave  the  rest 
To  me  : I’ll  answer  for  the  event  as  far 
As  regards  you,  and  that  is  the  chief  point, 

As  my  first  duty,  which  shall  be  observed. 

We’ll  meet  in  Castle  Siegendorf — once  more 
Our  banners  shall  be  glorious  ! Think  of  that 
Alone,  and  leave  all  other  thoughts  to  me, 

Whose  youth  may  better  battle  with  them. — Elencc  ! 
And  may  your  age  be  happy  ! — I will  kiss 
My  mother  once  more,  then  Heaven’s  speed  be  witL 
you ! 

Wer.  This  counsel’s  safe— but  is  it  honourable? 

Ulr.  To  save  a father  is  a child’s  chief  honour. 

[UrrdrJ, 


364 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


[act  it 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

A Gothic  Hall  vi  the  Castle  of  Siegendorf  near 
Prague. 

Enter  Eric  and  Henrick,  Retainers  of  the  Count. 
Eric.  So,  better  times  are  come  at  last ; to  these 
Old  wjdls  new  masters  and  high  wassail — both 
A long  desideratum. 

Hen.  Yes,  for  masters , 

It  might  be  unto  those  who  long  for  novelty, 

Though  made  by  a new  grave  : but  as  for  wassail, 
Methinks  the  oid  Count  Siegendorf  maintain’d 
His  feudal  hospitality  as  high 
As  e’er  another  prince  of  the  empire. 

Eric.  Why, 

For  the  mere  cup  and  trencher,  we  no  doubt 
Fared  passing  well ; but  as  for  merriment 
And  sport,  without  which  salt  and  sauces  season 
The  cheer  but  scantily,  our  sizings  were 
Even  of  the  narrowest. 

Hen.  The  old  count  loved  not 

The  roar  of  revel ; are  you  sure  that  this  does  ? 

Eric.  As  yet  he  hath  been  courteous  as  lie’s  boun- 
teous, 

And  we  all  love  him. 

Hen.  His  reign  is  as  yet 

Hardly  a year  o’erpast  its  honeymoon, 

And  the  first  year  of  sovereigns  is  bridal : 

Anon,  we  shall  perceive  his  real  sway 
And  moods  of  mind. 

Eric.  Pray  Heaven  he  keep  the  present ! 

Then  his  brave  son,  Count  Ulric  —there’s  a knight ! 
Pity  t he  wars  are  o’er  ! 

Hen.  Why  so  ? 

Eric.  Look  on  him ! 

And  answer  that  yourself. 

Hen.  He’s  very  youthful, 

And  strong  and  beautiful  as  a young  tiger. 

Eric.  That’s  not  a faithful  vassal’s  likeness. 

Hen.  But 

Perhaps  a true  one. 

Eric.  Pity,  as  I said. 

The  wars  are  over  : in  the  hall,  who  like 
Count  Ulric  for  a well-supported  pride, 

Which  awes,  but  yet  offends  not  ? in  the  field, 

Who  like  him  with  his  spear  in  hand,  when,  gnashing 
His  tusks,  and  ripping  up  from  right  to  left 
The  howling  hounds,  the  boar  makes  for  the  thicket  ? 
Who  backs  a horse,  or  bears  a hawk,  or  wears 
A sword  like  him  ? Whose  plume  nods  knightlier  ? 

Hen.  No  one’s,  I grant  you.  Do  not  fear,  if  war 
Be  long  in  coming,  he  is  of  that  kind 
Will  make  it  for  himself,  if  he  hath  not 
Already  done  as  much. 

Eric.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Hen.  You  can’t  deny  his  train  of  followers 
(But  few  our  native  fellow  vassals  bora 
On  the  domain)  are  such  a sort  of  knaves 

As {Pauses.) 

Eric.  What  ? 

Hen.  The  war  (you  love  so  much)  leaves  Living. 
Like  other  parents,  she  spoils  her  worst  children. 

Eric.  Nonsense ! they  are  all  brave  iron-visaged 
fellows, 

Such  as  old  Till)  loved. 


Hen.  And  who  loved  Till}  ? 

Ask  that  at  Magdebourg — or  for  that  matter 

Wallenstein  either  ; — they  are  gone  to 

Eric.  Rest ; 

But  what  beyond  ’tis  not  ours  to  pronounce. 

Hen.  I wish  they  had  left  us  something  of  their  rest : 
The  country  (nominally  now  at  peace) 

Is  over-run  with — God  knows  who : they  fly 
By  night,  and  disappear  with  sunrise ; but 
Leave  us  no  less  desolation,  nay,  even  more, 

Than  the  most  open  warfare. 

Eric.  But  Count  Ulric — 

What  has  all  this  to  do  with  him  ? 

Hen.  With  him  ! 

He might  prevent  it.  As  you  say  lie’s  fond 

Of  war,  why  makes  he  it  not  on  those  marauders  ? 
Eric.  You’d  better  ask  himself. 

Hen.  I would  as  soon 

Ask  the  lion  why  he  laps  not  milk. 

Eric.  And  here  he  comes  ! 

Hen.  The  devil ! you’ll  hold  your  tongue ! 

Eric.  Why  do  you  turn  so  pale  ? 

Hen.  ’Tis  nothing  — but 

Be  silent. 

Eric.  I will,  upon  what  you  have  said. 

Hen.  I assure  you  I meant  nothing, — a mere  sport 
Of  words,  no  more  ; besides,  had  it  been  otherwise, 
He  is  to  espouse,  the  gentle  Baroness, 

Ida  of  Stralenheim,  the  late  baron’s  heiress ; 

And  she,  no  doubt,  will  soften  whatsoever 
Of  fierceness  the  late  long  intestine  wars 
Have  given  all  natures,  and  most  unto  those 
Who  were  born  in  them,  and  bred  up  upon 
The  knees  of  Homicide ; sprinkled,  as  it  were. 

With  blood  even  at  their  baptism.  Prithee,  peace 
On  all  that  I have  said ! 

Enter  Ulric  and  Rodolph. 

Good  morrow,  count. 

TJlr.  Good  morrow,  worthy  Henrick.  Eric,  is 
All  ready  for  the  chase  ? 

Eric.  The  dogs  are  order’d 

Down  to  the  forest,  and  the  vassals  out 
To  beat  the  bushes,  and  the  day  looks  promising. 

Shall  I call  forth  your  excellency’s  suite  ? 

What  courser  will  you  please  to  mount  ? 

TJlr.  The  dun, 

Walstein. 

Eric.  I fear  he  scarcely  has  recover’d 
The  toils  of  Monday  : ’twas  a noble  chase  : 

You  spear’d  four  with  your  own  hand. 

TJlr.  True,  good  Eric ; 

I had  forgotten— let  it  be  the  grey,  then,  _ 

Old  Ziska  : he  has  not  been  out  this  fortnight. 

Eric.  lie  shall  be  straight  caparison’d.  How  many 
Of  your  immediate  retainers  shall 
Escort  you  ? 

TJlr.  I leave  that  to  Weilburg,  our 
Master  of  the  horse.  [Exit  Eric. 

Rodolph ! 

Rod.  My  lord ! 

TJlr.  The  new? 

Is  awkward  from  the— (Rodolph  points  to  Henrick  ./ 
How  now,  Henrick  ? why 

Loiter  you  there  ? 

Hen.  For  your  commands,  my  lord. 

TJlr.  Go  to  my  father,  and  present  my  duty, 

And  learn  if  he  would  aught  with  me  before 


SCENE  I. 


WERNER.  . 


365 


1 mount.  Henrick. 

Rodolph,  our  friends  have  had  a check 
Upon  the  frontiers  of  Franconia,  and 
’Tis  rumour’d  that  the  column  sent  against  them 
Is  to  be  strengthen’d.  I must  join  them  soon. 

Rod.  Best  wait  for  further  and  more  sure  advices. 

Ulr.  I mean  it— and  indeed  it  could  not  well 
Have  fallen  out  at  a time  more  opposite 
To  all  my  plans. 

Rod.  * It  will  be  difficult 

To  excuse  your  absence  to  the  count  your  father. 

Ulr.  Yes,  but  the  unsettled  state  of  our  domain 
In  high  Silesia  will  permit  and  cover 
My  journey.  In  the  mean  time,  when  we  are 
Engaged  in  the  chase,  draw  off  the  eighty  men 
Whom  Wolffe  leads — keep  the  forests  on  your  route  : 
You  know  it  well  ? 

Rod.  As  well  as  on  that  night 

When  we 

Ulr.  We  will  not  speak  of  that  until 

We  can  repeat  the  same  with  like  success  : , 

And  when  you  have  join’d,  give  Rosenberg  this  letter. 

[ Gives  a letter. 

Add  further,  that  I have  sent  this  slight  addition 
To  our  force  with  you  and  Wolffe,  as  herald  of 
My  coming,  though  I could  but  spare  them  ill 
At  this  time,  as  my  father  loves  to  keep 
Full  numbers  of  retainers  round  the  castle, 

Until  this  marriage,  and  its  feasts  and  fooleries, 

Are  rung  out  with  its  peal  of  nuptial  nonsense. 

Rod.  I thought  you  loved  the  lady  Ida  ? 

Ulr.  Why, 

I do  so — but  it  follows  not  from  that 
I would  bind  in  my  youth  and  glorious  years, 

So  brief  and  burning,  with  a lady’s  zone, 

Although  ’twere  that  of  Venus  ; — but  I love  her. 

As  woman  should  be  loved,  fairly  and  solely. 

Rod.  And  constantly  ? 

Ulr.  I think  so  ; for  I love 

Nought  else. — But  I have  not  the  time  to  pause 
Upon  these  gewgaws  of  the  heart.  Great  things 
We  have  to  do  ere  long.  Speed ! speed ! good  Rodolph ! 

Rod.  On  my  return,  however,  I shall  find 
The  Baroness  Ida  lost  in  Countess  Siegendorf  ? 

Ulr.  Perhaps  my  father  wishes  it ; and  sooth 
’Tis  no  bad  policy  : this  union  with 
The  last  bud  of  the  rival  branch  at  once 
Unites  the  future  and  destroys  the  past. 

Rod.  Adieu. 

TJlr.  Yet  hold — we  had  better  keep  together 

Until  the  chase  begins  ; then  draw  thou  off, 

And  do  as  I have  said. 

Rod.  I will.  But  to 

Return — ’twas  a most  kind  act  in  the  count 
Your  father  to  send  up  to  Konigsberg 
For  this  fair  orphan  of  the  baron,  and 
To  hail  her  as  his  daughter. 

Ulr:  Wondrous  kind  ! 

Especially  as  little  kindness  till 
Then  grew  between  them. 

Rod.  The  late  baron  died 

Of  a fever,  did  he  not  ? 

Ulr.  How  should  I know  ? 

Rod.  I have  heard  it  whisper’d  there  was  something 
strange 


About  his  death — and  even  the  place  oi  .t 
Is  scarcely  known. 

Ulr.  Some  obscure  village  on 

The  Saxon  or  Silesian  frontier. 

Rod.  He 

Has  left  no  testament — no  farewell  words  ? 

Ulr.  I am  neither  confessor  nor  notary, 

So  cannot  say. 

Rod.  Ah  ! here’s  the  lady  Ida. 

Enter  Ida  Stralenheim.1 

Ulr.  You  are  early,  my  sweet  cousin  ! 

Ida.  Not  too  early, 

Hear  Ulric,  if  I do  not  interrupt  you. 

Why  do  you  call  me  “ cousin  I” 

JJlr.  {smiling,)  Are  we  not  so  ? 

Ida.  Yes,  but  I do  not  like  the  name;  metliinks 
It  sounds  so  cold,  as  if  you  thought  upon 
Our  pedigree,  and  only  weigh’d  our  blood. 

Ulr.  {starting?)  Blood ! 

Ida.  "Why  does  yours  start  from  your  cheeks  ? 

Ulr.  Ay  ! doth  it  ? 

Ida.  It  doth — but  no ! it  rushes  like  a torrent 
Even  to  your  brow  again. 

Ulr.  {recovering  himself?)  And  if  it  fled, 

It  only  was  because  your  presence  sent  it 

Back  to  my  heart,  which  beats  for  you,  sweet  eousiv' 

Ida.  “ Cousin”  again. 

Ulr.  Nay,  then  I’ll  call  you  sister. 

Ida.  I like  that  name  still  worse. — Would  we  had  ne’er 
Been  aught  of  kindred ! 

Ulr.  {gloomily?)  Would  we  never  had  ! 

Ida.  Oh  heavens  ! and  can  you  wish  that  ? 

Ulr.  Deadest  Ida ! 

Hid  I not  echo  your  own  wish  ? 

Ida.  Yes,  Ulric, 

But  then  I wish’d  it  not  with  such  a glance, 

And  scarce  knew  what  I said  ; but  let  me  be 
Sister,  or  cousin,  what  you  will,  so  that 
I still  to  you  am  something. 

Ulr.  You  shall  be 

All— all 

Ida.  And  you  to  me  are  so  already ; 

But  I can  wait ! 

Ulr.  Hear  Ida ! 

Ida.  Call  me  Ida, 

Your  Ida,  for  I would  be  yours,  none  else’s — 

Indeed  I have  none  else  left,  since  my  poor  father — 

[She  pauses. 

Ulr.  You  have  mine — you  have  me. 

Ida.  Hear  Ulric,  how  I wist 

My  father  could  but  view  my  happiness, 

Which  wants  but  this  ! 

Ulr.  Indeed ! 

Ida.  You  would  have  loved  him, 

He  you ; for  the  brave  ever  love  each  other  : 

His  manner  was  a little  cold,  his  spirit 

Proud  (as  is  birth’s  prerogative) ; but  under  [other ! 

This  grave  exterior -Would  you  had  known  each 

Had  such  as  you  been  near  him  on  his  journey, 

He  had  not  died  without  a friend  to  soothe 
His  last  and  lonely  moments. 

Ulr.  Who  says  that  I 

Ida.  What  ? 

Ulr.  That  he  died  alone. 


(1)  [Ida,  the  rew  personage,  is  a precocious  girl  of  fifteen,  in  a 
great  hurry  to  he  married  ; and  who  has  very  little  to  do  in  the 
business  of  the  play,  but  to  produce  an  effect  by  fainting  at  the 


discovery  of  the  villany  of  her  beloved,  and  partially  touching 
it  in  a previous  scene. — Eel. Rev.) 


366 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  if 


Ida.  The  general  rumour 

And  disappearance  ot  his  servants,  who 
Have  ne’er  return’d  : that  fever  was  most  deadly 
Which  swept  them  all  away. 

Ulr.  If  they  were  near  him. 

He  could  not  die  neglected  or  alone. 

Ida.  Alas  ! what  is  a menial  to  a deathbed, 

When  the  dim  eye  rolls  vainly  round  for  what 
It  loves  ? — They  say  he  died  of  a fever. 

TJlr.  Say! 

It  was  so. 

Ida.  I sometimes  dream  otherwise. 

TJlr.  All  dreams  are  false. 

Ida.  And  yet  I see  him  as 

I see  you. 

TJlr.  Where  I 

Ida.  In  sleep — I see  him  lie 

Pale,  bleeding,  and  a man  with  a raised  knife 
Beside  him. 

TJlr.  But  you  do  not  see  his  face  ? 

Ida.  { looking  at  him.)  No ! Oh,  my  God ! do  you  ? 

TJlr.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Ida.  Because  you  look  as  if  you  saw  a murderer  ! 

TJlr.  ( agitatedly .)  Ida,  this  is  mere  childishness; 
your  weakness 

Infects  me,  to  my  shame ; but  as  all  feelings 
Of  yours  are  common  to  me,  it  affects  me. 

Prithee,  sweet  child,  change 

Ida.  Child,  indeed ! I have 

■F ull  fifteen  summers  ! [A  bugle  sounds. 

Rod.  Hark,  my  lord,  the  bugle ! 

Ida.  {peevishly  to  Rodolph.)  Why  need  you  tell 
him  that  ? Can  he  not  hear  it 
Without  your  echo  ? 

Rod.  Pardon  me,  fair  baroness ! 

Ida.  I will  not  pardon  you,  unless  you  earn  it 
By  aiding  me  in  my  dissuasion  of 
Count  Ulric  from  the  chase  to-day. 

Rod.  You  will  not, 

Lady,  need  aid  of  mine. 

Ulr.  1 must  not  now 

Forego  it. 

Ida.  But  you  shall ! 

Ulr.  Shall! 

Ida.  Yes,  or  be 

No  true  knight. — Come,  dear  Ulric  ! yield  to  me 
In  this,  for  this  one  day : the  day  looks  heavy. 

And  you  are  turned  so  pale  and  ill. 

Ulr.  You  jest. 

Ida.  Indeed  I do  not : — ask  of  Rodolph. 

Rod.  Truly, 

My  lord,  within  this  quarter  of  an  hour 
You  have  changed  more  than  e’er  I saw  you  change 
In  years. 

TJlr.  ’Tis  nothing ; but  if  ’twere,  the  air 
Would  soon  restore  me.  I’m  the  true  chameleon, 
And  live  but  on  the  atmosphere  ; your  feasts 
In  castle  halls,  and  social  banquets,  nurse  not 
My  spirit — I’m  a forester  and  breather 
Of  the  steep  mountain-tops,  where  I lo-ve  al1 
The  eagle  loves. 

Ida.  Except  his  prey,  I hope. 

Ulr.  Sweet  Ida,  wish  me  a fair  chase,  and  1 
Will  bring  you  six  boars’  heads  for  trophies  home. 

Ida.  Ana  will  you  not  stay,  then  ? You  shall  not 
Come  ! I will  sing  to  you.  (go  ! 

Ulr.  Ida,  you  scarcely  ' 

Will  make  a soldier’s  wife. 


Ida.  I do  not  wisn 

To  be  so ; for  I trust  these  wars  are  over, 

And  you  will  live  in  peace  on  your  domains. 

Enter  Werner  as  Count  Siegendorf. 

Ulr.  My  father,  I salute  you,  and  it  grieves  me 
With  such  brief  greeting. — You  have  heard  oui  bugle; 
The  vassals  wait. 

Sieg.  So  let  them. — You  forget 

To-morrow  is  the  appointed  festival 
In  Prague  for  peace  restored.  You  are  apt  to  follow 
The  chase  with  such  an  ardour  as  will  scarce 
Permit  you  to  return  to-day,  or  if 
Return’d,  too  much  fatigued  to  join  to-morrow 
The  nobles  in  our  marshall’ d ranks. 

Ulr.  You,  count, 

Will  well  supply  the  place  of  both— I am  not 
A lover  of  these  pageantries. 

Sieg.  No,  Ulric : 

It  were  not  well  that  you  alone  of  all 
Our  young  nobility 

Ida.  And  far  the  noblest 

In  aspect  and  demeanour. 

Sieg.  {to  Ida.)  True,  dear  child, 

Though  somewhat  frankly  said  for  a fair  damsel. — 
But,  Ulric,  recollect  too  our  position, 

So  lately  reinstated  in  our  honours. 

Believe  me,  ’twould  be  mark’d  in  any  house, 

But  most  in  ours,  that  one  should  be  found  wanting 
At  such  a time  and  place.  Besides,  the  Heaven 
Which  gave  us  back  our  own,  in  the  same  moment 
It  spread  its  peace  o’er  all,  hath  double  claims 
On  us  for  thanksgiving : first,  for  our  country  ; 

And  next,  that  we  are  here  to  share  its  blessings. 

Ulr.  {aside.)  Devout,  too  ! Well,  sir,  I obey  at  once. 

{Then  aloud  to  a Servant.) 
Ludwig,  dismiss  the  train  without ! [Exit  Ludwig, 

Ida.  And  so 

lrou  yield  at  once  to  him  what  I for  hours 
Might  supplicate  in  vain. 

Sieg.  {smiling.)  , You  are  not  jealous 
Of  me,  I trust,  my  pretty  rebel ! who 
Would  sanction  disobedience  against  all 
Except  thyself?  But  fear  not ; thou  slialt  rule  him 
Hereafter  with  a fonder  sway  and  firmer. 

Ida.  But  I should  like  to  govern  now. 

Sieg.  You  shall, 

Your  harp,  which  by  the  way  awaits  you  with 
The  countess  in  her  chamber.  She  complains 
That  you  are  a sad  truant  to  your  music  : 

She  attends  you. 

Ida.  Then  good  morrow,  my  kind  kinsmen  ; 

Ulric,  you’ll  come  and  hear  me  ? 

Ulr.  By  and  by. 

Ida.  Be  sure  I’ll  sound  it  better  than  your  bugles ; 
Then  pray  you  be  as  punctual  to  its  notes : 

I’ll  play  you  King  Gustavus’  march. 

Ulr  And  why  not 

Old  Tilly’s? 

Ida.  Not  that  monster’s ! I should  think 
My  harp-strings  rang  with  groans,  and  not  with  music, 
Could  aught  of  his  sound  on  it but  come  quickly ; 
Your  mother  will  be  eager  to  receive  you.  [Exit 

Sieg.  Ulric,  I wish  to  speak  with  you  alone. 

Ulr.  My  time’s  your  vassal. 

{Aside  to  Rodolph.)  Rodolph,  hence  ! and  do 

As  I directed : and  by  his  best  speed 
And  readiest  means  let  Rosenberg  reply. 


SCENE  I. 


WERNER. 


Rod.  Count  Siegendorf,  command  you  aught  ? I 
am  bound 

Upon  a joui’uey  past  the  frontier. 

Sieg.  (starts.)  Ah  ! — 

Where  ? on  what  frontier  ? 

Rod.  The  Silesian,  on 

My  way — ( Aside  to  Ulric.) — Where  shall  I say  ? 

Ulr.  (aside  to  Rodolph.)  To  Hamburgh. 

(Aside  to  himself !)  That 
Word  will,  I think,  put  a firm  padlock  on 
His  further  inquisition. 

Rod.  Count,  to  Hamburgh. 

Sieg.  (agitated.)  Hamburgh ! No,  I have  nought 
to  do  there,  nor 

Am  aught  connected  with  that  city.  Then 
God  speed  you ! 

Rod.  Fare  ye  well,  Count  Siegendorf ! 

[Exit  Rodolph. 

Sieg.  Ulric,  this  man,  who  has  just  departed,  is 
One  of  those  strange  companions  whom  I fain 
Would  reason  with  you  on. 

Ulr.  My  lord,  he  is 

Noble  by  birth,  of  one  of  the  first  houses 
In  Saxony. 

Sieg.  I talk  not  of  his  birth, 

But  of  his  bearing.  Men  speak  lightly  of  him. 

Ulr.  So  they  will  do  of  most  men.  Even  the  monarch 
Is  not  fenced  from  his  chamberlain’s  slander,  or 
The  sneer  of  the  last  courtier  whom  he  has  n«ide 
Great  and  ungrateful. 

Sieg.  If  I must  be  plain, 

The  world  speaks  more  than  lightly  of  this  Rodolph  : 
They  say  he  is  leagued  with  the  “ black  bands”  who 
Ravage  the  frontier.  [still 

Ulr.  And  will  you  believe 

The  world  ? 

Sieg.  In  this  case — yes. 

Ulr.  In  any  case, 

I thought  you  knew  it  better  than  to  take 
An  accusation  for  a sentence. 

Sieg.  Son ! 

I understand  you ; you  refer  to but 

My  destiny  has  so  involved  about  me 

Her  spider  web,  that  I can  only  flutter 

Like  the  poor  fly,  but  break  it  not.  Take  heed, 

Ulric  ; you  have  seen  to  what  the  passions  led  me  : 
Twenty  long  years  of  misery  and  famine  [chance, 
Quench’d  them  not — twenty  thousand  more,  per- 
Hereafter  (or  even  here  in  moments  which 
Might  date  for  years,  did  Anguish  make  the  dial) 

May  not  obliterate  or  expiate 

The  madness  and  dishonour  of  an  instant. 

Ulric,  be  warn’d  bv  a father ! — I was  not 
By  mine,  and  you  behold  me  ! 
i Ulr.  I behold 

The  prosperous  and  beloved  Siegendorf, 

Lord  of  a prince’s  appanage,  and  honour’d 
By  those  he  rules  and  those  he  ranks  with. 

Sieg.  Ah  1 

Why  wilt  thou  call  me  prosperous,  while  I fear 
For  thee  ? Beloved,  when  thou  lovest  me  not ! 

All  hearts  but  one  may  beat  in  kindness  for  me — 

But  if  my  son’s  is  cola ! 

Ulr.  Who  dare  say  that  ? 

Sieg.  None  else  but  I,  who  see  it  —feel  it — keener 
Than  would  your  adversary,  who  dared  say  so, 

Your  sabre  in  his  heart ! But  mine  survives 
The  wound 


3fi7 

Ulr.  You  err.  My  nature  is  not  given 

To  outward  fondling : how  should  it  be  so, 

After  twelve  years’  divorcement  from  my  parents  ? 

Sieg.  And  did  not  I too  pass  those  twelve  tors 
years 

In  a like  absence  ? But  ’tis  vain  to  urge  you — 
Nature  was  never  call’d  back  by  remonstrance. 

Let’s  change  the  theme.  I wish  you  to  consider 
That  these  young  violent  nobles  of  high  name. 

But  dark  deeds  (ay,  the  darkest,  if  all  Rumour 
Reports  be  true),  with  whom  thou  consortest, 

Will  lead  thee 

Ulr.  ( impatiently .)  I’ll  be  led  by  no  man. 

Sieg.  Nor 

Be  leader  of  such,  I would  hope  : at  once 
To  wean  thee  from  the  perils  of  thy  youth 
And  haughty  spirit,  I have  thought  it  well 
That  thou  shouldst  wed  the  lady  Ida — more 
As  thou  appear’st  to  love  her. 

Ulr.  I have  said 

I will  obey  your  orders,  were  they  to 
Unite  with  Ilecate— can  a son  say  more  ? 

Sieg.  He  says  too  much  in  saying  this.  It  is  net 
The  nature  of  thine  age,  nor  of  thy  blood, 

Nor  of  thy  temperament,  to  talk  so  coolly, 

Or  act  so  carelessly,  in  that  which  is 

The  bloom  or  blight  of  all  men’s  happiness 

(For  Glory’s  pillow  is  but  restless  if 

Love  lay  not  down  his  cheek  there) : some  strong  biasj 

Some  master  fiend  is  in  thy  service  to 

Misrule  the  mortal  who  believes  him  slave, 

And  makes  his  every  thought  subservient ; else 
Thou’dst  say  at  once — “ I love  young  Ida,  ana 
Will  wed  her  or,  “I  love  her  not,  and  all 
The  powers  of  earth  shall  never  make  me.”— So 
Would  I have  answer’d. 

Ulr.  Sir,  you  wed  for  love. 

Sieg.  I did,  and  it  has  been  my  only  refuge 
In  many  miseries. 

Ulr.  Which  miseries 

Had  never  been  but  for  this  love-match. 

Sieg.  Still 

Against  your  age  and  nature ! Who  at  twenty 
E’er  answer’d  thus  till  now  ? 

Ulr.  Did  you  not  warn  me 

Against  your  own  example  ? 

Sieg.  Boyish  sophist ! 

In  a word,  do  you  love,  or  love  not,  Ida  ? 

Ulr.  What  matters  it,  if  I am  ready  to 
Obey  you  in  espousing  her  ? 

Sieg.  As  far 

As  you  feel,  nothing,  but  all  life  for  her. 

She’s  young— all  beautiful— adores  you — is 
Endow’d  with  qualities  to  give  happiness, 

Such  as  rounds  common  life  into  a dream 
Of  something  which  your  poets  cannot  paint. 

And  (if  it  were  not  wisdom  to  love  virtue) 

For  which  Philosophy  might  barter  Wisdom  ; 

And  giving  so  much  happiness,  deserves 
A little  in  return.  I would  not  have  her 
Break  her  heart  for  a man  who  has  none  to  break ; 

Or  wither  on  her  stalk  like  some  pale  rose 
Deserted  by  the  bird  she  thought  a nightingale, 
According  to  the  Orient  tale.  She  is— — 

Ulr.  The  daughter  of  dead  Stralenheim,  your  foe : 
I’ll  wed  her,  nevertheless ; though,  to  say  truth, 

Just  now  I am  not  violently  transported 
In  favour  of  such  unions. 


368 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  IV 


Sieg.  But  she  loves  you. 

Ulr,  And  I love  her,  and  therefore  would  think 
twice. 

Sieg.  Alas  ! Love  never  did  so. 

Ulr.  Then  ’tis  time 

He  should  begin,  and  take  the  bandage  from 
His  eyes,  and  look  before  he  leaps : till  now 
He  hath  ta’en  a jump  i’  the  dark. 

Sieg.  But  you  consent  ? 

Ulr.  I did,  and  do. 

Sieg.  Then  fix  the  day. 

Ulr.  ’Tis  usual. 

And  certes  courteous,  to  leave  that  to  the  lady. 

Sieg.  I will  engage  for  her. 

Ulr.  So  will  not  I 

Bor  any  woman;  and  as  what  I fix, 

I fain  would  see  unshaken,  when  she  gives 
Her  answer,  I’ll  give  mine. 

Sieg.  But  ’tis  your  office 

To  woo. 

Ulr.  Count,  ’tis  a marriage  of  your  making, 

So  be  it  of  your  wooing ; but  to  please  you 
I will  now  pay  my  duty  to  my  mother, 

With  whom,  you  know,  the  lady  Ida  is. — 

What  would  you  have  F You  have  forbid  my  stirring 
Bor  manly  sports  beyond  the  castle  walls, 

And  I obey ; you  bid  me  turn  a chamberer, 

To  pick  up  gloves,  and  fans,  and  knitting  needles, 
And  list  to  songs  and  tunes,  and  watch  for  smiles, 
And  smile  at  pretty  prattle,  and  look  into 
The  eyes  of  feminine,  as  though  they  were 
The  stars  receding  early  to  our  wish 
Upon  the  dawn  of  a world-winning  battle — 

What  can  a son  or  man  do  more  ? [Exit  Ulkic. 

Sieg.  (solus.)  Too  much ! — 

Too  much  of  duty,  and  too  little  love  ! 

He  pays  me  in  the  coin  he  owes  me  not : 

For  such  hath  been  my  wayward  fate,  I could  not 
Fulfil  a parent’s  duties  by  his  side 
Till  now  ; but  love  he  owes  me,  for  my  thoughts 
Ne’er  left  him,  nor  my  eyes  long’d  without  tears 
To  see  my  child  again,  and  now  I have  found  him ! 
But  how  ! — obedient,  but  with  coldness  ; duteous 
In  my  sight,  but  with  carelessness  ; mysterious — 
Abstracted — distant — much  given  to  long  absence, 
And  where — none  know — in  league  with  the  most 
riotous 

Of  our  young  nobles  ; though,  to  do  him  justice, 

He  never  stoops  down  to  their  vulgar  pleasures ; 

Yet  there’s  some  tie  between  them  which  I cannot 
Unravel.  They  look  up  to  him — consult  him — 
Throng  round  him  as  a leader  : but  with  me 
He  hath  no  confidence  ! Ah ! can  I hope  it 
After — what ! doth  my  father’s  curse  descend 
Even  to  my  child  ? Or  is  the  Hungarian  near 
To  shed  more  blood  ? or — Oh  ! if  it  should  be ! 

Spirit  of  Stralenheim,  dost  thou  walk  these  walls 
To  wither  him  and  his — who,  though  they  slew  not, 
Unlatch’d  the  door  of  death  for  thee?  ’Iwas  not 
Our  fault,  nor  is  our  sin  : thou  wert  our  foe, 

And  yet  I spared  thee  when  my  own  destruction 
Slept  with  thee,  to  awake  with  thine  awakening ! 

And  only  took — Accursed  gold  ! thou  liest 
Like  poison  in  my  hands ; I dare  not  use  thee, 

Nor  part  from  thee  ; thou  earnest  in  such  a guise, 
Alethinks  thou  wouldst  contaminate  all  hands 
Like  mine.  Yet  I have  done,  to  atone  for  thee 
Thou  villainous  gold  ! and  thy  dead  master’s  doom, 


Though  he  died  not  by  me  or  mine,  as  much 
As  if  he  were  my  brother ! I have  ta’en 
His  orphan  Ida — cherish’d  her  as  one 
Who  will  be  mine. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Atten.  The  abbot,  if  it  please 

Your  excellency,  whom  you  sent  for,  waiia 
Upon  you.  [Exit  Attendant, 

Enter  the  Prior  Albert. 

Prior.  Peace  be  with  these  walls,  and  all 
Within  them  ! 

Sieg.  Welcome,  welcome,  holy  father! 

And  may  thy  prayer  be  heard ! — all  men  have  need 
Of  such,  and  1 

Prior.  Have  the  first  claim  to  all 

The  prayers  of  our  community.  Our  convent, 
Erected  by  your  ancestors,  is  still 
Protected  by  their  children. 

Sieg.  _ Yes,  good  father ; 

Continue  daily  orisons  for  us 
In  these  dim  days  of  heresies  and  blood, 

Though  the  schismatic  Swede,  Gustavus,  is 
Gone  home. 

Prior.  To  the  endless  home  of  unbelievers, 
Where  there  is  everlasting  wail  and  woe, 

Gnashing  of  teeth,  and  tears  of  blood,  and  fire 
Eternal,  and  the  worm  which  dieth  not ! [one, 

Sieg.  True,  father  : and  to  avert  those  pangs  from 
Who,  though  of  our  most  faultless  holy  church, 

Yet  died  without  its  last  and  dearest  offices. 

Which  smooth  the  soul  through  purgatorial  pains, 

1 have  to  offer  humbly  this  donation 
In  masses  for  his  spirit. 

[Siegendorf  offers  the  gold  which  lie  /wed  takes, 
from  Stralenheim. 

Prior.  Count,  if  I 

Receive  it,  ’tis  because  I know  too  well 
Refusal  would  offend  you.  Be  assured 
The  largess  shall  be  only  dealt  in  alms, 

And  every  mass  no  less  sung  for  the  dead. 

Our  house  needs  no  donations,  thanks  to  yours. 
Which  has  of  old  endow’d  it ; but  from  you 
And  yours  in  all  meet  things  ’tis  fit  we  obey. 

For  whom  shall  mass  be  said  ? 

Sieg.  (faltering .)  For — for — the  dead. 

Prior.  His  name  ? 

Sieg.  ’Tis  from  a soul,  and  not  a name, 

I would  avert  perdition. 

Prior.  I meant  not 

To  pry  into  your  secret.  We  will  pray 
For  one  unknown,  the  same  as  for  the  proudest. 

Sieg.  Secret ! I have  none ; but,  father,  he.  who’s 
gone 

Might  have  one ; or,  in  short,  he  did  bequeath — 

No,  not  bequeath — but  I bestow  this  sum 
For  pious  purposes. 

Prior.  A proper  deed 

In  the  behalf  of  our  departed  friends. 

Sieg.  But  he  wh'v . gone  was  not  my  friend,  but  foe, 
The  deadliest  ana  the  stanchest. 

Prior.  Better  still : 

To  employ  our  means  to  obtain  heaven  for  the  souls 
Of  our  dead  enemies  is  worthy  those 
Y¥ho  can  forgive  them  living. 

Sieg.  But  I did  net 

Forgive  this  man.  I loathed  him  to  the  last. 


SCENE  I. 


WERNER. 


360 


As  he  did  me.  I do  not  love  him  now, 

But 

Prior.  Bes'i  ;f  all ! for  tliis  is  pure  religion! 

You  fain  would  rescue  him  you  hate  from  hell — 

An  evangelical  compassion — with 
Your  own  gold  too  ! 

Sieg.  Father,  ’tis  not  my  gold. 

Prior.  Whose  then  F You  said  it  was  no  legacy. 
S*eg.  No  matter  whose — of  this  be  sure,  that  he 
Who  own’d  it  never  more  will  need  it,  save 
In  that  whicli  it  may  purchase  from  your  altars  : 

’Tis  yours,  or  theirs. 

Prior.  Is  there  no  blood  upon  it  ? 

Sieg.  No;  but  there’s  worse  than  blood — eternal 
shame ! 

Prior.  Did  he  who  own’d  it  die  in  his  bed ? 

Sieg.  Alas ! 

He  did. 

Prior.  Son ! you  relapse  into  revenge, 

If  you  regret  your  enemy’s  bloodless  death. 

Sieg.  His  death  was  fathomlessly  deep  in  blood. 
Prior.  You  said  he  died  in  his  bed,  not  battle. 

Sieg.  He 

Died,  I scarce  knbw — but  — lie  was  stabb’d  i’  the 
dark, 

And  now  you  have  it — perish’d  on  his  pillow 
By  a cut-throat ! — Ay  ! — you  may  look  upon  me  ! 

I am  not  the  man.  t’ll  meet  your  eye  on  that  point, 
As  I can  one  day  God’s. 

Prior.  Nor  did  lie  die 

By  means,  or  men,  or  instrument  of  yours  ? 

Sieg.  No ! by  the  God  who  sees  and  strikes ! 

Prior.  Nor  know  you 

Who  slew  him  ? 

Sieg.  I could  only  guess  at  one, 

And  he  to  me  a stranger,  unconnected, 

As  unemploy’d.  Except  by  one  day’s  knowledge, 

L never  saw  the  man  who  was  suspected. 

Prior.  Then  you  are  free  from  guilt. 

Sieg.  ( eagerly .)  Oil ! am  I ? — say  ! 

Prior.  You  have  said  so,  and  know  best. 

Sieg.  Father!  I have  spoken 

The  truth,  and  nought  but  truth,  if  not  the  whole : 

Yet  say  I am  not  guilty ! for  the  blood 
Of  this  man  weighs  on  me,  as  if  I shed  it, 

Though,  by  the  Power  who  abhorreth  human  blood, 

I did  not ! — nay,  once  spared  it,  when  I might 
And  could — ay,  perhaps,  should  (if  our  self-safety 
Be  e’er  excusable  in  such  defences 
Against  the 'attacks  of  over-potent  foes) : 

But  pray  for  him,  for  me,  and  all  my  house ; 

For,  as  I said,  though  I be  innocent, 

I know  not  why,  a like  remorse  is  on  me, 

As  if  he  had  fallen  by  me  or  mine.  Pray  for  me, 
Father  ! I have  pray’d  myself  in  vain. 

Prior.  I will. 

Be  comforted ! You  are  innocent,  and  should 
Be  calm  as  innocence. 

Sieg.  But  calmness  is  not 

Always  the  attribute  of  innocence. 

I feel  it  is  not. 

Prior.  But  it  will  be  so, 

When  the  mind  gathers  up  its  truth  within  it. 
Remember  the  great  festival  to-morrow, 

In  which  you  rank  amidst  our  chiefest  nobles. 

As  well  as  vour  brave  son ; and  smooth  your  aspect ; 

Nor  in  the  general  orison  of  thanks 

For  bloodshed  stopt,  let  blood  you  shed  not  rise 


A cloud  upon  your  thoughts.  This  were  to  be 
Too  sensitive.  Take  comfort,  and  forget 
Such  things,  and  leave  remorse  unto  the  guilty. 

[ Exeunt . 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

A large  and  magnificent  Gothic  Hall  in  the  Castle  oj 
Siegendorf  decorated  with  Trophies,  Banners,  and 
Arms  of  that  Family. 

Enter  Arnheim  aud  Meister,  attendants  of  Cojjnt 
Siegendorf. 

Am.  Be  quick ! the  count  will  soon  return : the 
Already  are  at  the  portal.  Have  you  sent  [ladies 
The  messengers  in  search  of  him  he  seeks  for  ? 

Meis.  I have,  in  all  directions,  over  Prague, 

As  far  as  the  man’s  dress  and  figure  could 
By  your  description  track  him.  The  devil  take 
These  revels  and  processions  ! All  the  pleasure 
(If  such  there  be)  must  fall  to  the  spectators. 

I’m  sure  none  doth  to  us  who  make  the  show. 

Am.  Go  to ! my  lady  countess  comes. 

Meis.  I’d  rathei 

Ride  a day’s  hunting  on  an  outworn  jade, 

Than  follow  in  the  train  of  a great  man 
In  these  dull  pageantries. 

Am.  Begone  ! and  rail 

Within.  [ Exeunt . 

Enter  the  Countess  Josephine  Siegendorf  and  Ida 
Stralenheim. 

Jos.  Well,  Heaven  be  praised,  the  show  is  over! 
Ida.  How  can  you  say  so ! never  have  I dreamt 
Of  aught  so  beautiful.  The  flowers,  the  boughs, 

The  banners,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  knights, 

The  gems,  the  robes,  the  plumes,  the  happy  faces. 

The  coursers,  and  the  incense,  and  the  sun 
Streaming  through  the  stain’d  windows,  even  the  tombs , 
Which  look’d  so  calm,  and  the  celestial  hymns, 

Which  seem’d  as  if  they  rather  came  from  heaven 
Than  mounted  there.  The  bursting  organ’s  peal 
Rolling  on  high  like  an  harmonious  thunder ; 

The  white  robes  and  the  lifted  eyes ; the  world 
At  peace ! and  all  at  peace  with  one  another ! 

Oh,  my  sweet  mother  ! [ Embracing  Josephine 

Jos.  My  beloved  child  ! 

For  such,  I trust,  thou  shalt  be  shortly. 

Ida.  Oh ! 

I am  so  already.  Feel  how  my  heart  beats ! 

Jos.  It  does,  my  love ; and  never  may  it  throb 
With  aught  more  bitter. 

Ida.  Never  shall  it  do  so  ! 

How  should  it  ? What  should  make  us  grieve  ? I hate 
To  hear  of  sorrow  : how  can  we  be  sad, 

Who  love  each  other  so  entirely  ? You, 

The  count,  and  Ulric,  and  your  daughter  Ida. 

Jos.  Poor  child ! 

Ida.  Do  you  pity  me  ? 

Jos.  No ; I but 

And  that  in  sorrow,  not  in  the  world’s  senee 
Of  the  universal  vice,  if  one  vice  be 
More  general  than  another. 

Ida.  I’ll  not  hear 

A word  against  a world  which  still  contains 
You  and  my  Ulric  Did  you  ever  see 
3 B 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORK* 


ACT  ✓. 


370 


Aught  like  him  ? How  he  tower’d  amongst  them  all! 
How  all  eyes  follow’d  him  ! The  flowers  fell  faster — 
Rain’d  from  each  lattice  at  his  feet,  methought. 

Than  before  all  the  rest ; and  where  he  trod 
I dare  be  sworn  that  they  grow  still,  nor  e’er 
Will  wither. 

Jos.  You  will  spoil  him,  little  flatterer, 

[f  he  should  hear  you. 

Ida.  But  he  never  will. 

I dare  not  say  so  much  to  him — I fear  him. 

Jos.  Why  so  ? he  loves  you  well. 

Ida.  But  I can  never 

Shape  my  thoughts  o/Tiim  into  words  to  him. 

Besides,  he  sometimes  frightens  me. 

Jos.  How  so  ? 

Ida.  A cloud  comes  o’er  his  blue  eyes  suddenly, 

Yet  he  says  nothing. 

Jos.  It  is  nothing : all  men. 

Especially  in  these  dark  troublous  times, 

Have  much  to  think  of. 

Ida.  But  I cannot  think 

Of  aught  save  him. 

Jos.  Yet  there  are  other  men, 

In  the  world’s  eye,  as  goodly.  There’s,  for  instance, 
The  young  Count  Waldorf,  who  scarce  once  withdrew 
His  eyes  from  yours  to  day. 

Ida.  I.  did  not  see  him, 

But  Ulric.  Did  you  not  see  at  the  moment 
When  all  knelt,  and  I wept  ? and  yet  methought. 
Through  my  fast  tears,  though  they  were  thick  and 
I saw  him  smiling  on  me.  [warm, 

Jos.  I could  not 

See  aught  save  heaven,  to  which  my  eyes  were  raised 
Together  with  the  people’s. 

Ida.  I thought  too 

Of  heaven,  although  I look’d  on  Ulric. 

Jos.  Come, 

Let  us  retire ; they  will  be  here  anon 

Expectant  of  the  banquet.  We  will  lay 

Aside  these  nodding  plumes  and  dragging  trains.  • 

Ida.  And,  above  all,  these  stiff  and  heavy  jewels, 
Which  make  my  head  and  heart  ache,  as  both  throb 
Beneath  their  glitter  o’er  my  brow  and  zone. 

Dear  mother,  I am  with  you. 

Enter  Count  Siegendorf,  in  full  dress,  from  the 
solemnity,  and  Ludwig. 

Sieg.  Is  he  not  found  ? 

Lud.  Strict  search  is  making  every  where ; and  if 
The  man  be  in  Prague,  be  sure  he  will  be  found. 

Sieg.  Where’s  Ulric  ? 

Lud.  He  rode  round  the  other  way 

With  some  young  nobles  ; but  he  left  them  soon ; 
And,  if  I err  not,  not  a minute  since 
I heard  his  excellency,  with  his  train, 

Gallop  o’er  the  west  drawbridge. 

Enter  Ulric,  splendidly  dressed. 

Sieg.  {to  Ludwig.)  See  they  cease  not 

Their  quest  of  him  I have  described.  [Exit  Ludwig. 

Oh,  Ulric! 

How  have  I long’d  for  thee ! 

Jty.  Your  wish  is  granted — 

behold  me ! 

Sieg.  I have  seen  the  murderer. 

VI r.  Whom  ? Where  ? 

Sieg.  The  Hungarian,  who  slew  Stralenheim. 

Ulr.  You  dream. 


Sieg.  I live  ! and  as  I live,  I saw  him — 

Heard  him  ! he  dared  to  utter  even  my  name. 

Ulr.  What  name  ? 

Sieg.  Werner  ! Hwas  mine. 

Ulr.  It  must  be  so 

No  more  : forget  it. 

Sieg.  Never ! never  ! all 

My  destinies  were  woven  in  that  name  : 

It  will  be  not  engraved  upon  my  tomb, 

But  it  may  lead  me  there. 

Ulr.  To  the  point — the  Hungarian? 

Sieg.  Listen ! — The  church  was  throng’d  ; tho 
hymn  was  raised ; 

“ Te  Deum,”  peal’d  from  nations,  rather  than 
Erom  choirs,  in  one  great  cry  of  “ God  be  praised” 
Eor  one  day’s  peace,  after  thrice  ten  dread  years, 

Each  bloodier  than  the  former  : I arose, 

With  all  the  nobles,  and  as  I look’d^ down 
Along  the  lines  of  lifted  faces, — from 
Our  banner’d  and  escutcheon’ d gallery,  I 
Saw,  like  a flash  of  lightning  (for  I saw 
A moment  and  no  more),  what  struck  me  sightless 
To  all  else— the  Hungarian’s  face  ! % I grew 
Sick  ; and  when  I recover’d  from  the  mist 
Which  curl’d  about  my  senses,  and  again 
Look’d  down,  I saw  him  not.  The  thanksgiving 
Was  over,  and  we  march’d  back  in  procession. 

Ulr.  Continue. 

Sieg.  When  we  reach’d  the  Muldau’s  bridge, 

The  joyous  crowd  above,  the  numberless 
Barks  mann’d  with  revellers  in  their  best  garbs. 
Which  shot  along  the  glancing  tide  below, 

The  decorated  street,  the  long  array, 

The  clashing  music,  and  the  thundering 
Of  far  artillery,  which  seem’d  to  bid 
A long  and  loud  farewell  to  its  great  doings, 

The  standards  o’er  me,  and  the  tramplings  round, 

The  roar  of  rushing  thousands, — all — all  could  not 
Chase  this  man  from  my  mind,  although  my  senses 
No  longer  held  him  palpable. 

Ulr.  You  saw  him 

No  more,  then  ? 

Sieg.  I look’d,  as  a dying  soldier 

Looks  at  a draught  of  water,  for  this  man  : 

But  still  I saw  him  not ; but  in  his  stead 

Ulr.  What  in  his  stead  ? 

Sieg.  My  eye  for  ever  fell 

Upon  your  dancing  crest ; the  loftiest 
As  on  the  loftiest  and  the  loveliest  head 
It  rose  the  highest  of  the  stream  of  plumes, 

Which  overflow’d  the  glittering  streets  of  Prague. 

Ulr.  What’s  this  to  the  Hungarian  ? 

Sieg.  Much  ; for  I 

Had  almost  then  forgot  him  in  my  son ; 

When  just  as  the  artillery  ceased,  and  paused 
The  music,  and  the  crowd  embraced  in  lieu 
Of  shouting,  I heard  in  a deep,  low  voice. 

Distinct  and  keener  far  upon  my  ear 

Than  the  late  cannon’s  volume,  this  word — “ W ?rnet  U' 

Ulr.  Utter’d  by 

Sieg.  Him  ! I turn’d — and  saw — and  fell. 

Ulr.  And  wherefore  ? Were  you  seen? 

Sieg.  The  officious  caro 

Of  those  around  me  dragg’d  me  from  the  spot, 

Seeing  my  faintness,  ignorant  of  the  cause : 

You,  too,  were  too  remote  in  the  procession 
(The  old  nobles  being  divided  from  their  children) 

To  aid  me. 


SCENE  r. 


WERNER. 


371 


Ulr. 

Sieg. 


But  I’ll  aid  you  now. 


In  what  ? 


TJlt.  In  searching  for  this  man,  or- 


-When  he’s 


I know  not  that. 


He  gave  no  name. 


found 

What  shall  we  do  with  him  ? 

Sieg. 

Ulr.  Then  wherefore  seek  ? 

Sieg.  Because  I cannot  rest 

Till  he  is  found.  His  fate,  and  Stralenheim’s, 

And  ours,  seem  intertwisted  ! nor  can  be 
Unravel! d till 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Atten.  A stranger  to  wait  on 

Your  Excellency. 

Sieg.  Who  P 

Atten. 

Sieg.  Admit  him,  ne’ertheless. 

[ The  Attendant  introduces  Gabor,  and  after- 
wards exit. 

Ah! 

Gab.  ’Tis,  then,  Werner  ! 

Sieg.  ( haughtily .)  The  same  you  knew,  sir,  by  that 
name  ; and  you  ! 

Gab.  [ looking  round.)  I recognise  you  both : father 
and  son, 

It  seems.  Count,  I have  heard  that  you,  or  yours, 
Have  lately  been  in  search  of  me  : I am  here. 

Sieg.  I have  sought  you,  and  have  found  you : you 
are  charged 

(Your  own  heart  may  inform  you  why)  with  such 

A crime  as [He  pauses. 

Gab.  Give  it  utterance,  and  then 

I’ll  meet  the  consequences. 

Sieg.  You  shall  do  so— 

Unless 

Gab.  First,  who  accuses  me  ? 

Sieg.  All  things, 

If  not  all  men  : the  universal  rumour — 

My  own  presence  on  the  spot  — the  place  — the 
time — 

And  every  speck  of  circumstance  unite 
To  fix  the  blot  on  you. 

Gab.  And  on  me  only  ? 

Pause  ere  you  answer  : is  no  other  name, 

Save  mine,  stain’d  in  this  business  ? 

Sieg.  Trifling  villain ! 

Who  play’st  with  thine  own  guilt ! Of  all  that  breathe 
Thou  best  dost  know  the  innocence  of  him  [der. 
’Gainst  whom  thy  breath  would  blow  thy  bloody  slan- 
But  I will  talk  no  further  with  a wretch, 

Further  than  justice  asks.  Answer  at  once. 

And  without  quibbling,  to  my  charge. 

Gab.  ’Tis  false! 

Sieg.  Who  says  so  ? 

Gab.  I. 

Sieg.  And  how  disprove  it  ? 

Gab.  By 

The  presence  of  the  murderer. 

Sieg.  Name  him  ! 

Gab.  He 

May  have  more  names  than  one.  Your  lordship 
had  so 
Once  on  a time. 

Sieg.  If  you  mean  me,  I dare 

Your  utmost . 

Gab.  You  may  do  so,  and  in  safety  ! 

I know  the  assassin.  m 


Sieg.  W nere  is  he  P 

Gab.  [ pointing  to  Ulric.)  Beside  you  ! 

[Ulric  rushes  forward  to  attack  Gabor; 
Siegendorf  interposes. 

Sieg.  Liar  and  fiend ! but  you  shall  not  be  slain  ; 
These  walls  are  mine,  and  you  are  safe  within  them. 

[He  turns  to  Ulric. 

Ulric,  repel  this  cal-umny,  as  I 

Will  do.  I avow  it  is  a growth  so  monstrous, 

I could  not  deem  it  earth-born  : but  be  calm  ; 

It  will  refute  itself.  But  touch  him  not. 

[Ulric  endeavours  to  compose  himself. 
Gab.  Look  at  him,  count,  and  then  hear  me. 

Sieg.  [first  to  Gabor,  and  then  looking  at  Ulric.) 

I hear  thee. 

My  God  ! you  look 

Ulr.  How  ? 

Sieg.  As  on  that  dread  night 

When  we  met  in  the  garden. 

Ulr.  [ composes  himself.)  It  is  nothing. 

Gab.  Count,  you  are  bound  to  hear  me.  I came 
hither 

Not  seeking  you,  but  sought.  When  I knelt  down 
Amidst  the  people  in  the  church,  I dream’d  not 
To  find  the  beggar’d  Werner  in  the  seat 
Of  senators  and  princes  ; but  you  have  call’d  me, 

And  we  have  met. 

Sieg.  Go  on,  sir. 

Gab.  Ere  I do  so, 

Allow  me  to  inquire  who  profited 

By  Stralenheim’s  death  ? Was’t  I — as  poor  as  ever ; 

And  poorer  by  suspicion  on  my  name  ! 

The  baron  lost  in  that  last  outrage  neither 
Jewels  nor  gold ; his  life  alone  was  sought, 

A life  which  stood  between  the  claims  of  others 
To  honours  and  estates  scarce  less  than  princely. 

Sieg.  These  hints,  as  vague  as  vain,  attach  no  less 
To  me  than  to  my  son. 

Gab.  I can’t  help  that. 

But  let  the  consequence  alight  on  him 
Who  feels  himself  the  guilty  one  among  us. 

I speak  of  you,  Count  Siegendorf,  because 
I know  you  innocent,  and  deem  you  just. 

But  ere  I can  proceed — dare  you  protect  me  ? 

Bare  you  command  me  ? 

[Siegendorf  first  looks  at  the  Hungarian,  and 
then  at  Ulric,  who  has  unbuckled  his  sabre , and 
is  drawing  lines  with  it  on  the  Jloor — still  in  its 
sheath. 

Ulr.  ( looks  at  his  father  and  says) 

Let  the  man  go  on  ! 

Gab.  I am  unarm’d,  count — bid  your  son  lay  down 
His  sabre. 

Ulr.  [offers  it  to  him  contemptuously .) 

Take  it. 

Gab.  No,  sir,  ’tis  enough 

That  we  are  botli  unarm’d — I would  not  choose 
To  wear  a steel  which  may  be  stain’d  with  more 
Blood  than  came  there  in  battle. 

Ulr.  [casts  the  sabre  from  him  in  contempt .) 

It — or  some 

Such  other  weapon,  in  my  hands — spared  yours 
Once  when  disarm’d  and  at  my  mercy. 

Gab.  v Trap 

I have  not  forgotten  it  : you  spared  me  for 
Your  own  especial  purpose — to  sustain 
An  ignominy  not  my  own. 

Ulr.  Proceed. 


372 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  T. 


The  tale  is  doubtless  worthy  the  relater. 

But  is  it  of  my  father  to  hear  further  ? 

[To  SlEGENDORF. 

Sieg.  ( take & his  son  hy  the  hand .)  My  son  ! I know 
my  own  innocence,  and  doubt  not 
Of  yours — but  I have  promised  this  man  patience  ; 

Let  him  continue. 

Gab.  I will  not  detain  you 

By  speaking  of  myself  much  : I began 
Life  early — and  am  what  the  world  has  made  me. 

At  Frankfort  on  the  Oder,  where  I pass’d 
A winter  in  obscurity,  it  was 
My  chance  at  several  places  of  resort 
(Which  I frequented  sometimes,  but  not  often) 

To  hear  related  a strange  circumstance 
In  February  last.  A martial  force, 

Sent  by  the  state,  had,  after  strong  resistance. 

Secured  a band  of  desperate  men,  supposed 
Marauders  from  the  hostile  camp. — They  proved, 
However,  not  to  be  so — but  banditti, 

Whom  either  accident  or  enterprise 

Had  carried  from  their  usual  haunt  — the  forests 

Which  skirt  Bohemia — even  into  Lusatia. 

Many  amongst  them  were  reported  of 
High  rank — and  martial  law  slept  for  a time. 

At  last  they  were  escorted  o’er  the  frontiers, 

And  placed  beneath  the  civil  jurisdiction 
Of  the  free  town  of  Frankfort.  Of  their  fate, 

I know  no  more. 

Sieg.  And  what  is  this  to  Ulric  ? 

Gab.  Amongst  them  there  was  said  to  be  one  man 
Of  wonderful  endowments  : — birth  and  fortune, 

Youth,  strength,  and  beauty,  almost  superhuman, 

And  courage  as  unrivall’d,  were  proclaim’d 
His  by  the  public  rumour ; and  his  sw  ay, 

Not  only  over  his  associates,  but 
His  judges,  was  attributed  to  witchcraft. 

Such  was  his  influence  : — I have  no  great  faith 
In  any  magic  save  that  of  the  mine — 

I therefore  deem’d  him  wealthy. — But  my  soul 
Was  roused  with  various  feelings  to  seek  out 
This  prodigy,  if  only  to  behold  him. 

Sieg.  And  did  you  so  ? 

Gab.  You’ll  hear.  Chance  favour’d  me : 

A popular  affray  in  the  public  square 
Drew  crowds  together — it  was  one  of  those 
Occasions  where  men’s  souls  look  out  of  them, 

And  show  them  as  they  are — even  in  their  faces  : 

The  moment  my  eye  met  his,  I exclaim’d, 

“ This  is  the  man ! ” though  he  was  then,  as  since. 
With  the  nobles  of  the  city.  I felt  sure 
I had  not  err’d,  and  watch’d  him  long  and  nearly  ; 

I noted  down  his  form — his  gesture — features, 
Stature,  and  bearing — and  amidst  them  all, 

Midst  every  natural  and  acquired  distinction, 

I could  discern,  methought,  the  assassin’s  eye 
And  gladiator’s  heart. 

Ulr.  {smiting.)  The  tale  sounds  well. 

Gab.  And  may  sound  better. — He  appear’d  to  me 
One  of  those  beings  to  whom  Fortune  bends 
As  she  doth  to  the  daring — and  on  whom 
The  fates  of  others  oft  depend  ; besides. 

An  indescribable  sensation  drew  me 
Near  to  this  man,  as  if  my  point  of  fortune 
Was  to  be  fix’d  by  him. — There  I was  wrong. 

Sieg.  Ar.i  may  not  be  right  now. 

Gab.  I follow’d  him, 

Solicitoo  1l  notice — and  obtain’d  it — 


Though  not  his  friendship  : — it  was  his  ink  ntion 
To  leave  the  city  privately — we  left  it 
Together, — and  together  we  arrived 
In  the  poor  town  where  Werner  was  conceal’d. 

And  Stralenheim  was  succour’d Now  we  are  on 

The  verge — dare  you  hear  further  ? 

Sieg.  I must  do  so— 

Or  I have  heard  too  much. 

Gab.  I saw  in  you 

A man  above  his  station — and  if  not 
So  high,  as  now  I find  you,  in  my  then 
Conceptions,  ’twas  that  I had  rarely  seen 
Men  such  as  you  appear’d  in  height  of  mind 
In  the  most  high  of  worldly  rank ; you  were 
Poor,  even  to  all  save  rags : I would  have  shared 
My  purse,  though  slender,  with  you— you  refused  it. 

Sieg.  Doth  my  refusal  make  a debt  to  you, 

That  thus  you  urge  it  ? 

Gab.  Still  you  owe  me  something 

Though  not  for  that ; and  I owed  you  my  safety. 

At  least  my  seeming  safety,  when  the  slaves 
Of  Stralenheim  pursued  me  on  the  grounds 
That  I had  robb’d  him. 

Sieg.  I conceal’d  you — I, 

Whom  and  whose  house  you  arraign,  reviving  viper  ! 

Gab.  I accuse  no  man — save  in  my  defence. 

You,  count,  have  made  yourself  accuser— judge  : 
Your  hall’s  my  court,  your  heart  is  my  tribunal. 

Be  just,  and  i ’ll  be  merciful ! 

Sieg.  You  merciful ! — 

You  ! Base  calumniator  ! 

Gab.  I.  ’Twill  rest 

With  me  at  last  to  be  so.  You  conceal’d  me — 

In  secret  passages  known  to  yourself, 

You  said,  and  to  none  else.  At  dead  of  night, 

Weary  with  watching  in  the  dark,  and  dubious 
Of  tracing  back  my  way,  I saw  a glimmer. 

Through  distant  crannies,  of  a twinkling  light : 

I follow’d  it,  and  reach’d  a door — a secret 
Portal — which  open’d  to  the  chamber,  where, 

With  cautious  hand  and  slow,  having  first  undone 
As  much  as  made  a crevice  of  the  fastening, 

I look’d  through  and  beheld  a purple  bed, 

And  on  it  Stralenheim  ! — 

Sieg.  Asleep ! And  yet 

You  slew  him  ! — Wretch  ! 

Gab.  He  was  already  slam 

And  bleeding  like  a sacrifice.  My  own 
Blood  became  ice. 

Sieg.  But  He  was  all  alone ! 

You  saw  none  eise  ? You  did  not  see  the 

[He  pauses  from  agitation. 

Gab.  No, 

He,  whom  you  dare  not  name,  nor  even  I 
Scarce  dare  to  recollect,  was  not  then  in 
The  chamber.  [still— 

Sieg.  {to  Ulric.)  Then,  my  boy  ! thou  art  guiltless 
Thou  bad’st  me  say  I was  so  once — Oh ! now 
Do  thou  as  much  ! 

Gab.  Be  patient ! I can  not 

Recede  now,  though  it  shake  the  very  walls 
Which  frown  above  us.  You  remember, — or 
If  not,  your  son  does,— that  the  locks  were  changed 
Beneath  his  chief  inspection  on  the  morn 
Which  led  to  this  same  night : how  he  had  enter’d 
He  best  knows — but  within  an  antechamber. 

The  door  of  which  was  half  ajar,  I saw 
A man  who  wash’d  his  bloody  hands,  and  oft 


SCENE  I. 


WERNER. 


373 


With  stern  and  anxious  glance  gazed  back  upon 
The  bleeding  body — but  it  moved  no  more. 

Sieg.  Oh ! God  of  fathers ! 

Gab.  I beheld  bis  features 

As  I see  yours— but  yours  they  were  not,  though 
Resembling  them — behold  them  in  Count  Ulric’s  ! 
Distinct,  as  I beheld  them,  though  the  expression 
Is  not  now  what  it  then  was  but  it  was  so 
When  I first  charged  him  with  the  crime  — so  lately. 

Sieg.  This  is  so [the  end  ! 

Gab.  ( interrupting  him.)  Nay — but  hear  me  to 
Note  you  must  do  so— I conceived  myself 
Betray’d  by  you  and  him  (for  now  I saw 
There  was  some  tie  between  you)  into  this 
Pretended  den  of  refuge,  to  become 
The  victim  of  your  guilt ; and  my  first  thought 
Was  vengeance:  but  though  arm’d  with  a short  poniard 
(Having  left  my  sword  without)  I was  no  match 
For  him  at  any  time,  as  had  been  proved 
That  morning — either  in  address  or  force. 

I turn’d,  and  fled — i’  the  dark  : chance  rather  than 
Skill  made  me  gain  the  secret  door  of  the  hall, 

And  thence  the  chamber  where  you  slept : if  I 
Had  found  you  waking , Heaven  alone  can  tell 
What  vengeance  and  suspicion  might  have  prompted ; 
But  ne’er  slept  guilt  as  Werner  slept  that  night. 

Sieg.  And  yet  I had  horrid  dreams ! and  such  brief 
The  stars  had  not  gone  down  when  I awoke,  [sleep, 
Wl'.y  didst  thou  spare  me  ? I dreamt  of  my  father-  — 
And  now  my  dream  is  out ! 

Gab.  ’Tis  not  my  fault, 

If  I have  read  it. — Well ! I fled  and  hid  me — 

Chance  led  me  here  after  so  many  moons — 

And  showed  me  Werner  in  Count  Siegendorf  ! 

Werner,  whom  I had  sought  in  huts  in  vain, 

I nhabited  the  palace  of  a sovereign  ! , 

You  sought  me  and  have  found  me — now  you  know 
My  secret,  and  may  weigh  its  worth. 

Sieg.  {after  a pause.)  Indeed  ! 

Gab.  Is  it  revenge  or  justice  which  inspires 
Your  meditation  ? 

Sieg.  Neither — I was  weighing 

The  value  of  your  secret. 

Gab.  You  shall  know  it 

At  once : — When  you  were  poor,  and  I,  though  poor. 
Rich  enough  to  relieve  such  poverty 
As  might  have  envied  mine,  I offer’d  you 
My  purse — you  would  not  share  it : — I’ll  be  franker 
With  you:  you  are  wealthy, -noble,  trusted  by 
The  imperial  powers — you  understand  me  ? 

Sieg.  Yes. 

Gab.  Not  quite.  You  think  me  venal,  and  scarce 
*Tis  no  less  true,  however,  that  my  fortunes  [true  : 
Have  made  me  both  at  present.  You  shall  aid  me ; 

I would  have  aided  you — and  also  have 

Been  somewhat  damaged  in  my  name  to  save 

Yours  and  your  son’s.  Weigh  well  what  I have  said. 

Sieg.  Dare  you  await  the  event  of  a few  minutes’ 
Deliberation  ? 

Gab.  (casts  his  eyes  on  Ulric,  who  is  leaning  against 
€i  pillar .)  If  I should  do  so  ? 

Sieg.  I pledge  my  life  for  yours.  Withdraw  into 
This  tower.  [ Opens  a turret  door. 

Gab.  (hesitat'n  gly.)  This  is  the  second  safe  asylum 
You  have  offer’d  me. 


Sieg.  And  was  not  the  first  so  ? 

Gab.  I icnow  not  that  even  now — but  will  approve 
The  second.  I have  still  a further  shield. — 

I did  not  enter  Prague  alone  ; and  should  I 
Be  put  to  rest  with  Stralenheim,  there  are 
Some  tongues  without  will  wag  in  my  behalf. 

Be  brief  in  your  decision ! 1 

Sieg.  I will  be  so. — 

My  word  is  sacred  and  irrevocable 
Within  these  walls,  but  it  extends  no  further. 

Gab  I’ll  take  it  for  so  much. 

Sieg.  ( points  to  Ulric’s  sabre  still  upon  the  ground .) 

Take  also  that — 

I saw  you  eye  it  eagerly,  and  him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab.  (takes  up  the  sabre.)  I will ; and  so  provide 
To  sell  my  life — not  cheaply. 

[Gabor  goes  into  the  turret , which  Siegendorf 
closes. 

Sieg.  (advances  to  Ulric.)  Now,  Count  Ulric  ! 

For  son  I dare  not  call  thee — What  say’st  thou  ? 

TJlr.  His  tale  is  true. 

Sieg.  True,  monster ! 

TJlr.  Most  true,  father  ! 

And  you  did  well  to  listen  to  it : what 
We  know,  we  can  provide  against.  He  must 
Be  silenced. 

Sieg.  Ay,  with  half  of  my  domains  ; 

And  with  the  other  half,  could  he  and  thou 
Unsay  this  villany. 

TJlr.  It  is  no  time 

For  trifling  or  dissembling.  I have  said 
His  story’s  true ; and  lie  too  must  be  silenced. 

Sieg.  How  so  ? 

TJlr.  As  Stralenheim  is.  Are  you  so  d ill 

As  never  to  have  hit  on  this  before  ? 

When  we  met  in  the  garden,  what  except 
Discovery  in  the  act  could  make  me  know 
His  death  ? Or  had  the  prince’s  household  been 
Then  summon’d,  would  the  cry  for  the  police 
Been  left  to  such  a stranger  ? Or  should  I 
Have  loiter’d  on  the  way  ? Or  could  you , Werner, 
The  object  of  the  baron’s  hate  and  fears, 

Have  fled,  unless  by  many  an  hour  before 
Suspicion  woke  ? I sought  and  fathom’d  you, 
Doubting  if  you  were  false  or  feeble  : I 
Perceived  you  were  the  latter ; and  yet  so 
Confiding  have  I found  you,  that  I doubted 
At  times  your  weakness. 

Sieg.  Parricide  ! no  less 

Than  common  stabber ! What  deed  of  my  life. 

Or  thought  of  mine,  could  make  you  deem  me  tit 
For  your  accomplice  ? 

TJlr.  Father,  do  not  raise 

The  devil  you  cannot  lay  between  us.  This 
Is  time  for  union  and  for  action,  not 
For  family  disputes.  While  you  were  tortured. 

Could  I be  calm  ? Think  you  that  I have  heard 
This  fellow’s  tale  without  some  feeling  ? — You 
Have  taught  me  feeling  for  you  and  myself : 

For  whom  or  what  else  did  you  ever  teach  it  F 

Sieg.  Oli ! my  dead  father’s  curse  ! ’tis  working  now. 

TJlr.  Let  it  work  on ! the  grave  will  keep  it  down ! 
Ashes  are  feeble  foes  : it  is  more  easy 
To  baffle  such,  than  countermine  a mole, 


fl)  ["Gab.  I have  yet  an  additional  security — I did  not  enter 
Prague  a solitary  individual  ; and  there  are  tongues  without  that 
will  speak  forme,  although  I should  even  share  thi  fate  of  Straien- 


heim»  Let  your  deliberation  be  short.”— “ Sieg.  My  promise  if 
solemn,  sacred,  irrevocable  : it  extends  not,  however,  beyond  iho** 
walls.” — Lee.] 


uORT)  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ACT  V. 


374 

Which  winds  its  blind  but  living  path  beneath  you. 
Yet  hear  me  still ! — If  you  condemn  me,  yet 
Remember  who  hath  taught  me  once  too  often 
To  listen  to  him  ! Who  proclaim’d  to  me 
That  there  were  crimes  made  venial  by  the  occasion  ? 
That  passion  was  our  nature  ? that  the  goods 
Of  Heaven  waited  on  the  goods  of  fortune  ? 

Who  show’d  me  his  humanity  secured 

By  his  nerves  only  F Who  deprived  me  of 

All  power  to  vindicate  myself  and  race 

In  open  day  ? By  his  disgrace  which  stamp’d 

(It  might  be)  bastardy  on  me,  and  on 

Himself — a felon's  brand  ! The  man  who  is 

At  once  both  warm  and  weak  invites  to  deeds 

He  longs  to  do,  but  dare  not.  Is  it  strange  [done 

That  I should  act  what  you  could  think  ? We  have 

With  right  and  wrong  ; and.  now  must  only  ponder 

Upon  effects,  not  causes.  Stralenheim, 

Whose  life  I saved  from  impulse,  as,  unknown , 

I would  have  saved  a peasant’s  or  a dog’s,  I slew 
Known  as  our  foe  — but  not  from  vengeance.  He 
Was  a rock  in  our  way  which  I cut  through, 

As  doth  the  bolt,  because  it  stood  between  us 
And  our  true  destination — but  not  idly. 

As  stranger  I preserved  him,  and  he  owed  me 
His  life : when  due,  I but  resumed  the  debt. 

He,  you,  and  I stood  o’er  a gulf  wherein 
I have  plunged  our  enemy.  You  kindled  first 
The  torch — -you  show’d  the  path ; now  trace  me  that 
Of  safety — or  let  me ! 

Sieg.  I have  done  with  life  ! 

Ulr.  Let  us  have  done  with  that  which  cankers 
life — 

Familiar  feuds  and  vain  recriminations 
Of  things  which  cannot  be  undone.  We  have 
No  more  to  learn  or  hide  : I know  no  fear, 

And  have  within  these  very  walls  men  who  [things. 
(Although  you  know  them  not)  dare  venture  all 
You  stand  high  with  the  state ; what  passes  here 
Will  not  excite  her  too  great  curiosity  : 

Keep  your  own  secret,  keep  a steady  eye, 

Stir  not,  and  speak  not ; — leave  the  rest  to  me : 

We  must  have  no  third  babblers  thrust  between  us. 

[Exit  Ulric. 

Sieg.  (solus.)  Am  I awake  ? are  these  my  father’s 
halls  ? 

And  yon — my  son  ? My  son ! mine  ! who  have  ever 
Abhorr’d  both  mystery  and  blood,  and  yet 
Am  plunged  into  the  deepest  hell  of  both  ! 

I must  be  speedy,  or  more  will  be  shed — ■ 

The  Hungarian’s  ! — Ulric — he  hath  partisans, 

It  seems  : I might  have  guess’d  as  much.  Oh  fool ! 
Wolves  prowl  in  company.  He  hath  the  key 
(As  I too)  of  the  opposite  door  which  leads 
Into  the  turret.  Now  then  ! or  once  more 
To  be  the  father  of  fresh  crimes,  no  less 
Than  of  the  criminal ! Ho  ! Gabor  ! Gabor  ! 

[Exit  into  the  turret , closing  the  door  after  him. 

SCENE  II. 

The  Interior  of  the  Turret . 

Gabor  and  Siegendorf. 

Gab.  Who  calls  ? 

Sieg.  I — Siegendorf ! Take  these,  and  fly  ! 

Lose  not  a moment ! 

[Tears  off  a diamond  star  and  other  jewels,  and 
thrusts  them  into  Gabor’s  hand. 


Gab.  What  am  I to  do 

With  these  ? 

Sieg.  Wltat.e’er  you  will:  sell  them,  or  hoot  * 
And  prosper ; but  delay  not,  or  you  are  lost ! 

Gab.  You  pledged  your  honour  for  my  safety 
Sieg.  _ ' And 

Must  thus  redeem  it.  Fly  ! I am  not  master. 

It  seems,  of  my  own  castle — of  my  own 
Retainers — nay,  even  of  these  very  walls, 

Or  I would  bid  them  fail  and  crush  me  ! Fly  ! 

Or  you  will  be  slain  by , 

Gab.  Is  it  even  so  ? 

Farewell,  then ! Recollect,  however,  Count, 

You  sought  this  fatal  interview  ! 

Sieg.  I did : 

Let  it  not  be  more  fatal  still! — Begone! 

Gab.  By  the  same  path  I enter’d  ? 

Sieg.  < Yes,;  that’s  safe  stiff. 

But  loiter  not  in  Prague  ; — you  do  not  know 
With  whom  you  have  to  deal. 

Gab.  I know  too  well — 

And  knew  it  ere  yourself,  unhappy  sire ! 

Farewell ! [Exit  Gabor. 

Sieg.  (solus  and  listening .)  He  hath  clear’d  the 
staircase.  All ! 1 hear 

The  door  sound  loud  behind  him  ! He  is  safe  ! 

Safe  ! — Oh,  my  father’s  spirit ! — I am  faint 

[He  leans  down  upon  a stone  seat , near  the  wall 
of  the  tower,  in  a drooping  posture. 

Enter  Ulric,  with  others  armed,  and  with  weapons 
drawn. 

Ulr.  Despatch ! — he’s  there  ! 

hud.  The  count,  my  lord  . 

Ulr.  (recognising  Siegendorf.)  You  here,  sir  ! 

Sieg.  Yes  : if  you  want  another  victim,  strike  ! 

Ulr.  (seeing  hint  stript  of  his  jewels .)  Where  is  the 
ruffian  who  hath  plunder’d  you? 

Vassals,  despatch  in  search  of  him  ! You  see 
’Twas  as  I said — the  wretch  hath  stript  my  father 
Of  jewels  which  might  form  a prince’s  heir-loom  ! 
Away  ! I’ll  follow  you  forthwith. 

[Exeunt  all'but  Siegendorf  and  Ulric. 

What’s  this  ? 

Where  is  the  villain  ? 

Sieg.  There  are  two,  sir : which 

Are  you  in  quest  of  ? 

Ulr.  Let  us  hear  no  more 

Of  this  : he  must  be  found.  You  have  not  let  him 
Escape  ? 

Sieg.  He’s  gone. 

Ulr.  With  your  connivance  ? 

Sieg.  With 

My  fullest,  freest  aid. 

Ulr.  Then  fare  you  well ! 

[Ulric  is  going. 

Sieg.  Stop!  I command— entreat — implore!  On, 

' Ulric ! 

Will  you  then  leave  me  ? 

Ulr.  What ! remain  to  be 

Denounced — dragg’d,  it  may  be,  in  chains  ; and  all 
By  your  inherent  weakness,  half-humanity, 

Selfish  remorse,  and  temporizing  pity, 

That  sacrifices  your  whole  race  to  save 
A wretch  to  profit  by  our  ruin ! No,  count, 
Henceforth  you  have  no  son ! 

Sieg.  I never  had  one ; 

And  would  you  ne’er  bad  borne  the  useless  name  ! 


SCENE 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


375 


Where  will  you  go  ? I would  not  send  you  forth 
Without  protection. 

Ulr%  Leave  that  unto  me. 

I am  not  alone  ; nor  merely  the  vain  heir 
Of  your  domains  ; a thousand,  ay,  ten  thousand 
Swords,  hearts,  and  hands,  are  mine. 

$ieqm  The  foresters  ! 

With  whom  the  Hungarian  found  you  first  at  Frank- 
fort ! [Go  tell 

Ulr.  Yes — men — who  are  worthy  of  the  name! 
Your  senators  that  they  look  well  to  Prague  ; 

Their  feast  of  peace  was  early  for  the  times  ; 

There  are  more  spirits  abroad  than  have  been  laid 
With  Wallenstein ! 

Enter  Josephine  and  Ida. 

Jos.  What  is’t  we  hear  ? My  Siegendorf ! 

Thank  Heav’n,  I see  you  safe ! 

Sieg.  . Safe ! 

Ifa'  Yes,  dear  father ! 

Sieg.  No,  no  ; I have  no  childreft  : never  mor 
Call  me  by  that  worst  name  of  parent. 


Jos.  What 

Means  my  good  lord ! 

Sieg.  ' That  you  have  given  birtn 

To  a demon ! 

Ida.  ( taking  Ulric’s  hand.)  Who  shall  dare  say 
this  of  Ulri.c  ? 

Sieg.  Ida,  beware  ! there’s  blood  upon  that  hand. 
Ida.  ( stooping  to  kiss  it.)  I’d  kiss  it  off,  though  it 
were  mine. 

Sieg.  It  is  so  ! 

Ulr.  Away  ! it  is  your  father’s  ! [Exit  Ulric. 
Ida.  Oh,  great  God! 

And  I have  loved  this  man  ! 

[Ida  falls  senseless — Josephine  stands  speechless 
with  horror. 

Sieg.  The  wretch  hath  slain 

Them  both ! — My  Josephine ! we  are  now  alone  ! 
Would  we  had  ever  been  so  ! — All  is  over 
For  me  ! — Now  open  wide,  my  sire,  thy  grave ; 

Thy  curse  hath  dug  it  deeper  for  thy  son 
In  mine ! — The  race  of  Siegendorf  is  past ! 


of  f/tr letted : 

A SERIES  OF  POEMS,  ORIGINAL  AND  TRANSLATED.1 


Virginibus  puerisque  canto. — Horace,  lib.  iii.  Ode  1. 

M/;r’  ap  fxe  /ua\’  alvee,  /u(/Te  rt  velvet. — Homer,  Iliad,  x.  249. 
He  whistled  as  he  went,  for  want  of  thought. — Dryden. 


TO 

THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  FREDERICK,  EARL  OF  CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT  OF  THE  GARTER,  ETC.  ETC. 

THE  SECOND  EDITION  OF  THESE  POEMS  IS  INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS  OBLIGED  WARD  AND  AFFECTIONATE  KINSMAN,2 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE.3 

In  submit  tins  to  the  public  eye  the  following  col- 
lection, I have  not  only  to  combat  the  difficulties  that 
writers  of  verse  generally  encounter,  but  may  incur 
the  charge  of  presumption  for  obtruding  myself  on  the 
world,  when,  without  doubt,  I might  be,  at  my  age, 
more  usefully  employed. 

These  productions  are  the  fruits  of  the  lighter 
nours  of  a young  man  who  has  lately  completed  his 
nineteenth  year.  As  they  bear  the  internal  evidence 
of  a boyish  mind,  this  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  in- 
formation. Some  few  were  written  during  the  dis- 


ci) [First  published  in  1807.] 

(2)  [Isabella,  the  daughter  of  William,  fourth  Lord  Byron  (great- 
great  uncle  of  the  Poet),  became,  in  1742,  the  wife  of  Henry, 
fourti>  Earl  of  Carlisle,  and  was  the  mother  of  the  fifth  Earl,  to 


advantages  of  illness  and  depression  of  spirits  : undei 
the  former  influence,  “Childish  Recollections,” 
in  particular,  were  composed.  This  consideration, 
though  it  cannot  excite  the  voice  of  praise,  may  at 
least  arrest  the  arm  of  censure.  A considerable  por- 
tion of  these  poems  has  been  privately  printed,  at  the 
request  and  for  the  perusal  of  my  friends.  I am  sen- 
sible that  the  partial  and  frequently  injudicious  ad- 
miration of  a social  circle  is  not  the  criterion  by  which 
poetical  genius  is  to  be  estimated,  yet,  “ to  do  greatly,” 
we  must  “ dare  greatly and  I have  hazarded  my 
reputation  and  feelings  in  publishing  this  volume. 
“ I have  passed  the  Rubicon,”  and  must  stand  or  fall 


whom  this  dedication  was  addressed.  This  lady  was  a poetess  in 

her  way.  The  Fairy’s  Answer  to  Mrs.  Greville’s  "Prayer  of  Indif 
ference,”  in  Pearch’s  Collection,  is  usually  ascribed  to  her. 

(3)  [Tl\is  preface  was  omitted  in  the  second  edition.] 


376 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


by  the  “ cast  of  the  die.”  In  the  latter  event,  I shall 
submit  without  a murmur;  for,  though  not  without 
solicitude  for  the  fate  of  these  effusions,  my  expecta- 
tions are  by  no  means  sanguine.  It  is  probable  that  I 
may  have  dared  much  and  done  little;  for,  in  the 
words  of  Cowper,  “ it  is  one  thing  to  write  what  may 
please  our  friends,  who,  because  they  are  such,  are 
apt  to  be  a little  biassed  in  our  favour,  and  another  to 
write  what  may  please  every  body  ; because  they  who 
have  no  connexion,  or  even  knowledge  of  the  author, 
will  be  sure  to  find  fault  if  they  can.”  To  the  truth 
of  this,  however,  I do  not  wholly  subscribe : on  the 
contrary,  I feel  convinced  that  these  trifles  will  not  be 
treated  with  injustice.  Their  merit,  if  they  possess 
any,  will  be  liberally  allowed : their  numerous  faults, 
on  the  other  hand,  cannot  expect  that  favour  which 
has  been  denied  to  others  of  maturer  years,  decided 
character,  and  far  greater  ability. 

I have  not  aimed  at  exclusive  originality,  still  less 
have  I studied  any  particular  model  for  imitation  : 
some  translations  are  given,  of  which  many  are  para- 
phrastic. In  the  original  pieces  there  may  appear  a 
casual  coincidence  with  authors  whose  works  I have 
been  accustomed  to  read ; but  I have  not  been  guilty 
of  intentional  plagiarism.  To  produce  any  thing  en- 
tirely new,  in  an  age  so  fertile  in  rhyme,  would  be  a 
Herculean  task,  as  every  subject  lias  already  been 
treated  to  its  utmost  extent.  Poetry,  however,  is 
not  my  primary  vocation ; to  divert  the  dull  moments 
of  indisposition,  or  the  monotony  of  a vacant  hour, 
urged  me  “ to  this  sin  little  can  be  expected  from 
so  unpromising  a muse.  My  wreath,  scanty  as  it 
must  be,  is  all  I shall  derive  from  these  productions  ; 
and  I shall  never  attempt  to  replace  its  fading  leaves, 
or  pluck  a single  additional  sprig  from  groves  where 
I am,  at  best,  an  intruder.  Though  accustomed,  in 
my  younger  days,  to  rove  a careless  mountaineer  on 
the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  I have  not,  of  late  years, 
had  the  benefit  of  such  pure  air,  or  so  elevated  a re- 
sidence, as  might  enable  me  to  enter  the  lists  with 
genuine  bards,  who  have  enjoyed  both  these  advan- 
tages. But  they  derive  considerable  fame,  and  a few 
not  less  profit,  from  their  productions ; while  I shall 
expiate  my  rashness  as  an  interloper,  certainly  without 
the  latter,  and  in  all  probability  with  a very  slight 
share  of  the  former.  I leave  to  others  “ virum  voli- 
tare  per  ora.”  I look  to  the  few  who  will  hear  with 
patience  “dulce  est  desipere  in  loco.”  To  the  former 
worthies  I resign,  without  repining,  the  hope  of  im- 
mortality, and  content  myself  with  the  not  very 
magnificent  prospect  of  ranking  amongst  “the  mob 
of  gentlemen  who  write ;” — my  readers  must  deter- 
mine whether  I dare  say  “ with  ease,”  or  the  honour 
of  a posthumous  page  in  “ The  Catalogue  of  Royal 
and  Noble  Authors,” — a work  to  which  the  Peerage 
is  under  infinite  obligations,  inasmuch  as  many  names 
of  considerable  length,  sound,  and  antiquity,  are 
thereby  rescued  from  the  obscurity  which  unluckily 
overshadows  several  voluminous  productions  of  their 
illustrious  bearers. 

With  slight  hopes,  and  some  fears,  I publish  this 


(1)  The  Earl  of  Carlisle,  whose  works  have  long  received  the  meed 
of  public  applause,  to  which,  by  their  intrinsic  worth,  they  were 
well  entitled. 

(2)  [The  passage  referred  to  by  Lord  Byron  occurs  in  Boswell’s 
Life  of  Johnson,  vol.  viii.  p.  91.  ed.  1835.  Dr.  Johnson’s  letter  to 
Mis  Chapone,  criticising,  on  the  whole  favourably,  the  Earl’s  tra- 
gedy of  “ The  Father’s  Revenge,"  is  inserted  in  the  same  volume, 
o.  242.1 


first  and  last  attempt.  To  the  dictates  of  young 
ambition  may  be  ascribed  many  actions  more  criminal 
and  equally  absurd.  To  a few  of  my  own  age  tfci 
contents  may  afford  amusement : I trust  they  will,  £ I 
least,  be  found  harmless.  It  is  highly  improbabi  , 
from  my  situation  and  pursuits  hereafter,  that  I should 
ever  obtrude  myself  a second  time  on  the  public ; nor. 
even,  in  the  very  doubtful  event  of  present  indulgence 
shall  I be  tempted  to  commit  a future  trespass  of  tin 
same  nature.  The  opinion  of  Dr.  Jolmso  i on  the 
Poems  of  a noble  relation  of  mine,1  “ That  when  2 
man  of  rank  appeared  in  the  character  of  an.  author, 
he  deserved  to  have  his  merit  handsomely  a! owed,”3 4  5 
can  have  little  weight  with  verbal  and  still  less  wit! 
periodical  censors  ; but  were  it  otherwise,  I should  bf 
loth  to  avail  myself  of  the  privilege,  and  would  r.^thei 
incur  the  bitterest  censure  of  anonymous  cntfrisTii 
than  triumph  in  honours  granted  solely  to  a title 

• 


Incurs  of 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A YOUNG  LADY, 

COUSIN  TO  THE  AUTHOR,  AND  VERY  DEAR  TO  HIM.  * 

Hush’d  are  the  winds,  and  still  the  evening  gloom. 
Not  e’en  a zephyr  wanders  through  the  grove. 
Whilst  I return,  to  view  my  Margaret’s  tomb, 

And  scatter  flowers  on  the  dust  I love. 

Within  this  narrow  cell  reclines  her  clay, 

That  clay,  where  once  such  animation  beam’d : 

The  King  of  Terrors  seized  her  as  his  prey  ; 

Not  w orth,  nor  beauty,  have  her  life  redeem’d. 

Oh  ! could  that  King  of  Terrors  pity  feel, 

Or  Heaven  reverse  the  dread  decrees  of  fate ! 

Not  here  the  mourner  would  his  grief  reveal, 

Not  here  the  muse  her  virtues  would  relate. 

But  wherefore  weep  ? Her  matchless  spirit  soars 
Beyond  where  splendid  shines  the  orb  of  day  ; 

And  weeping  angels  lead  her  to  those  bowers 
Where  endless  pleasures  virtue’s  deeds  repay. 

And  shall  presumptuous  mortals  Heaven  arraign, 
And,  madly,  godlike  Providence  accuse  ? 

Ah  ! no,  far  fly  from  me  attempts  so  vain ; — 

I’ll  ne’er  submission  to  my  God  refuse. 

Yet  is  remembrance  of  those  virtues  dear, 

Yet  fresh  the  memory  of  that  beauteous  face; 

Still  they  call  forth  my  warm  affection’s  tear, 

Still  in  my  heart  retain  their  wonted  place. 

1802.* 


(3)  The  author  claims  the  indulgence  of  the  reader  more  for 
this  piece  than,  perhaps,  any  other  in  the  collection;  but  as  it  was 
written  at  an  earlier  period  than  the  rest  (being  composed  at  the 
age  of  fourteen),  and  his  first  essay,  he  preferred  suomitting  it  to 
the  indulgence  of  his  friends  in  its  present  state,  to  making  either 
addition  or  alteration. 

(4)  [“  My  first  dash  into  poetry  was  as  early  as  1800.  It  was 

the  ebullition  of  a passion  for  my  first  cousin,  Margaret  1’arkei 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


TO  E .* l 

roily  smile,  to  view  the  names 
)i  thee  and  me  in  friendship  twined  ; 

Virtue  will  have  greater  claims 
fo  love,  than  rank  with  vice  combined. 

though  unequal  is  thy  fate, 
iiice  title  deck’d  my  higher  birth  ! 

envy  not  this  gaudy  state ; 

Thine  is  the  pride  of  modest  worth. 

Our  souls  at  least  congenial  meet, 

Nor  can  thy  lot  my  rank  disgrace; 

Our  intercourse  is  not  less  sweet, 

Since  worth  of  rank  suDDlies  the  place. 

November,  1802. 


TO  D .2 3 

In  thee,  I fondly  hoped  to  clasp 

A friend,  whom  death  alone  could  sever ; 

Till  envy,  with  malignant  grasp, 

Detach’d  thee  from  my  breast  for  ever. 

True,  she  has  forced  thee  from  my  breast, 

Yet,  in  my  heart  thou  keep’st  thy  seat : 

There,  there  thine  image  still  must  rest, 

Until  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat. 

And,  when  the  grave  restores  her  dead, 

When  life  again  to  dust  is  given, 

On  thy  dear  breast  I’ll  lay  my  head — 

Without  thee,  where  would  be  my  heaven  ? 

February,  1S03. 


(daughter  and  grand-daughter  of  the  two  Admirals  Parker),  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  of  evanescent  beings.  I have  long  forgotten  the 
verse  ; but  it  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  forget  her — her  dark  eyes 
—her  long  eye-lashes  — her  completely  Greek  cast  of  face  and 
figure ! I was  then  about  twelve— she  rather  older,  perhaps  a year. 
She  died  about  a year  or  two  afterwards,  in  consequence  of  a fall, 
which  injured  her  spine,  and  induced  consumption.  Her  sisier 
Augusta  (by  some  thought  still  more  beautiful.)  died  of  the  same 
malady;  and  it  was,  indeed,  in  attending  her,  that  Margaret  met 
with  the  accident  which  occasioned  her  death.  My  sister  told  me, 
that  when  she  went  to  see  her,  shortly  before  her  death,  upon  ac- 
cidentally mentioning  my  name,  Margaret  coloured,  throughout  the 
paleness  of  mortality,  to  the  eyes,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  my 
sister,  who  knew  nothing  of  our  attachment,  nor  could  conceive  why 
my  name  should  affect  her  at  such  a time.  I knew  nothing  of  her  ill- 
ness-being at  Harrow  and  in  the  country — till  she  was  gone.  Some 
years  after,  I made  an  attempt  at  an  elegy — a very  dull  one.  I do 
not  recollect  scarcely  any  thing  equal  to  the  transparent  beauty  of 
my  cousin,  or  to  the  sweetness  of  her  temper,  during  the  short 
period  of  our  intimacy.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  been  made  out 
of  a rainbow — all  beauty  and  peace.” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

(1)  [This  little  poem,  and  some  others  in  the  collection,  refer  to 
a boy  of  Lord  Byron’s  own  age,  son  of  one  of  his  tenants  at  New- 
stead,  for  whom  he  had  formed  a romantic  attachment,  of  earlier 
date  than  any  of  his  school  friendships.] 

(2)  [Lord  Delawarr.  The  idea  of  printing  a collection  of  his 
Poems  first  occurred  to  Lord  Byron  in  the  parlour  of  that  cottage, 
which,  during  his  visit  to  Southwell,  had  become  his  adopted  home. 
Miss  Pigot,  who  was  not  before  aware  of  his  turn  for  versifying,  had 
been  reading  aloud  the  Poems  of  Burns,  when  young  Byron  said, 
that  “he,  too,  was  a poet  sometimes,  and  would  write  down  for  her 
some  verses  of  his  own  which  he  remembered.”  He  then,  with  a 
pencil,  wrote  these  lines,  “ To  D — .”  A facsimile  of  the  first  four 
lines  of  this  pencilling  fronts  p.  1.] 

(3)  [This  poem  appears  to  have  been,  in  its  original  state,  in- 
tended to  commemorate  the  death  of  the  same  lowly-born  youth,  to 
whom  the  affectionate  verses  given  in  the  opposite  column  were 

addressed 

“ Though  low  thy  lot,  since  in  a cottage  born,”  &c 


EPITAPH  ON  A FRIEND.4 

' \<tt ijp  irplv  /jl€v  eXap ires  evi  £o'o7(riv  etpot. — LaeBTIC*. 

Oh,  Friend  ! for  ever  loved,  for  ever  dear ! 

What  fruitless  tears  have  bathed  thy  honour’d 
bier ! 

What  sighs  re-echo’d  to  thy  parting  breath, 

Whilst  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death  ! 
Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course ; 

Could  sighs  avert  his  dart’s  relentless  force  ; 

Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  a short  delay, 

Or  beauty  charm  the  spectre  from  his  prey ; 

Thou  still  hadst  lived  to  bless  my  aching  sight. 

Thy  comrade’s  honour,  and  thy  friend’s  delight. 

If  yet  thy  gentle  spirit  hover  nigh 

The  spot  where  now  thy  mouldering  ashes  lie. 

Here  wilt  thou  read,  recorded  on  my  heart, 

A grief  too  deep  to  trust  the  sculptor’s  art 
No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 

But  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep ; 
Affliction’s  semblance  bends  not  o’er  thy  tomb. 
Affliction’s  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 

What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  line, 

A father’s  sorrows  cannot  equal  mine  ! 

Though  none,  like  thee,  his  dying  hour  will  cheer, 
Yet  other  offspring  soothe  his  anguish  here : 

But,  who  with  me  shall  hold  thy  former  place  ? 
Thine  image,  what  new  friendship  can  efface  ? 

Ah  ! none  ! — a father’s  tears  will  cease  to  flow. 

Time  will  assuage  an  infant  brother’s  woe  ; 

To  all,  save  one,  is  consolation  known, 

While  solitary  friendship  sighs  alone. 

1803. 


But,  in  the  altered  form  of  the  Epitaph,  not  only  this  passage,  but 
every  other  containing  an  allusion  to  the  low  rank  of  his  young 
companion,  is  omitted ; while,  in  the  added  parts,  the  introduction 
of  such  language  as — 

“ What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  line,” 
seems  calculated  to  give  an  idea  of  the  youth’s  station  in  lite, 
wholly  different  from  that  which  the  whole  tenour  of  the  original 
Epitaph  warrants.  “That  he  grew  more  conscious,”  says  Mr. 
Moore,  “ of  his  high  station,  as  he  approached  to  manhood,  is  not 
improbable,  and  this  wish  to  sink  his  early  friendship  with  the 
young  cottager  may  have  been  a result  of  that  feeling.”  The  fol- 
lowing is  a copy  of  the  lines  as  they  first  appeared  in  the  private 
volume : — 

“ Oh,  Boy ! for  ever  loved,  for  ever  dear ! 

What  fruitless  tears  have  bathed  thy  honour’d  bier! 

What  sighs  re-echo’d  to  thy  parting  breath, 

While  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death  I 
Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course ; 

Could  sighs  avert  his  dart’s  relentless  force ; 

Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  a short  delay, 

Or  beauty  charm  the  spectre  from  his  prey  ; 

Thou  still  hadst  lived  to  bless  my  aching  sight, 

Thy  comrade’s  honour,  and  thy  friend’s  delight. 

Though  low  thy  lot,  since  in  a cottage  born. 

No  titles  did  thy  humble  name  adorn , 

To  me,  far  dearer  was  thy  artless  love 

Than  all  the  joys  wealth,  fame,  and  friends  could  prove. 

For  thee  alone  I lived,  or  wish’d  to  live; 

Oh  God  ! if  impious,  this  rash  word  forgive  1 
Heart-broken  now,  I wait  an  equal  doom, 

Content  to  join  thee  in  thy  turf-clad  tomb; 

Where,  this  frail  form  composed  in  endless  rest, 

T 'll  make  my  last  cold  pillow  on  thy  breast ; 

That  breast  where  oft  in  life  1 ’ve  laid  my  head, 

Will  yet  receive  me  mouldering  with  the  dead  ; 

This  life  resign  d,  without  one  parting  sigh, 

Together  in  one  bed  of  earth  we  ’ll  lie  J 
Together  share  the  fate  to  mortals  given; 

Together  mix  our  dust,  and  hope  for  heaven.”] 

3 c 


37S 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


A FRAGMENT. 

When,  to  their  airy  hall,  my  fathers’  voice 
Shall  call  my  spirit,  joyful  in  their  choice  ; 

When,  poised  upon  the  gale,  my  form  shall  ride, 
Or,  dark  in  mist,  descend  the  mountain’s  side  ; 

Oh  ! may  my  shade  behold  no  sculptured  urns 
To  mark  the  spot  where  earth  to  earth  returns  ! 
No  lengthen’d  scroll,  no  praise-encumber’d  stone ; 
My  epitaph  shall  be  my  name  alone  ; 1 
If  that  with  honour  fail  to  crown  my  clay, 

Oh  ! may  no  other  fame  my  deeds  repay  ! 

That , only  that,  shall  single  out  the  spot ; 

Bv  that  remember’d,  or  with  that  forgot. 

1803. 


ON  LEAVING  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY.2 

“ Why  dost  thou  build  the  hal!,  son  of  the  winged  days?  Thou 
lookest  from  thy  tower  to  day:  yet  a few  years,  and  the  blast  of  the 
desert  comes,  it  howls  in  thy  empty  court.” — Ossian. 

Through  thy  battlements,  Newstead,  the  hollow  winds 
whistle ; 

Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  art  gone  to  decay  : 

Ih  thy  once  smiling  garden,  the  hemlock  and  thistle 
Have  choked  up  the  rose  which  late  bloom’d  in  the 
way. 

Of  the  mail-cover’ d Barons,  who  proudly  to  battle 
Led  their  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine’s  plain,3 
The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every  blast 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain,  [rattle, 


(1)  [Of  the  sincerity  of  this  youthful  aspiration,  the  Poet  has  left 
repeated  proofs.  By  his  will,  drawn  up  in  1811,  he  directed,  that 
“ no  inscription,  save  his  name  and  age,  should  be  written  on  his 
tomb;”  and,  in  1819,  he  wrote  thus  to  Mr.  Murray: — “Some  of 
the  epitaphs  at  the  Certosa  cemetery,  at  Ferrara,  pleased  me  more 
than  the  more  splendid  monuments  at  Bologna;  for  instance — 

‘ Martini  Luigi 
Implora  pace.’ 

Can  any  thing  be  more  full  of  pathos  ? I hope  whoever  may  sur- 
vive me  will  see  those  two  words,  and  no  more,  put  over  me.”] 

(2)  [The  priory  of  Newstead,  or  de  Novo  Loco,  in  Sherwood,  was 
founded  about  the  year  1170,  by  Henry  11.,  and  dedicated  to 
God  and  the  Virgin.  It  was  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  on  the 
dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  that,  by  a royal  grant,  it  was  added, 
with  the  lands  adjoining,  to  the  other  possessions  of  the  Byron 
family.  The  favourite  upon  whom  they  were  conferred,  was  the 
grand-nephew  of  the  gallant  soldier  who  fought  by  the  side  of 
Richmond  at  Bosworth,  and  is  distinguished  from  the  other  knights 
of  the  same  Christian  name,  in  the  family,  by  the  title  of  “ Sir 
John  Byron  the  Little,  with  the  great  beard.”  A portrait  of  this 
personage  was  one  of  the  few  family  pictures  with  which  the  walls 
of  the  abbey,  while  in  the  possession  of  the  Poet,  were  decorated.] 

(3)  [There  being  no  record  of  any  of  Lord  Byron’s  ancestors 
having  been  engaged  in  the  Holy  Wars,  Mr.  Moore  suggests,  that 
the  Poet  may  have  had  no  other  authority  for  this  notion,  than  the 
tradition  which  he  found  connected  with  certain  strange  groups  of 
heads,  which  are  represented  on  the  old  panel-work  in  some  of 
the  chambers  at  Newstead.  In  one  of  these  groups,  consisting  of 
three  heads,  strongly  carved  and  projecting  from  the  panel,  the 
centre  figure  evidently  represents  a Saracen  or  Moor,  with  an 
European  female  on  one  side  of  him,  and  a Christian  soldier  on  the 
other.  In  a second  group,  the  female  occupies  the  centre,  while  on 
either  side  is  the  head  of  a Saracen,  with  the  eyes  fixed  earnestly 
upon  hor.  Of  the  exact  meaning  of  these  figures  there  is  nothing 
known ; but  the  tradition  is,  that  they  refer  to  a love  adventure  of 
the  age  of  the  Crusades.] 

(4)  [“In  the  park  of  Horseley,”  says  Thoroton,  “there  was  a 

castle,  some  of  the  ruins  of  which  are  yet  visible,  called  Horistan 

Cast'e  which  wa*  the  chief  mansion  of  Ralph  de  Burun’s  succes- 

sors i 

tfl)  [Two  of  the  faVly  of  Byron  are  enumerated  as  serving  with 


No  more  doth  old  Robert,  with  harp-strm^mg  niim- 
. ^ers>  [wreath; 

Raise  a flame  in  the  breast  for  the  war-lamvil’d 
Near  Askalon’s  towers,  John  of  Iloristan4 *  slumbers  * 
Unnerved  is  the  hand  of  his  minstrel  by  death. 

Paul  and  Hubert,  too,  sleep  in  the  valley  of  Cressy  ;* 
For  the  safety  of  Edward  and  England  they  fell’: 

My  fathers  ! the  tears  of  your  country  redress  ye ; 
How  you  fought,  how  you  died,  still  her  annals  can 
tell. 

On  Marston,6  with  Rupert,7  ’gainst  traitors  contend 
*ng>  . [field;! 

Four  brothers  enrich’d  with  their  blood  the  bleak 
For  the  rights  of  a monarch  their  country  defending, 
Till  death  their  attachment  to  royalty  seal’d.8 

Shades  of  heroes,  farewell ! your  descendant,  departing 
From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu  ! I 
Abroad,  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  imparting 
New  courage,  he’ll  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

Though  a tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 

’Tis  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret ; 

Far  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation, 

The  fame  of  his  fathers  he  ne’er  can  forget. 

That  fame,  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish  ; 

He  vows  that  he  ne’er  will  disgrace  your  renown 
Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you  will  he  perish : 

When  decay’d,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your  ov  r. ! j 

1803. 


distinction  in  the  siege  of  Calais,  under  Edward  III.,  and  as  arr.or.g  j 
the  knights  who  fell  on  the  glorious  field  of  Cressy.] 

(6)  The  battle  of  Marston  Moor,  where  the  adherents  of  Charles  1. 
were  defeated. 

i 

(7)  Son  of  the  Elector  Palatine,  and  nephew  to  Charles  I.  He  i 
afterwards  commanded  the  fleet  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II. 

(8)  [Sir  Nicholas  Byron  served  with  distinction  in  the  Low 
Countries;  and,  in  the  Great  Rebellion,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to 
take  up  arms  in  the  royai  cause.  After  the  battle  of  Edgehill,  he  was ' 
made  colonel-general  of  Cheshire  and  Shropshire,  and  governor  of  ? 
Chester.  “ He  was,”  says  Clarendon,  “a  person  of  great  affability  ! 
and  dexterity,  as  well  as  martial  knowledge,  which  gave  great  lite 
to  the  designs  of  the  well  affected ; and,  with  the  encouragement  of  ! 
some  gentlemen  of  North  Wales,  he  raised  sucli  a power  of  horse  ] 
and  foot,  as  made  frequent  skirmishes  with  the  enemy,  sometime* 
with  notable  advantage,  never  with  signal  loss.” — In  1643,  Sir  John  j 
Byron  was  created  Baron  Byron  of  Rochdale  in  the  county  of  Lan-  j 
caster;  and  seldom  has  a tide  been  bestowed  for  such  high  and - 
honourable  services  as  those  by  which  he  deserved  the  gratitude  of  • 
his  royal  master.  Through  almost  every  page  of  the  History  of ; 
the  Civil  Wars,  we  trace  his  name  in  connexion  with  the  varying,] 
fortunes  of  the  king,  and  find  him  faithful,  persevering,  and  disir.-  ,| 
terested  to  the  last.  “Sir  John  Biron,”  says  Mrs.  Hutchinson,  ,! 
“afterwards  Lord  Biron,  and  all  his  brothers,  bred  up  in  arms,  , j 
and  valiant  men  in  their  own  persons,  were  all  passionately  the  J 
king’s.”  We  find  also,  in  the  reply  of  Colonel  Hutchinson,  when  ' 
governor  of  Nottingham,  to  his  cousin-german  Sir  Richard  Byron,  j 
a noble  tribute  to  the  chivalrous  fidelity  of  the  race.  Sir  Richard,  i 
having  sent  to  prevail  on  his  relative  to  surrender  the  castle,  re- 
ceived for  answer,  that  “except  he  found  his  own  heart  prone  to 
such  treachery,  he  might  consider  there  was,  if  nothing  else,  so 
much  of  a Byron’s  blood  in  him,  that  he  should  very  much  scorn  to  j 
betray  or  quit  a trust  he  had  undertaken.” — On  the  monument  of 
Richard,  the  second  Lord  Byron,  who  lies  buried  in  the  chancel  j 
of  llucknal-Tokard  church,  there  is  the  following  inscription.; — 

“ Beneath,  in  a vault,  is  interred  the  body  of  Richard  Lord  Byron, 
who,  with  the  rest  of  his  family,  being  seven  brothers,  faithfully 
served  King  Charles  the  First  in  the  civil  wars,  who  suffered  much 
for  their  loyalty,  and  lost  all  their  present  fortunes ; yet  it  pleased  | 
God  so  to  bless  the  humble  endeavours  of  the  said  Richard  Loru 
Byron,  that  he  re-purchased  part  of  their  ancient  inheritance,  I 
which  he  left  to  his  posterity,  with  a laudable  memory  for  bk 
great  piety  and  charity.”] 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  “ LETTERS  TO  AN  ITALIAN  NUN  AN])  AN 
ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN  : BY  J.  J.  ROUSSEAU  : FOUNDED 
ON  FACTS.” 

“ Away,  away,  your  flattering  arts 
May  now  betray  some  simple  hearts  ; 

And  you  will  smile  at  their  believing. 

And  they  shall  weep  at  your  deceiving.” 

ANSWER  TO  THE  FOREGOING,  ADDRESSED  TO  MISS . 

Dear,  simple  girl,  those  flattering  arts, 

From  which  thou’dst  guard  frail  female  hearts, 
Exist  but  in  imagination, — 

Mere  phantoms  of  thine  own  creation  ; 

For  he  who  views  that  witching  grace, 

That  perfect  form,  that  lovely  face, 

With  eyes  admiring,  oh  ! believe  me. 

He  never  wishes  to  deceive  thee  : 

Once  in  thy  polish’d  mirror  glance, 

Thou'lt  there  descry  that  elegance, 

Which  from  our  sex  demands  such  praises, 

But  envy  in  the  other  raises : 

Then  he  who  tells  thee  of  thy  beauty, 

Believe  me,  only  does  his  duty  : 

Ah  ! fly  not  from  the  candid  youth  ; 

It  is  not  flattery, — ’tis  truth. 

July,  1804. 


ADRIAN’S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SOUL  WHEN 
DYING.1 

[Animula!  vagula,  blandula, 

Hospes  comesque  corporis, 

Quae  nunc  abibis  in  loca — 

Pallidula.  rigida,  nudula, 

Nec,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos  ?] 

Ah  ! gentle,  fleeting,  wav’ring  sprite, 

Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay  ! 

To  what  unknown  region  borne, 

Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight  ? 

No  more  with  wonted  humour  gay, 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 

AD  LESBIAM. 

Equal  to  Jove  that  youth  must  be — 

Greater  than  Jove  he  seems  to  me — 

Who,  free  from  Jealousy’s  alarms. 

Securely  views  thy  matchless  charms. 

That  cheek,  which  ever  dimpling  glows, 

That  mouth,  from  whence  such  music  flows, 
To  him,  alike,  are  always  known, 

Reserved  for  him,  and  him  alone. 

Ah  ! Lesbia ! though  ’tis  death  to  me, 

I cannot  choose  but  look  on  thee  ; 

But,  at  the  sight,  my  senses  fly ; 

I needs  must  gaze,  but,  gazing,  die ; 

Whilst  trembling  with  a thousand  fears, 
Parch’d  to  the  throat  my  tongue  adheres, 

My  pulse  beats  quick,  my  breath  heaves  short, 
My  limbs  deny  their  slight  support, 

Cold  aews  my  pallid  face  o’erspread, 

With  deadly  languor  droops  my  head, 


379 

Mv  ears  with  tingling  echoes  ring. 

And  life  itself  is  on  the  wing ; 

My  eyes  refuse  the  cheering  light, 

Their  orbs  are  veil’d  in  starless  night : 

Such  pangs  my  nature  sinks  beneath, 

And  feels  a temporary  death. 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  EPITAPH  ON  VIRGIL 
AND  TIBULLUS. 

BY  DOMITIUS  MARSUS. 

He  who  sublime  in  epic  numbers  roll’d, 

And  he  who  struck  the  softer  lyre  of  love, 

By  Death’s2  unequal  hand  alike  coritrolPd, 

Fit  comrades  in  Elysian  regions  move  1 


IMITATION  OF  TIBULLUS. 

“Sulpicia  ad  Cerinthum.” — Lib.  4. 

Cruel  Cerinthus  ! does  the  fell  disease 
Which  racks  my  breast  your  fickle  bosom,  please  f 
Alas  ! I wish’d  but  to  o’ercome  the  pain, 

That  I might  live  for  love  and  you  again  : 

But  now  I scarcely  shall  bewail  my  fate  ; 

By  death  alone  I can  avoid  your  hate. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 

[Lugete,  Veneres,  Cupidinesque,  &c.] 

Ye  Cupids,  droop  each  little  head, 

Nor  let  your  wings  with  joy  be  spread, 

My  Lesbia’ s favourite  bird  is  dead. 

Whom  dearer  than  her  eyes  she  lov^d : 
For  he  was  gentle,  and  so  true, 

Obedient  to  her  call  he  flew, 

No  fear,  no  wild  alarm  he  knew, 

But  lightly  o’er  her  bosom  moved : 

And  softly  fluttering  here  and  there 
He  never  sought  to  cleave  the  air, 

But  chirrup’d  oft,  and,  free  from  care, 
Tuned  to  her  ear  his  grateful  strain. 
Now  having  pass’d  the  gloomy  bourne 
From  whence  we  never  can  return, 

His  death  and  Lesbia’s  grief  I mourn, 

Who  sighs,  alas  ! but  sighs  in  vain. 

Oh  ! curst  be  thou,  devouring  grave  ! 
Whose  jaws  eternal  victims  crave, 

From  whom  no  earthly  power  can  save, 

For  thou  hast  ta’en  the  bird  away  : 

From  thee  my  Lesbia’s  eyes  o’erflow, 

Her  swollen  cheeks  with  weeping  glow ; 
Thou  art  the  cause  of  all  her  woe, 
Receptacle  of  life’s  decay. 


IMITATED  FROM  CATULLUS. 

TO  ELLEN. 

Oh  ! might  I kiss  those  eyes  of  fire, 

A million  scarce  would  quench  desire : 


(1)  [This  and  several  little  pieces  that  follow  appear  to  be  frag- 
ments of  school  exercises  done  at  Harrow.] 


(2)  The  hand  of  Death  is  said  to  be  unjust  oi  unequal  as  Virgn 
was  considerably  older  than  Tibullus  at  his  decease. 


380 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


FROM  ANACREON. 

[Metrovi/KTicur  noO’  iLpcur,  k.  t.  A ] 

’Twas  now  the  hour  when  N’ght  had  driven 
Her  car  half  round  von  sable  heaven ; 
Bootes,  only,  seem’d  to  roll 
His  arctic  charge  around  the  pole; 

While  mortals,  lost  in  gentle  sleep. 

Forgot  to  smile,  or  ceased  to  weep. 

At  this  lone  hour,  the  Paphian  boy. 
Descending  from  the  realms  of  joy, 

Quick  to  my  gate  directs  his  course. 

And  knocks  with  all  his  little  force. 

My  visions  fled,  alarm’d  I rose, — 

“ What  stranger  breaks  my  blest  repose  ?w 
“ Alas  !”  replies  the  wily  child, 

In  faltering  accents  sweetly  mild, 

“ A hapless  infant  here  I roam, 

Far  from  my  dear  maternal  home. 

Oh ! shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast ! 

The  nightly  storm  is  pouring  fast. 

No  prowling  robber  lingers  here. 

A wandering  baby  who  can  fear  ? ” 

I heard  his  seeming  artless  tale, 

I heard  his  sighs  upon  the  gale  : 

My  breast  was  never  pity’s  foe, 

But  felt  for  all  the  baby’s  woe. 

I drew  the  bar,  and  by  the  light, 

Young  Love,  the  infant,  met  my  sight; 

His  bow  across  his  shoulders  flung, 

And  thence  his  fatal  quiver  hung 
(Ah  ! little  did  I think  the  dart 
Would  rankle  soon  within  my  heart). 

With  care  I tend  my  weary  guest. 

His  little  fingers  chill  my  breast ; 

His  glossy  curls,  his  azure  wing, 

Which  droop  with  nightly  showers,  I wriug  ; 
His  shivering  limbs  the  embers  warm  ; 

And  now  reviving  from  the  storm, 

Scarce  had  he  felt  his  wonted  glow, 

Than  swift  he  seized  his  slender  bow  : — 

“ I fain  would  know,  my  gentle  host,” 

He  cried,  “ if  this  its  strength  has  lost ; 

I fear,  relax’d  with  midnight  dews, 

The  strings  their  former  aid  refuse.” 

With  poison  tipt,  his  arrow  flies, 

Deep  in  my  tortured  heart  it  lies  ; 

Then  loud  the  joyous  urchin  laugh’d  : — 

“ My  bow  can  still  impel  the  shaft : 

’Tis  firmly  fix’d,  thy  sighs  reveal  it ; 

Say,  courteous  host,  canst  thou  not  feel  it 9 


Still  would  I steep  my  lips  in  bliss, 

And  dwell  an  age  on  every  kiss : 

Nor  then  my  soul  should  sated  be ; 

Still  would  I kiss  and  cling  to  thee  : 

Nought  should  my  kiss  from  thine  dissever ; 
Still  would  we  kiss,  and  kiss  for  ever ; 

E’en  though  the  numbers  did  exceed 
The  yellow  harvest’s  countless  seed. 

To  part  would  be  a vain  endeavour  : 

Could  I desist  ? — ah  ! never — never  ! 


TRANSLATION  FROM  HORACE. 

[Justum  et  tenacem  propositi  virum,  &c.] 

The  man  of  firm  and  noble  soul 
No  factious  clamours  can  control ; 

No  threat’ning  tyrant’s  darkling  brow 
Can  swerve  him  from  his  just  intent : 

Gales  the  warring  waves  which  plough, 

By  Auster  on  the  billows  spent, 

To  curb  the  Adriatic  main, 

Would  awe  his  fix’d  determined  mind  in  vain. 

Ay,  and  the  red  right  arm  of  Jove, 

Hurtling  his  lightnings  from  above, 

With  all  his  terrors  there  unfurl’d, 

He  would,  unmoved,  unawed  behold. 

The  flames  of  an  expiring  world, 

Again  in  crashing  chaos  roll’d, 

In  vast  promiscuous  ruin  hurl’d, 

Might  light  his  glorious  funeral  pile  : 

Still  dauntless  ’midst  the  wreck  of  earth  he’d  smile 

• 


FROM  ANACBEON. 

[GeAw  \eyeTv  Axpe.da?,  k.  t.  A.] 

I wish  to  tune  my  quivering  lyre 
To  deeds  of  fame  and  notes  of  fire  ; 

To  echo,  from  its  rising  swell, 

How  heroes  fought  and  nations  fell, 
When  Atreus’  sons  advanced  to  war, 
Or  Tyrian  Cadmus  roved  afar ; 

But  still,  to  martial  strains  unknown 
My  lyre  recurs  to  love  alone  : 

Fired  with  the  hope  of  future  fame, 

I seek  some  nobler  hero’s  name ; 

The  dying  cords  are  strung  anew. 

To  war,  to  war,  my  harp  is  due : 

With  glowing  strings,  the  epic  strain 
To  Jove’s  great  son  I raise  again ; 
Alcides  and  his  glorious  deeds, 
Beneath  whose  arm  the  Hydra  bleeds. 
All,  all  in  vain  ; my  wayward  lyre 
Wakes  silver  notes  of  soft  desire. 
Adieu,  ye  chiefs  renown’d  in  arms  ! 
Adieu  the  clang  of  war’s  alarms  ! 

To  other  deeds  my  soul  is  strung, 

And  sweeter  notes  shall  now  be  sung  ; 
My  harp  shall  all  its  powers  reveal, 

To  tell  the  tale  my  heart  must  feel : 
Love,  Love  alone,  my  lyre  shad  claim, 
In  8one  of  bliss  and  sighs  of  flame. 


FROM  THE  PROMETHEUS  YINCTUS  OF 
.ESCHYLUS. 

[Mrjdajix’  6 iravra  ve/Juav,  K.  r.  A.] 

Great  Jove,  to  whose  almighty  throne 
Both  gods  and  mortals  homage  pay, 

Ne’er  may  my  soul  thy  power  disown. 

Thy  dread  behests  ne’er  disobey. 

Oft  shall  the  sacred  victim  fall 
In  sea-girt  Ocean’s  mossy  hall ; 

My  voice  shall  raise  no  impious  strain 
’Gainst  him  who  rules  the  sky  and  azure  main. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS 


381 


How  different  now  thy  joyless  fate. 

Since  first  Hesione  thy  bride, 

When  placed  aloft  in  godlike  state, 

The  blushing  beauty  by  thy  side, 

Thou  sat’st,  while  reverend  Ocean  smiled, 

And  mirthful  strains  the  hours  beguiled, 

The  Nymphs  and  Tritons  danced  around, 

Nor  yet  thy  doom  was  fix’d,  nor  Jove  relentless 
frown’d.1 

Harrow,  Dec.  1,  1804. 


TO  EMMA. 

Since  now  the  hour  is  come  at  last. 

When  you  must  quit  your  anxious  lover  ; 

Since  now  our  dream  of  bliss  is  past,, 

One  pang,  my  girl,  and  all  is  over. 

Alas  ! that  pang  will  be  severe, 

Which  bids  us  part  to  meet  no  more ; 

Which  tears  me  far  from  one  so  dear, 
Departing  for  a distant  shore. 

Well!  we  have  pass’d  some  happy  hours, 
And  joy  will  mingle  with  our  tears ; 

When  thinking  on  these  ancient  towers, 

The  shelter  of  our  infant  years ; 

Where  from  this  Gothic  casement’s  height, 
We  view’d  the  lake,  the  park,  the  dell ; 

And  still,  though  tears  obstruct  our  sight, 
We  lingering  look  a last  farewell, 

O’er  fields  through  which  we  used  to  run, 
And  spend  the  hours  in  childish  play ; 

O’er  shades  where,  when  our  race  was  done. 
Reposing  on  my  breast  you  lay  ; 

Whilst  I,  admiring,  too  remiss, 

Eorgot  to  scare  the  hovering  flies, 

Yet  envied  every  fly  the  kiss 

It  dared  to  give  your  slumbering  eyes  : 

See  still  the  little  painted  bark, 

In  which  I row’d  you  o’er  the  lake ; 

See  there,  high  waving  o’er  the  park, 

The  elm  I clamber’d  for  your  sake. 

These  times  are  past — our  joys  are  gone, 
You  leave  me,  leave  this  happy  vale ; 

These  scenes  I must  retrace  alone  : 

Without  thee  what  will  they  avail  ? 

Who  can  conceive,  who  has  not  proved, 

The  anguish  of  a last  embrace  F 

When,  tom  from  all  you  fondly  loved, 

You  bid  a long  adieu  to  peace. 

This  is  the  deepest  of  our  woes, 

For  this  these  tears  our  cheeks  bedew  ; 

This  is  of  love  the  final  close, 

Oh,  God  ! the  fondest,  last  adieu ! 


TO  M.  S.  G. 

W hene’ek  I view  those  lips  of  thine, 
Their  hue  invites  my  fervent  kiss  i 

Yet  I forego  that  bliss  divine, 

Alas  ! it  were  unhallow’d  bliss. 

Whene’er  I dream  of  that  pure  breasf 
How  could  I dwell  upon  its  snows ! 

Yet  is  the  daring  wish  represt ; 

For  that, — would  banish  its  repose. 

A glance  from  thy  soul-searching  eye 
Can  raise  with  hope,  depress  with  fear ; 

Yet  I conceal  my  love, — and  why  ? 

. I would  not  force  a painful  tear. 

I ne’er  have  told  my  love,  yet  thou 
Hast  seen  my  ardent  flame  too  well 

And  shall  I plead  my  passion  now, 

To  make  thy  bosom’s  heaven  a hell  ? 

No  ! for  thou  never  canst  be  mine, 

United  by  the  priest’s  decree : 

By  any  ties  but  those  divine, 

Mine,  my  beloved,  thou  ne’er  shalt  be. 

Then  let  the  secret  fire  consume, 

Let  it  consume,  thou  shalt  not  know  : 

With  joy  I court  a certain  doom, 

Rather  than  spread  its  guilty  glow. 

I will  not  ease  my  tortured  heart, 

By  driving  dove-eyed  peace  from  thine ; 

Rather  than  such  a sting  impart, 

Each  thought  presumptuous  I resign. 

Yes ! yield  those  lips,  for  which  I’d  brave 
More  than  I here  shall  dare  to  tell ; 

Thy  innocence  and  mine  to  save, — 

I bid  thee  now  a last  farewell. 

Yes  ! yield  that  breast,  to  seek  despair, 
And  hope  no  more  thy  soft  embrace  ; 

Which  to  obtain  my  soul  would  dare. 

All,  all  reproach — but  thy  disgrace. 

At  least  from  guilt  shalt  thou  be  free, 

No  matron  shall  thy  shame  reprove; 

Though  cureless  pangs  may  prey  on  me, 
No  martyr  shalt  thou  be  to  love. 


TO  CAROLINE. 

Think’st  thou  I saw  thy  beauteous  eyes, 
Suffused  in  tears,  implore  to  stay ; 

And  heard  unmoved  thy  plenteous  sighs, 
Which  said  far  more  than  words  can  say  ? 

Though  keen  the  grief  thy  tears  exprest, 
When  love  and  hope  lay  both  o’erthrown; 
Yet  still,  my  girl,  this  bleeding  breast 
Throbb’d  with  deep  sorrow  as  thine  own. 


(1)  [“My  first  Harrow  verses  (that  is,  English,  as  exercises),  a 
translation  of  a chorus  from  the  Prometheus  of  jEschylus,  were  re- 
vived by  Dr  Drury,  my  grand  patron  (our  head  master),  but  coolly. 


No  one  nad,  at  that  time,  the  least  notion  that  I should  subside  iota 
poesy.” — Byron  Diary.] 


382 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS 


But  when  our  cheeks  with  anguish  glow’d 
When  thy  sweet  lips  were  join’d  to  mine. 

The  tears  that  from  my  eyelids  flow’d 
Were  lost  in  those  which  fell  from  thine. 

Thou  couldst  not  feel  my  burning  cheek, 

Thy  gushing  tears  had  quench’d  its  flame ; 

And  as  thy  tongue  essay’d  to  speak, 

In  signs  alone  it  breathed  my  name. 

And  yet,  my  girl,  we  weep  in  vain, 

In  vain  our  fate  in  sighs  deplore  ; 

Remembrance  only  can  remain, — 

But  that  will  make  us  weep  the  more. 

Again,  thou  best  beloved,  adieu  ! 

Ah  ! if  thou  canst,  o’ercome  regret ; 

Nor  let  thy  mind  past  joys  review, — 

Our  onlv  hope  is  to  forget ! 


TO  CAROLINE. 

When  I hear  you  express  an  affection  so  warm, 

Ne’er  think,  my  beloved,  that  I do  not  believe; 

For  your  lip  would  the  soul  of  suspicion  disarm, 

And  your  eye  beams  a ray  which  can  never  deceive. 

Yet,  still,  this  fond  bosom  regrets,  while  adoring, 

That  love,  like  the  leaf,  must  fall  into  the  sear ; 
That  age  will  come  on,  when  remembrance,  deploring, 
Contemplates  the  scenes  of  her  youth  with  a tear ; 

That  the  time  must  arrive,  when,  no  longer  retaining 
Their  auburn,  those  locks  must  wave  thin  to  the 
breeze, 

When  a few  silver  hairs  of  those  tresses  remaining. 
Prove  nature  a prey  to  decay  and  disease. 

*Tis  this,  my  beloved,  which  spreads  gloom  o’er  my 
features, 

Though  I ne’er  shall  presume  to  arraign  the  decree, 
Which  God  has  proclaim’d  as  the  fate  of  his  creatures, 
In  the  death  which  one  day  will  deprive  you  of  me. 

Mistake  not,  sweet  sceptic,  the  cause  of  emotion, 

No  doubt  can  the  mind  of  your  lover  invade; 

He  worships  each  look  with  such  faithful  devotion, 

A smile  can  enchant,  or  a tear  can  dissuade. 

But  as  death,  my  beloved,  soon  or  late  shall  o’ertake  us, 
And  our  breasts,  which  alive  with  such  sympathy 
glow, 

Will  sleep  in  the  grave  till  the  blast  shall  awake  us, 
When  calling  the  dead,  in  earth’s  bosom  laid  low, — 

Oh ! then  let  us  drain,  while  we  may,  draughts  of 
pleasure, 

Which  from  passion  like  ours  may  unceasingly  flow ; 
Let  us  pass  round  the  cup  of  love’s  bliss  in  full  measure, 
And  quaff  the  contents  as  our  nectar  below. 

1805. 


(1)  [Lord  Strangford’s  translations  of  Camoens’ Amatory  Poems, 
V wstB,  and  Little’s  Poems,  are  mentioned  by  Mr.  Moore  as  having 
been  at  this  period  the  favourite  study  of  Lord  Byron.] 

(2)  [“  The  latter  years  of  Camoens  present  a mournful  picture, 

sot  merely  of  individual  calamity,  but  of  national  ingratitude. 
He  whose  best  years  had  been  devoted  to  the  service  of  his 


TO  CAROLINE. 

On  ! when  shall  the  grave  hide  for  ever  my  sorrows  ? 
Oh!  when  shall  my  soul  wing  her  flight  from  this 
clay? 

The  present  is  hell,  and  the  coming  to-morrow 
But  brings,  with  new  torture,  the  curse  of  to-day. 

Erom  my  eye  flows  no  tear,  from  my  lips  flow  no  curses, 
I blast  not  the  fiends  who  have  hurl’d  me  from  bliss; 
Eor  poor  is  the  soul  which  bewailing  rehearses 
Its  querulous  grief,  when  in  anguish  like  this. 

Was  my  eye,  ’stead  of  tears,  with  red  fury  flakes 
bright’ning. 

Would  my  lips  breathe  a flame  which  no  stream 
could  assuage,  [lightning, 

On  our  foes  should  my  glance  launch  in  vengeance  its 
With  transport  my  tongue  give  a loose  to  its  rage. 

But  now  tears  and  curses,  alike  unavailing, 

Would  add  to  the  souls  of  our  tyrants  delight ; 
Could  they  view  us  our  sad  separation  bewailing, 
Their  merciless  hearts  would  rejoice  at  the  sight. 

Yet  still,  though  we  bend  with  a feign’d  resignation. 
Life  beams  not  for  us  with  one  ray  that  can  cheer ; 
Love  and  hope  upon  earth  bring  no  more  consolation ; 
In  the  grave  is  our  hope,  for  in  life  is  our  fear. 

Oh  ! when,  my  adored,  in  the  tomb  will  they  place  me, 
Since,  in  life,  love  and  friendship  for  ever  are  fled  ? 
If  again  in  the  mansion  of  death  I embrace  thee, 
Perhaps  they  will  leave  unmolested  the  dead. 

1805. 


STANZAS  TO  A LADY, 

WITH  THE  POEMS  OP  CAMOENS.1 2 

This  votive  pledge  of  fond  esteem, 

Perhaps,  dear  girl ! for  me  thou’lt  prize, 

It  sings  of  Love’s  enchanting  dream, 

A theme  we  never  can  despise. 

Who  blames  it  but  the  envious  fool. 

The  old  and  disappointed  maid ; 

Or  pupil  of  the  prudish  school, 

In  single  sorrow  doom’d  to  fade  ? 

Then  read,  dear  girl ! with  feeling  read, 

Eor  thou  wilt  ne’er  be  one  of  those ; 

To  thee  in  vain  I shall  not  plead 
In  pity  for  the  poet’s  woes. 

He  was  in  sooth  a genuine  bard  ; 

His  was  no  faint  fictitious  flame 

Like  his,  may  love  be  thy  reward, 

But  not  thy  hapless  fate  the  same.3 


country,  he  who  had  taught  her  literary  fame  to  ri\al  the  proudtw 
efforts  of  Italy  itself,  and  who  seemed  born  to  revive  the  remem- 
brance of  ancient  gentility  and  Lusian  heroism,  was  compelled  to 
wander  through  the  streets,  a wretched  dependent  on  casual  contri- 
bution. One  friend  alone  remained  to  smooth  his  downward  path, 
and  guide  his  steps  to  the  grave  with  gentleness  and  consolation.  It 


HOURS  or  IDLENESS. 


333 


THE  FIRST  KISS  OF  LOYE. 

A Bap/3irof  xop5a<? 

’EpaiTti  iaovvov  ri\ei-  AjiACREON 

Away  with  your  fictions  of  flimsy  romance ; 

Those  tissues  of  falsehood  which  folly  has  wove  ! 
Give  me  the  mild  beam  of  the  soul-breathing  glance, 
Or  the  rapture  which  dwells  on  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

Ye  rhymers,  whose  bosoms  with  phantasy  glow, 
Whose  pastoral  passions  are  made  for  the  grove ; 
Eiom  what  blest  inspiration  your  sonnets  would  flow, 
Could  you  ever  have  tasted  the  first  kiss  of  love  ! 

If  Apollo  should  e’er  his  assistance  refuse, 

Or  the  Nine  be  disposed  from  your  service  to  rove, 
Invoke  them  nc  more,  bid  adieu  to  the  muse, 

Aud  try  the  effect  of  the  first  kiss  of  love ! 

1 hate  you,  ye  cold  compositions  of  art ! 

Though  prudes  may  condemn  me,  and  bigots  re- 
prove, 

I court  the  effusions  that  spring  from  the  heart, 
Which  throbs  with  delight  to  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

Your  shepherds,  yotir  flocks,  those  fantastical  themes, 
Perhaps  may  amuse,  yet  they  never  can  move  : 
Arcadia  displays  but  a region  of  dream.s  : 

What  are  visions  like  these  to  the  first  kiss  of  love  ? 

Oh  ! cease  to  affirm  that  man,  since  his  birth. 

From  Adam  till  now,  has  with  wretchedness  strove; 
Some  portion  of  paradise  still  is  on  earth. 

And  Eden  revives  in  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

When  age  chills  the  blood,  when  our  pleasures  are 
past — 

For  years  fleet  away  with  the  wings  of  the  dove — 
The  dearest  remembrance  will  still  be  the  last, 

Our  sweetest  memorial  the  first  kiss  oi‘  love. 


ON  A CHANGE  OF  MASTERS  AT  A GREAT 
PUBLIC  SCHOOL.1 

Where  are  those  honours,  Ida ! once  your  own, 
When  Probus2  filled  your  magisterial  throne  ? 


As  ancient  Rome,  fast  falling  to  lisgrace, 

Hail’d  a barbarian  in  her  Caesar’s  place, 

So  you,  degenerate,  share  as  hard  a fat&. 

And  seat  Pomposus  where  your  Probus  sate. 

Of  narrow  brain,  yet  of  a narrower  soul, 
Pomposus3  holds  you  in  his  harsh  contro  ; 
Pomposus,  by  no  social  virtue  sway’d, 

With  florid  jargon,  and  with  vain  parade  ; 

With  noisy  notisen.se,  and  new-fangled  rule 
Such  as  were  ne’er  before  enforced  in  schools. 
Mistaking  pedantry  for  learning’s  laws, 

He  governs,  sanction’d  but  by  self-applause, 

With  him  the  same  dire  fate  attending  Rome, 
Ill-fated  Ida  ! soon  must  stamp  your  doom  : 

Like  her  o’erthrown,  for  ever  lost  to  fame, 

No  trace  of  science  left  you,  but  the  name. 

July.  SOS. 


TO  THE  DUKE  OF  DORSET.4 5 

Dorset  ! 5 whose  early  steps  with  mine  have  stray’d. 
Exploring  every  path  of  Ida’s  glade  ; 

Whom  still  affection  taught  me  to  defend, 

And  made  me  less  a tyrant  than  a friend, 

Though  the  harsh  custom  of  our  youthful  band 
Bade  thee  obey,  and  gave  me  to  command;6 
Thee,  on  whose  head  a few  short  years  will  shower 
The  gift  of  riches,  and  the  pride  of  power  : 

E’en  now  a name  illustrious  is  thine  own, 

Renown1’ d in  rank,  nor  far  beneath  the  throne. 

Yet,  Dorset,  let  not  this  seduce  thy  soul 
To  shun  fair  science,  or  evade  control, 

Though  passive  tutors,7  fearful  to  dispraise 
The  titled  child,  whose  future  breath  may  raise, 

View  ducal  errors  with  indulgent  eyes, 

And  wink  at  faults  they  tremble  to  chastise. 

When  youthful  parasites,  who  bend  the  knee 
To  wealth,  their  golden  idol,  not  to  thee, — 

And  even  in  simple  boyhood’s  opening  dawn 
Some  slaves  are  found  to  flatter  and  to  fawn, — 
When  these  declare,  “ that  pomp  alone  should  wait 
On  one  by  birth  predestined  to  be  great ; 

That  books  were  only  meant  for  drudging  fools, 

That  gallant  spirits  scorn  the  common  rules ;” 
Believe  them  not ; — they  point  the  path  to  shame. 
And  seek  to  blast  the  honours  of  thy  name. 


was  Antonio,  his  slave,  a native  of  Java,  who  had  accompanied 
Camoens  to  Europe,  after  having  rescued  him  from  the  waves,  when 
•hipwrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Mecon.  This  faithful  attendant  was 
wont  to  seek  alms  throughout  Lisbon,  and  at  night  shared  the  pro- 
duce of  the  day  with  his  poor  and  broken-hearted  master.  But 
his  friendship  was  employed  in  vain.  Camoens  sank  beneath  the 
pressure  of  penury  and  disease,  and  died  in  an  alms-house  early  in 
the  year  1579.—  Strangfokd.] 

(1)  [In  March,  1805,  Dr.  Drury  retired  from  his  situation  of 
head-master  at  Harrow,  and  was  succeeded  by  Dr.  Butler.] 

(2)  [“  Dr.  Drury,  whom  I plagued  sufficiently,  was  the  best,  the 
kindest  (and  yet  strict,  too)  friend  I ever  had;  and  I look  upon 
him  still  as  a father.”— Byron  Diary .] 


(3)  [“At  Harrow  I was  a most  unpopular  boy,  but  fed  latterly, 
and  have  retained  many  of  my  school  friendships,  and  all  my  dis- 
likes except  to  Dr.  Butler,  whom  I treated  rebelliously,  and  have 
been  sorry  ever  since.” — Byron  Diary. — The  reconciliation  which 
took  place  between  him  and  Dr.  Butler,  before  his  departure  for 
Greece,  in  1809,  is,  says  Mr.  Moore,  “one  of  those  instances  of 
placability  and  pliableness  with  which  his  life  abounded.  Not 
content  with  this  private  atonement  to  the  Doctor,  it  was  his  inten- 
♦-’on,  had  he  published  another  edition  of  the  Hours  of  Idleness,  to 
substitute,  for  the  offensive  verses  against  that  gentleman,  a frank 
avowal  of  the  wrong  he  had  been  guilty  of  in  giving  vent  to 
I'  am.  ] 


(4)  In  looking  over  my  papers  to  select  a few  additional  poems 
for  this  second  edition,  1 found  the  above  lines,  which  I had  totally 
forgotten,  composed  in  the  summer  of  1805,  a short  time  previous 
to  my  departure  from  Harrow.  They  were  addressed  to  a young 
schoolfellow  of  high  rank,  who  had  been  my  frequent  companion 
in  some  rambles  through  the  neighbouring  country  : however,  ho 
never  saw  the  lines,  and  most  probably  never  will.  As,  on  a re- 
perusal, I found  them  not  worse  than  some  other  pieces  in  the 
collection,  I have  now  published  them,  for  the  first  time,  after  a 
slight  revision. 

(5)  [George-John-Frederick,  fourth  Duke  of  Dorset,  born  Novem- 
ber 15,  1793.  This  amiable  nobleman  was  killed  by  a fall  from 
his  horse,  while  hunting  near  Dublin,  February  22,  1815,  being  on 
a visit  at  the  time  to  his  mother,  the  duchess-dowager,  and  her 
second  husband,  Charles  Earl  of  Whitworth,  then  Lard  Lieutenant 
of  Ireland.] 

(6)  At  every  public  school  the  junior  boys  are  completely  sub- 
servient to  the  upper  forms  till  they  attain  a seat  in  the  I ighei 
classes.  From  this  state  of  probation,  very  properly,  no  rank  is 
exempt ; but  after  a certain  period,  they  command  in  turn  those 
who  succeed. 

(7)  Allow  me  to  disclaim  any  personal  allusions,  evw  tht  meet 
distant : 1 merely  mention  generally  what  is  too  ofte* 

of  preceptors. 


384 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Turn  to  the  few  in  Ida’s  early  throng, 

Whose  souls  disdain  not  to  condemn  the  wrong ; 

Or  if,  amidst  the  comrades  of  thy  youth, 

None  dare  to  raise  the  sterner  voice  of  truth, 

Ask  thine  own  heart ; ’twill  bid  thee,  boy,  forbear; 
For  well  I know  that  virtue  lingers  there. 

Yes ! I have  mark’d  thee  many  a passing  day. 
But  now  new  scenes  invite  me  far  away  ; 

Yes  ! I have  mark’d  within  that  generous  mind 
A soul,  if  well  matured,  to  bless  mankind. 

Ah  ! though  myself,  by  nature  haughty,  wild, 
Whom  Indiscretion  hail’d  her  favourite  child  ; 
Though  every  error  stamps  me  for  her  own, 

And  dooms  my  fall,  I fain  would  fall  alone  ; 

Though  my  proud  heart  no  precept  now  can  tame, 

I love  the  virtues  which  I cannot  claim. 

’Tis  not  enough,  with  other  sous  of  power, 

To  gleam  the  lambent  meteor  of  an  hour ; 

To  swell  some  peerage  page  in  feeble  pride, 

With  long-drawn  names  that  grace  no  page  beside  ; 
Then  share  with  titled  crowds  the  common  lot — 

In  life  just  gazed  at,  in  the  grave  forgot  ; 

While  nought  divides  thee  from  the  vulgar  dead, 
Except  the  dull  cold  stone  that  hides  thy  head, 

The  mouldering  ’scutcheon,  or  the  herald’s  roll, 

That  well-emblazon’d  but  neglected  scroll, 

Where  lords,  unhonour’d,  in  the  tomb  may  find 
One  spot,  to  leave  a worthless  name  behind. 

There  sleep,  unnoticed  as  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  veil  their  dust,  their  follies,  and  their  faults, 

A race,  with  old  armorial  lists  o’erspread, 

In  records  destined  never  to  be  read. 

Fain  would  I view  thee,  with  prophetic  eyes, 

Exalted  more  among  the  good  and  wise, 

A glorious  and  a long  career  pursue, 

As  first  in  rank,  the  first  in  talent  too  : 

Spurn  every  vice,  each  little  meanness  shun ; 

Not  Fortune’s  minion,  but  her  noblest  son. 

Turn  to  the  annals  of  a former  day; 

Bright  are  the  deeds  thine  earlier  sires  display. 

One,  though  a courtier,  lived  a man  of  worth, 

And  call’d,  proud  boast ! the  British  drama  forth.1 
Another  view,  not  less  renown’d  for  wit ; 

Alike  for  courts,  and  camps,  or  senates  fit ; 

Bold  in  the  field,  and  favour’d  by  the  Nine ; 

In  every  splendid  part  ordain’d  to  shine ; 

Far,  far  distinguish’d  from  the  glittering  throng, 

The  pride  of  princes,  and  the  boast  of  song.2 
Such  were  thy  fathers  ; thus  preserve  their  name  ; 
Not  heir  to  titles  only,  but  to  fame. 

The  hour  draws  nigh,  a few  brief  days  will  close 
To  me,  this  little  scene  of  joys  and  woes  ; 


(1)  [“  Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst,  was  born  in  1527. 
While  a student  of  the  Inner  Temple,  he  wrote  his  tragedy  of  Gor- 
boduc,  which  was  played  before  Queen  Elizabeth  at  Whiehail,  in 
1561.  His  tragedy,  and  his  contribution  of  the  Induction  and 
legend  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  to  the  “ Mirror  for  Magistrates,” 
compose  the  poetical  history  of  Sackville.  The  rest  of  it  was  poli- 
tical. In  1604,  he  was  created  Earl  of  Dorset  by  James  I.  He 
died  suddenly  at  the  council  table,  in  consequence  of  a dropsy  on 
the  brain." — Campbell.] 

(2)  [Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset,  was  born  in  1637,  and 
.lied  in  1706.  He  was  esteemed  the  most  accomplished  man  of  his 
.lay,  and  alike  distinguished  in  the  voluptuous  court  of  Charles  II. 
ind  the  gloomy  one  of  William  III.  He  behaved  with  considerable 
gallantry  in  the  sea-fight  with  the  Dutch  in  1665  ; on  the  day  pre- 
vious to  which  he  is  said  to  have  composed  his  celebrated  song.  To 
all  you  Ladies  now  at  Land.  His  character  has  been  drawn  in  the 
highest  colours  by  Dryden,  Pope,  Prior,  and  Congreve.] 

(3)  [“  I have  just  beer . or  rather  ought  to  be,  very  much  shocked 


Each  knell  of  Time  now  warns  me  to  resign 
Shades  where  Hope,  .Peace,  and  Friendship  all  were 
mine  : 

Hope,  that  could  vary  like  the  rainbow’s  hue, 

And  gild  their  pinions  as  the  moments  flew ; 

Peace,  that  reflection  never  frown’d  away, 

By  dreams  of  ill  to  cloud  some  future  day  ; 
Friendship,  whose  truth  let  childhood  only  tell ; 

Alas  ! they  love  not  long,  who  love  so  well. 

To  these  adieu ! nor  let  me  linger  o’er 
Scenes  hail’d,  as  exiles  hail  their  native  shore. 
Receding  slowly  through  the  dark-blue  deep, 

Beheld  by  eyes  that  mourn,  yet  cannot  \\ee\ 

Dorset,  farewell ! I will  not  ask  one  part 
Of  sad  remembrance  in  so  young  a heart ; 

The  coming  morrow  from  thy  youthful  mind 
Will  sweep  my  name,  nor  leave  a trace  behind. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  in  some  matureryear, 

Since  chance  has  thrown  us  in  the  self-same  sphere, 
Since  the  same  senate,  nay,  the  same  debate, 

May  one  day  claim  our  suffrage  for  the  state, 

We  hence  may  meet,  and  pass  each  other  by, 

With  faint  regard,  or  cold  and  distant  eye 
For  me,  in  future,  neither  friend  nor  foe, 

A stranger  to  thyself,  thy  weal  or  woe, 

With  thee  no  more  again  I hope  to  trace 
The  recollection  of  our  early  race ; 

I No  more,  as  once,  in  social  hours  rejoice, 

Or  hear,  unless  in  crowds,  thy  well-known  voice  : 

Still,  if  the  wishes  of  a heart  untaught 
To  veil  those  feelings  which  perchance  it  ought. 

If  these, — but  let  me  cease  the  lengthen’d  strain,— 

Oh  ' if  these  wishes  are  not  breathed  in  vain, 

The  guardian  seraph  who  directs  thy  fate 
Will  leave  thee  glorious,  as  he  found  thee  great.3 

1805. 


FRAGMENT. 

WRITTEN  SHORTLY  AFTER  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  MISS 
CHAWORTH. 

Hills  of  Annesley  ! bleak  and  barren, 

Where  my  thoughtless  childhood  stray’d. 

How  the  northern  tempests,  warring. 

Howl  above  thy  tufted  shade  ! 

Now  no  more,  the  hours  beguiling, 

Former  favourite  haunts  I see  ; 

Now  no  more  my  Mary  smiling 
Makes  ye  seem  a heaven  to  me.4 

1S05. 


by  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Dorset.  We  were  at  school  together, 
and  there  I was  passionately  attached  to  him.  Since,  we  have 
never  met,  but  once,  I think,  since  1805— and  it  would  be  a paltry 
affectation  to  pretend  that  I had  any  feeling  for  him  worth  tht 
name.  But  there  was  a time  in  my  life  when  this  event  would  have 
broken  my  heart;  and  all  I can  say  for  it  now  is — that  it  is  not 
worth  breaking.  The  recollection  of  what  I once  felt,  and  ought 
to  have  felt  now,  but  could  not,  set  me  pondering,  and  finally  into 
the  train  of  thought  which  you  have  in  your  hands.” — Byron  Letters 
1815. — The  Verses  referred  to  were  those  melancholy  ones,  begin 
ning. — “ There’s  not  a joy  the  world  can  give,  like  those  it  take  - 
away. ”] 

(4)  [The  circumstances  which  lent  so  peculiar  an  interest  to  Loro 
Byron's  introduction  to  the  family  of  L’haworth.  are  sufficiently 
explained  in  the  “ Notices  of  his  Life.”  The  young  lady  hersolt 
combined,”  says  Mr.  Moore,  “with  the  many  wordly  advantage, 
that  encircled  her,  much  personal  beauty,  and  a disposition  the 
most  amiable  and  attaching.  Though  already  fully  alive  to  Lea 
charms,  it  was  at  this  period  (1804)  that  the  young  poet  seems  U. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


385 


GRANTA.  A Medley. 

Ap'ypp^au'  Xd yxal<Tl  H<*Xou  Kal  wai/T a K.paTrj<rcui. 

Oh  ! could  Le  Sage’s 1 demon’s  gift 
Be  realized  at  my  desire, 

This  night  my  trembling  form  he’d  lift 
To  place  it  on  St.  Mary’s  spire. 

Then  would,  unroof’d,  old  Granta’s  halls 
Pedantic  inmates  full  display ; 

Fellows  who  dream  on  lawn  or  stalls, 

The  price  of  venal  votes  to  pay. 

Then  would  I view  each  rival  wight, 

Petty  and  Palmerston  survey  ; 

Who  canvass  there  with  all  their  might. 

Against  the  next  elective  day.2 

Lo  ! candidates  and  voters  lie 3 

All  lull’d  in  sleep,  a goodly  number : 

A race  renown’d  for  piety, 

Whose  conscience  won’t  disturb  their  slumber. 

Lord  H ,4  indeed,  may  not  demur  ; 

Fellows  are  sage  reflecting  men  : 

They  know  preferment  can  occur 
But  very  seldom, — now  and  then. 

They  know  the  Chancellor  has  got 
Some  pretty  livings  in  disposal : 

Each  hopes  that  one  may  be  his  lot, 

And  therefore  smiles  on  his  proposal. 

Now  from  the  soporific  scene 
I’ll  turn  mine  eye,  as  night  grows  later, 

To  view,  unheeded  and  unseen, 

The  studious  sons  of  Alma  Mater. 

There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 

The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp  ; 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

He  surely  well  deserves  to  gain  them, 

With  all  the  honours  of  his  college, 

Who,  striving  hardly  to  obtain  them, 

Thus  seeks  unprofitable  knowledge : 

Who  sacrifices  hours  of  rest 
To  scan  precisely  metres  attic  ? 

Or  agitates  his  anxious  breast 
In  solving  problems  mathematic : 


nave  drunk  deepest  of  that  fascination  whose  effects  were  to  be  so 
lasting ; six  short  weeks  which  he  passed  in  her  company  being 
sufficient  to  lay  the  foundation  of  a feeling  for  all  life.  With  the 
summer  holidays  ended  this  dream  of  his  youth.  He  saw  Miss 
Chaworth  once  more  in  the  succeeding  year,  and  took  his  last  fare- 
well of  her  on  that  hill  near  Annesley,  which,  in  his  poem  of  ‘The 
Dream,’  he  describes  so  happily  as  ‘ crowned  with  a peculiar 
iiadem.’”  In  August.  1805,  she  was  married  to  John  Musters, 
Esq.;  and  died  at  Wiverton  Hall,  in  February,  1882,  in  conse- 
quence, it  is  believed,  of  the  alarm  and  danger  to  which  she  had 
been  exposed  during  the  sack  of  Colwick  Hall  by  a party  of  rioters 
from  Nottingham.  The  unfortunate  lady  had  been  in  a feeble 
state  of  health  for  several  years,  and  she  and  her  daughter  were 
obliged  to  take  shelter  from  the  violence  of  the  mob  in  a shrubbery, 
where,  partly  from  cold,  partly  from  terror,  her  constitution  sus- 
tained a shock  which  it  wanted  vigour  to  resist.] 

( 1 ) The  Diable  Boiteux  of  Le  Sage,  where  Asmodeus,  the  demon, 
places  Don  Cleofas  on  an  elevated  situation,  and  unroofs  the  houses 
for  inspection. 

(2}  [On  the  death  cf  Mr.  Pitt,  in  January,  180G,  Lord  Henry 
Petty  and  Lord  Palmerston  were  candidates  to  represent  the 
University  of  Cambridge  in  parliament.] 


Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Seale,5 
Or  puzzles  o’er  the  deep  triangle ; 

Deprived  of  many  a wholesome  meal ; 

In  barbarous  Latin 6 doom’d  to  wrangis  • 

Renouncing  every  pleasing  page 
From  authors  of  historic  use ; 

Preferring  to  the  letter’d  sage, 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse.7 

Still,  harmless  are  these  occupations, 

That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  studeni. 

Compared  with  other  recreations. 

Which  bring  together  the  imprudent ; 

Whose  daring  revels  shock  the  sight, 

When  vice  and  infamy  combine, 

When  drunkenness  and  dice  invite, 

As  every  sense  is  steep’d  in  wine. 

Not  so  the  methodistic  crew, 

Who  plans  of  reformation  lay  : 

In  humble  attitude  they  sue. 

And  for  the  sins  of  others  pray  : 

Forgetting  that  their  pride  of  spirit, 

Their  exultation  in  their  trial, 

Detracts  most  largely  from  the  merit 
Of  all  their  boasted  self-denial. 

’Tis  morn : — from  these  I turn  my  sight. 

What  scene  is  this  which  meets  the  eye  ? 

A numerous  crowd,  array’d  in  white,8 
Across  the  green  in  numbers  fly. 

Loud  rings  in  air  the  chapel  bell ; 

’Tis  hush’d  : — what  sounds  are  these  I lieai  ? 

The  organ’s  soft  celestial  swell 
Rolls  deeply  on  the  list’ning  ear. 

To  this  is  join’d  the  sacred  song, 

The  royal  minstrel’s  hallow’d  strain  ; 

Though  he  who  hears  the  music  long 
Will  never  wish  to  hear  again. 

Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused, 

Even  as  a band  of  raw  beginners  ; 

All  mercy  now  must  be  refused 
To  such  a set  of  croaking  sinners. 


(3)  [In  the  private  volume,  the  fourth  and  fifth  stanzas  ran 
thus : — 

“ One  on  his  power  and  place  depends, 

The  other  on — the  Lord  knows  what  1 
Each  to  some  eloquence  pretends, 

Though  neither  will  convince  by  that. 

“The  first,  indeed,  may  not  demur; 

Fellows  are  sage  reflecting  men,”  &c.] 

(4)  [Edward-Harvey  Hawke,  third  Lord  Hawke.  His  iordsh'r 
died  in  1824.] 

(5)  Seale’s  publication  on  Greek  Metres  displays  consideratie 
talent  and  ingenuity,  but,  as  might  be  expected  in  so  difficult  a 
work,  is  not  remarkable  for  accuracy.  • 

(6)  The  Latin  of  the  schools  is  of  the  canine  species,  and  not 
very  intelligible. 

(7)  The  discovery  of  Pythagoras,  that  the  square  of  the  hypothe- 
nuse is  equal  to  the  squares  of  the  other  two  sides  of  a right-angiea 
triangle. 

(8)  On  a saint’s  day,  the  students  wear  surplices  in  chapel. 

3 D 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


386 

If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended, 

Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  him. 
To  u?  nis  psalms  had  ne’er  descended, — 

In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  ’em. 

The  luckless  Israelites,  when  taken 
By  some  inhuman  tyrant’s  order. 

Were  ask’d  to  sing,  by  joy  forsaken. 

On  Babylonian  river’s  border. 

Oh  ! had  they  sung  in  notes  like  these. 

Inspired  by  stratagem  or  fear, 

They  might  have  set  their  hearts  at  ease. 

The  devil  a soul  had  stay’d  to  hear. 

But  if  I scribble  longer  now, 

The  deuce  a soul  will  stay  to  read : 

My  pen  is  blunt,  my  ink  is  low  ; 

’Tis  almost  time  to  stop,  indeed. 

Therefore,  farewell,  old  Granta’s  spires  ! 

No  more,  like  Cleofas,  I fly ; 

No  more  thy  theme  my  muse  inspires : 

The  reader’s  tired,  and  so  am  I. 

1806. 


ON  A DISTANT  VIEW  OE  THE  VILLAGE  4ND 
SCHOOL  OE  HARROW  ON  THE  HILL. 

Oh  ! mihi  praeteritos  referat  si  Jupiter  annos. — Virgil. 

Ye  scenes  of  my  childhood,  whose  loved  recollection 
Embitters  the  present,  compared  with  the  past ; 
Where  science  first  dawn’d  on  the  powers  of  reflection, 
And  friendships  were  form’d,  too  romantic  to  last;1 

Where  fancy  yet  joys  to  trace  the  resemblance 
Of  comrades,  in  friendship  and  mischief  allied  ; 

How  welcome  to  me  your  ne’er  fading  remembrance, 
Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is  denied ! 

Again  I revisit  the  hills  where  we  sported, 

The  streams  where  we  swam,  and  the  fields  where 
we  fought ; 2 [sorted, 

The  school  where,  loud  warn’d  by  the  bell,  we  re- 
To  pore  o’er  the  precepts  by  pedagogues  taught. 

Again  I behold  where  for  hours  I have  ponder’d, 

As  reclining,  at  eve,  on  yon  tombstone3  I lay  ; 

Or  round  the  steep  brow  of  the  churchyard  I wander’d, 
To  catch  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun’s  setting  ray. 

I once  more  view  the  room,  with  spectators  sur- 
rounded, 

Wliere,  as  Zanga,4 1 trod  on  Alonzo  o’erthrown ; 


(1)  [“  My  school-friendships  were  with  me  passions  (for  I was 
always  violent) ; but  1 do  not  know  that  there  is  one  which  has 
esdured  (to  be  sure  some  have  been  cut  short  by  death)  till  now.” 
— Byron  Diary.  1821  ] 

(2)  [“At  Harrow  1 foughtmy  way  very  fairly.  I think  I lost  but 
wie  battle  out  of  seven.” — Ibid.] 

(3)  [They  show  a tomb  in  the  churchyard  at  Harrow,  com- 
manding a view  over  Windsor,  which  was  so  well  known  to  be  his 
favourite  resting-place,  that  the  boys  called  it  “Byron’s  Tomb;” 
and  here,  they  say,  he  used  to  sit  for  hours,  wrapt  up  in  thought.] 

(4)  [For  the  display  of  his  declamatory  powers,  on  the  speech- 
days,  he  selected  always  the  most  vehement  passages;  such  as  the 
speech  of  Zanga  over  the  bouy  of  Alonzo,  and  Lear’s  address  to 

the  storm.] 


While,  to  swell  my  young  pride,  such  applauaea  r*> 
sounded, 

I fancied  that  Mossop5  himself  was  outshone  t 

Or,  as  Lear,  I pour’d  forth  the  deep  imprecation. 

By  my  daughters,  of  kingdom  and  reason  deprived ; 
Till,  fired  by  loud  plaudits®  and  self-adulation, 

1 regarded  myself  as  a Garrick  revived. 

Ye  dreams  of  my  boyhood,  how  much  I regret  you ! 

Unfaded  your  memory  dwells  in  my  breast ; * 
Though  sad  and  deserted,  I ne’er  can  forget  you : 
Your  pleasures  may  still  be  in  fancy  possest. 

To  Ida  full  oft  may  remembrance  restore  me,7 
While  fate  shall  the  shades  of  the  future  unroll ! 
Since  darkness  o’ershadows  the  prospect  before  me. 
More  dear  is  the  beam  of  the  past' to  my  soul. 

But  if,  through  the  course  of  the  years  which  await  me, 
Some  new  scene  of  pleasure  should  open  to  view, 

I will  say,  while  with  rapture  the  thought  shall  elate  me, 
“ Oh!  such  were  the  days  which  my  infancy  knew!” 

1806. 


TO  M . 

Oh  ! did  those  eyes,  instead  of  fire, 

With  bright  but  mild  affection  shine, 

Though  they  might  kindle  less  desire, 

Love,  more  than  mortal,  would  be  thine. 

Eor  thou  art  form’d  so  heavenly  fair, 
Howe’er  those  orbs  may  wildly  beam, 

We  must  admire,  but  still  despair ; 

That  fatal  glance  forbids  esteem. 

When  Nature  stamp’d  thy  beauteous  birth. 
So  much  perfection  in  thee  shone, 

She  fear’d  that,  too  divine  for  earth, 

The  skies  might  claim  thee  for  their  own  : 

Therefore,  to  guard  her  dearest  work, 

Lest  angels  might  dispute  the  prize. 

She  bade  a secret  lightning  lurk 
Within  those  once  celestial  eyes. 

These  might  the  boldest  sylph  appal, 

When  gleaming  with  meridian  blaze  ; 

Hiy  beauty  must  enrapture  all ; 

But  who  can  dare  thine  ardent  gaze  ? 

’Tis  said  that  Berenice’s  hair 

In  stars  adorns  the  vault  of  heaven  ; 

But  they  would  ne’er  permit  thee  there. 
Thou  wouldst  so  far  outshine  the  seven. 


(5)  Mossop,  a cotemporary  of  Garrick,  famous  for  his  perfoim 
arce  of  Zanga. 

(6)  [“  My  grand  patron,  Dr.  Drury,  had  a great  notion  that  1 
should  turn  out  an  orator,  from  my  fluency,  my  turbulence,  my 
voice,  my  copiousness  of  declamation,  and  my  action.” — Byrar 
Diary.] 

(7)  [In  the  private  volume  the  two  last  stanzas  ran — 

“ I thought  this  poor  brain,  fever’d  even  to  madness. 

Of  tears,  as  of  reason,  for  ever  was  drain’d ; 

But  the  drops  which  now  flow  down  this  bosom  of  sadness, 
Convince  me  the  springs  have  some  moisture  retain’d. 

“ Sweet  scenes  of  my  childhood!  your  blest  recollection 
Has  wrung  from  these  eyelids,  to  weeping  long  dead, 

In  torrents  the  tears  of  my  warmest  affection, 

The  last  and  thy  fondest  I ever  shall  shed.”] 


HOURS  0 F IDLENESS, 


387 


For  did  those  eyes  as  planets  roll, 

Thy  sister-lights  would  scarce  appear  : 

E’en  suns,  which  systems  now  control, 

Would  twinkle  dimly  through  their  sphere.”  1 

1806. 


TO  WOMAN. 

Woman  ! experience  might  have  told  me, 
That  all  must  love  thee  who  behold  thee; 
Surely  experience  might  have  taught 
Thy  firmest  promises  are  nought : 

But,  placed  in  .all  thy  charms  before  me. 

All  I forget,  but  to  adore  thee. 

Oh  memory  ! thou  choicest  blessing 
When  join’d  with  hope,  when  still  possessing 
But  how  much  cursed  by  every  lover 
When  hope  is  fled  and  passion’s  over. 
Woman,  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver, 

How  prompt  are  striplings  to  believe  her ! 
How  throbs  the  pulse  when  first  we  view 
The  eye  that  rolls  in  glossy  blue, 

Or  sparkles  black,  or  mildly  throws 
A beam  from  under  hazel  brows  ! 

How  quick  we  credit  every  oath, 

And  hear  her  plight  the  willing  troth 
Fondly  we  hope  ’twill  last  for  aye. 

When  lo  ! she  changes  in  a day. 

This  record  will  for  ever  st#nd, 

“ Woman,  thy  vows  are  traced  in  sand.”  2 3 


TO  M.  S.  G. 

When  I dream  that  you  love  me,  you’ll  surely  forgive ; 
Extend  not  your  anger  to  sleep ; 

For  in  visions  alone  your  affection  can  live, — 

1 rise,  and  it  leaves  me  to  weep. 

Then,  Morpheus  ! envelope  my  faculties  fast, 

Shed  o’er  me  your  languor  benign  ; 

Should  the  dream  of  to-night  but  resemble  the  last, 
What  rapture  celestial  is  mine  ! 

They  tell  us  that  slumber,  the  sister  of  death, 
Mortality’s  emblem  is  given  ; 

To  fate  how  I long  to  resign  my  frail  breath, 

If  this  be  a foretaste  of  heaven  ! 

Ah  ! frown  not,  sweet  lady,  unbend  your  soft  brow, 
Nor  deem  me  too  happy  in  this  ; • 

If  I sin  in  my  dream,  I atone  for  it  now, 

Thus  doom’d  but  to  gaze  upon  bliss. 

Though  in  visions,  sweet  lady,  perhaps  you  may  smile, 
Oil ! think  not  my  penance  deficient ! 

When  dreams  of  your  presence  my  slumbers  beguile. 
To  awake  will  be  torture  sufficient. 


(1)  “ Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 

Having  some  business,  do  intreat  her  eyes, 

To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return."— Shaks. 

(2)  The  last  line  is  almost  a literal  translation  from  a Spanish 
proverb. 

(3)  [Of  this  “ Mary,”  who  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  the 

heiress  of  Annesley,  or  “Mary”  of  Aberdeen,  all  that  has  been 

ascertained  is,  that  she  was  of  an  humble,  if  not  equivocal,  station 


TO  MARY, 

ON  RECEIVING  HER  PICTURE.5 

This  faint  resemblance  of  thy  charms, 

Though  strong  as  mortal  art  could  giv^ 

My  constant  heart  of  fear  disarms, 

Revives  my  hopes,  and  bids  me  live. 

Here  I can  trace  the  locks  of  gold 

Which  round  thy  snowy  forehead  wave, 

The  cheeks  which  sprung  from  beauty’s  mould, 

The  lips  which  made  me  beauty’s  slave. 

Here  I can  trace — ah,  no  ! that  eye. 

Whose  azure  floats  in  liquid  fire, 

Must  all  the  painter’s  art  defy, 

And  bid  him  from  the  task  retire. 

Here  I behold  its  beauteous  hue  ; 

But  where’s  the  beam  so  sweetly  straying,4 

Which  gave  a lustre  to  its  blue, 

Like  Luna  o’er  the  ocean  playing  ? 

Sweet  copy  ! far  more  dear  to  me, 

Lifeless,  unfeeling  as  thou  art, 

Than  all  the  living  forms  could  be, 

Save  her  who  placed  thee  next  my  heart. 

She  placed  it,  sad,  with  needless  fear, 

Lest  time  might  shake  my  wavering  soul. 

Unconscious  that  her  image  there 
Held  every  sense  in  fast  control. 

Through  hours,  through  years,  through  thv.°.,  twill 
My  hope,  in  gloomy  moments  raise  ; [cheer ; 

In  life’s  last  conflict  ’twill  appear, 

And  meet  my  fond  expiring  gaze. 


TO  LESBIA. 

Lesbia  ! since  far  from  you  I’ve  ranged. 
Our  souls  with  fond  affection  glow  not ; 

You  say  ’tis  I,  not  you,  have  changed. 

I’d  tell  you  why, — but  yet  I know  not. 

Your  polish’d  brow  no  cares  have  crost  ; 
And,  Lesbia ! we  are  not  much  older 

Since,  trembling,  first  my  heart  I lost, 

Or  told  my  love,  with  hope  grown  bolder. 

Sixteen  was  then  our  utmost  age, 

Two  years  have  lingering  past  away,  love  S 

And  now  new  thoughts  our  minds  engage, 
At  least  I feel  disposed  to  stray,  love  ! 

’Tis  I that  am  alone  to  blame, 

I,  that  am  guilty  of  love’s  treason  ; 

Since  your  sweet  breast  is  still  the  same. 
Caprice  must  be  my  only  reason. 


in  life, — and  that  she  had  long  light  golden  hair,  “of  whiaa,”  says 
Mr.  Moore,  “the  Poet  used  to  show  a lock,  as  well  as  her  oicture, 
among  his  friends.”] 

(4)  [In  the  private  volume — 

But  where’s  the  beam  of  soft  desire  t 
Which  gave  a lustre  to  its  blue. 

Love,  only  love,  could  e’er  inspire.] 


388 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


I do  not,  love  ! suspect  your  truth, 

With  jealous  doubt  my  bosom  heaves  not ; 
Warm  was  the  passion  of  my  youth, 

One  trace  of  dark  deceit  it  leaves  not. 

No,  no,  my  flame  was  not  pretended ; 

For,  oil ! I loved  you  most  sincerely  ; 

\nd — though  our  dream  at  last  is  ended — 
My  bosom  still  esteems  you  dearly. 

No  more  we  meet  in  yonder  bowers ; 

Absence  has  made  me  prone  to  roving ; 
But  older,  firmer  hearts  than  ours 
Have  found  monotony  in  loving. 

Your  cheek’s  soft  bloom  is  unimpair’d, 

New  beauties  still  are  daily  bright’ ning, 
Your  eye  for  conquest  beams  prepared, 

The  forge  of  love’s  resistless  lightning. 

Arm’d  thus,  to  make  their  bosoms  bleed, 
Many  will  throng  to  sigh  like  me,  love  ! 
More  constant  they  may  prove,  indeed  ! 
Fonder,  alas  ! they  ne’er  can  be,  love  ! 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A YOUNG  LADY. 

[As  the  author  was  discharging  his  pistols  in  a garden,  two  ladies 
passing  near  the  spot  were  alarmed  by  the  sound  of  a bullet  hissing 
near  them ; to  one  of  whom  the  following  stanzas  were  addressed 
‘.he  next  morning.]  (1) 

Doubtless,  sweet  girl ! the  hissing  lead, 

Wafting  destruction  o’er  thy  charms, 

And  hurtling2  o’er  thy  lovely  head, 

Has  fill’d  that  breast  with  fond  alarms. 

Surely  some  envious  demon’s  force. 

Vex’d  to  behold  such  beauty  here, 

Impell’d  the  bullet’s  viewless  course, 

Diverted  from  its  first  career. 

Yies  ! in  that  nearly  fatal  hour 

The  ball  obey’d  some  hell-born  guide ; 

But  Heaven,  with  interposing  power. 

In  pity  turn’d  the  death  aside. 

Yet,  as  perchance  one  trembling  tear 
Upon  that  thrilling  bosom  fell : 

Which  I,  th’  unconscious  cause  of  fear, 

Extracted  from  its  glistening  cell : 

Say,  what  dire  penance  can  atone 
For  such  an  outrage  done  to  thee  ? 

Arraign’d  before  thy  beauty’s  throne, 

What  punishment  wilt  thou  decree  ? 

Might  I perform  the  judge’s  part, 

The  sentence  I should  scarce  deplore  ; 

It  only  would  restore  a heart 

Which  but  belong’d  to  thee  before. 

The  least  atonement  I can  make 
Is  to  become  no  longer  free ; 

Henceforth  I breathe  but  for  thy  sake, 

Tiiou  shalt  be  all  in  all  to  me. 


<1  [The  occurrence  took  place  at  Southwell,  and  the  beautiful 
ady  o whom  the  lines  were  addressed  whs  Miss  Houson  ] 


But  thou,  perhaps,  may’st  now  reject 
Such  expiation  of  my  guilt : 

Come  then,  some  other  mode  elect ; 

Let  it  be  death,  or  what  thou  wilt. 

Choose  then,  relentless  ! and  I swear 
Nought  shall  thy  dread  decree  prevent , 
Yet  hold — one  littie  word  forbear ! 

Let  it  be  augiit  but  banishment. 


LOVE’S  LAST  ADIEU. 

A eit  3’  aei  jue  <pevyei- — Anacreov. 

The  roses  of  love  glad  the  garden  of  life, 

Though  nurtured  ’mid  weeds  dropping  pestilent;  u t 
Till  time  crops  the  leaves  with  unmerciful  knife. 

Or  prunes  them  for  ever,  in  love’s  last  adieu ! 

In  vain  with  endearments  we  soothe  the  sad  heart, 

In  vain  do  we  vow  for  an  age  to  be  true ; 

The  chance  of  an  hour  may  command  us  to  part. 

Or  death  disunite  us  in  love’s  last  adieu  ! 

Still  Hope,  breathing  peace  through  the  grief-swollen 
breast, 

Will  whisper,  “ Our  l^eeting  we  yet  may  renew 
With  this  dream  of  deceit  half  our  sorrow’s  represt, 
Nor  taste  we  the  poison  of  love’s  last  adieu ! 

Oh  ! mark  you  yon  pair  : in  the  sunshine  of  youth 
Love  twined  round  their  childhood  his  flow’rs  as 
they  grew ; 

They  flourish  awhile  in  the  season  of  truth, 

Till  chill’d  by  the  winter  of  love’s  last  adieu ! 

Sweet  lady ! why  thus  doth  a tear  steal  its  way 
Down  a cheek  which  outrivals  thy  bosom  in  hue  ? 
Yet  why  do  I ask  ? — to  distraction  a prey. 

Thy  reason  has  perish’d  with  love’s  last  adieu ! 

Oh  ! who  is  yon  misanthrope,  shunning  mankind  ? 

From  cities  to  caves  of  the  forest  he  flew  : 

There,  raving,  he  howls  his  complaint  to  the  wind ; 
The  mountains  reverberate  love’s  last  adieu ! 

Now  hate  rules  a heart  which  in  love’s  easy  chains 
Once  passion’s  tumultuous  blandishments  knew: 
Despair  now  inflames  the  dark  tide  of  his  veins ; 

He  ptmders  in  frenzy  on  love’s  last  adieu  ! 

How  he  envies  the  wretch  with  a soul  wrapt  in  steel ! 

His  pleasures  are  scarce,  yet  his  troubles  are  few, 
Who  laughs  at  the  pang  that  he  never  can  feel. 

And  dreads  not  the  anguish  of  love’s  last  adieu ! 

Youth  flies,  life  decays,  even  hope  is  o’ercast ; 

No  more  with  love’s  former  devotion  we  sue  : 

He  spreads  his  young  wing,  lie  retires  with  the  blast; 
The  shroud  of  affection  is  love’s  last  adieu  ! 


(2)  This  word  is  used  by  Gray,  in  his  poem  to  the  Fata.'  Sisters;— 
“ Iron  sleet  of  arrowy  shower 

Hurtles  through  the  darken’d  air.” 


HOURS  or  IDLENESS. 


3C9 


In  tills  life  of  probation  for  rapture  divine, 

Astrea  declares  that  some  penance  is  due ; 

From  him  who  has  worsliipp’d  at  love’s  gentle  shrine, 
The  atonement  is  ample  in  love’s  last  adieu ! 

Who  kneels  to  the  god,  on  his  altar  of  light 
Must  myrtle  and  cypress  alternately  strew : 

His  myrtle,  an  emblem  of  purest  delight ! _ 

His  cypress  the  garlvnd  of  love’s  last  adieu  ! 


DAMiETAS. 

In  law  an  infant,1  and  in  years  a boy, 

In  mind  a slave  to  every  vicious  joy ; 

From  every  sense  of  shame  and  virtue  wean’d ; 

In  lies  an  adept,  in  deceit  a fiend  ; 

Versed  in  hypocrisy,  while  yet  a child; 

Fickle  as  wind,  of  inclinations  wild  ; 

Woman  his  dupe,  his  heedless  friend  a tool ; 

Old  in  the  world,  though  scarcely  broke  from  school ; 
Damaetas  ran  through  all  the  maze  of  sin. 

And  found  the  goal  when  others  just  begin : 

Even  still  conflicting  passions  shake  his  soul, 

And  bid  him  drain  the  dregs  of  pleasure’s  bowl ; 
But,  pall’d  with  vice,  he  breaks  his  former  chain, 
And  what  was  once  his  bliss  appears  his  bane.2 


TO  MARION. 

Mahion  ! why  that  pensive  brow  F 
What  disgust  to  life  hast  thou  ? 

Change  that  discontented  air ; 

Frowns  become  not  one  so  fair. 

’Tis  not  love  disturbs  thy  rest, 

Love’s  a stranger  to  thy  breast ; 

He  in  dimpling  smiles  appears, 

Or  mourns  in  sweetly  timid  tears, 

Or  bends  the  languid  eyelid  down, 

But  shuns  the  cold  forbidding  frown. 

Then  resume  thy  former  fire, 

Some  will  love,  and  all  admire  ; 

While  that  icy  aspect  chills  us, 

Nought  but  cool  indifference  thrills  us. 
Wouldst  thou  wandering  hearts  beguile, 
Smile  at  least,  or  seem  to  smile. 

Eyes  like  thine  were  never  meant 
To  hide  their  orbs  in  dark  restraint ; 

Spite  of  all  thou  fain  wouldst  say, 

Still  in  truant  beams  they  play. 

Thy  lips — but  here  my  modest  Muse 
Her  impulse  chaste  must  needs  refuse  : 

She  blushes,  curt’sies,  frowns — in  short  she 
Dreads  lest  the  subject  should  transport  me ; 
And  flying  off  in  search  of  reason, 

Brings  prudence  back  in  proper  season. 


(1)  In  law  every  person  is  an  infant  who  has  not  attained  the  age 
of  twenty-one. 

(2)  [“When  I went  up  to  Trinity,  in  1805,  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen and  a half,  I was  miserable  and  untoward  to  a degree.  I wan 
wretched  at  leaving  Harrow — wretched  at  going  to  Cambridge  in- 
stead of  Oxford— wretched  from  some  private  domestic  circumstances 
of  different  kinds;  and,  consequently,  about  as  unsocial  as  a wolf 
taken  from  the  troop.” — Diary.  Mr.  Moore  adds,  “ The  sort  of  life 
which  young  Byron  led  at  this  period,  between  the  dissipations  of 
London  and  of  Cambridge,  without  a home  to  welcome,  or  even  the 
roof  of  a single  relative  to  receive  him,  was  but  little  calculated  to 


All  I shall  therefore  say  (whate’er 
I think,  is  neither  here  nor  there) 

Is,  that  such  lips,  of  looks  endearing, 

Were  form’d  for  better  things  than  sneering  • 
Of  smoothing  compliments  divested, 

Advice  at  least’s  disinterested ; 

Such  is  my  artless  song  to  thee, 

From  all  the  flow  of  flattery  free  ; 

Counsel  like  mine  is  like  a brother’s. 

My  heart  is  given  to  some  others  ; 

That  is  to  say,  unskill’d  to  cozen. 

It  shares  itself  among  a dozen. 

Marion,  adieu  ! oh,  pr’ythee  slight  not 
This  warning,  though  it  may  delight  not ; 
And,  lest  my  precepts  be  displeasing 
To  those  who  think  remonstrance  teasing, 

At  once  I’ll  tell  thee  our  opinion 
Concerning  woman’s  soft  dominion : 

Howe’er  we  gaze  with  admiration 
On  eyes  of  blue  or  lips  carnation, 

Howe’er  the  flowing  locks  attract  us, 
Howe’er  those  beauties  may  distract  us, 

Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove, 

These  cannot  fix  our  souls  to  love  : 

It  is  not  too  severe  a stricture 
To  say  they  form  a pretty  picture ; 

But  wouldst  thou  see  the  secret  chain 
Which  binds  us  in  your  humble  train, 

To  hail  you  queens  of  all  creation, 

Know,  in  a word,  ’tis  Animation. 


TO  A LADY 

WHO  PRESENTED  TO  THE  AUTHOR  A LOCK  OF  HAIR 
BRAIDED  WITH  HIS  OWN,  AND  APPOINTED  A NIGHT 
IN  DECEMBER  TO  MEET  HIM  IN  THE  GARDEN.3 

These  locks,  which  fondly  thus  entwine, 

In  firmer  chains  our  hearts  confine, 

Than  all  th’  unmeaning  protestations 
Which  swell  with  nonsense  love  orations. 

Our  love  is  fix’d,  I think  we’ve  proved  it. 

Nor  time,  nor  place,  nor  art  have  moved  it ; 

Then  wherefore  should  we  sigh'  and  whine, 

With  groundless  jealousy  repine, 

With  silly  whims  and  fancies  frantic, 

Merely  to  make  our  love  romantic  ? 

Why  should  you  weep  like  Lydia  Languish, 

And  fret  with  self-created  anguish  ? 

Or  doom  the  lover  you  have  chosen, 

On  winter  nights  to  sigh  half  frozen ; 

In  leafless  shades  to  sue  for  pardon, 

Only  because  the  scene’s  a garden? 

For  gardens  seem,  by  one  consent, 

Since  Shakspeare  set  the  precedent, 

Since  Juliet  first  declared  her  passion, 

To  form  the  place  of  assignation.4 


render  him  satisfied  either  with  himself  or  the  world.  Unrestricted 

as  he  was  by  deference  to  any  will  but  his  own,  even  the  plea- 
sures to  which  he  was  naturally  most  inclined  prematurely  palled 
upon  him,  for  want  of  those  best  zests  of  all  enjoyment — rarity  and 
restraint.”] 

(3)  [See  anli , p.  387,  note.] 

(4)  In  the  above  little  piece  the  author  has  been  accused  by 
some  candid  readers  of  introducing  the  name  of  a lady  from  whom 
he  was  some  hundred  miles  distant  at  the  time  this  was  written ; 
and  poor  Juliet,  who  has  slept  so  long  in  “the  tomb  of  all  the 
Capulets,”  has  been  converted,  with  a trifling  alteration  of  her 


390 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Oh  ! would  some  modem  muse  inspire, 
And  seat  her  by  a sea-coal  fire  ; 

Or  had  the  bard  at  Christmas  written, 
And  laid  the  scene  of'  love  in  Britain, 
He  surely,  in  commiseration, 

Had  changed  the  place  of  declaration. 
In  Italy  I’ve  no  objection; 

Warm  nights  are  proper  for  reflection; 
But  here  our  climate  is  so  rigid, 

That  love  itself  is  rather  frigid  : 

Think  on  our  chilly  situation, 

And  curb  this  rage  for  imitation  ; 

Then  let  us  meet,  as  oft  we’ve  done, 
Beneath  the  influence  of  the  sun  ; 

Or,  if  at  midnight  I must  meet  you, 
Within  your  mansion  let  me  greet  you : 
There  we  can  love  for  hours  together, 
Much  better,  in  such  snowy  weather, 
Than  placed  in  all  th’  Arcadian  groves 
That  ever  witness’d  rural  loves  ; 

Then,  if  my  passion  fail  to  please, 

Next  n:ght  I’ll  be  content  to  freeze; 

No  more  I’ll  give  a loose  to  laughter, 
But  curse  my  fate  for  ever  after.1 


OSCAR  OF  ALYA.2 

A TALE. 

How  sweetly  shines  through  azure  skies, 
The  lamp  of  heaven  on  Lora’s  shore ; 

Where  Alva’s  hoary  turrets  rise, 

And  hear  the  din  of  arms  no  more. 

But  often  has  yon  rolling  moon 
On  Alva’s  casques  of  silver  play’d , 

And  view’d,  at  midnight’s  silent  noon, 
Her  chiefs  in  gleaming  mail  array’d  : 

And  on  the  crimson’d  rocks  beneath, 
Winch  scowl  o’er  ocean’s  sullen  flow 

Tale  in  the  scatter’d  ranks  of  death, 

She  saw  the  gasping  warrior  low  ; 

While  many  an  eye  which  ne’er  again 
Could  mark  the  rising  orb  of  day, 

rurn’d  feebly  from  the  gory  plain, 

Beheld  in  death  her  fading  ray. 

Once  to  those  eyes  the  lamp  of  Love, 
They  blest  her  dear  propitious  light ; 

But  now  she  glimmer’d  from  above, 

A sad,  funereal  torch  of  night. 

Faded  is  Alva’s  noble  race, 

And  gray  her  towers  are  seen  afar ; 


name,  into  an  English  damsel,  walking  in  a garden  of  their  own 
creaton,  during  the  month  of  December , in  a village  where  the 
autlu  r never  passed  a winter.  Such  lias  been  the  candour  of  some 
ingenious  critics.  We  would  advise  these  liberal  commentators  on 
taste  and  arbiters  of  decorum  to  read  Shakspearc 

(1)  Having  heard  that  a very  severe  and  indelicate  censure  has 
been  passed  on  the  above  poem,  I beg  leave  to  reply  in  a quota- 
tion from  an  admired  work,  “ Carr’s  Stranger  in  France.”  “As  we 
were  contemplating  a painting  on  a large  scale,  in  which,  among 
other  figures,  is  the  uncovered  whole  length  of  a warrior,  a prudish- 
looking  lady,  who  seemed  to  have  touched  the  age  of  desperation, 
after  having  attentively  surveyed  it  through  her  glass,  observed  to 
her  party,  that  there  was  a great  deal  of  indecorum  in  that  picture. 


No  more  her  heroes  urge  the  chase, 

Or  roll  the  crimson  tide  of  war. 

But  who  was  last  of  Alva’s  clan  ? 

Why  grows  the  moss  on  Alva’s  stone  ? 

Her  towers  resound  no  steps  of  man. 

They  echo  to  the  gale  alone. 

And  when  that  gale  is  fierce  and  high, 

A.  sound  is  heard  in  yonder  hall ; 

It  rises  hoarsely  through  the  sky. 

And  vibrates  o’er  the  mouldering  walk 

Yes,  when  the  eddying  tempest  sighs, 

It  shakes  the  shield  of  Oscar  brave  ; 

But  there  no  more  Ins  banners  rise, 

No  more  his  plumes  of  sable  wave. 

Fair  shone  the  sun  on  Oscar’s  Birth, 

When  Angus  hail’d  his  eldest  born ; 

The  vassals  round  their  chieftain’s  hearth 
Crowd  to  applaud  the  happy  morn. 

They  feast  upon  the  mountain  deer, 

The  pibroch  raised  its  piercing  note  ;3 
To  gladden  more  their  highland  cheer, 

The  strains  in  martial  numbers  float : 

And  they  who  heard  the  war-notes  wild 
Hoped  that  one  day  the  pibroch’s  strain 
Should  play  before  the  hero’s  child 
While  he  should  lead  the  tartan  train. 

Another  year  is  quickly  past. 

And  Angus  hails  another  son ; 

His  natal  day  is  like  the  last, 

Nor  soon  the  jocund  feast  was  done. 

Taught  by  their  sire  to  bend  the  bow. 

On  Alva’s  dusky  hills  of  wind, 

The  boys  in  childhood  chased  t he  roe, 

And  left  their  hounds  in  speed  behind. 

But  ere  their  years  of  youth  tire  o’er, 

They  mingle  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 

They  lightly  wheel  the  bright  claymore, 

And  send  the  whistling  arrow  far. 

Dark  was  the  flow  of  Oscar’s  hair, 

Wildly  it  stream’d  along  the  gale  ; 

But  Allan’s  locks  were  bright  and  fair, 

And  pensive  seem’d  his  cheek,  and  pale. 

But  Oscar  own’d  a hero’s  soul, 

His  dark  eye  shone  through  beams  of  truth ; 
Allan  had  early  learn’ d control, 

And  smooth  his  words  had  been  from  youth. 


Madame  S.  shrewdly  whispered  in  my  ear,  ‘that  the  indecorum  wai 
in  the  remark.’  ” 

(2)  The  catastrophe  of  this  tale  was  suggested  by  the  story  o l 
“ Jeronyme  and  Lorenzo,”  in  the  first  volume  of  Schiller’s  “ Arme- 
nian, or  the  Ghost-Seer.”  It  also  bears  some  resemblance  to  a scene 
in  the  third  act  of  “ Macbeth.” 

(3)  [Lord  Byron  falls  into  a very  common  error,  that  of  mistaking 
pibroch,  which  means  a particular  sort  of  tune,  for  the  instrument 
on  which  it  is  piayed,  the  bagpipe.  Almost  every  foreign  tourist, 
Nodier,  for  example,  does  the  same.  The  reader  will  find  this 
little  slip  noticed  in  the  article  from  the  Edinburgh  Review  ap- 
pended to  these  pages.] 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


391 


Both,  both  were  hrave  : the  Saxon  spear 
Was  shiver’d  oft  beneath  their  steel ; 

And  Oscar’s  bosom  scorn’d  to  fear, 

Rut  Oscar’s  bosom  knew  to  feel ; 

While  Allan’s  sonl  belied  his  form, 
Unworthy  with  sucli  charms  to  dwell : 

Keen  as  the  lightning  of  the  storm, 

On  foes  his  deadly  vengeance  fell. 

From  high  Southannon’s  distant  tower 
Arrived  a young  and  noble  dame  ; 

With  Kenneth’s  lands  to  form  her  dower, 
Glenalvon’s  blue-eyed  daughter  came ; 

And  Oscar  claim’d  the  beauteous  bride, 

And  Angus  on  his  Oscar  smiled  : 

It  soothed  the  father’s  feudal  pride 
Thus  to  obtain  Glenalvon’s  child. 

Hark  to  the  pibroch’s  pleasing  note  ! 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song  ! 

In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float, 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

See  how  the  heroes’  blood-red  plumes 
Assembled  wave  in  Alva’s  hall ; 

Each  youth  his  varied  plaid  assumes, 
Attending  on  their  chieftain’s  call. 

It  is  not  war  their  aid  demands, 

Tlie  pibroch  plays  the  song  of  peace ; 

To  Oscar’s  nuptials  throng  the  bands, 

Nor  yet  the  sounds  of  pleasure  cease. 

But  where  is  Oscar  ? sure  ’tis  late  : 

Is  this  a bridegroom’s  ardent  flame? 

While  thronging  guests  and  ladies  wait. 
Nor  Oscar  nor  his  brother  came. 

At  length  young  Allan  join’d  the  bride : 

“ Why  comes  not  Oscar,”  Angus  said  : 

“ Is  he  not  here  ?”  the  youth  replied  ; 

“ With  me  he  roved  not  o’er  the  glade  : 

“ Perchance,  forgetful  of  the  day, 

’Tis  his  to  chase  the  bounding  roe  ; 

Or  ocean’s  waves  prolong  his  stay ; 

Yet  Oscar’s  bark  is  seldom  slow.” 

“ Oh,  no  ! ” the  anguish’d  sire  rejoin’d, 

“ Nor  chase  nor  wave  my  boy  delay  ; 

Would  he  to  Mora  seem  unkind  ? 

"Would  aught  to  her  impede  his  way  ? 

“ Oh,  search,  ye  chiefs  ! oh,  search  around ! 
Allan,  with  these  through  Alva  fly  ; 

Till  Oscar,  till  my  son  is  found, 

Haste,  haste,  nor  dare  attempt  reply.1’ 

All  is  confusion — through  the  vale 
The  name  of  Oscar  hoarsely  rings. 

It  rises  on  the  murmuring  gale, 

Till  night  expands  her  dusky  wings ; 

It  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night, 

But  echoes  through  her  shades  in  vain, 

It  sounds  through  morning’s  misty  light, 
But  Oscar  comes  not  o’er  the  plain. 


Three  days,  three  sleepless  nights,  the  Chief 
For  Oscar  search’d  each  mountain  cave ; 
Then  hope  is  lost ; in  boundless  grief, 

His  locks  in  gray-torn  ringlets  wave. 

“ Oscar  ! my  son  ! — thou  God  of  Heav’n, 
Restore  the  prop  of  sinking  age ! 

Or  if  that  hope  no  more  is  given, 

Yield  his  assassin  to  my  rage. 

“ Yes,  on  some  desert  rocky  shore 
My  Oscar’s  whiten’d  bones  must  lie  ; 

Then  grant,  thou  God  ! I ask  no  more, 

With  him  his  frantic  sire  may  die ! 

“ Yet  he  may  live, — away,  despair  ! 

Be  calm,  my  soul ! he  yet  may  live  ; 

T’  arraign  my  fate,  my  voice  forbear  ! 

0 God  ! my  impious  prayer  forgive. 

“ WHiat,  if  he  live  for  me  no  more, 

1 sink  forgotten  in  the  dust, 

The  hope  of  Alva’s  age  is  o’er  ; 

Alas  ! can  pangs  like  these  be  just  ?” 

Thus  did  the  hapless  parent  mourn, 

Till  Time,  which  soothes  severest  woe. 
Had  bade  serenity  return, 

And  made  the  tear-drop  cease  to  flow. 

For  still  some  latent  hope  survived 
That  Oscar  might  once  more  appear ; 

His  hope  now  droop’d  and  now  revived. 

Till  Time  had  told  a tedious  year. 

Days  roll’d  along,  the  orb  of  light 
Again  had  run  his  destined  race  ; 

No  Oscar  bless’d  his  father’s  sight, 

And  sorrow  left  a fainter  trace. 

For  youthful  Allan  still  remain’d, 

And  now  his  father’s  only  joy  : 

And  Mora’s  heart  was  quickly  gain’d, 

For  beauty  crown’d  the  fair-liair’d  boy. 

She  thought  that  Oscar  low  was  laid. 

And  Allan’s  face  was  wondrous  fair; 

If  Oscar  lived,  some  other  maid 

Had  claim’d  his  faithless  bosom’s  care. 

And  Angus  said,  if  one  year  more 
In  fruitless  hope  was  pass’d  away. 

His  fondest  scruples  should  be  o’er, 

And  he  would  name  their  nuptial  day. 

Slow  roll’d  the  moons,  but  blest  at  last 
Arrived  the  dearly  destined  morn ; 

The  year  of  anxious  trembling  past, 

Wliat  smiles  the  lovers’  cheeks  adorn! 

Hark  to  the  pibroch’s  pleasing  note  ! 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song ! 

In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float, 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

Again  the  clan,  in  festive  crowd, 

Throng  through  the  gate  of  Alva’s  haiif 
The  sounds  of  mirth  re-echo  loud, 

And  all  their  former  joy  recall. 


392 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Bui  who  is  he,  whose  darken’d  brow 
Glooms  in  the  midst  of  general  mirth  ? 

Before  his  eyes’  far  fiercer  glow 

The  blue  flames  curdle  o’er  the  hearth. 

Dark  is  the  robe  which  wraps  his  form, 

And  tall  his  plume  of  gory  red  ; 

His  voice  is  like  the  rising  storm. 

But  light  and  trackless  is  his  tread. 

rTis  noon  of  night,  the  pledge  goes  round, 
The  bridegroom’s  health  is  deeply  qua.ff ’d ; 

With  shouts  the  vaulted  roofs  resound, 

And  all  combine  to  hail  the  draught. 

Sudden  the  stranger-chief  arose, 

And  all  the  clamorous  crowd  are  hush’d  ; 

And  Angus’  cheek  with  wonder  glows, 

And  Mora’s  tender  bosom  blush’d. 

“Old  man  !”  he  cried,  “ this  pledge  is  done  ; 
Thou  saw’st  ’twas  duly  drank  by  me  : 

It  hail’d  the  nuptials  of  thy  son  : 

Now  will  I claim  a pledge  from  thee. 

“While  all  around  is  mirth  and  joy. 

To  bless  thy  Allan’s  happy  lot, 

Sav,  liadst  thou  ne’er  another  boy  ? 

Say,  why  should  Oscar  be  forgot  ?” 

“ Alas  ! ” the  hapless  sire  replied, 

The  big  tear  starting  as  he  spoke, 

“ When  Oscar  left  my  hall,  or  died, 

This  aged  heart  was  almost  broke. 

“ Thrice  has  the  earth  revolved  her  course 
Since  Oscar’s  form  has  bless’d  my  sight ; 

And  Allan  is  my  last  resource, 

Since  martial  Oscar’s  death  or  flight.” 

“’Tis  well,”  replied  the  stranger  stern, 

And  fiercely  flash’d  his  rolling  eye  : 

Thy  Oscar’s  fate  I fain  would  learn  ; 
Perhaps  the  hero  did  not  die. 

“ Perchance,  if  those  whom  most  he  loved 
Would  call,  thy  Oscar  might  return ; 

Peiehance  the  chief  has  only  roved  ; 

For  him  thy  beltane  yet  may  burn.1 

“ Fill  high  the  bowl  the  table  round, 

We  will  not  claim  the  pledge  by  stealth ; 

With  wine  let  every  cup  be  crown’d  ; 

Pledge  me  departed  Oscar’s  health.” 

“ With  all  my  soul,”  old  Angus  said, 

And  fill’d  his  goblet  to  the  brim  ; 

“ Here’s  to  my  boy  ! alive  or  dead, 

I ne’er  shall  find  a son  like  him.” 

“ Bravely,  old  man,  this  health  has  sped ; 

But  why  does  Allan  trembling  stand  ? 

Come,  drink  remembrance  of  the  dead, 

And  raise  thy  cup  with  firmer  hand.” 


The  crimson  glow  of  Allan’s  face 
Was  turn’d  at  once  to  ghastly  Ime  $ 

The  drops  of  death  each  other  chase 
Adown  in  agonizing  dew. 

Thrice  did  he  raise  the  goblet  high, 

And  thrice  his  lips  refused  to  taste; 

For  thrice  he  caught  the  stranger’s  eye 
On  his  with  deadly  fury  placed. 

“ And  is  it  thus  a brother  hails 
A brother’s  fond  remembrance  here  ? 

If  thus  affection’s  strength  prevails, 

What  might  we  not  expect  from  fear  ?” 

Roused  by  the  sneer,  he  raised  the  bowl, 

“ Would  Oscar  now  could  share  our  mirth  ! ” 
Internal  fear  appall’d  his  soul ; 

He  said,  and  dash’d  the  cup  to  earth. 

“ ’Tis  he  ! I hear  my  murderer’s  voice  ! ” 

Loud  shrieks  a darkly  gleaming  form, 

“ A murderer’s  voice  ! ” the  roof  replies. 

And  deeply  swells  the  bursting  storm. 

The  tapers  wink,  the  chieftains  shrink, 

The  stranger’s  gone, — amidst  the  crew 
A form  was  seen  in  tartan  green, 

And  tall  the  shade  terrific  grew. 

His  waist  was  bound  with  a broad  belt  round, 

His  plume  of  sable  stream’d  on  high  ; 

But  his  breast  was  bare,  with  the  red  wounds  there, 
And  fix’d  was  the  glare  of  his  glassy  eye. 

And  thrice  he  smiled,  with  his  eye  so  wild, 

On  Angus  bending  low  the  knee ; 

And  thrice  he  frown’d  on  a chief  on  the  ground, 
Whom  shivering  crowds  with  horror  see. 

The  bolts  loud  roll,  from  pole  to  pole, 

The  thunders  through  the  welkin  ring, 

And  the  gleaming  form,  through  the  mist  of  the  storm, 
Was  borne  on  high  by  the  whirlwind’s  wing. 

Cold  was  the  feast,  the  revel  ceased, 

Who  lies  upon  the  stony  floor  ? 

Oblivion  press’d  old  Angus’  breast, 

At  length  his  life-pulse  throbs  once  more. 

“Away,  away  ! let  the  leech  essay 
To  pour  the  light  on  Allan’s  eyes 
His  sand  is  done, — his  race  is  run  ; 

Oh  ! never  more  shall  Allan  rise  ! 

But  Oscar’s  breast  is  cold  as  clay, 

His  locks  are  lifted  by  the  gale  : 

And  Allan’s  barbed  arrow  lay 

With  him  in  dark  Glentanar’s  vale. 

And  whence  the  dreadful  stranger  came, 

Or  who,  no  mortal  wight  can  tell : 

But  no  one  doubts  the  form  of  flame, 

For  Alva’s  sons  knew  Oscar  well. 


(1)  Beltane  Tree,  a Highland  festival  on  the  first  of  May,  held 
near  fires  lighted  for  the ‘occasion,  [ Beal-tain  means  the  fire  of 


Baal,  and  the  name  still  preserves  the  primeval  origin  of  this  Celtic 
superstition.] 


393 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


Ambition  nerved  young  Allan’s  hand, 

Exulting  demons  wing’d  his  dart ; 

While  Envy  waved  her  burning  brand, 

And  pour’d  her  venom  round  his  heart. 

Swift  is  the  shaft  from  Allan’s  bow ; 

Whose  streaming  life-blood  stains  his  side  ? 

Dark  Oscar’s  sable  crest  is  low, 

The  dart  has  drunk  his  vital  tide. 

And  Mora’s  eye  could  Allan  move, 

She  bade  his  wounded  pride  rebel ; 

Alas ! that  eyes  which  beam’d  with  love 
Should  urge  the  soul  to  deeds  of  hell. 

Lo ! seest  thou  not  a lonely  tomb 
Which  rises  o’er  a warrior  dead  ? 

It  glimmers  through  the  twilight  gloom  ; 

Oh  1 that  is  Allan’s  nuptial  bed. 

Ear,  distant  far,  the  noble  grave 

Which  held  his  clan’s  great  ashes  stood  ; 

* And  o’er  his  corse  no  banners  wave, 

For  they  were  stain’d  with  kindred  blood. 

What  minstrel  gray,  what  hoary  bard, 

Shall  Allan’s  deeds  on  harp-strings  raise  ? 

The  song  is  glory’s  chief  reward, 

But  who  can  strike  a murderer’s  praise  ? 

Unstrung,  untouch’d,  the  harp  must  stand 
No  minstrel  dare  the  theme  awake  ; 

Guilt  would  benumb  his  palsied  hand, 

His  harp  in  shuddering  chords  would  break. 

No  lyre  of  fame,  no  hallow’d  verse, 

Shall  sound  his  glories  high  in  air  : 

A dying  father’s  bitter  curse, 

A brother’s  death-groan  echoes  there. 


THE  EPISODE  OF  N1SUS  AND  EURYALUS, 

A PARAPHRASE  PROM  TIIE  iENEID,  LIB.  IX. 

Nisus,  the  guardian  of  the  portal,  stood, 

Eager  to  gild  his  arms  with  hostile  blood  ; 

Well  skill’d  in  light  the  quivering  lance  to  wield, 

Or  pour  his  arrows  through  til’  embattled  field  : 

From  Ida  torn,  he  left  his  sylvan  cave, 

And  sought  a foreign  home,  a distant  grave. 

To  watch  the  movements  of  the  Daunian  host, 

With  him  Euryaius  sustains  the  post ; 

No  lovelier  mien  adorn’d  the  ranks  of  Trov, 

And  beardless  bloom  yet  graced  the  gallant  boy ; 
Though  few  the  seasons  of  his  youthful  life. 

As  yet  a novice  in  the  martial  strife, 

’Twas  his,  with  beauty,  valour’s  gifts  to  share — 

A soul  heroic,  as  his  form  was  fair : 

These  burn  with  one  pure  flame  of  generous  love ; 

In  peace,  in  war,  united  still  they  move  ; 

Friendship  and  glory  form  their  joint  reward  ; 

And  now  combined  they  hold  their  nightly  guard. 

“ What  god,”  exclaim’d  the  first,  “ instils  this  fire  ? 
Or,  in  itself  a god,  what  great  desire  ? 

My  labouring  soul,  with  anxious  thought  oppress’d, 
Abhors  this  station  of  inglorious  rest ; 


The  love  of  fame  with  this  can  ill  accord, 

Be ’t  mine  to  seek  foi  glory  with  my  sword. 

Seest  thou  yon  camp,  with  torches  twinkling  dim, 
Where  drunken  slumbers  wrap  each  lazy  limb  ? 
Where  confidence  and  ease  the  watch  disdain, 

And  drowsy  Silence  holds  her  sable  reign  ? 

Then  hear  my  thought In  deep  and  sullen  griei 
Our  troops  and  leaders  mourn  their  absent  chief : 
Now  could  the  gifts  and  promised  prize  be  thine 
(The  deed,  the  danger,  and  the  fame  be  mine), 

Were  this  decreed,  beneath  yon  rising  mound, 
Metliiriks,  an  easy  path  perchance  were  found  ; 
Which  past,  I speed  my  way  to  Pallas’  walls, 

And  lead  ASneas  from  Evander’s  halls.” 

With  equal  ardour  fired,  and  warlike  joy, 

His  glowing  friend  address’d  the  Dardan  boy  : — ■ 

“ These  deeds,  my  Nisus,  shalt  thou  dare  alone? 
Must  all  the  fame,  the  peril,  be  thine  own  ? 

Am  I by  thee  despised,  and  left  afar, 

As  one  unfit  to  share  the  toils  of  war  ? 

Not  thus  his  son  the  great  Opheltes  taught ; 

Not  thus  my  sire  in  Argive  combats  fought ; 

Not  thus,  when  Ilion  fell  by  heavenly  hate, 

I track’d  .Eneas  through  the  walks  of  fate  : 

Thou  know’st  my  deeds,  my  breast  devoid  of  fear 
And  hostile  life- drops  dim  my  gory  spear. 

Plere  is  a soul  with  hope  immortal  burns, 

And  life,  ignoble  life,  for  glory  spurns. 

Fame,  fame  is  cheaply  earn’d  by  fleeting  breath  : 
The  price  of  honour  is  the  sleep  of  death.” 

Then  Nisus,— ,£  Calm  thy  bosom’s  fond  alarms, 
Thy  heart  beats  fiercely  to  the  din  of  arms. 

More  dear  thy  worth  and  valour  than  my  own, 

I swear  by  him  who  fills  Olympus’  throne  ! 

So  may  I triumph,  as  I speak  the  truth, 

And  clasp  again  the  comrade  ot  my  youth  ! 

But  should  I fall, — and  he  who  dares  advance 
Through  hostile  legions  must  abide  by  chance, — 

If  some  Rutulian  arm,  with  adverse  blow, 

Should  lay  the  friend  who  ever  loved  thee  low, 

Live  thou,  such  beauties  I would  fain  preserve, 

Thy  budding  years  a lengthen’d  term  deserve. 
When  humbled  in  the  dust,  let  some  one  be, 

AY  hose  gentle  eyes  will  shed  one  tear  for  me  ; 

IV hose  manly  arm  may  snatch  me  back  by  force. 
Or  wealth  redeem  from  foes  my  captive  corse  ; 

Or,  if  my  destiny  these  last  deny, 

If  in  the  spoiler’s  power  my  ashes  lie, 

Thy  pious  care  may  raise  a simple  tomb, 

To  mark  thy  love,  and  signalize  my  doom. 

Why  should  thy  doting  wretched  mother  weep 
Her  only  boy,  reclined  in  endless  sleep  ? 

Who,  for  thy  sake,  the  tempest’s  fury  dared, 

Who,  for  thy  sake,  war’s  deadly  peril  shared  : 

Who  braved  what  woman  never  braved  belorc, 

And  left  her  native  for  the  Latian  shore.” 

“In  vain  you  damp  the  ardour  of  my  soul,” 
Replied  Euryaius  ; “ it  scorns  control ! 

Hence,  let  us  haste  !”— their  brother  guards  arose, 
Roused  by  their  call,  nor  court  again  repose  ; 

The  pair,  buoy’d  up  on  Hope’s  exulting  wing, 
Their  stations  leave,  and  speed  to  seek  the  king. 

Now  o’er  the  earth  a solemn  stillness  ran, 

And  lull’d  alike  the  cares  of  brute  and  man ; 

3 E 


394 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Save  where  the  Dardan  leaders  nightly  hold 
Alternate  converse,  and  their  plans  unfold. 

On  one  great  point  the  council  are  agreed, 

An  instant  message  to  their  prince  decreed ; 

Each  lean’d  upon  the  lance  he  well  could  wield, 
And  poised  with  easy  arm  his  ancient  shield ; 
When  Nisus  and  his  friend  their  leave  request 
To  offer  something  to  their  high  behest. 

With  anxious  tremors,  yet  unawed  by  fear, 

The  faithful  pair  before  the  throne  appear : 
lulus  greets  them  , at  his  kind  command, 

The  elder  first  address’d  the  hoary  band. 

“ With  patience”  (thus  Hyrtacides  began) 

“ Attend,  nor  judge  from  youth  our  humble  plan. 
Wiiere  yonder  beacons  half  expiring  beam, 

Our  slumbering  foes  ©f  future  conquest  dream, 
Nor  heed  that  we  a secret  path  have  traced, 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  portal  placed. 

Beneath  the  covert  of  the  blackening  smoke. 
Whose  shade  securely  our  design  will  cloak ; 

If  you,  ye  chiefs,  and  fortune  will  allow, 

We’ll  bend  our  course  to  yonder  mountain’s  brow, 
Where  Pallas’  walls  at  distance  meet  the  sight, 
Seen  o’er  the  glade,  when  not  obscured  by  night : 
Then  shall  jEneas  in  his  pride  return, 

While  hostile  matrons  raise  their  offspring’s  urn  ; 
And  Latian  spoils  and  purpled  heaps  of  dead 
Shall  mark  the  havoc  of  our  hero’s  tread. 

Such  is  our  purpose,  not  unknown  the  way  ; 
Where  yonder  torrent’s  devious  waters  stray, 

Oft  have  we  seen,  when  hunting  by  the  stream, 
The  distant  spires  above  the  valleys  gleam.” 

Mature  in  years,  for  sober  wisdom  famed, 
Moved  by  the  speech,  Alethes  here  exclaim’d, — 

“ Ye  parent  gods ! who  rule  the  fate  of  Troy, 

Still  dwells  the  Dardan  spirit  in  the  boy  ; 

When  minds  like  these  in  striplings  thus  ye  raise, 
Yours  is  the  godlike  act,  be  yours  the  praise ; 

In  gallant  youth,  my  fainting  hopes  revive, 

And  Ilion’s  wonted  glories  still  survive.” 

Then  in  his  warm  embrace  the  boys  he  press’d, 
And,  quivering,  strain’d  them  to  his  aged  breast; 
With  tears  the  burning  cheek  of  each  bedew’d, 
And,  sobbing,  thus  his  first  discourse  renew’d  : 

“ What  gift,  my  countrymen,  what  martial  prize 
Can  we  bestow,  which  you  may  not  despise  ? 

Our  deities  the  first  best  boon  have  given — 
Internal  virtues  are  the  gift  of  Heaven. 

What  poor  rewards  can  bless  your  deeds  on  earth, 
Doubtless  await  such  young,  exalted  worth. 
jEneas  and  Ascanius  shall  combine 
To  yield  applause  far,  far  surpassing  mine.” 
lulus  then  : — “ By  all  the  powers  above  ! 

By  those  Penates  who  mv  country  love  ! 

By  hoary  Vesta’s  sacred  fane,  1 swear, 

My  hopes  are  all  in  you,  ye  generous  pair ! 
Restore  my  father  to  my  grateful  sight, 

And  all  my  sorrows  yield  to  one  delight. 

Nisus ! two  silver  goblets  are  thine  own, 

Saved  from  Arisba’s  stately  domes  o’erthrown  ! 

My  sire  secured  them  on  that  fatal  day, 

Nor  left  such  bowls  an  Argive  robber’s  prey : 

Two  massy  tripods,  also,  shall  be  thine ; 

Two  talents  pol.sh’d  from  the  glittering  mine  ; 

An  ancient  cup,  nliich  Tyrian  Dido  gave, 

While  yet  otu:  vessels  press’d  the  Punic  wave  • 


But  when  the  hostile  chiefs  at  length  bow  down. 
When  great  AEneas  wears  Hesperia’s  crown, 

The  casque,  the  buckler,  and  the  fiery  steed 
Which  Turnus  guides  with  more  than  mortal  speed. 
Are  thine  ; no  envious  lot  shall  then  be  cast, 

I pledge  my  word,  irrevocably  past : 

Nay  more,  twelve  slaves,  and  twice  six  captive  dam« 
To  soothe  thy  softer  hours  with  amorous  flames, 

And  all  the  realms  which  now  the  Latins  sway 
The  labours  of  to-night  shall  well  repay. 

But  thou,  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender  years 
Are  near  my  own,  whose  worth  my  heart  reveres, 
Henceforth  affection,  sweetly  thus  begun, 

Shall  join  our  bosoms  and  our  souls  in  one ; 

Without  thy  aid,  no  glory  shall  be  mine  ; 

Without  thy  dear  advice,  no  great  design ; 

Alike  through  life  esteem’d,  thou  godlike  boy, 

In  war  my  bulwark,  and  in  peace  my  joy.” 

To  him  Euryalus  : — “ No  day  shall  shame 
The  rising  glories  which  from  this  I claim. 

Fortune  may  favour,  or  the  skies  may  frown, 

But  valour,  spite  of  fate,  obtains  renown. 

Yet,  ere  from  hence  our  eager  steps  depart. 

One  boon  I beg,  the  nearest  to  my  heart : 

My  mother,  sprung  from  Priam’s  royal  line, 

Like  thine  ennobled,  hardly  less  divine, 

Nor  Troy  nor  king  Ycestes’  realms  restrain 
Her  feeble  age  from  dangers  of  the  main; 

Alone  she  came,  all  selfish  fears  above, 

A bright  example  of  maternal  iove. 

Unknown  the  secret  enterprise  I brave, 

Lest  grief  should  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave , 

Prom  this  alone  no  fond  adieus  I seek, 

No  fainting  mother’s  lips  have  press’d  my  cheek  ; 

By  gloomy  night  and  thy  right  hand  I vow 
Her  parting  tears  would  shake  my  purpose  now  ; 

Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain, 

In  thee  her  much  loved  child  may  live  again; 

I Her  dying  hours  with  pious  conduct  bless, 

Assist  her  wants,  relieve  her  fond  distress  : 

So  dear  a hope  must  all  my  soul  inflame. 

To  rise  in  glory,  or  to  fall  in  fame.” 

Struck  with  a filial  care  so  deeply  felt, 

In  tears  at  once  the  Trojan  warriors  melt : 

Easter  than  all,  lulus’  eyes  o’erflow ; 

Such  love  was  his,  and  such  had  been  his  woe. 

“ All  thou  hast  ask’d,  receive,”  the  prince  replied  ; 

“ Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a gift  beside. 

To  cheer  thy  mother’s  years  shall  be  my  aim, 
Creusa’s 1 style  but  wanting  to  the  dame. 

Fortune  an  adverse  wayward  course  may  run, 

But  bless’d  thy  mother  in  so  dear  a son. 

Now,  by  my  life  ! — my  sire’s  most  sacred  oath — 

To  thee  I pledge  my  full,  my  firmest  troth, 

All  the  rewards  which  once  to  thee  were  vow’d. 

If  thou  shouldst  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestow’d.” 

Thus  spoke  the  weeping  prince,  then  forth  to  view 
A gleaming  falchion  from  the  sheath  he  drew  ; 
Lycaon’s  utmost  skill  had  graced  the  steel, 

For  friends  to  envy  and  for  foes  to  feel : 

A tawny  hide,  the  Moorish  lion’s  spoil, 

Slain  ’midst  the  forest,  in  the  hunter’s  toil, 
Mnestheus  to  guard  the  elder  youth  bestows, 

And  old  Alethes’  casque  defends  his  brows. 


(1)  The  mother  of  lulus,  lost  on  the  night  when  Troy  wur 
taken. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


Arm’d,  thence  they  go,  while  all  the  assembled  train, 
To  aid  their  cause,  implore  the  gods  in  vain. 

More  than  a boy,  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 
lulus  holds  amidst  the  chiefs  his  place  : 

His  prayer  he  sends ; but  what  can  prayers  avail, 

Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  gale  ! 

The  trench  is  pass’d,  and,  favour’d  by  the  night, 
Through  sleeping  foes  they  wheel  their  wary  flight. 
When  shall  the  sleep  of  many  a foe  be  o’er  ? 

Alas ! some  slumber  who  shall  wake  no  more ! 
Chariots  and  bridles,  mix’d  with  arms,  are  seen ; 

And  flowing  flasks,  and  scatter’d  troops  between  : 
Bacchus  and  Mars  to  rule  the  camp  combine ; 

A mingled  chaos  this  of  war  and  wine. 

“ Now,”  cries  tile  first,  Cf  for  deeds  of  blood  prepare, 
With  me  the  conquest  and  the  labour  share  : 

Here  lies  our  path  ; lest  any  hand  arise, 

Watch  thou,  while  many  a dreaming  chieftain  dies  : 
I’ll  carve  our  passage  through  the  heedless  foe, 

And  clear  thy  road  with  many  a deadly  blow.” 

His  whispering  accents  then  the  youth  repress’d, 

And  pierced  proud  Rhamnes  through  his  panting 
breast : 

Stretch’d  at  his  ease,  th’  incautious  king  reposed ; 
Debauch,  and  not  fatigue,  his  eyes  had  closed  : 

To  Tumus  dear,  a prophet  and  a prince, 

His  omens  more  than  augur’s  skill  evince  ; 

But  he,  who  thus  foretold  the  fate  of  all. 

Could  not  avert  his  own  untimely  fall. 

Next  Rem  as’  armour-bearer,  hapless,  fell, 

And  three  unhappy  slaves  the  carnage  swell ; 

The  charicieer  along  his  courser’s  sides 
Expires,  t \e  steel  his  sever’d  neck  divides  ; 

And,  last,  his  lord  is  number’d  with  the  dead : 
Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping  head ; 

From  the  jwoll’n  veins  the  blackening  torrents  pour ; 
Stain’d  is  the  couch  and  earth  with  clotting  gore. 
Young  Lamyrus  and  Lamus  next  expire, 

And  gay  Serranus,  fill’d  with  youthful  fire ; 

Half  the  long  night  in  childish  games  was  pass’d ; 
Lull’d  by  the  potent  grape,  he  slept  at  last : 

Ah  ! happier  far  had  he  the  morn  survey’d, 

And  till  Aurora’s  dawn.his  skill  display’d. 

In  slaughter’d  fold,  the  keepers  lost  in  sleep, 

His  hungry  fangs  a lion  thus  may  steep  ; 

’Mid  the  sad  flock,  at  dead  of  night  lie  prowls, 

With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  rolls  : 

Insatiate  still,  through  teeming  herds  he  roams  j 
In  seas  of  gore  the  lordly  tyrant  foams. 

Nor  less  the  other’s  deadly  vengeance  came, 

But  falls  on  feeble  crowds  without  a name ; 

His  wound  unconscious  Fadus  scarce  can  feel, 

Yet  wakeful  Rhsesus  sees  the  threatening  steel ; 

His  coward  breast  behind  a jar  he  hides, 

And  vainly  in  the  weak  defence  confides  ; 

Full  in  his  heart.,  the  falchion  search’d  his  veins, 

The  reeking  weapon  bears  alternate  stains ; 

Through  wine  and  blood,  commingling  as  they  flow, 
One  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below. 

Now  where  Messapus  dwelt  they  bend  their  way, 
Whose  fires  emit  a faint  and  trembling  ray  ; 

There,  unconfined,  behold  each  grazing  steed, 
Unwatch’d,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  feed  : 

Brave  Nisus  here  arrests  his  comrade’s  arm, 

Too  flush’d  with  carnage,  and  with  conquest  warm  : 


39b 

“ Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  path  is  pass’d  j 
Full  foes  enough  to-night  have  breathed  ti.eir  last : 
Soon  will  the  day  those  eastern  clouds  adorn ; 

Now  let  us  speed,  nor  tempt  the  rising  morn.” 

With  silver  arms,  with  various  art  emboss’d, 

Wliat  bowls  and-mantles  in  confusion  toss’d 
They  leave  regardless  ! yet  one  glittering  prize 
Attracts  the  younger  hero’s  wandering  eyes  ; 

The  gilded  harness  Rhamnes’  coursers  felt, 

The  gems  which  stud  the  monarch’s  golden  belt : 

This  from  the  pallid  corse  was  quickly  torn, 

Once  by  a line  of  former  chieftains  worn. 

Th’  exulting  boy  the  studded  girdle  wears, 

Messapus’  helm  his  head  in  triumph  bears ; 

Then  from  the  tents  their  cautious  steps  they  bend, 
To  seek  the  vale  where  safer  paths  extend. 

Just  at  this  hour,  a band  of  Latian  horse 
To  Tumus’  camp  pursue  their  destined  course : 

While  the  slow  foot  their  tardy  march  delay, 

The  knights,  impatient,  spur  along  the  way  : 

Three  hundred  mail-clad  men,  by  Volscens  led, 

To  Timms-  with  their  master’s  promise  sped  : 

Now  they  approach  the  trench,  and  view  the  wails, 
When,  on  the  left,  a light  reflection  falls ; 

The  plunder’d  helmet,  through  the  waning  night. 
Sheds  forth  a silver  radiance,  glancing  bright. 
Volscens  with  question  loud  the  pair  alarms  : — 

“ Stand,  stragglers  ! stand  ! why  early  thus  in  arms  ? 
From  whence,  to  whom  ?” — He  meets  with  no  reply  ! 
Trusting  the  covert  of  the  night,  they  fly  : 

The  thicket’s  depth  with  hurried  pace  they  tread, 
While  round  the  wood  the  hostile  squadron  spread. 

With  breaks  entangled,  scarce  a path  between, 
Dreary  and  dark  appears  the  sylvan  scene : 

Euryalus  his  heavy  spoils  impede, 

The  boughs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mislead ; 

But  Nisus  scours  along  the  forest’s  maze 
To  where  Latinus’  steeds  in  safety  graze, 

Then  backward  o’er  the  plain  his  eyes  extend. 

On  every  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 

“ 0 God  ! my  boy,”  he  cries,  “ of  me  bereft, 

In  what  impending  perils  are  thou  left ! ” 

Listening  he  runs — above  the  waving  trees. 
Tumultuous  v dices  swell  the  passing  breeze  ; 

The  war-cry  rises,  thundering  hoofs  around 
Wake  the  dark  echoes  of  the  trembling  ground. 

Again  he  turns,  of  footsteps  hears  the  noise ; 

The  sound  elates,  the  sight  his  hope  destroys  : 

The  hapless  boy  a ruffian  train  surround, 

While  lengthening  shades  his  weary  way  confound  •, 
Him  with  loud  shouts  the  furious  knights  pursue, 
Struggling  in  vain,  a captive  to  the  crew. 

What  can  his  friend  ’gainst  thronging  numbers  dare  ? 
Ah  ! must  he  rush,  his  comrade’s  fate  to  share  ? 

What  force,  what  aid,  what  stratagem  essay, 

Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoiler’s  prey  ? 

His  life  a votive  ransom  nobly  give, 

Or  die  with  him  for  whom  he  wish’d  to  live  T 
Poising  with  strength  his  lifted  lance  on  high, 

On  Luna’s  orb  he  cast  his  frenzied  eye  : — 

“ Goddess  serene,  transcending  every  star ! 

Queen  of  the  sky,  whose  beams  are  seen  afar  ! 

By  night  heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day  the  grove, 
When,  as  chaste  Dian,  here  thou  d Vu’st  to  ove ; 


396 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


If  e’er  myself,  or  sire,  have  sought  to  grace 
Thine  altars  with  the  produce  of  the  chase, 

Speed,  speed  my  dart  to  pierce  yon  vaunting  crowd, 
To  free  my  friend,  and  scatter  far  the  proud.” 

Thus  having  said,  the  hissing  dart  he  flung ; 

Through  parted  shades  the  hurtling  weapon  sung  ; 
The  thirsty  point  in  Sulmo’s  entrails  lay, 

Transfix’d  his  heart,  and  stretch’d  him  on  the  clay  : 
He  sobs,  he  dies,— the  troop  in  wild  amaze, 
Unconscious  whence  the  death,  with  horror  gaze. 
While  pale  they  stare,  through  Tagus’  temples  riven, 
A second  shaft  with  equal  force  is  driven. 

Fierce  Volscens  rolls  around  his  lowering  eyes  ; 
Veil’d  by  the  night,  secure  the  Trojan  lies. 

Burning  with  wrath,  he  view’d  his  soldiers  fall. 

“ Thou  youth  accurst,  thy  life  shall  pay  for  all ! ” 
Quick  from  the  sheath  his  flaming  glaive  he  drew, 
And,  raging,  on  the  boy  defenceless  flew. 

Nisus  no  more  the  blackening  shade  conceals, 

Forth,  forth,  he  starts,  and  all  his  love  reveals ; 
Aghast,  confused,  his  fears  to  madness  rise, 

And  pour  these  accents,  shrieking  as  he  flies  : 

“ Me,  me, — your  vengeance  hurl  on  me  alone ; 

Here  sheathe  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  your  own. 

Ye  starry  spheres  ! thou  conscious  Heaven  ! attest ! 
He  could  not — durst  not — lo  ! the  guile  contest ! 

All,  all  was  mine, — his  early  fate  suspend  ; 

He  only  loved  too  well  his  hapless  friend  : 

Spare,  spare,  ye  chiefs  ! from  him  your  rage  remove  ; 
His  fault  was  friendship,  all  his  crime  was  love.” 

He  pray’d  in  vain ; the  dark  assassin’s  sword 
Pierced  the  fair  side,  the  snowy  bosom  gored  ; 

Lowly  to  earth  inclines  his  plume-clad  crest, 

And  sanguine  torrents  mantle  o’er  his  breast : 

As  some  young  rose,  whose  blossom  scents  the  air, 
Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  the  share; 

Or  crimson  poppy,  sinking  with  the  shower, 
Declining  gently,  falls  a fading  flower; 

Thus,  sweetly  drooping,  bends  his  lovely  head. 

And  lingering  beauty  hovers  round  the  dead. 

But  fiery  Nisus  stems  the  battle’s  tide. 

Revenge  his  leader,  and  despair  his  guide ; 

Volscens  he  seeks  amidst  the  gathering  host, 
Volscens  must  soon  appease  his  comrade’s  ghost ; 
Steel,  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  crowds  on  foe ; 
Rage  nerves  his  arm,  fate  gleams  in  every  blow  ; 

In  vain  beneath  unnumber’d  wounds  he  bleeds, 

Nor  wounds,  nor  death,  distracted  Nisus  heeds; 

In  viewless  circles  wheel’d,  his  falchion  flies, 

Nor  quits  the  hero’s  grasp  till  Volscens  dies  : 

Deep  in  his  throat  its  end  the  weapon  found, 

The  tyrant’s  soul  fled  groaning  through  the  wound. 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  fond  affection  proved — 

Dying,  revenged  the  fate  of  him  he  loved ; 

Then  on  his  bosom  sought  its  wonted  place. 

And  death  was  heavenly  in  his  friend’s  embrace. 

Celestial  pair  ! if  aught  my  verse  can  claim, 
Wafted  on  Time’s  broad  pinion,  yours  is  fame  ! 

Ages  on  ages  shall  your  fate  admire, 

No  future  day  shall  see  your  names  expire, 

While  stands  the  Capitol,  immortal  dome ! 

And  vanquish’d  millions  hail  their  empress,  Rome  ! 


TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  MEDEA  OP 
EURIPIDES. 

[’F.pwrer  virep  /ucv  a’70.1/,  k.  t.  X.] 

When  fierce  conflicting  passions  urge 
The  breast  where  love  is  wont  to  glow. 
What  mind  can  stem  the  stormy  surge 
Which  rolls  the  tide  of  human  Woe  ? 

The  hope  of  praise,  the  dread  of  shame, 

Can  rouse  the  tortured  breast  no  more  * 
The  wild  desire,  the  guilty  flame, 

Absorbs  each  wish  it  felt  before. 

But  if  affection  gently  thrills 

The  soul  by  purer  dreams  possest, 

The  pleasing  balm  of  mortal  ills 

In  love  can  soothe  the  aching  breast  : 

If  thus  thou  comest  in  disguise, 

Fair  Venus  ! from  thy  native  heaven. 

What  heart  unfeeling  would  despise 
The  sweest  boon  the  gods  have  given  ? 

But  never  from  thy  golden  bow 
May  I beneath  the  shaft  expire ! 

Whose  creeping  venom,  sure  and  slow, 

Awakes  an  all-consuming  fire  : 

Ye  racking  doubts  ! ye  jealous  fears 1 
With  others  wage  internal  war ; 
Repentance,  source  of  future  tears, 

From  me  be  ever  distant  far  ! 

May  no  distracting  thoughts  destroy 
The  holy  calm  of  sacred  love  ! 

May  all  the  hours  be  wing’d  with  joy,  ! 

Which  hover  faithful  hearts  above ! 

Fair  Venus  ! on  thy  myrtle  shrine 
May  I with  some  fond  lover  sigh, 

Whose  heart  may  mingle  pure  with  n ine — 
With  me  to  live,  with  me  to  die. 

My  native  soil ! beloved  before. 

Now  dearer  as  my  peaceful  home, 

Ne’er  may  I quit  thy  rocky  shore, 

A hapless  banish’d  wretch  to  roam  ! 

This  very  day,  this  very  hour, 

May  1 resign  this  fleeting  breath  ! 

Nor  quit  my  silent  humble  bower; 

A doom  to  me  far  worse  than  death. 

Have  I not  heard  the  exile’s  sigh  ? 

And  seen  the  exile’s  silent  tear, 

Through  distant  climes  condemn’d  to  ily, 

A pensive  weary  wanderer  here  ? 

Ah ! hapless  dame  ! 1 no  sire  bewails, 

No  friend  thy  wretched  fate  deplores, 

No  kindred  voice  with  rapture  hails 
Thy  steps  within  a stranger’s  doors. 

Perish  the  fiend  whose  iron  heart, 

To  fair  affection’s  truth  unknown, 

Bids  her  he  fondly  loved  deoart, 

Unpitied,  helpless,  and  alone; 


(1)  Medea,  who  accompanied  Jason  to  Corinth,  was  deserted  by 
him  for  the  daughter  of  Creon,  king  of  that  city.  The  chorus  from 
which  tiiis  is  taken  here  addresses  Medea;  though  a considerable 


liberty  is  taken  with  the  original,  by  expanding  the  idea,  ss  also  ir 
some  other  parts  of  the  translation. 


HOUES  OF  IDLENESS. 


397 


Who  ne’er  unlocks  with  silver  key 1 
The  milder  treasures  of  his  soul, — ■ 
May  such  a friend  be  far  from  me, 

And  ocean’s  storms  between  us  roll ! 


THOUGHTS  SUGGESTED  BY  A COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION. 

High  in  the  midst,  surrounded  by  his  peers, 
Magnus2  his  ample  front  sublime  uprears: 

Placed  on  his  chair  of  state,  he  seems  a god, 

While  Sophs  and  Freshmen  tremble  at  his  nod. 

As  all  around  sit  wrapt  in  speechless  gloom, 

His  voice  in  thunder  shakes  the  sounding  dome ; 
Denouncing  dire  reproach  to  luckless  fools, 

Unskill’d  to  plod  in  mathematic  rules. 

Happy  the  youth  in  Euclid’s  axioms  tried, 

Though  little  versed  in  any  art  beside  ; 

Who,  scarcely  skill’d  an  English  line  to  pen, 

Scans  Attic  metres  with  a critic’s  ken. 

What,  though  he  knows  not  how  his  fathers  bled, 
When  civil  discord  piled  the  fields  with  dead, 

When  Edward  bade  his  conquering  bands  advance, 
Or  Henry  trampled  on  the  crest  of  France  : 

Though  marvelling  at  the  name  of  Magna  Charta, 
Yet  well  he  recollects  the  law  of  Sparta ; 

Can  tell  what  edicts  sage  Lycurgus  made, 

AYliile  Blackstone’s  on  the  shelf  neglected  laid; 

Of  Grecian  dramas  vaunts  the  deathless  fame, 

Of  Avon’s  bard  remembering  scarce  the  name. 

Such  is  the  youth  whose  scientific  pate 
Class-honours,  medals,  fellowships,  await; 

Or  even,  perhaps,  the  declamation  prize, 

If  to  such  glorious  height  he  lifts  his  eyes. 

But  lo  ! no  common  orator  can  hope 
The  envied  silver  cup  within  his  scope. 

Not  that  our  heads  much  eloquence  require, 

Th’  Athenian’s3  glowing  style,  or  Tully’s  fire. 

A manner  clear  or  warm  is  useless,  since 
We  do  not  try  by  speaking  to  convince. 

Be  other  orators  of  pleasing  proud  : 

We  speak  to  please  ourselves,  not  move  the  crowd : 
Our  gravity  prefers  the  muttering  tone, 

A proper  mixture  of  the  squeak  and  groan  : 


(1)  The  original  is  “ Ku0up-«i/  avoi^am  nXrida  ippeviov"  literally, 
*'  disclosing  the  bright  key  of  the  mind.” 

(2)  No  reflection  is  here  intended  against  the  person  mentioned 
under  the  name  of  Magnus.  He  is  merely  represented  as  perform- 
ing an  unavoidable  function  of  his  office.  Indeed,  such  an  attempt 
could  only  recoil  upon  myself ; as  that  gentleman  is  now  as  much 
distinguished  by  his  eloquence,  and  the  dignified  propriety  with 
which  he  fills  his  situation,  as  he  was  in  his  younger  days  for  wit 
and  conviviality. — [Dr.  William  Mansel  was,  in  1790,  appointed  to 
the  headship  of  Trinity  College,  by  Mr.  Pitt.  While  a bachelor  of 
arts,  be  distinguished  himself  as  the  author  of  several  jeux  d'esprit. 
Dr  Jowett,  of  Trinity  Hail,  having  amused  both  himself  and  the 
public,  by  a pretty  little  fairy  garden,  with  narrow  gravel  walks,  be- 
sprinkled with  shells  and  pellucid  pebbles,  and  enclosed  by  a 
Chinese  railing,  Dr.  Mansel  wrote  the  following  lines  thereon  : — 

“ A little  garden,  little  Jowett  made, 

And  fenced  it  with  a little  palisade  ; 

If  you  would  know  the  taste  of  little  Jowett, 

This  little  garden  won’t  a little  show  it." 

He  was  indebted  to  the  influence  of  his  pupil,  the  late  Mr.  Perceval, 
(or  his  subsequent  promotion,  in  1808,  to  the  see  of  Bristol.  He  is 
supposed  to  have  materially  assisted  in  the  “ Pursuits  of  Literature.” 
His  lordship  died  at  Trinity  Lodge,  in  June.  1820.] 

(3)  Demosthenes. 


No  borrow’d  grace  of  action  must  be  seen, 

The  slightest  motion  would  displease  the  Dean  ;4 
Whilst  every  staring  graduate  would  prate 
Against  what  he  could  never  imitate. 

The  man  who  hopes  t’  obtain  the  promised  cup 
Must  in  one  posture  stand,  and  ne’er  look  up ; 

Nor  stop,  but  rattle  over  every  word — 

No  matter  what,  so  it  can  not  be  heard. 

Thus  let  him  hurry  on,  nor  think  to  rest : 

Who  speaks  the  fastest ’s  sure  to  speak  the  best; 
Who  utters  most  within  the  shortest  space 
May  safely*  hope  to  win  the  wordy  race. 

The  sols  of  science  these,  who,  thus  repaid, 
Linger  in  ease  in  Granta’s  sluggish  shade  ; 

Where  on  Cam’s  sedgy  bank  supine  they  lie 
Unknown,  unhonour’d  iive,  unwept  for  die : 

Dull  as  the  pictures  which  adorn  their  halls, 

They  think  all  learning  fix’d  within  their  walls  : 

In  manners  rude,  in  foolish  forms  precise, 

All  modern  arts  affecting  to  despise  ; 

Yet  prizing  Bentley’s,  Brunck’s,  or  Porson’s5  note. 
More  than  the  verse  on  which  the  critic  wrote : 

Vain  as  their  honours,  heavy  as  their  ale, 

Sad  as  their  wit,  and  tedious  as  their  tale, 

To  friendship  dead,  though  not  untaught  to  feel 
When  Self  and  Church  demand  a bigot  zeal. 

With  eager  haste  they  court  the  lord  of  power. 
Whether  Tis  Pitt  or  Petty  rules  the  hour  ; 6 
To  him,  with  suppliant  smiles,  they  bend  the  head. 
While  distant  mitres  to  their  eyes  are  spread. 

But  should  a storm  o’erwhelm  him  with  disgrace, 
They’d  fly  to  seek  the  next  who  fill’d  his  place. 

Such  are  the  men  who  learning’s  treasures  guard ! 
Such  is  their  practice,  such  is  their  reward  ! 

This  much,  at  least  we  may  presume  to  say — 

The  premium  can’t  exceed  the  price  they  pay. 

V806. 


TO  A BEAUTIFUL  QUAKER. 
Sweet  girl ! though  only  once  we  met, 
That  meeting  I shall  ne’er  forget ; 

And  though  we  ne’er  may  meet  again, 
Remembrance  will  thy  form  retain. 

I would  not  say,  “ 1 love,”  but  still 
My  senses  struggle  with  my  will : 


(4)  [In  most  colleges,  the  fellow  who  superintends  the  chafe! 
service  is  called  Dean.] 

(5)  The  present  Greek  professor  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge  ; a 
man  whose  powers  of  mind  and  writings  may,  perhaps,  justify  their 
preference.  [In  a letter  written  in  1818,  Lord  Byron  says: — "I 
remember  to  have  seen  Porson  at  Cambridge,  in  the  hall  of  our  col- 
lege, and  in  private  parties ; and  I never  can  recollect  him  except 
as  drunk  or  brutal,  and  generally  both  : I mean  in  an  evening : for 
in  the  hall,  he  dined  at  the  Dean’s  table,  and  I at  the  Vice- 
master’s  ; — and  he  then  and  there  appeared  sober  in  his  demeanour ; 
but  I have  seen  him,  in  a private  party  of  undergraduates,  take  up 
a poker  to  them,  and  heard  him  use  language  as  blackguard  as  his 
action.  Of  all  the  disgusting  brutes,  sulky,  abusive,  and  intolerable, 
Porson  was  the  most  bestial,  as  far  as  the  few  times  I saw  him 
went.  He  was  tolerated  in  this  state  amongst  the  young  men  for 
his  talents  ; as  the  Turks  think  a madman  inspired,  and  bear  with 
him.  He  used  tc  recite,  or  rather  vomit,  pages  of  all  languages, 
and  could  hiccup  Greek  like  a Helot:  and  certainly  Sparta  never 
shocked  her  children  with  a grosser  exhibition  than  this  man’s  in- 
toxication.”] 

(0)  Since  this  was  written,  Lord  Henry  Petty  has  lost  hi*  place, 
and  subsequently  (,1  had  almost  said  consequently)  the  honour  of 
representing  the  University.  A fact  so  glaring  requires  no  com- 
ment. [Lord  Henry  Petty  is  now  (1836)  Marquess  of  Lansdowne.] 


398 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


In  vain,  to  drive  tliee  from  my  breast, 

My  thoughts  are  more  and  more  represt ; 

In  vain  I check  the  rising  sighs, 

Another  to  the  last  replies  : 

Perhaps  this  is  not  love,  but  yet 
Our  meeting  I can  ne’er  forget. 

What  though  we  never  silence  broke, 

Our  eyes  a sweeter  language  spoke ; 

The  tongue  in  flattering  falsehood  deals. 

And  tells  a tale  it  never  feels  : 

Deceit  the  guilty  lips  impart, 

And  hush  the  mandates  of  the  heart ; • 

But  soul’s  interpreters,  the  eyes, 

Spurn  such  restraint,  and  scorn  disguise. 

As  thus  our  glances  oft  conversed, 

And  all  our  bosoms  felt  rehearsed, 

No  spirit,  from  within,  reproved  us, 

Say  rather,  “ ’twas  the  spirit  moved  us.” 
Though  what  they  utter’d  I repress, 

Yet  I conceive  thou ’It  partly  guess; 

For  as  on  thee  my  memory  ponders, 
Perchance  to  me  thine  also  wanders. 

This  for  myself,  at  least,  I ’ll  say, 

Thy  form  appears  through  night,  through  day 
Awake,  with  it  my  fancy  teems  ; 

In  sleep,  it  smiles  in  fleeting  dreams  : 

The  vision  charms  the  hours  away, 

And  bids  me  curse  Aurora’s  ray, 

For  breaking  slumbers  of  delight, 

Which  make  me  wish  for  endless  night. 

Since,  oh  ! whate’er  my  future  fate, 

Shall  joy  or  woe  my  steps  await, 

Tempted  by  love,  by  storms  beset, 

Thine  image  I can  ne’er  forget, 

Alas  ! again  no  more  we  meet, 

No  more  our  former  looks  repeat; 

Then  let  me  breathe  this  parting  prayer, 

The  dictate  of  my  bosom’s  care  : 

“ May  Heaven  so  guard  my  lovely  quaker, 
That  anguish  never  can  o’ertake  her  ; 


THE  CORNELIAN.* 

No  specious  splendour  of  this  stone 
Endears  it  to  my  memory  ever ; 

With  lustre  only  once  it  shone, 

And  blushes  modest  as  the  giver.3 

Some,  who  can  sneer  at  friendship’s  ties, 
Have,  for  my  weakness,  oft  reproved  me  : 

Yet  still  the  simple  gift  I prize, — 

For  I am  sure  the  giver  loved  me. 

He  offer’d  it  witji  downcast  look, 

As  fearful  that  I might  refuse  it; 

I told  him  when  the  gift  I took, 

My  only  fear  should  be  to  lose  it. 

This  pledge  attentively  I view’d, 

And  sparkling  as  I held  it  near, 

Methought  one  drop  the  stone  bedew’d, 

And  ever  since  I’ve  loved  a tear. 

Still,  to  adorn  his  humble  youth, 

Nor  wealth  nor  birth  their  treasures  yield ; 

But  he  who  seeks  the  flowers  of  truth, 

Must  quit  the  garden  for  the  field. 

’Tis  not  the  plant  uprear’d  in  sloth, 

Which  beauty  shows,  and  sheds  perfume  , 

The  flowers  which  yield  the  most  of  both 
In  Nature’s  wild  luxuriance  bloom. 

Had  Fortune  aided  Nature’s  care, 

F’or  once  forgetting  to  be  blind. 

His  would  have  been  an  ample  share, 

If  well  proportion’d  to  his  mind. 

But  had  the  goddess  clearly  seen, 

His  form  had  fix’d  her  fickle  breast ; 

Her  countless  hoards  would  his  have  been, 
And  none  remain’d  to  give  the  rest. 


That  peace  and  virtue  ne’er  forsake  her, 
But  bliss  be  aye  her  heart’s  partaker ! 
Oh  ! may  the  happy  mortal  fated 
To  be  by  dearest  ties  related, 

For  her  each  hour  new  joys  discover, 
And  lose  the  husband  in  the  lover  ! 

May  that  fair  bosom  never  know 
What  ’tis  to  feel  the  restless  woe, 
Which  stings  the  soul  with  vain  regret, 
Of  him  who  never  can  forget ! ” 1 2 


(1)  [These  verses  were  written  at  Harrowgate,  in  Aug.  1806.] 

(2)  [The  cornelian  of  these  verses  was  given  to  Lord  Byron  by 
the  Cambridge  chorister,  Eddlestone,  whose  musical  talents  first  in- 
troduced him  to  the  young  poet’s  acquaintance,  and  for  whom  he 
appears  to  have  entertained,  subsequently,  a sentiment  of  the  most 
romantic  friendship.] 

(3)  [In  a letter  to  Miss  Pigot,  of  Southwell,  written  in  June,  1S07, 
lord  Byron  thus  describes  Eddlestone: — “ He  is  exactly  to  an  hour 

two  years  younger  than  myself,  nearly  my  height,  very  thin,  very 
fair  complexion,  dark  eyes,  and  light  locks.  My  opinion  of  his 
mind  you  already  know ; I hope  I shall  never  have  occasion  to 
change  it."  Eddlestone,  on  leaving  his  choir,  entered  into  a mer- 
cantile house  in  the  metropolis,  and  died  of  a consumption,  in  1811. 
On  hearing  of  his  death,  Lord  Byron  thus  wrote  to  the  mother  of 
his  fair  correspondent: — “I  am  about  to  write  to  you  on  a silly 
subject,  and  yet  1 cannot  well  do  otherwise.  You  may  remember  a 
cornelian,  which  some  years  ago  I consigned  to  Miss  Pigot,  indeed 
gave  to  her,  and  now  I am  about  to  make  the  most  selfish  and  rude 
if  requests.  The  person  who  gave  it  to  me,  when  1 was  very  young, 
is  dead,  and  though  a long  time  has  elapsed  since  we  met.  as  it  was 


AN  OCCASIONAL  PROLOGUE, 

DELIVERED  PREVIOUS  TO  THE  PERFORMANCE  OF  “ THI 
WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE”  AT  A PRIVATE  TH’EATRE.4 

Since  the  refinement  of  this  polish’d  age 
Has  swept  immoral  raillery  from  the  stage ; 


the  only  memorial  1 possessed  of  that  person  (in  whom  I was  very 
much  interested),  it  has  acquired  a value  by  this  event  I could  have 
wished  it  never  to  have  borne  in  my  eyes.  If,  therefore,  Miss 
Pigot  should  have  preserved  it,  I must,  under  these  circumstances, 
beg  her  to  excuse  my  requesting  it  to  be  transmitted  to  me,  and  I 
will  replace  it  by  something  she  may  remember  me  by  equally  well. 
As  she  was  always  so  kind  as  to  feel  interested  in  the  fate  of  him 
who  formed  the  subject  of  our  conversation,  you  may  tell  her  that 
the  giver  of  that  cornelian  died  in  May  last,  of  a consumption,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-one,— making  the  sixth,  within  four  months,  of 
friends  and  relations  that  I have  lost  between  May  and  the  end  of 
August.” — The  cornelian  heart  was  returned  accordingly;  and,  in- 
deed, Miss  Pigot  reminded  Lord  Byron  that  he  had  left  it  with  her 
as  a deposit,  not  a gift.  It  is  now  in  the  possession  of  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Leigh.] 

(4)  [“When  I was  a jouth,  I was  reckoned  a good  actor.  Be- 
sides Harrow  speeches,  in  which  1 shone,  1 enacted  Penruddock,  in 
the  ‘ Wheel  of  Fortune,’  and  Tristram  Fickle,  in  the  farce  of  1 The 
Weathercock,’  for  three  nights,  in  some  private  theatricals  at  South- 
well,  in  1806,  with  great  applause.  The  occasional  prologue  for  oui 


HOURS  OP  IDLENESS. 


399 


Since  taste  Las  now  expunged  licentious  wit, 

Which  stamp’d  disgrace  on  all  an  author  writ : 

Since  now  to  please  with  purer  scenes  we  seek, 

Nor  dare  to  call  the  blush  from  Beauty’s  cheek ; 

Oh ! let  the  modest  Muse  some  pity  claim, 

And  meet  indulgence,  though  she  find  not  fame. 
Still,  not  for  her  alone  we  wish  respect, 

Others  appear  more  conscious  of  defect : 

To-night  no  veteran  Roscii  you  behold, 

In  all  the  arts  of  scenic  action  old ; 

No  Cooke,  no  Kemble,  can  salute  you  here, 

No  Siddons  draw  the  sympathetic  tear ; 

To-nHit  you  throng  to  witness  the  debut 1 
Of  embryo  actors,  to  the  Drama  new  : 

Here,  then,  our  almost  unfledged  wings  we  try  ; 

Clip  not  our  pinions  ere  the  birds  can  fly  : 

Bailing  in  this  our  first  attempt  to  soar, 

Drooping,  alas  ! we  fall  to  rise  no  more. 

Not  one  poor  trembler  only  fear  betrays, 

Who  hopes,  yet  almost  dreads,  to  meet  your  praise; 
Wit  all  our  dramatis  personae  wait 
In  fond  suspense  this  crisis  of  their  fate. 

No  venal  views  our  progress  can  retard, 

Your  generous  plaudits  are  our  sole  reward  : 

Eor  these,  each  Hero  all  his  power  displays, 

Each  timid  Heroine  shrinks  before  your  gaze. 

Surely  the  last  will  some  protection  find  ; 

.None  to  the  softer  sex  can  prove  unkind : 

While  Youth  and  Beauty  form  the  female  shield, 
The  sternest  censor  to  the  fair  must  yield. 

Yet,  should  our  feeble  efforts  nought  avail, 

Should,  after  all,  our  best  endeavours  fail. 

Still  let  some  mercy  in  your  bosoms  live, 

A nd,  if  you  can’t  applaud,  at  least  forgive. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OE  MR.  EOX, 

3 H FOLLOWING  ILLIBERAL  IMPROMPTU  APPEARED  IN 
A MORNING  PAPER. 

“ Our  nation’s  foes  lament  on  Eox’s  death, 

But  bless  the  hour  when  Pitt  resign’d  his  breath : 
These  feelings  wide,  let  sense  and  truth  unclue, 

We  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  its  due.” 

TO  WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THESE  PIECES  SENT  THE 
FOLLOWING  REPLY. 

Oh  factious  viper  ! whose  envenom’d  tooth 
Would  mangle  still  the  dead,  perverting  truth  ; 
What  though  our  “ nation’s  foes”  lament  the  fate. 
With  generous  feeling,  of  the  good  and  great, 

Shall  dastard  tongues  essay  to  blast  the  name 
Of  him  whose  meed  exists  in  endless  fame  ? 

When  Pitt  expired  in  plenitude  of  power, 

Though  ill  success  obscured  his  dying  hour, 

Pity  lier  dewy  wings  before  him  spread, 

For  noble  spirits  “ war  not  with  the  dead  :” 

His  friends,  in  tears,  a last  sad  requiem  gave, 

As  all  his  errors  slumber’d  in  the  grave ; 


velunteer  play  was  also  of  my  composition.  The  other  performers 
were  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood;  and  the 
whole  went  off  with  great  effect  upon  our  good-natured  audience.” 
— oyrm  Diary,  1821. j 

(1)  [This  prologue  was  written  by  the  young  poet,  between  stages, 
_n  his  way  from  Harrowgate.  On  getting  into  the  carriage  at 
Orsterfield,  he  said  to  his  companion,  “ Now,  Pigot,  1 ’ll  spin  a 
prologue  for  our  play and  before  they  reached  Mansfield  he  had 


He  sunk,  an  Atlas  bending  ’neatli  the  weight 
Of  cares  o’erwhelming  our  conflicting  state: 

When,  lo  ! a Hercules  in  Fox  appear’d, 

Who  for  a time  the  ruin’d  fabric  rear’d : 

He,  too,  is  fall’ll,  who  Britain’s  loss  supplied. 

With  him  our  fast-reviving  hopes  have  died; 

Not  one  great  people  only  raise  his  urn, 

All  Europe’s  far-extended  regions  mourn. 

“ These  feelings  wide,  let  sense  and  truth  unclue. 
To  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  its  due 
Yet  let  not  canker’d  Calumny  assail, 

Or  round  our  statesman  wind  her  gloomy  veil. 

Fox ! o’er  whose  corse  a mourning  world  must  weep, 
Whose  dear  remains  in  honour’d  marble  sleep ; 

For  whom,  at  last,  e’en  hostile  nations  groan. 
While  friends  and  foes  alike  his  talents  own ; 

Fox  shall  in  Britain’s  future  annals  shine, 

Nor  e’en  to  Pitt  the  patriot’s  palm  resign ; 

Which  Envy,  wearing  Candour’s  sacred  mask, 

For  Pitt,  and  Pitt  alone,  has  dared  to  ask.2 


THE  TEAR. 

“ O lachrymarum  f’ons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo ; quater 
Felix  ! in  imo  qui  scatentem 

Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit.” — Gray. 

When  Friendship  or  Love  our  sympathies  move, 
When  Truth  in  a glance  should  appear, 

The  lips  may  beguile  with  a dimple  or  smile, 

But  the  test  of  affection’s  a Tear. 

Too  oft  is  a smile  but  the  hypocrite’s  wile. 

To  mask  detestation  or  fear  ; 

Give  me  the  soft  sigh,  whilst  the  soul-telling  eye 
Is  dimm’d  for  a time  with  a Tear. 

Mild  Charity’s  glow,  to  us  mortals  below, 

Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear ; 

Compassion  will  melt  where  this  virtue  is  felt, 

And  its  dew  is  diffused  in  a Tear. 

The  man  doom’d  to  sail  with  the  blast  of  the  gale, 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer, 

As  he  bends  o’er  the  wave  which  may  soon  be  his  grave, 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a Tear. 

The  soldier  braves  death  for  a fanciful  wreath 
In  Glory’s  romantic  career  ; 

But  he  raises  the  foe  when  in  battle  laid  low 
And  bathes  every  wound  with  a Tear. 

If  with  high-bounding  pride  he  return  to  his  bride, 
Renouncing  the  gore-crimson’d  spear, 

All  his  toils  are  repaid  when,  embracing  the  maid, 
From  her  eyelid  he  kisses  the  Tear, 

Sweet  scene  of  my  youth!3  seat  of  Friendship  and 
Where  love  chased  each  fast-fleeting  year,  [Truth, 

Loth  to  leave  thee,  I mourn’d,  for  a last  look  I turn’d, 
But  thy  spire  was  scarce  seen  through  a Tear. 


completed  his  task, — interrupting,  only  onee,  his  rhyming  lWxjcie, 
to  ask  the  proper  pronunciation  of  the  French  word  “ debut,"  and, 
on  being  answered,  exclaiming,  “ Ay,  that  will  do  for  rhyme  to 
‘ new The  epilogue,  which  was  from  the  pen  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Becher,  was  de.ivered  by  Lord  Byron.] 

(2)  [The  “ illiberal  impromptu”  appeared  in  the  Morning  Post,  ."11111 
Lord  Byron’3  “ reply”  in  the  Morning  Chronicle. 

(3)  Harrow. 


400 


LORD  BY  LON’S  WORKS. 


Though  my  vows  I can  pour  to  my  Mary  no  more, 

My  Mary  to  Love  once  so  dear ; 

In  the  shade  of  her  bower  I remember  the  hour 
She  rewarded  those  vows  with  a Tear. 

By  another  possest,  may  she  live  ever  blest ! 

Her  name  still  my  heart  must  revere  • 

With  a sigh  I resign  what  I once  thought  was  mine, 
And  forgive  her  deceit  with  a Tear. 

Ye  friends  of  my  heart,  ere  from  you  I depart, 

This  hope  to  my  breast  is  most  near : 

If  again  we  shall  meet  in  this  rural  retreat, 

May  we  meet,  as  we  part,  with  a Tear. 

W lien  my  soul  wings  her  flight  to  the  regions  of  night, 
And  my  corse  shall  recline  on  its  bier, 

As  ye  pass  by  the  tomb  where  my  ashes  consume. 

Oh  ! moisten  their  dust  with  a Tear. 

May  no  marble  bestow  the  splendour  of  woe. 

Which  the  children  of  vanity  rear; 

No  fiction  of  fame  shall  blazon  my  name  ; 

All  I ask — all  I wish — is  a Tear. 

October  26th,  1806. 


REPLY  TO  SOME  VERSES  OF  J.  M.  B.  P1GOT, 
ESQ.,  ON  THE  CRUELTY  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Why,  Pigot,  complain  of  this  damsel’s  disdain, 

\Y  hy  thus  in  despair  do  you  fret  ? 

For  months  you  may  try,  yet,  believe  me,  a sigh 
• Will  never  obtain  a coquette. 

Would  you  teach  her  to  love  ? for  a time  seem  to  rove ; 

At  first  she  may  frown  in  a pet ; 

But  leave  her  awhile,  she  shortly  will  smile, 

And  then  you  may  kiss  your  coquette. 

Tor  such  are  the  airs  of  these  fanciful  fairs, 

They  think  all  our  homage  a debt : 

Yet  a partial  neglect  soon  takes  an  effect, 

And  humbles  the  proudest  coquette. 

Dissemble  your  pain,  and  lengthen  your  chain, 

And  seem  her  hauteur  to  regret ; 

If  again  you  shall  sigh,  she  no  more  will  deny 
That  yours  is  the  rosy  coquette. 

If  still,  from  false  pride,  your  pangs  she  deride. 

This  whimsical  virgin  forget; 

Some  other  admire,  who  will  melt  with  your  fire, 

And  laugh  at  the  little  coquette. 

For  me,  I adore  some  twenty  or  more, 

And  love  them  most  dearly  ; but  yet, 

Though  my  heart  they  enthral,  I’d  abandon  them  all, 
Did  they  act  like  your  blooming  coquette. 

No  longer  repine,  adopt  this  design, 

And  break  through  her  slight-woven  net ; 

Away  with  despair,  no  longer  forbear 
To  fly  from  the  captious  coquette. 

Then  quit  her,  my  friend ! your  bosom  defend, 

Ere  quite  with  her  snares  you’re  beset ; [smart, 
Lest  your  deep-wounded  heart,  when  incensed  by  the 

Should  lead  you  to  curse  the  coquette. 

October  27th,  1806. 


TO  THE  SIGHING  STREPHON. 

Your  pardon,  my  friend,  if  my  rhymes  did  offend. 
Your  pardon,  a thousand  times  o’er  : 

From  friendship  I strove  your  pangs  to  remove, 

But  I swear  I will  do  so  no  more. 

Since  your  beautiful  maid  your  flame  lias  repaid. 

No  more  I your  folly  regret; 

She’s  now  most  divine,  and  I bow  at  the  shrine 
Of  this  quickly  reformed  coquette. 

Yet  still,  I must  own,  I should  never  have  known 
From  your  verses,  what  else  she  deserved ; 

Your  pain  seem’d  so  great,  I pitied  your  fate, 

As  your  fair  was  so  devilish  reserved. 

Since  the  balm-breathing  kiss  of  this  magical  miss 
Can  such  wonderful  transports  produce  ; [met,'J 

Since  the  “ world  you  forget,  when  your  lips  once  have 
My  counsel  will  get  but  abuse. 

You  say,  when  “ I rove,  I know  nothing  of  love;” 

’Tis  true,  I am  given  to  range  : 

If  I rightly  remember,  I’ve  loved  a good  number, 

Yet  there’s  pleasure,  at  least,  in  a change. 

I will  not  advance,  by  the  rules  of  romance, 

To  humour  a whimsical  fair  ; 

Though  a smile  may  delight,  yet  a frown  won’t  affright. 
Or  drive  me  to  dreadful  despair. 

While  my  blood  is  thus  warm  I ne’er  shall  reform, 

To  mix.  in  the  Platonists’  school ; 

Of  this  I am  sure,  was  my  passion  so  pure, 

Thy  mistress  would  think  me  a fool. 

And  if  1 should  shun  every  woman  for  one, 

Whose  image  must  fill  my  whole  breast— 

| Whom  I must  prefer,  and  sigh  but  for  her — 

What  an  insult  ’twould  be  to  the  rest ! 

Now,  Strephon,  good  bye;  I cannot  deny 
Your  passion  appears  most  absurd  ; 

Such  love  as  you  plead  is  pure  love  indeed. 

For  it  only  consists  in  the  word. 


TO  ELIZA.1 

Eliza,  what  fools  are  the  Mussulman  sect, 

Who  to  woman  deny  the  soul’s  future  existence  ! 

Could  they  see  thee,  Eliza,  they’d  own  their  defect, 
And  this  doctrine  would  meet  with  a general  re- 
sistance. 

Had  their  prophet  possess’d  half  an  atom  of  sense, 

He  ne’er  would  have  women  from  paradise  driven ; 

Instead  of  his  heuris,  a flimsy  pretence. 

With  women  alone  he  had  peopled  his  heaven. 

Yet  still,  to  increase  your  calamities  more, 

Not  content  with  depriving  your  bodies  of  spirit, 

He  allots  one  poor  husband  to  share  amongst  four ! — 
With  souls  you’d  dispense  ; but  this  last  who  couid 
bear  it  ? 


(1)  [Miss  Elizabeth  Pigot,  of  Southwell,  to  whom  several  of  Lord 
Byron’s  earliest  letters  were  addressed.] 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


His  religion  to  please  neither  party  is  made  ; 

On  husbands  ’tis  hard,  to  the  wives  most  uncivil ; 
Still  1 can’t  contradict,  what  so  oft  lias  been  said, 

“ Though  women  are  angels,  yet  wedlock’s  the 
devil.” 


LACHIN  Y GAIR.1 

Away,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses  ! 

In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove ; 

Restore  me  the  rocks,  where  the  snow-flake  reposes, 
Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and  love  : 
Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are  thy  mountains, 

Round  their  white  summits  though  elements  war ; 
Though  cataracts  foam  ’stead  of  smooth-flowing  foun- 
tains, 

I sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

All ! there  my  young  footsteps  in  infancy  wander’d  ; 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid : 2 
On  chieftains  long  perish’d  my  memory  ponder’d, 

As  daily  I strode  through  the  pine-cover’d  glade. 

I sought  not  my  home  till  the  day’s  dying  glory 
Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  star ; 

For  fancy  was  cheer’d  by  traditional  story, 

Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

“ Shades  of  the  dead  ! have  I not  heard  your  voices 
Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the  gale  ? ” 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 

And  rides  on  the  wind,  o’er  his  own  Highland  vale. 
Round  Loch  na  Garr  while  the  stormy  mist  gathers, 
Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  car : 

Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  fathers  ; 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  11a  Garr. 

“ Ill-starr’d,3  through  brave,  did  no  visions  foreboding 
Tell  you  that  fate  had  forsaken  your  cause  ? ” 

Ah  ! were  you  destined  to  die  at  Culloden,4 
Victory  crown’d  not  your  fall  with  applause  : 

Still  were  you  happy  in  death’s  earthy  slumber, 

You  rest  with  your  clan  in  the  caves  of  Braemar  ; 5 * 
The  pibroch  resounds,  to  the  piper’s  loud  number, 
Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  11a  Garr. 


(1)  Lachin  y Gair,  or,  as  it  is  pronounced  in  the  Erse,  Loch  na 
Garr,  towers  proudly  pre-eminent  in  the  Nor’hern  Highlands,  near 
Invercauld.  One  of  our  modern  tourists  mentions  it  as  the  highest 
mountain,  perhaps,  in  Great  Britain.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  most  sublime  and  picturesque  amongst  our 
“Caledonian  Alps.”  Its  appearance  is  of  a dusky  hue,  but  the 
summit  is  the  seat  of  eternal  snows.  Near  Lachin  y Gair  1 spent 
some  of  the  early  part  of  my  life,  the  recollection  of  which  has 
given  birth  to  these  stanzas. 

(2)  This  word  is  erroneously  pronounced  plad : the  proper  pro- 
nunciation (according  to  the  Scotch)  is  shown  by  the  orthography. 

(3)  I allude  here  to  my  maternal  ancestors,  “the  Gordons,” 
many  of  whom  fought  for  the  unfortunate  Prince  Charles,  better 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Pretender.  This  branch  was  nearly 
allied  by  blood,  as  well  as  attachment,  to  the  Stuarts.  George, 
the  second  Earl  of  Huntley,  married  the  Princess  Annabella 
Stuart,  daughter  of  James  the  First  of  Scotland.  By  her  he  left 
four  sons : the  third,  Sir  William  Gordon,  I have  the  honour  to 
claim  as  one  of  my  progenitors. 

(4)  Whether  any  perished  in  the  battle  of  Culloden,  I am  not 
certain;  but,  as  many  fell  in  the  insurrection,  I have  used  the 
name  of  the  principal  action,  “ pars  pro  toto.” 

(a)  A tract  of  the  Highlands  so  called.  There  is  also  a Castle  of 
Braemar. 

i(i)  fin  “ The  Island,”  a poem  written  a year  or  two  before  Lord 
Byron  s death,  we  have  these  lines — 

“ He  who  first  met  the  Highlands’  swelling  blue 
Will  love  each  peak  that  shows  a kindred  hue. 


401 

Years  have  roll’d  on,  Loch  na  Garr,  since  1 lelt  }ou, 
Years  must  elapse  ere  I tread  you  again : 

Nature  of  verdure  and  flow’rs  has  bereft  you, 

Yet  still  are  you  dearer  than  Albion’s  plain. 
England  ! thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic 
To  one  who  has  roved  o’er  the  mountains  afar : 

Oh  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  majestic ! 

The  steep  frowning  glories  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr  I 


TO  ROMANCE. 

Parent  of  golden  dreams,  Romance ! 
Auspicious  queen  of  childish  joys. 

Who  lead’st  along,  in  airy  dance. 

Thy  votive  train  of  girls  and  boys ; 

At  length,  in  spells  no  longer  bound, 

I break  the  fetters  of  my  youth ; 

No  more  I tread  thy  mystic  round, 

But  leave  thy  realms  for  those  of  Truth. 

And  yet  ’tis  hard  to  quit  the  dreams 
Which  haunt  the  unsuspicious  soul, 

Where  every  nymph  a goddess  seems, 

Whose  eyes  through  rays  immortal  roll; 

While  Fancy  holds  her  boundless  reign, 

And  all  assume  a varied  hue  ; 

When  virgins  seem  no  longer  vain, 

And  even  woman’s  smiles  are  true. 

And  must  we  own  thee  but  a name, 

And  from  thy  hall  of  clouds  descend  ? 

Nor  find  a sylph  in  every  dame, 

A Pylades  7 in  every  friend  ? 

But  leave  at  once  thy  realms  of  air 
To  mingling  bands  of  fairy  elves  ; 

Confess  that  woman’s  false  as  fair, 

And  friends  have  feelings  for — themselves  ! 

With  shame  I own  I’ve  felt  thy  sway 
Repentant,  now  thy  reign  is  o’er  : 

No  more  thy  precepts  I obey, 

No  more  on  fancied  pinions  soar. 

Fond  fool ! to  love  a sparkling  eye, 

And  think  that  eye  to  truth  was  dear ; 

To  trust  a passing  wanton’s  sigh, 

And  melt  beneath  a want  on’s  tear  ! 


Hail  in  each  crag  a friend’s  familiar  face, 

And  clasp  the  mountain  in  his  mind’s  embrace. 

Long  havg  I roam’d  through  lands  which  are  not  mine, 
Adored  the  Alp,  and  loved  the  Apennine, 

Revered  Parnassus,  and  beheld  the  steep 
Jove’s  Ida  and  Olympus  crown  the  dfetp: 

But  'twas  not  all  long  ages’  lore,  not  all 
Their  nature  held  me  in  their  thrilling  thrall ; 

The  infant  rapture  still  survived  the  biy, 

And  Loch  na  Garr  with  Ida  look’d  o’er  Troy, 

Mix’d  Celtic  memories  with  the  Phrygian  mount, 

And  Highland  linns  with  Castalie’s  clear  fount.” 

“ When  very  young,”  (he  adds  in  a note,)  “ about  eight  years  of 
age,  after  an  attack  of  the  scarlet  fever  at  Aberdeen,  I was  removed, 
by  medical  advice,  into  the  Highlands,  and  from  this  period  1 date 
my  love  of  mountainous  countries.  I can  never  forget  the  effect, 
a few  years  afterwards,  in  England,  of  the  only  thing  I had  long 
seen,  even  in  miniature,  of  a mountain,  in  the  Malvern  Hills.  After 
I returned  to  Cheltenham,  I used  to  watch  them  every  afternoon, 
at  sunset,  with  a sensation  which  I cannot  describe.”] 

(7)  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  that  Pylades  was  the  cr*n- 
panion  of  Orestes,  and  a partner  in  one  of  those  friendships  which, 
with  those  of  Achilles  and  Patroclus,  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  Damon 
and  Pythias,  have  been  handed  down  to  posterity  as  remarkable 
instances  of  attachments,  which  in  all  probability  never  existed 
beyond  the  imagination  of  the  poet,  or  the  page  of  an  historian,  o» 
modern  novelist. 

3 F 


402 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Romance ! disgusted  with  deceit, 

Far  from  thy  motley  court  I fly, 

Where  Affectation  holds  her  seat, 

And  sickly  Sensibility; 

Wrliose  silly  tears  can  never  flow 
For  any  pangs  excepting  thine ; 

Who  turns  aside  from  real  woe, 

To  steep  in  dew  thy  gaudy  shrine. 

Now  join  with  sable  Sympathy, 

With  cypress  crown’d,  array’d  in  weeds, 

Who  heaves  with  thee  her  simple  sigh, 
Whose  breast  for  every  bosom  bleeds  ; 

And  call  thy  sylvan  female  choir, 

To  mourn  a swain  for  ever  gone, 

Who  once  could  glow  with  equal  fire, 

But  bends  not  now  before  thy  throne. 

Ye  genial  nymphs,  whose  ready  tears 
On  all  occasions  swiftly  flow  ; 

Whose  bosoms  heave  with  fancied  fears. 
With  fancied  flames  and  phrensy  glow ; 

Say,  will  you  mourn  my  absent  name, 
Apostate  from  your  gentle  train  ? 

An  infant  bard  at  least  may  claim 
From  you  a sympathetic  strain. 

Adieu,  fond  race  ! a long  adieu  ! 

The  hour  of  fate  is  hovering  nigh  ; 

E’en  now  the  gulph  appears  in  view, 
Where  unlamented  you  must  lie  : 

Oblivion’s  blackening  lake  is  seen, 

Convulsed  by  gales  you  cannot  weather ; 

Where  you,  and  eke  your  gentle  queen, 
Alas  ! must  perish  altogether. 


ANSWER  TO  SOME  ELEGANT  VERSES 

SENT  BY  A FRIEND  TO  THE  AUTHOR,  COMPLAINING 
THAT  ONE  OF  HIS  DESCRIPTIONS  WAS  RATHER  TOO 
WARMLY  DRAWN. 

“ But  if  any  old  lady,  knight,  priest,  or  physician, 

Should  condemn  me  for  printing  a second  edition; 

If  good  Madam  Squintum  my  work  should  abuse, 

May  I venture  to  give  her  a smack  of  my  muse  ? ” 

New  Bath  Guide. 

Candour  compels  me,  Becher!  1 to  commend 
The  verse  which  blends  the  censor  with  the  friend. 
Your  strong  yet  just  reproof  extorts  applause 
From  me,  the  heedless  and  imprudent  cause. 

For  this  wild  error  which  pervades  my  strain, 

I sue  for  pardon, — must  I sue  in  vain  F 
The  wise  sometimes  from  Wisdom’s  ways  depart; 
Can  youth  then  hush  the  dictates  of  the  heart  ? 
Precepts  of  prudence  curb,  but  can’t  control, 

The  fierce  emotions  of  the  flowing  soul. 

When  Love’s  delirium  haunts  the  glowing  mind, 
Limping  Decorum  lingers  far  behind  : 


(1)  [The  Rev.  John  Becher,  prebendary  of  Southwell,  the  well- 
Kiiown  author  of  several  philanthropic  plans  for  the  amelioration  of 
the  condition  of  the  poor.  In  this  gentleman  the  youthful  poet 
<*:und  not  only  an  honest  and  judicious  critic,  but  a sincere  friend. 
To  his  care  the  superintendence  of  the  second  edition  of  “Hours 
of  Idleness,”  during  its  progress  through  a country  press,  was 
intrusted,  and  at  his  suggestion  several  corrections  and  omissions 
were  made.  “ I must  return  you,”  says  Lord  Byron,  in  a letter 
written  in  February,  1808,  “ my  best  acknowledgments  for  the 
interest  you  have  taken  in  me  and  my  poetical  bantlings,  and  I 


Family  the  dotard  mends  her  prudish  paoe, 
Outstript  and  vanquish’d  in  the  mental  chase. 

The  young,  the  old,-  have  worn  the  chains  of  love : 
Let  those  they  ne’er  confined  my  lay  reprove  : 

Let  those  whose  souls  contemn  the  pleasing  power 
Their  censures  on  the  hapless  victim  shower. 

Oh  ! how  I hate  the  nerveless,  frigid  song, 

The  ceaseless  echo  of  the  rhyming  throno-. 

Whose  labour’d  lines  in  chilling  numbei-rflow, 
lo  paint  a pang  the  author  ne’er  can  know  ! 

The  artless  Helicon  I boast  is  youth ; — 

My  lyre,  the  heart ; my  muse,  the  simple  truth. 
Far  be’t  from  me  the  “ virgin’s  mind”  to  “ taint : * 
Seduction’s  dread  is  here  no  slight  restraint. 

The  maid  whose  virgin  breast  is  void  of  guile. 
Whose  wishes  dimple  in  a modest  smile, 

Whose  downcast  eye  disdains  the  wanton  leer, 

Firm  in  her  virtue’s  strength,  yCt  not  severe — 

She  whom  a conscious  grace  shall  thus  refine, 

Will  ne’er  be  “tainted”  by  a strain  of  mine. 

But  for  the  nymph  whose  premature  desires 
Torment  her  bosom  with  unholy  fires, 

No  net  to  snare  her  willing  heart  is  spread  ; 

She  would  have  fallen,  though  she  ne’er  had  read. 
For  me,  I fain  would  please  the  chosen  few, 

Whose  souls,  to  feeling  and  to  nature  true. 

Will  spare  the  childish  verse,  and  not  destroy 
The  light  effusions  of  a heedless  boy. 

I seek  not  glory  from  the  senseless  crowrd  } 

Of  fancied  laurels  I shall  ne’er  be  proud  : 

T heir  warmest  plaudits  I would  scarcely  prize, 
Their  sneers  or  censures  I alike  despise. 

November  26,  1806 


ELEGY  ON  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY.* 2 

“ It  is  the  voice  of  years  that  are  gone ! they  roll  before  me  with 
all  their  deeds.” — Ossian. 

Newtstead  ! fast-falling,  once-resplendent  dome  ! 

Religion’s  shrine  ! repentant  Henry’s3  pride  ! 

Of  warriors,  monks,  and  dames  the  cloister’d  tomb, 
Whose  pensive  shades  around  thy  ruins  glide. 

Hail  to  thy  pile  ! more  honour’d  in  thy  fall 
Than  modern  mansions  in  their  pillar’d  state ; 
Proudly  majestic  frowns  thy  vaulted  hall, 

Scowling  defiance  on  the  blasts  of  fate. 

No  mail-clad  serfs,4  obedient  to  their  lord, 

In  grim  array  the  crimson  cross  * demand ; 

Or  gay  assemble  round  the  festive  board 
Their  chief’s  retainers,  an  immortal  band : 

Else  might  inspiring  Fancy’s  magic  eye 

Retrace  their  progress  through  the  lapse  of  time, 
Marking  each  ardent  youth,  ordain’d  to  die, 

A votive  pilgrim  in  Judea’s  clime. 


shall  ever  be  proud  to  show  how  much  I esteem  the  advice  and  tna 
adviser.”] 

(2)  As  one  poem  on  this  subject. is  already  printed,  tne  a'  thor 
had,  originally,  no  intention  of  inserting  the  following.  It  is  new 
added  at  the  particular  request  of  some  friends. 

(3)  Henry  II.  founded  Newstead  soon  after  the  murder  of 
Thomas  a Becket.  [See  anf£,  p.  378,  note.] 

(4)  This  word  is  used  by  Waiter  Scott,  in  his  poem,  “The  Wild 
Huntsman;”  synonymous  with  vassal. 

(a)  The  red  cross  was  the  badge  of  the  Crusaders. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


403 


But  not  from  tbee,  dark  pile  ! departs  the  chief ; 

His  feudal  realm  in  other  regions  lay  : 

In  thee  the  wounded  conscience  courts  relief, 

Retiring  from  the  garish  blaze  of  day. 

Ves ! in  thy  gloomy  cells  and  shades  profound 
The  monk  abjured  a world  lie  ne’er  could  view ; 

Or  blood-stain’ d guilt  repenting  solace  found, 

Or  innocence  from  stem  oppression  hew. 

A.  monarch  bade  thee  from  that  wild  arise, 

Where  Sherwood’s  outlaws  once  were  wont  to  prowl; 
And  Superstition’s  crimes,  of  various  dyes, 

Sought  shelter  in  the  priest’s  protecting  cowl. 

Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a murky  dew, 

The  humid  pall  of  life-extinguish’d  clay, 

Ln  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 

Nor  raised  their  pious  voices  but  to  pray. 

Where  now  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend 
Soon  as  the  gloaming1  spreads  her  waning  shade, 
The  choir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend, 

Or  matin  orisons  to  Mary 2 paid. 

Years  roll  on  years  ; to  ages,  ages  yield  ; 

xlbbots  to  abbots,  iu  a line,  succeed  : 

Religion’s  charter  their  protecting  shield 
Tdl  royal  sacrilege  their  doom  decreed. 

One  holy  Henry  rear’d  the  gothic  walls, 

And  bade  the  pious  inmates  rest  in  peace ; 

Another  Henry3  the  kind  gift  recalls, 

And  bids  devotion’s  hallow’d  echoes  cease. 

Vain  is  each  threat  or  supplicating  prayer; 

He  drives  them  exiles  from  their  blest  abode, 

To  roam  a dreary  world  in  deep  despair — 

No  friend,  no  home,  no  refuge,  but  their  God. 

Hark  how  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain, 

Shakes  with  the  martial  music’s  novel  din ! 

The  heralds  of  a warrior’s  haughty  reign, 

High  crested  banners  wave  thy  walls  within. 

Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 

The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  of  burnish’d  arms. 
The  braying  trumpet  and  the  hoarser  drum, 

Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms. 

An  abbey  once,  a regal  fortress4  now, 

Encircled  by  insulting  rebel  powers, 

War’s  dread  machines  o’erhang  thy  threatening  brow, 
And  dart  destruction  in  sulphureous  showers. 

Ah  vain  defence  ! the  hostile  traitor’s  siege. 

Though  oft  repulsed,  by  guile  o’ercomes  the  brave ; 
His  thronging  foes  oppress  the  faithful  liege, 
Rebellion’s  reeking  standards  o’er  him  wave. 


(!'  As  “gloaming,”  the  Scottish -yord  for  twilight,  is  far  more 
poetical,  and  has  been  recommend*-.!  by  many  eminent  literary 
men,  particularly  by  Dr.  Moore  in  his  Letters  to  Burns,  I have 
ventured  to  use  it  on  account  of  its  harmony. 

(2)  The  priory  was  dedicated  to  the  Virgin. 

(3)  At  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  Henry  VII L bestowed 
Newstead  Abbey  on  Sir  John  Byron.  [See  ante,  p.  378,  note.] 

f-H  Newstead  sustained  a considerable  siege  in  the  war  between 
Charles  1.  and  his  parliament. 

(5)  Lord  Byron,  and  his  brother  Sir  William,  held  high  com- 

mands in  the  royal  army.  The  former  was  general  in  chief  in 

Ireland,  lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and  governor  to  James,  Duke  of 


Not  unavenged  the  raging  baron  yields ; 

The  blood  of  traitors  smears  the  purple  plain; 

Unconquer’d  still,  his  falchion  there  he  wields. 

And  days  of  glory  yet  for  him  remain. 

Still  in  that  hour  the  warrior  wished  to  strew 
Self-gather’d  laurels  on  a self-sought  grave ; 

But  Charles’  protecting  genius  hither  flew. 

The  monarch’s  friend,  the  monarch’s  hope,  to  save. 

Trembling,  she  snatch’d  him5  from  th’  unequal  strife, 
Iu  other  fields  the  torrent  to  repel ; 

For  nobler  combats,  here,  reserved  his  life, 

To  lead  the  band  where  godlike  Falkland6  fell. 

From  thee,  poor  pile  ! to  lawless  plunder  given, 

While  dying  groans  their  painful  requiem  sound. 

Far  different  incense  now  ascends  to  heaven, 

Such  victims  wallow  on  the  gory  ground. 

There  many  a pale  and  ruthless  robber’s  corse. 
Noisome  and  gliast,  defiles  thy  sacred  sod; 

O’er  mingling  man,  and  horse  commix’d  with  liorst, 
Corruption’s  heap,  the  savage  spoilers  trod. 

Graves,  long  with  rank  and  sighing  weeds  o’erspread, 
Ransack’d,  resign  perforce  their  mortal  mould : 

From  ruffian  fangs  escape  not  e’en  the  dead, 

Raked  from  repose  in  search  for  buried  gold 

Hush’d  is  the  harp,  unstrung  the  warlike  lyre, 

The  minstrel’s  palsied  hand  reclines  in  death ; 

No  more  he  strikes  the  quivering  chords  with  fire, 

Or  sings  the  glories  of  the  martial  wreath. 

At  length  the  sated  murderers,  gorged  with  prey, 
Retire  ; the  clamour  of  the  fight  is  o’er  : 

Silence  again  resumes  her  awful  sway, 

And  sable  Horror  guards  the  massy  door. 

Here  Desolatiou  holds  her  dreary  court : 

What  satellites  declare  her  dismal  reign  ! 

Shrieking  their  dirge,  iil-omen’d  birds  resort, 

To  flit  their  vigils  in  the  hoary  fane. 

Soon  a new  morn’s  restoring  beams  dispel 
The  clouds  of  anarchy  from  Britain’s  skies; 

The  fierce  usurper  seeks  his  native  hell, 

• And  Nature  triumphs  as  the  tyrant  dies. 

With  storms  she  welcomes  his  expiring  groans  ; 
Whirlwinds,  responsive,  greet  his  labouring  breath  ; 

Earth  shudders  as  her  caves  receive  his  bones, 
Loathing7  the  offering  of  so  dark  a death. 

The  legal  ruler8  now  resumes  the  helm. 

He  guides  through  gentle  seas  the  prow  of  state  ; 

Hope  cheers,  with  wonted  smiles,  the  peaceful  realm. 
And  heals  the  bleeding  wounds  of  wearied  hate. 


York,  afterwards  the  unhappy  James  II.  ; the  latter  had  a prlnci 
pal  share  in  many  actions. 

(6)  Lucius  Cary,  Lord  Viscount  Falkland,  the  most  accomplished 
man  of  his  age,  was  killed  at  the  battle  ot  Newbury,  charging  in 
the  ranks  of  Lord  Byron’s  regiment  of  cavalry. 

(7)  This  is  an  historical  fact.  A violent  tempest  occurred  im 
mediately  subsequent  to  the  death  or  interment  of  Cromwell,  which 
occasioned  many  disputes  between  his  partisans  and  the  cava’iers : 
both  interpreted  the  circumstance  into  divine  interposition;  but 
whether  as  approbation  or  condemnation,  we  leave  for  the  casuists 
of  that  age  to  decide.  I have  made  such  use  of  the  occurrence  as 
suited  the  subject  of  my  poem 

(8)  Charles  II 


404 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


The  gloomy  tenants,  Newstead  ! of  thy  cells, 
Howling,  resign  their  violated  nest ; 

Again  the  master  on  his  tenure  dwells, 

Enjoy’d,  from  absence,  with  enraptured  zest. 

Vassals,  within  thy  hospitable  pale, 

Loudly  carousing,  bless  their  lord’s  return ; 
Culture  again  adorns  the  gladdening  vale, 

And  matrons,  once  lamenting,  cease  to  mourn. 

A thousand  songs  on  tuneful  echo  float, 

Unwonted  foliage  mantles  o’er  the  trees ; 

And  hark  ! the  horns  proclaim  a mellow  note, 

The  hunters’  cry  hangs  lengthening  on  the  breeze. 

Beneath  their  coursers’  hoofs  the  valleys  shake  : 

What  fears,  what  anxious  hopes,  attend  the  chase ! 
The  dying  stag  seeks  refuge  in  the  Lake ; 1 
Exulting  shouts  announce  the  finish’d  race. 

All  happy  days  ! too  happy  to  endure  ! 

Such  simple  sports  our  plain  forefathers  knew  : 

No  splendid  vices  glitter’d  to  allure  ; 

Their  joys  were  many,  as  their  cares  were  few. 

Erom  these  descending,  sons  to  sires  succeed  ; 

Time  steals  along,  and  Death  uprears  his  dart ; 
Another  chief  impels  the  foaming  steed, 

Another  crowd  pursue  the  panting  hart. 

Newstead  ! what  saddening  change  of  scene  is  thine  ! 

^ Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  slow  decay  ! 

The  last  and  youngest  of  a noble  line 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  sway. 

Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  gray  worn  towers ; 

Thy  vaults  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep  ; 

Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers  ; 

These,  these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to 
weep. 


(1)  [During  the  lifetime  of  the  fifth  Lord  Byron,  tnere  was  found  | 
in  this  lake— where  it  is  supposed  to  have  been  thrown  tor  conceal- 
ment by  the  monks — a large  brass  eagle,  in  the  body  of  which,  on 
its  being  sent  to  be  cleaned,  was  discovered  a secret  aperture,  con- 
cealing within  it  a number  of  ancient  documents  connected  with 
the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  foundation.  At  the  sale  of  the  old 
Lord’s  effects,  in  1776,  this  eagle  was  purchased  by  a wr  tehmaker 
of  Nottingham  ; and  it  now  forms,  through  the  liberality  of  Sir 
Richard  Kaye,  an  appropriate  ornament  of  the  fine  old  church  of 
Southwell.] 

(2)  [“Come  what  may,”  wrote  Lord  Byron  to  his  mother,  in 
March,  1809,  “ Newstead  and  I stand  or  fall  together.  I have  now 
lived  on  the  spot;  1 have  fixed  my  heart  upon  it;  and  no  pressure 
present  or  future,  shall  induce  me  to  barter  the  last  vestige  of  our 
inheritance.  1 have  that  pride  within  me  which  will  enable  me  to 
support  difficulties.  I can  endure  privations ; but  could  1 obtain 
in  exchange  for  Newstead  Abbey,  the  first  fortune  in  the  country,  I 
would  reject  the  proposition.  Set  your  mind  at  ease  on  that  score  • 

I feel  like  a man  of  honour,  and  I will  not  sell  Newstead. ”J 

(3)  [“  We  cannot,”  says  the  Critical  Review  for  September,  1807, 

“ but  hail,  with  something  of  prophetic  rapture,  the  hope  conveyed 
in  the  closing  stanza — 

‘ Haply  thy  sun,  emerging,  yet  may  shine,’  ” &c.] 

rrhe  reader  who  turns  from  this  Elegy  to  the  stanza  de- 
sci iptive  or  Newstead  Abbey  and  the  surrounding  scenery,  in  the 
thirteenth  canto  of  Don  Juan,  cannot  fail  to  remark  how  frequently 
the  1 ailing  thoughts  in  the  two  pieces  are  the  same;  or  to  be  de- 
lighted and  instructed,  in  comparing  the  juvenile  sketch  with  the 
bold  touches  and  mellow  colouring  of  the  master’s  picture.] 

(5)  [These  verses  were  composed  while  Lord  Byron  was  suffering  i 
undo ( severe  illness  and  depression  of  spirits.  “I  was  laid,”  he 
ays,  ‘on  my  back,  when  that  schoolboy  thing  was  written,  or 
atht.  dicU'.ted — expecting  to  rise  no  more,  my  physician  having 


Yet  are  his  tears  no  emblem  of  regret : 

Cherish’d  affection  only  bids  them  flow. 

Pride,  hope,  and  love  forbid  him  to  forget, 

But  warm  his  bosom  with  impassion’d  ^low. 

Yet  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes 
Or  gewgaw  grottoes  of  the  vainly  great ; 

Yet  lingers  ’mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs, 

Nor  breathes  a murmur  ’gainst  the  will  of  fate. 

Haply  thy  sun,  emerging,  yet  may  shine, 

Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray  ;3 

Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine, 
And  bless  thy  future  as  thy  former  day.4. 


CHILDISH  RECOLLECTIONS.5 

“ I cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 

And  were  most  dear  to  me.” 

W hen  slow  Disease,  with  all  her  host  of  pains. 

Chills  the  warm  tide  which  flows  along  the  veins; 
When  Health,  affrighted,  spreads  her  rosy  wing. 

And  flies  with  every  changing  gale  of  spring; 

Not  to  the  aching  frame  alone  confined, 

Unyielding  pangs  assail  the  drooping  mind  : 

What  grisly  forms,  the  spectre-train  of  woe, 

Bid  shuddering  Nature  shrink  beneath  the  blow, 
With  Resignation  wage  relentless  strife, 

While  Hope  retires  appall’d,  and  clings  to  life. 

Yet  less  the  pang  when,  through  the  tedious  hour, 
Remembrance  sheds  around  her  genial  power. 

Calls  back  the  vanish’d  days  to  rapture  given, 

When  love  was  bliss,  and  Beauty  form’d  our  heave  as 
Or,  dear  to  youth,  portrays  each  childish  scene, 

Those  fairy  bowers,  where  all  in  turn  have  been. 

As  when  through  clouds  that  pour  the  summer  storm 
The  orb  of  day  unveils  his  distant  form, 

Gilds  with  faint  beams  the  crystal  dews  of  rain, 

And  dimly  twinkles  o’er  the  watery  plain ; 


I taken  his  sixteenth  fee.”  In  the  private  volume  the  poem  opened 
with  the  following  lines  : — 

“ Hence!  thou  unvarying  song  of  varied  loves, 

Which  youth  commends,  maturer  age  reproves; 

Which  every  rhyming  bard  repeats  by  rote, 

By  thousands  echo’d  to  the  self-same  note ! 

Tired  of  the  dull,  unceasing,  copious  strain, 

My  soul  is  panting  to  be  free  again. 

Farewell ! ye  nymphs  propitious  to  my  verst, 

Some  other  Damon  will  your  charms  reheare; 

Some  other  paint  his  pangs,  in  hope  of  bliss, 

Or  dwell  in  rapture  on  your  neetar'd  kiss. 

Those  beauties,  grateful  to  my  ardent  sight, 

No  more  entrance  my  senses  in  delight; 

Those  bosoms, ^form’d  of  animated  snow, 

Alike  are  tasteless,  and  unfeeling  now. 

These  to  some  happier  lover  i resign — 

The  memory  of  those  joys  alone  is  mine. 

Censure  no  more  shall  brand  my  humble  name, 

The  child  of  passion  and  the  fool  of  fame. 

Weary  of  love,  of  life,  devour’d  with  spleen, 

I rest  a perfect  Timon,  not  nineteen. 

W’orld  ! I renounce  thee  ; all  my  hope ’s  o’ercast; 

One  sigh  I give  thee,  but  that  sigh’s  the  last. 

Friends,  foes,  and  females,  now  alike  adieu! 

Would  I could  add  remembiance  of  you  too  ! 

Yet  though  the  future  dark  and  cheerless  gleams, 

The  curse  of  memory,  hovering  in  my  dreams, 

Depicts  with  glowing  pencil  all  those  years, 

Ere  yet  my  cup,  empoison’d,  flow’d  with  tears; 

Still  rules  my  senses  with  tyrannic  sway, 

The  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 

“ Alas!  in  vain  I check  the  maddening  thought; 

It  still  recurs,  unlook’d  for  and  unsought- 
My  soul  to  Fancy’s,”  &c.  &c.,  as  at  line  29.] 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS, 


405 


Thus,  while  the  future  dark  and  cheerless  gleams, 
The  sun  ol  memory,  glowing  through  my  dreams, 
Though  sunk  the  radiance  of  his  former  blaze, 

To  scenes  far  distant  points  his  paler  rays; 

Still  rules  my  senses  with  unbounded  sway, 

The  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 

Oft  does  my  heart  indulge  the  rising  thought, 
Which  still  recurs,  unlook’d  for  and  unsought ; 

My  soul  to  Fancy’s  fond  suggestion  yields, 

And  roams  romantic  o’er  her  airy  fields  : 

Scenes  of  my  youth,  developed,  crowd  to  view, 

To  which  I long  have  bade  a last  adieu  ! 

Seats  of  delight,  inspiring  youthful  themes  ; 
Friends  lost  to  me  for  aye,  except  in  dreams ; 

Some  who  in  marble  prematurely  sleep, 

Whose  forms  I now  remember  but  to  weep  ; 

Some  who  yet  urge  the  same  scholastic  course 
Of  early  science,  future  fame  the  source  ; 

Who,  still  contending  in  the  studious  race, 

Iu  quick  rotation  fill  the  senior  place. 

These  with  a thousand  visions  now  unite, 

To  dazzle,  though  they  please,  my  aching  sight.1 2 
I da.  ! blest  spot,  where  Science  holds  her  reign, 
How  joyous  once  I join’d  thy  youthful  train  ! 
Bright  in  idea  gleams  thy  lofty  spire, 

Again  I mingle  with  thy  playful  quire ; 

Our  tricks  of  mischief,  every  childish  game, 
Unchanged  by  time  or  distance,  seem  the  same  ; 
Through  winding  paths  along  the  glade,  I trace 
The  social  smile  of  every  -welcome  face  ; 

My  wonted  haunts,  my  scenes  of  joy  and  woe, 

Each  early  boyish  friend,  or  youthful  foe, 

Our  feuds  dissolved,  but  not  my  friendship  past : — ■ 
I bless  the  former,  and  forgive  the  last. 

Hours  of  my  youth ! when,  nurtured  in  my  breast, 
To  love  a stranger,  friendship  made  me  blest ; — 
Friendship,  the  dear  peculiar  bond  of  youth, 

When  every  artless  bosom  throbs  with  truth  ; 
Untaught  by  worldly  wisdom  how  to  feign, 

And  check  each  impulse  with  prudential  rein  ! 
When  all  we  feel,  our  honest  souls  disclose — 

In  love  to  friends,  in  open  hate  to  foes  ; 

No  varnish’d  tales  the  lips  of  youth  repeat, 

No  dear-bought  knowledge  purchased  by  deceit. 
Hypocrisy,  the  gift  of  lengthen’d  years, 

Matured  by  age,  the  garb  of  prudence  wears. 


■ 1)  [The  next  fifty-six  lines,  to — 

“ Here  first  remember’d  be  the  joyous  band,” 
were  added  in  the  first  edition  of  Hours  of  Idleness.] 

(2)  [Dr.  Butler,  then  head-master  of  Harrow  school.  Had  Lord 
Byron  published  another  edition  of  these  poems,  it  appears,  from 
a loose  sheet  in  his  hand-writing,  to  have  been  his  intention, 
instead  of  the  passage  beginning — “ Or,  if  my  muse  a pedant’s  por- 
trait drew,”  to  insert — 

“ If  once  my  muse  a harsher  portrait  drew, 

Warm  with  her  wrongs,  and  deem’d  the  likeness  true, 

By  cooler  judgment  taught,  her  faults  she  owns,'— 

With  noble  minds  a fault  confess’d,  atones.”] 

(3;  [When  Dr.  Drury  retired,  in  1805,  three  candidates  presented 
themselves  for  the  vacant  chair,  Messrs.  Drury,  Evans,  and  Butler 
the  first  movement  to  which  this  contest  gave  rise  in  the 
school,  young  Wildman,”  says  Moore,  “ was  at  the  head  of  the 
party  for  Mark  Drury,  while  Byron  held  himself  aloof  from  any. 
Anxious,  however,  to  have  him  as  an  ally,  one  of  the  Drury  faction 
said  \ i Wildman — ‘ Byron,  I know,  will  not  join,  because  he  does 
not  choose  to  act  second  to  any  one;  but,  by  giving  up  the  leader- 
ship to  him,  you  may  at  once  secure  him.’  ” This  Wildman  accord- 
ingly did,  and  Byron  took  the  command.] 

(4)  [Instead  of  this  couplet,  the  private  volume  has  the  following 

four  lines 


When  now  the  boy  is  ripen’d  into  man. 

His  careful  sire  chalks  forth  some  wary  plan  ; 
Instructs  his  son  from  candour’s  path  to  shrink, 
Smoothly  to  speak,  and  cautiously  to  think  ; 

Still  to  assent,  and  never  to  deny — 

A patron’s  praise  can  well  reward  the  lie  : 

And  who,  when  Fortune’s  warning  voice  is  heard. 
Would  lose  his  opening  prospects  for  a word  ? 
Although  against  that  word  his  heart  rebel. 

And  truth  indignant  all  his  bosom  swell. 

Away  with  themes  like  this  ! not  mine  the  task 
From  flattering  fiends  to  tear  the  hateful  mask ; 
Let  keener  bards  delight  in  satire’s  sting ; 

My  fancy  soars  not  on  Detraction’s  wing : 

Once,  and  but  once,  she  aim’d  a deadly  blow, 

To  hurl  defiance  on  a secret  foe  ; 

But  when  that  foe,  from  feeling  or  from  shame, 
The  cause  unknown,  yet  still  to  me  the  same, 
Warn’d  by  some  friendly  hint,  perchance,  retired, 
With  this  submission  all  her  rage  expired. 

From  dreaded  pangs  that  feeble  foe  to  save. 

She  hush’d  her  young  resentment,  and  forgave  ; 
Or,  if  my  muse  a pedant’s  portrait  drew, 
Pomposus’  2 virtues  are  but  known  to  few  : 

I never  fear’d  the  young  usurper’s  nod, 

And  he  who  wields  must  sometimes  feel  the  rod. 

If  since  on  Granta’s  failings,  known  to  all 
Who  share  the  converse  of  a college  hall, 

She  sometimes  trifled  in  a lighter  strain, 

’Tis  past,  and  thus  she  will  not  sin  again, 

Soon  must  her  early  song  for  ever  cease, 

And  all  may  rail  when  I shall  rest  in  peace. 

Here  first  remember’d  be  the  joyous  band, 

Who  hail’d  me  chief,3  obedient  to  command  ; 

Who  join’d  with  me  in  every  boyish  sport — 

Their  first  adviser,  and  their  last  resort ; 

Nor  shrunk  beneath  the  upstart  pedant’s  frown, 
Or  all  the  sable  glories  of  his  gown  ; 4 
Who,  thus  transplanted  from  his  father’s  school — • 
Unfit  to  govern,  ignorant  of  rule — 

Succeeded  him,  whom  all  unite  to  praise, 

The  dear  preceptor  of  my  early  days  ; 

Probes,5  the  pride  of  science,  and  the  boast, 

To  Ida  now,  alas ! for  ever  lost. 

With  him,  for  years,  we  search’d  the  classic  page, 
And  fear’d  the  master,  though  we  loved  the  sage  - 


“ Careless  to  soothe  the  pedant’s  furious  frown, 

Scarcely  respecting  his  majestic  gown; 

By  which,  in  vain,  he  gain’d  a borrow’d  grace, 

Adding  new  terror  to  his  sneering  face.”] 

(5)  Dr.  Drury.  This  most  able  and  excellent  man  retired  frou. 
his  situation  in  March,  1805,  after  having  resided  thirty -five  years 
at  Harrow  ; the  last  twenty  as  head-masier ; an  office  he  held  with 
equal  honour  toliimself  and  advantage  to  the  very  extensive  school 
over  which  he  presided.  Panegyric  would  here  be  superfluous:  it 
would  be  useless  to  enumerate  qualifications  which  were  never 
doubted.  A considerable  contest  took  place  between  three  rival 
candidates  for  his  vacant  chair : of  this  I can  only  say, 

Si  mea  cum  vestris  valuissent  vota,  Pelasgi ! 

Non  foret  ambiguus  tanti  certaminis  haeres. 

[Such  was  Byron’s  parting  eulogy  on  Dr.  Drury.  It  may  be  in- 
teresting to  see  by  the  side  of  it  the  Doctor’s  own  account  of  his 
pupil,  when  first  committed  to  his  care : — “ I took,”  says  the  Doctor, 
“ my  young  disciple  into  my  study,  and  endeavoured  to  bring  him 
forward  by  inquiries  as  to  his  former  amusements,  employments, 
and  associates,  but  with  little  or  no  effect;  and  I soon  found  that  a 
wild  mountain  colt  had  been  submitted  to  my  management.  But 
there  was  mind  in  his  eye.  His  manner  and  temper  soon  con- 
vinced me,  that  he  might  be  led  by  a silken  string  to  a point,  rather 
than  by  a cable  — and  on  that  principle  I acted.”] 


406 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS 


Retired  at  last,  his  small  yet  peaceful  seat, 

From  learning’s  labour  is  the  blest  retreat! 

Pomposus  fills  his  magisterial  chair; 

Pomposus  governs, — but,  my  muse,  forbear:1 
Contempt,  in  silence,  be  the' pedant’s  lot ; 

His  name  and  precepts  be  alike  forgot ! 

No  more  his  mention  shall  my  verse  degrade, — 

To  him  my  tribute  is  already  paid. 

High,  through  those  elms,  with  hoary  branches 
crown’d, 

Fair  Ida’s  bower  adorns  the  landscape  round  ; 

I here  Science,  from  her  favour’d  seat,  surveys 
The  vale  where  rural  Nature  claims  her  praise  ; 

To  her  awhile  resigns  her  youthful  train, 

Who  move  in  joy,  and  dance  along  the  plain ; 

In  scatter’d  groups  each  favour’d  haunt  pursue ; 
Repeat  old  pastimes,  and  discover  new ; 

Flush’d  with  his  rays,  beneath  the  noontide  sun, 

In  rival  bands,  between  the  wickets  run, 

Drive  o’er  the  sward  the  ball  with  active  force, 

Or  chase  with  nimble  feet  its  rapid  course. 

But  these  with  slower  steps  direct  their  way, 

Where  Brent’s  cool  waves  in  limpid  currents  stray : 
While  yonder  few  search  out  some  green  retreat. 

And  arbours  shade  them  from  the  summer  heat : 
Others  again,  a pert  and  lively  crew, 

Sonie  rough  and  thoughtless  stranger  placed  in  view, 
With  frolic  quaint  their  antic  jests  expose, 

And  tease  the  grumbling  rustic  as  he  goes  ; 

Nor  rest  with  this,  but  many  a passing  fray 
Tradition  treasures  for  a future  day  : 

“ ’Twas  here  the  gather’d  swains  for  vengeance  fought. 
And  here  we  earn’d  the  conquest  dearly  bought ; 

Here  have  we  fled  before  superior  might, 

And  here  renew’d  the  wild  tumultuous  fight.” 

While  thus  our  souls  with  early  passions  swell, 

In  lingering  tones  resounds  the  distant  bell ; 

Th’  allotted  hour  of  daily  sport  is  o’er, 

And  Learning  beckons  from  her  temple’s  door. 

No  splendid  tablets  grace  her  simple  hall, 

But  ruder  records  fill  her  dusky  wall ; 

There,  deeply  carved,  behold  ! each  tyro’s  name 
Secures  its  owner’s  academic  fame; 

Here  mingling  view  the  names  of  sire  and  son — 

The  one  long  graved,  the  other  just  begun  : 

These  shall  survive  alike  when  son  and  sire 
Beneath  one  common  stroke  of  fate  axpire  : 2 
Perhaps  their  last  memorial  these  alone, 

Denied  in  death  a monumental  stone, 

Whilst  to  the  gale  in  mournful  cadence  wave 
The  sighing  weeds  that  hide  their  nameless  grave. 


And  here  my  name,  and  many  an  early  friend’s. 

Along  the  wall  in  lengthen’d  line  extends. 

Though  still  our  deeds  amuse  the  youthful  race. 

Who  tread  our  stops,  and  fill  our  former  place 
Who  young  obey’d  their  lords  in  silent  awe, 

” hose  nod  commanded,  and  whose  voice  was  law 
And  now,  in  turn,  possess  the  reins  of  power,  * 
lo  rule  the  little  tyrants  of  an  hour ; — 

Though  sometimes,  with  the  tales  of  ancient  day 
they  pass  the  dreary  winter’s  eve  away — 

a Aild, thus  our  for™er  rulers  stemm’d  the  tide. 

And  thus  they  dealt  the  combat  side  by  side ; 

Just  in  this  place  the  mouldering  walls  they  scaled, 
Aor  bolts  nor  bars  against  their  strength  avail’d  • 3 
Here  Probus  came,  the  rising  fray  to  quell. 

And  here  he  falter’d  forth  his  last  farewell ; ’ 

And  here  one  night  abroad  they  dared  to  roam, 

While  bold  Pomposus  bravely  stay’d  at  home;”— 

VI  hile  thus  they  speak,  the  hour  must  soon  arrive, 

hen  names  of  these,  like  ours,  alone  survive : 

Yet  a few  years,  one  general  wreck  will  whelm 
The  faint  remembrauce  of  our  fairy  realm. 

Dear  honest  race  ! though  now  we  meet  no  more, 
One  last  long  look  on  what  we  were  before — 

Our  first  kind  greetings,  and  our  last  adieu— 

Drew  tears  from  eyes  unused  to  weep  with  you. 
Through  splendid  circles,  fashion’s  gaudy  world. 

Where  folly’s  glaring  standard  waves  unfurl’d, 

I plunged  to  drown  in  noise  my  fond  regret, 

And  all  1 sought  or  hoped  was  to  forget. 

Vain  wish  ! if  chance  some  well-remember’d  face, 

Some  old  companion  of  my  early  race, 

Advanced  to  claim  his  friend  with  honest  joy, 

My  eyes,  my  heart,  proclaim’d  me  still  a boy ; 
lhe  glittering  scene,  the  fluttering  groups  around, 
Were  quite  forgotten  when  my  friend  was  found: 

The  smiles  of  beauty— (for,  alas  ! I’ve  known 
What  ’tis  to  bend  before  Love’s  mighty  throne) — 
lhe  smiles  of  beauty,  though  those  smiles  were  dear,  • 
Could  hardly  charm  me,  when  that  friend  was  near : 

My  thoughts  bewilder’d  in  the  fond  surprise, 

The  woods  of  Ida  danced  before  my  eyes  ; . ti 

I saw  the  sprightly  wand’rers  pour  along,  : 

I saw  and  join’d  again  the  joyous  throng ; 

Panting,  again  I traced  her  lofty  grove, 

And  friendship’s  feelings  triumph’d  over  love.4 

Yet,  why  should  I alone  with  such  delight. 

Retrace  the  circuit  of  my  former  flight  ? 

Is  there  no  cause  beyond  the  common  claim 
Endear’d  to  all  in  childhood’s  very  name  ? 


(1)  [To  this  passage,  had  Lord  Byron  published  another  edition 
ol  Hours  of  Idleness,  it  was  his  intention  to  give  the  following 


“ Another  fills  his  magisterial  chair; 

Reluctant  Ida  owns  a stranger's  care  ; 

Oh  ! may  like  honours  crown  his  future  name  : 
If  such  his  virtues,  such  shall  he  his  fame.”] 


(2)  rDuring  a rebellion  at  Harrow,  the  poet  prevented  the  school- 
room  rxom  being  burnt  down,  by  pointing  out  to  the  boys  the  names 
of  their  fathers  and  grandfathers  on  the  walls  ] 


(3)  [Lord  Byron  elsewhere  thus  describes  his  usual  course  of 

•if.?  while  at  Harrow— “ always  cricketing,  rebelling,  rowing,  and 
in  all  manner  of  mischiefs.”  One  day,  in  a fit  of  defiance,  lie  tore 
down  all  the  gratings  from  the  window  of  the  hall;  and  when 
cai  ed  upon  by  Dr.  Butler  to  say  why  he  had  committed  this 
violence,  answered,  with  stern  coolness,  “ because  they  darkened 
the  room.”] 


(4)  [This  description  of  what  the  voung  poet  felt  in  1806  on 
encountering  in  the  world  anv  of  his  former  schoolfellows,  falls 


1 \ 
— 

far  short  of  the  page  in  which  he  records  an  accidental  meeting  l 
with  Lord  Clare,  on  the  road  between  Imola  and  Bologna  in  1821. 

“ This  meeting,”  he  says,  “ annihilated  for  a moment  all  the  years 
between  the  present  time  and  the  days  of  Harrow.  It  was  a new 
and  inexplicable  feeling,  like  rising  from  the  grave,  to  me.  Clare 
too  was  much  agitated — more  in  appearance  than  was  myself;  for 
I could  feel  his  heart  beat  to  his  fingers’  ends,  unless,  indeed,  it 
was  the  pulse  of  my  own  which  made  me  think  so.  We  were  but 
five  minutes  together,  and  on  the  public  road;  but <1  hardly  recol- 
lect an  hour  of  my  existence  which  could  be  weighed  against 
them.” — We  may  also  quote  the  following  interesting  sentences  cf 
Madame  Guiccioli : — “ In  1822  (says  she),  a few  days  before  leaving 
Pisa,  we  were  one  evening  seated  in  the  garden  of  the  Palazzo 
Lanfranchi.  At  this  moment  a servant  announced  Mr.  Hoblmuse. 

The  slight  shade  of  melancholy  diffuied  over  Lord  Byron's  face 
gave  instant  place  to  the  liveliest  joy;  but  it  was  so  great,  that  it 
almost  deprived  him  of  strength.  A fearful  paleness  came  over 
his  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  as  he  embraced 
his  friend : his  emotion  was  so  gTeat  that  hf>  waa  forced  to  sit 
down.”] 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


407 


Ah  . sure  some  stronger  impulse  vibrates  "here. 
Which  whispers  friendship  Will  be  doubly  dear, 

To  one  who  thus  for  kindred  hearts  must  roam, 
And  seek  abroad  the  love  denied  at  home. 

Those  hearts,  dear  Ida,  have  I found  in  thee— 

A home,  a world,  a paradise  to  me. 

Stern  Deatli  forbade  my  orphan  youth  to  share 
The  tender  guidance  of  a father’s  care. 

Can  rank,  or  e’en  a guardian’s  name,  supply 
The  love  which  glistens  in  a father’s  eye  ? 

For  this  can  wealth  or  title’s  sound  atone, 

Made,  by  a parent’s  early  loss,  my  own  ? 1 
What  brother  springs  a brother’s  love  to  seek  ? 
What  sister’s  gentle  kiss  has  prest  my  cheek  ? 
For  me  how  dull  the  vacant  moments  rise, 

To  no  fond  bosom  link’d  by  kindred  ties  ! 

Oft  in  the  progress  of  some  fleeting  dream 
Fraternal  smiles  collected  round  me  seem  ; 

While  still  the  visions  to  my  heart  are  prest, 

The  voice  of  love  will  murmur  in  my  rest : 

1 hear — I wake — and  in  the  sound  rejoice ; 

I hear  again, — but  ah  ! no  brother’s  voice. 

A hermit,  ’midst  of  crowds,  I fain  must  stray 
Alone,  though  thousand  pilgrims  fill  the  way  ; 
While  these  a thousand  kindred  wreaths  entwine, 
I cannot  call  one  single  blossom  mine : 

What  then  remains  ? in  solitude  to  groan, 

To  mix  in  friendship,  or  to  sigh  alone. 

Thus  must  I cling  to  some  endearing  hand, 

And  none  more  dear  than  Ida’s  social  band. 

Alonzo ! 2 best  and  dearest  of  my  friends, 

Thy  ltd  ne  ennobles  him  who  thus  commends  : 
From  this  fond  tribute  thou  canst  gain  no  praise ; 
The  praise  is  his  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 

Oh  ! in  the  promise  of  thy  early  youth, 

If  hope  anticipate  the  words  of  truth, 

Some  loftier  bard  shall  sing  thy  glorious  name, 

T o build  his  own  upon  thy  deathless  fame. 


(1)  [It  has  been  reserved  for  our  own  time  to  produce  one  dis- 
tinguished example  of  the  Muse  having  descended  upon  a bard  of 
a wounded  spirit,  and  lent  her  lyre  to  tell,  and  we  trust  to  soothe, 
afflictions  of  no  ordinary  description  ; afflictions  originating  pro- 
bablyin  that  singular  combination  of  feeling,  which  has  been  called 
the  poetical  temperament,  and  which  has  so  often  saddened  the 
days  of  those  on  whom  it  has  been  conferred.  If  ever  a man  could 
lay  claim  to  that  character  in  all  its  strength  and  all  its  weakness, 
with  its  unbounded  range  of  enjoyment,  and  its  exquisite  sensibility 
of  pleasure  and  of  pain,  it  must  certainly  be  granted  to  Lord  Byron. 
His  own  tale  is  partly  told  in  two  lines  of  Lara: 

“ Left  by  his  sire,  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 

Lord  of  himself — that  heritage  of  woe  ! ” 

Sint  Walter  Scott.] 

(2)  [The  Hon.  John  Wingfield,  of  the  Coldstream  Guards,  bro- 
ther to  Richard,  fourth  Viscount  Powerscourt.  He  died  of  a fever, 
in  his  twentieth  year,  at  Coimbra,  May  14th,  181 1.— “Of  all  human 
beings,”  says  Lord  Byron,  “I  was,  perhaps,  at  one  time,  the  most 
attached  to  poor  Wingfield.  I had  known  him  the  better  half  of 
his  life,  and  the  happiest  part  of  mine.”  On  hearing  of  the  death 
of  his  beloved  schoolfellow,  he  added  the  following  stanzas  to  the 
first  canto  of  Childe  Harold : — 

“ And  thou,  my  friend  ! — since  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the  strain — 

Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low, 

Pride  might  forbid  ev’n  Friendship  to  complain  : 

But  thus  unlaurel’d  to  descend  in  vain, 

By  all  forgotten,  save  the  lonely  breast, 

And  mix  unbleeding  with  the  boasted  slain, 

While  Glory  crowns  so  many  a meaner  crest! 

What  hadst  thou  done  to  sink  so  peacefully  to  rest! 

u Oh,  known  the  earliest,  and  esteem’d  the  most, 

Dear  to  a heart  where  nought  was  left  so  dear  ! 

Though  to  my  hopele-s  days  for  ever  lost. 

In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here  ! * &c.] 


Friend  of  my  heart,  and  foremost  of  the  list 
Of  those  with  whom  I lived  supremely  blest, 

Oft  have  we  drain’d  the  font  of  ancient  lore ; 
Though  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  still  the  more. 
Yet,  when  confinement’s  lingering  hour  was  done, 
Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  were  one : 
Together  we  impell’d  the  flying  ball ; 

Together  waited  in  our  tutor’s  hall ; 

Together  join’d  in  cricket’s  manly  toil, 

Or  shared  the  produce  of  the  river’s  spoil ; 

Or,  plunging  from  the  green  declining  shore, 

Our  pliant  limbs  the  buoyant  billows  bore ; 

In  every  element,  unchanged,  the  same, 

All,  all  that  brothers  should  be,  but  the  name. 

Nor  yet  are  you  forgot,  my  jocund  boy  ! 
Davus,*  the  harbinger  of  childish  joy ; 

For  ever  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  fun, 

The  laughing  herald  of  the  harmless  pun  ; 

Yet  with  a breast  of  such  materials  made — 
Anxious  to  please,  of  pleasing  half  afraid ; 

Candid  and  liberal,  with  a heart  of  steel 
In  danger’s  path,  though  not  untaught  to  feel. 
Still  1 remember,  in  the  factious  strife, 

The  rustic’s  musket  aim’d  against  my  life  :* 

High  poised  in  air  the  massy  weapon  hung, 

A cry  of  horror  burst  from  every  tongue  ; 

Whilst  I,  in  combat  with  another  foe, 

Fought  on,  unconscious  of  th’  impending  blow  ; 
Your  arm,  brave  boy,  arrested  his  career — 
Forward  you  sprung,  insensible  to  fear  ; 

Disarm’d  and  baffled  by  your  conquering  hand. 
The  grovelling  savage  roll’d  upon  the  sand  : 

An  act  like  this,  can  simple  thanks  repay  ?3 4 5 6 
Or  all  the  labours  of  a grateful  lay  ? 

Oh  no  : whene’er  my  breast  forgets  the  deed. 
That  instant,  Davus,  it  deserves  to  bleed. 

Lycus  ! 6 on  me  thy  claims  are  justly  great : 
Thy  milder  virtues  could  my  muse  relate. 


(3)  [The  Rev.  John  Cecil  Tattersall,  B.A.,  of  Christ  Church, 
Oxford  ; who  died  Dec.  8,  1812,  at  Hall’s  Place,  Kent,  aged  twenty- 
four.  “ His  mind.”  says  a writer  in  the  Gent.  Mag.,  “ was  compre- 
hensive and  perspicuous ; his  affections  warm  and  sincere.  Through 
extreme  aversion  to  hypocrisy,  he  was  so  far  from  assuming  the 
false  appearances  of  virtue,  that  much  of  his  real  exce  lence  was 
unseen,  whilst  he  was  eager  to  acknowledge  every  fault  into  which 
he  was  led.  He  was  an  ardent  friend,  a stranger  to  feelings  of  en- 
mity: he  lived  in  good  faith  towards  men,  and  died  with  hope  in 
God.”] 

(4)  [The  “ factious  strife”  here  recorded,  wa«  accidentally  brought 
on  by  the  breaking  up  of  school,  and  the  dismissal  of  some  volun- 
teers from  drill,  both  happening  at  the  same  hour.  On  this  oc- 
casion, it  appears,  the  butt-end  of  a musket  was  aimed  at  Byron’s 
head,  and  would  have  felled  him  to  the  ground,  but  for  the  in- 
terposition of  Tattersall.] 

(5)  [In  the  private  volume  : 

“ Thus  did  you  save  that  life  I scarcely  prize — 

A life  unworthy  such  a sacrifice.”] 

(6)  [John  Fitzgibbon,  second  Earl  of  Clare,  born  June  2,  1792. 
His  father,  whom  he  succeeded  Jan.  28,  1802,  was  for  nearly  twelve 
years  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland.  See  ante,  p.  406,  note.  His 
Lordship  is  now  (1832)  Governor  of  Bombay.  “I  never,”  says 
Lord  Byron,  iti  1821,  “ hear  the  word  “ Clare ,”  without  a beating 
of  the  heart  even  now  ; and  I write  it  with  feelings  of  1803-4-5,  ad 
infinitum.”  Of  the  tenaciousness  with  which  he  clung  to  all  the 
kindly  impressions  of  his  youth,  there  can  be  no  stronger  proof 
than  the  interesting  fact,  that  after  his  death  almost  all  the  notes 
and  letters  which  his  principal  school  favourites  had  ever  ad- 
dressed to  him  were  found  preserved  carefully  among  his  papers. 
The  following  is  the  indorsement  upon  one  of  them  : — “ This  and 
another  letter  were  written  at  Harrow,  by  m\  then  and,  I hope,  ever 
beloved  friend,  Lord  Clare,  when  we  were  both  school  boys  ; and 
sent  to  my  study  in  consequence  of  some  childish  misunderstand- 
ing,— the  only  one  which  ever  arose  between  us.  It  was  of  short 


408 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


To  thee  alone,  unrivall’d,  would  belong, 

The  leeble  efforts  of  my  lengthen’d  song.1 
Well  canst  thou  boast,  to  lead  in  senates  fit, 

A Spartan  firmness  with  Athenian  wit : 

Though  yet  in  embryo  these  perfections  shine, 
Lycus  ! thy  father’s  fame  will  soon  be  thine. 
Where  learning  nurtures  the  superior  mind, 

What  may  we  hope  from  genius  thus  refined  ! 

A!  hen  time  at  length  matures  thy  growing  years, 
How  wilt  thou  tower  above  thy  fellow  peers  ! 
Prudence  and  sense,  a spirit  bold  and  free, 

With  honour’s  soul,  united  beam  in  thee. 

Shall  fair  Euryalus2 *  pass  by  unsung  ? 

From  ancient  lineage,  not  unworthy  sprung : 
What  though  one  sad  dissension  bade  us  part, 
That  name  is  yet  embalm’d  within  my  heart ; * 

Yet  at  the  mention  does  that  heart  rebound, 

And  palpitate,  responsive  to  the  sound. 

Envy  dissolved  our  ties,  and  not  our  will : 

We  once  were  friends,— I’ll  think  we  are  so  still*1 
A form  unmatch’d  in  nature’s  partial  mould, 

A heart  untainted,  we  in  thee  behold : 

Yet  not  the  senate’s  thunder  thou  shalt  wield, 

Nor  seek  for  glory  in  the  tented  field ; 

To  minds  of  ruder  texture  these  be  given — 

Thy  soul  shall  nearer  soar  its  native  heaven. 
Haply,  in  polish’d  courts  might  be  thy  seat, 

But  that  thy  tongue  could  never  forge  deceit : 

The  courtier’s  supple  bow  and  sneering  smile, 

The  flow  of  compliment,  the  slippery  wile, 

Would  make  that  breast  with  indignation  burn, 
And  all  the  glittering  snares  to  tempt  thee  spurn. 
Domestic  happiness  will  stamp  thy  fate  ; 

Sacred  to  love,  unclouded  e’er  by  hate  ; 


duration,  and  I retain  this  note  solely  for  the  purpose  of  submitting 
it  to  his  perusal,  that  we  may  smile  over  the  recollection  of  the 
insignificance  of  our  first  and  iast  quarrel.”] 

(1)  [In  the  private  volume,  the  following  lines  conclude  this 
character : — 

“ For  ever  to  possess  a friend  in  thee, 

Was  bliss  unhoped,  though  not  unsought  by  me. 

Thy  softer  soul  was  form’d  for  love  alone, 

To  ruder  passions  and  to  hate  unknown  ; 

Thy  mind,  in  union  with  thy  beauteous  form, 

Was  gentle,  but  unfit  to  stem  the  storm. 

That  face,  an  index  of  celestial  worth, 

Proclaim’d  a heart  abstracted  from  the  earth. 

Oft,  when  depress’d  with  sad  foreboding  gloom, 

I sat  reclined  upon  our  favourite  tomb, 

I ’ve  seen  those  sympathetic  eyes  o’erflow 
With  kind  compassion  for  thy  comrade’s  woe ; 

Or  when  less  mournful  subjects  form’d  our  themes, 

We  tried  a thousand  fond  romantic  schemes, 

Oft  hast  thou  sworn,  in  friendship’s  soothing  tone, 
Whatever  wish  was  mine  must  be  thine  own.” 

(2)  [George-John,  fifth  Farl  of  Delawarr,  born  Oct.  26,  1791; 
succeeded  his  father,  John-Richard,  July  28,  1795.  This  ancient 
family  have  been  barons  by  the  male  line  from  1342  ; their  ances- 
4or’  T homas  West,  having  been  summoned  co  parliament  as 
I,ord  West,  the  16th  Edw.  II.  We  find  the  following  notices  in 
some  hitherto  unpublished  letters  of  Lord  Byron:— “ Harrow,  Oct. 
25,  1804.— I am  happy  enough  and  comfortable  here.  My  friends 
are  not  numerous,  but  select.  Among  the  principal  I rank  Lord 
Delawarr,  who  is  very  amiable,  and  my  particular  friend.”  ‘‘Nov. 
2.  1804.— Lord  Delawarr  is  considerably  younger  than  me,  but  the 
most  good-tempered,  amiable,  clever  fellow  in  the  universe.  To  all 
which  he  adds  the  quality  (a  good  one  in  the  eyes  of  women)  of 
being  remarkably  handsome.  Delawarr  and  myself  are,  in  a man- 
ner, connected ; for  one  of  my  forefathers,  in  Charles  the  First’s 
time,  married  into  their  family.”] 

(3)  [It  is  impossible  to  peruse  the  following  extract  of  a letter  ad- 
dressed to  Lord  Clare,  in  February,  1807,  without  acknowledging 
the  noble,  candour  and  conscientiousness  of  the  writer.— “ You 
will  be  astonished  to  hear  I have  lately  written  to  Delawarr,  for  the 
purpose  of  explaining  (as  far  as  possible,  without  involving  some  old 


The  world  admire  thee,  ar.d  thy  friends  adore  ;— 
Ambition’s  slave  alone  would  toil  for  more. 

Now  last,  but  nearest,  of  the  social  band, 

See  honest,  open,  generous  Cleon4  stand; 

With  scarce  one  speck  to  cloud  the  pleasing  scene, 
No  vice  degrades  that  purest  soul  serene. 

On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  begun, 

On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  was  run ; 

Tims  side  by  side  we  pass’d  our  first  career, 

Thus  side  by  side  we  strove  for  many  a year ; 

At  last  concluded  our  scholastic  life, 

We  neither  conquer’d  in  the  classic  strife : 

As  speakers5  each  supports  an  equal  name, 

And  crowds  allow  to  both  a partial  fame  ; 

To  soothe  a youthful  rival’s  early  pride, 

Though  Cleon’s  candour  would  the  palm  divide. 

Yet  candour’s  self  compels  me  now  to  own, 

Justice  awards  it  to  my  friend  alone. 

Oh  ! friends  regretted,  scenes  for  ever  dear, 
Remembrance  hails  you  with  her  warmest  tear ! 
Drooping,  she  bends  o’er  pensive  Fancy’s  urn. 

To  trace  the  hours  which  never  can  return  ; 

Yet  with  the  retrospection  loves  to  dwell,6 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  her  last  farewell ! 

Yet  greets  the  triumph  of  my  boyish  mind, 

As  infant 'laurels  round  my  head  were  twined, 
When  Probus’  praise  repaid  my  lyric  song,7 
Or  placed  me  higher  in  the  studious  throng ; 

Or  when  my  first  harangue  received  applause,8 
His  sage  instruction  the  primeval  cause, 

What  gratitude  to  him  my  soul  possest, 

W hile  hope  of  dawning  honours  fill’d  my  breast ! 

For  all  my  humble  fame,  to  him  alone 

The  praise,  is  due.  who  made  that  fame  my  own.9 


friends  of  mine  in  the  business,)  the  cause  of  my  behavio  ir  to  him 

during  my  last  residence  at  Harrow,  which  you  will  recollect  was 

rather  en  cavalier.  Since  that  period  I have  discovered  he  was 
treated  with  injustice,  both  by  those  who  misrepresented  his  con-  • 
duct,  and  bv  me  in  consequence  of  their  suggestions.  I have,  there-  ' 
fore,  made  all  the  reparation  in  my  power,  bv  apologising  for  my 
mistake,  though  with  very  faint  hopes  of  success.  However  I have 
eased  my  own  conscience  by  the  atonement,  which  is  humiliating  . 
enough  to  one  of  my  disposition  ; yet  I could  not  have  slept  satisfied 
with  the  reflection  of  having,  even  unintentionally,  injured  anv  in-  : 
dividual.  I have  done  all  that  could  be  done  to  repair  the  injury.”] 

(4)  [Edward  Noel  Long,  Esq.— to  whom  a subsequent  poem  is 
addressed.  Seep.  414.] 

L5)  This  alludes  to  the  public  speeches  delivered  at  the  school 
where  the  author  was  educated. 

(6)  [Thus  in  the  private  volume — 

“ Yet  in  the  retrospection  finds  relief. 

And  revels  in  the  luxury  of  grief.”] 

(7)  C**  T remember  that  my  first  declamation  astonished  Di.  ) 
Drury  into  some  unwonted  (for  he  was  economical  of  such)  and  .1 
sudden  compliments,  before  the  declaimers  at  our  first  rehearsal.”—  ' 
Byron  Diary  ] 

(8)  [“I  certainly  was  much  pleased  with  Lord  Byron’s  attitude, 
gesture,  and  delivery,  as  well  as  with  his  composition.  All  who 
spoke  on  that  day  adhered,  as  usual,  to  the  letter  of  their  composi 
tion,  as  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  delivery  did  Lord  Byron.  But.  to 
my  surprise,  lie  suddenly  diverged  from  the  written  composition, 
with  a boldness  and  rapidity  sufficient  to  alarm  me,  lest  he  should 
fail  in  memory  as  to  the  conclusion.  There  was  no  failure: — ne 
enme  round  to  the  close  of  his  composition  without  discovering  any 
impediment  and  irregularity  on  the  whole.  I questioned  him,  why 
ne  had  altered  his  declamation?  He  declared  he  had  made  no 
alteration,  and  did  not  know,  in  speaking,  that  he  had  deviated 
from  it  one  letter.  I believed  him,  and  from  a knowledge  of  his 
temperament  am  convinced,  that,  fully  impressed  with  the  sense 
and  substance  of  the  subject,  he  was  hurried,  on  to  expressions  and 
colourings  more  striking  than  what  his  pen  had  expressed.” — 

Dr.  Drury.] 

(9)  [In  the  private  volume  the  poem  concludes  thus:-- 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


409 


Oil ! could  I soar  above  these  feeble  lays. 

These  youns:  effusions  of  my  early  days, 

To  him  mj  muse  her  noblest  strain  would  give  : 

The  song  might  perish,  but  the  theme  might  live. 

Yet  why  for  him  the  needless  verse  essay  ? 

His  honour’d  name  requires  no  vain  display  : 

By  every  son  of  grateful  Ida  blest, 

It  finds  an  echo  in  each  youthful  breast ; 

A.  fame  beyond  the  glories  of  the  proud, 

Or  all  the  plaudits  of  the  venal  crowd.* 1 

Ida  ! not  yet  exhausted  is  the  theme, 

Nor  closed  the  progress  of  my  youthful  dream. 

How  many  a friend  deserves  the  grateful  strain  ! 
What  scenes  of  childhood  still  unsung  remain  ! 

Yet  let  me  hush  this  echo  of  the  past, 

This  parting  song,  the  dearest  and  the  last ; 

And  brood  in  secret  o’er  those  hours  of  joy, 

To  me  a silent  and  a sweet  employ, 

While  future  hope  and  fear  alike  unknown, 

I think  with  pleasure  on  the  past  alone  ; 

Yes,  to  the  past  alone  my  heart  confine, 

And  chase  the  phantom  of  what  once  was  mine. 

Ida  ! still  o’er  thy  hills  in  joy  preside, 

And  proudly  steer  through  time’s  eventful  tide  ; 

Still  may  thy  blooming  sons  thy  name  revere, 

Smile  in  thy  bower,  but  quit  thee  with  a tear ; — 

That  tear,  perhaps,  the  fondest  which  will  flow, 

O’er  their  last  scene  of  happiness  below. 

Tell  me,  ye  hoary  few,  who  glide  along, 

The  feeble  veterans  of  some  former  throng. 

Whose  friends,  like  autumn  leaves  by  tempests  whirl’d, 
Are  swept  for  ever  from  this  busy  world ; 


" When,  yet  a novice  in  the  mimic  art, 

I feign’d  the  transports  of  a vengeful  heart— 

When  as  the  Royal  Slave  I trod  the  stage, 

To  vent  in  Zanga  more  than  mortal  rage — 

The  praise  of  Probus  made  me  feel  more  proud 
Than  all  the  plaudits  of  the  list’riing  crowd. 

“Ah!  vain  endeavour  in  this  childish  strain 
To  soothe  the  woes  of  which  I thus  complain  1 
What  can  avail  this  fruitless  loss  of  time, 

To  measure  sorrow  in  a jingling  rhyme  ! 

No  social  solace  from  a friend  is  near, 

And  heartless  strangers  drop  no  feeling  tear. 

I seek  not  joy  in  woman’s  sparkling  eye : 

The  smiles  of  beauty  cannot  check  the  sigh. 

Adieu,  thou  world ! thy  pleasure’s  still  a dreair. 

Thy  virtue  but  a visionary  theme  ; 

Thy  years  of  vice  on  years  of  folly  roll, 

Till  grinning  death  assigns  the  destined  goal, 

Where  all  are  hastening  to  the  dread  abode, 

To  meet  the  judgment  of  a righteous  God. 

Mix’d  in  the  concourse  of  the  thoughtless  throng, 

A mourner  midst  of  mirth,  I glide  along; 

A wretched,  isolated,  gloomy  thing, 

Curst  by  reflection’s  deep  corroding  sting ; 

But  not  that  mental  sting  which  stabs  within, 

The  dark  avenger  of  unpunish’d  sin  ; 

The  silent  shaft  which  goads  the  guilty  wretch 
Extended  on  a rack’s  untiring  stretch  : 

Conscience  that  sting,  that  shaft  to  him  supplies— 

His  mind  the  rack  from  which  he  ne’er  can  rise, 

For  me,  whate’er  my  folly,  or  my  fear, 

One  cheerful  comfort  still  is  cherish’d  here : 

No  dread  internal  haunts  my  hours  of  rest, 

No  dreams  of  injured  innocence  infest ; * 

Of  hope,  of  peace,  of  almost  all  bereft, 

Conscience,  my  last  but  welcome  guest,  is  left. 

Slander’s  empoison’d  breath  may  blast  my  name, 

Envy  delights  to  blight  the  buds  of  fame ; 

Deceit  may  chill  the  current  of  my  blood, 

And  freeze  affection’s  warm  impassion’d  flood  ; 
Presaging  horror  darken  every  sense ; — 

Even  here  will  conscience  be  my  best  defence. 

• [“I  am  not  a Joseph,”  said  Lord  Byron,  in  1821,  “nor  a 
Si  tpio ; but  l can  safely  affirm,  that  I neve  my  life  seduced 
any  woman.”] 


Revolve  the  fleeting  moments  of  your  youth, 

While  Care  as  yet  withheld  her  venom’d  tooth  ; 
Say  if  remembrance  days  like  these  endears 
Beyond  the  rapture  of  succeeding  years  ? 

Say,  can  ambition’s  fever’d  dream  bestow 
So  sweet  a balm  to  soothe  your  hours  of  woe  ? 

Can  treasures,  hoarded  for  some  thankless  son. 

Can  royal  smiles,  or  wreaths  by  slaughter  won, 
Can  stars  or  ermine,  man’s  maturer  toys, 

(For  glittering  baubles  are  not  left  to  boys) 

Recall  one  scene  so  much  beloved  to  view, 

As  those  where  Youth  her  garland  twined  for  you  ! 
Ah,  no  ! amidst  the  gloomy  calm  of  age 
You  turn  witli  faltering  hand  life’s  varied  page  ; 
Peruse  the  record  of  your  days  on  earth, 

Unsullied  only  where  it  marks  your  birth ; 

Still  lingering  pause  above  each  chequer’d  leaf, 

And  blot  with  tears  the  sable  lines  of  grief ; 

Where  Passion  o’er  the  theme  her  mantle  threw, 
Or  weeping  Virtue  sigh’d  a faint  adieu ; 

But  bless  the  scroll  which  fairer  words  adorn, 
Traced  by  the  rosy  finger  of  the  morn  ; 

When  Friendship  bow’d  before  the  shrine  of  truth, 
And  Love,  without  his  pinion,2  smiled  on  youth 


ANSWER  TO  A BEAUTIFUL  POEM, 
ENTITLED  “THE  COMMON  LOT.”3 

Montgomery  ! true,  the  common  lot 
Of  mortals  lies  in  Lethe’s  wave  ; 

Yet  some  shall  never  be  forgot — 

Some  shall  exist  beyond  the  grave. 


My  bosom  feeds  no  ‘ worm  which  ne’er  can  die ;’  t 
Not  crimes  I mourn,  but  happiness  gone  by. 

Thus  crawling  on  with  many  a reptile  vile, 

My  heart  is  bitter,  though  my  cheek  may  smile  • 

No  more  with  former  bliss  my  heart  is  glad ; 

Hope  yields  to  anguish,  and  my  soul  is  sad: 

From  fond  regret  no  future  joy  can  save; 

Remembrance  slumbers  only  in  the  grave.” 

(1)  [“To  Dr.  Drury,”  observes  Moore,  “Lord  Byron  has  left  on 
I record  a tribute  of  affection  and  respect,  which,  like  the  reverential 
| regard  of  Dryden  for  Dr.  Busby,  will  long  associate  together  honour- 
I ably  the  names  of  the  poet  and  the  master.”  The  above  is  not, 

however,  the  only  one.  In  a note  to  the  fourth  Canto  of  Childe 
Harold,  he  says,  “ My  preceptor  was  the  best  and  worthiest  friend 
I ever  possessed,  whose  warnings  I have  remembered  but  too  well, 
though  too  late — when  I have  erred,  and  whose  counsels  I have 
but  followed  when  I have  done  well  or  wisely.  If  ever  this  imper- 
fect record  of  my  feelings  towards  him  should  reach  his  eyes,  let  it 
remind  him  of  one  who  never  thinks  of  him  but  with  gratitude  and 
veneration — of  one  who  would  more  gladly  boast  of  having  been 
his  pupil,  if  by  more  closely  following  his  injunctions,  he  could 
reflect  any  honour  upon  his  instructor.”  We  extract  the  following 
from  some  unpublished  letters  of  Lord  Byron  : — 

“ Harrow,  Nov.  2,  1804.  There  is  so  much  of  the  gentleman,  s© 
much  mildness  and  nothing  of  pedantry  in  his  character,  that  1 
cannot  help  liking  him,  and  will  remember  his  instructions  with 
gratitude  as  long  as  I live.  He  is  the  best  master  we  ever  had, 
and  at  the  same  time  respected  and  feared.”  “ Nov.  11,  1804.  I 
revere  Dr.  Drury.  He  is  never  violent,  never  outrageous.  I dread 
offending  him ; — not,  however,  through  fear;  but  the  respect  I bear 
him  makes  me  unhappy  when  I am  under  his  displeasure.”] 

(2)  “L’AmitiG  est  l’Amour  sans  ailes,”  is  a French  proverb. 
[See  a subsequent  poem,  under  this  title.] 

(3)  Written  by  James  Montgomery,  author  of  “ The  Wandeier 
in  Switzerland,”  &c. 


t [“We  know  enough  even  of  Lord  Byron’s  private  history  to 
giv#  our  warrant  that,  though  his  youth  may  have  shared  sojre- 
what  too  largely  in  the  indiscretions  of  those  left  too  early  masters 
of  their  own  actions  and  fortunes,  falsehood  and  malice  alone 
can  impute  to  him  any  real  cause  for  hopeless  remorse,  or  gloomv 
melancholy.” — Sir  Walter  Scott.] 


410 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


“ Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth,” 

The  hero 1 2 rolls  the  tide  of  war ; 

Yet  not  unknown  his  martial  worth, 

Which  glares  a meteor  from  afar. 

His  joy  or  grief,  his  weal  or  woe, 

Perchance  may  ’scape  the  page  of  fame  ; 

Yet  nations  now  unborn  will  know 
The  record  of  his  deathless  name. 

The  patriot’s  and  the  poet’s  frame 
Must  share  the  common  tomb  of  all*. 

Their  glory  will  not  sleep  the  same  ; 

That  will  arise,  though  empires  fall. 

The  lustre  cl  a beauty’s  eye 
Assumes  the  ghastly  stare  of  death  ; 

The  fair,  the  brave,  the  good  must  die, 

And  sink  the  yawning  grave  beneath. 

Once  more  the  speaking  eve  revives, 

Still  beaming  through  the  lover’s  strain  ; 

Tor  Petrarch’s  Laura  still  survives  : 

She  died,  but  ne’er  will  die  again. 

The  rolling  seasons  pass  away, 

And  Time,  untiring,  waves  his  wing; 

Whilst  honour’s  laurels  ne’er  decay, 

But  bloom  in  fresh,  unfading  spring. 

All,  all  must  sleep  in  grim  repose, 

Collected  ip  the  silent  tomb  ; 

The  old  and  .Young,  with  friends  and  foes, 
Festering  alike  in  shrouds,  consume. 

The  mouldering  marble  lasts  its  day, 

Yet  falls  at  length  an  useless  fane  ; 

To  ruin’s  ruthless  fangs  a prey, 

The  wrecks  of  pillar’d  pride  remain. 

What,  though  the  sculpture  be  destroy’d, 

From  dark  oblivion  meant  to  guard ; 

A bright  renown  shall  be  enjoy’d 
By  those  whose  virtues  claim  reward. 

Then  do  not  say  the  common  lot 
Of  all  lies  deep  in  Lethe’s  wave ; 

Some  few  who  ne’er  will  be  forgot 
Shall  burst  the  bondage  of  the  grave. 

1806. 


TO  A LADY 

eVHO  PRESENTED  THE  AUTHOR  WITH  THE  VELVET  BAND 
WHICH  BOUND  HER  TRESSES. 

This  Band,  which  bound  thy  yellow  hair, 

Ts  mine,  sweet  girl ! thy  pledge  of  love  ; 

*.t  claims  my  warmest,  dearest  care, 

Like  relics  left  of  saints  above. 


(1)  No  particular  hero  is  here  alluded  to.  The  exploits  of 
Bayard,  Nemours,  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  and  in  more  modern 
times  the  fame  of  Marlborough,  Frederick  the  Great,  Count  Saxe, 
Charles  of  Sweden,  &c.  are  familiar  to  every  historical  reader,  but 
the  exact  places  of  their  birth  are  known  to  a very  small  propor- 
tion of  their  admirers. 

(2)  [The  true  reason  of  the  haughty  distance  at  which  Byron, 
both  at  this  period  and  afterwards,  stood  apart  from  his  more 


Oh  ! I will  wear  it  next  .ay  'heart ; 

’Twill  bind  my  soul  in  bonds  to  the*; 

From  me  again  ’twill  ne’er  depart, 

But  mingle  in  the  grave  with  me. 

The  dew  I gather  from  thy  lip 
Is  not  so  dear  to  me  as  this  ; 

That  I but  for  a moment  sip, 

And  banquet  on  a transient  bliss  : 

This  will  recall  each  youthful  scene, 

E’en  when  our  lives  are  on  the  wane ; 

The  leaves  of  Love  will  still  be  green 
When  Memory  bids  them  bud  again. 

Oh  ! little  lock  of  golden  hue, 

In  gently  waving  ringlet  curl’d, 

By  the  dear  head  on  which  you  grew, 

I would  not  lose  you  for  a world. 

Not  though  a thousand  more  adorn 

The  polish’d  brow  where  once  you  shone, 

Like  rays  which  gild  a cloudless  morn, 

Beneath  Columbia’s  fervid  zone. 

1806.  [First  published,  1832  ] 


REMEMBRANCE. 

’Tis  done ! — I saw  it  in  my  dreams  : 

No  more  with  Hope  the  future  beams , 

My  days  of  happiness  are  few ; 

Chill’d  by  misfortune’s  wintry  blast, 

My  dawn  of  life  is  overcast. 

Love,  Hope,  and  Joy,  alike  adieu  ! — 

Would  I could  add  Remembrance  too  1 

1806,  [First  published,  1832.J 


LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  REV.  J.  T.  BECHER,  ON  HIS  ADVISING 
THE  AUTHOR  TO  MIX  MORE  WITH  SOCIETY. 

Dear  Beclier,  you  tell  me  to  mix  with  mankind : — j 
I cannot  deny  such  a precept  is  wise ; 

But  retirement  accords  with  the  tone  of  my  mind : 

I will  not  descend  to  a world  I despise. 

Did  the  senate  or  camp  my  exertions  require,  < 

Ambition  might  prompt  me,  at  once,  to  go  forth ; j 

When  infancy’s  years  of  probation  expire,  j 

Perchance  I may  strive  to  distinguish  my  birth.  \ 

The  fire  m the  cavern  of  Etna  conceal’d, 

Still  mantles  unseen  in  its  secret  recess ; — 

At  length,  in  a volume  terrific  reveal’d, 

No  torrent  can  quench  it,  no  bounds  can  repress.* 


opulent  neighbours,  is  to  be  found  (says  Mr.  Moore)  “ in  his  mor-i 
tifying  consciousness  of  the  inadequacy  of  his  own  means  to  hiftl 
rank,  and  the  proud  dread  of  being  made  to  feel  his  own  inferiority 
by  persons  to  whom,  in  every  other  respect,  he  knew  himself  supe- 
rior.” Mr.  Beclier  frequently  expostulated  with  him  on  this  un-j 
sociableness;  and  one  of  his  friendly  remonstrances  drew  forth | 
these  lines,  so  remarkably  prefiguring  the  splendid  burst  with 
which  Lord  Byron’s  volcanic  genius  was  ere  long  to  open  upon 
the  world.] 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


411 


Oh  ’ thus,  the  desire  in  my  bosom  for  fame  _ 

Bids  me  live  but  to  hope  for  posterity  s praise. 

Could  I soar  with  the  phoenix  on  pinions  of : flame, 
With  him  I would  wish  to  expire  in  the  blaze. 

For  the  life  of  a Fox,  of  a Chatham  the  death, 

What  censure,  what  danger,  what  woe  would  I 
brave ! 

Their  lives  did  not  end  when  they  yielded  their  breath, 
Their  glory  illumines  the  gloom  of  their  grave. 

Yet  why  should  I mingle  in  Fashion’s  full  herd  ? 

Why  crouch  to  her  leaders,  or  cringe  to  her  rules  ? 
Why  bend  to  the  proud,  or  applaud  the  absurd  ? ^ 

' YVliy  search  for  delight  in  the  friendship  of  fools  r 

I have  tasted  the  sweets  and  the  bitters  of  love  ; 

In  friendship  I early  was  taught  to  believe  ; 

Mv  passion  the  matrons  of  prudence  reprove  ; 

I have  found  that  a friend  may  profess,  yet  deceive. 

To  me  what  is  wealth  ?— it  may  pass  in  an  hour, 

If  tyrants  prevail,  or  if  Fortune  should  frown; 

To  me"  what  is  title  ?— the  phantom  of  power ; 

To  me  what  is  fashion  ?— I seek  but  renown. 

Deceit  is  a stranger  as  yet  to  my  soul ; 

I still  am  unpractised  to  varnish  tlie  truth  : 

Then  why  should  I live  in  a hateful  control  ? 

Why  waste  upon  folly  the  days  of  my  youth  ? 


THE  DEATH  OF  CALMAR  AND  ORLA. 

AN  IMITATION  OF  MACI’HERSON’s  OSSIAN.1 

Dear,  are  the  days  of  youth ! Age  dwells  on  their 
remembrance  through  the  mist  of  time.  In  the  twi- 
light he  recalls  the  sunny  hours  of  morn.  He  lifts 
his  spear  with  trembling  hand  “ Not  thus  feebly 
did  I raise  the  steel  before  my  fathers  ! ” Past  is  the 
race  of  heroes  ! But  their  fame  rises  on  the  harp ; 
their  souls  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ; they  hear 
the  sound  through  the  sighs  of  the  storm,  and  rejoice 
in  their  hall  of  clouds  ! Such  is  Calmar.  The  gray 
stone  marks  his  narrow  house.  He  looks  down  from 
eddying  tempests  : he  rolls  his  form  in  the  whirlwind, 
and  hovers  on  the  blast  of  the  mountain. 

In  Morven  dweit  the  chief ; a beam  of  war  to 
Fingal.  His  steps  in  the  field  were  marked  in  blood. 
Lochlin’s  sons  had  fled  before  his  angry  spear  ; but 
mild  was  the  eye  of  Calmar  ; soft  was  the  flow  of  his 
yellow  locks : they  streamed  like  the  meteor  of  the 
night.  No  maid  was  the  sigh  of  his  soul : his  thoughts 
were  given  to  friendship, — to  dark-haired  Orla,  de- 
stroyer of  heroes  ! Equal  were  their  swords  in  battle ; 
but  fierce  wras  the  pride  of  Orla : — gentle  alone  to 
Calmar,  Together  they  dwelt  in  the  cave  of  Oithona. 

From  Lochlin,  Swaran  bounded  o’er  the  blue  waves. 
Erin’s  sons  fell  beneath  his  might.  Fingal  roused  his 
chiefs  to  combat.  Their  ships  cover  the  ocean.  Their 
hosts  throng  on  the  green  hills.  They  come  to  the 
aid  of  Erin. 

Night  rose  in  clouds.  Darkness  veils  the  armies  : 


but  the  blazing  oaks  gleam  through  the  valley.  The 
sons  of  Lochlin  slept : their  dreams  were  of  blood. 
They  lift  the  spear  in  thought,  and  Fingal  flies.  Not 
so  the  host  of  Morven.  To  watch  was  the  post  of 
Orla.  Calmar  stood  by  his  side.  Their  spears  were 
in  their  hands.  Fingal  called  his  chiefs : they  stood 
around.  The  king  was  in  the  midst.  Grey  were 
his  locks,  but  strong  was  the  arm  of  the  king.  Age 
withered  not  his  powers.  “ Sons  of  Morven,”  said 
the  hero,  “ to-morrow  we  meet  the  foe.  But  where  is 
Cuthullin,  the  shield  of  Erin  ? He  rests  in  the  halls 
of  Tura;  he  knows  not  of  our  coming.  Who  will 
speed  through  Lochlin  to  the  hero,  and  call  the  chief 
to  arms  ? The  path  is  by  the  swords  of  foes  ; but 
many  are  my  heroes.  They  are  thunderbolts  of  war. 
Speak,  ye  chiefs ! Who  will  arise  ?” 

“ Son  of  Trenmor ! mine  be  the  deed,”  said  dark- 
haired Orla,  “ and  mine  alone.  What  is  death  to 
me  ? I love  the  sleep  of  the  mighty,  but  little  is  the 
danger.  The  sons  of  Lochlin  dream.  I will  seek  car- 
borne  Cuthullin.  If  I fall,  raise  the  song  of  bards  ; 
and  lay  me  by  the  stream  of  Lubar.” — “ And  shalt 
thou  fall  alone?”  said  fair-haired  Calmar.  “Wilt 
thou  leave  thy  friend  afar  ? Chief  of  Oithona ! not 
feeble  is  my  arm  in  fight.  Could  I see  thee  die,  and 
not  lift  the  spear?  No,  Orla!  ours  has  been  the 
chase  of  the  roebuck,  and  the  feast  of  shells ; ours  be 
the  path  of  danger  : ours  has  been  the  cave  of  Oithona ; 
ours  be  the  narrow  dwelling  on  the  banks  of  Lubar.” 
“ Calmar,”  said  the  chief  of  Oithona,  “ why  should,  thy 
yellow  locks  be  darkened  in  the  dust  of  Erin  ?_  Let 
me  fall  alone.  My  father  dwells  in  his  hall  of  air ; he 
will  rejoice  in  his  boy ; but  the  blue-eyed  Mora  spreads 
the  feast  for  her  son  in  Morven.  She  listens  to  the 
steps  of  the  hunter  on  the  heath,  and  thinks  it  is  the 
tread  of  Calmar.  Let  him  not  say,  ‘ Calmar  has  fallen 
by  the  steel  of  Lochlin : he  died  with  gloomy  Orla, 
the  chief  of  the  dark  brow.’  Why  should  tears  dim 
the  azure  eye  of  Mora  ? Why  should  her  voice  curse 
Orla,  the  destroyer  of  Calmar  ? Live,  Calmar  ! ^ Live 
to  raise  my  stone  of  moss  ; live  to  revenge  me  in  the 
blood  of  Lochlin.  Join  the  song  of  bards  above  my 
grave.  Sweet  will  be  the  song  of  death  to  Orla,  from 
the  voice  of  Calmar.  My  ghost  shall  smile  on  the 
notes  of  praise.”  “ Orla,”  said  the  son  of  Mora, 
“ could  I raise  the  song  of  death  to  my  friend  ? Could 
I give  his  fame  to  the  winds  ? No,  my  heart  would 
speak  in  sighs:  faint  and  broken  are  the  sounds  of 
sorrow.  Orla  ! our  souls  shall  hear  the  song  together. 
One  cloud  shall  be  ours  on  high  : the  bards  will  min- 
gle the  names  of  Orla  and  Calmar.” 

They  quit  the  circle  of  the  chiefs.  Their  steps  are 
to  the  host  of  Lochlin.  The  dying  blaze  of  oak  dim 
twinkles  through  the  night.  The  northern  star  points 
the  path  to  Tura.  Swaran,  the  king,  rests  on  his 
lonely  hill.  Here  the  troops  are  mixed : they  frown 
in  sleep  ; their  shields  beneath  their  heads.  Their 
swords  gleam  at  distance  in  heaps.  The  fires  are 
faint ; their  embers  fail  in  smoke.  All  is  hush’d ; but 
the  gale  sighs  on  the  rocks  above.  Lightly  wheel 
the  heroes  through  the  slumbering  band.  Half  the 
journey  is  past,  when  Mathon,  resting  on  his  shield, 
meets  the  eye  of  Orla.  It  rolls  in  flame,  and  glistens 
tb-'Uigh  the  shade.  His  spear  is  raised  on  high. 
“ vvTiy  dost  thou  bend  thy  brow,  chief  of  Oithona?” 


(1)  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that  the  story,  though  con- 
siderably varied  ‘n  the  catastrophe,  is  taken  from  “ Nisus  and 


Euryalus,”  of  which  episode  a translation  is  already  given  in  the 
present  vc.’ume. 


412 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


said  fair-haired  Calmar : “ we  are  in  the  midst  of  foes. 
Is  this  a time  for  delay  ?”  “ It  is  a time  for  ven- 

geance,” said  Orla  of  the  gloomy  brow.  “ Mathon  of 
Lochlin  sleeps  : seest  thou  his  spear  ? Its  point  is 
dim  with  the  gore  of  my  father.  The  blood  of  Mathon 
shall  reek  on  mine  ; but  shall  1 slay  him  sleeping,  son 
of  Mora?  No!  he  shall  feel  his  wound:  my  fame 
shall  not  soar  on  the  blood  of  slumber.  Rise,  Ma- 
thon, rise  ! The  son  of  Conna  calls  ; thy  life  is  his  ; 
rise  to  combat.”  Mathon  starts  from  sleep ; but  did 
lie  rise  alone  ? No : the  gathering  chiefs  bound  on 
the  plain.  “ Fly ! Calmar,  lly  ! ” said  dark-haired 
Orla.  “ Mathon  is  mine.  I shall  die  in  joy : but 
Lochlin  crowds  around.  Fly  through  the  shade  of 
night.”  Orla  turns.  The  helm  of  Mathon  is  cleft ; 
his  shield  falls  from  his  arm  : he  shudders  in  his  blood. 
He  rolls  by  the  side  of  the  blazing  oak.  Strumon 
sees  him  fall : his  wrath  rises  : his  weapon  glitters  on 
the  head  of  Orla  : but  a spear  pierced  his  eye.  His 
brain  gushes  through  the  wound,  and  foams  on  the 
spear  of  Calmar.  As  roll  the  waves  of  the  Ocean  on 
two  mighty  barks  of  the  north,  so  pour  the  men  of 
Lochlin  on  the  chiefs.  As,  breaking  the  surging  foam, 
proudly  steer  the  barks  of  the  north,  so  rise  the  chiefs 
of  Morven  on  the  scattered  crests  of  Lochlin.  The  din 
of  arms  came  to  the  ear  of  Fingal.  He  strikes  his 
shield ; his  sons  throng  around ; the  people  pour 
along  the  heath.  Ryno  bounds  in  joy.  Ossian  stalks 
in  his  arms.  Oscar  shakes  the  spear.  The  eagle 
wing  of  Fillan  floats  on  the  wind.  Dreadful  is  the 
clang  of  death  ! many  are  the  widows  of  Lochlin  ! 
Morven  prevails  in  its  strength. 

Morn  glimmers  on  the  hills  : no  living  foe  is  seen  ; 
but  the  sleepers  are  many;  grim  they  lie  on  Erin. 
The  breeze  of  ocean  lifts  their  locks  ; yet  they  do  not 
awake.  The  hawks  scream  above  their  prey. 

Whose  yellow  locks  wave  o’er  the  breast  of  a chief  ? 
Bright  as  the  gold  of  the  stranger,  they  mingle  with 
the  dark  hair  of  his  friend.  ’Tis  Calmar  : he  lies  on 
the  bosom  of  Orla.  Theirs  is  one  stream  of  blood. 
Fierce  is  the  look  of  the  gloomy  Orla.  He  breathes 
not ; but  his  eye  is  still  a flame.  It  glares  in  death 
unclosed.  His  hand  is  grasped  in  Calfnar’s;  but 
Calmar  lives!  he  lives,  though  low.  “Rise,”  said 
the  king,  “ rise,  son  of  Mora : ’tis  mine  to  heal  the 
wounds  of  heroes.  Calmar  may  yet  bound  on  the 
hills  of  Morven.” 

“ Never  more  shall  Calmar  chase  the  deer  of  Mor- 
ven with  Orla,”  said  the  hero.  “What  were  the 
chase  to  me  alone  ? Who  should  share  the  spoils  of 
battle  with  Calmar  ? Orla  is  at  rest ! Rough  was 
thy  soul,  Orla ! yet-  soft  to  me  as  the  dew  of  morn.  It 
glared  on  others  in  lightning  : to  me  a silver  beam  of 
night.  Bear  my  sword  to  blue-eyed  Mora;  let  it 
hang  in  my  empty  hall.  It  is  not  pure  from  blood : 
but  it  could  not  save  Orla.  Lay  me  with  my  friend. 
Raise  the  song  when  I am  dark  ! ” 

They  are  laid  by  the  stream  of  Lubar.  Four  gray 
stones  mark  the  dwelling  of  Orla  and  Calmar.  When 
Swaran  was  bound,  our  sails  rose  on  the  blue  waves. 
The  winds  gave  our  barks  to  Morven : — the  bards 
raised  the  song. 


“ What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of  clouds  ? Whose 
dark  ghost  gleams  on  the  red  streams  of  tempests  ? 
His  voice  rolls  on  the  thunder.  ’Tis  Orla,  the  brown 
chief  of  Oithona.  He  was  unmatched  in  war.  Peace 
to  thy  soul,  Orla  ! thy  fame  will  not  perish.  Nor 
thine,  Calmar ! Lovely  wast  thou,  son  of  blue-eyed 
Mora ; but  not  harmless  was  thy  sword.  It  hangs  in 
thy  cave.  The  ghosts  of  Lochlin  shriek  around  its 
steel.  Hear  thy  praise,  Calmar!  It  dwells  on  the 
voice  of  the  mighty.  Thy  name  shakes  on  the  echoes 
of  Morven.  Then  rai'se  thy  fair  locks,  son  of  Mora. 
Spread  them  on  the  arch  of  the  rainbow ; and  smile 
through  the -tears  of  the  storm.”1 


L’AMITIE  EST  L’ AMOUR  SANS  AILES.1 


Why  should  my  anxious  breast  repine, 
Because  my  youth  is  fled  ? 

Days  of  delight  may  still  be  mine  : 

Affection  is  not  dead. 

In  tracing  back  the  years  of  youth, 

One  firm  record,  one  lasting  truth 
Celestial  consolation  brings ; 

Bear  it,  ye  breezes,  to  the  seat, 

Where  first  my  heart  responsive  beat, — 

“ Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  !” 

Through  few,  but  deeply  chequer’d  years, 
What  moments  have  been  mine  ! 

Now  half  obscured  by  clouds  of  tears, 

Now  bright  in  rays  divine ; 

Howe’er  my  future  doom  be  cast, 

My  soul,  enraptured  with  the  past, 

To  one  idea  fondly  clings  ; 

Friendship  ! that  thought  is  all  thine  own, 
Worth  worlds  of  bliss,  that  thought  alone — 
“ Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  ! ” 

Where  yonder  yew-trees  lightly  wave 
Their  branches  on  the  gale, 

Unheeded  heaves  a simple  grave, 

Which  tells  the  common  tale  ; 

Round  this  unconscious  schoolboys  stray, 
Till  the  dull  knell  of  childish  play 
From  yonder  studious  mansion  rings  : 

But  here  whene’er  my  footsteps  move, 

My  silent  tears  too  plainly  prove, 

“ Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  ! ” 


Oh  Love  ! before  thy  glowing  shrine 
My  early  vows  were  paid : 

My  hopes,  my  dreams,  my  heart  was  thine, 
But  these  are  now  decay’d ; 

For  thine  are  pinions  like  the  wind, 

No  trace  of  thee  remains  behind, 

Except,  alas  ! thy  jealous  stings. 

Away,  away  ! delusive  power,  . 

Thou  shalt  not  haunt  my  coming  hour ; 
Unless,  indeed,  without  thy  wings. 


(\ 

«■ 


(1)  I fear;Laing’s  late  edition  has  completely  overthrown  every 
hope  that  ifracpherson’s  Ossian  might  prove  the  translation  of  a 
series  of  poems  complete  in  themselves;  but,  while  the  imposture  is 
discovered,  the  merit  of  the  work  remains  undisputed,  though  not 
without  faults — particularly,  in  some  parts,  turgid  and  bombastic 
diction.  The  present  humble  imi'ation  will  be  pardoned  by  the 


admirers  of  the  original,  as  an  attempt,  however  inferior,  whicli 
evinces  an  attachment  to  their  favourite  author. 

(2)  [See  anth , p.  409,  note.  We  insert  this  poem  here  ok  m- 
count  of  the  date  of  its  composition.  It  was  not,  however,  included 
in  the  publication  of  1807.] 


HOURS  OK  IDLENESS. 


413 


Seat  of  my  youth  !*  1 thy  distant  spire 
Recalls  each  scene  of  joy  ; 

My  bosom  glows  with  former  fire, — 

In  mind  again  a boy. 

Thy  grove  of  elms,  thy  verdant  hill. 

Thy  every  path  delights  me  still, 

Each  flower  a double  fragrance  flings ; 
Again,  as  once,  in  converse  gay. 

Each  dear  associate  seems  to  say, 

“ Eriendship  is  Love  without  his  wings ! 

Mv  Lycus ! 2 wherefore  dost  thou  weep  ? 

Thy  falling  tears  restrain  ; 

Affection  for  a time  may  sleep, 

But,  oh,  ’twill  wake  again.3 
Think,  think,  my  friend,  when  next  we  meet. 
Our  long-wish’ d interview,  how  sweet ! 

Erom  this  my  hope  of  rapture  springs ; 
While  youthful  hearts  thus  fondly  swell, 
Absence,  my  friend,  can  only  tell, 

« Eriendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  ! 


In  one,  and  one  alone  deceived. 

Did  l my  error  mourn  ? 

No — from  oppressive  bonds  relieved, 

I left  the  wretch  to  scorn. 

I turn’d  to  those  my  childhood  knew, 

With  feelings  warm,  with  bosoms  true, 
Twined  with  my  heart’s  according  strings  ; 
And  till  those  vital  chords  shall  break, 

Eor  none  but  these  my  breast  shall  wake 
Eriendship,  the  power  deprived  of  wmgs  ! 


Ye  few ! my  soul,  my  life  is  yours, 

My  memory  and  my  hope  ; 

Your  worth  a lasting  love  ensures, 
Unfetter’d  in  its  scope  ; 

From  smooth  deceit  and  terror  sprung, 
With  aspect  fair  and  honey’d  tongue, 

Let  Adulation  wait  on  kings  ; 

With  joy  elate,  by  snares  beset, 

We,  we,  my  friends,  can  ne’er  forget, 

“ Eriendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  ! 


Fictions  and  dreams  inspire  the  bard 
Who  rolls  the  epic  song ; 

Friendship  and  Truth  be  my  reward— 

To  me  no  bays  belong ; 

If  laurell’d  Fame  but  dwells  with  lies, 

Me  the  enchantress  ever  flies, 

Whose  heart  and  not  whose  fancy  sings  ; 
Simple  and  young,  I dare  not  feign ; 

Mine  be  the  rude  yet  heartfelt  strain, 

“ Friendship  is  Love  without  his  wings  ! ” 

[First  published,  18,32.] 


(1)  Ha  tow.  (2)  [The  Earl  of  Clare.-See  p.  406.] 

(3)  [The  young  poet  had  recently  received  from  Lord  Clare  an 
epistle  containing  this  passage:— “ I think  by  your  last  letter  that 
you  are  very  much  piqued  with  most  of  your  friends;  and,  if  1 am 
not  much  mistaken,  a little  so  with  me.  In  one  part  you  say, 
‘ there  is  little  or  no  doubt  a few  years,  or  months,  will  render  us 
as  politely  indifferent  to  each  other,  as  if  we  had  never  passed  a 
portion  of  our  time  together:’  indeed,  Byron,  you  wrong  me;  and 
1 have  no  doubt— at  least  I hope— you  wrong  yourselt.  J 

t4)  lit  is  difficult  to  conjecture  for  what  reason,— but  these 
stanzas  were  not  included  in  the  publication  of  1807 ; though  few 
will  hesitate  to  place  them  higher  than  any  thing  given  in  that 
rolume.  “ Written  when  the  author  was  not  nineteen  years  ot 
age,  this  remarkable  poem  shows,”  says  Moore,  “ how  early  the 
struggle  betweer  natural  piety  and  doubt  began  in  Ins  mind.  in 


THE  PRAYER  OF  NATURE.* 

Father  of  Light ! great  God  of  Heaven  l 
Hear’st  thou  the  accents  of  despair  ? 

Can  guilt  like  man’s  be  e’er  forgiven  ? 

Can  vice  atone  for  crimes  by  prayer  ? 

Father  of  Light,  on  thee  I call ! 

Thou  seest  my  soul  is  dark  within ; 

Thou  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow’s  fall. 

Avert  from  me  the  death  of  sin. 

No  shrine  I seek,  to  sects  unknown ; 

Oh  point  to  me  the  path  of  truth  ! 

Thy  dread  omnipotence  I own ; 

Spare,  yet  amend,  the  faults  of  youth. 

Let  bigots  rear  a gloomy  fane, 

Let  superstition  hail  the  pile, 

Let  priests,  to  spread  their  sable  reign. 

With  tales  of  mystic  rites  beguile. 

Shall  man  confine  his  Maker’s  sway 
To  Gothic  domes  of  mouldering  stone  ? 

Thy  temple  is  the  face  of  day ; 

Eartli,  ocean,  heaven,  thy  boundless  throne.1 

Shall  man  condemn  his  race  to  hell, 

Unless  they  bend  in  pompous  form  ? 

Tell  us  that  all,  for  one  who  fell, 

Must  perish  in  the  mingling  storm  ? 

Shall  each  pretend  to  reach  the  skies, 

Yet  doom  his  brother  to  expire, 

Whose  soul  a different  hope  supplies, 

Or  doctrines  less  severe  inspire  ? 

Shall  these,  by  creeds  they  can’t  expound, 
Prepare  a fancied  bliss  or  woe  ? 

Shall  reptiles,  groveling  on  the  ground, 

Their  great  Creator’s  purpose  know  ? 

Shall  those  who  live  for  self  alone,  _ 

Whose  years  float  on  in  daily  crime— 

Shall  they  by  Faith  for  guilt  atone, 

And  live  beyond  the  bounds  of  Time  ? 

Father  ! no  prophet’s  laws  I seek, — 

Thy  laws  in  Nature’s  works  appear ; — 

I own  myself  corrupt  and  weak, 

Yet  will  I pray,  for  thou  wilt  hear ! 

Thou  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star 
Through  trackless  realms  of  aether’s  space ; 
Who  calm’st  the  elemental  war, 

Wrhose  hand  from  pole  to  pole  I trace 


ling  the  celebrated  critique  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  on  the 
ours  of  Idleness,”  the  fact  that  the  volume  did  not  include  this 
m,  ought  to  be  kept  in  mind.] 

) [The  poet  appears  to  have  had  in  his  mind  one  of  Mr. 
they ’s  juvenile  pieces,  beginning,— 

“ Go,  thou,  unto  the  house  of  prayer, 

I to  the  woodlands  will  repair.” 

also  Childe  Harold,  canto  iii.  st.  91.— 

“ Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o’ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  taKt 
A fit  and  unwall’d  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  honour  shrines  are  weafc 
Uprear’d  of  human  hands,”  &c.] 


414 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Thou,  who  in  wisdom  placed  me  here, 

Who,  when  thou  wilt,  can  take  me  hence, 

Ah  ! whilst  I tread  thi^  earthly  sphere, 

Extend  to  me  thy  wide  defence. 

To  Thee,  my  God,  to  thee  I call ! 

Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide, 

By  thy  command  I rise  or  fall. 

In  thy  protection  I confide. 

If,  when  this  dust  to  dust’s  restored, 

My  soul  shall  float  on  airy  wing, 

How  shall  thy  glorious  name  adored 
Inspire  her  feeble  voice  to  sing  ! 

But,  if  this  fleeting  spirit  share 
With  clay  the  grave’s  eternal  bed, 

While  life  yet  throbs,  I raise  my  prayer, 

Though  doom’d  no  more  to  quit  the  dead. 

To  Thee  I breathe  my  humble  strain, 

Grateful  for  all  thy  mercies  past, 

And  hope,  my  God,  to  thee  again 
This  erring  life  may  fly  at  last 

December  29,  1806. 

[First  published,  1830.] 


TO  EDWARD  NOEL  LONG,  ESQ.1 

Nil  ego  contulerim  jocundo  sanus  amico. — Hor. 

Dear  Long,  in  this  sequester’d  scene, 
While  all  around  in  slumber  lie, 

The  joyous  days  which  ours  have  been 
Come  rolling  fresh  on  Eaney’s  eye ; 
Thus  if  amidst  the  gathering  storm, 

While  clouds  the  darken’d  noon  deform. 
Yon  heaven  assumes  a varied  glow, 

I hail  the  sky’s  celestial  bow, 

Which  spreads  the  sign  of  future  peace, 
And  bids  the  war  of  tempests  cease. 

Ah  ! though  the  present  brings  but  pain, 

I think  those  days  may  come  again ; 

Or  if,  in  melancholy  mood, 

Some  lurking  envious  fear  intrude, 

To  check  my  bosom’s  fondest  thought. 
And  interrupt  the  golden  dream, 

I crush  the  fiend  with  malice  fraught, 

And  still  indulge  my  wonted  theme. 
Although  we  ne’er  again  can  trace, 

In  Granta’s  vale,  the  pedant’s  lore  ; 

Nor  through  the  groves  of  Ida  chase 
Our  raptured  visions  as  before, 

Though  Youth  has  flown  on  rosy  pinion, 
And  Manhood  claims  his  stern  dominion — 
Age  will  not  every  hope  destroy. 

But  yield  some  hours  of  sober  joy. 

Yes,  I will  hope  that  Time’s  broad  wing 
Will  shed  around  some  dews  of  spring  : 
But  if  his  scythe  must  sweep  the  flowers 
Which  bloom  among  the  fairy  bowers, 


(I)  [This  young  gentleman,  who  was  with  Lord  Byron  both  at 
Harrow  and  Cambridge,  afterwards  entered  the  Guards,  and  served 
with  distinction  in  the  expedition  to  Copenhagen.  He  was  drowned 
early  in  1809,  when  on  his  way  to  join  the  army  in  the  Peninsula; 
the  transport  in  which  he  sailed  being  run  foul  of  in  the  night  by 


Where  smiling  Youth  delights  to  dwell. 

And  hearts  with  early  rapture  swell ; 

If  frowning  Age,  with  cold  control. 

Confines  the  current  of  the  soul. 

Congeals  the  tear  of  Pity’s  eye, 

Or  checks  the  sympathetic  sigh, 

Or  hears  unmoved  misfortune’s  groan, 

And  bids  me  feel  for  self  alone ; 

Oh  may  my  bosom  never  learn 

To  soothe  its  wonted  heedless  flow  ; 

Still,  still  despise  the  censor  stern, 

But  ne’er  forget  another’s  woe. 

Yes,  as  you  knew  me  in  the  days 
O’er  which  Remembrance  yet  delays, 

Still  may  I rove,  untutor’d,  wild, 

And  even  in  age  at  heart  a child. 

Though  now  on  airy  visions  borne, 

To  you  my  soul  is  still  the  same. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  fate  to  mourn, 

And  all  my  former  joys  are  tame. 

But,  hence ! ye  hours  of  sable  hue  ! 

Your  frowns  are  gone,  my  sorrows  o’er; 

By  every  bliss  my  childhood  knew. 

I’ll  think  upon  your  shade  no  more. 

Thus,  when  the  whirlwind’s  rage  is  past. 

And  caves  their  sullen  roar  enclose, 

We  heed  no  more  the  wintry  blast, 

When  lull’d  by  zephyr  to  repose. 

Pull  often  has  my  infant  Muse 
Attuned  to  love  her  languid  lyre  ; 

But  now  without  a theme  to  choose, 

The  strains  in  stolen  sighs  expire. 

My  youthful  nymphs,  alas  ! are  flown ; 

E is  a wife,  and  C a mother. 

And  Carolina  sighs  alone, 

And  Mary’s  given  to  another ; 

And  Cora’s  eye,  which  roll’d  on  me. 

Can  now  no  more  my  love  recall : 

In  truth,  dear  Long,  ’twas  time  to  flee  ; 

For  Cora’s  eye  will  shine  on  all. 

And  though  the  sun,  with  genial  rays, 

His  beams  alike  to  all  displays. 

And  every  lady’s  eye’s  a sun, 

These  last  should  be  confined  to  one. 

The  soul’s  meridian  don’t  become  her, 

Whose  sun  displays  a general  summer  ! 

Thus  faint  is  every  former  flame, 

And  passion’s  self  is  now  a name. 

As,  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low, 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light  \ 
And  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow, 

Now  quenches  all  their  sparks  in  night ; 

Thus  has  it  been  with  passion’s  fires, 

As  many  a boy  and  girl  remembers. 

While  all  the  force  of  love  expires, 

Extinguish’d  with  the  dying  embers. 

But  now,  dear  Long,  ’tis  midnight’s  noon. 

And  clouds  obscure  the  watery  moon, 

Whose  beauties  I shall  not  rehearse, 

Described  in  every  stripling’s  verse ; 


another  of  the  convoy.  “ Long’s  father, ” says  Lord  Byron,  “ wrote 
to  me  to  write  his  son’s  epitaph.  I promised— but  i had  not  th«  | 
heart  to  complete  it.  He  was  such  a good,  amiable  being  as  rarely 
remains  long  in  this  world;  with  talent  and  accomplishments,  too 
to  make  him  the  more  regretted.” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 


HOURS  01'  IDLENESS. 


415 


For  why  should  I the  path  go  o’er, 

Which  every  bard  has  trod  before  ? 

Yet  ere  yon  silver  lamp  of  night 

Has  thrice  perform’d  her  stated  round, 
Has  thrice  retraced  her  path  of  light, 

And  chased  away  the  gloom  profound, 

I trust  that  we,  my  gentle  friend, 

Shall  see  her  rolling  orbit  wend 
Above  the  dear-loved  peaceful  seat 
Which  once  contain’d  our  youth’s  retreat  j1 
And  then  with  those  our  childhood  knew, 
We’ll  mingle  in  the  festive  crew ; 

While  many  a tale  of  former  day 
Shall  wing  the  laughing  hours  away ; 

And  all  the  flow  of  souls  shall  nour 
The  sacred  intellectual  shower, 

Nor  cease  till  Ltuia’s  waning  horn 
Scarce  glimmers  through  the  mist  of  morn. 


TO  A LADY.2 

Oh  ! had  my  fate  been  join’d  with  thine. 

As  once  this  pledge  appear’d  a token, 

These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine, 

For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken.3 

To  thee  these  early  faults  I owe. 

To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving  : 

They  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 
’Twas  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving. 

For  once  my  soul,  like  thine,  was  pure, 

And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smother ; 

But  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 

Bestow’d  by  thee  upon  another. 

Perhaps  his  peace  I could  destroy, 

And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  him  ; 

Yet  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy, 

For  thy  dear  sake  I cannot  hate  him. 

Ah  ! since  thy  angel  form  is  gone, 

My  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any  ; 

But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone, 

Attempts,  alas  ! to  find  in  many. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid  ! 

’Twere  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee ; 

Nor  Hope,  nor  Memory  yield  their  aid, 

But  Pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 

Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years, 

This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures  ; 

These  varied  loves,  these  matron’s  fears, 

These  thoughtless  strains  to  passion’s  measures — 


( J ) [The  two  friends  were  both  passionately  attached  to  Harrow ; 
and  sometimes  made  excursions  thither  together,  to  revive  their 
»chool-boy  recollections.] 

(2)  [Mrs.  Musters.  See  antt,  p.  384.] 

(3)  [“  Our  union  would  have  healed  feuds  in  which  blood  had 
oeen  shed  by  our  fathers — it  would  have  joined  lands  broad  and 
r:ch — ^ would  have  joined  at  least  one  heart,  and  two  persons 
uot  ill  matched  in  years  (she  is  two  years  my  elder),  and — and — and 
— what  has  been  the  result?” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

(4)  [“Our  meetings,”  says  Lord  Byron,  in  1822,  ‘‘were  stolen 


If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hush’d : — 
This  cheek  now  pale  from  early  riot, 

With  passion’s  hectic  ne’er  had  flush’d, 

But  bloom’d  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 

Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet, 

For  Nature  seem’d  to  smile  before  thee  ;4 

And  once  my  breast  abhorr’d  deceit, — 

For  then  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee. 

But  now  I seek  for  other  joys  : 

To  think  would  drive  my  soul  to  madness ; 

In  thoughtless  throngs  and  empty  noise, 

I conquer  half  my  bosom’s  sadness. 

Yet,  even  in  these  a thought  will  steal, 

In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavour, — 

And  fiends  might  pity  what  I feel, — 

To  know  that  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 


I WOULD  I WERE  A CARELESS  CHILD. 

I would  I were  a careless  child, 

Still  dwelling  in  my  Highland  cave, 

Or  roaming  through  the  dusky  wild, 

Or  bounding  o’er  the  dark  blue  wave ; 

The  cumbrous  pomp  of  Saxon5  pride 
Accords  not  with  the  freeborn  soul, 

Which  loves  the  mountain’s  craggy  side, 

And  seeks  the  rocks  where  billows  roll. 

Fortune  ! take  back  these  cultured  lands. 

Take  back  this  name  of  splendid  sound ! 

I hate  the  touch  of  servile  hands, 

I hate  the  slaves  that  cringe  around. 

Place  me  along  the  rocks  I love, 

Which  sound  to  Ocean’s  wildest  roar ; 

I ask  but  this — again  to  rove 

Through  scenes  my  youth  hath  known  before. 

Few  are  my  years,  and  yet  I feel 

The  world  was  ne’er  design’d  for  me  : 

All ! why  do  dark’ning  shades  conceal 
The  hour  when  man  must  cease  to  be  i 
Once  I beheld  a splendid  dream, 

A visionary  scene  of  bliss  : 

Truth ! — wherefore  did  thy  hated  beam 
Awake  me  to  a world  like  this  ? 

I loved — but  those  I loved  are  gone  ; 

Had  friends — my  early  friends  are  fled  : 

How  cheerless  feels  the  heart  alone 
When  all  its  former  hopes  are  dead ! 

Though  gay  companions  o’er  the  bowl 
Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill ; 

Though  pleasure  stirs  the  maddening  soul, 

The  heart — the  heart — is  lonely  still.6 


ones,  and  a gate  leading  from  Mr.  Chaftvorth’s  grounds  to  those  of 
my  mother  was  the  place  of  our  interviews.  But  the  ardour  was  all 
on  my  side.  I was  serious  ; she  was  volatile  : she  liked  me  as  a 
younger  brother,  and  treated  and  laughed  at  me  as  a boy ; she, 
however,  gave  me  her  picture,  and  that  was  something  to  make 
verses  upon.  Had  I married  her,  perhaps  the  whole  tenour  of  my 
life  would  have  been  different.”] 

(5)  Sassenach,  or  Saxon,  a Gaelic  word,  signifying  either  Lowiand 
or  English. 

(6)  [The  “imagination  all  compact,” which  the  greatest  poet  who 
ever  lived  has  assigned  as  the  distinguishing  badge  of  his  brethren, 


416 


jbOlll)  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


How  dull ! to  hear  the  voice  of  those 
Whom  rank  or  chance,  whom  wealth  or  power, 

Have  made,  though  neither  friends  nor  foes, 
Associates  of  the  festive  hour. 

Give  me  again  a faithful  few, 

In  years  and  feelings  still  the  same, 

And  I will  fly  the  midnight  crew, 

Where  boist’rous  joy  is  but  a name. 

And  woman,  lovely  woman  ! thou, 

My  hope,  my  comforter,  my  all ! 

How  cold  must  be  my  bosom  now, 

When  e’en  thy  smiles  begin  to  pall  ! 

Without  a sigh  would  I resign 
This  busy  scene  of  splendid  woe. 

To  make  that  calm  contentment  mine, 

Which  virtue  knows,  or  seems  to  know. 

Pain  would  1 fly  the  haunts  of  men — 

I seek  to  shun,  not  hate  mankind  ; 

My  breast  requires  the  sullen  glen, 

Whose  gloom  may  suit  a darken’d  mind. 

Oh ! that  to  me  the  wings  were  given 
Which  bear  the  turtle  to  her  nest ! 

Then  would  I cleave  the  vault  of  heaven, 

To  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest.* 1 


WHEN  I ROVED  A YOUNG  HIGHLANDER. 

When  I roved  a young  Highlander  o’er  the  dark 
heath, 

And  climb’d  thy  steep  summit,  oh  Morven  of  snow  ! 2 
To  gaze  on  the  torrent  that  thunder’d  beneath, 

Or  the  mist. of  the  tempest  that  gather’d  below,3 
Untutor’d  by  science,  a stranger  to  fear, 

And  rude  as  the  rocks  where  my  infancy  grew, 

No  feeling,  save  one,  to  my  bosom  was  dear ; 

Need  I say,  my  sweet  Mary,4  ’twas  center’d  in  you? 


is  in  every  case  a dangerous  gift.  It  exaggerates,  indeed,  our  ex- 
pectations, and  can  often  bid  its  possessor  hope,  where  hope  is  lost 
to  reason : but  the  delusive  pleasure  arising  from  these  visions  of 
imagination  resembles  that  of  a child,  whose  notice  is  attracted  by 
a fragment  of  glass  to  which  a sun-beam  has  given  momentary 
sulendour.  He  hastens  to  the  spot  with  breathless  impatience,  and 
finds  the  object  of  his  curiosity  and  expectation  is  equally  vulgar 
and  worthless.  Such  is  the  man  of  quick  and  exalted  powers  of 
imagination.  His  fancy  over-estimates  the  object  of  his  wishes, 
and  pleasure,  fame,  distinction,  are  alternately  pursued,  attained, 
and  despised  when  in  his  power.  Like  the  enchanted  fruit  in  the 
palace  of  a sorcerer,  the  objects  of  his  admiration  lose  their  attrac- 
tion and  value  as  soon  as  they  are  grasped  by  the  adventurer’s 
hand,  and  all  that  remains  is  regret  for  the  time  lost  in  the  chase, 
ind  astonishment  at  the  hallucination  under  which  it  was  under- 
taken. The  disproportion  between  hope  and  possession,  which  is 
felt  by  all  men,  is  thus  doubled  to  those  whom  nature  htrs  en- 
dowed with  the  power  of  gilding  a distant  prospect  by  the  rays  of 
imagination.  These  reflections,  though  trite  and  obvious,  are  in  a 
manner  forced  from  us  by  the  poetry  of  Lord  Byron, — by  the  sen- 
timents of  weariness  of  life  and  enmity  with  the  world  which  they 
so  frequently  express, — and  by  the  singular  analogy  which  such 
sentiments  hold  with  well-known  incidents  of  his  life. — Sir  W. 
Scott.] 

(1)  “And  I said,  Oh!  that  I had  wings  like  a dove;  for  then 
would  I fly  away,  and  be  at  rest.”  — Psalm  Iv.  G.  This  verse  also 
constitutes  a part  of  the  most  beautiful  anthem  in  our  language. 

(2)  Morven,  a lofty  mountain  in  Aberdeenshire.  “ Gormal  of 
snow,”  is  an  expression  frequently  to  be  found  in  Ossian. 

(3)  This  will  not  appear  extraordinary  to  those  who  have  been 
accustomed  to  the  mountains.  It  is  by  no  means  uncommon,  on 
attaining  the  top  of  Ben-e-vis,  Ben-y-bourd,  &c.  to  perceive,  be- 

tween the  summit  and  the  valley,  clouds  pouring  down  rain,  and 

occasionally  accompanied  by  lightning,  while  the  spectator  literally 

looks  down  upon  the  storm,  perfectly  secure  from  its  effects. 

(i)  [In  Lord  Byron’s  Diary  for  1813,  he  says, — “I  have  been 


Yet  it  could  not  be  love,  for  I knew  not  the  name^— 
What  passion  can  dwell  in  the  heart  of  a child  P 
But  still  1 perceive  an  emotion  the  same 

As  I felt,  when  a boy,  on  the  crag-cover’d  wild  : 

One  image  alone  on  my  bosom  impress’d, 

I loved  my  bleak  regions,  nor  panted  for  new  ; 

And  few  were  my  wants,  for  my  wishes  were  bless’d ; 
And  pure  were  my  thoughts,  for  my  soul  was  with 
you. 

I arose  with  the  dawn  ; with  my  dog  as  my  guide, 
From  mountain  to  mountain  I bounded  along ; 

I breasted  the  billows  of  Dee’s5 *  rushing  tide, 

And  heard  at  a distance  tlie  Highlander’s  song : 

At  eve,  on  my  heath-cover’d  couch  of  repose, 

No  dreams,  save  of  Mary,  were  spread  to  my  view, 
And  warm  to  the  skies  my  devotions  arose, 

Eor  the  first  of  my  prayers  was  a blessing  on  you. 

I left  my  bleak  home,  and  my  visions  are  gone  ; 

The  mountains  are  vanish’d,  my  youth  is  no  more ; 
As  the  last  of  my  race,  I must  wither  alone, 

And  delight  but  in  days  I have  witness’d  before : 

Ah  ! splendour  has  raised,  but  embitter’d,  my  lot ; 

More  dear  were  the  scenes  which  my  infancy  knew : 
Though  my  hopes  may  have  fail’d,  yet  they  are  not 
forgot ; 

Though  cold  is  my  heart,  still  it  lingers  with  you. 

When  I see  some  dark  hill  point  its  crest  to  the  sky 
I think  of  the  rocks  that  o’ershadow  Colbleen ;° 
When  I see  the  soft  blue  of  a love-speaking  eye, 

I think  of  those  eyes  that  endear’d  the  rude  scene , 
When,  haply,  some  light-waving  locks  I behold, 

That  faintly  resemble  my  Mary’s  in  hue, 

I think  on  the  long  flowing  ringlets  of  gold, 

The  locks  that  were  sacred  to  beauty,  and  you. 

Yet  the  day  may  arrive  when  the  mountains  once  more 
Shall  rise  to  my  sight  in  their  mantles  of  snow  :7 


thinking  lately  a good  deal  of  Mary  Duff.  How  very  odd  that  I 
should  have  been  so  utterly,  devotedly  fond  of  that  girl,  at  an  age 
when  I could  neither  feel  passion,  nor  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word.  And  the  effect!  My  mother  used  always  to  rally  me  about 
this  childish  amour ; and,  at  last,  many  years  after,  when  I was  six- 
teen, she  told  me  one  day ; ‘ Oh,  Byron,  1 have  had  a letter  from 
Edinburgh,  from  Miss  Abercromby,  and  your  old  sweetheart,  Mary 
Duff,  is  married  to  a Mr.  Cockburn.’  [Robert  Cockburn,  Esq.  of 
Edinburgh.]  And  what  was  my  answer?  I really  cannot  explain 
or  account  for  my  feelings  at  that  moment ; but  they  nearly  threw 
me  into  convulsions — to  the  horror  of  my  mother,  and  the  astonish- 
ment of  every  body.  And  it  is  a phenomenon  in  my  existence  (for 
I was  not  eight  years  old),  which  has  puzzled,  and  will  puzzle  me 
to  the  latest  hour  of  it.” — Again,  in  January,  1815,  a few  days  after 
his  marriage,  .in  a letter  to  his  friend  Captain  Hay,  the  poet  thus 
speaks  of  his  childish  attachment : — “ Pray  tell  me  more — or  as 
much  as  you  like,  of  your  cousin  Mary.  1 believe  I told  you  our 
story  some  years  ago.  I was  twenty-seven  a few  days  ago,  and  I 
have  never  seen  her  since  we  were  children,  and  young  children 
too ; but  I never  forget  her,  nor  ever  can.  You  will  oblige  me  with 
presenting  her  with  my  best  respects,  and  all  good  wishes.  It  may 
seem  ridiculous — but  it  is  at  any  rate,  I hope,  not  offensive  to  her 
nor  hers — in  me  to  pretend  to  recollect  anything  about  her,  at  so 
early  a period  of  both  our  lives,  almost,  if  not  quite,  in  our  nurse- 
ries ; — but  it  was  a pleasant  dream,  which  she  must  pardon  me  lor 
remembering.  Is  she  pretty  still  ? I have  the  most  perfect  idea  of 
her  person,  as  a child;  but  Time,  I suppose,  has  played  the  devil 
with  us  both.”] 

(5)  “ Breasting  the  lofty  surge.”— Shakspeare.  The  Dee  is  a 
beautiful  river,  which  rises  near  Mar  Lodge,  and  falls  into  the  sea 
at  New  Aberdeen. 

(6)  Colbleen  is  a mountain  near  the  verge  of  the  Highlands,  not 
far  from  the  ruins  of  Dee  Castle. 

(7)  [In  the  spring  of  1807,  on  recovering  from  a severe  illness 
Lord  Byron  had  projected  a visit  to  Scotland.  The  plan  was  not 
put  into  execution  ; but  he  thus  adverts  to  it,  in  a letter  dated  is 
August,  and  addressed  to  his  fair  correspondent  of  SouthwcU— 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS, 


417 


But  while  these  soar  above  me,  unchanged  as  before, 
WLl  Mary  be  there  to  receive  me  ? — ah,  no  ! 

Adieu,  then,  ye  hills,  where  my  childhood  was  bred ! 

Thou  sweet  flowing  Dee,  to  thy  waters  adieu  ! 

No  home  in  the  forest  shall  shelter  my  head, — 

Ah ! Mary,  what  home  could  be  mine  but  with 
you  ? 


TO  GEORGE,  EARL  DELAWARR.1 

Oh!  yes,  I will  own  we  were  dear  to  each  other; 

The  friendships  of  childhood,  though  fleeting,  are 
true  ; 

Tne  love  which  you  felt  was  the  love  of  a brother, 

Nor  less  the  affection  I cherish’d  for  you. 

But  Friendship  can  vary  her  gentle  dominion ; 

The  attachment  of  years  in  a moment  expires  : 

Like  Love,  too,  she  moves  on  a swift-waving  pinion. 
But  glows  not,  like  Love,  with  unquenchable  fires. 

Full  oft  have  we  wander’d  through  Ida  together, 

And  blest  were  the  scenes  of  our  youth,  I allow  : 

In  the  spring  of  our  life,  how  serene  is  the  weather  ! 
But  winter’s  rude  tempests  are  gathering  now. 

No  more  with  affection  shall  memory  blending, 

The  wonted  delights  of  our  childhood  retrace  : 
When  pride  steels  the  bosom,  the  heart  is  unbending, 
And  what  would  be  justice  appears  a disgrace. 

However,  dear  George,  for  I still  must  esteem  you — 
The  few  whom  I love  I can  never  upbraid — 

The  chance  which  has  lost  may  in  future  redeem  you, 
Repentance  will  cancel  the  vow  you  have  made. 

I will  not  complain,  and  though  chill’d  is  affection, 
With  me  no  corroding  resentment  shall  live : 

My  bosom  is  calm’d  by  the  simple  reflection, 

That  both  may  be  wrong,  and  that  both  should 
forgive. 

You  knew  that  my  soul,  that  my  heart,  my  existence, 
If  danger  demanded,  were  wholly  your  own  ; 

You  knew  me  unalter’d  by  years  or  by  distance. 
Devoted  to  love  and  to  friendship  alone. 

You  knew, — but  away  with  the  vain  retrospection  ! 

The  bond  of  affection  no  longer  endures  ; 

Too  late  you  may  droop  o’er  the  fond  recollection, 

And  sigh  for  the  friend  who  was  formerly  yours. 

For  the  present,  we  part, — I will  hope  not  for  ever ; 

For  time  and  regret  will  restore  you  at  last : 

To  forget  our  dissension  we  both  should  endeavour, 

I ask  no  atonement,  but  days  like  the  past. 


“ On  Sunday  I set  off  for  the  Highlands.  A friend  of  mine  accom- 
panies me  in  my  carriage  to  Edinburgh.  There  we  shall  leave  it, 
and  proceed  in  a tandem  through  the  western  parts  to  Inverary, 
where  we  shall  purchase  shelties,  to  enable  us  to  view  places  in- 
accessible to  vehicular  conveyances.  On  the  coast  we  shall  hire  a 
vessel,  and  visit  the  most  remarkable  of  the  Hebrides,  and,  if  we 
have  time  and  favourable  weather,  mean  to  sail  as  far  as  Iceland, 
only  three  hundred  miles  from  the  northern  extremity  of  Caledonia, 
to  peep  at  Hecla.  I mean  to  collect  all  the  Erse  traditions,  poems, 
&c.  & c.,  and  translate,  or  expand  the  subject  to  fill  a volume, 


TO  THE  EaRli  JF  GlaRE. 

“ Tu  semper  amoris 

Sis  memor,  et  cari  comitis  ne  abscedat  imago."  Val.  Fla  a. 

Frienp  of  my  youth  ! when  young  we  roved 
Like  striplings,  mutually  beloved. 

With  friendship’s  purest  glow, 

The  bliss  which  wing’d  those  rosy  hours 
Was  such  as  pleasure  seldom  showers 
On  mortals  here  below. 

The  recollection  seems  alone 
Dearer  than  all  the  joys  I’ve  known, 

When  distant  far  from  you : 

Though  pain,  ’tis  still  a pleasing  pain, 

To  trace  those  days  and  hours  again. 

And  sigh  again,  adieu ! 

My  pensive  memory  lingers  o’er 
Those  scenes  to  be  enjoy’d  no  more. 

Those  scenes  regretted  ever ; 

The  measure  of  our  youth  is  full, 

Life’s  evening  dream  is  dark  and  dull, 

And  we  may  meet — ah  ! never  ! 

As  when  one  parent  spring  supplies 
Two  streams  which  from  one  fountain  rise. 
Together  join’d  in  vain ; 

How  soon,  diverging  from  their  source, 

Each,  murmuring,  seeks  another  course, 

Till  mingled  in  the  main  ! 

Our  vital  streams  of  weal  or  woe. 

Though  near,  alas  ! distinctly  flow, 

Nor  mingle  as  before  : 

Now  swift  or  slow,  now  black  or  clear, 

Till  death’s  unfathom’d  gulf  appear. 

And  both  shall  quit  the  shore. 

Our  souls,  my  friend  ! which  once  supplied 
One  wish,  nor  breathed  a thought  beside 
Now  flow  in  different  channels  : 

Disdaining  humbler  rural  sports, 

’Tis  yours  to  mix  in  polish’d  courts, 

And  shine  in  fashion’s  annals ; 

’Tis  mine  to  waste  oh  love  my  time, 

Or  vent  my  reveries  in  rhyme, 

Without  the  aid  of  reason  ; 

For  sense  and  reason  (critics  know  it) 

Have  quitted  every  amorous  poet. 

Nor  left  a thought  to  seize  on. 

Poor  Little  ! sweet,  melodious  bard  ! 

Of  late  esteem’d  it  monstrous  hard 
That  he,  who  sang  before  all, — 

He  who  the  lore  of  love  expanded, — - 
By  dire  reviewers  should  be  branded, 

As  void  of  wit  and  moral.2 


which  may  appear  next  spring,  under  the  denomination  of  • The 
Highland  Harp,’  or  some  title  equally  picturesque.  What  would 
you  say  to  some  stanzas  on  Mount  Hecla?  They  would  be  written 
at  least  with  fire.”] 

(l|[See  until,  p.  408.] 

(2)  These  stanzas  were  written  soon  after  tfce  appearance  of 
a severe  critique,  in  a northern  review,  on  a new  publication 
of  the  British  Anacreon. — [See  Edinburgh  Review,  July,  1807, 
article  on  “Epistles,  Odes,  and  other  Poems,  by  Thomas  Little, 
Esq.”] 

3 H 


418 


LORD  BYRON  S WORKS. 


And  yet,  while  Beauty’s  praise  is  thine. 
Harmonious  favourite  of  the  Nine  ! 

Repine  not  at  thy  lot. 

Thy  soothing  lays  may  still  be  read, 

When  Persecution’s  arm  is  dead. 

And  critics  are  forgot. 

Still  I must  yield  those  worthies  merit. 

Who  chasten,  with  unsparing  spirit, 

Bad  rhymes,  and  those  who  write  them  ; 

And  though  myself  may  be  the  next, 

By  critic  sarcasm  to  be  vext, 

I really  will  not  fight  them.1 

Perhaps  they  would  do  quite  as  well 
rIo  break  the  rudely  sounding  shell 
Of  such  a young  beginner. 

He  who  offends  at  pert  nineteen. 

Ere  thirty  may  become,  I ween, 

A very  harden’d  sinner. 

Now,  Clare,  I must  return  to  you  ; 

And,  sure,  apologies  are  due  : 

Accept,  then,  my  concession 
In  truth,  dear  Clare,  in  fancy’s  flight 
I soar  along  from  left  to  right ! 

My  muse  admires  digression. 

I think  I said  ’twould  be  your  fate 
To  add  one  star  to  royal  state  ; — 

May  regal  smiles  attend  you  ! 

And  should  a noble  monarch  reign, 

You  will  not  seek  his  smiles  in  vain, 

If  worth  can  recommend  you. 

Yet  since  in  danger  courts  abound, 

Where  specious  rivals  glitter  round, 

Prom  snares  may  saints  preserve  you; 

And  grant  your  love  or  friendship  ne’er 
From  any  claim  a kindred  care, 

But  those  who  best  deserve  you ! 

Not  for  a moment  may  you  stray 
From  truth’s  secure,  unerring  way  ! 

May  no  delights  decoy  ! 

O’er  roses  may  your  footsteps  move, 

Your  smiles  be  ever  smiles  of  love, 

Your  tears  be  tears  of  joy  ! 

Oh  ! if  you  wish  that  happiness 
Your  coming  days  and  years  may  bless, 

And  virtues  crown  your  brow ; 

Be  stiL  as  you  were  wont  to  be, 

Spotless  as  you’ve  been  known  to  me, — 

Be  still  as  you  are  now.2 

And  though  some  trifling  share  of  praise, 

To  cheer  my  last  declining  days, 

To  me  were  doubly  dear ; 

Whilst  blessing  your  beloved  name, 

I’d  waive  at  once  a poet's  fame. 

To  prove  a prophet  here. 

(1)  A bard  (horresco  referens)  defied  his  reviewer  to  mortal  com- 

bat. If  this  example  becomes  prevalent,  our  periodical  censors 
must  be  dipped  in  the  river  Styx:  for  what  else  can  secure  them 
from  the  numerous  host  of  their  enraged  assailants  ? 

(21  [“  Of  all  i have  ever  known,  Clare  has  always  been  the  least 
altered  in  every  thing  from  the  excellent  qualities  and  kind  affec- 
tions which  attached  me  to  him  so  strongly  at  school.  1 should 
hardly  have  thought  it  possible  for  society  (or  the  world,  as  it  is 
called)  to  leave  a being  with  so  little  of  the  leaven  of  bad  passions. 
1 do  not  speak  from  personal  experience  only,  but  from  all  I have 


I LINES  WRITTEN  BENEATH  AN  ELM  IN 
THE  CHURCHYARD  OF  HARROW. 3 

Spot  of  my  youth  ! whose  hoary  brandies  sigh, 
Swept  by  the  breeze  that  fans  thy  cloudless  siev ; 
Where  now  alone  I muse,  who  oft  have  trod, 

With  those  I loved,  thy  soft  and  verdant  sod  ; 

With  those  who,  scatter’d  far,  perchance  deplore. 
Like  me,  the  happy  scenes  they  knew  before  • 

Oh  ! as  I trace  again  thy  winding  hill, 

Mine  eyes  admire,  my  heart  adores  thee  still, 

Thou  drooping  Elm ! beneath  whose  boughs  I lay, 
And  frequent  mused  the  twilight  hours  away  ; 

Where,  as  they  once  were  wont,  my  limbs  recline, 
But,  ah  ! without  the  thoughts  which  then  wers 
mine  : 

How  do  thy  branches,  moaning  to  the  blast, 

Invite  the  bosom  to  recall  the  past, 

And  seem  to  whisper,  as  they  gently  swell, 

“ Take,  whilst  thou  canst,  a lingering,  last  farewell  !v 

When  fate  shall  chill,  at  length,  this  fever’d  breast, 
And  calm  its  cares  and  passions  into  rest, 

Oft  have  I thought,  ’twould  soothe  my  dying  hour, — 
If  aught  may  soothe  when  life  resigns  her  power, — 
To  know  some  humbler  grave,  some  narrow  cell, 
Would  hide  my  bosom  where  it  loved  to  dwell ; 

With  this  fond  dream,  methinks,  ’twere  sweet  to 
die  — 

And  here  it  linger’d,  here  mv  heart  might  lie ; 

Here  might  I sleep  where  all  my  hopes  arose. 

Scene  of  my  youth,  and  couch  of  my  repose  ; 

For  ever  stretch’d  beneath  this  mantling  shade, 
Press’d  by  the  turf  where  once  my  childhood  play*d ; 
Wrapt  by  the  soil  that  veils  the  spot  I loved, 

Mix’d  with  the  earth  o’er  which  my  footsteps  moved ; 
Blest  by  the  tongues  that  charm’d  my  youthful  ear, 
Mourn’d  by  the  few  my  soul  acknowledged  here  ; 
Deplored  by  those  in  early  days  allied, 

And  unremember’d  by  the  world  beside. 

September  2V  18#7. 


[The  “ Lines  written  beneath  an  Elm  at  Harrow ,"  were  the  last 
in  the  little  volume  printed  at  Newark  in  1807.  The  reader  is 
referred  to  Mr.  Moore's  Notices,  for  various  interesting  particulars 
respecting  the  impression  produced  on  Lord  Byron’s  mind  by  the 
celebrated  Critique  of  his  juvenile  performances,  put  forth  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review,— a journal  which,  at  that  time,  possessed  nearly 
undivided  influence  and  authority.  The  Poet's  diaries  and  letters 
afford  evidence  that,  in  his  latter  days,  he  considered  this  piece  as 
the  work  of  Mr.  (now  Lord)  Brougham;  but  on  what  grounds  he 
had  come  to  that  conclusion  he  no  where  mentions.  It  forms,  how- 
ever, from  whatever  pen  it  may  have  proceeded,  so  important  a link 
in  Lord  Byron's  literary  history,  that  we  insert  it  at  length.] 

ARTICLE  FROM  THE  EDINBURGH  REVIEW,  FOR 
JANUARY,  1808. 

Hours  of  Idleness;  a Series  of  Poems,  original  and  translated.  By 
George  Gordon,  Lord  Byron,  a Minor.  8vo.  pp.  200.  Newark, 
1807. 

The  poesy  of  this  young  lord  belongs  to  the  class  which  neither 
gods  nor  men  are  said  to  permit.  Indeed,  we  do  not  recollect  to 

ever  heard  of  him  from  others,  during  absence  and  distance.” — 
Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

(3)  [On  losing  his  natural  daughter,  Allegra,  in  April,  1822, 
Lord  Byron  sent  her  remains  to  be  buried  at  Harrow,  “ where,”  he 
says,  in  a letter  to  Mr.  Murray,  “ I once  hoped  to  have  laid  my  own.” 

‘ There  is,”  he  adds,  “ a spot  in  the  church-yard,  near  the  footpath, 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill  looking  towards  Windsor,  and  a tomb  under 
a large  tree  (bearing  the  name  of  Peachie,  or  Peachey),  where  I used 
to  sit  for  hours  and  hours  when  a boy.  This  was  my  favourite  spot; 
but  as  I wish  to  erect  a tablet  to  her  memory,  the  body  had  be:iei 
be  deposited  in  the  church  — and  it  was  so  accordingly. 


HOURS  OE  IDLENESS. 


419 


hare  seen  a quantity  of  verse  with  so  few  deviations  in  either 
direction  from  that  exact  standard.  His  effusions  are  spread  over 
a dead  flat,  and  can  no  more  get  above  or  below  the  level,  than  if 
they  were  so  much  stagnant  water  As  an  extenuation  of  this 
offence,  the  noble  author  is  peculiarly  forward  in  pleading  minority. 
We  have  it  in  the  title-page,  and  on  the  very  back  of  the  volume ; 
it  follows  his  name  like  a favourite  part  of  his  style.  Much  stress 
is  laid  upon  it  in  the  preface;  and  the  poems  are  connected  with 
this  general  statement  of  his  case,  by  particular  dates,  substan- 
tiating the  age  at  which  each  was  written.  Now,  the  law  upon  the 
point  of  minority  we  hold  to  be  perfectly  clear.  It  is  a plea  avail- 
able only  to  the  defendant;  no  plaintiff  can  offer  it  as  a supple- 
mentary ground  of  action.  Thus,  if  any  suit  could  be  brought 
against  Lord  Byron,  for  the  purpose  of  compelling  him  to  put  into 
court  a certain  quantity  of  poetry,  and  if  judgment  were  given 
against  him,  it  is  highly  probable  that  an  exception  would  be 
taken,  were  he  to  deliver  for  poetry  the  contents  of  this  volume. 
To  this  he  might  plead  minority ; but,  as  he  now  makes  voluntary 
tender  of  the  article,  he  hath  no  right  to  sue,  on  that  ground,  for 
the  price  in  good  current  praise,  should  the  goods  be  unmarketable. 
This  is  our  view  of  the  law  on  the  point ; and,  we  dare  to  say,  so 
will  it  be  ruled.  Perhaps,  however,  in  reality,  all  that  he  tells  us 
about  his  youth  is  rather  with  a view  to  increase  our  wonder  than 
to  soften  our  censures.  He  possibly  means  to  say,  “ See  how  a 
minor  can  write ! This  poem  was  actually  composed  by  a young 
man  of  eighteen,  and  this  by  one  of  only  sixteen  1 ” But,  alas ! we 
all  remember  the  poetry  of  Cowley  at  ten,  and  Pope  at  twelve ; 
and  so  far  from  hearing,  with  any  degree  of  surprise,  that  very  poor 
verses  were  written  by  a youth  from  his  leaving  school  to  his  leaving 
college,  inclusive,  we  really  believe  this  to  be  the  most  common  of 
all  occurrences ; that  it  happens  in  the  life  of  nine  men  in  ten  who 
are  educated  in  England;  and  that  the  tenth  man  writes  better 
verse  than  Lord  Byron. 

His  other  plea  of  privilege  our  author  rather  brings  forward  in 
order  to  waive  it.  He  certainly,  however,  does  allude  frequently 
to  his  family  and  ancestors — sometimes  in  poetry,  sometimes  in 
notes ; and,  while  giving  up  his  claim  on  the  score  of  rank,  he 
takes  care  to  remember  us  of  Dr.  Johnson’s  saying,  that  when  a 
nobleman  appears  as  an  author,  his  merit  should  be  handsomely 
acknowledged.  In  truth,  it  is  this  consideration  only  that  induces 
us  to  give  Lord  Byron’s  poems  a place  in  our  review,  beside  our 
desire  to  counsel  him,  that  he  do  forthwith  abandon  poetry,  and 
turn  his  talents,  which  are  considerable,  and  his  opportunities, 
which  are  great,  to  better  account. 

With  this  view,  we  must  beg  leave  seriously  to  assure  him,  that 
tho  mere  rhyming  of  the  final  syllable,  even  when  accompanied  by 
the  presence  of  a certain  number  of  feet, — nay,  although  (which 
does  not  always  happen)  those  feet  should  scan  regularly,  and  have 
been  all  counted  accurately  upon  the  fingers, — is  not  the  whole  art 
of  poetry.  We  would  entreat  him  to  believe,  that  a certain  portion 
of  liveliness,  somewhat  of  fancy,  is  necessary  to  constitute  a poem, 
and  that  a poem  in  the  present  day,  to  be  read,  must  contain  at 
least  one  thought,  either  in  a little  degree  different  from  the  ideas 
of  former  writers,  or  differently  expressed.  We  put  it  to  his  can- 
dour, whether  there  is  any  thing  so  deserving  the  name  of  poetry 
inverses  like  the  following,  written  in  1806;  and  whether,  if  a 
youth  of  eighteen  could  say  any  thing  so  uninteresting  to  his 
ancestors,  a youth  of  nineteen  should  publish  it : — 

“ Shades  of  heroes,  farewell ! your  descendant,  departing 
From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu  ! 

Abroad  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  imparting 
New  courage,  he’ll  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

“ Though  a tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 

’Tis  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret : 

Far  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation ; 

The  fame  of  his  fathers  he  ne’er  can  forget. 

“ That  fame,  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish  ; 

He  vow’s  that  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown; 

Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you  will  he  perish ; 

When  decay’d,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your  own.” 

Now,  we  positively  do  assert,  that  there  is  nothing  better  than 
these  stanzas  in  the  whole  compass  of  the  noble  minor's  volume. 

Lord  Byron  should  also  have  a care  of  attempting  what  the 
greatest  poets  have  done  before  him,  for  comparisons  (as  he  must 
nave  had  occasion  to  see  at  his  writing-master’s)  are  odious.  Gray’s 
Ode  on  Eton  College  should  really  have  kept  out  the  ten  hobbling 
stanzas  “ On  a distant  View  of  the  Village  and  School  of  Harrow.” 

“ Where  fancy  yet  joys  to  retrace  the  resemblance 
Of  comrades,  in  friendship  and  mischief  allied, 

How  welcome  to  me  your  ne’er  fading  remembrance. 

Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is  denied.” 

In  like  manner,  the  exquisite  lines  of  Mr.  Rogers,  “ On  a Tear,” 
might  have  warned  the  noble  author  off  those  premises,  and  spared 
as  a whole  dozen  such  stanzas  as  the  following : — 

“ Mild  Charity’s  glow,  to  us  mortals  below, 

Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear ; 

Compassion  will  melt  where  this  virtue  is  felt, 

And  its  dew  is  diffused  in  a Tear. 


“ The  man  doom’d  to  sail  with  the  blast  of  the  gale, 

Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer, 

As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave,  which  may  soon  be  his  grave, 

The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a Tear.” 

And  so  of  instances  in  which  former  poets  have  failed.  Thus  we 
do  not  think  Lord  Byron  was  made  for  translating,  during  his  non- 
age. “ Adrian’s  Address  to  his  Soul,”  when  Pope  succeeded  so 
indifferently  in  the  attempt.  II  our  readers,  however,  are  el 
another  opinion,  they  may  look  at  it. 

“,Ah!  gentle,  fleeting,  wavering  sprite, 

Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay  ! 

To  what  unknown  region  borne 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight? 

No  more  with  wonted  humour  gay, 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn.” 

However,  be  this  as  it  may,  we  fear  his  translations  and  imita 
tions  are  great  favourites  with  Lord  Byron.  We  have  them  of  all 
kinds,  from  Anacreon  to  Ossian ; and,  viewing  them  as  school 
exercises,  they  may  pass.  Only,  why  print  them  after  they  have 
had  their  day  and  served  their  turn?  And  why  call  the  thing  in 
p.  79  (see  p.  380)  a translation,  where  two  words  (Ve\u>  \eyeu>)  of 
the  original  are  expanded  into  four  lines,  and  the  other  thing  in 
p.  8 1 (see  ibid.)  where  peoowKTiats  nod'  wpc ur  is  rendered  by  means 
of  six  hobbling  verses  ? As  to  his  Ossianic  poesy,  we  are  not  very 
good  judges,  being,  in  truth,  so  moderately  skilled  in  that  species 
of  composition,  that  we  should,  in  all  probability,  be  criticising 
some  bit  of  the  genuine  Macpherson  itself,  were  we  to  express  our 
opinion  of  Lord  Byron’s  rhapsodies.  If,  then,  the  following  be- 
ginning of  a “ Song  of  Bards”  is  by  his  lordship,  we  venture  to 
object  to  it,  as  far  as  we  can  comprehend  it.  “ What  form  rises  on 
the  roar  of  clouds  ? whose  dark  ghost  gleams  on  the  red  stream  of 
tempests?  His  voice  rolls  on  the  thunder;  ’tis  Orla,  the  brown 
chief  of  Oithona.  He  was,”  &c.  After  detaining  this  “ brown 
chief”  some  time,  the  bards  conclude  by  giving  him  their  advice 
to  “ raise  his  fair  locks;”  then  to  “ spread  them  on  the  arcli  of  the 
rainbow ;”  and  “ to  smile  through  the  tears  of  the  storm.”  Of  this 
kind  of  thing  there  are  no  less  than  nine  pages  ; and  we  can  so  far 
venture  an  opinion  in  their  favour,  that  they  look  very  like  Mac- 
pherson; and  we  are  positive  they  are  pretty  nearly  as  stupid  and 
tiresome. 

It  is  a sort  of  privilege  of  poets  to  be  egotists;  but  they  should 
“ use  it  as  not  abusing  it and  particularly  one  who  piques  him- 
self (though  indeed  at  the  ripe  age  of  nineteen)  on  being  “ an  infant 
bard,” — (“The  artless  Helicon  I boast  is  youth”)— should  either 
not  know,  or  should  seem  not  to  know,  so  much  about  his  own 
ancestry.  Besides  a poem  above  cited,  on  the  family  seat  of  the 
Byrons,  we  have  another  of  eleven  pages,  on  the  self-same  subject, 
introduced  with  an  apology.  “ he  certainly  had  no  intention  of 
inserting  it,”  but  really  “ the  paiticular  request  of  some  friends,” 
&c.  &c.  It  concludes  with  five  stanzas  on  himself,  “ the  last  and 
youngest  of  a noble  line.”  There  is  a good  deal  also  about  bis 
maternal  ancestors,  in  a poem  on  La  chin  y Gair,  a mountain  where 
he  spent  part  of  his  youth,  and  might  have  learnt  that  pibroch  is 
not  a bagpipe,  any  more  than  duet  means  a fiddle. 

As  the  author  has  dedicated  so  large  a part  of  his  volume  to 
immortalize  his  employments  at  school  and  college,  we  cannot 
possibly  dismiss  it  without  presenting  the  reader  with  a specimen 
of  these  ingenious  effusions.  In  an  ode  with  a Greek  motto,  called 
Granta,  we  have  the  following  magnificent  stanzas  ; — 

“There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 

The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp, 

Goes  late  to  b8d,  yet  early  rises. 

“ Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Sele, 

Or  puzzles  o’er  the  deep  triangle, 

Deprived  of  many  a wholesome  meal, 

In  barbarous  Latin  doom’d  to  wrangle: 

“ Renouncing  every  pleasing  page, 

From  authors  of  historic  use, 

Preferring  to  the  letter'd  sage, 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse. 

“ Still  harmless  are  these  occupations, 

That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  student. 

Compared  with  other  recreations, 

Which  bring  together  the  imprudent.” 

We  are  sorry  to  hear  so  bad  an  account  of  the  college  psalmody 
as  L-  contained  in  the  following  Attic  stanzas  ; — 

“ Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused 
Even  as  a band  of  raw  beginners ; 

All  mercy  now  must  be  refused 
To  such  a set  of  croaking  sinners. 

“ If  David,  when  his  toils  were  ended. 

Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  hiat. 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne’er  descended : 

In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  era  l" 


420 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


But,  whatever  judgment  may  be  passed  on  the  poems  of  this 
floble  minor,  it  seems  we  must  take  them  as  we  find  them,  and  be 
content;  lor  they  are  the  last  we  shall  ever  have  from  him.  He  is, 
at  best,  lie  says,  but  an  intruder  into  the  groves  of  Parnassus:  he 
never  lived  in  a garret,  like  thorough-bred  poets;  and  “though 
he  once  roved  a careless  mountaineer  in  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land ” he  has  not  of  late  enjoyed  this  advantage.  Moreover,  he 
expects  no  profit  from  his  publication ; and,  whether  it  succeeds  or 


* [The  Monthly  Reviewers,  in  those  days  the  next  in  circulation 
to  the  Edinburgh,  gave  a much  more  favourable  notice  of  the 
“ Hours  of  Idleness.”  “These  compositions  (said  they)  are  gene- 
rally of  a plaintive  or  an  amatory  cast,  with  an  occasional  mixture 
of  satire;  and  they  display  both  ease  and  strength — both  pathos 
and  fire.  It  will  be  expected  that  marks  of  juvenility  and  of  haste 
should  be  discovered  in  these  productions;  and  we  seriously  advise 
our  young  bard  to  fulfil  with  submissive  perseverance  the  duties  of 
revision  and  correction.  We  discern,  in  Lord  Byron,  a degree  of 
mental  power,  and  a turn  of  mental  disposition,  which  render  us 


not,  “it  is  highly  improbable,  from  his  situation  and  pursuits  here- 
after,” that  he  should  again  condescend  to  become  an  author. 
Therefore,  let  us  take  what  we  get,  and  be  thankful.  What  right 
have  we  poor  devils  to  be  nice?  We  are  well  off  to  have  got  so 
much  from  a man  of  this  lord’s  station,  who  does  not  live  in  a 
garret,  but  “has  the  sway”  of  Newstead  Abbey.  Again,  we  say, 
let  us  be  thankful ; and,  with  honest  Sancho,  bid  God  bless  the 
giver,  nor  look  the  gift  horse  in  the  mouth.* 


solicitous  that  both  should  be  well  cultivated  and  wisely  directed, 
in  his  career  of  life.  He  has  received  talents,  and  is  accountable 
for  the  use  of  them.  We  trust  that  he  will  render  them  beneficial 
to  man,  and  a source  of  real  gratification  to  himself  in  declining 
age.  Then  may  he  properly  exclaim  with  the  Roman  orator,  ‘ non 
lubet  mihi  deplorare  vitam,  quod  multi,  et  ii  docti,  saepe  fecerunt; 
neque  me  vixisse  pcenitet:  quoniam  ita  vixi,  ut  non  frustra  me 
natum  existimem.  ” — Lord  Byron  repaid  the  Edinburgh  Critique 
with  a satire — and  became  himself  a Monthly  Reviewer .] 


fsttgltSf) 


ant*  Jjcotci)  : 

A SATIRE.1 2 


!*  I had  rather  be  a kitten,  and  cry  mew ! 

Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers.” — Shakspearb. 

“ Such  shameless  bards  we  have;  and  yet  'tis  true, 

There  are  as  mad,  abandon’d  critics  too.” — Pope. 


PREFACE a 

All  my  friends,  learned  and  unlearned,  have  urged 
me  not  to  publish  this  Satire  with  my  name.  If  I 
were  to  be  “.turned  from  the  career  of  my  humour 
by  quibbles  quick,  and  paper  bullets  of  the  brain,” 
I should  have  complied  with  their  counsel.  But  I 
am  not  to  be  terrified  by  abuse,  or  bullied  by  re- 
viewers, with  or  without  arms.  1 can  safely  say 
that  I have  attacked  none  personally,  who  did  not 
commence  on  the  offensive.  An  author’s  works  are 
public  property  : he  who  purchases  may  judge,  and 
publish  his  opinion  if  he  pleases ; and  the  authors  I 
have  endeavoured  to  commemorate  may  do  by  me 
as  I have  done  by  them.  I dare  say  they  will  suc- 
ceed better  in  condemning  my  scribblings,  than  in 
mending  their  own.  But  my  object  is  not  to  prove 
that  I can  write  well,  but,  if  possible,  to  make  others 
write  better. 

As  the  poem  has  met  with  far  more  success  than 
I expected,  I have  endeavoured  in  this  edition  to 
make  some  additions  and  alterations,  to  render  it 
more  worthy  of  public  perusal. 


(1)  [The  first  edition  of  this  satire,  which  then  began  with  what 
is  now  the  ninety  seventh  line,  (“  Time  was,  ere  yet,”  &c. ),  appeared 
in  March,  1809.  A second,  to  which  the  author  prefixed  his  name, 
followed  in  October  of  that  year : anrl  a third  and  fourth  were  called 
for  during  his  first  pilgrimage,  in  1810  and  1811.  On  his  return 
to  England,  a fifth  edition  was  prepared  for  the  press  by  himself, 
with  considerable  care,  but  suppressed,  and,  except  one  copy,  de- 
rtroyed.  when  on  the  eve  of  publication.  The  text  is  now  printed 
from  tne  copy  that  escaped ; on  casually  meeting  with  which,  in 
1810,  be  reperused  the  whole,  and  wrote  on  the  margin  some  anno- 
tation-*, which  also  we  shall  preserve, — distinguishing  them,  by  the 
Insertion  of  their  date,  from  those  affixed  to  the  prior  editions 


In  the  first  edition  of  this  satire,  published  .anony- 
mously, fourteen  lines  on  the  subject  of  Bowles’s  Pope 
were  written  by,  and  inserted  at  the  request  of,  an 
ingenious  friend  of  mine,3  who  has  now  in  the  press 
a volume  of  poetry.  In  the  present  edition  they  are 
erased,  and  some  of  my  own  substituted  in  their  stead ; 
my  only  reason  for  this  being  that  which  I conceive 
would  operate  with  any  other  person  in  the  same  man- 
ner,— a determination  not  to  publish  with  my  name 
any  production,  which  was  not  entirely  and  exclusively 
my  own  composition. 

With4  regard  to  the  real  talents  of  many  of  the 
poetical  persons  whose  performances  are  mentioned 
or  alluded  to  in  the  following  pages,  it  is  presumed 
by  the  author  that  there  can  be  little  difference  of 
opinion  in  the  public  at  large ; though,  like  other  sec- 
taries, each  has  his  separate  tabernacle  of  proselytes, 
by  whom  his  abilities  are  over-rated,  his  faults  over- 
looked, and  his  metrical  canons  received  without 
scruple  and  without  consideration.  But  the  unques- 
tionable possession  of  considerable  genius  by  several 
of  the  writers  here  censured  renders  their  mental  pro- 
stitution more  to  be  regretted.  Imbecility  may  be 


The  first  of  these  MS.  notes  of  1816  appears  on  the  fly-leaf,  and 
runs  thus : — “ The  binding  of  this  volume  is  considerably  too 
valuable  for  the  contents;  and  nothing  but  the  consideration  of 
its  being  the  property  of  another,  prevents  me  from  consigning  this 
miserable  record  of  misplaced  anger  and  indiscriminate  acrimony 
to  the  flames.”] 

(2)  This  preface  was  written  for  the  second  edition,  and  printed 
with  it.  The  noble  author  had  left  this  country  previous  to  the 
publication  of  that  edition,  and  is  not  yet  returned. — Note  to  tin 
fourth  edition,  1811. — [“  He  is,  and  gone  again.” — Lord  B.  18)6.] 

(3)  [Mr.  Hobhouse.  See  post,  p.  426,  note.] 

(4)  [Here  the  preface  to  the  first  edition  commenced.' 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


421 


pitied,  or,  at  worst,  laughed  at  and  forgotten;  per- 
verted powers  demand  the  most  decided  reprehension. 
No  one  can  wish  more  than  the  author  that  some 
known  and  able  writer  had  undertaken  their  exposure ; 
but  Mr.  Gifford  has  devoted  himself  to  Massinger, 
and,  in  the  absence  of  the  regular  physician,  a country 
practitioner  may,  in  cases  of  absolute  necessity,  be 
allowed  to  prescribe  his  nostrum  to  prevent  the  ex- 
tension of  so  deplorable  an  epidemic,  provided  there 
be  no  quackery  in  his  treatment  of  the  malady.  A 
caustic  is  here  offered ; as  it  is  to  be  feared  nothing 
short  of  actual  cautery  can  recover  the  numerous 
patients  afflicted  with  the  present  prevalent  and  dis- 
tressing rabies  for  rhyming. —As  to  the  Edinburgh 
Reviewers,1  it  would  indeed  require  an  Hercules  to 
crush  the  Hydra;  but  if  the  author  succeeds  in 
merely  “ bruising  one  of  the  heads  of  the  serpent,” 
though  his  own  hand  should  suffer  in  the  encounter, 
he  will  be  amply  satisfied.2 


ISngltsi)  13artis,  etc. 


Still  must  I hear?3 — shall  hoarse  Fitzgerald4  bawl 
His  creaking  couplets  in  a tavern  hall,5 
And  I not  sing,  lest,  haply,  Scotch  reviews 
Should  dub  me  scribbler,  and  denounce  my  muse  ? 
Prepare  for  rhyme — I ’ll  publish,  right  or  wrong  : 
Pools  are  my  theme,  let  satire  be  my  song. 

Oh  ! nature’s  noblest  gift — my  gray  goose-quill ! 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my  will, 

Torn  from  thy  parent  bird  to  form  a pen, 

That  mighty  instrument  of  little  men  ! 


(1)  [“I  well  recollect,”  said  Lord  Byron,  in  1821,  “the  effect 
which  the  critique  of  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers  on  my  first  poem, 
had  upon  me— it  was  rage  and  resistance,  and  redress  ; but  not  de- 
spondency nor  despair.  A savage  review  is  hemlock  to  a sucking 
author,  and  the  one  on  me  (which  produced  the  English  Bards,  &c.) 
knocked  me  down — but  I got  up  again.  That  critique  was  a master- 
piece of  low  wit,  a tissue  of  scurrilous  abuse.  I remember  there 
was  a great  deal  of  vulgar  trash,  about  people  being  ‘ thankful  for 
what  they  could  get,’—1  not  looking  a gift  horse  in  the  mouth,’  and 
such  stable  expressions.  But  so  far  from  their  bullying  me,  or 
deterring  me  from  writing,  I was  bent  on  falsifying  their  raven  pre- 
dictions, and  determined  to  show  them,  croak  as  they  would,  that 
it  was  not  the  last  time  they  should  hear  from  me.”] 

(2)  [“  The  severity  of  the  criticism,”  as  Sir  Egerton  Brydges  has 
well  observed,  “ touched  Lord  Byron  in  the  point  where  his  original 
strength  lay : it  wounded  his  pride,  and  roused  his  bitter  indigna- 
tion. He  published  ‘English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,’  and 
bowed  down  those  who  had  hitherto  held  a despotic  victory  over 
the  public  mind.  There  was,  after  all,  more  in  the  boldness  of  the 
enterprise,  in  the  fearlessness  of  the  attack,  than  in  its  intrinsic 
force.  But  the  moral  effect  of  the  gallantry  of  the  assault,  and  of 
the  justice  of  the  cause,  made  it  victorious  and  triumphant.  This 
was  one  of  those  lucky  deveiopements  which  cannot  often  occur  ; 
and  which  fixed  Lord  Byron’s  fame.  From  that  day  he  engaged 
the  public  notice  as  a writer  of  undoubted  talent  and  energy  both 
of  intellect  and  temper.”] 

(3)  Imit.— 

“ Semper  ego  auditor  tantum  ? nunquamne  reponam, 

Vexatus  toties  rauci  Theseide  Codri ? Juv.  Sat.  I. 

(4)  [“  Hoarse  Fitzgerald .” — “ Right  enough ; but  why  notice  such 
* mountebank.”— Byron,  1816.] 

(5)  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  facetiously  termed  by  Cobbett  the  “Small 

Beer  Poet,  inflicts  his  annual  tribute  of  verse  on  the  Literary 

Fund  : not  content  with  writing,  he  spouts  in  person,  after  the  com- 
pany have  imbibed  a reasonable  quantity  of  bad  port,  to  enable 
them  to  sustain  the  operation. — [For  the  long  period  of  thirty-two 
year*,  this  harmless  poetaster  was  an  attendant  at  the  anniversary 


The  pen  ! foredoom’d  to  aid  the  mental  throe* 

Of  brains  that  labour,  big  with  verse  or  prose, 
Though  nymphs  forsake,  and  critics  may  deride, 
The  lover’s  solace,  and  the  author’s  pride. 

What  wits  ! what  poets  dost  thou  daily  raise  ! 

How  frequent  is  thy  use,  how  small  thy  praise  ! 
Condemn’d  at  length  to  be  forgotten  quite, 

With  all  the  pages  which  ’twas  thine  to  write. 

But  thou,  at  least,  mine  own  especial  pen  ! 

Once  laid  aside,  but  now  assumed  again, 

Our  task  complete,  like  Hamet’s6  shall  be  free  ; 
Though  spurn’d  by  others,  yet  beloved  by  me  : 
Then  let  9s  soar  to-day  ; no  common  theme, 

No  eastern  vision,  no  distemper’d  dream7 
Inspires — our  path,  though  full  of  thorns,  is  plain, 
Smooth  be  the  verse,  and  easy  be  the  strain. 

When  Vice  triumphant  holds  her  sov’reign  sway 
Obey’d  by  all  who  nought  beside  obey ; 

When  Folly,  frequent  harbinger  of  crime, 

Bedecks  her  cap  with  bells  of  every  clime  ; 

When  knaves  and  fools  combined  o’er  all  prevail, 
And  weigh  their  justice  in  a golden  scale ; 

E’en  then  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers. 
Afraid  of  shame,  unknown  to  other  fears, 

More  darkly  sin,  by  satire  kept  in  awe, 

And  shrink  from  ridicule,  though  not  from  law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  wit ! but  not  belong 
To  me  the  arrows  of  satiric  song; 

The  royal  vices  of  our  age  demand 
A keener  weapon,  and  a mightier  hand. 

Still  there  are  follies,  e’en  for  me  to  chase. 

And  yield  at  least  amusement  in  the  race : 

Laugh  when  I laugh,  I seek  no  other  fame ; 

The  cry  is  up,  and  scribblers  are  my  game. 

Speed,  Pegasus  ! — ye  strains  of  great  and  small. 
Ode,  epic,  elegy,  have  at  you  all ! 


dinners  of  the  Literary  Fund,  and  constantly  honoured  the  occasion 
with  an  ode,  which  he  himself  recited  with  most  oomical  dignity  qtf 
emphasis.  He  was  fortunate  in  having  for  his  patron  Viscount 
Dudley  and  Ward,  on  whose  death,  without  a will,  his  benevolent 
intentions  towards  the  bard  were  fulfilled  by  his  son,  the  late  Earl 
Dudley,  who  generously  sent  him  a draft  for  5000/  Fitzgerald 
died  in  1829.  Of  his  numerous  loyal  effusions  only  a single  line  has 
survived  its  author;  but  the  characteristics  of  his  style  have  been  so 
happily  hit  off  in  the  “ Rejected  A ddresses”— (a  work  which 
Lord  Byron  has  pronounced  to  be  “ by  far  the  best  thing  of  the  kind 
since  the  Rolliad,”)— that  we  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  an 
extract : — 

“ Who  burnt  (confound  his  soul !)  the  houses  twain, 

Of  Covent  Garden  and  of  Drury  Lane? 

Who,  while  the  British  squadron  lay  off  Cork, 

(God  bless  the  Regent  and  the  Duke  of  York  1) 

With  a foul  earthquake  ravaged  the  Caraccas, 

And  raised  the  price  of  dry  goods  and  tobaccos? 

Who  makes  the  quartern  loaf  and  Luddites  rise  ? 

Who  fills  the  butchers’  shops  with  large  blue  flies? 

Who  thought  in  flames  St.  James’s  court  to  pinch? 

Who  burnt  the  wardrobe  of  poor  Lady  Finch  ? — 

Why  he,  who  forging  for  this  isle  a yoke, 

Reminds  me  of  a line  I lately  spoke — 

‘ The  Tree  of  freedom  is  the  British  Oak.' 

Bless  every  man  possess’d  of  aught  to  give ! 

Long  may  Long  Tilney  Wellesley  Long  Pole  live ! 

God  bless  the  army,  bless  their  coats  of  scarlet  I 
God  bless  the  navy,  bless  the  Princess  Charlotte ! 

God  bless  the  Guards,  though  worsted  Gallia  scoff! 

God  bless  their  pig-tails,  though  they’re  now  cut  off! 

And  oh  ! in  Downing  Street  should  Old  Nick  revel, 

England’s  prime  minister,  then  bless  the  Devil  ! ” 

(6)  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  promises  repose  to  his  pen,  in  the  last 
chapter  of  Don  Quixote.  Oh  that  our  voluminous  gentry  would 
follow  the  example  of  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli ! 

(7)  [“  This  must  have  been  written  in  the  spirit  of  the  pronhecy-r 
— B.  1816.] 


422 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


I too  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a time 
I pour’d  along  the  town  a flood  of  rhyme, 

A schoolboy  freak,  unworthy  praise  or  blame ; 

I printed — older  children  do  the  same. 

’Tis  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one’s  name  in  print ; 

A book’s  a book,  although  there’s  nothing  in’t, 
Not  that  a title’s  sounding  charm  can  save 
Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave  : 

This  Lambe  must  own,  since  his  patrician  name 
Fail’d  to  preserve  the  spurious  farce  from  shame.1 
No  matter,  George  continues  still  to  write,2 
Though  now  the  name  is  veil’d  from  public  sight. 
Moved  by  the  great  example,  I pursue  # 

The  self-same  road,  but  make  my  own  review  : 

Not  seek  great  Jeffrey’s,  yet  like  him,  will  be 
Self-constituted  judge  of  poesy. 

A man  must  serve  his  time  to  ev’ry  trade 
Save  censure — critics  all  are  ready  made. 

Take  hackney’d  jokes  from  Miller,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote ; 

A mind  well  skill’d  to  find  or  forge  a fault ; 

A turn  for  punning,  call  it  Attic  salt ; 

To  Jeffrey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet, 

His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet : 
Fear  not  to  He,  ’twill  seem  a sharper  hit ; 

Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  ’twill  pass  for  wit ; 
Care  not  for  feeling — pass  your  proper  jest, 

And  stand  a critic,  hated  yet  caress’d. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment  ? no — as  soon 
Seek  roses  in  December — ice  in  June ; 

Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  corn  in  chaff ; 

Believe  a woman  or  an  epitaph, 

Or  any  other  thing  that’s  false,  before 
You  trust  in  critics,  who  themselves  are  sore ; 

Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled 
By  Jeffrey’^  heart,  or  Lambe’s  Boeotian  head.3 
To  these  young  tyrants,4  by  themselves  misplaced, 
Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  taste  ; 

To  these,  when  authors  bend  in  humble  awe, 

And  hail  their  voice  as  truth,  their  word  as  law — 
While  these  are  censors,  ’twould  be  sin  to  spare ; 
While  such  are  critics,  why  should  I forbear? 


(1)  This  ingenuous  youth  is  mentioned  more  particularly,  with 
his  production,  in  another  place. 

(2)  In  the  Edinburgh  Review. — [“  He’s  a very  good  fellow  ; and, 
except  his  mother  and  sister,  the  best  of  the  set,  to  my  mind.” — 
B.  1816.] 

(3)  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Lambe  are  the  alpha  and  omega,  the  first 
and  the  last  of  the  Edinburgh  Review ; the  others  are  mentioned 
hereafter.— [“  This  was  not  just.  Neither  the  heart  nor  the  head  of 
these  gentlemen  are  at  all  what  they  are  here  represented.  At  the 
time  this  was  written,  I was  personally  unacquainted  with  either.” 
— B.  1816.] 

(4)  Imit.  “ Stulta  est  dementia,  cum  tot  ubique 

— occurras  periturae  parcere  chartae. ” — 

Juv.  Sat.  I. 

(5)  Imit  “ Cur  tamen  hoc  libeat  potius  decurrere  campo 

Per  quem  magnus  equos  Auruncae  fiexit  alumnus  : 

Si  vacat,  et  placidi  rationem  admittitis,  edam.” — 
Juv.  Sat.  I. 

(6)  [The  first  edition  of  the  Satire  opened  with  this  line;  and 
Lord  Byron’s  original  intention  was  to  prefix  the  following — 

“ Argument. 

••  The  noet  considereth  times  past,  and  their  poesy — makes  a sud- 
den transition  to  times  present  is  incensed  against  book-makers — 
revileth  Walter  Scott  for  cupidity  and  ballad-inongering,  with  nota- 
ble remarks  on  Master  Southey— complaineth  that  Master  Southey 
hath  inflicted  three  poems,  epic  and  otherwise,  on  the  public — in- 
veigheth  against  William  Wordsworth,  but  laudeth  Mister  Cole- 
tidge  and  his  elegy  on  a young  ass — is  disposed  to  vituperate  Mr. 


But  yet,  so  near  all  modern  worthies  ran, 

’Tis  doubtful  whom  to  seek,  or  whom  to  shun  ; 

Nor  know  we  when  to  spare,  or  where  to  strike, 

Our  bards  and  censors  are  so  much  alike. 

Then  should  you  ask  me,5 6  why  I venture  o’er 
The  path  which  Pope  and  Gifford  trod  before  ; 

If  not  yet  sicken’d,  you  can  still  proceed : 

Go  on ; my  rhyme  will  tell  you  as  you  read. 

“But  hold  !”  exclaims  a friend, — “ here’s  some  nee 
lect : 

This — that — and  t’other  line  seem  incorrect.” 

What  then?  the  self-same  blunder  Pope  has  got. 

And  careless  Dryden — “ Ay,  but  Pye  has  not — ■ 
Indeed ! — ’tis  granted,  faith  ! — but  what  ca~e  I P 
Better  to  err  with  Pope,  than  shine  with  Pye. 

Time  was,  ere  yet  in  these  degenerate  days* 
Ignoble  themes  obtain’d  mistaken  praise, 

When  sense  and  wit  with  poesy  allied, 

No  fabled  graces,  flourish’d  side  by  side  ; 

From  the  same  fount  their  inspiration  drew, 

And,  rear’d  by  taste,  bloom’d  fairer  as  they  grew. 
Then,  in  this  happy  isle,  a Pope’s7  pure  strain 
Sought  the  rapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  in 
vain ; 

A polish’d  nation’s  praise  aspired  to  claim, 

And  raised  the  people’s,  as  the  poet’s  fame. 

Like  him  great  Dryden  pour’d  the  tide  of  song, 

In  stream  less  smooth,  indeed,  yet  doubly  strong. 
Then  Congreve’s  scenes  could  cheer,  or  Otway’s  melt — 
For  nature  then  an  English  audience  felt. 

But  why  these  names,  or  greater  still,  retrace, 

When  all  to  feebler  bards  resign  their  place? 

Yet  to  such  times  our  lingering  looks  are  cast, 

When  taste  and  reason  with  those  times  are  past. 
Now  look  around,  and  turn  each  trifling  page, 

Survey  the  precious  works  that  please  the  age ; 

This  truth  at  least  let  satire’s  self  allow, 

No  dearth  of  bards  can  be  complain’d  of  now.8 
The  loaded  press  beneath  her  labour  groans, 

And  printers’  devils  shake  their  weary  bones  ; 

While  Southey’s  epics  cram  the  creaking  shelves, 

And  Little’s  lyrics  shine  in  hot-press’d  twelves. 


Lewis — and  greatly  rebuketh  Thomas  Little  (the  late)  and  the  Lord 
Strangford— recommendeth  Mr.  Hayley  to  turn  his  attention  to 
prose — and  exhorteth  the  Moravians  to  glorify  Mr.  Grahame — 
sympathised  with  the  Rev.  William  Bowles  — and  deploreth  the 
melancholy  fate  of  James  Montgomery  — breaketh  out  into  in- 
vective against  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers — calleth  them  hard  names, 
harpies  and  the  like — apostrophised  Jeffrey,  and  prophesied. — 
Episode  of  Jeffrey  and  Moore,  their  jeopardy  and  deliverance ; 
portents  on  the  morn  of  the  combat;  the  Tweed,  Tolbooth,  Frith  o f 
Forth,  severally  shocked;  descent  of  a goddess  to  save  Jeffrey;  in- 
corporation of  the  bullets  with  his  sinciput  and  occiput. — Edin- 
burgh Reviews  en  masse. — Lord  Aberdeen,  Herbert,  Scott,  Haliam, 
Pillans,  Lambe,  Sydney  Smith,  Brougham,  &c. — The  Lord  Holland 
applauded  for  dinners  and  translations.— The  Drama;  Skeffington, 
Hook,  Reynolds,  Kenney,  Cherry,  &c. — Sheridan,  Colman,  and 
Cumberland  called  upon  to  write. — Return  to  poesy — scribblers  of 
all  sorts — lords  sometimes  rhyme:  much  better  not — Hafiz,  Rosa 
Matilda,  and  X.Y.Z. — Rogers,  Campbell,  Gifford,  &c.  true  poets— 
Translators  of  the  Greek  Anthology — Crabbe — Darwin’s  style — 
Cambridge  — Seatonian  Prize  — Smy the  — Hodgson  — Oxford— 
Richards"— Poeta  loquitur— Conclusion.”] 

(7)  [When  Lord  Byron,  in  the  autumn  of  1308,  was  occupied 
upon  this  Satire,  he  devoted  a considerable  portion  of  his  time  to  a 
deep  study  of  the  writings  of  Pope ; and  from  that  period  may  be 
dated  his  enthusiastic  admiration  of  this  great  poet.] 

(8)  [“  One  of  my  notions  is,  tnat  the  present  is  not  a high  age  d 
English  poetry.  There  are  more  poets  (soi  distant)  than  ever  there 
were,  and  proportionably  less  poetry.  This  thesis  I have  main- 
tained for  some  years;  but,  strange  to  say,  it  meeteth  not  with 
favour  from  my  brethren  of  the  shell.” — B.  Diary.  1821.] 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Thus  saith  tho  preacher : “ Nought  beneath  the  sun 
[s  new  vet  still  from  change  to  change  we  run : 
What  varied  wonders  tempt  us  as  they  pass  ! 

The  cow-pox,  tractors,  galvanism,  and  gas, 

In  turns  appear,  to  make  the  vulgar  stare, 

Till  the  Swoln  bubble  bursts — and  all  is  air ! 

Nor  less  new  schools  of  Poetry  arise, 

Where  dull  pretenders  grapple  for  the  prize  : 

O’er  taste  awhile  these  pseudo-bards  prevail ; 

Each  country  book-club  bows  the  knee  to  Baal, 

And,  hurling  lawful  genius  from  the  throne, 

Erects  a shrine  and  idol  of  its  own;1 
Some  leaden  calf — but  whom  it  matters  not, 

From  soaring  Southey  down  to  grovelling  Stott.2 

Behold ! in  various  throngs  the  scribbling  crew, 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review  : 

Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace, 

And  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  an  equal  race ; 
Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode  ; 

And  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road ; 

Immeasurable  measures  move  along ; 

For  simpering  folly  loves  a varied  song, 

To  strange  mysterious  dulness  still  the  friend, 
Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 

Thus  Lays  of  Minstrels3 — may  they  be  the  last ! — 


(1)  [“With  regard  to  poetry  in  general,  I am  convinced  that  we 
are  all  upon  a wrong  revolutionary  poetical  system,  not  worth  a 
damn  in  itself,  and  from  which  none  but  Rogers  and  Crabbe  are 
free.  I am  the  more  confirmed  in  this  by  having  lately  gone  over 
some  of  our  classics,  particularly  Pope,  whom  I tried  in  this  way : — 
I took  Moore’s  poems,  and  my  own,  and  some  others,  and  went 
over  them  side  by  side  with  Pope’s,  and  I was  really  astonished  and 
mortified  at  the  ineffable  distance,  in  point  of  sense,  learning,  effect, 
and  even  imagination,  passion,  and  invention,  between  the  little 
Queen  Anne’s  man,  and  us  of  the  Lower  Empire.  Depend  upon  it, 
it  is  all  Horace  then,  and  Claudian  now,  among  us  ; and  if  I had 
to  begin  again,  I would  mould  myself  accordingly.” — B.  Diary, 
181/.] 

(2)  Stott,  better  known  in  the  “ Morning  Post”  by  the  name  of 
Hafiz.  This  personage  is  at  present  the  most  profound  explorer  of 
the  bathos.  I remember,  when  the  reigning  family  left  Portugal,  a 
special  Ode  of  Master  Stott’s,  beginning  thus: — ( Slott  loquitur 
quoad  Hibernia). 

“ Princely  offspring  of  Braganza, 

Erin  greets  thee  with  a stanza,”  &c. 

Also  a Sonnet  to  Rats,  well  worthy  of  the  subject,  and  a most 
thundering  Ode.  commencing  as  follows : — 

“ Oh  ! for  a Lay,  loud  as  the  surge 
That  lashes  Lapland’s  sounding  shore.” 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us!  the  “Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel”  was 
nothing  to  this. 

(3)  See  the  “ Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,”  passim.  Never  was  any 
plan  so  incongruous  and  absurd  as  the  groundwork  of  this  produc- 
tion. The  entrance  of  Thunder  and  Lightning,  prologuising  to 
Bayes’  tragedy,  unfortunately  takes  away  the  merit  of  originality 
from  the  dialogue  between  Messieurs  the  Spirits  of  Flood  and  Fell 
in  the  first  canto.  Then  we  have  the  amiable  William  of  Deloraine, 
“ a stark  moss-trooper,”  videlicet,  a happy  compound  of  poacher, 
sheep-stealer,  and  highwayman.  The  propriety  of  his  magical 
lady’s  injunction  not  to  read  can  only  be  equalled  by  his  candid  ac- 
knowledgment cf  his  independence  of  the  trammels  of  spelling, 
although,  to  use  his  own  elegant  phrase,  “ ’twas  his  neck-verse  at 
Harribee,”  i.  e.  the  gallows. — The  biography  of  Gilpin  Horner,  and 
the  marvellous  pedestrian  page,  who  travelled  twice  as  fast  as  his 
master’s  horse,  without  the  aid  of  seven-leagued  boots,  are  chefs- 
d'opuvre  in  the  improvement  of  taste.  For  incident  we  have  the  in- 
visible, but  by  no  means  sparing  box  on  the  ear  bestowed  on  the 
page,  and  the  entrance  of  a knight  and  charger  into  the  castle,  un- 
der the  very  natural  disguise  of  a wain  of  hay.  Marmion,  the  hero 
of  the  latter  romance,  is  exactly  what  William  of  Deloraine  would 
have  been,  had  lie  been  able  to  read  and  write.  The  poem  was 
manufactured  for  Messrs.  Constable,  Murray,  and  Miller,  worship- 
ful booksellers,  in  consideration  of  the  receipt  of  a sum  of  money  ; 
and  truly,  considering  the  inspiration,  it  is  a very  creditable  pro- 
duction. If  Mr.  Scott  will  write  for  hire,  let  him  do  his  best  for  his 
paymasters,  but  not  disgrace  his  genius,  which  is  undoubtedly 
great,  by  a repetition  of  black-letter  ballad  imitations. 

(4)  [“  When  Lord  Byron  wrote  his  famous  satire,  I had  my 
share  of  flagellation  among  my  betters.  My  crime  was  having 

written  a poem  for  a thousand  pounds : which  was  no  otherwise 
true,  turn  that  I sold  the  copyright  for  that  sum.  Now,  not  to  men- 
tion that  an  author  can  hardly  be  censured  for  accepting  such  a sum 


On  half-strung  harps  whine  mournful  to  the  blast. 
While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites, 

That  dames  may  listen  to  the  sound  at  nights ; 

And  goblin  brats,  of  Gilpin  Horner’s  brood, 

Decoy  young  border-nobles  through  the  wood, 

And  skip  at  every  step,  Lord  knows  how  high, 

And  frighten  foolish  babes,  the  Lord  knows  why ; 
While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  cell, 

Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell, 
Despatch  a courier  to  a wizard’s  grave, 

And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a knave. 

Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his  roan, 
The  golden-crested  haughty  Marmion, 

Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight. 

Not  quite  a felon,  yet  but  half  a knight, 

The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace ; 

A mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 

And  think’st  thou,  Scott!4  by  vain  conceit  perchance* 
On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance, 

Though  Murray  with  his  Miller  may  combine 
To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line  F 
No  ! when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade, 

Their  bays  are  sere,  their  former  laurels  fade. 

Let  such  forego  the  poet’s  sacred  name, 

Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,5  not  for  fame : 


as  the  booksellers  are  willing  to  give  him,  especially  as  the  gentle- 
men of  the  trade  made  no  complaint  of  their  bargain,  I thought 
the  interference  with  my  private  affairs  was  rather  beyond  the  limits 
of  literary  satire.  1 was,  however,  so  far  from  having  any  thing  to 
do  with  the  offensive  criticism  in  the  Edinburgh,  that  I remon 
stra'ed  against  it  with  .the  editor,  because  I thought  the  “ Hours  of 
Idleness”  treated  with  undue  severity.  They  were  written,  like  all 
juvenile  poetry,  rather  from  recollection  of  what  had  pleased  the 
author  in  others,  than  what  had  been  suggested  by  his  own  imagi- 
nation ; but,  nevertheless,  I thought  they  contained  passages  of 
noble  promise.” — Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

(5)  [Lord  Byron,  as  is  well  known,  set  out  with  the  determination 
never  to  receive  money  for  his  writings.  For  the  liberty  to  repub- 
lish this  satire,  he  refused  four  hundred  guineas ; and  the  money 
paid  for  the  copyright  of  the  first  and  second  cantos  of  Childe 
Harold,  and  of  the  Corsair,  he  presented  to  Mr.  Dallas.  In  1816,  to 
a letter  enclosing  a draft  of  1000  guineas,  offered  by  Mr.  Murray  for 
the  Siege  of  Corinth  and  Parisina,  the  noble  poet  sent  this  answer : 
— “ Your  offer  is  liheral  in  the  extreme,  and  much  more  than  the 
two  poems  can  possibly  be  worth — but  1 cannot  accept  it,  nor  will 
not.  You  are  most  welcome  to  them,  as  additions  to  the  collected 
volumes,  without  any  demand  or  expectation  on  my  part  whatever. 
I have  enclosed  your  draft  torn,  for  fear  of  accidents  by  the  way.  I 
wish  you  would  not  throw  temptation  in  mine;  it  is  not  from  a dis- 
dain of  the  universal  idol— nor  from  a present  superfluity  of  his 
treasures — I can  assure  you,  that  I refuse  to  worship  him  ; but  what 
is  right  is  right,  and  must  not  yield  to  circumstances.”  The  poet 
was  afterwards  induced,  at  Mr.  Murray’s  earnest  persuasion,  to  ac- 


cept the  thousand  guineas.  The  subjoined  statement  of  the  sums 
paid  by  him  at  various  times  to  Lord  Byron  for  copyright  may  be 
considered  a bibliopolic  curiosity  : — 

Childe  Harold,  I.  II £600 

Ill 1575 

IV 2100 

Giaour  ........  525 

Bride  of  Abydos 525 

Corsair  ........  525 

Lara 700 

Siege  of  Corinth. 525 

Parisina  . 525 

Lament  of  Tasso 315 

Manfred 315 

Beppo  .........  525 

Don  Juan,  I.  II 1525 

III.  IV.  V 1525 

Doge  of  Venice  .......  1050 

Sardanapalus,  Cain,  and  Foscari  . . . 1100 

Mazeppa  ........  525 

Prisoner  of  Chillon  ......  525 

Sundries . 450 

Hours  of  Idleness,  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Re-1) 
viewers,  Hints  from  Horace,  Werner,  Deformed  > 3,8S5 
Transformed,  Heaven  and  Earth,  &c.  • ) 

Life  by  Thomas  Moore  ..... 


£23.540 


424 


LORD  BYRON *8  . OJIKS. 


Still  for  stern  Mammon  may  they  toil  in  vain ! 
And  sadly  gaze  on  gold  they  cannot  gain  ! 
Such  be  their  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 
Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard ! 

For  this  we  spurn  Apollo’s  venal  son, 

And  bid  a long  “ good  night  to  Marmion.” 1 


These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits 
now  ; 

tjtl-5!6  ^i^ie  ^ar(^s  1°  whom  the  muse  must  bow : 
While  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  alike  forgot, 

Kesign  their  hallow’d  bays  to  Walter  Scott. 


The  time  has  been,  when  yet  the  muse  was  young, 
When  Homer  swept  the  lyre,  and  Maro  sung,  ’ 

An  epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim, 

While  awe-struck  nations  hail’d  the  magic  name  ; 

The  work  of  each  immortal  bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a thousand  years.2 
Empires  have  moulder’d  from  the  face  of  earth, 
Tongues  have  expired  with  those  who  gave  them  birth, 
Without  the  glory  such  a strain  can  give, 

As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 

Not  so  with  us,  though  minor  bards  content, 

On  one  great  work  a life  of  labour  spent, : 

With  eagle  pinion  soaring  to  the  skies. 

Behold  the  ballad-monger  Southey  rise  ! 

To  him  let  Camoens,  Milton,  Tasso  yield, 

Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies,  take  the  field. 

First  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance, 

Idle  scourge  of  England  and  the  boast  of  France  ! 
Though  burnt  by  wicked  Bedford  for  a witch, 

Behold  her  statue  placed  in  glory’s  niche ; 

Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 

A virgin  phoenix  from  her  ashes  risen. 

Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on,3 
Arabia’s  monstrous,  wild,  and  wondrous  son  ;4 
Domdaniel’s  dread  destroyer,  who  o’erthrew 
More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  e’er  knew. 
Immortal  hero  ! all  thy  foes  o’ercome, 

For  ever  reign— the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb  ! 


Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face, 

Well  wert  thou  doom’d  the  last,  of  all  thv  ruoo  i 
Well  might  triumphant  genii  bear  thee  lienee. 
Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense  ! 

ISiOw,  last  and  greatest,  Madoc  spreads  his  sails, 
Cacique  in  Mexico,  and  prince  in  Wales ; , 

Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do, 

More  old  than  Mandeville’s,  and  not  so  true 
Oil,  Southey  ! Southey  !5  cease  thy  varied  song! 

A bard  may  chant  too  often  and  too  long : 

As  thou  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy,  spare! 

A fourth,  alas  ! were  more  than  we  could  bear. 

But  it,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  say, 

Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  weary  way ; 

11  still  in  Berkley  ballads  most  uncivil, 

Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil,6 
The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue  : 

“ Qod  help  thee,”  Southey,7  and  thy  readers  too.8 

Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school, 

I hat  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule, 

The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a lay 

As  soft  as  evening  in  his  favourite  May,9 

Who  warns  his  friend  “ to  shake  off  toil  and  trouble, 

Ana  quit  his  books,  for  fear  of  growing  double  10 

Who,  both  by  precept  and  example,  shows 

That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose ; 

Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain. 

Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane ; 

And  Christmas  stories  tortured  into  rhyme 
Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  sublime. 

Thus,  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 

The  idiot  mother  of  “an  idiot  boy;’’ 

A moon-struck,  silly  lad,  who  lost  his  way, 

And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day  ;n 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 

And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 

That  all  who  view  the  “ idiot  in’ his  glory,” 

Conceive  the  bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  Coleridge  pass  unnoticed  here, 

To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear  P 


(1)  * Good  night  to  Marmion” — the  pathetic  and  also  prophetic 
•xclamation  of  Henry  Blount,  Esquire,  on  the  death  of  honest 
Marmion. 

(2)  As  the  Odyssey  is  so  closely  connected  with  the  story  of  the 
Iliad,  they  may  almost  be  classed  as  one  grand  historical  poem.  In 
alluding  to  Milton  and  Tasso,  we  consider  the  “ Paradise  Lost,” 
and  “ Gierusalemme  Liberata,”  as  their  standard  efforts;  since 
neither  the  “Jerusalem  Conquered”  of  the  Italian,  nor  the  “ Para- 
dise Regained”  of  the  English  bard,  obtained  a proportionate 
celebrity  to  their  former  poems.  Query : Which  of  Mr.  Southey’s 
will  survive  ? 

(3)  “ Thalaba,”  Mr.  Southey’s  second  poem,  is  written  in  open 
defiance  of  precedent  and  poetry.  Mr.  S.  wished  to  produce  some- 
thing novel,  and  succeeded  to  a miracle.  “Joan  of  Arc,”  was 
marvellous  enough,  but  “Thalaba,”  was  one  of  those  poems 
“which,”  in  the  words  of  Porson,  “will  be  read  when  Homer  and 
Virgil  are  forgotten,  but — not  till  then.” 

(4)  [“  Of  Thalaba,  the  wild  and  wondrous  song.” — Madoc.'] 

(5)  We  beg  Mr.  Southey’s  pardon  ; “ Madoc  disdains  the  de- 
grading title  of  epic.”  See  his  preface.  Why  is  epic  degraded  ? and 
by  whom  ? Certainly  the  late  romaunts  of  Masters  Cottle,  Laureat 
Pyc,  Ogilvy,  Hole,  and  gentle  Mistress  Cowley,  have  not  exalted 
the  epic  muse ; but  as  Mr.  Southey’s  poem  “ disdains  the  appella- 
tion,” allow  us  to  ask — has  he  substituted  any  thing  better  in  its 
stead  ? or  must  he  be  content  to  rival  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  in 
the  quantity  as  well  as  quality  of  his  verse  T 

(6)  See  “The  Old  Woman  of  Berkley,”  a ballad,  by  Mr. 
Southey,  wherein  an  aged  gentlewoman  is  carried  away  by  Beelze- 
bub, on  a “ high-trotting  horse.” 

(7)  The  last  line,  “God  help  thee,”  is  an  evident  plagiarism  from 

the  Anti-jacobin  to  Mr.  Southey,  on  his  Dactylics — [Lord  Byron 

nere  alludes  to  Mr.  Gifford’s  parody  on  Mr.  Southey’s  Dactylics, 

which  ends  thus  : — 


“ Ne’er  talk  of  ears  again  ! look  at  thy  spelling-book ; 

Dilworth  and  Dyche  are  both  mad  at  thy  quantities— 
Dactylics,  call’st  thou  ’em  ? — ‘ God  help  thee,  silly  one/”] 

(S)  Hord  Byron,  on  being  introduced  to  Mr.  Southey  in  1813,  at 
Holland  House,  describes  him  “as  the  best-looking  bard  he  had 
seen  for  a long  time.”— “ To  have  that  poet’s  head  and  shoulders,  1 
would,  he  says,  “almost  have  written  his  Sapphics.  He  is  cer- 
tainly a prepossessing  person  to  look  on,  and  a man  of  talent,  and 
all  that,  and  there  is  his  eulogy.”  In  his  Journal,  of  the  same  year, 
he  says— “ Southey  I have  not  seen  much  of.  His  appearance  is 
epic,  and  he  is  the  only  existing  entire  man  of  letters.  All  the  others 
have  some  pursuit  annexed  to  their  authorship.  His  manners  are 
mi  d,  but  not  those  of  a man  of  the  world,  and  his  talents  of  the  first 
order.  His  prose  is  perfect.  Of  his  poetry  there  are  various 
opinions  : there  is,  perhaps,  too  much  of  it  for  the  present  genera- 
tion-posterity will  probably  select.  He  has  passages  equal  to  any 
tiling.  At  present,  he  has  a party,  but  no  public — except  for  his 
prose  writings.  His  Life  of  Nelson  js  beautiful.”  Elsewhere,  and 
later,  Lord  Byron  pronounces  Southey  s Don  Roderick,  “ the  first 
poem  of  our  time.”] 

(9)  [“  Unjust”— B.  1816.] 

(10)  Lyrical  Ballads,  p.  4.—“  The  Tables  Turned."  Stanza  I 

Up,  up,  my  friend,  and  clear  vour  looks  ; 

Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

Up,  up,  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books, 

Or  surely  you’ll  grow  double.” 

(11)  Mr.  W.  in  his  preface  iabours  hard  to  prove,  that  projo  'Mid 
verse  are  much  the  same;  and  certainly  his  precepts  snd  prncwii 
are  strictly  conformable : — 

“ And  thus  to  Betty’s  questions  he 

Made  answer,  like  a traveller  bold. 

The  cock  did  crow,  to-whoo,  to-whoo, 

And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold,”  &c.  &c.  p.  liO. 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


425 


Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 

Yet  still  obscurity’s  a welcome  guest. 

If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a pixy  for  a muse,1 
Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegise  an  ass. 

So  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind, 

He  bravs,2  the  laureat  of  the  long-ear’d  kind.3 

Oh  ! wonder-working  Lewis  ! 4 monk,  or  bard, 

Who  fain  wouldst  make  Parnassus  a churchyard  !J 
Lo  ! wreaths  of  3 ew,  not  laurel,  bind  thy  brow, 

Thy  muse  a sprite,  Apollo’s  sexton  thou  ! 

Whether  on  ancient  tombs  thou  tak’st  thy  stand, 

By  gibb’ring  spectres  hail’d,  thy  kindred  band  ; 

Oir  tracest  chaste  descriptions  on  thy  page, 

To  please  the  females  of  our  modest  age  ; 

All  hail,  M.P.  ! 5 * from  whose  infernal  brain 
Thin  sheeted  phantoms  glide,  a grisly  train  ; 

At  whose  command  “ grim  women”  throng  in  crowds, 
And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds, 

With  “ small  gray  men,”  “ wild  yagers,”  and  what  not, 
To  crown  with  honour  thee  and  Walter  Scott ; 

Again  all  hail ! if  tales  like  thine  may  please, 

St.  Luke  alone  can  vanquish  the  disease  : 

Even  Satan’s  self  with  thee  might  dread  to  dwell, 

And  in  thy  skull  discern  a deeper  hell. 

Who  in  soft  guise,  surrounded  by  a choir 
Of  virgins  melting,  not  to  Vesta’s  fire, 

With  sparkling  eyes,  and  cheek  by  passion  flush’d, 
Strikes  his  wild  lyre,  whilst  listening  dames  are  hush’d? 
’Tis  Little ! young  Catullus  of  his  day, 

As  sweet,  but  as  immoral,  in  his  lay  ! 

Grieved  to  condemn,0  the  muse  must  still  be  just, 

Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust. 


(1)  Coleridge’s  Poems,  p.  11,  Songs  of  the  Pixies,  i.  e.  Devon- 
shire fairies;  p.  42,  we  have,  ‘ Lines  to  a young  Lady;”  and,  p.  52, 
“ Lines  to  a young  Ass.” 

(2)  [Thus  altered  by  Lord  Byron,  in  his  last  revision  of  the  satire. 
In  all  former  editions  the  line  stood, 

“ A fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind.”] 

(3)  [“  Unjust ,”  B.  1816. — In  a letter  to  Mr.  Coleridge,  written 
In  1815,  Lord  Byron  says, — “You  mention  my  ‘Satire,’  lampoon, 
or  whatever  you  or  others  please  to  call  it.  I can  only  say,  that  it 
was  written  when  I was  very  young  and  very  angry,  and  has  been 
a thorn  in  my  side  ever  since  : more  particularly  as  almost  all  the 
persons  animadverted  upon  became  subsequently  my  acquaint- 
ances, and  some  of  them  my  friends;  which  is  ‘heaping  fire  upon 
an  enemy’s  head,’  and  forgiving  me  too  readily  to  permit  me  to 
forgive  myself.  The  part  applied  to  you  is  pert,  and  petulant,  and 
shallow  enough : but,  although  I have  long  done  every  thing  in 
my  power  to  suppress  the  circulation  of  the  whole  thing,  I shall 
always  regret  the  wantonness  or  generality  of  many  of  its  attempted 
attacks.’] 

(4)  [Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  M.  P.  for  Hindon,  never  distin- 
guished himself  in  Parliament,  but,  mainly  in  consequence  of  the 
clever  use  he  made  of  his  knowledge  of  the  German  language,  then 
a rare  accomplishment,  attracted  much  notice  in  the  literary  world, 
at  a very  early  period  of  his  life.  His  Tales  of  Terror;  the  drama 
of  the  Castle  Spectre ; and  the  romance  called  the  Bravo  of  Venice 
(which  is,  however,  little  more  than  a version  from  the  Swiss 

Zschokke) ; but  above  all,  the  libidinous  and  impious  novel  of  The 

Monk,  invested  the  name  of  Lewis  with  an  extraordinary  degree  of 

celebrity,  during  the  poor  period  which  intervened  between  the 
obscuration  of  Cowper,  and  the  full  display  of  Sir  Walter  Scott’s 

talents  in  the  “ Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,” — a period  which  is  suffi- 
ciently characterized  by  the  fact,  that  Hayley  then  passed  for  a 
poet.  Next  to  that  solemn  coxcomb,  Lewis  was  for  several  years 

the  fashionable  versifier  of  his  time  ; but  his  plagiarisms,  perhaps 
more  audacious  than  had  ever  before  been  resorted  to  by  a man  of 
real  talents,  were  by  degrees  unveiled,  and  writers  of  greater  original 
genius,  as  well  as  of  purer  taste  and  morals,  successively  emerging, 
Monk  Lewis,  dying  young,  had  already  outlived  his  reputation, 

’.n  society  he  was  to  the  last  a favourite ; and  Lord  Byron,  who 
jad  become  well  acquainted  with  him  during  his  experience  of 

London  life,  thus  notices  his  death,  which  occurred  at  sea  in  1818  : 
— “Lewis  was  a good  man,  a clever  man,  but  a bore.  My  only 
menge  or  consolation  used  to  be  setting  him  by  the  ears  with  some 


Pure  is  the  flume  which  o’er  her  altar  burn?  ; 

From  grosser  incense  with  disgust  she  turns  : 

Yet  kind  to  youth,  this  expiation  o’er, 

She  bids  thee  “mend  thy  line,  and  sin  no  more.” 7 * 

Eor  thee,  translator  of  the  tinsel  song, 

To  wiiom  such  glittering  ornaments  belong, 
Hibernian  Strangford  ! with  thine  eyes  of  blue,® 

And  boasted  locks  of  red  or  auburn  hue, 

Whose  plaintive  strain  each  love-sick  miss  admires. 
And  o’er  harmonious  fustian  half  expires, 

Learn,  if  thou  canst,  to  yield  thine  author’s  sense, 
Nor  vend  thy  sonnets  on  a false  pretence. 

Think’st  thou  to  gain  thy  verse  a higher  place. 

By  dressing  Camoens9  in  a suit  of  lace  ? 

Mend,  Strangford  ! mend  thy  morals  and  thy  taste  ; 
Be  warm,  but  pure  ! be  amorous,  but  be  chaste : 
Cease  to  deceive  ; thy  pilfer’d  harp  restore, 

Nor  teach  the  Lusian  bard  to  copy  Moore. 

Behold  ! — ye  tarts ! one  moment  spare  the  text— 
Hayley’s  last  work,  and  worst — until  his  next ; 
Whether  he  spin  poor  couplets  into  plays. 

Or  damn  the  dead  with  purgatorial  praise. 

His  style  in  youth  or  age  is  still  the  same, 

Eor  ever  feeble  and  for  ever  tame. 

Triumphant  first  see  “ Temper’s  Triumphs”  shine ! 
At  least  I’m  sure  they  triumph’d  over  mine. 

Of  “ Music’s  Triumphs,”  all  who  read  may  swear, 
That  luckless  music  never  triumph’d  there.10 

Moravians,  rise  ! bestow  some  meet  reward 
On  dull  devotion — Lo  ! the  Sabbath  bard, 

Sepulchral  Graname,11  pours  his  notes  sublime 
In  mangled  prose,  nor  e’en  aspires  to  rhyme ; 


vivacious  person  who  hated  bores  especially, — Madame  de  Sta£ 
or  Hobhouse.  for  example.  But  I liked  Lewis;  he  was  the  jew£. 
of  a man,  had  he  been  better  set; — I don’t  mean  personally , bul 
less  tiresome,  for  he  was  tedious,  as  well  as  contradictory  to  every- 
thing and  every  body.  Poor  fellow  ! he  died  a martyr  to  his  new 
riches — of  a second  visit  to  Jamaica  : — 

“ I’d  give  the  lands  of  Deloraine, 

Dark  Musgrave  were  alive  again  ! ” 

That  is,— 

“ I would  give  many  a sugar  cane, 

Mat  Lewis  were  alive  again  ! ”] 

(5)  “For  every  one  knows  little  Matt’s  an  M.P.” — See  a poem 
to  Mr.  Lewis,  in  “ The  Statesman,”  supposed  to  be  written  by 
Mr.  Jekyll. 

(6)  [In  very  early  life,  “ Little’s  Poems”  were  Lord  Byron’s 
favourite  study.  “Heigho!”  he  exclaims,  in  1820,  in  a letter  to 
Moore,  “ I believe  all  the  mischief  1 have  ever  done,  or  sung,  has 
been  owing  to  that  confounded  book  of  yours.”] 

(7)  Originally,  “ mend  thy  life,  and  sin  no  more.”] 

(8)  The  reader,  who  may  wish  for  an  explanation  of  this,  may 
refer  to  “Strangford’s  Camoens,”  p.  127,  note  to  p.  56,  or  to  the 
last  page  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  of  Strangford’s  Camoens 

(9)  It  is  also  to  be  remarked,  that  the  things  given  to  the  ,-"blic 
as  poems  of  Camoens  are  no  more  to  be  found  in  the  original  Por- 
tuguese than  in  the  Song  of  Solomon. 

( 10)  Hayley’s  two  most  notorious  verse  productions  are  “Triumphs 
of  Temper,”  and  “The  Triumph  of  Music.”  He  has  also  written 
much  comedy  in  rhyme,  epistles,  &c.  &e.  As  he  is  rather  an 
elegant  writer  of  notes  and  biography,  let  us  recommend  Pope’s 
advice  to  Wycherley  to  Mr.  H.’s  consideration,  viz.  “to  convert 
his  poetry  into  prose,”  which  may  be  easily  done  by  taking  away 
the  final  syllable  of  each  couplet. — [The  only  performance  for 
which  Hayley  is  now  remembered  is  his  Life  of  Cowper.  His  per- 
sonal history  has  been  sketched  by  Mr.  Southey  in  the  Quarterly 
Review,  vol.  xxxi.  p.  263.] 

(11)  Mr.  Grahame  has  poured  forth  two  volumes  of  cant,  under 
the  name  of  “ Sabbath  Walks,”  and  “ Biblical  Pictures.” — [This 
very  amiable  man,  and  pleasing  poet,  published  subsequently 
“The  Birds  of  Scotland,”  and  other  pieces;  but  his  reputation 
rests  on  his  “ Sabbath.”  He  began  life  as  an  advocate  at  the  Edin- 
burgh bar ; but  he  had  little  success  there,  and  being  of  a melan- 
choly and  very  devout  temperament,  entered  into  holy  orders,  ani 
retired  to  a curacy  near  Durham,  where  he  died  in  1811.] 

3 i 


426 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Breaks  into  Wank  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke, 

AdcI  boldly  pilfers  from  the  Pentateuch  ; 

And,  undisturb’d  by  conscientious  qualms, 

Perverts  the  Prophets,  and  purloins  the  Psalms.* 

Hail,  Sympathy  ! thy  soft  idea  brings 1 
A thousand  visions  of  a thousand  things, 

And  shows,  still  whimpering  through  threescore  of 
years, 

The  maudlin  prince  of  mournful  sonneteers. 

And  art  thou  not  their  prince,  harmonious  Bowles  ! 
Thou  first,  great  oracle  of  tender  souls  ? 

Whether  thou  sing’st  with  equal  ease,  and  grief, 

The  fall  of  empires,  or  a yellow  leaf ; 

Whether  thy  muse  most  lamentably  tells 
What  merry  sounds  proceed  from  Oxford  bells,2 
Or,  still  in  bells  delighting,  finds  a friend 
In  every  chime  that  jingled  from  Ostend  ; 

Ah  ! how  much  juster  were  thy  muse’s  hap, 

If  to  thy  bells  thou  wouldst  but  add  a cap  ! 

Delightful  Bowles  ! still  blessing  and  still  blest, 

All  love  thy  strain,  but  children  like  it  best. 

’Tis  thine,  with  gentle  Little’s  moral  song, 

To  soothe  the  mania  of  the  amorous  throng  ! 

With  thee  our  nursery  damsels  shed  their  tears. 

Ere  miss  as  yet  completes  her  infant  years : 

But  in  her  teens  thy  whining  powers  are  vain  ; 

She  quits  poor  Bowles  for  Little’s  purer  strain.3 
Now  to  soft  themes  thou  scornest  to  confine 
The  lofty  numbers  of  a harp  like  thine  ; 

Awake  a louder  and  a lofter  strain,” 

Such  as  none  heard  before,  or  will  again  ! 


(!)  [Immediately  before  this  line,  we  find  in  the  original  manu- 
seript.  the  following,  which  Lord  Byron  good-naturedly  consented 
to  omit,  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Dallas,  who  was,  no  doubt,  a friend 
of  the  scribbler  they  refer  to : — 

“ In  verse  most  stale,  unprofitable,  flat — 

Come,  let  us  change  the  scene,  and  * glean ’ with  Pratt; 

In  him  an  author’s  luckless  lot  behold, 

Condemn’d  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold: 

Degraded  man  ! again  resume  thy  trade — 

The  votaries  of  the  Muse  are  ill  repaid, 

Though  daily  puffs  once  more  invite  to  buy 
A new  edition  of  thy  ‘ Sympathy.’  ” 

To  which  this  note  was  appended: — “ Mr.  Pratt,  once  a Bath 
bookseller,  now  a London  author,  has  written  as  much,  to  as  little 
purpose,  as  any  of  his  scribbling  cotemporaries.  Mr.  P.’s  ‘ Sym- 
pathy’ is  in  rhyme;  but  his  prose  productions  are  the  most  volu- 
minous.” The  more  popular  of  these  last  were  entitled  “ Glean- 
ings.”] 

(2)  See  Bowles’s  “ Sonnet  to  Oxford,”  and  “Stanzas  on  hearing 
the  Bells  of  Ostend.” 

(3)  “ Awake  a louder,”  &c.  is  the  first  line  in  Bowles’s  “ Spirit  of 
Discovery,”  a very  spirited  and  pretty  dwarf-epic.  Among  other 
exquisite  lines  we  have  the  following : — 

“ A kiss 

Stole  on  the  list’ning  silence,  never  yet 
Here  heard;  they  trembled  even  as  if  the  power,”  &c.  &c. 
That  is,  the  woods  of  Madeira  trembled  to  a kiss;  very  much 
astonished,  as  well  they  might  be,  at  such  a phenomenon. — [“  Mis- 
quoted and  misunderstood  by  me;  but  not  intentionally.  It  was 
not  the  ‘woods,’  but  the  people  in  them  who  trembled — wfhy, 
Heaven  only  knows — unless  they  were  overheard  making  the  pro- 
digious smack.” — Byron,  1816.] 

(4)  The  episode  above  alluded  to  is  the  story  of  “Robert  a 
Machin”  and  “ Anna  d’Arfet,”  a pair  of  constant  lovers,  who  per- 
formed the  kiss  above  mentioned,  that  startled  the  woods  of 
M adeira. 

(5)  [“Although,”  says  Lord  Byron,  in  1821,  “I  regret  having 

published  ‘ English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,’  the  part  which 

I regret  the  least  is  that  which  regards  Mr.  Bowles,  with  reference 

to  Pope.  Whilst  I was  writing  that  publication,  in  1807  and  1808, 

Mr.  Hobhouse  was  desirous  that  1 should  express  our  mutual 
opinion  of  Pope,  and  of  Mr.  Bowles’s  edition  of  his  works.  As  I 
had  completed  my  outline,  and  felt  lazy,  I requested  that  he  would 
do  so.  He  did  it.  His  fourteen  lines  on  Bowles’s  Pope  are  in  the 
first  edition  of  ‘ English  Bards,’  and  are  quite  as  severe,  and  much 


I Where  all  Discoveries  jumbled  from  the  fioud, 

[ Since  first  the  leaky  ark  reposed  in  mud, 

By  more  or  less,  are  sung  in  every  book, 

From  Captain  Noah  down  to  Captain  Cook. 

Nor  this  alone  ; but,  pausing  on  the  road, 

The  bard  sighs  forth  a gentle  episode  : 4 5 

And  gravely  tells — attend,  each  beauteous  miss ! — 

When  first  Madeira  trembled  to  a kiss. 

Bowles  ! in  thy  memory  let  this  precept  dwell, 

Stick  to  thy  sonnets,  man  ! — at  least  they  sell 1 
But  if  some  new-born  whim,  or  larger  bribe, 

Prompt  thy  crude  brain,  and  claim  thee  for  a scribe  ■, 
If  chance  some  bard,  though  once  by  dunces  fear’d. 
Now,  prone  in  dust,  can  only  be  revered; 

If  Pope,  whose  fame  and  genius  from  the  first 
Have  foil’d  the  best  of  critics,  needs  the  worst. 

Do  thou  essay  : each  fault,  each  failing  scan ; 

The  first  of  poets  was,  alas  ! but  man. 

Rake  from  each  ancient  dunghill  ev’ry  pearl, 

Consult  Lord  Fanny,  and  confide  in  Curll ; 6 
Let  all  the  scandals  of  a former  age 
Perch  on  thy  pen,  and  flutter  o’er  thy  page  ; 

Affect  a candour  which  thou  canst  not  feel, 

Clothe  envy  in  the  garb  of  honest  zeal ; 

Write,  as  if  St.  John’s  soul  could  still  inspire, 

And  do  from  hate  what  Mallet 7 * did  for  hire. 

Oh  ! hadst,  thou  lived  in  that'  congenial  time. 

To  rave  with  Dennis,  and  with  Ralph  to  rhyme  : * 
Throng’d  with  the  rest  around  his  living  head. 

Not  raised  thy  hoof  against  the  lion  dead ; 9 
A meet  reward  had  crown’d  thy  glorious  gains, 

And  link’d  thee  to  the  Dunciad  for  thy  pains.1'' 


more  poetical,  than  my  own  in  the  second.  On  reprinting  th  I 
work,  as  I put  my  name  to  it,  I omitted  Mr.  Hobhouse’s  line  -.  t> 
which  the  work  gained  less  than  Mr.  Bowles.” — The  following  ar*.  t 
the  lines  written  by  Mr.  Hobhouse 

“ Stick  to  thy  sonnets,  man  ! — at  least  they  sell., 

Or  take  the  only  path  that  open  lies 

For  modern  worthies  who  would  hope  to  rise; 

Fix  on  seme  well-known  name,  and,  bit  by  bit, 

Pare  off  the  merits  of  his  worth  and  wit ; 

On  each  alike  employ  the  critic’s  knife, 

And  when  a comment  fails,  prefix  a life ; 

Hint  certain  failings,  faults  before  unknown, 

Review  forgotten  lies,  and  add  your  own  ; 

Let  no  disease,  let  no  misfortune  ’scape, 

And  print,  if  luckily  deform’d,  his  shape : 

Thus  shall  the  world,  quite  undeceived  at  last,  r 1 

Cleave  to  their  present  wits,  and  quit  their  past; 

Bards  once  revered  no  more  with  favour  view, 

But  give  their  modern  sonneteers  their  due ; 

Thus  with  the  dead  may  living  merit  cope, 

Thus  Bowles  may  triumph  o’er  the  shade  of  Pope.’  ] 

(6)  Curll  is  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad,  and  was  a book-  - I 
seller.  Lord  Fanny  is  the  poetical  name  of  Lord  Hervey,  author  • 
of  “ Lines  to  the  Imitator  of  Horace.” 

(7)  Lord  Bolingbroke  hired  Mallet  to  traduce  Pope  after  his  j 
decease,  because  the  poet  had  retained  some  copies  of  a work  by/  ji 
Lord  Bolingbroke — “ The  Patriot  King,” — which  that  splendid  but  , 
malignant  genius  had  ordered  to  be  destroyed. — [“  Bolingbroke’*  t 
thirst  of  vengeance,”  says  Dr.  Johnson,  “incited  him  to  blast  the V 
memory  of  the  man  over  whom  he  had  wept  in  his  last  struggles ; ; 
and  he  employed  Mallet,  another  friend  of  Pope,  to  tell  the  tale  t°  f 
the  public,  with  all  its  aggravations.”] 

(8)  Dennis  the  critic,  and  Ralph  the  rhymester : — 

“ Silence,  ye  w’olves  ! while  Ralph  to  Cynthia  howis, 

Making  night  hideous  : answer  him,  ye  owls!  ” — Dunctaa 

(9)  See  Bowles’s  late  edition  of  Pope’s  Works,  for  which  he 
received  three  hundred  pounds.  Thus  Mr.  B.  has  experienced 
how  much  easier  it  is  to  profit  by  the  reputation  of  another  than  tc 
elevate  his  own. 

(10)  [Lord  Byron’s  MS.  note  of  1816  on  this  passage  is,- “Too 
savage  all  this  on  Bowles and  well  might  he  say  so.  Tha' 
venerable  person  is  still  living:  and  in  spite  of  all  the  criticisms  tr 
which  his  injudicious  edition  of  Pope  exposed  him  afterwards,  ther* 
can  be  no  doubt  that  Lord  B.,  in  his  calmer  moments,  did  justic* 
to  that  exquisite  poetical  genius  which,  by  their  own  confession,  , 
originally  inspired  both  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.] 


427 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


Another  epic!  Who  inflicts  again 
More  books  of  blank  upon  the  sons  of  men  . 
Boeotian  Cottle,  rich  Bristowa’s  boast, 

Imports  old  stories  from  the  Cambrian  coast, 

And  sends  his  goods  to  market  all  ali\e  . 

Lines  forty  thousand,  cantos  twenty-five  ! 

Fresh  fish  from  Helicon  ! who  11  buy  ! who  11  buy  ? 
The  precious  bargain’s  cheap — in  faith,  not  I. 

Your  turtle-feeder’s  verse  must  needs  be  flat, 
Though  Bristol  bloat  him  with  the  verdant  fat ; 

If  Commerce  fills  the  purse,  she  clogs  the  brain, 
And  Amos  Cottle  strikes  the  lyre  in  vam. 

In  him  an  author’s  luckless  lot  behold, 

Condemn’d  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold. 
Oh,  Amos  Cottle !— Phoebus  ! what  a name, 

To  fill  the  speaking  trump  of  future  fame  ! — 

Oh,  Amos  Cottle  f for  a moment  think 
What  meagre  profits  spring  from  pen  and  ink  ! 
When  thus  devoted  to  poetic  dreams, 

Who  will  peruse  thy  prostituted  reams  ? 

Oh  pen  perverted  ! paper  misapplied  ! 

Had  Cottle1  2 still  adorn’d  the  counter’s  side, 

Bent,  o’er  the  desk,  or,  born  to  useful  toils, 

Been  taught  to  make  the  paper  which  he  soils. 
Plough’d,  delved,  or  plied  the  oar  with  lusty  limb, 
He  had  not  sung  of  Wales,  nor  I of  him.3 


A*  Sisyphus  against  the  infernal  steep 
Rolls  the"  huge  rock  whose  motions  ne’er  may  sleep, 
So  up  thy  hill,  ambrosial  Richmond,  heaves 
Dull  Maurice 4 all  his  granite  weight  of  leaves  : 
Smooth,  solid  monuments  of  mental  pain  ! 

The  petrifactions  of  a plodding  brain, 

That  ere  they  reach  the  top,  fall  lumbering  back 
again. 


Yet  say ! why  should  the  bard  at  once  resign 
His  claim  to  favour  from  the  sacred  Nine  ? 

For  ever  startled  by  the  mingled  howl 
Of  northern  wolves,  that  still  in  darkness  prowl ; 

A coward  brood,  which  mangle  as  they  prey, 

By  hellish  instinct,  all  that  cross  their  way ; 

Aged  or  young,  the  living  or  the  dead, 

No  mercy  find — these  harpies6 *  must,  be  fed. 

W hy  do  the  injured  unresisting  yield 
The  calm  possession  of  their  native  field  ? 

Why  tamely  thus  before  their  fangs  retreat, 

Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  back  to  Arthur’s  Seat  P * 

Health  to  immortal  Jeffrey ! 8 once,  in  name, 
England  could  boast  a judge  almost  the  same  ^ 

In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  yet  just, 

Some  think  that  Satan  has  resign’d  his  trust. 

And  given  the  spirit  to  the  world  again, 

To  sentence  letters,  as  he  sentenced  men. 

With  hand  less  mighty,  but  with  heart  as  black. 
With  voice  as  willing  to  decree  the  rack  ; 

Bred  in  the  courts  betimes,  though  all  that  law 
As  yet  hath  taught  him  is  to  find  a flaw ; 

Since  well  instructed  in  the  patriot  school 
To  rail  at  party,  though  a party  tool, 

Who  knows,  if  chance  his  patrons  should  restore 
Back  to  the  sway  they  forfeited  before, 

His  scribbling  toils  some  recompense  may  meet, 
And  raise  this  Daniel  to  the  judgment  seat  ? 9 
Let  Jeffries’  shade  indulge  the  pious  hope, 

And  greeting  thus,  present  him  with  a rope  : 

“ Heir  to  my  virtues  ! man  of  equal  mind  ! 

Skill’d  to  condemn  as  to  traduce  mankind. 

This  cord  receive,- for  thee  reserved  with  care. 

To  wield  in  judgment,  and  at.  length  to  wear.’’ 


With  broken  lyre,  and  cheek  serenely  pale, 

Lo  ! sad  Alcaeus  wanders  down  the  vale ; 

Though  fair  they  rose,  and  might  have  bloom’d  at  last, 
His  hopes  have  perish’d  by  the  northern  blast : 

Nipp’d  in  the  bud  by  Caledonian  gales, 

His  blossoms  wither  as  the  blast  prevails  ! 

O’er  his  lost  works  let  classic  Sheffield  weep ; 

May  no  rude  hand  disturb  their  early  sleep  ! 5 


Health  to  great  Jeffrey  ! Heaven  preserve  his  life 
To  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 

And  guard  it  sacred  in  its  future  wars, 

Since  authors  sometimes  seek  Ihe  field  of  Mars  ! 
Can  none  remember  that  eventful  day,10 
That  ever  glorious,  almost  fatal  fray, 

W'hen  Little’s  leadless  pistol  met  his  eye, 

And  Bow-street  myrmidons  stood  laughing  by  ? 11 


(1)  [“Fresh  fish  from  Helicon!” — “Helicon”  is  a mountain, 
and  not  a fish-pond.  It  should  have  been  “ Hippocrene.”— Byron, 

1816.] 

(2)  Mr.  Cottle,  Amos,  Joseph,  I don’t  know  which,  but  one  or 
both,  once  sellers  of  books  they  did  not  write,  and  now  writers  of 
books  that  do  not  sell,  have  published  a pair  of  epics.  “ Alfred,” 
— (poor  Alfred ! Pye  has  been  at  him  too!) — “Alfred,”  and  the 
“ Fall  of  Cambria.” 

(3)  [Here  Lord  B.  notes  in  1816  “ All  right.  I saw  some  let- 

ters of  this  fellow  (Joseph  Cottle)  to  an  unfortunate  poetess,  whose 
productions,  which  the  poor  woman  by  no  means  thought  vainly 
of,  he  attacked  so  roughly  and  bitterly,  that  I could  hardly  resist 
assailing  him,  even  were  it  unjust,  which  it  is  not — for  verily  he  is 
an  ass  ’—  B.  1816. — The  same  person  has  had  the  honour  to  be 
recorded  in  the  Antijacobin,  probably  by  Canning: — 

“ And  Cottle,  not  he  who  that  Alfred  made  famous, 

But  Joseph,  of  Bristol,  the  brother  of  Amos.” 

(4)  Mr.  Maurice  hath  manufactured  the  component  parts  of  a 
ponderous  quarto,  upon  the  beauties  of  “ Richmond  Hill,”  and  the 
like : — it  also  takes  in  a charming  view  of  Turnham  Green,  Ham- 
mersmith, Brentford,  Old  and  New,  and  the  parts  adjacent. — [The 
Ptev.  Thomas  Maurice  also  wrote  “ Westminster  Abbey,”  and  other 
poems,  the  “ History  of  Ancient  and  Modern  Hindostan,”  & c.,  and 
his  own  “Memoirs;  comprehending  Anecdotes  of  Literary  Charac- 
ters, during  a period  of  thirty  years — a very  amusing  piece  of 
autobiography.  He  died  in  1824,  at  his  apartments  in  the  British 
Museum;  where  hehad  been  for  someyears  assistant  keeper  of  MSS.] 

(5)  Poor  Montgomery,  though  praised  by  every  English  Review, 

has  been  bitterly  reviled  by  the  Edinburgh.  After  all,  the  bard  of 

Sheffield  is  a man  of  considerable  genius.  His  “ Wanderer  of 

Switzerland”  is  worth  a thousand  “ Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  at  least 

fifty  “ degraded  epics.” 


(6)  [In  a MS.  critique  on  this  satire,  by  the  late  Reverend  Wil- 
liam Crowe,  public  orator  at  Oxford,  the  incongruity  of  these  meta- 
phors is  thus  noticed : — “ Within  the  space  of  three  or  four  couplets 
he  transforms  a man  into  as  many  different  animals : allow  him 
but  the  compass  of  three  lines,  and  he  will  metamorphose  him  from 
a wolf  into  a harpy,  and  in  three  more  he  will  make  him  a blood- 
hound.” On  seeing  Mr.  Crowe’s  remarks,  Lord  Byron  desired  Mr. 
Murray  to  substitute,  in  the  copy  in  his  possession,  for  “ hellish 
instinct,”  “ brutal  instinct,”  for  “ harpies ” “ felons ,”  and  for 
“ blood  hounds ,”  “ hell-hounds.u'] 

(7)  Arthur’s  Seat;  the  hill  which  overhangs  Edinburgh. 

(8)  [Mr.  Jeffrey,  who,  after  the  first  number  or  two,  succeeded 
the  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  in  the  editorship  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
retired  from  his  critical  post  some  little  time  before  he  was  appointed 
Lord  Advocate  for  Scotland:  he  is  now  (1836)  a Lord  of  Session. 
“ I have  often,  since  my  return  to  England,”  says  Lord  Byron, 
{Diary,  1814,)  “heard  Jeffrey  most  highly  commended  by  those 
who  knew  him,  for  things  independent  of  his  talents.  I admire 
him  for  this—  not  because  he  has  praised  me,  but  because  he  is, 
perhaps,  the  only  man  who,  under  the  relations  in  which  he  and  I 
stand,  or  stood,  with  regard  to  each  other,  would  have  had  the 
liberality  to  act  thus:  none  but  a great  soul  dared  hazard  it — a 
little  scribbler  would  have  gone  on  cavilling  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter.”] 

(9)  “ Too  ferocious — this  is  mere  insanity.” — B.  1816.] 

(10)  [“  All  this  is  bad,  because  personal.” — B.  1816.] 

(11)  In  1806,  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Moore  met  at  Chalk-Farm. 
The  duel  was  prevented  by  the  interference  of  the  magistracy; 
and,  on  examination,  the  balls  of  the  pistols  were  found  to  have 
evaporated.  This  incident  gave  occasion  to  much  waggery  in  the 
daily  prints.  [The  above  note  was  struck  out  of  the  fifth  edition, 
and  the  following,  after  being  submitted  to  Mr.  Mooro,  subuti  rtac 


428 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


Oh,  day  disastrous  ! On  her  firm-set  rock, 

Dunedin’s  castle  felt  a secret  shock  ; 

Dark  roll’d  the  sympathetic  waves  of  Forth, 

Low  groan’d  the  startled  whirlwinds  of  the  north  ; 
Tweed  ruffled  half  his  waves  to  form  a tear, 

The  other  half  pursued  its  calm  career ;*  1 
Arthur’s  steep  summit  nodded  to  its  base, 

The  surly  Tol  booth  scarcely  kept  her  place. 

The  Tolbooth  felt — for  marble  sometimes  can, 

On  such  occasions,  feel  as  much  as  man — 

The  Tolbooth  felt  defrauded  of  his  charms, 

If  Jeffrey  died,  except  within  her  arms  : 2 
Nay  last,  not  least,  on  that  portentous  morn, 

The  sixteenth  story,  where  liimself  was  born, 

His  patrimonial  garret,  fell  to  ground, 

And  pale  Edina  shudder’d  at  the  sound  : 

Strew’d  were  the  streets  around  with  milk-white 
reams, 

Flow’d  all  the  Canongate  with  inky  streams  ; 

This  of  his  candour  seem’d  the  sable  dew, 

That  of  his  valour  show’d  the  bloodless  hue ; 

And  all  with  justice  deem’d  the  two  combined 
The  mingled  emblems  of  his  mighty  mind. 

But  Caledonia’s  goddess  hover’d  o’er 

The  field,  and  saved  him  from  the  wrath  of  Moore ; 

From  either  pistol  snatch’d  the  vengeful  lead, 

And  straight  restored  it  to  her  favourite’s  head ; 

That  head,  with  greater  than  magnetic  pow’r, 

Caught  it,  as  Danae  caught  the  golden  sliow’r, 

And,  though  the  thickening  dross  will  scarce  refine, 
Augments  its  ore,  and  is  itself  a mine. 

“ Mv  son,”  she  cried,  “ ne’er  thirst  for  gore  again, 
Resign  the  pistol,  and  resume  the  pen ; 

O’er  politics  and  poesy  preside. 


in  its  place: — “I  am  informed  that  Mr.  Moore  published  at  the 
time  a disavowal  of  the  statements  in  the  newspapers,  as  far  as 
regarded  himself ; and,  in  justice  to  him,  I mention  this  circum- 
stance. As  I never  heard  of  it  before,  I cannot  state  the  particu- 
lars, and  was  only  made  acquainted  with  the  fact  very  lately. — 
November  4,  1811.] 

(1)  The  Tweed  here  behaved  with  proper  decorum;  it  would 
have  been  highly  reprehensible  in  the  English  half  of  the  river  to 
have  shown  the  smallest  sympton  of  apprehension. 

(2)  This  display  of  sympathy  on  the  part  of  the  Tolbooth  (the 
principal  prison  in  Edinburgh),  which  truly  seems  to  have  been 
most  affected  on  this  occasion,  is  much  to  be  commended.  It  was 
to  be  apprehended,  that  the  many  unhappy  criminals  executed  in 
the  front  might  have  rendered  the  edifice  more  callous.  She  is 
said  to  be  of  the  softer  sex,  because  her  delicacy  of  feeling  on  this 
day  was  truly  feminine,  though,  like  most  feminine  impulses,  per- 
haps a little  selfish. 

(3)  His  lordship  has  been  much  abroad,  is  a member  of  the 
Athenian  Society,  and  reviewer  of  “ Gell’s  Topography  of  Troy.” — 
[George  Hamilton  Gordon,  fourth  Earl  of  Aberdeen,  K.T.,  F.R.S., 
and  P.S.A.  In  1822,  his  lordship  published  an  “ Inquiry  into  the 
Principles  of  Beauty  in  Grecian  Architecture.”] 

(4)  Mr.  Herbert  is  a translator  of  Icelandic  and  other  poetry. 
One  of  the  principal  pieces  is  a “ Song  on  the  Recovery  of  Thor’s 
Hammer the  translation  is  a pleasant  chant  in  the  vulgar  tongue, 
and  endeth  thus : — 

“ Instead  of  money  and  rings,  I wot, 

The  hammer’s  bruises  were  her  lot, 

Thus  Odin’s  son  his  hammer  got.” 

[The  Hon.  William  Herbert,  brother  to  the  Earl  of  Carnarvon.  He 
also  published,  in  1811,  “ Helga,”  a poem  in  seven  cantos. 

(5)  The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  the  reputed  author  of  Peter  Plym- 

ley’s  Letters,  and  sundry  criticisms. — [Now  (1836)  one  of  the 
Canons  Residentiary  of  St.  Paul’s,  &c.  “ Dyson’s  Address  to  his 

Constituents  on  the  Reform  Bill,”  and  many  other  pieces  pub- 
lished anonymously  or  pseudonoi  tously,  are  generally  ascribed  to 
this  eminently  witty  person,  who  has  put  forth  nothing,  it  is  be- 
lieved, in  his  own  name,  except  a volume  of  Sermons.] 

(6)  Mr.  Hallam  reviewed  Payne  Knight’s  “ Taste.”  and  was  ex- 
ceedingly severe  on  some  Greek  verses  therein.  It  was  not  dis- 
covered that  the  lines  were  Pindar’s  till  the  press  rendered  it 

impossible  to  cancel  the  critique,  which  still  stands  an  everlasting 

monument  of  Hallam’s  ingenuity. — Note  added  to  second  edition. — 
The  said  Hallam  is  incensed  because  he  is  falsely  accused,  seeing 

that  he  never  dineth  at  Holland  House.  If  this  be  true,  I am  sorry 

—not  for  having  said  so,  but  on  his  account,  as  I understand  his 


Boast  of  thy  country,  and  Bmannia’s  guide ! 1 
For  long  as  Albion’s  heedless  sons  submit. 

Or  Scottish  taste  decides  on  English  wit, 

So  long  shall  last  thine  unmolested  reign. 

Nor  any  dare  to  take  thy  name  in  vain. 

Behold,  a chosen  band  shall  aid  thy  plan. 

And  own  thee  chieftain  of  the  critic  clan. 

First  in  the  oat-fed  phalanx  shall  be  seen 
The  travell’d  thane,  Athenian  Aberdeen.3 
Herbert  shall  wield  Thor’s  hammer,4  and  sometimes, 
In  gratitude,  thou’lt  praise  his  rugged  rhymes. 
Smug  Sydney 5 too  thy  bitter  page  shall  seek, 

And  classic  Hallam,6  much  renowned  for  Greek  ; 
Scott  may  perchance  his  name  and  influence  lend, 
And  paltry  Pillans7  shall  traduce  his  friend; 

While  gay  Thalia’s  luckless  votary,  Lambe,8 
Damn’d  like  the  devil,  devil-like  will  damn. 

Known  be  thy  name,  unbounded  be  thy  sway  ! 

Thy  Holland’s  banquets  shall  each  toil  repay  ; 

While  grateful  Britain  yields  the  praise  she  owes 
To  Holland’s  hirelings  and  to  learning’s  foes. 

Yet  mark  one  caution  ere  thy  next  Review 
Spread  its  light  wings  of  saffron  and  of  blue, 

Beware  lest  blundering  Brougham9  destroy  the  sale, 
Turn  beef  to  bannocks,  cauliflowers  to  kail.” 

Thus  having  said,  the  kilted  goddess  kist 
Her  son,  and  vanish’d  in  a Scottish  mist.10 

Then  prosper  Jeffrey  ! pertest  of  the  train 
Whom  Scotland  pampers  with  her  fiery  grain ! 
Whatever  blessing  waits  a genuine  Scot, 

In  double  portion  swells  thy  glorious  lot ; 

For  thee  Edina  culls  her  evening  sweets, 

And  showers  their  odours  on  thy  candid  sheets, 


lordship’s  feasts  are  preferable  to  his  compositions.  If  he  did  not 
review  Lord  Holland’s  performance,  I am  glad,  because  it  must 
have  been  painful  to  read,  and  irksome  to  praise  it.  If  Mr.  Hallam 
will  tell  me  who  did  review  it,  the  real  name  shall  find  a place  in 
the  text;  provided,  nevertheless,  the  said  name  be  of  two  orthodox 
musical  syllables,  and  will  come  into  the  ver-u  : till  then,  Hallam 
must  stand  for  want  of  a better. — [It  cannot  be  necessary  to  vindi- 
cate the  great  author  of  the  “ Middle  Ages”  and  the  “ Constitutional 
History  of  England”  from  the  insinuations  of  the  juvenile  poet.] 

(7)  Pillans  is  a tutor  at  Eton. — [Mr.  Pillans  became  afterwards 
Rector  of  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh,  and  has  now  been  for 
some  years  Professor  of  Humanity  in  that  University.  There  was 
not,  it  is  believed,  the  slightest  foundation  for  the  charge  in  the 
text.] 

(8)  The  Hon.  George  Lambe  reviewed  “ Beresford’s  Miseries,” 
and  is,  moreover,  author  of  a farce  enacted  with  much  applause  at 
the  Friory,  Stanmore ; and  damned  with  great  expedition  at  the 
late  theatre,  Covent  Garden.  It  was  entitled,  “ Whistle  for  It.” — 
[Mr.  Lambe  was,  in  1818,  the  successful  candidate  for  the  repre- 
sentation of  Westminster,  in  opposition  to  Mr.  Hobhouse;  who, 
however,  defeated  him  in  the  following  year.  In  1821,  Mr.  Lambe 
published  a translation  of  Catullus.  In  1832,  he  was  appointed 
Under  Secretary  of  State  for  the  Home  Department,  his  chief  being 
his  brother,  Lord  Melbourne.  He  died  in  1833.] 

(9)  Mr.  Brougham,  in  No.  xxv.  of  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
throughout  the  article  concerning  Don  Pedro  de  Cevallos,  has  dis- 
played more  politics  than  policy  ; many  of  the  worthy  burgesses  ot 
F^iinburgh  being  so  incensed  at  the  infamous  principles  it  evinces, 
as  to  have  withdrawn  their  subscriptions. — [Here  followed,  in  the 
first  edition,— “ The  name  of  this  personage  is  pronounced  Broom 
in  the  south,  but  the  truly  northern  and  musical  pronunciation  is 
Brough-am,  in  two  syllables  ;”  but  for  this  Lord  B.  substituted  in 
the  second  edition  : — “ It  seems  that  Mr.  Brougham  is  not  a Piet,  as 
1 supposed,  but  a Borderer,  and  his  name  is  pronounced  Broom, 
from  Trent  to  Tay  : — so  be  it.”] 

(10)  I ought  to  apologise  to  the  worthy  deities  for  introducing  a 
new  goddess  with  short  petticoats  to  their  notice : but,  alas!  what 
was  to  be  done  ? I could  not  say  Caledonia’s  genius,  it  being  well 
known  there  is  no  such  genius  to  be  found  from  Clackmannan  to 
Caithness  ; yet,  without  supernatural  agency,  how  was  Jeffrey  to  be 
saved  ? The  national  “ kelpies”  are  too  unpoetical,  anil  the 
“brownies”  and  “ gude  neighbours”  (spirits  of  a good  disposition) 
refused  to  extricate  him.  A goddess,  therefore,  has  been  called  for 
the  purpose;  and  great  ought  to  be  the  gratitude  of  Jeffrey,  seeing 
it  is  the  only  communication  he  ever  held,  or  is  likely  to  holi,  with 
any  tiling  heavenly. 


ENGLISH  BAUDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


429 


Whose  hue  and  fragrance  to  t%  work  adhere — 

This  scents  its  pages,  and  that  gilds  its  rear.1 
Lo  ! blushing  Itch,  coy  nymph,  enamour’d  grown, 
Forsakes  the  rest,  and  cleaves  to  thee  alone : 

And,  too  unjust  to  other  Pictish  men, 

Enjoys  thy  person,  and  inspires  thy  pen  ! 2 

Illustrious  Holland ! hard  would  be  his  lot, 

His  hirelings  mention’d,  and  himself  forgot!3 
Holland,  with  Henry  Petty4  at  his  back, 

The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  the  pack. 

Blest  be  the  banquets  spread  at  Holland  House,5 
"Where  Scotchmen  feed,  and  critics  may  carouse  ! 
Long,  long  beneath  that  hospitable  roof 
Shall  Grub-street  dine,  while  duns  are  kept  aloof. 

See  honest  Hallam  lay  aside  his  fork, 

Resume  his  pen,  review  his  Lordship’s  work. 

And,  grateful  for  the  dainties  on  his  plate, 

Declare  his  landlord  can  at  least  translate  !6 
Dunedin ! view  thy  children  with  delight, 

They  write  for  food — and  feed  because  they  write  : 
And  lest,  when  heated  with  the  unusual  grape, 

Some  glowing  thoughts  should  to  the  press  escape, 
And  tinge  with  red  the  female  reader’s  cheek, 

My  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  critique  ; 

Breathes  o’er  the  page  her  purity  of  soul, 

Reforms  each  error,  and  refines  the  whole.7 

Now  to  the  Drama  turn — Oh  ! motley  sight ! 

What  precious  scenes  the  wondering  eyes  invite ! 
Puns,  and  a prince  within  a barrel  pent,8 
And  Dibdin’s  nonsense  yield  complete  content. 
Though  now,  tl  ank  Heaven  ! the  Rosciomania’s  o’er, 
And  full-grown  actors  are  endured  once  more  ; 


1,1)  See  the  colour  of  the  back  binding  of  the  Edinburgh  Re- 

riew. 

(2)  [In  the  tenth  canto  of  Don  Juan,  Lord  Byron  pays  the  fol- 
lowing pretty  compliment  to  his  quondam  antagonist : 

“ And  all  our  little  feuds — at  least  all  mine — 

Dear  Jeffrey,  once  my  most  redoubted  foe, 

(As  far  as  rhyme  and  criticism  combine 
To  make  such  puppets  of  us  things  below,) 

Are  over : here’s  a health  to  ‘ Auld  Lang  Syne;’ 

I do  not  know  you,  and  may  never  know 
Your  face— but  you  have  acted  on  the  whole 
Most  nobly,  and  I own  it  from  my  soul.”] 

(3)  [“Bad  enough,  and  on  mistaken  grounds  too.” — B.  1816.] 

(4)  [Lord  Henry  Petty  ; — now  (1836)  Marquess  of  I.ansdowne.] 

(5)  [In  1813,  Lord  Byron  dedicated  the  Bride  of  Abydos  to  Lord 
Holland:  and  we  lind  in  his  Journal  (Nov.  17th)  this  passage : — 
“ I have  had  a most  kind  letter  from  Lord  Holland  on  the  Bride  of 
Abydos,  which  he  likes,  and  so  does  Lady  H.  This  is  very  good- 
natured  in  both,  from  whom  I don’t  deserve  any  quarter.  Yet  I 
did  think  at  the  time,  that  my  cause  of  enmity  proceeded  from 
Holland  House,  and  am  glad  I was  wrong,  and  wish  I had  not  been 
in  such  a hurry  with  that  confounded  Satire,  of  which  I would  sup- 
press even  the  memory  ; but  people,  now  they  can’t  get  it,  make  a 
fuss,  I verily  believe  out  of  contradiction.”] 

(6)  Lord  Holland  has  translated  some  specimens  of  Lope  de  Vega, 
inserted  in  his  life  of  the  author.  Beth  are  bepraised  by  his  dist Ti- 
ler et  ted  guests.— [We  are  not  aware  that  Lord  Holland  has  sub- 
lequently  published  any  verses,  except  an  universally  admired  ver- 
sion of  the  28th  canto  of  the  Orlando  Furioso,  which  is  given  by 
way  of  appendix  to  one  of  Mr.  W.  Stewart  Rose’s  volumes.] 

(7)  Certain  it  is,  her  ladyship  is  suspected  of  having  displayed 
her  matchless  wit  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  However  that  may 
be,  we  know,  from  good  authority,  that  the  manuscripts  are  sub- 
mitted to  her  perusal — no  doubt,  for  correction. 

(8)  In  the  melo-drama  of  Tekeli,  that  heroic  prince  is  clapt  into 

a barrel  on  the  stage;  a new  asylum  for  distressed  heroes. — [In the 

original  MS.  the  note  stands  thus  “ In  the  melo-drama  of  Tekeli, 

that  heroic  prince  is  clapt  into  a barrel  on  the  stage,  and  Count 

Evrard  in  the  fortress  hides  himself  in  a greenhouse  built  ex- 

pressly for  the  occasion.  ’Tis  a pity  that  Theodore  Hook,  who  is 

really  a man  of  talent,  should  confine  his  genius  to  such  paltry  pro- 
ductions as  the  ‘Fortress,’  ‘Music  Mad,’  &c.  &c.”— This  extraor- 
dinary humourist,  who  was  a mere  boy  at  the  date  of  Lord  Byron’s 


Yet  wluit  avail  their  vain  attempts  to  please, 

TVhile  British  critics  suffer  scenes  like  these; 

While  Reynolds  vents  his  “dammes!”  “poohs!” 
and  “ zounds ! ” 9 * * 

And  common-place  and  common  sense  confounds  ? 
While  Kenney’s  “ World” — ah  ! where  is  Kenney’s  R 
wit  ? — 

Tires  the  sad  gallery,  lulls  the  listless  pit ; 

And  Beaumont’s  pilfer’d  Caratach  affords 
A tragedy  complete  in  all  but  words  ?u 
Who  but  must  mourn,  while  these  are  all  the  rage. 
The  degradation  of  our  vaunted  stage  ! 

Heavens  ! is  all  sense  of  shame  and  talent  gone  ? 

Have  we  no  living  bard  of  merit  ? — none  ! 

Awake,  George  Colman  ! 12  Cumberland,13  awake  ! 
Ring  the  alarum  bell ! let  folly  quake  ! 

Oh  ! Sheridan ! if  aught  can  move  thy  pen, 

Let  Comedy  assume  her  throne  again  ; 

Abjure  the  mummery  of  the  German  schools  ; 

Leave  new  Pizarros  to  translating  fools ; 

Give,  as  thy  last  memorial  to  the  age, 

One  classic  drama,  and  reform  the  stage. 

Gods  ! o’er  those  boards  shall  Folly  rear  her  head, 
Where  Garrick  trod,  and  Siddons  lives  to  tread  ?14 
On  those  shall  Farce  display  Buffoon’ry’s  mask, 

And  Hook  conceal  his  heroes  in  a cask  ? 

Shall  sapient  managers  new  scenes  produce 
From  Cherry,  Skeffington,  and  Mother  Goose? 

While  Shakespeare,  Otway,  Massinger,  forgot, 

On  stalls  must  moulder,  or  in  closets  rot  ? 

Lo ! with  what  pomp  the  daily  prints  proclaim 
The  rival  candidates  for  Attic  fame  ! 

In  grim  array  though  Lewis’  spectres  rise, 

Still  Skeffington  and  Goose  divide  the  prize.5 


satire,  has  since  distinguished  himself  by  works  more  worthy  of  his 
abilities — nine  volumes  of  highly  popular  novels,  entitled  “ Savings 
and  Doings” — “ Gilbert  Gurney” — a world  of  political  jeux  d'  esprit, 
&c.  &c.] 

(9)  All  these  are  favourite  expressions  of  Mr.  Reynolds,  and  pro- 
minent in  his  comedies,  living  and  defunct. — [The  reader  is  referred 
to  Mr.  Reynolds’s  Autobiography,  published  in  1826,  for  a full  ac- 
count of  his  voluminous  writings  for  the  stage.] 

(10)  [Mr.  Kenney  has  since  written  many  successful  dramas.] 

(11)  Mr.  Thomas  Sheridan,  the  new  manager  of  Drury  Lane  the- 
atre, stripped  the  tragedy  of  Bonduca  of  the  dialogue,  and  exhibited 
the  scenes  as  the  spectacle  of  Caractacus.  Was  this  worthy  of  his 
sire  ? or  of  himself  ? — [Thomas  Sheridan,  who  united  much  of  the 
convivial  wit  of  his  parent  to  many  amiable  qualities,  received, 
after  the  termination  of  his  theatrical  management,  the  appoint- 
ment. of  colonial  paymaster  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  where  he 
died  in  September,  1817,  leaving  a widow,  whose  novel  of  “Car- 
well”  has  obtained  much  approbation,  and  several  children  ; among 
others,  the  accomplished  authoress  of  “ Rosalie”  and  other  poems, 
now  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Norton.] 

(12)  [Lord  Byron  entertained  a high  opinion  of  George  Colman’s 
convivial  powers. — “ If  I had,”  he  says,  “ to  choose,  and  could  not 
have  both  at  a time,  I should  say,  1 Let  me  begin  the  evening  with 
Sheridan,  and  finish  it  with  Colman.  Sheridan  for  dinner,  and 
Colman  for  supper ; Sheridan  for  claret  or  port,  but  Colman  for 
every  thing.  Sheridan  was  a grenadier  company  of  life-guards,  but 
Colman  a whole  regiment — of  light  infantry,  to  be  sure,  but  still  a 
regiment.  Mr.  Colman  died  in  October,  1836.”] 

(13)  [Richard  Cumberland,  the  well-known  author  of  the  “ West 
Indian,”  the  “ Observer,”  and  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  auto- 
biographies, died  in  1811.] 

(14)  [In  all  editions  previous  to  the  fifth  it  was,  “ Kemble  lives 
to  tread.”  Lord  Byron  used  to  say,  that,  “ of  actors,  Cooke  was  the 
most  natural,  Kemble  the  most  supernatural,  Kean  the  medium 
between  the  two  ; but  that  Mrs.  Siddons  was  worth  them  all  put 
together.”  Such  effect,  however,  had  Kean’s  acting  on  his  mind, 
that  once,  on  seeing  him  play  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  he  was  seized 
with  a sort  of  convulsive  fit.  John  Kemble  died  in  1823, — his 
illustrious  sister  in  1830.] 

(15)  Dibdin’s  pantomine  of  Mother  Goose  had  a run  of  nearly  a 
hundred  nights,  and  brought  more  than  twenty  thousand  pounds  to 
the  treasury  of  Covent  Garden  theatre.] 


430 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


And  sure  great  Skeffington  must  claim  our  praise, 
For  skirtless  coats  and  skeletons  of  plays 
Renown’ d alike  ; whose  genius  ne’er  confines 
Her  flight  to  garnish  Greenwood’s  gay  designs 
Nor  sleeps  with  “ Sleeping  Beauties,”  but  anon 
In  live  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on.2 
While  poor  John  Bull,  bewilder’d  with  the  scene, 
Stares,  wondering  what  the  devil  it  can  mean ; 

But  as  some  hands  applaud,  a venal  few  ! 

Rather  than  sleep,  why  Jolm  applauds  it  too. 

Such  are  we  now.  Ah  ! wherefore  should  we  turn 
To  what  our  fathers  were,  unless  to  mourn  ? 
Degenerate  Britons  ! are  ye  dead  to  shame, 

Or,  kind  to  dulness,  do  you  fear  to  blame  ? 

Well  may  the  nobles  of  our  present  race 
Watch  each  distortion  of  a Naldi’s  face  ; 

Well  may  they  smile  on  Italy’s  buffoons, 

And  worship  Catalani’s  pantaloons,3 
Since  their  own  drama  yields  no  fairer  trace 
Of  wit  than  puns,  of  humour  than  grimace.4 

Then  let  Ausonia,  skill’d  in  every  art 
To  soften  manners,  but  corrupt  the  heart, 

Pour  her  exotic  follies  o’er  the  town, 

To  sanction  Vice,  and  hunt  Decorum  down : 

Let  wedded  strumpets  languish  o’er  Deshayes, 

And  bless  the  promise  which  his  form  displays ; 

While  Gayton  bounds  before  th’  enraptured  looks 
Of  hoary  marquises  and  stripling  dukes  : 

Let  high-born  lechers  eye  the  lively  Presle 
Twirl  her  light  limbs,  that  spurn  the  needless  veil ; 
Let  Angiolini  bare  her  breast  of  snow, 

Wave  her  white  arm,  and  point  the  pliant  toe ; 

Collini  trill  her  love-inspiring  song, 

Strain  her  fair  neck,  and  charm  the  listening  throng  ! 
Whet  not  your  scythes,  suppressors  of  our  vice  ! 
Reforming  saints  ! too  delicately  nice  ! 

By  whose  decrees,  our  sinful  souls  to  save, 

No  Sunday  tankards  foam,  no  barbers  shave ; 

And  beer  undrawn,  and  beards  unmown,  display 
Your  holy  reverence  for  the  Sabbath-day. 

Or  hail  at  once  the  patron  and  the  pile 
Of  vice  and  folly,  Greville  and  Argyle  ! 5 
Where  yon  proud  palace,  Fashion’s  hallow’d  fane, 
Spreads  wide  her  portals  for  the  motley  train, 


(1)  Mr.  Greenwood  is,  we  believe,  scene-painter  to  Drury-lane 
theatre — as  such,  Mr.  Skeffington  is  much  indebted  to  him. 

(2)  Mr.  [now  Sir  Lumley]  Skeffington  is  the  illustrious  author  of 
the  “ Sleeping  Beauty and  some  comedies,  particularly  “Maids 
and  Bachelors  Baccalaurii  baculo  magis  quam  lauro  digni. 

(3)  Naldi  and  Catalani  require  little  notice  ; for  the  visage  of  the 
one  and  the  salary  of  the  other  will  enable  us  long  to  recollect 
these  amusing  vagabonds.  Besides,  we  are  still  black  and  blue 
from  the  squeeze  on  the  first  night  of  the  lady’s  appearance  in 
trousers. 

(4)  [The  following  twenty  lines  were  struck  off  one  night  after 
Lord  Byron’s  return  from  the  Opera,  and  sent  the  next  morning  to 
the  printer,  with  a request  to  have  them  placed  where  they  now 

appear.] 

(5)  To  prevent  any  blunder,  such  as  mistaking  a street  for  a man, 

I beg  leave  to  state,  that  it  is  the  institution,  and  not  the  duke  of 
that  name,  which  is  here  alluded  to  A gentleman,  with  whom  ] 
am  slightly  acquainted,  lost  in  the  Argyle  Rooms  several  thousand 
pounds  at  backgammon.*  It  is  but  justice  to  the  manager  in  this 
instance  to  say,  that  some  degree  of  disapprobation  was  manifested  : 
but  why  are  the  implements  of  gaming  allowed  in  a place  devoted 
to  the  society  of  both  sexes?  A pleasant  thing  for  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  those  who  are  blest  or  cursed  with  such  connexions, 
to  hear  the  billiard-tables  rattling  in  one  room,  and  the  dice  in 


* [“  True.  It  was  Billy  Way  who  lost  the  money.  I knew  him, 
and  was  a subscriber  to  the  Argyle  at  the  time  of  the  event.”— 

Huron,  1816.] 


Behold  the  new  Petronius6  of  the  day, 

Our  arbiter  of  pleasure  and  of  play ! 

There  the  hired  eunuch,  the  Hesperian  choir. 

The  melting  lute,  the  soft  lascivious  lyre, 

The  song  from  Italy,  the  step  from  France, 

The  midnight  orgy,  and  the  mazy  dance, 

The  smile  of  beauty,  and  the  flush  of  wine, 

For  lops,  fools,  gamesters,  knaves,  and  lords  combine  , 
Each  to  his  humour — Comus  all  allows  ; 

Champaign,  dice,  music,  or  your  neighbour’s  spouse. 
Talk  not  to  us,  ye  starving  sons  of  trade  ! 

Of  piteous  ruin,  which  ourselves  have  made ; 

In  Plenty’s  sunshine  Fortune’s  minions  bask, 

Nor  think  of  poverty,  except  “en  masque,” 

When  for  the  night  some  lately  titled  ass 
Appears  the  beggar  which  his  grandsire  was. 

The  curtain  dropp’d,  the  gay  burletta  o’er, 

The  audience  take  their  turn  upon  the  floor ; 

Now  round  the  room  the  circling  dow’gers  sweep, 
Now  in  loose  waltz  the  thin-clad  daughters  leap  ; 

The  first  in  lengthen’d  line  majestic  swim. 

The  last  display  the  free  unfetter’d  limb  ! 

Those  for  Hibernia’s  lusty  sons  repair 

With  art  Hie  charms  which  nature  could  not  spare ; 

These  after  husbands  wing  their  eager  flight, 

Nor  leave  much  mystery  for  the  nuptial  night. 

Oh  ! blest  retreats  of  infamy  and  ease, 

Where,  all  forgotten  but  the  power  to  please, 

Each  maid  may  give  a loose  to  genial  thought, 

Each  swain  may  teach  new  systems,  or  be  taught : 
There  the  blithe  youngster,  just  return’d  from  Spai i, 
Cuts  the  light  pack,  or  calls  the  rattling  main  ; 

The  jovial  caster’s  set,  and  seven’s  the  nick, 

Or — done  ! — a thousand  on  the  coming  trick  ! 

If,  mad  with  loss,  existence  gins  to  tire, 

And  all  your  hope  or  wish  is  to  expire, 

Here’s  Powell’s  pistol  ready  for  your  life, 

And,  kinder  still,  two  Pagets  for  your  wife  ;7 
Fit  consummation  of  an.earthly  race, 

Begun  in  folly,  ended  in  disgrace  ; 

While  none  but  menials  o’er  the  bed  of  death, 

Wash  thy  red  wounds,  or  watch  thy  wavering  breath ; 
Traduced  by  liars,  and  forgot  by  all, 

The  mangled  victim  of  a drunken  brawl, 

To  live  like  Clodius,  and  like  Falkland  fall.3 


another ! That  this  is  the  case  I myself  can  testify,  as  a late  un- 
worthy member  of  an  institution  which  materially  affects  the  morals 
of  the  higher  orders,  while  the  lower  may  not  even  move  to  the 
sound  of  a tabor  and  fiddle,  without  a chance  of  indictment  for 
riotous  behaviour. — [Conceiving  the  foregoing  note,  together  with 
the  lines  in  the  text,  to  convey  a reflection  upon  his  conduct,  as 
manager  of  the  Argyle  institution,  Colonel  Greville  demanded  an 
explanation  of  Lord  Byron.  The  matter  was  referred  to  Mr.  Leckie 
(the  author  of  a work  on  Sicilian  affairs)  on  the  part  of  Colonel 
Greville,  and  to  Mr.  Moore  on  the  part  of  Lord  Byron  ; by  whom  it 
was  amicably  settled.] 

(6)  Petronius,  “Arbiter  elegantiarum”  to  Nero,  “and  a very 
pretty  fellow  in  his  day,”  as  Mr.  Congreve’s  “ Old  Bachelor”  saith 
of  Hannibal. 

(7)  The  original  reading  was,  “ a Paget  for  your  wife.”] 

(8)  I knew  the  late  Lord  Falkland  well.  On  Sunday  night  I be- 
held him  presiding  at  his  own  table,  in  all  the  honest  pride  of 
hospitality;  on  Wednesday  morning,  at  three  o’clock,  I saw 
stretched  before  me  all  that  remained  of  courage,  feeling,  and  a host 
of  passions.  He  was  a gallant  and  successful  officer ; his  faults 
were  the  faults  of  a sailor — as  such,  Britons  will  forgive  them.  H 
died  like  a brave  man  in  a better  cause ; for  had  he  fallen  in  like 
manner  on  the  deck  of  the  frigate  to  which  he  was  just  appointed, 
his  last  moments  would  have  been  held  up  by  his  countrymen  as  an 
example  to  succeeding  heroes. — [Lord  Falkland  was  killed  in  a 
duel  by  Mr.  Powell,  in  1809.  It  was  not  by  words  only  that  Lord 
Byron  gave  proof  of  sympathy  on  the  melancholy  occasion.  Though 
his  own  difficulties  pressed  on  him  at  the  time,  lie  contrived  to  ad1 
minister  relief  to  the  widow  and  children  of  his  friend.] 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


431 


Truth!  rouse  some  genuine  bard,  and  guide  his  hand, 
To  drive  this  pestilence  from  out  the  land. 

E’en  I— least  thinking  of  a thoughtless  throng, 

Just  skill’d  to  know  the  right  and  choose  the  wrong. 
Freed  at  that  age  when  reason’s  shield  is  lost, 

To  fight  my  course  through  passion’s  countless  host,1 
Whom  every  path  of  pleasure’s  flow’ry  way 
Has  lured  in  turn,  and  all  have  led  astray — 

E’en  I must  raise  my  voice,  e’en  I must  feel 
Such  scenes,  such  men,  destroy  the  public  weal ; 
Although  some  kind,  censorious  friend  will  say, 

“ What  art  thou  better,  meddling  fool,2  than  they  ?” 
And  every  brother  rake  will  smile  to  see 
That  miracle,  a moralist  in  me. 

No  matter — when  some  bard  in  virtue  strong, 

Gifford  perchance,  shall  raise  the  chastening  song, 
Then  sleep  my  pen  for  ever  ! and  my  voice 
Be  only  heard  to  hail  him,  and  rejoice ; 

Rejoice,  and  yield  my  feeble  praise,  though  I 
May  feel  the  lash  that  Virtue  must  apply. 

As  for  the  smaller  fry,  who  swarm  in  shoals 
From  silly  Hafiz  up  to  simple  Bowles,3 
Why  should  we  call  them  from  their  dark  abode, 

In  broad  St.  Giles’s  or  in  Tottenham-road  ? 

Or  (since  some  men  of  fashion  nobly  dare 

To  scrawl  in  verse)  from  Bond-street  or  the  Square  ? 

If  things  of  ton  their  harmless  lays  indite, 

Most  wisely  doom’d  to  shun  the  public  sight, 

What  harm  ? In  spite  of  every  critic  elf, 

Sir  T.  may  read  his  stanzas  to  himself ; 

Miles  Andrews4  still  his  strength  in  couplets  try, 

And  live  in  prologues,  though  his  dramas  die. 

Lords  too  are  bards,  such  tilings  at  times  befall, 

And  ’tis  some  praise  in  peers  to  write  at  all. 

Yet,  did  or  taste  or  reason  sway  the  times, 

Ah  ! who  would  take  their  titles  with  their  rhymes  ?5 


(1)  [“  1 *s:  and  a precious  cliase  they  led  me.” — B.  1816.] 

(2)  f“  Foul  enough,  certainly,  then,  and  no  wiser  since.”  — 
B.  1816.] 

(3)  What  would  he  the  sentiments  of  the  Persian  Anacreon, 
Hafiz,  could  he  rise  from  his  splendid  sepulchre  at  Sheeraz,  (where 
he  reposes  with  Ferdousi  and  Sadi,  the  oriental  Homer  and  Catul- 
lus,) and  behold  his  name  assumed  by  one  Stott  of  Dromore,  the 
most  impudent  and  execrable  of  literary  poachers  for  the  daily 
prints  ? 

(4)  [Miles  Peter  Andrews,  manyyears  M.P.  for  Bewdley,  Colonel 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales’s  Volunteers,  proprietor  of  a gunpowder 
manufactory  at  Dartford,  author  of  numerous  prologues,  epilogues, 
and  farces,  and  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  Baviad.  He  died  in  1814.] 

(5)  [In  the  original  manuscript  we  find  these  lines: — 

“ In  these  our  times,  v'ith  daily  wonders  big, 

A letter’d  peer  is  like  a lettered  pig; 

Both  know  their  alphabet,  but  who,  from  thence, 

Infers  that  peers  or  pigs  have  manly  sense  ? 

Still  less  that  such  should  woo  the  graceful  nine  : 
Parnassus  was  not  made  for  lords  and  swine.”] 

(6)  [On  being  told  that  it  was  believed  he  alluded  to  Lord  Car- 
lisle’s nervous  disorder  in  this  line,  Lord  Byron  exclaimed, — " I 
thank  heaven  I did  not  know  it : and  would  not,  could  not,  if  I had. 
I must  naturally  be  the  last  person  to  be  pointed  on  defects  or 
maladies.” 

(7)  The  Earl  of  Carlisle  has  lately  published  an  eighteen-penny 
pamphlet  on  the  state  of  the  stage,  and  offers  his  plan  for  building 
a new  theatre.  It  is  to  be  hoped  his  lordship  will  be  permitted  to 
bring  forward  any  thing  for  the  stage — except  his  own  tragedies. 

(8)  “ Doff  that  lion’s  hide, 

And  hang  a calf  skin  on  those  recreant  limbs.” 

Shak.  King  John. 

Loid  Carlisle’s  works,  most  resplendently  bound,  form  a conspicu- 
ous ornament  to  his  book -shelves : — 

“ The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunella.” 

(9)  [‘‘  Wrong  also — the  provocation  was  not  sufficient  to  justify 

the  acerbity.” — B.  1816.] — [Lord  Byron  greatly  regretted  the  sar- 
casms he  had  published  against  his  noble  relation,  under  the  mis- 

taken impression  that  Lord  Carlisle  had  intentionally  slighted  him. 


Roscommon  ! Sheffield  ! with  your  spirits  fled. 

No  future  laurels  deck  a noble  head ; 

No  muse  will  cheer,  with  renovating  sirile. 

The  paralytic  puling  of  Carlisle.6 7 
The  puny  schoolboy  and  his  early  lay 
Men  pardon,  if  his  follies  pass  away ; 

But  who  forgives  the  senior’s  ceaseless  verse. 
Whose  hairs  grow  hoary  as  his  rhymes  grow  worse  ? 
What  heterogeneous  honours  deck  the  peer ! 

Lord,  rhymester,  petit-maitre,  pamphleteer  1 7 
So  dull  in  youth,  so  drivelling  in  his  age. 

His  scenes  alone  had  damn’d  our  sinking  stage ; 

But  managers  for  once  cried,  “ Hold,  enough  ! ” 
Nor  drugg’d  their  audience  with  the  tragic  stuff. 
Yet  at  their  judgment  let  his  lordship  laugh, 

And  case  his  volumes  in  congenial  calf : 

Yes  ! doff  that  covering,  where  morocco  shines, 

And  hang  a calf-skin8  on  those  recreant  lines.9 

With  you,  ye  Druids  ! rich  in  native  lead. 

Who  daily  scribble  for  your  daily  bread ; 

With  you  I war  not : Gifford’s  heavy  liana 

Has  crush’d,  without  remorse,  your  numerous  banu. 

On  “ all  the  talents”  vent  your  venal  spleen ; 

Want  is  your  plea,  let  pity  be  your  screen. 

Let  monodies  on  Fox  regale  your  ci\ew, 

And  Melville’s  Mantle10  prove  a blanket  too  ! 

One  common  Lethe  waits  each  hapless  bard, 

And,  peace  be  with  you  ! ’tis  your  best  reward. 
Such  damning  fame  as  Dunciads  only  give 
Could  bid  your  lines  beyond  a morning  live  ; 

But  now  at  once  your  fleeting  labours  close. 

With  names  of  greater  note  in  blest  repose. 

Far  be ’t  from  me  unkindly  to  upbraid 
The  lovely  Rosa’s  prose  in  masquerade, 

Whose  strains,  the  faithful  echoes  of  her  mind. 
Leave  wondering  comprehension  far  behind.11 


In  a letter  to  Mr.  Rogers,  written  in  1814,  he  asks, — “ Is  there  any 
chance  or  possibility  of  making  it  up  with  Lord  Carlisle,  as  I feel 
disposed  to  do  any  thing  reasonable  or  unreasonable  to  effect  it  ?* 
Amt  in  the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  he  thus  adverts  to  the  fate 
of  the  Hon.  Frederick  Howard,  Lord  Carlisle’s  youngest  son,  one  of 
those  who  fell  gloriously  at  Waterloo  : — 

“ Their  praise  is  hymn’d  by  loftier  harps  than  mine; 

Yet  one  I would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 

Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 

And  partly  that  I did  his  Sire  some  wrong, 

And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song, 

And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower’d 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn’d  files  along, 

Even  where  the  thickest  of  war’s  tempest  lower’d, 

They  reach’d  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young,  gallant 
Howard  1 ” 

In  the  following  extracts  from  two  unpublished  letters,  written 
when  Lord  B.  was  at  Harrow,  may  possibly  be  traced  the  origin  of 
his  conduct  towards  his  guardian  : — “ Nov.  11,  1804.  You  mistake 
me  if  you  think  I dislike  Lord  Carlisle.  1 respect  him.  and  might 
like  him  did  1 know  him  better.  For  him  my  mother  has  an  anti- 
pathy— why,  I know  not.  I am  afraid  he  could  be  but  of  little  use 
to  me  ; but  I dare  say  he  would  assist  me  if  he  could ; so  I take  the 
will  for  the  deed,  and  am  obliged  to  him,  exactly  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  if  he  succeeded  in  his  efforts.” — “ Nov.  21,  1804.  To  Lord 
Carlisle  make  my  warmest  acknowledgments.  I feel  more  grati- 
tude that  I can  well  express.  I am  truly  obliged  to  him  for  his 
endeavours,  and  am  perfectly  satisfied  with  your  explanation  of  hi* 
reserve,  though  I was  hitherto  afraid  it  might  proceed  from  personal 
dislike.  For  the  future,  I shall  consider  him  as  more  my  friend 
than  I have  hitherto  been  taught  to  think.”] 

(10)  “Melville’s  Mantle,”  a parody  on  “Elijah’s  Mantle,”  a 
poem. 

(11)  This  lovely  little  Jessica,  the  daughter  of  the  noted  Jew  King 
seems  to  be  a follower  of  the  Della  Crusca  school,  and  has  pub- 
lished two  volumes  of  very  respectable  absurdities  in  rhyme,  as 
times  go ; besides  sundry  novels  in  the  style  of  the  first  edition  of 
the  Monk. — [“She  since  married  the  Morning  Post — an  exceeding 
good  match  ; and  is  now  dead — which  is  better  ” — B 1816.] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


432 


Though  Crusca’s  bards  no  more  our  journals  fill, 

Some  stragglers  skirmish  round  the  column  still ; 

Last  of  the  howling  host  which  once  was  Bell’s, 
Matilda  snivels  yet,  and  Hafiz  yells ; 

And  Merry’s  metaphors  appear  anew, 

Chain’d  to  the  signature  of  O.  P.  Q.1 

When  some  brisk  youth,  the  tenant  of  a stall,2 
Employs  a pen  less  pointed  than  his  awl, 

Leaves  his  snug  shop,  forsakes  his  store  of  shoes, 

St.  Crispin  quits,  and  cobbles  for  the  muse, 

Pleavens  ! how  the  vulgar  stare  ! how  crowds  applaud ! 

How  ladies  read,  and  literati  laud  !3 

If  chance  some  wicked  wag  should  pass  his  jest, 

’Tis  sheer  ill-nature — don’t  the  world  know  best  ? 
Genius  must  guide  when  wits  admire  the  rhyme, 

And  Capel  Lofft4  declares  ’tis  quite  sublime. 

Hear,  then,  ye  happy  sons  of  needless  trade  ! 

Swains  ! quit  the  plough,  resign  the  useless  spade  ! 
Lo  ! Burns5  and  Bloomfield,  nay,  a greater  far, 

Gifford  was  born  beneath  an  adverse  star, 

Forsook  the  labours  of  a servile  state, 

Stemm’d  the  rude  storm,  and  triumph’d  over  fate : 
Then  why  no  more  ? if  Phoebus  smiled  on  you, 
Bloomfield  ! why  not  on  brother  Nathan  too  ?6 
Him  too  the  mania,  not  the  muse,  has  seized ; 

Not  inspiration,  but  a mind  diseased  : 

And  now  no  boor  can  seek  his  last  abode, 

No  common  be  enclosed  without  an  ode. 

Oh  ! since  increased  refinement  deigns  to  smile 
On  Britain’s  sons,  and  bless  our  genial  isle, 

Let  poesy  go  forth,  pervade  the  whole. 

Alike  the  rustic,  and  mechanic  soul ! 


(1)  These  are  the  signatures  of  various  worthies  who  figure  in  the 
poetical  departments  of  the  newspapers. 

(2)  [Joseph  Blackett,  the  shoemaker.  He  died  at  Seaham,  in 
1810.  His  poems  were  afterwards  collected  by  Pratt;  and,  oddly 
enough,  his  principal  patroness  was  Miss  Millbank,  then  a perfect 
stranger  to  Lord  Byron,  In  a letter  written  to  Dallas,  on  board  the 
Voiage  frigate,  at  sea,  in  June,  1811,  he  says, — “I  see  that  yours 
and  Pratt’s  protege,  Blackett  the  cobbler,  is  dead,  in  spite  of  his 
rhymes,  and  is  probably  one  of  the  instances  where  death  has  saved 
a man  from  damnation,  You  were  the  min  of  that  poor  fellow 
amongst  you : had  it  not  been  for  his  patrons,  he  might  now  have 
been  in  very  g od  plight,  shoe-  (not  verse-)  making ; but  you  have 
made  him  immortal  with  a vengeance:  who  would  think  that  any 
body  would  be  such  a blockade  as  to  sin  against  an  express  pro- 
verb,^ ' Ne  sutor  ultra  crepidam  ! ' 

* But  spare  him,  ve  Critics,  his  follies  are  past, 

For  the  Cobbler  is  come,  as  he  ought,  to  his 
Which  two  lines,  with  a scratch  under  last,  to  show  where  the  joke 
lies,  I beg  that  you  will  prevail  on  Miss  Millbank  to  have  inserted 
on  the  tomb  of  her  departed  Blackett.”] 

(3)  [“  This  was  meant  for  poor  Blackett,  who  was  then  patronized 
by  A,  J,  B.”  (Lady  Byron) ; “ but  that  I did  not  know,  or  this  would 
not  have  been  written,  at  least  1 think  not,”— B.  1816.] 

($)  Cape)  Lofft,  Esq.,  the  Mtscenas  of  shoemakers,  and  preface- 
writer-general  to  distressed  versemen  ; a kind  of  gratis  accoucheur 
to  those  who  wish  to  be  delivered  of  rhyme,  but  do  not  know  how 
to  bring  forth, — [The  poet  Bloomfield  owed  his  first  celebrity  to  the 
notice  of  Capel  Lofft  and  Tho.igs  Hill,  Esquires,  who  read  his 
“ Farmer's  Bov,”  jn  manuscript,  recommended  it  to  a publisher, 
and  by  their  influence  in  society  and  literature,  soon  drew  general 
attention  to  its  merits.  It  is  distressing  to  remember  that,  after  all 
that  had  been  done  by  the  zeal  of  a few  friends,  the  public  sympa- 
thy did  not  rest  permanently  on  the  amiable  Bloomfield,  who  died 
in  extreme  poverty  in  1823.] 

(5)  [•*  Read  Burns  to-day.  What  would  he  have  been  if  a 
patrician?  We  should  have  had  more  polish — less  force — just  as 
much  verse,  but  no  immortality— »a  divorce  and  a duel  or  two,  the 
which  had  he  survived,  as  his  potations  must  have  been  less  spiri- 
tuous, he  might  have  lived  as  long  as  Sheridan,  and  outlived  as 
much  as  poor  Brinsley.”— Bur  an  Journal,  1813.] 

(5)  See  Nathaniel  Bloomfield’s  ode,  elegy,  or  whatever  he  or 
any  one  else  chooses  to  call  it,  on  the  enclosure  of  “ Honington 
Green.” 

( 7 ) Vide  “ Recollections  of  a Weaver  in  the  Moorlands  of  Staf- 
fordshire.” 

(8)  It  would  be  superfluous  to  recall  to  the  mind  of  the  reader  the 

iviiho-s  of  “The  Pleasures  of  Memory"  and  ‘The  Pleasures  of 


Ye  tuneful  cobblers  ! still  your  notes  prolong, 
Compose  at  once  a slipper  and  a song  ; 

So  shall  the  fair  your  handywork  peruse, 

Your  sonnets  sure  shall  please — perhaps  your  sloes. 
May  Moorland  weavers7  boast  Pindaric  skill. 

And  tailors’  lays  be  longer  than  their  bill ! 

YYliile  punctual  beaux  reward  the  grateful  notes, 

And  pay  for  poems — when  they  pay  for  coats. 

To  the  famed  throng  now  paid  the  tribute  due, 
Neglected  genius  ! let  me  turn  to  you. 

Come  forth,  oh  Campbell  !8  give  thy  talents  scope  ; 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope? 

And  t hou,  melodious  Rogers  ! 9 rise  at  last, 

Recall  the  pleasing  memory  of  the  past ; 

Arise  ! let  blest  remembrance  still  inspire, 

And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  hallow’d  lyre  j 
Restore  Apollo  to  his  vacant  throne, 

Assert  thy  country’s  honour  and  thine  own.10 
What ! must  deserted  Poesy  still  weep 
Where  her  last  hopes  with  pious  Cowper  sleep  ? 
Unless,  perchance,  from  his  cold  bier  she  turns, 

To  deck  the  turf  that  wraps  her  minstrel,  Burns  ! 

No ! though  contempt  hath  mark’d  the  spurious 
brood, 

The  race  who  rhyme  from  folly,  or  for  food, 

Yet  still  some  genuine  sons  ’tis  hers  to  boast, 

WIio,  least  affecting,  still  affect  the  most : 

Feel  as  they  write,  and  write  but  as  they  feel — 

Bear  witness  Gifford,11  Sotheby,12  Macneil.13 

“ Why  slumbers  Gifford  ?”  once  was  ask’d  in  vain  ;14 
Why  slumbers  Gifford  ? let  us  ask  again. 


Hope,”  the  most  beautiful  didactic  poems  in  our  language,  if  we 
except  Pope’s  “ Essay  on  Man but  so  many  poetasters  have 
started  up,  that  even  the  names  of  Campbell  and  Rogers  are  be* 
come  strange. — [Beneath  this  note  Lord  Byron  scribbled,  in  1816,— 
“ Pretty  Miss  Jacqueline 
Had  a nose  aquiline, 

And  would  assert  rude 
Things  of  Miss  Gertrude, 

While  Mr.  Marmion 
Led  a great  army  on, 

Making  Kehama  look 
Like  a fierce  Mameluke."] 

(9)  [“  I have  been  reading,”  says  Lord  Byron,  in  1813,  “ Memory 
again,  and  Hope  together,  and  retain  all  my  preference  of  the 
former.  His  elegance  is  really  wonderful — there  is  no  such  a thing 
as  a vulgar  line  in  his  book.”] 

(10)  [“  Rogers  has  not  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  first  poems,  but 
has  still  very  great  merit.” — B.  1816.] 

(11)  Gifford,  author  of  the  Baviad  and  Maeviad,  the  first  satires  of 
the  day,  and  translator  of  Juvenal. — [The  opinion  of  Mr.  Gifford 
had  always  great  weight  with  Lord  Byron.  “Any  suggestion  of 
yours,”  he  says  in  a letter  written  in  1813,  “ even  were  it  conveyed 
in  the  less  tender  shape  of  the  text  of  the  Baviad,  or  a Monk  Mason 
note  in  Massinger,  would  be  obeyed.”  A few  weeks  before  his 
death,  on  hearing  from  England  of  a report  that  he  had  written  a 
satire  on  Mr.  Gifford,  he  wrote  instantly  to  Mr.  Murray: — “Who- 
ever asserts  that  I am  the  author  or  abettor  of  any  thing  of  the 
kind,  lies  in  his  throat.  It  is  not  true  that  I ever  did,  will,  would, 
could,  or  should  write  a satire  against  Gifford,  or  a hair  of  his  head. 
I always  considered  him  as  my  literary  father,  and  myself  as  his 
‘ prodigal’  son  ; and  if  I have  allowed  his  ‘ fatted  calf’  to  grow  to  an 
ox  before  he  kills  it  on  my  return,  it  is  only  because  I prefer  beef 
to  veal.”] 

(12)  Sotheby,  translator  of  Wieland's  Oberon  and  Virgil’s  Georgies 
and  author  of  “ Saul,”  an  epic  poem. — [Mr.  Sotheby  afterwards 
essentially  raised  his  reputation  by  various  original  poems,  and'  a 
translation  of  the  Iliad.  He  died  in  1834.] 

(IS)  Macneil,  whose  poems  are  deservedly  popular,  particularly 
“Scotland’s  Scaith,"  and  the  “Waes  of  War,”  of  which  ten 
thousand  copies  were  sold  in  one  month. — [Hector  Macneil  died  in 
1818.] 

(14)  [Lord  Byron  here  alludes  to  the  masterly  poem  of  “New 
Mortality”  (the  joint  production  of  Mr.  Canning  and  Mr.  Frere),  is 
the  Antijaeobin,  in  which  Gifford  is  thus  apostrophised:— 

“ Bethink  thee,  Gifford,  when  some  future  age 
Shall  trace  the  promise  of  thy  playful  page; 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWER. 


433 


Are  there  no  follies  for  his  pen  to  purge  P1 
Are  there  no  fools  whose  backs 'demand  the  scourge  ? 
Are  there  no  sins  foivsatire’s  bard  to  greet  ? - 
Stalks  not  gigantic  Vice  in  every  street  ? 

Shall  peers  or  princes  tread  pollution’s  path, 

And  ’scape  alike  the  law’s  and  muse’s  wrath  ? 

Nor  blaze  with  guilty  glare  through  future  time, 
Eternal  beacons  of  consummate  crime  ? 

Arouse  thee,  Gifford  ! be  thy  promise  claim’d. 

Make  bad  men  better,  or  at  least  ashamed. 

Unhappy  White  !2  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 

And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 

The  spoiler  swept  that  soaring  lyre  away. 

Which  else  had  sounded  an  immortal  lay. 

Oh ! what  a noble  heart  was  here  undone, 

When  Science’  self  destroy’d  her  favourite  son  ! 

Yes,  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit, 

She  sow’d  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reap’d  the  fruit. 
’Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 

And  help’d  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low  : 

So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch’d  upon  the  plain, 

No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again. 

View’d  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 

And  wing’d  the  shaft  that  quiver’d  in  his  heart ; 

Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel, 

He  nursed  the  pinion  which  imped'd  the  steel ; 

While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm’d  his  nest 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast.3 

There  be,  who  say,  in  these  enlighten’d  days, 

That  splendid  lies  are  all  the  poet’s  praise  ; 

That  strain’d  invention,  ever  on  the  wing, 

Alone  impels  the  modern  bard  to  sing  : 

*Tis  true,  that  all  who  rhyme — nay,  all  who  write, 
Shrink  from  that  fatal  word  to  genius — trite  ; 

Yet  Truth  sometimes  will  lend  her  noblest  fires, 

And  decorate  the  verse  herself  inspires  : 

This  fact  in  Virtue’s  name  let  Crabbe4  attest ; 

Though  nature’s  sternest  painter,  yet  the  best.5 

And  here  let  Sliee6  and  Genius  find  a place, 

Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace  ; 


1 The  hand  which  brush’d  a swarm  of  fools  away, 

Should  rouse  to  grasp  a more  reluctant  prey ! ‘ 

Think,  then,  will  pleaded  indolence  excuse 
The  tame  secession  of  thy  languid  muse  ? 

Ah  ! where  is  now  that  promise  ? why  so  long 
Sleep  the  keen  shafts  of  satire  and  of  song? 

Oh  ! come,  with  taste  and  virtue  at  thy  side, 

With  ardent  zeal  inflamed,  and  patriot  pride  ; 

With  keen  poetic  glance  direct  the  blow, 

And  empty  all  thy  quiver  on  the  foe — 

No  pause — no  rest— till  weltering  on  the  ground 

The  poisonous  hydra  lies,  and  pierced  with  many  a wound.”] 

(1)  Mr.  Gifford  promised  publicly  that  the  Baviad  and  Maeviad 
should  not  be  his  last  original  works  : let  him  remember,  “ Mox  in 
reluctantes  dracones.” — [Mr.  Gilford  became  the  editor  of  the 
Quarterly  Review, — which  thenceforth  occupied  most  of  his  time, 
— a few  months  alter  the  first  appearance  of  this  satire  in  18o9.j 

(2)  Henry  Kirke  White  died  at  Cambridge,  in  October,  1806,  in 
consequence  of  too  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of  studies  that 
would  have  matured  a mind  which  disease  and  poverty  could  not 
impair,  and  which  death  itself  destroyed  rather  than  subdued.  His 
poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must  impress  the  reader  with  the 
liveliest  regret  that  so  short  a period  was  allotted  to  talents  which 
would  have  dignified  even  the  sacred  functions  he  was  destined  to 
assume.— [In  a letter  to  Mr.  Dallas,  in  1811,  Lord  Byron  says,— “ I 
am  sorry  you  don’t  like  Harry  White;  with  a great  deal  of  cant, 
which  in  him  was  sincere  (indeed  it  killed  him,  as  you  killed  Joe 
B.ackett).  certes  there  is  poesy  and  genius.  I don't  say  this  on  ac- 
count of  my  simile  and  rhymes ; but  surely  he  was  beyond  all  the 
Bloomfields  and  Blacketts,  and  their  collateral  cobblers,  whom 
Lofft  and  Pratt  have  or  may  kidnap  from  their  calling  into  the  ser- 
vice of  the  trade.  Setting  aside  bigotry,  he  surely  ranks  next  to 
Chatterton.  It  is  astonisning  how  little  he  was  known;  and  at 


To  guide  whose  hand  the  sister  arts  combine, 

And  trace  the  poet’s  or  the  painter’s  line  ; 

Whose  magic  touch  can  bid  tiie  canvass  glow, 

Or  pour  the  easy  rhyme’s  harmonious  flow ; 

While  honours,  doubly  merited,  attend 
The  poet’s  rival,  but  the  painter’s  friend. 

Blest  is  the  man  who  dares  approach  the  bower 
Where  dwelt  the  muses  at  their  natal  hour ; 

Whose  steps  have  press’d,  whose  eye  has  mark’d  afar, 
The  clime  that  nursed  the  sons  of  song  and  war, 

The  scenes  which  glory  still  must  hover  o’er,  t 
Her  place  of  birth,  her  own  Achaian  shore. 

But  doubly  blest  is  he  whose  heart  expands 
With  hallow’d  feelings  for  those  classic  lands ; 

Who  rends  the  veil  of  ages  long  gone  by, 

And  views  their  remnants  with  a poet’s  eye ! 

Wright  !7  ’twas  thy  happy  lot  at  once  to  view 
Those  shores  of  glory,  and  to  sing  them  too ; 

And  sure  no  common  muse  inspired  thy  pen 
To  hail  the  land  of  gods  and  godlike  men. 

And  you,  associate  bards  !8  who  snatch’d  to  light 
Those  gems  too  long  withheld  from  modern  sight ; 
Whose  mingling  taste  combined  to  cull  the  wreath 
Where  Attic  flowers  Aonian  odours  breathe. 

And  all  their  renovated  fragrance  flung, 

To  grace  the  beauties,  of  your  native  tongue  ; 

Now  let  those  minds,  that  nobly  could  transfuse 
The  glorious  spirit  of  the  Grecian  muse, 

Though  soft  the  echo,  scorn  a borrow’d  tone  : 

Resign  Achaia’s  lyre,  and  strike  your  own. 

Let  these,  or  such  as  these,  with  just  applause. 
Restore  the  muse’s  violated  laws  ; 

But  not  in  flimsy  Darwin’s  pompous  chime, 

That  mighty  master  of  unmeaning  rhyme, 

Whose  gilded  cymbals,  more  adorn’d  than  clear. 

The  eye  delighted,  but  fatigued  the  ear; 

In  show  the  simple  lyre  could  once  surpass 
But  now,  worn  down,  appear  in  native  brass  ; 

While  all  his  train  of  hovering  sylphs  around 
Evaporate  in  similes  and  sound  : 


Cambridge  no  one  thought  or  heard  of  such  a man  till  his  death 

rendered  all  notices  useless.  For  my  part,  i should  have  been 
most  proud  of  such  an  acquaintance  : his  very  prejudices  were 
respectable.”] 

(3)  {Mr.  Southey’s  delightful  Life  of  Kirke  White  is  in  every  one's 
hands.] 

(4)  [“  I consider  Crabbe  and  Coleridge  as  the  first  of  these 
times,  in  point  of  power  and  genius  ” — B.  1816.] 

(5)  [This  eminent  poet  and  excellent  man  died  at  his  rectory  of 
Trowbridge,  in  February,  1832,  aged  seventy-eight.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  the  late  Lord  Stowell,  he  was  the  last  surviving  celebrated 
man  mentioned  by  Boswell  in  connexion  with  Johnson,  who  re- 
vised his  poem  of  the  “Village.”  His  other  works  are  the  “ Li- 
brary,” the  “ Newspaper,”  the  “ Borough,”  a collection  of  “ Poems,” 
which  Charles  Fox  read  in  manuscript  on  his  death-bed ; “ Tales,” 
and  also  “ Tales  of  the  Hall.”  He  left  various  poetical  pieces  in 
MS.,  and  a collective  edition  of  his  works  was  published  in  1834, 
preceded  by  an  interesting  Memoir,  written  by  his  Son.] 

(61  Mr.  Shee,  author  of  “Rhymes  on  Art,”  and  “Elements  of 
Art.”— [Now  (1836)  Sir  Martin  Shee,  and  President  of  the  Royal 
Academy.] 

(7)  Waller  Rodwell  Wright,  late  consul-general  for  the  Seven 
Islands,  is  author  of  a very  beautiful  poem,  just  published  : it  is 
entitled  “ Horae  lonicae,”  and  is  descriptive  of  the  isles  and  the  ad 
jacent  coast  of  Greece. — [To  the  third  edition,  which  came  out  in 
1816,  was  added  an  excellent  translation  of  the  “ Oreste”  of  Alfieri. 
After  his  return  to  England,  Mr.  Wright  was  chosen  Recorder  of 
Bury  St.  Edmunds,  j 

(8)  The  translators  of  the  Anthology,  Bland  and  Merivale,  have 
since  published  separate  poems,  which  evince  genius  that  only  re- 
quires opportunity  to  attain  eminence.  — [The  late  Rev.  Robert 
Bland  published,  ir  conjunction  with  Mr.  Merivale,  “Collections 
from  the  Greek  Anthology.”  He  also  wrote  “ Edwy  and  Elgiva, 

6 K 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


434 

Him  let  tliem  shun,  with  him  let  tinsel  die  : 

False  glare  attracts,  but  more  offends  the  eye.1 

Yet  let  them  not  to  vulgar  Wordsworth  stoop. 

The  meanest  object  of  the  lowly  group, 

Whose  verse,  of  all  but  childish  prattle  void, 

Seems  blessed  harmony  to  Lambe  and  Lloyd  :* 1 2 
Let  them — but  hold,  my  muse,  nor  dare  to  teach 
A strain  far,  far  beyond  thy  humble  reach  : 

The  native  genius  with  their  being  given 

Will  point  the  path,  and  peal  their  notes  to  heaven. 

And  thou,  too,  Scott  !3  resign  to  minstrels  rude 
The  wilder  slogan  of  a border  feud  : 

Let  others  spin  their  meagre  lines  for  hire ; 

Enough  for  genius,  if  itself  inspire  ! 

Let  Southey  sing,  although  his  teeming  muse, 

Prolific  every  spring,  be  too  profuse  ; 

Let  simple  Wordsworth4  chime  his  childish  verse, 
And  brother  Coleridge  lull  the  babe  at  nurse  ; 

Let  spectre-mongering  Lewis  aim,  at  most, 

To  rouse  the  galleries,  or  to  raise  a ghost ; 

Let  Moore  still  sigh : let  Strangford  steal  from 
Moore, 

And  swear  that  Camoens  sang  such  notes  of  yore ; 

Let  Hayley  hobble  on,  Montgomery  rave, 

And  godly  Grahame  chant  a stupid  stave ; 

Let  sonneteering  Bowles  his  strains  refine, 

And  whine  and  whimper  to  the  fourteenth  line ; 

Let  Stott,  Carlisle,5  Matilda,  and  the  rest 
Of  Grub-street,  and  of  Grosvenor-place  the  best, 
Scrawl  on,  till  death  release  us  from  the  strain. 

Or  Common  Sense  assert  her  rights  again. 

But  thou,  with  powers  that  mock  the  aid  of  praise, 
Shouldst  leave  to  humbler  bards  ignoble  lays  : 

Thy  country’s  voice,  the  voice  of  all  the  nine, 

Demand  a hallow’d  harp — that  harp  is  thine. 

Say  ! will  not  Caledonia’s  annals  yield 
The  glorious  record  of  some  nobler  field, 

Than  the  wild  foray  of  a plundering  clan, 

Whose  proudest  deeds  disgrace  the  name  of  man  ? 

Or  Marmion’s  acts  of  darkness,  fitter  food 
Eor  Sherwood’s  outlaw  tales  of  Robin  Hood  ? 


the  “ Four  Slaves  of  Cythera,”  &c.  In  1814,  Mr.  Merivale  pub- 
lished “ Orlando  in  Koncevalles  and  in  the  following  year,  “ An 
Ode  on  the  Delivery  of  Europe.”  He  is  now  one  of  the  Commis- 
sioners of  the  new  Bankruptcy  Court.] 

(1)  The  neglect  of  the  “ Botanic  Garden”  is  some  proof  of  re- 
turning taste.  The  scenery  is  its  sole  recommendation. 

^2)  Messrs.  Lambe  and  Lloyd,  the  most  ignoble  followers  of 
S Juthey  and  Co. — [In  1798,  Charles  Lambe  and  Charles  Lloyd  pub- 
lished in  conjunction  a volume,  entitled,  “ Poems  in  Blank  Verse.” 
Mr.  Lambe  was  also  the  author  of  “ John  Woodville,”  “ Tales  from 
Shakapeare,”  the  “ Essays  of  Elia,”  &c.  He  died  in  1835.  Mr. 
Lloyd  has  since  published  “ Edward  Oliver,”  a novel,  “ Nugte 
Canorae,”  and  a translation  of  Alfieri’s  Tragedies.] 

(3)  By  the  bye,  I hope  that  in  Mr.  Scott’s  next  poem,  his  hero  or 
heroine  will  be  less  addicted  to  “ Gramarye,”  and  more  to  grammar, 
than  the  Lady  of  the  Lay  and  her  bravo,  William  of  Deloraine. 

(4)  [“Unjust.” — Byron,  1816.] 

(5)  It  may  be  asked  why  I have  censured  the  Earl  of  Carlisle, 
my  guardian  and  relative,  to  whom  I dedicated  a volume  of  puerile 
poems  a few  years  ago? — The  guardianship  was  nominal,  at  least 
as  far  as  1 have  been  able  to  discover ; the  relationship  I cannot 
help,  and  am  very  sorry  for  it;  but  as  his  lordship  seemed  to  for- 
get it  on  a very  essential  occasion  to  me,  I shall  not  burden  my 

memory  with  the  recollection.  I do  not  think  that  personal  dif- 

ferences sanction  the  unjust  condemnation  of  a brother  scribbler; 

but  I see  no  reason  why  they  should  act  as  a preventive,  when  the 
author,  noble  or  ignoble,  has,  for  a series  of  years,  beguiled  a “ dis- 

terning  public”  (as  the  advertisements  have  it)  with  divers  reams 
of  most  orthodox,  imperial  nonsense.  Besides,  I do  not  step  aside 
to  vituperate  the  earl : no — his  works  come  fairly  in  review  with 
those  of  other  patrician  literati.  If,  before  I escaped  from  my  teens, 
I said  any  thing  in  favour  of  h's  lordship’s  paper  books,  it  was  in 

the  way  of  dutiful  ledication,  and  more  from  the  advice  of  others 

than  my  own  judgment,  and  I seize  the  first  opportunity  of  pro- 


Scotland  ! still  proudly  claim  thy  native  bard, 

And  be  thy  praise  his  first,  his  best  reward ! 

Yet  not  with  thee  alone  his  name  should  live, 

But  own  the  vast  renown  a world  can  give  ; 

Be  known,  perchance,  when  Albion  is  no  more, 

And  tell  the  tale  of  what  she  was  before  ; 

To  future  times  her  faded  fame  recall, 

And  save  her  glory,  though  his  country  fall. 

Yet  what  avails  the  sanguine  poet’s  hope. 

To  conquer  ages,  and  with  time  to  cope  ? 

N ew  eras  spread  their  wings,  new  nations  rise, 

And  other  victors  fill  the  applauding  skies  ; 

A few  brief  generations  fleet  along, 

Whose  sons  forget  the  poet  and  his  song  •. 

E’en  now,  what  once-loved  minstrels  scarce  may  claim 
The  transient  mention  of  a dubious  name  ! 

When  fame’s  loud  trump  hath  blown  its  noblest  blast, 
Though  long  the  sound,  the  echo  sleeps  at  last ; 

And  glory,  like  the  phoenix6  ’midst  her  fires, 

Exhales  her  odours,  blazes,  and  expires. 

Shall  hoary  Granta  call  her  sable  sons, 

Expert  in  science,  more  expert  at  puns  ? 

Shall  these  approach  the  muse?  ah,  no  ! she  flies, 
Even  from  the  tempting  ore  of  Seaton’s  prize ; 
Though  printers  condescend  the  press  to  soil 
With  rhyme  by  Hoare,7  and  epic  blank  by  Hoyle  :8 
Not  him  whose  page,  if  still  upheld  by  whist. 
Requires  no  sacred  theme  to  bid  us  list.9 
Ye  ! who  in  Granta’s  honours  would  surpass, 

Must  mount  her  Pegasus,  a full-grown  ass ; 

A foal  well  worthy  of  her  ancient  dam, 

Whose  Helicon  is  duller  than  her  Cam. 

There  Clarke,  still  striving  piteously  “ to  please,’* 
Forgett  ing  dog^rel  leads  not  to  degrees, 

A would-be  satirist,  a hired  buffoon, 

A monthly  scribbler  of  some  low  lampoon,10 * 
Condemn’d  to  drudge,  the  meanest  of  the  mean, 

And  furbish  falsehoods  for  a magazine, 

Devotes  to  scandal  his  congenial  mind ; 

Himself  a living  libel  on  mankind.11 


nouncing  my  sincere  recantation.  I have  heard  that  some  per- 
sons conceive  me  to  be  under  obligations  to  Lord  Carlisle  : if  so,  I 
shall  be  most  particularly  happy  to  learn  what  they  are,  and  when  ; 
conferred,  that  they  maybe  duly  appreciated  and  publicly  acknow-  i 
ledged.  What  I have  humbly  advanced  as  an  opinion  on  his  , 
printed  things,  I am  prepared  to  support,  if  necessary,  by  quota- 
tions from  elegies,  eulogies,  odes,  episodes,  and  certain  facetious 
and  dainty  tragedies  bearing  his  name  and  mark ; — 

“ What  can  ennoble  knaves,  or  fools,  or  cowards? 

Alas  ! not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards.’’ 

So  says  Pope.  Amen ! — [“  Much  too  savage,  whatever  the  founda-  ' 
tion  might  he.” — B.  1816.]  i 

(6)  [“The  devil  take  that  phoenix!  How  came  it  there ?” — B. 
1816.] 

(7)  [The  Rev.  Charles  James  Hoare  published,  in  1808,  the 
“ Shipwreck  of  St.  Paul,”  a Seatonian  prize  poem.] 

(8)  [The  Rev.  Charles  Hoyle,  author  of  “ Exodus,”  an  epic  ip  j 
thirteen  books,  and  several  other  Seatonian  prize  poems.] 

(9)  The  “ Games  of  Hoyle,”  well  known  to  the  votaries  of  whist, 
chess,  &c.,  are  not  to  be  superseded  by  the  vagaries  of  his  poetical 
namesake,  whose  poem  comprised,  as  expressly  stated  in  the  ad- 
vertisement, all  the  “plagues  of  Egypt.” 

(10)  [“  Right  enough : this  was  well  deserved,  and  well  laid  on.” 

— B.  1816.] 

(11)  This  person,  who  has  lately  betrayed  the  most  rabid  symp- 
toms of  confirmed  authorship,  is  writer  of  a poem  denominated  the 

“ Art  of  Pleasing,”  as  “ lucus  a non  lucendo,”  containing  little  4 
pleasantry  and  less  poetry.  He  also  acts  as  monthly  stipendiary  j 
and  collector  of  calumnies  for  the  “ Satirist  ” If  this  unfortunate  i 
young  man  would  exchange  the  magazines  for  the  mathematics.  |l 
and  endeavour  to  take  a decent  degree  in  his  university,  it  might  j 
eventually  prove  more  serviceable  than  his  present  salary. — [Mr.  I 

He wson  Clarke  was  also  the  author  of  “The  Saunterer,”  and  a , 
“ History  of  the  Campaign  ip  Russia.”] 


ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS. 


435 


Oh  ! dark  asylum  of  a Vandal  race 
At  once  the  boast  of  learning,  and  disgrace ! 

So  lost  to  Phoebus,  that  nor  Hodgson’s1 2 *  verse 
Can  make  thee  better,  nor  poor  tlewsonV  worse.4 
But  where  fair  Isis  rolls  her  purer  wave, 

The  partial  muse  delighted  loves  to  lave ; 

On  her  green  banks  a greener  wreath  she  wove, 

To  crown  the  bards  that  haunt  her  classic  grove ; 
Where  Richards  wakes  a genuine  poet’s  fires. 

And  modern  Britons  glory  in  their  sires.5 

For  me,  who,  thus  unask’d,  have  dared  to  tell 
My  country,  what  her  sons  should  know  too  well, 
Zeal  for  her  honour  bade  me  here  engage 
The  host  of  idiots  that  infest  her  age  ; 

No  just  applause  her  honour’d  name  shall  lose. 

As  first  in  freedom,  dearest  to  the  muse. 

Oh  ! would  thy  bards  but  emulate  thy  fame, 

And  rise  more  worthy,  Albion,  of  thy  name  ! 

What  Athens  was  in  science,  Rome  in  power, 
What  Tyre  appear’d  in  her  meridian  hour, 

*Tis  thine  at  once,  fair  Albion  ! to  have  been — • 
Earth’s  chief  dictatress,  ocean’s  lovely  queen : 

But  Rome  decay’d,  and  Athens  strew’d  the  plain. 
And  Tyre’s  proud  piers  lie  shatter’d  in  the  main ; 
Like  these,  thy  strength  may  sink,  in  ruin  hurl’d, 
And  Britain  fall,  the  bulwark  of  the  world. 

But  let  me  cease,  and  dread  Cassandra’s  fate, 

With  warning  ever  scoff’d  at,  till  too  late ; 

To  themes  less  lofty  still  my  lay  confine, 

And  urge  thy  bards  to  gain  a name  like  thine.6 

Then,  hapless  Britain  ! be  thy  rulers  blest, 

The  senate’s  oracles,  the  people’s  jest ! 


( 1 ) “ Into  Cambridgeshire  the  Emperor  Probus  transported  a con- 
siderable body  of  Vandals.” — Gibbon’s  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  ii. 
p.  S:i.  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  the  truth  of  this  assertion  ; the 
hr  1 is  still  in  high  perfection. 

(2)  This  gentleman’s  name  requires  no  praise : the  man  who  in 
translation  displays  unquestionable  genius  may  be  well  expected  to 
excel  in  original  composition,  of  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  we  shall 
soon  see  a splendid  specimen. — [Besides  a translation  of  Juvenal, 
Mr.  Hodgson  has  published  “ Lady  Jane  Grey,”  “ Sir  Edgar,” and 
“ The  Friends,”  a poem  in  four  books.  He  also  translated,  in  con- 
junction with  Dr.  Butler,  Lucien  Bonaparte’s  unreadable  epic  of 
“ Charlemagne.”] 

(.3)  Hewson  Clarke,  esq.,  as  it  is  written. 

(4)  [Originally,— 

“ So  sunk  in  dulness,  and  so  lost  in  shame, 

That  Smythe  and  Hodgson  scarce  redeem  thy  name.”] 

(5)  The  “Aboriginal  Britons,”  an  excellent  poem  by  llichards. 
[The  Rev.  George  Richards,  D.D.  has  also  sent  from  the  press, 
“Songs  of  the  Aboriginal  Bards  of  Britain,”  “Modern  France,” 
two  volumes  of  Miscellaneous  Poems,  and  Bampton  Lectures  “ On 
the  Divine  Origin  of  Prophecy.”] 

(6)  With  this  verse  the  satire  originally  ended. 

(7)  A friend  of  mine  being  asked,  why  his  Grace  of  Portland  was 
likened  to  an  old  woman  ? replied,  “ he  supposed  it  was  because 
he  was  past  bearing.”  His  Grace  is  nowr  gathered  to  his  grand- 
mothers, where  he  sleeps  as  sound  as  ever;  but  even  his  sleep 
was  better  than  his  colleagues’ waking.  18)1. 

(“)  Georgia.  (9)  Mount  Caucasus. 

( 10X  These  four  lines  originally  stood, — 

“ But  should  I back  return,  no  letter’d  sage 
Shall  drag  my  common-place  book  on  the  stage; 

Let  vain  Valentia*  rival  luckless  Carr,t 
And  equal  him  whose  work  he  sought  to  mar.” 

(11)  [In  a letter  written  from  Gibraltar  to  his  friend  Hodgson, 

Lord  Byron  says, — “I  have  seen  Sir  John  Carr,  at  Seville  and 
Cadiz,  and,  like  Swift’s  barber,  have  been  down  on  my  knees  to 
oeg  he  would  not  put  me  into  black  and  white.”] 


* Lord  Valentia  (whose  tremendous  travels  are  forthcoming, 
with  due  decorations,  graphical,  topographical,  typographical)  de- 
posed, on  Sir  John  Carr’s  unlucky  suit,  that  Mr.  Dubois’s  satire  pre- 
vented his  purchase  of  the  “ Stranger  in  Ireland.” — Oh,  lie,  my 
lord!  has  your  lordship  no  more  feeling  for  a fellow  tourist? — but 

“ two  of  a trade,"  they  say,  & c. 

t From  the  many  tours  he  made,  Sir  John  was  called  “ The 
Jaunting  Car.”  A wicked  wit  having  severely  lashed  him  in  a pub- 


Still  hear  tliy  mot.ey  orators  dispense 
The  flowers  of  rhetoric,  though  not  of  sense, 

While  Canning’s  colleagues  hate  him  for  his  wit, 

And  old  dame  Portland7  fills  the  place  of  Pitt. 

Yet  once  again,  adieu  ! ere  this  the  sail 
That  wafts  me  hence  is  shivering  in  the  gale ; 

And  Afric’s  coast  and  Calpe’s  adverse  height, 

And  Stamboul’s  minarets  must  greet  my  sight : 
Thence  shall  I stray  through  beauty’s  native  clime,8 * 
Where  KafP  is  clad  in  rocks,  and  crown’d  with  snows 
sublime. 

But  should  I back  return,  no  tempting  press10 11 
Shall  drag  my  journal  from  the  desk’s  recess  : 

Let  coxcombs,  printing  as  they  come  from  far, 

Snatch  his  own  wreath  of  ridicule  from  Carr  ;n 

Let  Aberdeen  and  Elgin12  still  pursue 

The  shade  of  fame  through  regions  of  virtu ; 

Waste  useless  thousands  on  their  Phidian  freaks, 
Misshapen  monument  s and  maim’d  antiques  ; 

And  make  their  grand  saloons  a general  mart 
For  all  the  mutilated  blocks  of  art. 

Of  Dardan  tours  let  dilettanti  tell, 

I leave  topography  to  rapid13  Gell;14 
And,  quite  content,  no  more  shall  interpose 
To  stun  the  public  ear — at  least  with  prose.15 

Thus  far  I’ve  held  my  undisturb’d  career, 

Prepared  for  rancour,  steel’d  ’gainst  selfish  fear : 

This  thing  of  rhyme  I ne’er  disdain’d  to  own — 
Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown ; 

My  voice  was  heard  again,  though  not  so  loud. 

My  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavow’d ; 

And  now  at  once  I tear  the  veil  away  : — 

Cheer  on  the  pack  ! the  quarry  stands  at  bay, 


(12)  Lord  Elgin  would  fain  persuade  us  that  all  the  figures,  with 
and  without  noses,  in  his  stoneshop,  are  the  work  of  Phidias! 
“ Credat  Judaeus  ! ” 

(13)  [Theoriginal  epithetwas  “classic.”  Lord  Byron  altered  it  in 
the  fifth  edition,  and  added  this  note: — “ Rapid,”  indeed ! He  topo- 
graphised  and  typographised  King  Priam’s  dominions  in  three  days  ! 
I called  him  ‘classic'  before  I saw  the  Troad,  but  since  have 
learned  better  than  to  tack  to  his  name  what  don’t  belong  to  it.”] 

(14)  Mr.  Gell’s  Topography  of  Troy  and  Ithaca  cannot  fail  to  en- 
sure the  approbation  of  every  man  possessed  of  classical  taste,  as 
well  for  the  information  Mr.  Gell  conveys  to  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
as  for  the  ability  and  research  the  respective  works  display.  — 
— [“  Since  seeing  the  plain  of  Troy,  my  opinions  are  somewhat 
changed  as  to  the  above  note.  Gell’s  survey  was  hasty  and  super- 
ficial.”—B.  1816.] 

[Shortly  after  his  return  from  Greece,  in  1811,  Lord  Byron  wrote 
a review  of  Mr.  (now  Sir  William)  Gell’s  works  for  the  Monthly 
Review.  In  his  Diary  of  1821,  there  is  this  passage: — “In  reading, 
I have  just  chanced  upon  an  expression  of  'Tom  Campbell’s ; — 
speaking  of  Collins,  he  says  that  ‘ no  reader  cares  any  more  about 
the  characteristic  manners  of  his  eclogues  than  about  the  authenti- 
city of  the  tale  of  Troy.’  ’Tis  false— we  do  care  about  ‘ the  authen- 
ticity of  the  tale  of  Troy.’  I have  stood  upon  that  plain,  daily,  for 
more  than  a month,  in  1810;  and  if  anything  diminished  my  plea- 
sure, it  was  that  the  blackguard  Bryant  had  impugned  its  veracity. 
It  is  true  I read  ‘ Homer  Travestied,’  because  Hobhouseand  others 
bored  me  with  their  learned  localities,  and  I love  quizzing.  But  I stiL 
venerated  the  grand  original  as  the  truth  of  history  (in  the  materia. 
facts)  and  of  place.  Otherwise  it  would  have  given  me  no  delight. 
Who  will  persuade  me,  when  I reclined  upon  a mighty  tomb,  that 
it  did  not  contain  a hero  ? — its  very  magnitude  proved  this.  Men 
do  not  labour  over  the  ignoble  and  petty  dead : — and  why  should 
not  the  dead  be  Homer' » dead?”] 

(15)  [Lord  Byron  set  out  on  his  travels  with  the  determination  to 
keep  no  journal.  In  a letter  to  his  friend  Henry  Drury,  when  on 
the  point  of  sailing,  he  pleasantly  says,  — “ Hobhouse  has  made 
woundy  preparations  for  a book  on  his  return one  hundred  pens, 


lication,  called  “ My  Pocket  Book ; or  Hints  for  a Ri  ght  Merrie 
and  Conceited  Tour,”  he  brought  an  action  of  damages  against 
the  publisher ; but  as  the  work  contained  only  what  the  court 
deemed  legitimate  criticism,  the  knight  was  nonsuited.  Edward 
Dubois,  Esq.,  the  author  of  this  pleasant  satire,  has  also  published 
“The  Wreath,”  consisting  ol  translations  from  Sappho,  Bion  and 
Moschus,  “ Old  Nick,”  a satirical  story,  and  an  edition  of  the 
Decameron  of  Boccaccio.] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


136 

Unseated  by  all  the  din  of  Melbourne  house,* 1 
By  Lambe’s  resentment,  or  by  Holland’s  spouse, 

By  Jeffrey’s  harmless  pistol,  Hallam’s  rage, 

Edina's  brawny  sons  and  brimstone  page. 

Our  men  in  buckram  shall  have  blows  enough, 

And  feel  they  too  “ are  penetrable  stuff 
And  though  I hope  not  hence  unscathed  to  go, 

Who  conquers  me  shall  find  a stubborn  foe. 

The  time  hath  been,  when  no  harsh  sound  would  fall 
From  lips  that  now  may  seem  imbued  with  gall  ;2 
Nor  fools  nor  follies  tempt  me  to  despise 
The  meanest  thing  that  crawl’d  beneath  my  eyes  : 

But  now,  so  callous  grown,  so  changed  since  youth, 
I’ve  learn’ d to  think,  and  sternly  speak  the  truth  ; 
Learn’d  to  deride  the  critic’s  starch  decree. 

And  break  him  on  the  wheel  he  meant  for  me ; 

To  spurn  the  rod  a scribbler  bids  me  kiss, 

Nor  care  if  courts  and  crowds  applaud  or  hiss  : 

Nay  more,  though  all  my  rival  rhymesters  frown, 

I too  can  hunt  a poetaster  down  ; 

And,  arm’d  in  proof,  the  gauntlet  cast  at  once 
To  Scotch  marauder,  and  to  southern  dunce. 

Thus  much  I’ve  dared  ; if  my  incondite  lay 
Hath  wrong’d  these  righteous  times,  let  others  say : 
This,  let  the  world,  which  knows  not  how  to  spare, 
Yet  rarely  blames  unjustly,  now  declare.3 

POSTSCRIPT  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

I have  been  informed,  since  the  present  edition  went  to  the  press, 
that  my  trusty  and  well-beloved  cousins,  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers, 
are  preparing  a most  vehement  critique  on  my  poor,  gentle,  unre- 
sisting Muse,  whom  they  have  already  so  be-deviled  with  their 
ungodly  ribaldry : 

“ Tantaene  animis  coelestibus  ira t ! ” 

I suppose  I must  say  of  Jeffrey  as  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  saith, 
“An  I had  known  he  was  so  cunning  of  fence,  I had  seen  him 


damned  ere  I had  fought  him."  What  a pity  it  is  that  I shall  be 
beyond  the  Bosphorus  before  the  next  number  has  passed  the 
Tweed!  But  I yet  hope  to  light  my  pipe  with  it  in  Persia. 

My  northern  friends  have  accused  me,  with  justice,  of  personality 
towards  their  great  literary  anthropophagus,  Jeffrey;  but  what  else 
was  to  be  done  with  him  and  his  dirty  pack,  who  feed  by  “lyi:^ 
and  slandering,"  and  slake  their  thirst  by  “evil  speaking! ’’  1 

have  adduced  facts  already  well  known,  and  of  Jeffrey’s  mind  I 
have  stated  my  free  opinion,  nor  has  he  thence  sustained  any 
injury  : — what  scavenger  was  ever  soiled  by  being  pelted  with 
mud?  It  may  be  said  that  I quit  England  because  I have  censured 
there  “persons  of  honour  and  wit  about  town;"  but  I am  coming 
back  again,  and  their  vengeance  will  keep  hot  till  my  return. 
Those  who  know  me  can  testify  that  my  motives  for  leaving  Eng- 
land are  very  different  from  fears,  literary  or  personal : those  who 
do  not,  may  one  day  be  convinced.  Since  the  publication  of  this 
thing,  my  name  has  not  been  concealed;  I have  been  mostly  in 
London,  ready  to  answer  for  my  transgressions,  and  in  daily  ex- 
pectation of  sundry  cartels;  but,  alas!  “the  age  of  chivalry  is 
over,’’  or,  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  there  is  no  spirit  now-a-days. 

There  is  a youth  ycleped  Hewson  Clarke  (subaudi  esquire),  a 
sizer  of  Emanuel  College,  and,  I believe,  a denizen  of  Berwick- 
upon-Tweed,  whom  I have  introduced  in  these  pages  to  much 
better  company  than  he  lias  been  accustomed  to  meet;  he  is,  not- 
withstanding, a very  sad  dog,  and  for  no  reason  that  I can  discover, 
except  a personal  quarrel  with  a bear,  kept  by  me  at  Cambridge  to 
sit  for  a fellowship,  and  whom  the  jealousy  of  his  Trinity  con- 
temporaries prevented  from  success,  has  been  abusing  me,  and, 
what  is  worse,  the  defenceless  innocent  above  mentioned,  in  the 
“ Satirist,”  for  one  year  and  some  months.  I am  utterly  uncon- 
scious of  having  given  him  any  provocation  ; indeed,  I am  guiltless 
of  having  heard  his  name  till  coupled  with  the  “ Satirist.”  He  has 
therefore  no  reason  to  complain,  and  I dare  say  that,  like  Sir  Fret- 
ful Plagiary,  he  is  rather  pleased  than  otherwise.  I have  now  men- 
tioned all  who  have  done  me  the  honour  to  notice  me  and  mine, 
that  is,  my  bear  and  my  book,  except  the  editor  of  the  “ Satirist,” 
who,  it  seems,  is  a gentleman — God  wot!  I wish  he  could  impart 
a little  of  his  gentility  to  his  subordinate  scribblers.  I hear  that 
Mr.  Jerningham  is  about  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  his  ;i3Pcenas, 
Lord  Carlisle.  I hope  not:  he  was  one  of  the  few,  who,  in  the 
very  short  intercourse  I had  with  him,  treated  me  with  kindness 
when  a boy;  and  whatever  he  may  say  or  do,  “pour  on,  I will 
endure  ” 1 have  nothing  further  to  add,  save  a general  note  of 

thanksgiving  to  readers,  purchasers,  and  publishers  ; and,  in  the 
words  of  Scott,  I wish 

“ To  all  and  each  a fair  good  night, 

And  rosy  dreams  and  slumbers  light.” 


from  Horace 

BEING  AN  ALLUSION  IN  ENGLISH  VERSE  TO  THE  EPISTLE  “ AD  PISONES,  DE  ARTE  POET1CA,”  AND 
INTENDED  AS  A SEQUEL  TO  “ ENGLISH  BARDS  AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.”  4 


“ Ergo  fungar  vice  cotis,  acutum 

Reddere  quae  ferrum  valet,  exsors  ipsa  secandi.” 

Hoe.  De  Arte  Poet. 


“ Rhymes  are  difficult  things— they  are  stubborn  things,  sir.” 

Fielding’s  Amelia. 


Athens.  Capuchin  Convent,  March  12,  1811. 

Who  would  not  laugh,  if  Lawrence,  hired  to  grace 
His  costly  canvass  with  each  flatter’d  face, 

Abuse.d  his  art,  till  Nature,  with  a blush, 

Saw  cits  grow  centaurs  underneath  his  brush  ? 

Humanu  capiti  cervicem  pictor  equinam 
Jungere  si  velit,  et  varias  inducere  plumas, 


two  gallons  of  Japan  ink,  and  several  volumes  rf  best  blank,  is  no 
bad  provision  for  a discerning  public.  I have  laid  down  my  penf 
hut  have  promised  to  contribute  a chapter  on  the  state  of  morals, 
&c.,  &c.”] 

(1)  L"  Singular  enough,  and  din  enough,  God  knows.”— B.  1816.] 

(2)  In  this  passage,  hastily  thrown  off  as  it  is,  “we  find,”  says 
Moore,  “the  strongest  trace  of  that  wounded  feeling,  which  bleeds, 
as  it  were,  through  all  his  subsequent  writings.”] 

(3)  [“  The  greater  part  of  this  satire  I most  sincerely  wish  had 

never  been  written— not  only  on  account  of  the  injustice  of  much 
of  the  critical,  and  some  of  the  personal  part  of  it— but  the  tone 


Or,  should  some  limner  join,  for  show  or  sale, 

A maid  of  honour  to  a mermaid’s  tail  ? 

Or  low  Dubost—  as  once  the  world  has  seen — 
Degrade  God’s  creatures  in  his  graphic  spleen  ? 

Undique  collatis  membris,  ut  turpiter  atrum 
Desinat  in  piscem  mulier  formosa  supern6; 


and  temper  are  such  as  I cannot  approve.” — Byron.  July  M 
1816.  Diodati,  Geneva.] 

(4)  [Authors  are  apt,  it  is  said,  to  estimate  their  performances 
more  according  to  the  trouble  they  have  cost  themselves,  than  the 
pleasure  they  afford  to  the  public;  and  it  is  only  in  this  way  that 
we  can  pretend  to  account  for  the  extraordinary  value  which  Lord 
Byron  attached,  even  many  long  years  after  they  were  written,  to 
these  “Hints  from  Horace.”  The  business  of  translating  Horace 
has  hitherto  been  a hopeless  one: — and  notwithstanding  the  bnl- 
liant  cleverness  of  some  passages,  in  both  Pope’s  and  Swift’s  Imita- 
tions cf  him  ‘here  had  been,  on  the  whole,  very  little  to  e iccurage 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE, 


437 


Not  all  that  forced  politeness,  winch  defends 
Fools  in  their  faults,  could  gag  his  grinning  friends. 
Believe  me,  Moschus,2  like  that  picture  seems 
The  book  which,  sillier  than  a sick  man’s  dreams, 
Displays  a crowd  of  figures  incomplete, 

Poetic  nightmares,  without  head  or  feet.3 

Poets  and  painters,  as  all  artists 4 know, 

May  shoot  a little  with  a lengthen’d  bow  ; 

\\  e claim  this  mutual  mercy  for  our  task, 

And  srant  in  turn  the  pardon  which  we  ask  ; 

But  make  not  monsters  spring  from  gentle  dams — 
Birds  breed  not  vipers,  tigers  nurse  not  lambs. 

A labour’d,  long  exordium,  sometimes  tends 
(Like  pal  riot  speeches)  but  to  paltry  ends; 

And  nonsense  in  a lofty  note  goes  down 
As  pertness  passes  with  a legal  gown  : 

Tims  many  a bard  describes  in  pompous  strain 
The  clear  brook  babbling  through  the  goodly  plain  : 
The  groves  of  Grants,  and  her  gothic  halls.  [walls  ; 
King’s  Coll,  Cam’s  stream,  stain’d  windows,  and  old 
Or,  in  advent’rous  numbers,  neatly  aims 
To  paint  a rainbow,  or — the  river  Thames.5 

You  sketch  a tree,  and  so  perhaps  may  shine— 

But  daub  a shipwreck  like  an  alehouse  sign ; 

You  plan  a vase — it  dwindles  to  a pot ; 

Then  glide  down  Grub-street — fasting  and  forgot ; 

Spectatum  admissi  risum  teneatis,  amici? 

Credite,  Pisones,  isti  tabulae  fore  librum 
Pesimilem,  cujus,  velut  ®gri  somnia,  vanae 
Fingentur  species  ; ut  nec  pes,  nec  caput  uni 
Reddatur  form®.  Pictoribus  atque  poetis 
Quidlibet  audendi  semper  fuit  ®qua  potestas. 

Seimus,  et  banc  veniam  petinrasque  uamusque  vicissim : 

Sed  non  ut  placidis  coeant  immuia  ; non  ut 
Serpentes  avibus  geminentur,  tigribus  agni. 

Incceptis  gravibus  plerumque  ct  magna  professis 
Purpuveus,  late  qui  splendeat,  unus  et  alter 
Assuitur  pannus  ; cum  lucus  et  ara  Dian®, 

Et  properantis  aqu®  per  amcenos  ambitus  agros, 

Aut  (lumen  Rhenum,  aut  pluvius  describitur  arcus. 

Sed  nunc  non  erat  his  locus  : et  fortasse  cupressum 
Scis  simulare  : quid  hoc,  si  fractis  enatat  exsoes 
Navi  bus,  sere  dato  qui  pingitur?  amphora  coepit 


any  one  to  meddle  seriously  even  with  that  less  difficult  depart- 
ment. It  is,  comparatiyely,  an  easy  affair  to  transfer  the  effect,  or 
something  like  the  effect,  of  the  majestic  declamations  of  Juvenal ; 
but  the  Horatiar.  satire  is  cast  in  a mould  of  such  exquisite  delicacy 
— uniting  perfect  ease  with  perfect  elegance  throughout- as  has 
hitherto  defied  all  the  skill  of  the  moderns.  Lord  Byron,  however, 
having  composed  this  piece  at  Athens,  in  1811,  and  brought  it  home 
in  the  same  desk  with  the  two  first  cantos  of  “ Childe  Harold,” 
appears  to  have,  on  his  arrival  in  London,  contemplated  its  publi- 
cation as  far  more  likely  to  imrease  his  reputation  than  that  of  his 
original  poem.  Perhaps  Milton’s  preference  of  the  “ Paradise  Re- 
gained” over  the  “ Paradise  Lost”  is  not  a more  decisive  example 
of  the  extent  to  which  a great  author  may  mistake  the  source  of 
his  greatness. 

Lord  Byron  was  prevented  from  publishing  these  lines,  by  a 
feeling,  which,  considering  his  high  notion  of  their  merit,  does  him 
honour.  By  accident,  or  nearly  so,  the  “ Harold”  came  out  before 
the  “ Hints  — and  the  reception  of  the  former  was  so  flattering  to 
Lord  Byron,  that  it  could  scarcely  fail  to  take  off,  for  the  time,  the 
edge  of  his  appetite  for  literary  bitterness.  In  short,  he  found 
himself  mixing  constantly  in  society  with  persons  who  had — from 
good  sense,  or  good-nature,  or  from  both — overlooked  the  petu- 
lances of  his  “ English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,”  and  felt,  as 
he  said,  that  he  should  be  “heaping  coals  of  fire  on  his  head”  if  he 
were  to  persist  in  bringing  forth  a continuation  of  his  juvenile  lam- 
poon. Nine  years  had  passed  ere  he  is  found  writing  thus  to  Mr. 
Murray : — “ Get  from  Mr.  Hobhouse,  and  send  me,  a proof  of  my 
‘Hints  from  Horace;'  it  has  now  the  nonum  prematur  in  annum 
complete  for  its  production.  I have  a notion  that,  with  some 
omissions  of  names  and  passages,  it  will  do;  and  I could  put  my 
ate  observations  for  Pope  amongst  the  notes.  As  far  as  versifi- 
cation goes,  it  is  good ; and,  in  looking  back  at  what  I wrote  about 
that  period,  I am  astonished  to  see  how  little  I have  trained  on.  I 
wrote  better  then  than  now  ; but  that  comes  of  my  having  fallen^ 
into  the  atrocious  bad  taste  of  the  times.”  On  hearing,  however, 
that,  in  Mr.  Hobhouse’s  opinion  tne  iambics  would  require  “a  j 


Laugh’d  into  Lethe  by  some  quaint  Review, 

Whose  wit  is  never  troublesome  till — true  6 

In  fine,  to  whatsoever  you  aspire, 

Let  it  at  least  be  simple  and  entire. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  rhyming  tribe 
(Give  ear,  my  friend,  for  thou  hast  been  a scribe) 
Are  led  astray  by  some  peculiar  lure. 

I labour  to  be  brief — become  obscure  ; 

One  falls  while  following  elegance  too  fast ; 

Another  soars,  inflated  with  bombast ; 

Too  low  a third  crawls  01^  afraid  to  fly, 

He  spins  his  subject  to  satiety ; 

Absurdly  varying,  he  at  last  engraves 

Fish  in  the  woods,  and  boars  beneath  the  waves  ! 

Unless  your  care’s  exact,  your  judgment  nice, 
The  flight  from  folly  leads  but  into  vice ; 

None  are  complete,  all  wanting  in  some  part. 

Like  certain  tailors,  limited  in  art. 

For  gallygaskins  Slowshears  is  your  man ; 

But  coats  must  claim  another  artisan.7 
Now  this  to  me,  I own,  seems  much  the  same 
As  Vulcan’s  feet  to  bear  Apollo’s  frame  ;8 
Or,  with  a fair  complexion,  to  expose 
Black  eyes,  black  ringlets,  but — a bottle  nose  ! 

Dear  authors  ! suit  your  topics  to  your  strength. 
And  ponder  well  your  subject,  and  its  length  ; 


Institui;  currente  rota  cur  urceus  exit? 

Denique  sit  quod  vis,  simplex  duntaxat  et  unum 
Maxima  pars  vatum,  pater,  et  juvenes  patre  dignt, 
Decipimur  specie  recti.  Brevis  esse  laboro. 
Obscurus  fio  : sectantem  levia,  nervi 
Deficiunt  animique:  professus  grandia,  turget  • 
Serpit  humi  tutus  nimium  timidusque  procell. 

Qui  variare  cupit  rem  prodigialiter  unam, 
Delphinum  sylvis  appingit,  fluctibus  aprum. 

In  vitium  ducit  culp®  fuga,  si  caret  arte. 
jEmilium  circa  ludum  faber  imus  et  ungues 
Exprimet,  et  molles  imitabitur  ®re  capillos; 

Infelix  operis  summa,  quia  ponere  totum 
Nesciet.  Hunc  ego  me,  si  quid  componere  curem, 
Non  magis  esse  velim,  quam  pravo  vivere  naso, 
Spectandum  nigris  oculis  nigroque  capillo. 

Sumite  materiem  vestris,  qui  scribitis,  ®quam 


good  deal  of  slashing”  to  suit  the  times,  the  notion  of  printing  them 
was  once  more  abandoned.  They  were  first  published,  therefore, 
in  1831,  seven  years  after  the  poet’s  death.] 

(1)  In  an  English  newspaper,  which  finds  its  way  abroad  when- 
ever there  are  Englishmen,  I read  an  account  of  this  dirty  dauber’s 

caricature  of  Mr.  H as  a “ beast,”  and  the  consequent  action, 

&c.  The  circumstance  is,  probably,  too  well  known  to  require 
further  comment. — [The  gentleman  here  alluded  to  was  Thomas 
Hope,  Esq.,  the  author  of  “ Anastasius,”  and  one  of  the  roost 
munificent  patrons  of  art  this  country  ever  possessed.  Having, 
somehow,  offended  an  unprincipled  French  painter,  by  name 
Dubost,  that  adventurer  revenged  himself  by  a picture  called 
“ Beauty  and  the  Beast,”  in  which  Mr.  Hope  and  his  lady  were 
represented  according  to  the  well-known  fairy  story.  The  picture 
had  too  much  malice  not  to  succeed;  and,  to  the  disgrace  of  John 
Bull,  the  exhibition  of  it  is  said  to  have  fetched  thirty  pounds  in  a 
day.  A brother  of  Mrs.  Hope  thrust  his  sword  through  the  can 
vass;  and  M.  Dubost  had  the  consolation  to  get  five  pounds 
damages.  The  affair  made  much  noise  at  the  time;  though  Mr. 
Hope  had  not  then  placed  himself  on  that  seat  of  literary  eminence, 
which  he  afterwards  attained.  Probably,  indeed,  no  man’s  reputa- 
tion in  the  world  was  ever  so  suddenly  and  completely  altered,  as 
his  was  by  the  appearance  of  his  magnificent  romance.  He  died  in 
1833.] 

(2)  [“Moschus.” — In  the  original  MS.,  “Hobhouse.”] 

(3)  [The  opening  of  the  poem  ia,  with  reference  to  the  original, 
ingenious. — Moore.] 

(I)  [“  All  artists.” — Originally,  “ We  scribblers.”] 

(5)  “ Where  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense.” — Pops. 

(6)  [This  is  pointed,  and  felicitously  expressed. — Moore. 

(7)  Mere  common  mortals  were  commonly  content  with  one 
tailor  and  with  one  bill,  but  the  more  particular  gentlemen  found 
it  impossible  to  confide  their  lower  garments  to  the  makers  of 
their  body  clothes.  I speak  of  the  beginning  of  1809  : what  reform 
may  have  since  taken  place,  I neither  know,  nor  desire  to  know. 

[81  [“  As  one  ’.eg  perfect,  and  the  other  lame.”— MS.] 


438 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Nor  lift  jour  load,  before  you’re  quite  aware 
What  weight  your  shoulders  will,  or  will  not,  bear. 
But  lucid  Order,  and  Wit’s  siren  voice, 

Await  the  poet,  skilful  in  his  choice ; 

With  native  eloquence  he  soars  along, 

Grace  in  his  thoughts,  and  music  in  his  song. 

Let  judgment  teach  him  wisely  to  combine 
With  future  parts  the  now  omitted  line  : 

Th  s shall  the  author  choose,  or  that  reject, 

Precise  in  style,  and  cautious  to  select ; 

Nor  slight  applause  will  candid  pens  afford 
To  him  who  furnishes  a wanting  word. 

Then  fear  not,  if  ’tis  needful,  to  produce 
Some  term  unknown,  or  obsolete  in  use, 

(As  Pitt 1 has  furnish’d  us  a word  or  two, 

Which  lexicographers  declined  to  do) 

So  you  indeed,  with  care, — (but  be  content 
To  take  this  license  rarely) — may  invent. 

New  words  find  credit  in  these  latter  days 
If  neatly  grafted  on  a Gallic  phrase. 

What  Chaucer,  Spenser  did,  we  scarce  refuse 
To  Dryden’s  or  to  Pope’s  maturer  muse. 

If  you  can  add  a little,  say  why  not. 

As  well  as  William  Pitt,  and  Walter  Scott  ? 

Since  they,  by  force  of  rhyme  and  force  of  lungs, 
Enrich’d  our  island’s  ill-united  tongues  ; 

’Tis  then — and  shall  be — lawful  to  present 
Reform  in  writing,  as  in  parliament. 

As  forests  shed  their  foliage  by  degrees, 

So  fade  expressions  which  in  season  please  ; 

And  we  and  ours,  alas ! are  due  to  fate, 

And  works  and  words  but  dwindle  to  a date. 


Viribus  ; et  versate  diu  quid  ferre  recusent, 

Quid  valeant  humeri.  Cui  lecta  potenter  erit  res, 
Nec  facundia  deseret  hunc,  nec  lueidus  ordo. 

Ordinis  liaec  virtus  erit  et  venus,  aut  ego  fallor, 
Ut  jam  nunc  dicat.  jam  nunc  debentia  dici 
Pleraque  differat,  et  prsesens  in  tempus  omittat ; 
Hoc  amet,  hoc  spernat  promissi  carminis  auctor. 

In  verbis  etiam  tenuis  cautusque  serendis  : 
Dixeris  egregie,  notum  si  callida  verbum 
Reddiderit  junctura  novum.  Si  forte  necesse  est 
Indiciis  monstrare  recentibus  abdita  rerum, 
Fingere  cinctutis  non  exaudita  Cethegis 
Continget ; dabiturque  licentia  sumpta  pudenter; 
Et  nova  fictaque  nuper  habebunt  verba  fidem,  si 
Graeco  fonte  cadant,  parce  detorta.  Quid  autem 
Caecilio  Plautoque  dabit  Romanus,  ademptum 
Virgilio  Varioque?  ego  cur,  acquirere  pauca 
Si  possum,  invideor,  cum  lingua  Catonis  et  Enni 
Sermonem  patrium  ditaverit,  et  nova  rerum 
Nomina  protulerit?  Licuit,  semperque  licebit, 
Signatum  praesente  nota  producere  nomen. 

Ut  silvae  foliis  pronos  mutantur  in  annos; 

Prima  cadunt:  ita  verborum  vetus  interit  aetas, 

Et  juvenum  ritu  florent  modo  nata,  vigentque. 


(1)  Mr.  Pitt  was  liberal  in  his  additions  to  our  parliamentary 
tongue ; as  may  be  seen  in  many  publications,  particularly  the 
Edinburgh  Review. 

(2)  Old  ballads,  old  plays,  and  old  women’s  stories  are  at  present 
in  as  much  request  as  old  wine  or  new  speeches.  In  fact,  this  is 
the  millennium  of  black  letter  : thanks  to  our  Hebers,  Webers,  and 
Scotts !— [There  was  considerable  malice  in  thus  putting  Weber,  a 
poor  German  hack,  a mere  amanuensis  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  between 
the  two  other  names.] 

(3)  ••  Mac  Flecktioe,”  the  “ Dunciad,”  and  all  Swift’s  lampoon- 
ing ballads.  Whatever  their  other  works  may  be,  these  originated 
in  personal  feelings,  and  angry  retort  on  unworthy  rivals;  and 
though  the  ability  of  these  satires  elevates  the  poetical,  their 
poignancy  detracts  from  the  personal  character  of  the  writers. — 

[For  particulars  of  Dryden’s  feud  with  his  successor  in  the 

laureateship,  Shadwcll,  whom  he  has  immortalized  under  the 
name  of  Mac  Flecknoe,  and  also  as  Og,  in  the  second  part  of 
•<  Absalom  and  Achitophel and  for  the  literary  squabbles  in  which 
Swift  and  Pope  were  engaged,  the  reader  must  turn  to  the  lives 
and  works  of  these  three  great  writers.  See  also  Mr.  D’lsraeli’s 
painfully  interesting  book  on  “ The  Quarrels  of  Authors.”] 


Though  as  a monarch  nods,  and  commerce  calls, 
Impetuous  rivers  stagnate  in  canals  ; 

Though  swamps  subdued,  and  marshes  drain’d,  sustajn 
The  heavy  ploughshare  and  the  yellow  grain, 

And  rising  ports  along  the  busy  shore 
Protect  the  vessel  from  old  Ocean’s  roar, 

All,  all  must  perish;  but,  surviving  last, 

The  love  of  letters  half  preserves  the  past. 

True,  some  decay,  yet  not  a few  revive  ;2 3 
Though  those  shall  sink,  which  now  appear  to  thrive, 
As  custom  -arbitrates,  whose  shifting  sway 
Our  life  and  language  must  alike  obey. 

The  immortal  wars  which  gods  and  angels  wage, 
Are  they  not  shown  in  Milton’s  sacred  page  ? 

His  strain  will  teach  what  numbers  best  belong 
To  themes  celestial  told  in  epic  song. 

The  slow,  sad  stanza  will  correctly  paint 
The  lover’s  anguish,  or  the  friend’s  complaint. 

But  which  deserves  the  laurel — rhyme  or  blank  ? — 
Which  holds  on  Helicon  the  higher  rank  ? 

Let  squabbling  critics  by  themselves  dispute 
This  point,  as  puzzling  as  a Chancery  suit. 

Satiric  rhyme  first  sprang  from  selfish  spleen. 

You  doubt — see  Dryden,  Pope,  St.  Patrick’s  dean.4 

Blank  verse 4 is  now,  with  one  consent,  allied 
To  Tragedy,  and  rarely  quits  her  side. 

Though  mad  Almanzor  rhymed  in  Dryden’s  days, 

No  sing-song  hero  rants  in  modem  plays  ; 

Whilst  modest  Comedy  her  verse  foregoes 
For  jest  and  pun*  in  very  middling  prose. 


Debemur  morti  nos  nostraque  : sive  receptus 
Terra  Neptunus  classes  aquilonibus  arcet, 

Regis  opus;  sterilisve  diu  palus,  aptaque  remls, 
Vicinas  urbes  alit,  et  grave  sentit  aratrum  : 

Seu  eursum  mutavit  iniquum  frugibus  amnis, 
Doctus  iter  melius;  mortalia  facta  peribunt; 
Nedum  sermonum  stet  honos,  et  gratia  vivax. 

Multa  renascentur,  quae  jam  cecidere;  cadentque 
Quae  nunc  sunt  in  honore  vocabula,  si  volet  usus, 
Quern  penes  arbitrium  est  et  juset  norma  loquendi. 

Res  gestae  regumque  ducumque  et  tristia  bella, 
Quo  scrilii  possent  numero  monstravit  Homerus. 

Versibus  impariter  junctis  querimonia  primum; 
Post  etiam  inclusa  est  voti  sententia  compos. 

Quis  tamen  exiguos  elegos  emiserit  auctor, 
Grammatici  certant,  et  adhuc  sub  judice  lis  est. 

Arcliilochum  proprio  rabies  armavit  iambo; 
Hunc  socci  cepere  pedem,  grandesque  cothurni, 
Alternis  aptum  sermonibus,  et  populares 
Vincentem  strepitus,  et  natum  rebus  agendis. 

Musa  dedit  fidibus  divos,  puerosque  deorum, 

Et  pugilem  victorem,  et  equum  certamine  primum, 
Et  juvenum  curas,  et  libera  vina  referre. 

Descriptas  servare  vices  operumque  colores, 


(4)  [Like  Dr.  Johnson,  Lord  Byron  maintained  the  excellence  of 
rhyme  over  blank  verse  in  English  poetry.  “ Blank  verse,”  he 
says  in  his  long  lost  letter  to  the  editor  of  Blackwood'3  Magazine, 
“ unless  in  the  drama,  no  one  except  Milton  ever  wrote  who  could 
rhyme.  I am  aware  that  Johnson  has  said,  after  some  hesitation, 
that  he  could  not  4 prevail  upon  himself  to  wish  that  Milton  had 
been  a rhymer.’  The  opinions  of  that  truly  great  man,  whom,  like 
Pope,  it  is  the  present  fashion  to  decry,  will  ever  be  received  by  me 
with  that  deference  which  time  will  restore  to  him  from  all:  but, 
with  all  humility,  I am  not  persuaded  that  the  ‘Paradise  lost’ 
would  not  have  been  more  nobly  conveyed  to  posterity,  not  perhaps 
in  heroic  couplets, — although  even  they  could  sustain  the  subject. 
if  well  balanced, — but  in  the  stanza  of  Spenser,  or  of  Tasso,  or  in 
the  terza  rima  of  Dante,  which  the  powers  of  Milton  could  easihj 
have  grafted  on  our  language.  The  4 Seasons’  of  Thomson  woalc! 
have  been  better  in  rhyme,  although  still  inferior  to  his  4 Castle  oi 
Indolence;’  and  Mr.  Southey’s  4 Joan  of  Arc’  no  worse.”] 

(5)  With  all  the  vulgar  applause  and  critical  abhorrence  of  puns, 
they  have  Aristotle  on  their  side;  who  permits  them  to  orators, 
and  gives  them  consequence  by  a grave  disquisition.— [“  Cicero 
also,”  says  Addison,  “has  sprinkled  several  of  his  works  with  them; 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


439 


Not  that  our  Bens  or  Beaumonts  show  the  worse, 
Or  lose  one  point,  because  they  wrote  in  verse. 

But  so  Thalia  pleases  to  appear, 

Poor  virgin  ! damn’d  some  twenty  times  a year ! 

Whate’er  the  scene,  let  this  advice  have  weight 
Adapt  your  language  to  your  hero’s  state. 

At  times  Melpomene  forgets  to  groan, 

And  brisk  Thalia  takes  a serious  tone  ; 

Nor  unregarded  will  the  act  pass  by 
Where  angry  Townly* 1  lifts  his  voice  on  high. 

Again,  our  Shakspeare  limits  verse  to  kings, 

When  common  prose  will  serve  for  common  things  ; 
And  lively  Hal  resigns  heroic  ire, 

To  “ hollowing  Hotspur”  2 and  the  sceptred  sire. 

’Tis  not  enough,  ye  bards,  with  all  your  art, 

To  polish  poems ; — they  must  touch  the  heart : 
Where’er  the  scene  be  laid,  whate’er  the  song, 

Still  let  it  bear  the  hearer’s  soul  along  ; 

Command  your  audience  or  to  smile  or  weep, 
Wliiche’er  may  please  you — any  thing  but  sleep. 

The  poet  claims  our  tears  : but,  by  his  leave, 

Before  I shed  them,  let  me  see  him  grieve. 

If  banish’d  Romeo  feign’d  nor  sigh  nor  tear, 
Lull’d  by  his  languor,  I should  sleep  or  sneer. 

Sad  words,  no  doubt,  become  a serious  face, 

And  men  look  angry  in  the  proper  place. 

At  double  meanings  folks  seem  wondrous  sly, 

And  sentiment  prescribes  a pensive  eye  : 

For  nature  formed  at  first  the  inward  man, 

And  actors  copy  nature — when  they  can. 

She  bids  the  beating  heart  with  rapture  bound, 
Raised  to  the  stars,  or  levell’d  with  the  ground ; 


Cur  ego,  si  nequeo  ignoroque,  poeta  salutor  ? 

Cur  nescire,  pudens  prave,  quam  discere  malo  ? 

Versibus  exponi  tragicis  res  comiea  non  vult; 
Indignatur  item  privatis,  ac  prope  socco 
Dignis  carmimbus  narrari  coena  Thyestae. 

Singula  quaeque  locum  teneant  sortita  decenter. 
Interdum  tamen  et  vocem  comcedia  tollit, 

Iratusque  Chremes  tumido  delitigat  ore: 

Et  tragicus  plerumque  doletsermone  pedestri. 
Telephus  et  Peleus,  cum  pauper  et  exsul,  uterque 
Projicit  ampullas  et  sesquipedalia  verba, 

Si  curat  cor  spectantis  tetigisse  querela. 

Non  satis  est  pulehra  esse  poemata;  dulcia  sunto, 
Et,  quocunque  volent,  animum  auditoris  agunto. 

Ut  ridentibus  arrident,  ita  flentibus  adflent 
Humani  vultus;  si  vis  me  Here,  dolendum  est 
Primum  ipsi  tibi ; tunc  tua  me  infortunia  laedent. 
Telephe.  vel  Peleu.  male  si  manduta  loqueris, 

Aut  dormitabo,  aut  ridebo  : tristia  moestum 
Vultum  verba  decent;  iratum,  plena  min  arum  ; 
Luaentem,  lasciva  ; severum,  seria  dictu. 

Format  enim  natura  prius  nos  iutus  ad  omnem 


and,  ir  his  book  on  Oratory,  quotes  abundance  of  sayings  as  pieces 
of  wit,  which,  upon  examination,  prove  arrant  puns.  But  the  age 
in  which  the  pun  chiefly  flourished  was  in  the  reign  of  James  the 
First,  who  was  himself  a tolerable  punster,  and  made  very  few 
bishops  or  privy  councillors  that  had  not  some  time  or  other  signa- 
lized themselves  by  a clinch  or  a conundrum.  The  sermons  of 
Bishop  Andrews,  and  the  tragedies  of  Shakspeare,  are  full  of  them. 
The  sinner  was  punned  into  repentance  by  the  former;  as  in  the 
latter,  nothing  is  more  usual  than  to  see  a hero  weeping  and  quib- 
bling for  a dozen  lines  together.”] 

(1)  [In  Vanbrugh’s  comedy  of  the  “Provoked  Husband.”] 

(2J  “ And  in  his  ear  I’ll  hollo  Mortimer ! ” — 1 Henry  IV. 

(3 ) [Johnson.  Pray,  Mr.  Bayes,  who  is  that  Drawcansir  ? Bayes. 
Why,  Sir,  a great  hero,  that  frights  his  mistress,  snubs  up  kings, 
baffles  armies,  and  does  what  he  will,  without  regard  to  numbers, 
good  sense,  or  justice.”— Rehearsal. 


And  for  expression’s  aid,  tis  said,  or  sung, 

She  gave  our  mind’s  interprctei — the  tongue, 

Who,  worn  with  use,  of  late  would  fain  dispense 
(At  least  in  theatres)  with  common  sense  ; 

O’erwhelm  with  sound  the  boxes,  gallery,  pit, 

And  raise  a laugh  with  any  thing — but  wit. 

To  skilful  writers  it  will  much  import, 

Whence  spring  their  scenes,  from  common  life  oi 
court ; 

Whether  they  seek  applause  by  smile  or  tear, 

To  draw  a “ Lying  Valet,”  or  a “ Lear,” 

A sag-e,  or  rakish  youngster  wild  from  school, 

A wandering  “ Peregrine,”  or  plain  “ John  Bull ;** 

All  persons  please  when  nature’s  voice  prevails, 
Scottish  or  Irish,  born  in  Wilts  or  Wales. 

Or  follow  common  fame,  or  forge  a plot. 

Who  cares  if  mimic  heroes  lived  or  not  ? 

One  precept  serves  to  regulate  the  scene  : — 

Make  it  appear  as  if  it  might  have  been. 

If  some  Drawcansir 3 you  aspire  to  draw, 

Present  him  raving  and  above  all  law  : 

If  female  furies  in  your  scheme  are  plann’d, 
Macbeth’s  fierce  dame  is  ready  to  your  hand ; 

For  tears  and  treachery,  for  good  and  evil, 

Constance,  King  Richard,  Hamlet,  and  the  Devil ! 
But  if  a new  design  you  dare  essay. 

And  freely  wander  from  the  beaten  way, 

True  to  your  characters,  till  all  be  past, 

Preserve  consistency  from  first  to  last. 

’Tis  hard  to  venture  where  our  betters  fail. 

Or  lend  fresh  interest  to  a twice-told  tale  ; 


Fortunarum  habitum  ; juvat,  aut  impellit  ad  iram; 
Aut  ad  humum  mcerore  gravi  deducit,  et  angit; 
Post  effert  animi  motus  interprete  lingua. 

Si  dicentis  erunt  fortunis  absona  dicta, 

Roinani  tollent  equ'tes  peditesque  cachinnum. 

Intererit  multum,  Davusne  loquatur,  an  heros; 
Maturusne  senex,  an  adhuc  florente  juventa 
Ftrvidus;  an  matrona  potens,  an  sedula  nutrix; 
Mercatorne  vagus,  cultorne  virentis  agelli ; 
Colehus,  an  Assyrius ; Thebis  nutritus,  an  Argis. 

Aut  famam  sequere,  aut  sibi  convenientia  finge, 
Scriptor.  Honoratum  si  forte  reponis  Achillem; 
Impiger,  iracundus,  inexorabilis,  acer, 

Jura  neget  sibi  nata,  nihil  non  arroget  armis. 

Sit  Medea  ferox  invictaque,  flebilis  lno, 

Perfidus  Ixion,  Io  vaga,  tristis  Orestes, 

Si  quid  inexpertum  scenae  committis,  et  audes 
Personam  formare  novam  ; servetur  ad  imum 
Qualis  ab  incepto  processerit,  et  sibi  constet. 

Difficile  est  proprie  communia  dicere  ;*  tuque 
Rectius  lliacum  carmen  deducis  in  actus, 

Quam  si  proferres  ignota  indictaque  primus. 


* “ Difficile  est  proprie  communia  dicere.” — Mde.  Dacier,  Mde. 
de  Sevigne,  Boileau,  and  others,  have  left  their  dispute  on  the 
meaning  of  this  passage  in  a tract  considerably  longer  than  the 
poem  of  Horace.  It  is  printed  at  the  close  of  the  eleventh  volume 
of  Madame  de  Sevigne’s  Letters,  edited  by  Grouvelle,  Paris,  180(3. 
Presuming  that  all  who  can  construe  may  venture  an  opinion  on  such 
subjects,  particularly  as  so  many  who  can  not  have  taken  the  same 
liberty,  I should  have  held  my  •*  farthing  candle”  as  awkwardly  as 
another,  had  not  my  respect  for  the  wits  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth's 
Augustan  sidcle  induced  me  to  subjoin  these  illustrious  authorities. 
1st,  Boileau:  “ II  est  difficile  de  traiter  des  sujets  qui  sont  a Ja 
portee  de  tout  le  monde  d’une  maniere  qui  vous  les  rende  propre*, 
ce  qui  s’appelle  s’approprier  un  sujet  par  le  tour  qu’on  y donne  * 
2dly,  Batteux : “ Mais  il  est  bien  difficile  de  donner  des  trairs 
propres  et  individuels  aux  etres  purement  possibles.”  3dly,  Dacier: 

“ II  est  difficile  de  traiter  convenablement  ces  caract&res  que  tout 
le  monde  peut  inventer.”  Mde.  de  Sevigne’s  opinion  and  trans- 
lation, consisting  of  some  thirty  pages,  I omit,  particularly  aa 


440 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


And  yet  perchance,  ’tis  wiser  to  prefer 
A.  hackney’d  plot,  than  choose  a new,  and  err ; 

Yet  copy  not  too  closely,  but  record, 

More  • justly,  thought  for  thought  than  word  for 
word, 

Nor  trace  your  prototype  through  narrow  ways, 

But  only  follow  where  he  merits  praise. 

Dor  you,  young  bard  ! whom  luckless  fate  may  lead 
To  tremble  on  the  nod  of  all  who  read, 

Ere  your  first  score  of  cantos  time  unrolls, 

Beware — for  God’s  sake,  don’t  begin  like  Bowles  !*  1 
“ Awake  a louder  and  a loftier  strain,” — 

And  pray,  what  follows  from  his  boiling  brain  ? — 


P«hlica  materies  privati  juris  erit,  si' 

Nec  circa  vilem  patulumque  moraberis  orbem; 
Nec  verbum  verbo  curabis  reddere  fidus 
Interpres,  nec  desilies  imitator  in  arctum, 

Unde  pedem  proferre  pudor  vetet,  aut  operis  lex. 
Nec  sic  incipies,  ut  scriptor  cyclicus  olim  : 
“Fortunam  Priami  cantabo,  et  nobile  bellum.” 
Quid  dignum  tanto  feret  hie  promissor  hiatu? 
Parturiunt  montes:  nascetur  ridiculus  mus. 


M.  Grouvelle  observes,  “ La  chose  est  bien  remarquable,  aucune 
rie  ces  diverses  interpretations  ne  parait  etre  la  veritable.”  But  by 
way  of  comfort,  it  seems,  fifty  years  afterwards,  “ Le  lumineux 
Dumarsais”  made  his  appearance,  to  set  Horace  on  his  legs  again, 
“ dissiper  tous  les  nuages,  et  concilier  tous  les  dissentimens and 
some  fifty  years  hence,  somebody,  still  more  luminous,  will  doubt- 
less start  up  and  demolish  Dumarsais  and  his  system  on  this 
weighty  affair,  as  if  he  were  no  better  than  Ptolemy  and  Tycho,  or 
his  comments  of  no  more  consequence  than  astronomical  calcula- 
tions on  the  present  comet.  I am  happy  to  say,  “ la  longueur  de 
la  dissertation”  of  M.  D.  prevents  M G.  from  saying  any  more  on 
the  matter.  A better  poet  than  Boileau,  and  at  least  as  good  a 
scholar  as  Sevigne,  has  said, 

“ A little  learning  is  a dangerous  thing.” 

And,  by  this  comparison  of  comments,  it  may  be  perceived  how  a 
good  deal  may  be  rendered  as  perilous  to  the  proprietors. — [Dr. 
Johnson  gave  the  interpretation  thus— “ He  means  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  appropiL.te  to  particular  persons  qualties  which  are  com 
mon  toall  mankind,  as  Homer  has  done.” — “Itseems  to  result  from 
the  whole  discussion,'’  says  Mr.  Croker,  “ that,  in  the  ordinary 
meaning  of  the  words,  the  passage  is  obscure,  and  that,  to  make 
sense,  we  must  either  alter  the  words,  or  assign  to  them  an  unusual 
interpretation.  All  commentators  are  agreed,  by  the  help  of  the 
context,  what  the  general  meaning  must  be;  but  no  one  seems 
able  ‘verbum  verbo  reddere  fidus  interpres.’”  ( Boswell , vol.  iii. 
p.  438.) — But,  in  our  humble  opinion,  Boileau’s  translation  is  pre- 
cisely that  of  this  “ fidus  interpres  ”] 

(1)  [About  two  years  ago  a young  man,  named  Townsend,  was 
announced  by  Mr.  Cumberland*  (in  a review!  since  deceased)  as 
being  engaged  on  an  epic  poem  to  be  entitled  “ Armageddon.”  The 
plan  and  specimen  promise  much ; but  T hope  neither  to  offend 
Mr.  Townsend,  nor  his  friends,  by  recommending  to  his  attention 
the  lines  of  Horace  to  which  these  rhymes  allude.  If  Mr.  Towns- 
end succeeds  in  his  undertaking,  as  there  is  reason  to  hope,  how- 
much  will  the  world  be  indebted  to  Mr.  Cumberland  for  bringing 
him  before  the  public  ! But,  till  that  eventful  day  arrives,  it  may 
be  doubted  whether  the  premature  display  of  his  plan  (sublime  as 
the  ideas  confessedly  are)  has  not, — by  raising  expectation  too 
high,  or  diminishing  curiosity,  by  developing  his  argument, — 
rather  incurred  the  hazard  of  injuring  Mr.  Townsend’s  future  pro- 
spects. Mr.  Cumberland  (whose  talents  I shall  not  depreciate  by 


* [On  the  original  MS.  we  find, — “This  note  was  written”  [at 
Athens]  “ before  the  author  was  apprised  of  Mr.  Cumberland’s 
death.”  The  old  literateur  died  in  May  1811,  and  had  the  honour 
to  be  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  to  be  eulogized,  while  the 
company  stood  round  the  grave,  in  the  following  manly  style  by 
the  then  dean,  Dr.  Vincent,  his  schoolfellow,  and  through  life  his 
iriend. — “ Good  people  ! the  person  you  see  now'  deposited  is 
Richard  Cumberland,  an  author  of  no  small  merit:  his  writings 
were  chiefly  for  the  stage,  but  of  strict  moral  tendency : they  were 
not  without  faults,  but  they  were  not  gross,  abounding  with  oaths 
and  libidinous  expressions,  as,  I am  shocked  to  observe,  is  the 
case  of  many  of  the  present  day.  He  wrote  as  much  as  any  one  : 
tew  wrote  better;  and  his  works  will  be  held  in  the  highest  estima- 
tion, as  long  as  the  English  language  will  be  understood.  He 
considered  the  theatre  a school  for  moral  improvement,  and  his 
remains  are  truly  worthy  of  mingling  with  the  illustrious  dead 


He  sinks  to  Southey's  level  in  a trice. 

Whose  epic  mountains  never  fail  in  mice  ! 

Not  so  of  yore  awoke  your  mighty  sire 
The  temper’d  warblings  of  his  master-lyre  ; 

Soft  as  the  gentler  breathing  of  the  lute, 

“ 01  man’s  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit” 

He  speaks,  but,  as  his  subject  swells  abng, 

Earth,  heaven,  and  Hades  echo  with  the  song.* 

Still  to  the  midst  of  things  he  hastens  on, 

As  if  we  witness’d  all  already  done  ; 

Leaves  on  his  path  whatever  seems  too  mean 
To  raise  the  subject,  or  adorn  the  scene  ; 

Gives,  as  each  page  improves  upon  the  sight, 

Not  smoke  from  brightness,  but  from  darkness — light; 


Quanto  rectiushic,  qui  nil  molitur  inepte ! 

“ Die  mihi,  Musa,  virum,  captae  post  tempora  Trojae, 
Qui  mores  hominum  multoruifi  vidit  et  urbes.” 

Non  fumum  ex  fulgore,  sed  ex  lumo  dare  lucem 
Cogitat,  ut  speciosa  dehinc  miracula  promat, 
Antiphaten,  Scyllamque,  et  cum  Cyclope  Charybdim. 
Nec  reditum  Diomedis  ab  interitu  Meleagri, 

Nec  gemino  bellum  Trojan um  orditur  ab  ovo. 

Semper  ad  eventum  festinat;  et  in  medias  res 


the  humble  tribute  of  my  praise)  and  Mr.  Townsend  must  not  sup- 1 
pose  me  actuated  by  unworthy  motives  in  this  suggestion,  i wish  | 
the  author  all  the  success  he  can  wish  himself,  and  shall  be  truly  j 
happy  to  see  epic  poetry  weighed  up  from  the  bathos  where  it  lies  I 
sunken  with  Southey,  Cottle,  Cowley  (Mrs.  or  Abraham),  Ogilvy,  j 
Wilkie,  Pye,  and  all  the  “ dull  of  past  and  present  days.”  Even  i / j 
he  is  not  a Milton , he  may  be  better  than  Blackmore ; if  not  a 
Homer , an  AnHmachus.  I should  deem  myself  presumptuous, 
as  a young  man,  in  offering  advice,  were  it  not  addressed  to  une 
still  younger.  Mr.  Townsend  has  the  greatest  difficulties  to  en- 
counter: but  in  conquering  them  he  will  find  employment;  in 
having  conquered  them,  his  reward.  I know  too  well  “the  s?ril>- 
bler’s  scoff,  the  critic’s  contumely and  I am  afraid  time  will 
teach  Mr.  Townsend  to  know  them  better.  Those  who  succeed, 
and  those  ’ do  not,  must  bear  this  alike,  and  it  is  hard  to  say 
which  have  most  of  it.  trust  that  Mr.  Townsend's  share  will  be 
from  envy  ; — he  will  soon  know’  mankind  well  enougn  ot  to  attri  1 
bute  this  expression  to  malice.-*- [This  was  penned  at  Athens.  Or 
his  return  to  England  Lord  B.  wrote  to  a friend: — “There  is  a 
sucking  epic  poet  at  Granta,  a Mr.  Townsend,  protege  of  the  late 
Cumberland.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  and  his  ‘Armageddon?’ 

I think  his  plan  (the  man  I don’t  know)  borders  on  the  sublime; 
though,  perhaps,  the  anticipation  of  the  ‘Last  Day’  is  a little  too' 
daring  ; at  least,  it  looks  like  telling  the  Almighty  what  he  is  to 
do  ; and  might  remind  an  ill-natured  person  of  the  line — 

‘ And  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread.’ 

But  I don’t  mean  to  cavil— only  other  folks  will ; and  he  may 
bring  all  the  lambs  of  Jacob  Behmen  about  his  ears.  However,  I 
hope  he  will  bring  it  to  a conclusion,  though  Milton  is  in  his  way.” 
— All  Lord  Byron’s  anticipations,  with  regard  to  this  poem,  were 
realised  to  the  very  letter.  To  gratify  the  curiosity  which  had  been 
excited.  Mr.  Townsend,  in  1815,  was  induced  to  publish  eight  out  ; 
of  the  twelve  books  of  which  it  was  to  consist.  “ In  the  benevo- 
lence of  his  heart,  Mr.  Cumberland,”  he  says,  “ bestowed  praise  on  ‘ 
me,  certainly  too  abundantly  and  prematurely ; but  I hope  that 
any  deficiency  on  my  part  may  be  imputed  to  the  true  cause— my  . 
own  inability  to  support  a subject,  under  which  the  greatest  mental/ 
powers  must  inevitably  sink.  My  talents  were  neither  equal  to  my 
own  ambition,  nor  his  zeal  to  serve  me.”J  a 

A 

(2)  [There  is  more  of  poetry  in  these  verses  upon  Milton  than  in 
any  other  passage  throughout  the  paraphrase.— Moore.] 


which  surround  us.  Read  his  prose  subjects  on  divinity!  there 
you  will  find  the  true  Christian  sp:rit  of  the  man  who  trusted  in 
our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.  May  God  forgive  him  his 
sins ; and,  at  the  resurrection  of  the  just,  receive  him  into  ever- 
lasting glory ! ”] 

t [The  “London  Review,”  set  up  in  1809,  under  Mr.  Cumber- 
land's editorial  care,  did  not  outlive  many  numbers.  He  spoke 
great  things  in  the  prospectus,  about  the  distinguishing  feature  of 
the  journal ; viz.  its  having  the  writer’s  name  affixed  to  the  articles, 
This  plan  has  succeeded  pretty  well  both  in  France  and  Germany, 
but  has  failed  utterly  as  often  as  it  has  been  tried  in  this  country. 
It  is  needless,  however,  to  go  into  any  speculation  on  the  prineiphi 
here;  for  the  “ London  Review,”  whether  sent  into  the  world  with 
or  without  names,  must  soon  have  died  of  the  original  disease  of 
dulness.J 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


441 


And  truth  and  fiction  with  such  art  compounds. 

We  know  not  where  to  fix  their  several  bounds. 

If  you  would  please  the  public,  deign  to  hear 
What  soothes  the  many-headed  monster’s  ear ; 

If  vour  heart  triumph  when  the  hands  of  all 
Applaud  in  thunder  at  the  curtain’s  fall, 

Reserve  those  plaudits— study  nature’s  page, 

Aid  sketch  the  striking  traits  of  every  age ; 

While  varying  man  and  varying  years  unfold 
Life’s  little  tale,  so  oft,  so  vainh  told  : 

Observe  his  simple  childhood’s  dawning  days, 

His  pranks,  his  prate,  his  playmates,  and  his  plays  ; 
Till  time  at  length  the  mannish  tyro  weans, 

And  prurient  vice  outstrips  his  tardy  teens ! 

Behold  him  Freshman ! forced  no  more  to  groan 
O’er  Virgil’s1  devilish  verses  and — his  own  ; 
Prayers  are  too  tedious,  lectures  too  abstruse, 

He  "flies  from  Tavell’s  frown  to  “ Fordham’s  Mews 
(Unlucky  Tavell ! 2 doom’d  to  daily  cares 
By  pugilistic  pupils,  and  by  bears,) 3 4 
Fines,  tutors,  tasks,  conventions  threat  in  vain. 
Before  hounds,  hunters,  and  Newmarket  plain. 
Rough  with  his  elders,  with  his  equals  rash, 

Civil  to  sharpers,  prodigal  of  cash ; 

Constant  to  nought — save  hazard  and  a whore, 

Yet  cursing  both — for  both  have  made  him  sore  ; 
Unread  (unless,  since  books  beguile  disease, 

The  p — x becomes  his  passage  to  degrees) ; 

Fool’d,  pillaged,  dunn’d,  he  wastes  his  term  away, 
And,  unexpell’d  perhaps,  retires  M.  A. ; 

Master  of  arts  ! as  hells  and  clubs 4 proclaim, 

Where  scarce  a blackleg  bears  a brighter  name  ! 

Launch’d  into  life,  extinct  his  eany  fire, 

He  apes  the  selfish  prudence  of  his  sire  ; 

Marries  for  money,  chooses  friends  for  rank, 

Buys  land,  and  shrewdly  trusts  not  to  the  Bank  ; 


N :n  secus  ac  notas,  auditorem  rapit,  et  quae 
Desperat  tractata  nitescere  posse,  relinquit : 

Atque  ita  mentitur,  sic  veris  falsa  remiscet, 

Primo  ne  medium,  medio  ne  discrepet  imum. 

Tu,  quid  ego  et  populus  mecum  desideret,  audi. 
Si  plausoris  eges  aulsea  manentis,  et  usque 
Sessuri,  donee  cantor,  Vos  plaudite,  dicat ; 

Stall's  cujusque  notandi  sunt  tibi  mores, 
Mokilibusque  decor  naturis  dandus  et  annis. 
Reddere  qui  voces  jam  scit  puer,  et  pede  certo 
Signat  humiim ; gestit  paribus  collu.dere,  et  iram 
Colligit  ac  ponit  temere,  et  mutatur  in  horas. 

Imberbis  juvenis,  tandem  eusiode  remoto, 

Gaudet  equis  canibusque,  et  aprici  gramme  campi  ; 
Cereus  in  vitium  fieeti,  monitoribus  asper, 

Utilium  tardus  provisor,  prodigus  aris, 

Sutdimis,  cupidusque,  et  amata  relinquere  pernix. 

Conversis  studiis,  aetas  animusque  virilis 
Quaerit  opes  et  amicitias,  inservit  lionori ; 
Commisisse  cavet  quod  mox  mutare  laboret. 


(1)  Harvey,  the  circulator  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  used 
to  fling  away  Virgil  in  his  ecstasy  of  admiration,  and  say,  “ the 
book  had  a devil.”  Now,  such  a character  as  I am  copying  would 
probably  fling  it  away  also,  but  rather  wish  that  the  devil  had  the 
book ; not  from  dislike  to  the  poet,  but  a well-founded  horror  of 
hexameters.  Indeed,  the  public  school  penance  of  “ Long  and 
Short”  is  enough  to  beget  an  antipathy  to  poetry  for  the  residue  of 
• man’s  life,  and,  perhaps,  so  far  may  be  an  advantage. 

(2)  “ Infandum,  regina,  jubes  renovare  dolorem.”  I dare  say 
Mr.  Tavell  (to  whom  I mean  no  affront)  will  understand  me;  and 
it  is  no  matter  whether  any  one  else  does  or  no. — To  the  above 
events,  “ queque  ipse  miserrima  vidi,  et  quorum  pars  magna  fui,” 
" all  timet  and  terms  bear  testimony.” 

(8)  [The  Rev.  G.  F.  Tavell  was  a fellow  and  tutor  of  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  during  Lord  Byron’s  residence,  and  owed  this 
notice  to  the  zeal  with  which  he  had  protested  against  some  juve- 


Sits  in  the  Senate  ; gets  a son  and  Heir ; 

Sends  him  to  Harrow,  for  himself  was  there. 

Mute,  though  he  votes,  unless  when  call’d  to  clu*ei; 
His  son’s  so  sharp — he’ll  see  the  dog  a peer ! 

Manhood  declines — age  palsies  every  iimb ; 

He  quits  the  scene — or  else  the  scene  quits  him  ; 
Scrapes  wealth,  o’er  each  departing  penny  grieves, 
And  avarice  seizes  all  ambition  leaves  ; 

Counts  cent  per  cent,  and  smiles,  or  vainly  frets, 
O’er  hoards  diminish’d  by  young  Hopeful’s  debts ; 
Weighs  well  and  wisely  what  to  sell  or  buy, 
Complete  in  all  life’s  lessons  — but  to  die; 

Peevish  and  spiteful,  doting,  hard  to  please, 
Commending  every  time,  save  times  like  these  ; 
Crazed,  querulous,  forsaken,  half  forgot, 

Expires  unwept — is  buried — let  him  rot ! 

But  from  the  Drama  let  me  not  digress. 

Nor  spare  my  precepts,  though  they  please  you  less. 
Though  woman  weep,  and  hardest  hearts  are  stirFd, 
When  what  is  done  is  rather  seen  than  heard, 

Yet  many  deeds  preserved  in  history’s  page, 

Are  better  told  than  acted  on  the  stage ; 

The  ear  sustains  what  shocks  the  timid  eye. 

And  horror  thus  subsides  to  sympathy. 

True  Britain  all  beside,  I here  am  French — ■ 
Bloodshed  ’tis  surely  better  to  retrench  ; 

The  gladiatorial  gore  we  teach  to  flow 
In  tragic  scene  disgusts,  though  but  in  show  ; 

We  hate  the  carnage  while  we  see  the  trick, 

And  find  small  sympathy  in  being  sick. 

Not  on  the  stage  the  regicide  Macbeth 
Appals  an  audience  with  a monarch’s  death  ; 

To  gaze  when  sable  Hubert  threats  to  sear 
Young  Arthur’s  eyes,  can  ours  our  nature  bear  ? 

A halter’d  heroine5  Johnson  sought  to  slay — 

We  saved  Irene,  but  half  damn’d  the  play. 


Multa  senem  conveniunt  incommoda;  vel  quod 
Quaerit,  et  inventis  miser  abstinet,  ac  timet  uti; 
Vel  quod  res  omnes  timide  gelideque  ministrat, 
Dilator,  spe  longus,  iners,  avidusque  futuri ; 
Difficilis,  querulus,  laudator  temporis  acti 
Se  puero,  castigator  censorque  minorum. 

Multa  ferunt  anni  venientes  commoda  secum 
Multa  recedentes  adimunt.  Ne  forte  seniles 
Mandentur  juveni  partes,  pueroque  viriles, 

Semper  in  adjunctis,  avoque  morabimur  aptis 
Aut  agitur  res  in  scenis,  aut  acta  refertur. 
Segnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aurem 
Quam  quae  sunt  oculis  subjecta  fidelibus,  et  qua 
Ipse  sibi  tradit  spectator.  Non  tanien  intus 
Digna  geri  promes  in  scenam  ; multaque  tolles 
Ex  oculis,  qua  mox  narret  facundia  prasens. 

Ne  pueros  coram  populo  Medea  trudicet; 

Aut  humana  palam  coquat  exta  nefarius  Atreus ; 
Aut  in  avem  Progne  vertatur,  Cadmus  in  anguem. 
Quodcunque  ostendis  mihi  sic,  incredulus  odi. 


nile  vagaries,  sufficiently  explained  in  Mr.  Moore’s  Notices,  vol.  i. 

p.  210. J 

(4)  “ Hell,”  a gaming-house  so  called,  where  you  risk  little,  and 
are  cheated  a good  deal.  “Club,”  a pleasant  purgatory,  where 
you  lose  more,  and  are  not  supposed  to  be  cheated  at  all. 

(5)  “ Irene  had  to  speak  two  lines  with  the  bowstring  round  her 
neck  ; but  the  audience  cried  out  ‘ Murder!  ’ and  she  was  obliged 
to  go  off  the  stage  alive.” — Bosu'ell’s  Johnson.  [These  two  lines 
were  afterwards  struck  out,  and'Irene  was  carried  off,  to  be  put  to 
death  behind  the  scenes.  “This  shows,”  says  Mr.  Malone,  “how 
ready  modern  audiences  are  to  condemn,  in  a new  play,  what  they 
have  frequently  endured  very  quietly  in  an  old  one.  Rowe  has 
made  Moneses,  in  Tamerlane,  die  by  the  bowstring  without  of- 
fence.” Davies  assures  us,  in  his  Life  of  Gamck,  that  the  stran- 
gling Irene,  contrary  to  Horace’s  rule,  coram  populo , was  suggested 
by  Garrick.  See  Croker’s  Boswell,  vol.  i.  p.  172.] 


442 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Aad  (Heaven  be  praised  !)  our  tolerating  times 
Stint  metamorphoses  to  pantomimes  ; 

And  Lewis’  self,  with  all  his  sprites,  would  quake 
To  change  Earl  Osmond’s  negro  to  a snake  ! 

Because,  in  soenes  exciting  joy  or  grief, 

We  loathe  t^e  action  which  exceeds  belief : 

And  yet,  God  knows  ! what  may  not  authors  do, 
Whose  postscripts  prate  of  dyeing  “heroines  blue  P”1 

Above  all  things,  Dan  Poet,  if  you  can, 

Eke  out  your  acts,  I pray,  with  mortal  man  ; 

Nor  call  a ghost,  unless  some  cursed  scrape 
Must  open  ten  trap-doors  for  your  escape. 

Of  all  the  monstrous  things  I’d  fain  forbid, 

I loathe  an  opera  worse  than  Dennis  did ; 2 
Where  good  and  evil  persons,  right  or  wrong. 

Rage,  love,  and  aught  but  moralise,  in  song. 

Hail,  last  memorial  of  our  foreign  friends, 

Which  Gaul  allows,  and  still  Hesperia  lends ! 
Napoleon’s  edicts  no  embargo  lay 
On  whores,  spies,  singers  wisely  shipp’d  away. 

Our  giant  capital,  whose  squares  are  spread, 

Where  rustics  earn’d,  and  now  may  beg, 
bread, 

In  all  iniquity  is  grown  so  nice, 

It  scorns  amusements  which  are  not  of  price. 

Hence  the  pert  shopkeeper,  whose  throbbing  ear 
Aches  with  orchestras  which  he  pays  to  hear, 

Whom  shame,  not  sympathy,  forbids  to  snore 
His  auguish  doubling  by  his  own  “ encore 
Squeezed  in  “ Pop’s  Alley,”  jostled  by  the  beaux, 
Teased  with  his  hat,  and  trembling  for  his  toes  ; 
Scarce  wrestles  through  the  night,  nor  tastes  of  ease, 
Till  the  dropp’d  curtain  gives  a glad  release  : 

Why  this,  and  more,  he  suffers — can  ye  guess  ? — 
Because  it  costs  him  dear,  and  makes  him  dress  ! 


Nave  minor,  r.eu  sit  quinto  productior  actu 
Fibula,  quae  posci  vuit  et  spectata  reponi. 

| 

(1)  In  the  postscript  to  the  “ Castle  Spectre,”  Mr.  Lewis  tells  Us, 
that  though  blacks  were  unknown  in  England  at  the  period  ot  his 
action,  yet  he  has  made  the  anachronism  to  set  off  the  scene ; and 
if  he  could  have  produced  the  effect  “ by  making  his  heroine  blue,” 
— I quote  him — “ blue  he  would  have  made  her  ! ” 

(2)  [In  1706,  Dennis,  the  critic,  wrote  an  “ Essay  on  the  Operas 
after  the  Italian  manner,  which  are  about  to  be  established  on  the 
English  Stage;”  in  which  he  endeavoured  to  show,  that  it  is  a 
diversion  of  more  pernicious  consequence  than  the  most  licentious 
play  that  ever  appeared  upon  the  stage.] 

(3)  “ The  first  theatrical  representations,  entitled  1 Mysteries  and 
Moralities,’  were  generally  enacted  at  Christmas,  by  monks  (as  the 
o.i. y persons  who  could  read),  and  latterly  by  the  clergy  and  students 
of  the  universities.  The  dramatis  personae  were  usually  Adam, 
Pater  Coelestis,  Faith,  Vice,”  &c.  &i\  — See  Warton’s  History  of 
English  Poetry.  [These,  to  modern  eyes,  wild,  uncouth,  and  gene- 
rally profane  performances,  were  thought  to  contribute  so  much  to 
the  information  and  instruction  of  the  people,  that  one  of  the  popes 
granted  a pardon  of  one  thousand  days  to  every  person  who  resorted 
peaceably  to  the  plays  acted  in  the  Whitsunweek  at  Chester,  begin- 
ning with  the  “ Creation,”  and  ending  with  the  “General  Judg- 
ment.” These  were  performed  at  the  expense  of  the  different 
trading  companies  of  that  city.  The  “ Creation”  was  performed 
by  the  drapers;  the  “Deluge”  by  the  dyers;  “Abraham,  Mel- 
ehisedec,  and  Lot”  by  the  barbers  ; the  “ Purification”  by  the  black- 
smiths ; the  “Last  Supper”  by  the  bakers  ; the  “ Resurrection”  by 
the  skinners;  and  the  “ Ascension”  by  the  tailors.  In  Mr.  Payne 
Collier’s  work  on  English  Dramatic  Poetry,  the  reader  will  find  an 
abstract  of  the  several  collections  of  these  mystery-plays,  which  is 
not  only  interesting  for  the  lighr  it  throws  on  the  early  days  of  our 
drama,  but  instructive  and  valuable  for  the  curious  information  it 

reserves  with  respect  to  the  strangely  debased  notions  of  Scripture 
istory  that  prevailed,  almost  universally,  before  translations  of 
the  Bible  were  in  common  use.  See  also  the  Quarterly  Review, 
vol.  xlvi.  p.  477.] 


So  prosper  eunuchs  from  Etruscan  schools; 

Give  us  but  fiddlers,  and  they’re  sure  of  fools  ! 

Ere  scenes  were  play’d  by  many  a reverend  clerk.* 
(What  harm,  if  David  danced  before  the  ark  ?) 4 
In  Christmas  revels,  simple  country  folks 
Were  pleased  with  morrice-mumm’ry,  an  I coarse  jo*** 
Improving  years,  with  things  no  longer  known, 
Produced  blithe  Punch  and  merry  Madame  Joan, 
Who  still  frisk  on  with  feats  so  lewdly  low, 

’Tis  strange  Benvolio5  suffers  such  a show;6 
Suppressing  peer  ! to  whom  each  vice  gives  place, 
Oaths,  boxing,  begging,— all,  save  rout  and  race. 

Farce  follow’d  Comedy,  and  reach’d  her  prime. 

In  ever-laughing  Foote’s  fantastic  time  : 

Mad  wag ! who  pardon’d  none,  nor  spared  the  Dest, 
And  turn’d  some  very  serious  things  to  jest. 

Nor  church  nor  state  escaped  his  public  sneers, 

Arms  nor  the  gown,  priests,  lawyers,  volunteers. 

“ Alas,  poor  Yorick  ! ” now  for  ever  mute ! 

Whoever  loves  a laugh  must  sigh  for  Foote. 


We  smile,  perforce,  when  histrionic  scenes 


And  Arthur  struts  in  mimic  majesty. 


Moschus  ! with  whom  once  more  I hope  to  sit, 
And  smile  at  folly,  if  we  can’t  at  wit ; 

Yes,  friend  ! for  thee  I’ll  quit  my  cynic  cell, 

And  bear  Swift’s  motto,  “ Yive  la  bagatelle!” 
Which  charm’d  our  days  in  each  iEgean  clime. 

As  oft  at  home,  with  revelry  and  rhyme.7 
Then  may  Euphrosyne,  who  sped  the  past, 

Soothe  thy  life’s  scenes,  nor  leave  thee  in  the  last ; 
But  find  in  thine,  like  pagan  Plato’s  bed,8 
Some  merry  manuscript  of  mimes,  when  dead. 


Nec  Deus  intersit,  nisidignus  vindice  nodus 
Incident.  * * * 1 


(4)  [Here  follows  in  the  original  MS. — 

“ Who  did  what  Vestris — yet,  at  least, — cannot, 

And  cut  his  kingly  capers  sans  culotte.”] 

(5)  Benvolio  does  not  bet;  but  every  man  who  maintains  race* 
horses  is  a promoter  of  all  the  concomitant  evils  of  the  turf.  Avoid- 
ing to  bet  is  a little  pliarisaical.  Is  it  an  exculpation  ? I think  not. 
I never  yet  heard  a bawd  praised  for  chastity,  because  she  hertelj 
did  not  commit  fornication  ! 

(6)  [For  Benvolio  we  have,  in  the  original  MS.,  “ Earl  Gros- 
venor;”  and  for  the  next  couplet — 

“ Suppressing  peer ! to  whom  each  vice  gives  place, 

Save  gambling — for  his  Lordship  loves  a race.” 

But  we  cannot  trace  the  exact  propriety  of  the  allusions.  Lord 
Grosvenor,  now  Marquis  of  Westminster,  no  doubt  distinguished 
himself  by  some  attack  on  the  Sunday  newspapers,  or  the  like,  at 
the  same  time  that  he  was  known  to  keep  a stud  at  Newmarket— 
but  why  a long  note  on  a subject  certainly  insignificant,  and  per 
haps  mistaken  ?] 

(7)  [In  dedicating -the  fourth  canto  of  “ Childe  Harold”  to  his 
fellow  traveller,  Lord  Byron  describes  him  as  “one  to  whom  he 
was  indebted  for  the  social  advantages  of  an  enlightened  friend- 
ship ; one  whom  he  had  long  known,  and  accompanied  far,  whore 
he  had  found  wakeful  over  his  sickness  and  kind  in  his  sorrow, 
glad  in  his  prosperity  and  firm  in  his  adversity,  true  in  counsel 
and  trusty  in  peril — while  Mr.  Hobhouse,  in  describing  a short 
tour  to  Negroponte,  in  which  his  noble  friend  was  unable  to  accom- 
pany him,  regrets  the  absence  of  a companion,  “ who,  to  quickness 
of  observation  and  ingenuity  of  remark,  united  that  gay  good 
humour  which  keeps  alive  the  attention  under  the  pressure  of 
fatigue,  and  softens  the  aspect  of  every  difficulty  and  danger.”] 

(8)  Under  Plato’s  pillow  a volume  of  the  Mimes  of  Sophron  was 
found  the  day  he  died. — Vide  Barthelemi,  De  Pauw,  or  Diogenes 
Laertius,  if  agreeable.  De  Pauw  calls  it  a jest-book.  Cumberland, 
in  liis  Observer,  terms  it  moral,  like  the  sayings  of  Publius  Syrua. 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


443 


Now  to  the  Drama  let  us  bend  on.  eyes, 

Where  fetter’d  by  Whig  Walpole  low  she  lies;1 
Corruption  foil’d  her,  for  she  fear’d  her  glance  ; 
Decorum  left  her  for  an  opera  dance ! 

^'et  Chesterfield,2  whose  polish’d  pen  inveighs 
’Gainst  laughter,  fought  for  freedom  to  our  plays ; 
Uncheck’d  by  megrims  of  patrician  brains, 

And  damning  dulness  of  lord  chamberlains. 

Repeal  that  act ! 3 again  let  Humour  roam, 

Wild  o’er  the  stage — we’ve  time  for  tears  at  home ; 
'jet  “ Archer”  plant  the  horns  on  “ Sullen’s”  brows, 
Ind  “ Estifania”  gull  her  “ Copper” 4 spouse  ; 

The  moral’s  scant— but  that  may  be  excused, 

Men  go  not  to  be  lectured,  but  amused. 

He  whom  our  plays  dispose  to  good  or  ill 
Must  wear  a head  in  want  of  Willis’  skill;5 6 


(1)  [The  following  is  a brief  sketch  of  the  origin  of  the  Play- 
house Bill: — In  1735,  Sir  John  Barnard  brought  in  a bill  “to 
restrain  the  number  of  houses  for  playing  of  interludes,  and  for 
the  better  regulating  of  common  players.”  The  minister,  Sir 
Robert  Walpole,  conceiving  this  to  be  a favourable  opportunity  of 
checking  the  abuse  of  theatrical  representation,  proposed  to  insert 
a clause  to  ratify  and  confirm,  if  not  enlarge,  the  power  of  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  in  licensing  plays;  and  at  the  same  time  in- 
sinuated, that  unless  this  addition  was  made  the  king  would  not 
pass  it.  But  Sir  John  Barnard  strongly  objected  to  this  clause; 
contending  that  the  power  of  that  officer  was  already  too  great, 
and  had  been  often  wantonly  exercised.  He  therefore  withdrew 
his  bill,  rather  than  establish  by  law  a power  in  a single  officer  so 
much  under  the  direction  of  the  Crown.  In  the  course,  however, 
of  the  session  of  1737,  an  opportunity  offered,  which  Sir  Robert 
did  not  fail  to  seize.  The  manager  of  Goodman’s  Fields  Theatre 
having  brought  to  him  a farce  called  “ The  Golden  Rump,”  which 
had  been  proffered  for  exhibition,  the  minister  paid  the  profits 
which  might  have  accrued  from  the  performance,  and  detained 
the  copy.  He  then  made  extracts  of  the  most  exceptionable  pas- 
sages. abounding  in  profaneness,  sedition,  and  blasphemy,  read 
them  to  the  house,  and  obtained  leave  to  bring  in  a bill  to  limit 
the  number  of  playhouses  ; to  subject  all  dramatic  writings  to  the 
inspection  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain ; and  to  compel  the  proprietors 
to  take  out  a license  for  every  production  before  it  could  appear  on 
the  stage.] 

(2)  His  speech  on  the  Licensing  Act  is  one  of  his  most  eloquent 
efforts. — [Though  the  Playhouse  Bill  is  generally  said  to  have  been 
warmly  opposed  in  both  Houses,  this  speech  of  the  Earl  of  Ches- 
terfield is  the  only  trace  of  that  opposition  to  be  found  in  the 
periodical  publications  of  the  times.  The  following  passage,  which 
relates  to  the  powers  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  will  show  the  style 
of  the  oration: — “ The  bill  is  not  only  an  encroachment  upon 
liberty,  but  it  is  likewise  an  encroachment  on  property.  Wit,  my 
Lords,  is  a sort  of  property ; it  is  the  property  of  those  who  have 
it,  and  too  often  the  only  property  they  have  to  depend  on.  Thank 
God ! my  Lords,  we  have  a dependence  of  another  kind ; we  have 
a much  less  precarious  support,  and,  therefore,  cannot  feel  the 
inconveniences  of  the  bill  now  before  us ; but  it  is  our  duty  to 
encourage  and  protect  wit,  whosoever’s  property  it  may  be.  Those 
gentlemen  who  have  any  such  property  are  all,  I hope,  our  friends; 
do  not  let  us  subject  them  to  any  unnecessary  or  arbitrary  restraint. 

I must  own,  I cannot  easily  agree  to  the  laying  of  any  tax  upon 
wit;  but  by  this  bill  it  is  to  be  heavily  taxed,  it  is  to  be  excised  ; 
for,  if  this  bill  passes,  it  cannot  be  retailed  in  a proper  way  without 
a permit : and  the  Lord  Chamberlain  is  to  have  the  honour  of 
being  chief  gauger,  supervisor,  commissioner,  judge,  and  jury. 
But.  what  is  still  more  hard,  though  the  poor  author, — the  pro- 
prietor, I should  say, — cannot,  perhaps,  dine  till  he  has  found  out 
and  agreed  with  a purchaser,  yet,  before  he  can  propose  to  seek 
for  a purchaser,  he  must  patiently  submit  to  have  his  goods  rum- 
maged at  '.his  new  excise-office ; where  they  may  be  detained  for 
fourteen  days,  and  even  then  he  may  find  them  returned  as  pro- 
hibited goods  ; by  which  his  chief  and  best  market  will  be  for  ever 
shut  against  him,  without  the  least  shadow  of  reason,  either  from 
the  laws  of  his  country  or  the  laws  of  the  stage.  These  hardships, 
thi3  hazard,  which  every  gentleman  will  be  exposed  to  who  writes 
any  thing  for  the  stage,  must  certainly  prevent  every  man  of  a 
generous  and  tree  spirit  from  attempting  anything  in  that  way; 
and  as  the  stage  has  always  been  the  proper  channel  for  wit  and 
humour,  therefore,  my  Lords,  when  I speak  against  this  bill,  I 
must  think  I plead  the  cause  of  wit,  I plead  the  cause  of  humour, 

I plead  the  cause  of  the  British  stage,  and  of  every  gentleman  of 
.aste  in  the  kingdom.  The  stage  and  the  press,  my  Lords,  are  two 
of  our  out-sentries  : if  we  remove  them,  if  we  hoodwink  them,  if 
we  throw  them  in  fetters,  the  enemy  may  surprise  us.  Therefore, 

I must  look  upon  the  bill  now  before  us  as  a step  for  introducing 
arbitrary  power  into  this  kingdom”] 

(#)  \f' Reveal  foat  Act  I"— Alter  a lapse  of  nearly  a century,  the 


Ay,  but  Maclieatli’s  example— psha  ! — no  more  ! 

It  form’d  no  thieves — the  thief  was  form’d  before;* 
And,  spite  of  puritans  and  Collier’s  curse,7 
Plays  make  mankind  no  better,  and  no  worse. 

Then  spare  our  stage,  ye  methodistic  men  ! 

Nor  burn  damn’d  Drury  if  it  rise  again.8 
But  why  to  brain-scorch’d  bigots  thus  appeal  F 
Can  heavenly  mercy  dwell  with  earthly  zeal  ? 

For  times  of  fire  and  faggot  let  them  hope  ! 

Times  dear  alike  to  puritan  or  pope. 

As  pious  Calvin  saw  Servetus  blaze, 

So  would  new  sects  on  newer  victims  gaze. 

E’en  now  the  songs  of  Solyma  begin  ; 

Faith  cants,  perplex’d  apologist  of  sin  ! 

While  the  Lord’s  servant  chastens  whom  he  loves, 
And  Simeon 9 kicks,  where  Baxter  only  “ shoves.”  10 


state  of  the  laws  affecting  dramatic  literature,  and  the  performance 

of  the  drama,  has  again  become  the  subject  of  parliamentary  in- 

quiry and  report.] 

(4)  Michael  Perez,  the  “ Copper  Captain,”  in  “ Rule  a Wife  and 
have  a Wife.” 

(5)  [Of  this  “skill,”  Reynolds,  in  his  “ Life  and  Times,”  records 
a remarkable  instance.  The  doctor  had,  it  seems,  an  “ eye  like 
Mars,  to  threaten  and  command  ” Threaten , in  every  sense  of  the 
word  ; for  his  numerous  patients  stood  as  much  in  awe  of  this  for- 
midable weapon  as  of  bars,  chains,  or  strait  waistcoats.  After  a 
few  weeks’  attendance  on  the  King,  he  allowed  his  Majesty  a razor 
to  shave  himself,  and  a penknife  to  cut  his  nails.  For  this  he  was 
one  evening  charged  by  the  other  physicians,  before  a committee 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  with  rashness  and  imprudence.  Mr. 
Burke  was  very  severe  on  this  point,  and  authoritatively  demanded 
to  know,  “If  the  royal  patient  had  become  outrageous  at  th« 
moment,  what  power  the  doctor  possessed  of  instantaneously  terri- 
fying him  into  obedience  ? ” — “ Place  the  candles  between  us,  A r. 
Burke,”  replied  the  doctor,  in  an  equally  authoritative  tone,  “ ar.d 
I’ll  give  you  an  answer.  There,  Sir!  by  the  eye.  I should  have 
looked  at  him  thus,  Sir,  thus!"  Mr  Burke  instantaneously  averte  1 
his  head;  and,  making  no  reply,  evidently  acknowledged  this 
basilisk  authority.  This  story  was  often  related  by  the  doctor  him- 
self.] 

(6)  [Dr.  Johnson  was  of  the  like  opinion.  Of  the  “ Beggars’ 
Opera”  he  says,  in  his  Life  of  Gay “ The  play,  like  many  others, 
was  plainly  written  only  to  divert,  ■without  any  moral  purpose, 
and  is.  therefore,  not  likely  to  do  good ; nor  can  it  be  conceived, 
without  more  speculation  than  life  requires  or  admits,  to  be  pro- 
ductive of  much  evil.  Highwaymen  and  housebreakers  seldom 
frequent  the  playhouse,  or  mingle  in  any  elegant  diversion  ; nor  is 
it  possible  for  any  one  to  imagine  that  he  may  rob  with  safety,  be- 
cause he  sees  Macheath  reprieved  upon  the  stage.”  On  another 
occasion,  the  common  question  with  regard  to  this  opera  having 
been  introduced,  he  said, — “ As  to  this  matter,  which  has  been 
very  much  contested,  I myself  am  of  opinion,  that  more  influence 
has  been  ascribed  to  it  than  in  reality  it  ever  had ; for  I do  not 
believe  that  any  man  was  ever  made  a rogue  by  being  present  at 
that  representation.” — See  Croker’s  Bosv'ell,  vol.  iii.  p.  242.] 

(7)  Jerry  Collier’s  controversy  with  Congreve,  & c.  on  the  subject 
of  the  drama,  is  too  well  known  to  require  further  comment. 

(8)  [“  If  it  rise  again." — When  Lord  Byron  penned  this  couplet 
at  Athens,  he  little  imagined  that  he  should  so  soon  be  called  on 
to  write  an  address  to  be  spoken  on  the  opening  of  New  Drury,  and 
become  one  of  the  committee  for  managing  its  concerns.] 

(9)  Mr.  Simeon  is  the  very  bully  of  beliefs,  and  castigator  of 
“ good  works.”  He  is  ably  supported  by  John  Stickles,  a labourer 
in  the  same  vineyard : — but  I say  no  more,  for,  according  to 
Johnny  in  full  congregation,  “ no  hopes  for  them  as  laughs." — 
[The  Rev.  Charles  Simeon,  fellow  of  King’s  College,  Cambridge,— 
a zealous  Calvinist,  who,  in  consequence  of  his  zeal,  has  been 
engaged  in  sundry  warm  disputations  with  other  divines  of  the 
university.  Besides  many  single  sermons,  he  has  published  “ Helps 
to  Composition,  or  500  Skeleton  Sermons,”  in  five  volumes ; and 
“ Horae  Homileticae,  or  Discourses  (in  the  form  of  skeletons)  upon 
the  whole  Scripture,”  in  eleven  volumes.] 

(10)  “Baxter’s  Shove  to  heavy-a — d Christians” — the  veritab’e 
title  of  a book  once  in  good  repute,  and  likely  enough  to  be  so 
again. — [Richard  Baxter  is  described  by  Granger  as  “ a man 
famous  for  weakness  of  body  and  strength  cf  wind;  for  having 
the  strongest  «ense  of  religion  himself,  and  exciting  a sense  of  it  in 
the  thoughtless  and  profligate;  for  preaching  more  sermons,  en- 
gaging is  more  controversies,  and  writing  more  books,  than  any 
other  non-conformist  of  his  age.”  Dr.  Barrow  says  that  “hlr 


444 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Whom  nature  guides,  so  writes,  that  every  duuce, 
Enraptured,  thinks  to  do  the  same  at  once ; 

But  after  inky  thumbs  and  bitten  nails. 

And  twenty  scatter’d  quires,  the  coxcomb  fails 

Let  Pastoral  be  dumb ; for  who  can  hope 
To  match  the  youthful  eclogues  of  our  Pope  ? 

Yet  his  and  Phillips’  faults,  of  different  kind. 

For  art  too  rude,  for  nature  too  refined, 

Instruct  how  hard  the  medium  ’tis  to  hit 
’Twixt  too  much  polish  and  too  coarse  a wit. 

A vulgar  scribbler,  certes,  stands  disgraced 
In  this  nice  age,  when  all  aspire  to  taste ; 

The  dirty  language,  and  the  noisome  jest, 

Which  pleased  in  Swift  of  yore,  we  now  detest ; 
Proscribed  not  only  in  the  world  polite, 

But  even  too  nasty  for  a city  knight ! 

Peace  to  Swift’s  faults!  his  wit  hatli  made  them  pass, 
Unmatch’d  by  all,  save  matchless  Hudibras  ! 

Whose  author  is  perhaps  the  first  we  meet, 

Who  from  our  couplet  lopp’d  two  final  feet ; 

Nor  less  in  merit  than  the  longer  line, 

This  measure  moves  a favourite  of  the  Nine. 

Though  at  first  view  eight  feet  may  seem  in  vain 
Form’d,  save  in  ode,  to  bear  a serious  strain, 

Yet  Scott  has  shown  our  wondering  isle  of  late 
This  measure  shrinks  not  from  a theme  of  weight,  * 
And,  varied  skilfully,  surpasses  far 
Heroic  rhyme,  but  most  in  love  and  war, 

Whose  fluctuations,  tender  or  sublime, 

Are  curb’d  too  much  by  long-recurring  rhyme. 

But  many  a skilful  judge  abhors  to  see, 

What  few  admire — irregularity. 

This  some  vouchsafe  to  pardon  ; but  ’tis  hard 
When  such  a word  contents  a British  bard. 

And  must  the  bard  his  glowing  thoughts  confine, 
Lest  censure  hover  o’er  some  faulty  line  ? 

Remove  whate’er  a critic  may  suspect. 

To  gain  the  paltry  suffrage  of  correct 


Ex  noto  fletum  carmen  sequar,  ut  sibi  quivis 
Speret  idem  : sudet  multum  frustraque  laboret 
Ausus  idem:  tantum  series  juncturaque  po’ 

Tantum  de  medio  sumtis  accedit  honoris 

Silvis  deducti  caveant,  me  judice,  Faui 
Ne,  velut  innati  triviis  ac  pene  forenses, 

Aut  nimium  teneris  juvenentur  versibus  unquam, 
Aut  immunda  crepent,  ignominiosaque  dicta. 
Offenduntur  enim,  quibus  est  equus,  et  pater,  et  res: 
Nec,  si  quid  fricti  ciceris  probat  et  nucis  emtor, 
ASquis  accipiunt  animis,  donantve  corona. 

Syllaba  longa  brevi  subjecta  vocatur  iambus, 

Pes  citus  : unde  etiam  trimetris  accrescere  jussit 
Nomen  iambeis,  cum  senos  redderet  ictus, 

Primus  ad  extremum  similis  sibi : non  ita  priden^ 
Tardior  ut  paulo  gravioraue  veniret  ad  aures, 
Spondeos  stabiles  in  jura  paterna  recepit 
Commodus  et  patiens;  non  ut  de  sede  secunda 
Cederet  aut  quarta  socialiter.  Hie  et  in  Acci 
Nobilibus  trimetris  apparet  rarus,  et  Enni. 

In  scenam  missos  magno  cum  pondere  versus, 

Aut  operae  celeris  nimium  curaque  carentis, 

Aut  ignoratae  premit  artis  crimine  turpi. 

Non  quivis  videt  iminodulata  poemata  judex  , 

Et  data  Romanis  venia  est  indigna  poetis. 


practical  writings  were  never  mended,  his  controversial  seldom 
confuted.”  On  Boswell’s  asking  Johnson  which  of  them  he 
•kould  read,  the  Doctor  replied,  “ Any  of  them ; they  are  all 

good."] 


Or  prune  the  spirit  of  each  daring  phrase, 

To  fly  from  error,  not  to  merit  praise  ? 

Ye,  who  seek  finish’d  models,  never  cease. 

By  day  and  night,  to  read  the  works  of  Greece. 

But  our  good  fathers  never  bent  their  brains 
To  heathen  Greek,  content  with  native  strains. 

The  few  who  read  a page,  or  used  a pen, 

Were  satisfied  with  Chaucer  and  old  Ben ; 

The  jokes  and  numbers  suited  to  their  taste 
Were  quaint  and  careless,  any  thing  but  chaste ; 
Yet  whether  right  or  wrong  the  ancient  rules, 

It  will  not  do  to  call  our  fathers  fools ! 

Though  you  and  I,  who  eruditely  know 
To  separate  the  elegant  and  low, 

Can  also,  when  a hobbling  line  appears, 

Detect  with  fingers,  in  default  of  ears. 

In  sooth  I do  not  know,  or  greatly  care 
To  learn,  who  our  first  English  strollers  were ; 

Or  if,  till  roofs  received  the  vagrant  art, 

Our  Muse,  like  that  of  Thespis,  kept  a cart ; 

But  this  is  certain,  since  our  Shakspcare’s  days. 
There’s  pomp  enough,  if  little  else,  in  plays ; 

Nor  will  Melpomene  ascend  her  throne 
Without  high  heels,  white  plume,  and  Bristol  stone. 

Old  comedies  still  meet  with  much  applause, 
Though  too  licentious  for  dramatic  laws ; 

At  least,  we  moderns,  wisely,  ’tis  contest, 

Curtail,  or  silence,  the  lascivious  jest. 

Whate’er  their  follies,  and  their  faidts  beside, 

Our  enterprising  bards  pass  nought  untried  ; 

Nor  do  they  merit  slight  applause  who  choose 
An  English  subject  for  an  English  muse. 

And  leave  to  minds  which  never  dare  invent 
French  flippancy  and  German  sentiment. 

Where  is  that  living  language  which  could  claim 
Poetic  more,  as  philosophic,  fame, 

If  all  our  bards,  more  patient  of  delay, 

Would  stop,  like  Pope,1  to  polish  by  the  way  ? 

Idcircone  vager,  scribamque  licenter,  ut  omnes 
Visuros  peccata  putem  mea,  tutus,  et  intra 
Spem  veniae  cautus?  vitavi  denique  culpam, 

Non  laudem  merui.  Vos  exemplaria  Graeca 
Nocturna  versate  manu,  versate  diurna. 

At  vestri  proavi  Plautinos  et  numeros  et 
Laudavere  sales ; nimium  patienter  utrumque, 

Ne  dicam  stulte,  mirati ; si  modo  ego  et  vos 
Scimus  inurbanum  lepido  seponere  dicto, 

Legitimumque  sonum  digitis  callemus  et  aure. 

Ignotum  tragicae  genus  invenisse  Camcen® 

Dicitur,  et  piaustris  vexisse  poemata  Thespis, 

Quae  canerent  agerentque  peruncti  faecibus  ora. 

Post  hunc  person®  pall®que  repertor  honest® 

ASschylus,  et  modicis  instravit  pulpita  tignis, 

Et  docuit  magnumque  loqui,  nicique  cothurno. 

Successit  vetus  his  comoedia,  non  sine  multa 
Laude  ; sed  in  vitium  libertas  excidit,  et  vim 
Dignam  lege  regi ; lex  est  accepta ; chorusqua 
Turpiter  obticuit,  sublato  jure  nocendi. 

Nil  intentatum  nostri  liquere  poet®  ; 

Nec  minimum  meruere  decus,  vestigia  Gr®ca 
Ausi  deserere,  et  celebrare  domestica  facta, 

Vel  qui  pr®textas,  vel  qui  docuere  togatas. 

Nec  virtute  foret  Claris ve  potentius  armis, 


(1)  [“They  support  Pope,  I see,  in  the  Quarterly,”  — wrot* 
Lord  Byron  in  1820,  from  Ravenna — “it  is  a sin  and  a shame, 
and  a damnation,  that  Pope!!  should  require  it.  but  he  does. 
Those  miserable  mountebanks  of  the  day,  the  poets,  disgrace  them* 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


445 


Lords  of  the  quill,  whose  critical  assaults 
Overthrow  whole  quartos  with  their  quires  of  faults. 
Who  soon  detect,  and  mark  where’er  we  fail. 

And  prove  our  marble  with  too  nice  a nail ! 
Democritus  himself  was  not  so  bad ; 

He  only  thought,  but  you  would  make,  us  mad  ! 

But  truth  to  say,  most  rhymers  rarely  guard 
Against  that  ridicule  they  deem  so  hard  ; 
lu  person  negligent,  they  wear,  from  sloth, 

Beards  of  a week,  and  nails  of  annual  growth  ; 
Reside  in  garrets,  fly  from  those  they  meet, 

And  walk  m alleys,  rather  than  the  street. 

With  little  rhyme,  less  reason,  if  you  please, 

The  name  of  poet  may  be  got  with  ease. 

So  that  not  tuns  of  helleboric  juice 
Shall  ever  turn  your  head  to  any  use ; 

Write  but  like  Wordsworth,  live  beside  a Lake,1 
And  keep  your  bushy  locks  a year  from  Blake  ;2 
Then  print  your  book,  once  more  return  to  town, 
And  boys  shall  hunt  your  hardship  up  and  down. 

Am  I not  wise,  if  such  some  poets’  plight, 

To  purge  in  spring — like  Bayes3 — before  I write  ? 

If  this  precaution  soften’d  not  my  bile, 

I know  no  scribbler  with  a madder  style  : 


Quam  lingua,  Latium,  si  non  offenderet  unum- 
quemque  poetarum  lim®  labor  et  mora.  Vos;  6 
Pompilius  sanguis,  carmen  reprehendite,  quod  non 
Multa  dies  et  multa  litura  coercuit,  atque 
Prsesectum  decies  non  castigavit  ad  unguem. 

Ingenium  misera  quia  fortunatius  arte 
Credit,  et  excludit  sanos  Helicone  poetas 
Democritus ; bona  pars  non  ungues  ponere  curat, 
Non  barbam;  secreta  petit  loca,  balnea  vitat. 
Nanciscetur  enim  pretium  nomenque  poetae, 

Si  iribus  Anticyris  caput  insanabile  nunquam 
Tonsori  Licino  commiserit.  O ego  laevus, 

Qui  purgor  bilem  sub  verni  temporis  horam  1 
Non  alius  faceret  meliora  poemata:  verum 
Nil  tanti  est:  ergo  fungar  vice  cotis,  acutum 


elves,  and  deny  God,  in  running  down  Pope,  the  most  faultless  of 
poets.”  Again,  in  the  same  year:— “I  have  at  last  lost  all  pa- 
tience with  the  atrocious  cant  and  nonsense  about  Pope  with  which 
our  present  * * * s are  overflowing,  and  am  determined  to  make 
such  head  against  it  as  an  individual  can  by  prose  or  verse,  and  I 
will  at  least  do  it  with  good  will.  There  is  no  bearing  it  any 
longer;  and,  if  it  goes  on,  it  will  destroy  what  little  good  writing  or 
taste  remains  amongst  us.  I hope  there  are  still  a few  men  of 
taste  to  second  me;  but  if  not,  I’ll  battle  it  alone,  convinced  that 
it  is  the  best  cause  of  English  literature.”  And  again,  in  1821 ; — 
“ Neither  time,  nor  distance,  nor  grief,  nor  age,  can  ever  diminish 
my  veneration  for  him  who  is  the  great  moral  poet  of  all  times,  of 
all  climes,  of  all  feelings,  and  of  all  stages  of  existence.  The  de- 
light of  my  boyhood,  the  study  of  my  manhood,  perhaps  (if  allowed 
to  me  to  attain  it)  he  may  be  the  consolation  of  my  age.  His  poetry  is 
the  book  of  life.  Without  canting,  and  yet  without  neglecting  re- 
ligion, he  has  assembled  all  that  a good  and  great  man  can  gather 
together  of  moral  wisdom  clothed  in  consummate  beauty.  Sir 
William  Temple  observes,  ‘that  of  all  the  members  of  mankind 
that  live  within  the  compass  of  a thousand  years,  for  one  man  that 
is  bom  capable  of  making  a great  poet,  there  may  be  a thousand 
jorn  capable  of  making  as  great  generals  and  ministers  of  state  as 
any  in  story.’  Here  is  a statesman’s  opinion  of  poetry ; it  is  honour- 
able to  him  and  to  the  art.  Such  a ‘ poet  of  a thousand  years’  was 
rope.  A thousand  years  will  roll  away  before  such  another  can  be 
hoped  for  in  our  literature.  But  it  can  want  them  ; he  is  himself 
a literature.  ] 

(1)  [“That  this  is  the  age  of  the  decline  of  English  poetry,  will 
be  doubted  by  few  who  have  calmly  considered  the  subject.  That 
there  are  men  of  genius  among  the  present  poets,  makes  little 
aga:r.3t  the  fact;  because  it  has  been  well  said,  that,  1 next  to  him 
who  forms  the  taste  of  his  country,  the  greatest  genius  is  he  who 
corrupts  it.’  No  one  has  ever  denied  genius  to  Marini,  who  cor- 
rupted, not  merely  the  taste  of  Italy,  but  that  of  all  Europe,  for 
nearly  a century.  The  great  cause  of  the  present  deplorable  state 
of  English  poetry  is  to  be  attributed  to  that  absurd  and  systematic 
depivciutio  f wopo,  in  which,  lor  the  last  fow  years,  there  has 


But  since  (perhaps  my  fee/mgs  are  tco  nice) 

I cannot  purchase  fame  at  such  a price. 

I’ll  labour  gratis  as  a grinder’s  wheel, 

Aud,  blunt  myself,  give  edge  to  others’  steel. 

Nor  write  at  all,  unless  to  teach  the  art 
To  those  rehearsing  for  the  poet’s  part ; 

From  Horace  show  the  pleasing  paths  of  song. 

And  from  my  own  example — what  is  wrong. 

Though  modem  practice  sometimes  differs  quite, 
’Tis  just  as  well  to  think  before  you  write; 

Let  every  book  that  suits  your  theme  be  read, 

So  shall  you  trace  it  to  the  fountaiu-head. 

He  who  has  learn’d  the  duty  which  lie  owes 
To  friends  and  country,  and  to  pardon  foes ; 

Who  models  his  deportment  as  may  best 
Accord  with  brother,  sire,  or  stranger  guest ; 

Who  takes  our  laws  and  worship  as  they  are, 

Nor  roars  reform  for  senate,  church,  and  bar ; 

In  practice,  rather  than  loud  precept,  wise, 

Bids  not  his  tongue,  but  heart,  philosophize : 

Such  is  the  man  the  poet  should  rehearse, 

As  joint  exemplar  of  his  life  and  verse. 

Sometimes  a sprightly  wit,  and  tale  well  told, 
Without  much  grace,  or  weight,  or  art,  will  hold 


Reddere  quae  ferrum  valet,  exsors  ipsa  secandl : 
Munus  et  officium,  nil  scribens  ipse,  docebo; 

Unde  parentur  opes  ; quid  alat  formetque  poetam; 
Quid  decent,  quid  non ; quo  viitus,  quo  ferat  error. 

Scribendi  recte  sapere  est  etprincipium  et  fons. 

Ri  m tibi  Socraticae  poterunt  ostendere  chartae : 
Verbaque  provisam  rem  non  invita  sequentur. 

Quid  didicit  patriae  quid  debeat,  et  quid  amicis; 

Quo  sit  amore  parens,  quo  frater  amandus,  et  hospes ; 
Quod  sit  conscripti,  quod  judicis  officium ; quae 
Partes  in  bellum  missi  ducis ; i'lle  pvofecto 
Reddere  personae  scit  convenientia  cuique. 

Respieere  exemplar  vitae  morumque  jubebo 
Doctum  imitatorem,  et  vivas  hinc  ducere  voces. 
Interdum  speciosa  locis  morataque  recte 


been  a kind  of  epidemic  concurrence.  The  Lakers  and  their 
school,  and  every  body  else  with  their  school,  and  even  Moore 
without  a school,  and  dilettanti  lecturers  at  institutions,  and 
elderly  gentlemen  who  translate  and  imitate,  and  young  ladies  who 
listen  and  repeat,  and  baronets  who  draw  indifferent  frontispieces 
for  bad  poets,  and  noblemen  who  let  them  dine  with  them  in  the 
country,  the  small  body  of  the  wits  and  the  great  body  of  the  bhie», 
have  latterly  united  in  a depreciation,  of  which  their  forefathers 
would  have  been  as  much  ashamed  as  their  children  will  be.  In 
the  mean  time,  what  have  we  got  instead?  The  Lake  School, 
which  began  with  an  epic  poem  ‘ written  in  six  weeks,’  (so  4 Joan  of 
Arc’  proclaimed  herself,)  and  finished  with  a ballad  composed  in 
twenty  years,  as  ‘Peter  Bell’s’  creator  takes  care  to  inform  the  few 
who  will  inquire.  What  have  we  got  instead  ? A deluge  of  flimsy 
and  unintelligible  romances,  imitated  from  Scott  and  myself,  who 
have  both  made  the  best  of  our  bad  materials  and  erroneous  sys- 
tem. What  have  we  got  instead?  Madoc,  which  is  neither  an  epic  nor 
any  thing  else,  Thalaba,  Kehama,  Gebir,  and  such  gibberish,  writ- 
ten in  all  metres,  and  in  no  language." — Byron  Letters,  1819. — See 
also  the  two  pamphlets  against  Mr.  Bowles,  written  at  Ravenna  in 
1821,  in  which  Lord  Byron’s  enthusiastic  reverence  for  Pope  is  the 
principal  feature.] 

(2)  As  famous  a tonsor  as  Lieinus  himself,  and  better  paid,  and 
may,  like  him,  be  one  day  a senator,  having  a better  qualification 
than  one  half  of  the  heads  he  crops,  viz. — independence. 

(3)  [,l  Bayes.  Pray,  Sir,  how  do  you  do  when  you  write  ? Smith. 

Faith,  Sir,  for  the  most  part  I ’m  in  pretty  good  health.  Bayes.  I 
mean,  what  do  you  do  when  you  write?  Smith.  I take  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  and  sit  down.  Bayes.  Now  I write  standing — that’s 
one  thing;  and  then  another  thing  is,  with  what  do  you  prepare 
yourself?  Smith.  Prepare  myself!  what  the  devil  does  the  fool 
mean?  Bayes.  Why,  I’ll  tell  you  what  Ido.  If  I am  to  write 
familiar  things,  as  sonnets  to  Armida,  and  the  like,  I make  use  of 
stewed  prunes  only ; but  when  I have  a grand  design  in  hand,  I 
ever  take  physic  and  let  blood  : for  when  you  would  have  pure 
swiftness  of  thought,  and  fiery  flights  of  fancy,  you  must  have  a 
care  of  the  pensive  part.  In  fine,  you  must  purge.” — Rehearsal.] 


446 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


A longer  empire  o’er  the  public  mind 
Tl*m  sounding  trifles,  empty,  though  refined 

Unhappy  Greece  ! thy  sons  of  ancient  days 
Tiie  muse  may  celebrate  with  perfect  praise, 

Whose  generous  children  narrow’d  not  their  hearts 
With  commerce,  given  alone  to  arms  and  aits. 

Our  boys  (save  those  whom  public  schools  compel 
To  “ long  and  short”  before  they’re  taught  to  spell) 
From  frugal  fathers  soon  imbibe  by  rote, 

“ A penny  saved,  my  lad,  ’s  a penny  got.” 

Babe  of  a city  birth  ! from  sixpence  take 

The  third,  how  much  will  the  remainder  make?-— 

“ A groat.” — “ Ah,  bravo  ! Dick  hath  done  the  sum  ! 
He’ll  swell  my  fifty  thousand  to  a plum.” 

They  whose  young  souls  receive  this  rust  betimes, 
’Tis  clear,  are  lit  for  any  thing  but  rhymes  ; 

And  Locke  will  tell  you,  that  the  father ’s  right 
Who  hides  all  verses  from  his  children’s  sight ; 

For  poets  (says  this  sage,1  and  many  more,) 

Make  sad  mechanics  with  their  lyric  lore  ; 

And  Delphi  now,  however  rich  of  old. 

Discovers  little  silver,  and  less  gold, 

Because  Parnassus,  though  a mount  divine, 

Is  poor  as  Irus,2  or  an  Irish  mine.3 

Two  objects  always  should  the  poet  move, 

Or  one  or  both, — to  please  or  to  improve. 

Whate’er  you  teach,  be  brief,  if  you  design 
For  our  remembrance  your  didactic  line  ; 

Redundance  places  memory  on  the  rack, 

For  brains  may  be  o’erloaded,  like  tire  back. 

Fiction  does  best  when  taught  to  look  like  truth, 
.And  fairy  fables  bubble  none  but  youth  : 

Fabula,  nullius  veneris,  sine  pondere  et  arte, 

Valdius  oblectat  populum,  meliusque  moratur, 

Quatn,  versus  inopes  reruni,  nugaeque  canorae. 

Graiis  ingenium,  Graiis  dedit  ore  rotundo 
Musa  loqui,  praeter  laudem  nullius  avaris. 

Romani  pueri  longis  rationibus  assem 

Discunt  in  partes  centum  diducere  : dicat 

Filius  Albini,  Si  de  quincunce  rernota  est 

Uncia,  quid  superat?  poterat  dixisse — Triens.  Eu! 

Rem  poteris  servare  tuam.  Redit  uncia  : quid  fit? 

Semis.  An  liaec  animos  aerugo  et  cura  peculi 
Cum  semel  imbuerit,  speramus  carmina  fingi 
Posse  linen  da  cedro,  et  levi  servanda  cupresso? 

Aut  prodesse  volunt,  aut  delectare  poetae; 

Aut  simul  et  jucunda  et  idonea  dicere  vitae. 

Quidquid  praecipies,  esto  brevis : ut  cito  dicta 
Percipiant  animi  dociles,  teneantque  fideles. 

Omne  supervacuum  pleno  de  pectore  manat. 

Ficta  voluptatis  causa  sint  proxima  veris  : 


(1)  I have  not  the  original  by  me,  but  the  Italian  translation 
runs  as  follows : — ‘ E una  cosa  a mio  credere  molto  stravagante, 
che  un  padre  desideri,  o permetta,  che  suo  figliuolo  coltivi  e per- 
fezioni  questo  talento.”  A little  further  on  : “ Si  trovano  di  rado 
nel  Parnaso  le  miniere  d’  oro  e d’  argento  ” — Educazione  dei  Fan- 
ciulli  del  Signor  Locke.  [“  If  the  child  have  a poetic  vein,  it  is  to 
me  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world,  that  the  father  should  desire  or 
suffer  it  to  be  cherished  or  improved.” — “It  is  very  seldom  seen, 
that  any  one  discovers  mines  of  gold  or  silver  on  Parnassus.”] 

(2)  “ Iro  pauperior this  is  the  same  beggar  who  boxed  with 
Ulysses  for  a pound  of  kid’s  fry,  which  he  lost,  and  half  a dozen 
teeth  besides. — See  Odyssey,  b.  18. 

(3)  The  Irish  gold  mine  of  Wicklow,  which  yields  just  oro 
enough  to  swear  by,  or  gild  a bad  guinea. 

(4)  [This  couplet  is  amusingly  characteristic  of  that  mixture  of 

fun  and  bitterness  with  which  their  author  sometimes  spoke  in  con- 

versation ; so  much  so,  that  those  who  knew  him  might  almost 
fancy  they  hear  him  utter  the  words.  —Moore.] 


Expect  no  credit  for  too  wondrous  tales. 

Since  Jonas  only  springs  alive  from  whales ! 

Young  men  with  aught  but  elegance  dispense  ; 
Maturer  years  require  a litlle  sense. 

To  end  at  once : — that  bard  for  all  is  fit 
Who  mingles  well  instruction  with  his  wit ; 

For  him  reviews  shall  smile,  for  him  o’erflow 
The  patronage  of  Paternoster-row ; 

II is  book,  with  Longman’s  liberal  aid,  shall  pass 
(Who  ne’er  despises  books  that  bring  him  brass) ; 
Through  three  long  weeks  the  taste  of  London 
lead, 

And  cross  St.  George’s  Channel  and  the  Tweed. 

But  every  thing  has  faults,  nor  is’t  unknown 
That  harps  and  fiddles  often  lose  their  tone, 

And  wayward  voices,  at  their  owner’s  call, 

With  all  his  best  endeavours,  only  squall ; 

Dogs  blink  their  covey,  flints  withhold  the  spark,4 
And  double-barrels  (damn  them  !)  miss  their 
mark.5 

Where  frequent  beauties  strike  the  reader’s 
view, 

We  must  not  quarrel  for  a blot  or  two ; 

But  pardon  equally  to  books  or  men, 

The  slips  of  human  nature,  and  the  pen. 

Yet  if  an  author,  spite  of  foe  or  friend. 

Despises  all  advice  too  much  to  mend, 

But  ever  twangs  the  same  discordant  string. 

Give  him  no  quarter,  howsoe’er  he  sing. 

Let  llavard’s6  fate  o’ertake  him,  who,  for  once, 
Produced  a play  too  dashing  for  a dunce : 


Nec,  quodcunque  volet,  poscat  sibi  fabula  credi : 

Neu  pransae  Lamiae  vivum  puerum  extrahat  alvo. 

Centuriae  seniorum  agitant  expertia  frugis  : 

Celsi  praetereunt  austera  poemata  Rhamnes. 

Omne  tulit  punctual,  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci, 

Lectorem  delectando  pariterque  monendo. 

Hie  meret  aera  liber  Sosiis ; hie  et  mare  transit, 

Et  longum  noto  scriptori  prorogat  aevum. 

Sunt  delicta  tamen,  quibus  ignovisse  velimus; 

Nam  neque  chorda  sonum  reddit  quern  vult  manus  et  mens, 
Poscentique  gravem  persaepe  remittit  acutum; 

Nec  semper  feriet  quodcunque  minabitur  arcus. 

Verum  ubi  plura  nitent  in  carmine,  non  ego  paucis 
Offendar  maculis,  quas  aut  incuria  fudit, 

Aut  humana  parum  cavit  natura.  Quid  ergo  est? 

Ut  scriptor  si  peccat  idem  librarius  usque, 

Quamvis  est  monitus,  venia  caret ; et  citharoedus 
Ridetur,  chorda  qui  semper  oberrat  eadem  : 

Sic  milii,  qui  multum  cessat,  fit  Chcerilus  ilie, 


(5)  As  Mr.  Pope  took  the  liberty  of  damning  Homer,  to  whom  h* 
was  under  great  obligations — “ And  Homer  (damn  him!)  call 

it  may  be  presumed  that  any  body  or  any  thing  may  he  damned  ia 
verse  by  poetical  license ; and,  in  case  of  accident,  I beg  leave  to 
plead  so  illustrious  a precedent. 

(6)  For  the  story  of  Billy  Havard’s  tragedy,  see  “ Davies’s  Life  of 
Garrick.”  I believe  it  is  “ Regulus,”  or  “ Charles  the  First.”  T.te 
moment  it  was  known  to  be  lus,  the  theatre  thinned,  and  the  book- 
seller refused  to  give  the  customary  sum  for  the  copyright. — [“  Ha- 
vard,”  says  Davies,  “ was  reduced  to  great  straits,  and  in  order  to 
retrieve  his  affairs,  the  story  of  Charles  the  First  was  proposed  to 
him  as  a proper  subject  to  engage  the  public  attention.  Ilavards 
desire  of  ease  was  known  to  be  superior  to  his  thirst  for  fame  or 
money;  and  Giffard,  the  manager,  insisted  upon  the  power  of 
locking  him  up  till  the  work  was  finished.  To  this  he  consented  ; 
and  Giffard  actually  turned  the  key  upon  him,  and  let  him  out  at 
his  pleasure,  till  the  play  was  completed.  It  was  acted  with  great 
emolument  to  the  manager,  and  some  degree  of  reputation,  as  well 
as  gain,  to  the  author.  It  drew  large  crowds  to  the  theatre;  curi- 
osity was  excited  with  respect  to  the  author,  that  was  a secret  0. 


HINTS  TllOM  HORACE. 


417 


At  first  none  deem’d  it  his  ; but  when  his  name 
Announced  the  fact — what  tlieu  ? — it  lost  its  fame. 
Though  all  deplore  when  Milton  deigns  to  doze, 

In  a long  work  ’tis  fair  to  steal  repose. 

As  pictures,  so  shall  poems  be  ; some  stand 
The  critic  eye,  and  please  when  near  at  hand  ; 

But  others  at  a distance  strike  the  sight ; 

This  seeks  the  shade,  but  that  demands  the  light, 

Noi  dreads  the  connoisseur’s  fastidious  view, 

But,  ten  times  scrutinized,  is  ten  times  new. 

Parnassian  pilgrims  ! ye  whom  chance,  or  choice, 
Hath  led  to  listen  to  the  Muse’s  voice, 

Receive  this  counsel,  and  be  timely  wise  ; 

Tew  reach  the  summit  which  before  you  lies. 

Our  church  and  state,  our  courts  and  camps,  concede 
Reward  to  very  moderate  heads  indeed  ! 

In  these  plain  common  sense  will  travel  far ; 

All  are  not  Erskines  who  mislead  the  bar  ; 

But  poesy  between  the  best  and  Avorst 
No  medium  knows ; you  must  be  last  or  first ; 

Ter  middling  poets’  miserable  volumes 

Are  damn’d  alike  by  gods,  and  men,  and  columns.1 


Quern  Dis  terquebonum  cum  risu  miror;  et  idem 
Indignor,  quandoque  bonus  dormitat  Homerus. 
Verum  operi  longo  fas  est  obrepere  somr.um. 

Ut  pictura,  poesis : erit  quae,  si  propius  stes, 

Te  capiet  magis  ; et  quaedam,  si  longius  abstes  • 
Haec  amat  obscurum  ; volet  liaec  sub  luce  videri( 
Judicis  argutum  quae  non  formidat  acumen  : 
Haec  placuit  semel ; haec  decies  repetita  placebit. 


be  kept  from  the  people;  but  Havard’s  love  of  fame  would  not  suf- 
fer it  to  be  concealed  longer  than  the  tenth  or  twelfth  night  of  act- 
ing the  play.  The  moment  Havard  put  on  the  sword  and  tie-wig, 
the  genteel  dress  of  the  times,  and  professed  himself  to  be  the 
writer  of  ‘Charles  the  First,’  the  audiences  were  thinned,  and  the 
bookseller  refused  to  give  the  usual  sum  of  a hundred  pounds  for 
the  copyright.”] 

(1)  [Here,  in  the  original  MS.,  we  find  the  following  couplet  and 
note : — 

“ Though  what  ‘ Gods,  men,  and  columns’  interdict, 

The  Devil  and  Jeffrey  pardon — in  a Piet. 

“ The  Devil  and  Jeffrey  are  here  placed  antithetically  to  gods 
and  men,  such  being  their  usual  position,  and  their  due  one — ac- 
cording to  the  facetious  saying,  ‘ If  God  won’t  take  you,  the  Devil 
must;’  and  I am  sure  no  one  durst  object  to  his  taking  the  poetry 
which,  rejected  by  Horace,  is  accepted  by  Jeffrey.  That  these  gen- 
tlemen are  in  some  cases  kinder, — the  one  to  countrymen,  and  the 
other  from  his  odd  propensity  to  prefer  evil  to  good, — than  the  ‘ gods, 
men,  and  columns’  of  Horace,  may  be  seen  by  a reference  to  the 
review  of  Campbell’s  ‘ Gertrude  of  Wyoming ;’  and  in  No.  31  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review  (given  to  me  the  other  day  by  the  captain  of  an 
English  frigate  off  Salamis),  there  is  a similar  concession  to  the 
mediocrity  of  Jamie  Graham’s  ‘British  Georgies.’  It  is  fortunate 
for  Campbell,  that  his  fame  neither  depends  on  his  last  poem,  nor 
the  puff  of  the  Edinburgh  Review.  The  catalogues  of  our  English 
are  also  less  fastidious  than  the  pillars  of  the  Roman  librarians. — A 
word  more  with  the  author  of  ‘ Gertrude  of  Wyoming  ’ At  the  end 
of  a poem,  and  even  of  a couplet,  we  have  generally  ‘ that  unmean- 
ing thing  we  call  a thought;’  so  Mr.  Campbell  concludes  with  a 
thought  in  such  a manner  as  to  fulfil  the  whole  of  Pope’s  prescrip- 
tion, and  be  as  ‘ unmeaning’  as  the  best  of  his  brethren  * — 

‘ Because  1 may  not  slain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief.’ 

When  I was  in  the  fifth  form,  I carried  to  my  master  the  transla- 
tion of  a chorus  in  Prometheus,  wherein  was  a pestilent  expression 
about  ‘ staining  a voice,’  which  met  with  no  quarter.  Little  did  I 
think  that  Mr.  Campbell  would  have  adopted  my  fifth  form  ‘sub- 
lime’—at  least  in  so  conspicuous  a situation.  ‘ Sorrow’  has  been 
‘ dry  (in  proverbs),  and  ‘ wet’  (in  sonnets),  this  many  a day  ; and 
now  it  ‘ stains ,’  a id  stains  a sound,  of  all  feasible  things  ! To  be 
sure,  death-songs  might  have  been  stained  with  that  same  grief  to 
very  good  purpose,  if  Outalissx  had  clapped  down  his  stanzas  on 
wholesome  paper  for  the  Edinburgh  Evening  Post,  or  any  other 
given  hyperborean  gazette;  or  if  the  said  Outalissi  had  been 
troubled  with  the  slightest  second  sight  of  his  own  notes  embodied 
tiu  tne  last  proof  of  an  overcharged  quarto : but  as  he  is  supposed 


Again,  my  Jeffrey  ! — as  that  sound  inspires, 

How  wakes  my  bosom  to  its  wonted  fires ! 

Tires,  sucli  as  gentle  Caledonians  feel 
When  Southrons  writhe  upon  their  critic  wheel. 

Or  mild  Eclectics,2  when  some,  worse  than  Turks, 
Would  rob  poor  Taith  to  decorate  “good  works.” 
Such  are  the  genial  feelings  thou  canst  claim — 

My  falcon  flies  not  at  ignoble  game. 

Mightiest  of  all  Dunedin’s  beasts  of  chase  ! 

Tor  thee  my  Pegasus  would  mend  his  pace. 

Arise,  my  Jeffrey  ! or  my  inkless  pen 
Shall  never  blunt  its  edge  on  meaner  men ; 

Till  thee  or  thine  mine  evil  eye  discerns, 

Alas  ! 1 cannot  “ strike  at  wretched  kernes.”3 
Inhuman  Saxon  ! wilt  thou  then  resign 
A muse  and  heart  by  choice  so  wholly  thine  ? 

Dear,  d — d contemner  of  my  schoolboy  songs. 

Hast  thou  no  vengeance  for  my  manhood’s  wrongs  P 
If  unprovoked  thou  once  could  bid  me  bleed. 

Hast  thou  no  weapon  for  my  daring  deed  ? 

What ! not  a word ! — and  am  I then  so  low  ? 

Wilt  thou  forbear,  who  never  spared  a foe  ? 

Hast  thou  no  wrath,  or  wish  to  give  it  vent  ? 

No  wit  for  nobles,  dunces  by  descent? 


O major  juveaum,  quamvis  et  voce  paterna 
Fingeris  ad  rectum,  et  per  te  sapis,  hoc  tibi  dictum 
Tolle  memor  : certis  medium  et  tolerabile  rebus 
llecte  concedi : consultus  juris,  et  actor 
Causarum  mediocris,  abest  virtute  diserti 
Messalae,  nec  scit  quantum  Cascellius  Aulus: 

Sed  tamen  in  pretio  est  • mediocribus  esse  poetis 
Non  homines,  non  Di,  non  concessere  column®. 


to  have  been  an  improvisatore  on  this  occasion,  and  probably  to  the 
last  tune  he  ever  chanted  in  this  world,  it  would  have  done  him  no 
discredit  to  have  made  his  exit  with  a mouthful  of  common  sense. 
Talking  of  ‘ staining ’ (as  Caleb  Quotem  says)  ‘ puts  me  in  mind’  of 
a certain  couplet,  which  Mr.  Campbell  will  find  in  a writer  for  whom 
he,  and  his  school,  have  no  small  contempt ; — 

‘ E’en  copious  Dryden  wanted,  or  forgot, 

The  last  and  greatest  art — the  art  to  blot !’  ”] 

(2)  To  the  Eclectic  or  Christian  Reviewers  I have  to  return 
thanks  for  the  fervour  of  that  charity  which,  in  1809,  induced  them 
to  express  a hope  that  a thing  then  published  by  me  might  lead  to 
certain  consequences,  which,  although  natural  enough,  surely  came 
but  rashly  from  reverend  lips.  I refer  them  to  their  own  pages, 
where  they  congratulated  themselves  on  the  prospect  of  a tilt  be- 
tween Mr.  Jeffrey  and  myself,  from  which  some  great  good  was  to 
accrue,  provided  one  or  both  were  knocked  on  the  head.  Having 
survived  two  years  and  a half  those  “ Elegies”  which  they  were 
kindly  preparing  to  review,  I have  no  peculiar  gusto  to  give  them 
“so  joyful  a trouble,”  except,  indeed,  “upon  compulsion,  Hal;’ 
but,  if,  as  David  says  in  the  “ Rivals,”  it  should  come  to  “ bloody 
sword  and  gun  fighting,”  we  “won’t  run,  will  we,  Sir  Lucius?”  I 
do  not  know  what  I had  done  to  these  Eclectic  gentlemen:  my 
works  are  their  lawful  perquisite,  to  be  hewn  in  pieces  like  Agag,  if 
it  seem  meet  unto  them  : but  why  they  should  be  in  such  a hurry 
to  kill  off  their  author,  I am  ignorant.  “ The  race  is  not  always  to 
the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong and  now,  as  these  Chris- 
tians have  “smote  me  on  one  cheek,”  I hold  them  up  the  other; 
and,  in  return  for  their  good  wishes,  give  them  an  opportunity  of 
repeating  them.  Had  any  other  set  of  rnen  expressed  such  senti- 
ments, I should  have  smiled,  and  left  them  to  the  “recording 
angel ;”  but  from  the  pharisees  of  Christianity  decency  might  be 
expected.  I can  assure  these  brethren,  that,  publican  and  sinner 
as  I am,  I would  not  have  treated  “mine  enemy’s  dog  thus.”  To 
show  them  the  superiority  of  my  brotherly  love,  if  ever  the  Rev- 
erend Messrs.  Simeon  or  Ramsden  should  be  engaged  in  such  a 
conflict  as  that  in  which  they  requested  me  to  fall,  I nope  they  may 
escape  with  being  “ winged”  only,  and  that  Heaviside  may  be  at 
hand  to  extract  the  ball. — [The  following  is  the  charitable  passage 
in  the  Eclectic  Review  of  which  Lord  Byron  speaks . — “ If  the 
noble  lord  and  the  learned  advocate  have  the  courage  requisite 
to  sustain  their  mutual  insults,  we  shall  probably  soon  hear  the  ex- 
plosions of  another  kind  of  paper- war,  after  the  fashion  of  the  eve* 
memorable  duel  which  the  latter  is  said  to  have  fought,  or  seemed 
to  fight,  with  ‘ Little  Moore.’  We  confess  there  is  sufficient  provo- 
cation, if  not  in  the  critique,  at  least  in  the  satire,  to  urge  a ‘ mat 
of  honour’  to  defy  his  assailant  to  mortal  eovbat  Of  this 
shall  no  doubt  hear  more  in  due  time.”] 

(3)  [“Alw!  I cannot  strike  at  v/retened  kernes,* — AfdchnlA,] 


448 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


No  jest  on  “minors,”  quibbles  on  a name,1 
Nor  one  facetious  paragraph  of  blame  ? 

Is  it  for  this  on  llion  I have  stood, 

And  thought  of  Homer  less  than  Holyrood  ? 

On  shore  of  Euxine  or  JBgean  sea 
My  hate,  untravelTd,  fondly  turn’d  to  thee. 

Ah  ! let  me  cease  ; in  vain  my  bosom  burns, 
From  Corydon  unkind  Alexis  turns  :2 
Thy  rhymes  are  vain  ; thy  Jeffrey  then  forego. 
Nor  woo  that  anger  which  he  will  not  show. 
What  then  F — Edina  starves  some  lanker  son, 
To  write  an  article  thou  canst  not  shun ; 

Some  less  fastidious  Scotchman  shall  be  found, 
As  bold  in  Billingsgate,  though  less  renown’d. 

As  if  at  table  some  discordant  dish 
Should  shock  our  optics,  such  as  frogs  for  fish ; 
As  oil  in  lieu  of  butter  men  decry, 

And  poppies  please  not  in  a modern  pie  ; 

If  all  such  mixtures  then  be  half  a crime. 

We  must  have  excellence  to  relish  rhyme. 

Mere  roast  and  boil’d  no  epicure  invites  ; 

Thus  poetry  disgusts,  or  else  delights. 

Who  shoot  not  flying  rarely  touch  a gun  : 
Will  he  who  swims  not  to  the  river  .run  ? 

And  men  unpractised  in  exchanging  knocks 
Must  go  to  Jackson 3 ere  they  dare  to  box. 


Ut  gratas  inter  mensas  symphonia  discors, 

Et  crassum  unguentum,  et  Sardo  min  melle  papaver 
Offendunt,  poterat  duci  quia  ccena  sine  istis  ; 

Sic  animis  natum  inventumque  poema  juvandis, 

Si  paulum  a sumrao  deeessrt,  vergit  ad  imum. 

Ludere  qui  nescit,  campestribus  abstinet  arm  is, 
Indoctusque  pilae,  disci ve,  trochive,  quiescit,, 

Ne  spissse  risum  tollant  impune  coronae  : 

Qui  nescit,  versus  tamen  audet  fingere? — Quidni? 
Liber  et  ingenuus  praesertim  census  equestrem 


(1)  [See  the  memorable  critique  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  on 

* Hours  of  Idleness,”  anti,  p.  419.] 

(2)  Invenies  alium,  si  te  hie  fastidit  Alexin. 

(3)  [Lord  Byron’s  taste  for  boxing  brought  him  acquainted,  at 
an  early  period,  with  this  distinguished,  and,  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say,  respected,  professor  of  the  art;  for  whom,  throughout  life,  he 
continued  to  entertain  a sincere  regard.  In  a note  to  the  eleventh 
canto  of  Don  Juan,  he  calls  him  “his  old  friend,  and  corporeal 
pastor  and  master.”] 

(4)  Mr.  Southey  has  lately  tied  another  canister  to  his  tail  in 
the  “ Curse  of  Kehama,”  maugre  the  neglect  of  Madoc,  &c.,  and 
ha-s  in  one  instance  had  a wonderful  effect.  A literary  friend  of 
mine,  walking  out  one  lovely  evening  last  summer,  on  the  eleventh 
bridge  of  the  Paddington  canal,  was  alarmed  by  the  cry  of  “one 
in  jeopardy :”  he  rushed  along,  collected  a body  of  Irish  haymakers 
(supping  on  butter-milk  in  an  adjacent  paddock),  procured  three 
rakes,  one  eel-spear,  and  a landing-net,  and  at  last  (liorresco  refe- 
rens)  pulled  out — his  own  publisher.  The  unfortunate  man  was 
gone  for  ever,  and  so  was  a large  quarto  wherewith  he  had  taken 
tlte  leap,  which  proved,  on  inquiry,  to  have  been  Mr  Southey’s  last 
work.  Its  “alacrity  of  sinking”  was  so  great,  that  it  has  never 
since  been  heard  of;  though  some  maintain  that  it  is  at  this 
moment  concealed  at  Alderman  Birch’s  pastry  premises,  Cornhill. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  coroner’s  inquest  brought  in  a verdict  of 

• Felo  de  bibliopola”  against  a “quarto  unknown;”  and  circum- 
stantial evidence  being  since  strong  against  the  “Curse  of  Ke- 
hama” (of  which  the  above  words  are  an  exact  description),  it  will 
be  tried  by  its  peers  next  session,  in  Grub-street. — Arthur,  Alfred, 
Davideis,  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  Exodus,  Exodia,  Epigoniad, 
Calvary,  Fall  of  Cambria,  Siege  of  Acre,  Don  Roderick,  and  Tom 
Thumb  the  Great,  are  the  names  of  the  twelve  jurors.  The  judges 
are  Pye,  Bowles,  and  the  bellman  of  St.  Sepulchre’s.  The  same 
advocates,  pro  and  con,  will  be  employed  as  are  now  engaged  in 
Sir  Francis  Burdett’s  celebrated  cause  in  the  Scotch  courts.  The 
public  anxiously  await  the  result,  and  all  live  publishers  will  be 
subpoenaed  as  witnesses.  — But  Mr  Southey  has  published  the 
“ Curse  of  Kehama,” — an  inviting  title  to  quibblers.  By  the  bye, 
it  is  & good  deal  beneath  Scott  and  Campbell,  and  not  much  above 
Southey,  to  allow  the  booby  Ballantyne  to  entitled  them,  in  the 


Whate’er  the  weapon,  cudgel,  fist,  or  foil, 

None  reach  expertness  without  years  of  toil ; 

But  fifty  dunces  can,  with  perfect  case. 

Tag  twenty  thousand  couplets,  when  they  pleaae* 
Why  not  ? — shall  I,  thus  qualified  to  sit 
For  rotten  boroughs,  never  show  ray  wit  ? 

Shall  I,  whose  fathers  with  the  quorum  sate. 

And  lived  in  freedom  on  a fair  estate ; 

Who  left  me  heir,  with  stables,  kennels,  packs, 

To  all  their  income,  and  to — twice  its  tax ; 

Whose  form  and  pedigree  have  scarce  a fault, 

Shall  I,  I say,  suppress  my  attic  salt  ? 

Thus  think  “ the  mob  of  gentlemen but  you. 
Besides  all  this,  must  have  some  genius  too. 

Be  this  your  sober  judgment,  and  a rule. 

And  print  not  piping  hot  from  Southey’s  school, 

Who  (ere  another  Thalaba  appears), 

I trust,  will  spare  us  for  at  least  nine  years. 

And  hark  ’ye,  Southey  !4  pray— but  don’t  be  vex’d  — 
Burn  all  your  last  three  works  — and  half  the  next. 
But  why  this  vain  advice  ? once  published,  books 
Can  never  be  recall’d — from  pastry-cooks  ! 

Though  “Madoc,”  with  “Pucelle,”5  instead  of  punk, 
May  travel  back  to  Quito — on  a trunk  ! 6 

Orpheus,  we  learn  from  Ovid  and  Lempriere, 

Led  all  wild  beasts  but  women  by  the  ear ; 


Summam  nummorum,  vitioque  remotus  ab  omni. 

Tu  nihil  invita  dices  faciesve  Minerva: 

Id  tibi  judicium  est,  ea  mens;  si  quid  tamen  olim 
Scripsens,  in  Metii  descendat  judieis  aures, 

Et  patvis,  et  nostras,  nonumque  prematur  in  annum, 
Membranis  intus  positis.  Delere  iicebit 
Quod  non  edideris ; nescit  vox  missa  reverti. 

Sylvestres  homines  sacer  intevpresque  deorum 
Caedibus  et  victu  feedo  deterruit  Orpheus : 

Dictus  ob  hoc  lenire  tigres,  rabidosque  leones  : 


Edinburgh  Annual  Register  (of  which,  by  the  bye,  Southey  is 
editor)  “ the  grand  poetical  triumvirate  of  the  day.”  But,  on  second 
thoughts,  it  can  be  no  great  degree  of  praise  to  be  the  one-eyed 
leaders  of  the  blind,  though  they  might  keep  to  themselves  “ Scott’s 
thirty  thousand  copies  sold,”  which  must  sadly  discomfit  poor 
Southey’s  unsaleables.  Poor  Southey,  it  should  seem,  is  the  “ Le 
pidus”  of 'this  poetical  triumvirate.  I am  only  surprised  to  see 
him  in  such  good  company. 

“ Such  things,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare, 

But  wonder  how  the  devil  he  came  there.” 

The  trio  are  well  defined  in  the  sixth  proposition  of  Euclid:  “ Be- 
cause, in  the  triangles  D B C,  A C B,  D B is  equal  to  A C,  and  B C 
common  to  both ; the  two  sides  D B,  B C,  are  equal  to  the  two  A C, 
C B,  each  to  each,  and  the  angle  D B C is  equal  to  the  angle  A C B : 
therefore,  the  base  D C is  equal  to  the  base  A B,  and  the  triangle 
D B C (Mr.  Southey)  is  equal  to  the  triangle  ACB,  the  less  to  the 
greater,  which  is  absurd,"  & c. — The  editor  of  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
gister will  find  the  rest  of  the  theorem  hard  by  his  stabling;  he  has 
only  to  cross  the  river;  ’tis  the  first  turnpike  t'other  side  “Pons 
Auinorum.”  * 

(5)  Voltaire’s  “ Pucelle”  is  not  quite  so  immaculate  as  Mr. 
Southey’s  “ Joan  of  Arc,”  and  yet  I am  afraid  the  Frenchman  has 
both  more  trjth  and  poetry  too  on  his  side — (they  rarely  go  to 
gether) — thar  our  patriotic  minstrel,  whose  first  essay  was  in  praise 
of  a fanatical  French  strumpet,  whose  title  of  witch  would  be  cor- 
rect with  the  change  of  the  first  letter. 

(6)  Like  Sir  Bland  Burges’s  “ Richard;”  the  tenth  book  of  which 
I read  at  Malta,  on  a trunk  of  Eyre’s,  19,  Cockspur  street.  If  this 
be  doubted,  I shall  buy  a portmanteau  to  quote  from. 


* This  Latin  has  sorely  puzzled  the  University  of  Edinburgh 
Ballantyne  said  it  meant  the  “ Bridge  of  Berwick,”  but  Southey 
claimed  it  as  half  English ; Scott  swore  it  was  the  “ Brig  o'  Stir- 
ling;”  he  had  just  passed  two  King  James’s  and  a dozen  Dou- 
glasses over  it.  At  last  it  was  decided  by  Jeffrey,  that  it  meant 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  “counter  of  Archy  Constables 
shop.” 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


449 


AdcI  had  he  fiddled  at  the  present  hour. 

We’d  seen  the  lions  waltzing  in  the  Tower; 

And  old  Amphion,  such  were  minstrels  then. 

Had  built  St.  Paul’s  without  the  aid  of  Wren. 

Verse  too  was  justice,  and  the  bards  of  Greece 
Did  more  than  constables  to  keep  the  peace ; 
Abolish’d  cuckoldom  with  much  applause, 

Call’d  county  meetings,  and  enforced  the  laws. 

Cut  down  crown  influence  with  reforming  scythes. 
And  served  the  church — without  demanding  tithes  ; 
And  hence,  throughout  all  Hellas  and  the  East, 
Each  poet  was  a prophet  and  a priest. 

Whose  old-established  board  of  joint  controls 
Included  kingdoms  in  the  cure  of  souls. 

Next  rose  the  martial  Homer,  Epic’s  prince, 

And  fighting’s  been  in  fashion  ever  since, 

And  old  Tyrtseus,  when  the  Spartans  warr’d, 

(A  limping  leader,  but  a lofty  bard,)1 
Though  wall’d  Ithome  had  resisted  long, 

Reduced  the  fortress  by  the  force  of  song. 

When  oracles  prevail’d,  in  times  of  old, 

In  song  alone  Apollo’s  will  was  told  : 

Then  if  your  verse  is  what  all  verse  should  be, 

And  gods  were  not  asham’d  on’t,  why  should  we  ? 

The  Muse,  like  mortal  females,  may  be  woo’d  : 

In  turns  she’ll  seem  a Paphian,  or  a prude ; 

Fierce  as  a bride  when  first  she  feels  affright, 

Mild  as  the  same  upon  the  second  night ; 

Wild  as  the  wife  of  alderman  or  peer, 

Now  for  his  grace,  and  now  a grenadier  ! 

Her  eyes  beseem,  her  heart  belies,  her  zone, 

Ice  in  a crowd,  and  lava  when  alone. 

If  verse  be  studied  with  some  show  of  art, 

Kind  Nature  always  will  perform  her  part ; 


Dictus  et  Amphion,  Theban*  conditor  arcis, 
Saxa  movere  sono  testudinis,  et  prece  blanda 
Ducere  quo  vellet : fuit  haec  sapientia  quondam, 
Publica  privatis  secernere;  sacra  profanis; 
Concubito  prohibere  vago ; dare  jura  maritis ; 
Oppida  moliri;  leges  incidere  ligno. 

Sic  honor  et  nomen  divmis  vatibus  atque 
Carminibus  venit.  Post  bos  insignis  Homerus 
Tyrtaeusque  mares  animos  in  Martia  bella 
Versibus  exacuit:  diet*  per  carmina  sortes, 

Et  vitae  monstrata  via  est : et  gratia  regum 
Pieriis  tentata  modis : ludusque  repertus, 

Et  longorum  operum  finis : no  forte  pudori 


(1)  [Lord  Byron  had  originally  written— 

“ As  lame  as  I am,  but  a better  bard.” 

The  reader  of  Mr.  Moore’s  Notices  will  appreciate  the  feeling 
which,  no  doubt,  influenced  Lord  Byron’s  alteration  of  the  manu- 
script line.] 

(2)  [The  red  hand  of  Ulster,  introduced  generally  in  a canton, 
marks  the  shield  of  a baronet  of  the  United  Kingdom.] 

(3)  [“  Pollio.” — In  the  original  MS.  “ Rogers.”] 

(4)  “ Turn  quoque  marmorea  caput  a cervice  revulsum, 

Gurgite  cum  medio  portans  CEagrius  Hebrus, 

Volveret  Eurydicen  vox  ipsa,  et  frigida  lingua; 

Ah,  miseram  Eurydicen!  ar.ima  fugiente  vocabat; 

Eurydicen  toto  referebaut  flumine  ripae.” 

Georgic.  iv.  523. 

(5)  I beg  Nathaniel’s  pardon  ; he  is  not  a cobbler;  it  is  a tailor, 
but  begged  Cape!  Lofft  to  sink  the  profession  in  his  preface  to  two 

pair  of  panta psha  ! — of  cantos,  which  he  wished  the  public  to 

try  on ; but  the  sieve  of  a patron  let  it  out,  and  so  far  saved  the 
txpense  of  an  advertisement  to  his  country  customers. — Merry’s 
'Moorfields  whine”  was  nothing  to  all  this.  The  “Della  Crus- 


Thougli  without  genius,  and  a native  v«in 
Of  wit,  we  loathe  an  artificial  strain — 

Yet  art  and  nature  join’d  will  win  the  prize. 

Unless  they  act  like  us  and  our  allies. 

The  youth  who  trains  to  ride,  or  run  a race. 
Must  bear  privations  with  unruffled  face, 

Be  call’d  to  labour  when  he  thinks  to  dine. 

And,  harder  still,  leave  wenching  and  his  wine. 
Ladies  who  sing,  at  least  who  sing  at  sight, 

Have  followed  music  through  her  farthest  flight ; 
But  rhymers  tell  you  neither  more  nor  less, 

“ I’ve  got  a pretty  poem  for  the  press 

And  that’s  enough  ; then  write  and  print  so  fast 

If  Satan  take  the  hindmost,  wlio’d  be  last  ? 

They  storm  the  types,  they  publish,  one  and  all, 
They  leap  the  counter,  and  they  leave  the  stall. 
Provincial  maidens,  men  of  high  command. 

Yea,  baronets  have  ink’d  the  bloody  hand  ! 2 
Cash  cannot  quell  them ; Pollio  3 play’d  this  prank, 
(Then  Phoebus  first  found  credit  in  a bank !) 

Not  all  the  living  only,  but  the  dead, 

Fool  on,  as  fluent  as  an  Orpheus’  head ; 4 
Damn’d  all  their  days,  they  posthumously  thrive — 
Dug  up  from  dust,  though  buried  when  alive ! 
Reviews  record  this  epidemic  crime. 

Those  Books  of  Martyrs  to  the  rage  for  rhyme. 
Alas  ! woe  worth  the  scribbler  ! often  seen 
In  Morning  Post,  or  Monthly  Magazine. 

There  lurk  his  earlier  lays  ; but  soon,  hotpress’d, 
Behold  a quarto  ! — Tarts  must  tell  the  rest. 

Then  leave,  ye  wise,  the  lyre’s  precarious  chords 
To  muse-mad  baronets,  or  madder  lords. 

Or  country  Crispins,  now  grown  somewhat  stale. 
Twin  Doric  minstrels,  drunk  with  Doric  ale  ! 

Hark  to  those  notes,  narcotically  soft, 

The  cobbler-laureats  5 sing  to  Capel  Lofft  1 * 

Till,  lo  ! that  modern  Midas,  as  he  hears. 

Adds  an  ell  growth  to  his  egregious  ears ! 


Sit  tibi  Musa  lyrae  solers,  et  cantor  Apollo. 

Natura  fieret  laudabile  carmen,  an  arte, 
Quaesitum  est:  ego  nec  studium  sine  divite  vena, 
Nec  rude  quid  prosit  video  ingenium  ; alterius  sic 
Altera  poscit  opem  res,  et  conjurat  amice. 

Qui  studet  optatam  cursu  contingere  metam, 

Multa  tulit  fecitque  puer ; sudavit  et  alsit ; 
Abstinuit  Venere  et  vino:  qui  Pythia  can  tat 
Tibicen,  didicit  prius,  extimuitque  magistrum. 

Nunc  satis  est  dixisse  ; Ego  mira  poemata  pango: 
Occupet  extremum  scabies  ; mihi  tur.pe  relinqui  est, 
Et  quod  non  didici,  sane  nescire  fateri. 
******  • 


cans”  were  people  of  some  education,  and  no  profession ; but  these 
Arcadians  (“  Arcades  ambo” — bumpkins  both)  send  out  their  native 
nonsense  without  the  smallest  alloy,  and  leave  all  the  shoes  and 
smallclothes  in  -the  parish  unrepaired,  to  patch  up  Elegies  on 
Enclosures  and  Paeans  to  Gunpowder.  Sitting  on  a shopboard, 
they  describe  fields  of  battle,  when  the  only  blood  they  ever  saw 
was  shed  from  the  finger;  and  an  “Essay  on  War”  is  produced  by 
the  ninth  part  of  a “ poet.” 

“ And  own  that  nine  such  poets  made  a Tate.” 

Did  Nathan  ever  read  that  line  of  Pope?  and  if  he  did,  why  not 
take  it  as  his  motto? — [See  ante , p.  432,  note.] 

(6)  This  well  meaning  gentleman  has  spoiled  seme  excellent 
shoemakers,  and  been  accessory  to  the  poetical  undoing  of  many 
of  the  industrious  poor.  Nathaniel  Bloomfield  and  his  brother 
Bobby  have  set  all  Somersetshire  singing:  nor  has  the  malady 
confined  itself  to  one  county.  Pratt  too  (who  once  was  wiser)  hat 
caught  the  contagion  of  patronage,  and  decoyed  a poor  fellow 
named  Blackett  into  poetry;  but  he  died  during  the  operation, 
leaving  one  child  and  two  volumes  of  “ Remains”  utterly  destitute. 
The  girl,  if  she  don’t  take  a poetical  twist,  and  come  forth  as  a 
shoe-making  Sappho,  may  do  well;  but  the  “tragedies"  are 
ricketty  as  if  they  had  been  the  offspring  of  an  Earl  or  a Seatoni** 


450 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Thero  lives  one  druid,  who  prepares  in  time, 
'Gainst  future  feuds  his  poor  revenge  of  rhyme  ; 
Hacks  his  dull  memory,  and  his  duller  muse. 

To  publish  faults  which  friendship  should  excuse. 

If  friendship’s  nothing,  self-regard  might  teach 
More  polish’d  usage  of  his  parts  of  speech. 

But  what  is  shame,  or  what  is  aught  to  him  ? 

He  vents  his  spleen,  or  gratifies  his  whim. 

Some  fancied  slight  has  roused  his  lurking  hate, 
Some  folly  cross’d,  some  jest,  or  some  debate ; 

Up  to  his  den  Sir  Scribbler  hies,  and  soon 
The  gather’d  gall  is  voided  in  lampoon. 

Perhaps  at  some  pert  speech  you’ve  dared  to  frown, 
Perhaps  your  poem  may  have  pleased  the  town  : 

If  so,  alas  ! ’tis  nature  in  the  man — 

May  Heaven  forgive  you,  for  he  never  can ! 

Then  be  it  so ; and  may  his  withering  bays 
Bloom  fresh  in  satire,  though  they  fade  in  praise  ! 
While  his  lost  songs  no  more  shall  steep  and  stink. 
The  dullest,  fattest  weeds  on  Lethe’s  brink, 

But  springing  upwards  from  the  sluggish  mould. 

Be  (what  they  never  were  before)  be — sold  ! 

Should  some  rich  bard  (but  such  a monster  now. 

In  modern  physics,  we  can  scarce  allow), 

Should  some  pretending  scribbler  of  the  court. 

Some  rhyming  peer1 — there’s  plenty  of  the  sort 2 — 
All  but  one  poor  dependent  priest  withdrawn 
(Ah ! too  regardless  of  his  chaplain’s  yawn  !) 
Condemn  the  unlucky  curate  to  recite 
Their  last  dramatic  work  by  candle-light, 

How  would  the  preacher  turn  each  rueful  leaf, 

Dull  as  his  sermons,  but  not  half  so  brief ! 


Si  carmina  condes, 

Nunquam  te  fallant  animi  sub  vulpe  latentes. 
Quintilio  si  quid  recitares,  Corrige,  sodes, 

Hoc  (aiebet)  et  hoc : melius  te  posse  negares;. 
Bis  terque  expertum  frustra,  delere  jubebat, 
Et  male  tornatos  incudi  reddere  versus. 


prize  poet.  The  patrons  of  this  poor  lad  are  certainly  answerable 
for  his  end  ; and  it  ought  to  be  an  indictable  offence.  But  this  is 
the  least  they  have  done ; for,  by  a refinement  of  barbarity,  they 
have  made  the  (late)  man  posthumously  ridiculous,  by  printing 
what  he  would  have  had  sense  enough  never  to  print  himself. 
Certes  these  rakers  of  “ Remains”  come  under  the  statute  against 
“resurrection  men.”  What  does  it  signify  whether  a poor  dear 
dead  dunce  is  to  be  stuck  up  in  Surgeons’  or  in  Stationers’  Hall? 
Is  it  so  bad  to  unearth  his  bones  as  his  blunders  ? Is  it  not  better 
to  gibbet  his  body  on  a heath,  than  his  soul  in  an  octavo?  “ We 
know  what  we  are,  but  we  know  not  what  we  may  be  and  it  is  to 
be  hoped  we  never  shall  know,  if  a man  who  has  passed  through 
life  with  a sort  of  eclat,  is  to  find  himself  a mountebank  on  the 
other  side  of  Styx,  and  made,  like  poor  Joe  Blackett,  the  laughing- 
stock of  purgatory.  The  plea  of  publication  is  to  provide  for  the 
child;  now,  might  not  some  of  this  “ Sutor  ultra  Crepidam’s” 
friends  and  seducers  have  done  a decent  action  without  inveigling 
Pratt  into  biography  ? And  then  his  inscription  split  into  so  many 
modicums  1 — “ To  the  Duchess  of  Somuch,  the  Right  Hon.  So-and- 
80,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Somebody,  these  volumes  are,  &c.  &c.” — 
why,  this  is  doling  out  fhe  44  soft  milk  of  dedication”  in  gills, — 
there  is  but  a quart,  and  he  divides  it  among  a dozen.  Why,  Pratt, 
l.adst  thou  not  a puff  left?  Dost  thou  think  six  families  of  dis- 
tinction can  share  this  in  quiet?  There  is  a child,  a book,  and  a 
dedication : send  the  girl  to  her  grace,  the  volumes  to  the  grocer, 
and  the  dedication  to  the  devil.— [See  antd,  p.  432. J 

(1)  [In  the  original  MS.— 

“ Some  rhyming  peer— Carlisle  or  Carysfort.” 

To  which  is  subjoined  this  note : — “ Of  ‘ John  Joshua,  Earl  of 
Carysfort’  I know  nothing  at  present,  but  from  an  advertisement 
in  an  old  newspaper  of  certain  Poems  and  Tragedies  by  his  Lord- 
ship, which  I saw  by  accident  in  the  Morea.  Being  a rhymer  him- 
self. he  will  forgive  the  liberty  I t ike  with  his  name,  seeing,  as  he 
must,  how  very  commodious  it  is  at  the  close  of  that  couplet;  and 
aa  for  what  follows  and  goes  before,  let  him  place  it  to  the  account  of 
the  other  Thane;  since  I cannot,  under  these  circumstances,  augur 
pro  or  con  the  contents  of  his  4 foolscap  crown  octavos.’” — John 


Yet,  since  ’tis  promised  at  the  rector’s  death, 

He’ll  risk  no  living  for  a little  breath. 

Then  spouts  and  foams,  and  cries  at  every  line, 
(The  Lord  forgive  him  !)  “ Bravo  ! grand  ! divine  ! 
Hoarse  with  those  praises  (which,  by  flatt’ry  fed. 
Dependence  barters  for  her  bitter  bread), 

He  strides  and  stamps  along  witli  creaking  boot, 
Till  the  floor  echoes  his  emphatic  foot ; 

Then  sits  again,  then  rolls  his  pious  eye, 

As  when  the  dying  vicar  will  not  die ! 

Nor  feels,  forsooth,  emotion  at  his  heart ; — 

But  all  dissemblers  overact  their  part. 

Ye,  who  aspire  to  “ build  the  lofty  rhyme,” 3 
Believe  not  all  who  laud  your  false  “ sublime 
But  if  some  friend  shall  hear  your  work,  and  say, 

“ Expunge  that  stanza,  lop  that  line  away,” 

And,  after  fruitless  efforts,  you  return 
Without  amendment,  and  he  answers,  “ Burn  !” 
That  instant  throw  your  paper  in  the  fire. 

Ask  not  his  thoughts,  or  follow  his  desire ; 

But  (if  true  bard  !)  you  scorn  to  condescend, 

And  will  not  alter  what  you  can’t  defend, 

If  you  will  breed  this  bastard  of  your  brains,4 — 
We’ll  have  no  words — I’ve  only  lost  my  pains. 

Yet,  if  you  only  prize  your  favourite  thought, 

As  critics  kindly  do,  and  authors  ought ; 

If  your  cool  friend  annoy  you  now  and  then, 

And  cross  whole  pages  with  his  plaguy  pen ; 

No  matter,  throw  your  ornaments  aside, — 

Better  let  him  than  all  the  world  deride. 


Si  defendere  delictum  quam  vertere  malles, 

Nullum  ultra  verbum,  aut  operarr.  insumebat  inanein, 
Quin  sine  rivali  teque  et  tua  solus  amares. 

Vir  bonus  et  prudens  versus  reprehendet  inertes  i 
Culpabit  duros  ; incomptis  allinet  atrum 
Transverso  calamo  signum  ; ambitiosa  recidet 


Joshua  Proby,  first  Earl  of  Carysfort,  was  joint  postmaster-general 
in  1805,  envoy  to  Berlin  in  1806,  and  ambassador  to  Petersburg  in 
1807.  Besides  his  poems,  he  published  two  pamphlets,  to  show 
the  necessity  of  universal  suffrage  and  short  parliaments.  He  died 
in  1828.] 

(2)  Here  will  Mr.  Gifford  allow  me  to  introduce  once  more  to 
his  notice  the  sole  survivor,  the  “ ultimus  Romanorum,”  the  last  o( 
the  Cruscanti! — “Edwin”  the  “profound,”  by  our  Lady  a f Punish- 
ment ! here  he  is,  as  lively  as  in  the  days  of  “ well  said  Baviad  the 
Correct.”  I thought  Fitzgerald  had  been  the  tail  of  poesy ; but, 
alas ! he  is  only  the  penultimate. 

A FAMILIAR  EPISTLE  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  MORNINU 
CHRONICLE. 

44  What  reams  of  paper,  floods  of  ink,” 

Do  some  men  spoil,  who  never  think ! 

And  so  perhaps  you’ll  say  of  me, 

Tn  which  your  readers  may  agree. 

Still  I write  on,  and  tell  you  why ; 

Nothing’s  so  bad,  you  can’t  deny, 

But  may  instruct  or  entertain 
Without  the  risk  of  giving  pain,”  &c.  ire. 

ON  SOME  MODERN  aUACAS  AND  REFORMISTS 

44  In  tracing  of  the  human  mind 
Through  all  its  various  courses, 

Though  strange,  ’tis  true,  we  often  find 
It  knows  not  its  resources: 

And  men  through  life  assume  a part 
For  which  no  talents  they  possess, 

Yet  wonder  that,  with  all  their  art, 

They  meet  no  better  with  success,”  &c.  &c. 

(3)  [See  Milton’s  Lycidas.] 

(4)  “ Bastard  of  your  brains .” — Minerva  being  the  first  by  Jufj* 
ter's  headpiece,  and  a variety  of  equally  unaccountable  parturi- 
tions upon  earth,  such  as  Madoc,  &c.  &c.  &c. 


HINTS  FROM  HORACE. 


4a  1 


Budgell,  a rogue  and  rhymester,  for  no  good, 
(Unless  his  case  be  much  misunderstood) 

When  teased  with  creditors’  continual  claims, 

“ To  die  like  Cato,”  4 leapt  into  the  Thames  ! 

And  therefore  be  it  lawful  through  the  town 
For  any  bard  to  poison,  hang,  or  drown.5 
Who  saves  the  intended  suicide  receives 
Small  thanks  from  him  who  loathes  the  life  he 
leaves ; 

And,  sooth  to  say,  mad  poets  must  not  lose 
The  glory  of  that  death  they  freely  chose. 

Nor  is  it  certain  that  some  sorts  of  verse 
Prick  not  the  poet’s  conscience  as  a curse  ; 

Dosed 6 with  vile  drams  on  Sunday  he  was  found. 

Or  got  a child  on  consecrated  ground  ! 

And  hence  is  haunted  with  a rhyming  rage — 

Fear’d  like  a bear  just  bursting  from  his  cage. 

If  free,  all  fly  his  versifying  fit, 

Fatal  at  once  to  simpleton  or  wit, 

But  him,  unhappy  ! whom  he  seizes, — him 
He  flays  with  recitation  limb  by  limb  ; 

Probes  to  the  quick  where’er  he  makes  his  breach, 
And  gorges  like  a lawyer — or  a leech.7 


Servari  nolit  ? Dicam : Siculique  poetae 
Narrabo  interitum.  Deus  immortalis  haberi 
Dum  cupit  Empedocles,  ardentem  frigidus  /Etnam 
Insiluit;  sit  jus,  liceatque  perire  poetis: 

Invitum  qui  servat,  idem  facit  occidenti. 

Nec  semel  hoc  fecit;  nec,  si  retractus  erit,  jam 
Fiet  homo,  et  ponet  famosae  mortis  amorem. 

Nec  satis  apparet  cur  versus  factitet:  utrum 
Minxerit  in  patrios  cineres,  an  triste  bidental 
Moverit  incestus  : certe  furit,  ac  velut  ursus, 
Objectos  caveae  valuit  si  frangere  clathros, 
Indoctum  doctumque  fugat  recitator  acerbus. 
Quem  vero  arripuit,  tenet,  occiditque  legendo, 

Non  missura  cutem,  nisi  plena  cruoris,  hirudo. 


Give  light  to  passages  too  much  in  shade. 

Nor  let  a doubt  obscure  one  verse  you’ve  made  ; 
Your  friend’s  “ a Johnson,”  not  to  leave  one  word, 
However  trifling,  which  may  seem  absurd  ; 

Such  erring  trifles  lead  to  serious  ills, 

And  furnish  food  for  critics,1  or  their  quills. 

As  the  Scotch  fiddle,  with  its  touching  tune. 

Or  the  sad  influence  of  the  angry  moon, 

All  men  avoid  bad  writers’  ready  tongues, 

As  yawning  waiters  fly2  Fitzscribble’s 3 lungs  ; 

Yet  on  he  mouths — ten  minutes — tedious  each 
As  prelate’s  homily,  or  placeman’s  speech  ; 

Long  as  the  last  years  of  a lingering  lease. 

When  riot  pauses  until  rents  increase.. 

While  such  a minstrel,  muttering  fustian,  strays 
O’er  hedge  and  ditch,  through  unfrequented  ways, 
If  by  some  chance  he  walks  into  a well, 

And  shouts  for  succour  with  stentorian  yell, 

“ A rope  ! help,  Christians,  as  ye  hope  for  grace !” 
Nor  woman,  man,  nor  child  will  stir  a pace  ; 

For  there  his  carcass  he  might  freely  fling, 

From  frenzy,  or  the  humour  of  the  thing. 

Though  this  has  happen’d  to  more  bards  than  one ; 
I’ll  tell  you  Budgell’s  story, — and  have  done. 


Ornamenta:  parum  Claris  lucem  dare  coget; 
Arguet  ambigue  dictum  ; mutanda  notabit ; 

Fiet  Aristarchus : nec  dicet,  Cur  ego  amicum 
Oflendam  in  nugis  ? hae  nugae  seria  ducent 
In  mala  derisum  semel  exceptumque  sinistre. 

Ut  mala  quern  scabies  aut  morbus  regius  urguet, 
Aut  fanaticus  error  et  iracunda  Diana, 

Vesanum  tetigisse  timent  fugiuntque  poetam, 

Qui  sapiunt ; agitant  pueri,  incautique  sequuntur. 
Hie  dum  sublimes  versus  ructatur,  et  errat, 

Si  veluti  merulis  intentus  decidit  auceps 
In  puteum,  foveamve  ; licet,  Succurrite,  longum 
Clamet,  lo  cives  ! non  sit  qui  tollere  curet. 

Si  quis  curet  opem  ferre,  et  demittere  funem, 

Oui  scis  an  prudens  hue  se  dejicerit,  atque 


(1)  “ A crust  for  the  critics.” — Bayes,  in  the  “ Rehearsal .” 

(2)  And  the  “waiters”  are  the  only  fortunate  people  who  can 
“ fly”  from  them ; all  the  rest,  viz.  the  sad  subscribers  to  the 
“Literary  Fund,”  being  compelled,  by  courtesy,  to  sit  out  the  reci- 
tation without  a hope  of  exclaiming,  “ Sic”  (that  is,  by  choking 
Fitz  with  bad  wine,  or  worse  poetry)  “ me  servavit  Apollo ! ” 

(3)  [“ Fitzscribble,”  originally  “Fitzgerald.”  See  ante,  p.  421.] 

(4)  On  his  table  were  found  these  words : “ What  Cato  did,  and 
Addison  approved,  cannot  be  wrong.”  But  Addison  did  not  “ ap- 
prove;” and  if  he  had,  it  would  not  have  mended  the  matter. 
He  had  invited  his  daughter  on  the  same  water-party;  but  Miss 
Budgell,  by  some  accident,  escaped  this  last  paternal  attention. 
Thus  fell  the  sycophant  of  “ Atticus,"  and  the  enemy  of  Pope ! — 
[Eustace  Budgell,  a friend  and  relative  of  Addison’s,  “leapt  into 
the  Thames”  to  escape  a prosecution,  on  account  of  forging  the 
will  of  Dr.  Tindal ; in  which  Eustace  had  provided  himself  with  a 
legacy  of  two  thousand  pounds.  To  this  Pope  alludes — 

“ Let  Budgell  charge  low  Grub-street  on  my  quill, 

And  write  whate’er  he  please — except  my  will.”] 

(a)  [“We  talked  (says  Boswell)  of  a man’s  drowning  himself. — 
Johnson.  ‘I  should  never  think  it  time  to  make  away  with 
mvseif.’  I put  the  case  of  Eustace  Budgell,  who  was  accused  of 
forging  a will,  and  sunk  himself  in  the  Thames,  before  the  trial  of 
its  authenticity  came  on.  ‘Suppose,  Sir,’  said  I,  ‘that  a man  is 
absolutely  sure  that,  if  he  lives  a few  days  longer,  he  shall  be 
detected  in  a fraud,  the  consequence  of  which  will  be  utter  dis- 
fitrae,  aad  expulsion  from  society.’ — Johnson.  1 Then,  Sir,  let 


him  go  abroad  to  a distant  country;  let  him  go  to  some  place 
where  he  is  not  known.  Don't  let  him  go  to  the  devil,  where  he 
is  known.’” — See  Boswell,  vol.  iv.  p.  50,  ed.  1835.] 

(6)  If  “ dosed  with,”  &c.  be  censured  as  low,  I beg  leave  to  refer 
to  the  original  for  something  still  lower;  and  if  any  reader  will 
translate  “Minxerit  in  patrios  cineres,”  &c.  into  a decent  couplet, 
I will  insert  said  couplet  in  lieu  of  the  present. 

(7)  [In  tracing  the  fortunes  of  men,  it  is  not  a little  curious  to 
observe,  how  often  the  course  of  a whole  life  has  depended  on  one 
single  step.  Had  Lord  Byron  persisted  in  his  original  purpose  of 
giving  this  poem  to  the  press,  instead  of  Childe  Harold,  it  is  more 
than  probable  that  he  would  have  been  lost,  as  a great  poet,  to 
the  world  Inferior  as  this  Paraphrase  is,  in  every  respect,  to  his 
former  Satire,  and,  in  some  places,  even  descending  below  the 
level  of  under-graduate  versifiers,  its  failure,  there  can  be  little 
doubt,  would  have  been  certain  and  signal ; — his  former  assailants 
would  have  resumed  their  advantage  over  him,  and  either,  in  the 
bitterness  of  his  mortification,  he  would  have  flung  Childe  Harold 
into  the  fire;  or,  had  he  summoned  up  sufficient  confidence  to 
publish  that  poem,  its  reception,  even  if  sufficient  to  retrieve  him 
in  the  eyes  of  the  public  and  his  own,  could  never  have,  at  all,  re- 
sembled that  explosion  of  success, — that  instantaneous  and  uni- 
versal acclaim  of  admiration,  into  which,  coming,  as  it  were,  fresh 
from  the  land  of  song,  he  surprised  the  world,  and  in  the  midst  of 
which  he  was  borne,  buoyant  and  self-assured,  along,  through  a 
succession  of  new  triumphs,  each  more  splendid  than  the  last. 
Happily,  the  better  judgment  of  his  friends  averted  such  a risk.— 
Mooje,] 


@ur£e  of  JWtnerfca 


“ Pallas  te  hoc  vulnere,  Pallas 

Immolat,  et  poenam  scelerato  ex  sanguine  sumit.” 

JEneid.  lib.  xii. 


Athens,  Capuchin  Convent,  March  17,  1811. 

Blow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run,2 
Along  Morea’s  hills  the  setting  sun  ; 

Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 

But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light ; 

O’er  the  hush’d  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 

Gilds  the  green  wave  that  trembles  as  it  glows  ; 

On  old  JSgiua’s  rock  and  Hydra’s  isle 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile  ; 

O’er  his  own  regions  lingering  loves  to  shine, 

Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast,  the  mountain-shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer’d  Salamis  ! 

Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse, 

More  deeply  purpled,  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 

And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 

Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven ; 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 

Behind  his  Delphian  rock  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve  his  palest  beam  he  cast 
When,  Athens  ! here  thy  wisest  look’d  his  last. 

How  watch’d  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 

That  closed  their  murder’d  sage’s3 4  latest  day  ! 

Not  yet— not  yet— Sol  pauses  on  the  hill, 

Tse  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still ; 

But  sad  his  light  to  agonising  eyes, 

And  dark  the  mountain’s  once  delightful  dyes ; 

Gloom  o’er  the  lovely  land  he  seem’d  to  pour, 

The  land  where  Phoebus  never  frown’d  before ; 

But  ere  he  sunk  below  Cithaeron’s  head, 

The  cup  of  woe  was  quaff’d — the  spirit  fled ; 

The  soul  of  him  that  scorn’d  to  fear  or  fly, 

Who  lived  and  died  as  none  can  live  or  die. 

But,  lo  ! from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign 


(1)  [This  fierce  philippic  on  Lord  Elgin,  whose  collection  of 
Athenian  marbles  was  ultimately  purchased  for  the  nation,  in  1816, 
at  the  cost  of  thirty-five  thousand  pounds,  was  written  at  Athens, 
in  March,  181 1,  and  prepared  for  publication  along  with  the  “ Hints 
fiom  tHoraee but,  like  that  satire,  suppressed  by  Lord  Byron, 
front  motives  which  the  reader  will  easily  understand.  It  was  first 
given  to  the  world  in  1828.  Few  can  wonder  that  Lord  Byron’s 
feelings  should  have  been  powerfully  excited  by  the  spectacle  of 
the  despoiled  Parthenon ; but  it  is  only  due  to  Lord  Elgin  to  keep 
in  mind,  that,  had  those  precious  marbles  remained,  they  must,  in 
all  likelihood,  have  perished  for  ever  amidst  the  miserable  scenes  of 
violence  which  Athens  has  since  witnessed;  and  that  their  presence 
in  England  has  already,  by  universal  admission,  been  of  the  most 
essential  advantage  to  the  fine  arts  of  our  own  country.  The  poli- 
tical allusions  in  this  poem  are  not  such  as  require  much  explana- 
tion. It  contains  many  lines,  which,  it  is  hoped,  the  author,  on 
mature  reflection,  disapproved  of— but  is  too  vigorous  a specimen 
of  his  iambics  to  be  omitted  in  any  collective  edition  of  his 
works.] 

(2)  [The  splendid  lines  with  which  this  satire  opens,  down  to 
“ As  thus,  within  the  walls  of  Pallas’  fane,”  first  appeared  at  the 
commencement  of  the  third  canto  of  the  Corsair,  the  author  having, 
at  that  time,  abandoned  all  notion  of  publishing  the  piece  of  which 
they  originally  made  part.] 

(3)  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a short  time  before  sunset  (the 


No  murky  vapour,  herald  of  the  storm, 

Hides  her  fair  face,  or  girds  her  glowing  form. 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moonbeams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray, 
And  bright  around,  with  quivering  beams  beset, 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o’er  the  minaret : 

The  groves  of  olive  scatter’d  dark  and  wide, 
Where  meek  Cephisus  sheds  his  scanty  tide, 

The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque. 

The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk,5 
And  sad  and  sombre  mid  the  holy  calm, 

Near  Theseus’  fane,  yon  solitary  palm  ; 

All,  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye  ; 

And  dull  were  his  that  pass’d  them  heedless  by.6 

Again  the  JEgean,  heard  no  more  afar, 

Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war ; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  expanse  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 

Mix’d  with  the  shades  of  many  a distant  isle, 
That  frown,  where  gentler  ocean  deigns  to  smile. 

As  thus,  within  the  walls  of  Pallas’  fane, 

I mark’d  the  beauties  of  the  land  and  main. 

Alone,  and  friendless,  on  the  magic  shore, 

Whose  arts  and  arms  but  live  in  poets’  lore ; 

Oft  as  the  matchless  dome  I turn’d  to  scan, 
Sacred  to  gods,  but  not  secure  from  man, 

The  past  return’d,  the  present  seem’d  to  cease. 
And  Glory  knew  no  clime  beyond  her  Greece  ! 

Hours  roll’d  along,  and  Dian’s  orb  on  high 
Had  gain’d  the  centre  of  her  softest  sky ; 

And  yet  unwearied  still  my  footsteps  trod 
O’er  the  vain  shrine  of  many  a vanish’d  god  : 

But  chiefly,  Pallas  ! thine  ; when  Hecate’s  glare, 
Check’d  by  thy  columns,  fell  more  sadly  fair 


hour  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  his  disciples  t« 

wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 

(4)  The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own 
counhry;  the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of  less 
duration. 

(5)  The  kiosk  is  a Turkish  summer-house;  the  palm  is  without 
'the  present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  Theseus, 
between  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  intervenes.  Cephisus’  stream 
is  indeed  scanty,  and  llissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 

(6)  [During  our  residence  of  ten  weeks  at  Athens,  there  was  not, 
I believe,  a day  of  which  we  did  not  devote  a part  to  the  contem- 
plation of  the  noble  monuments  of  Grecian  genius,  that  have  out- 
lived the  ravages  of  time,  and  the  outrage  of  barbarous  and  anti- 
quarian despoilers.  The  Temple  of  Theseus,  which  was  within  fi/e 
minutes’  walk  of  our  lodgings,  is  the  most  perfect  ancient  edifice  in 
the  world.  In  this  fabric,  the  most  enduring  stability,  and  a sim- 
plicity of  design  peculiarly  striking,  are  united  with  the  highest 
elegance  and  accuracy  of  workmanship ; the  characteristic  of  the 
Doric  style,  whose  chaste  beauty  is  not,  in  the  opinion  of  the  first 
artists,  to  be  equalled  by  the  graces  of  any  of  the  other  orders.  A 
gentleman  of  Athens,  of  great  taste  and  skill,  assured  us  that,  after 
a continued  contemplation  of  this  temple,  and  the  remains  of  the 
Parthenon,  he  could  never  again  look  with  his  accustomed  satisfac 
tion  upon  the  Ionic  and  Corinthian  ruins  of  Athens,  much  less  upon 
the  specimens  of  the  more  modern  species  of  architecture  tabe  scsea 
in  Italy. — Hobhouse.J 


THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 


453 


O’er  the  chill  marble,  where  the  startling  tread 
Thrills  the  lone  heart  like  echoes  from  the  dead. 

Lon°-  had  I mused,  and  treasured  every  trace 
The  wreck  of  Greece  recorded  of  her  race, 

When,  lo  ! a giant,  form  before  me  strode. 

And  Pallas  hail’d  me  in  her  own  abode  ! 

Yes,  ’twas  Minerva’s  self ; but,  ah  ! how  changed 
Since  o’er  the  Dardan  field  in  arms  she  ranged ! 

Not  such  as  erst,  by  her  divine  command, 

Hei  form  appear’d  from  Phidias’  plastic  hand : 

Gc_ie  were  the  terrors  of  her  awful  brow, 

Her  idle  aegis  bore  no  Gorgon  now  ; 

Her  helm  was  dinted,  and  the  broken  lance 
Seem’d  weak  and  shaftless  e’en  to  mortal  glance ; 

The  olive  branch,  which  still  she  deign’d  to  clasp. 
Shrunk  from  her  touch,  and  wither’d  in  her  grasp  ; 
And,  ah  ! though  still  the  brightest  of  the  sky, 
Celestial  tears  bedimm’d  her  large  blue  eye  ; 

Round  the  rent  casque  her  owlet  circled  slow, 

And  mourn’d  his  mistress  with  a shriek  of  woe  ! 

“ Mortal ! ” — ’twas  thus  she  spake — ct  that  blush  of 
shame 

Proclaims  thee  Briton,  once  a noble  name  ; 

First  of  the  mighty,  foremost  of  the  free, 

Now  honour’d  less  by  all,  and  least  by  me  : 

Chief  of  thy  foes  shall  Pallas  still  be  found. 

Seek’st  thou  the  cause  of  loathing  ? — look  around. 

Lo  ! here,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 

I saw  successive  tyrannies  expire. 

’Scaped  from  the  ravage  of  the  Turk  and  Goth,1 
Thy  country  sends  a spoiler  worse  than  both.2 
Survey  this  vacant,  violated  fane  ; 

Recount  the  relics  torn  that  yet  remain : 

These  Cecrops  placed,  this  Pericles  adorn’d,3 
That  Adrian  rear’d  when  drooping  Science  mourn’d. 
What  more  I owe  let  gratitude  attest — 

Know,  Alaric  and  Elgin  did  the  rest. 

That  all  may  learn  from  whence  the  plunderer  came. 
The  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name  :4 
For  Elgin’s  fame  thus  grateful  Pallas  pleads, 

Below,  his  name — above,  behold  his  deeds  ! 5 6 
Be  ever  hail’d  with  equal  honour  here 
The  Gothic  monarch  and  the  Pictish  peer : 

Anns  gave  the  first  his  right,  the  last  had  none, 

But  basely  stole  what  less  barbarians  won. 

So  when  the  lion  quits  his  fell  repast, 

Next  prowls  the  wolf,  the  filthy  jackal  last : 

Flesh,  limbs,  and  blood  the  former  make  their  own, 
The  last  poor  brute  securely  gnaws  the  bone. 

Yet  still  the  gods  are  just,  and  crimes  are  cross’d  : 

See  here  what  Elgin  won,  and  what  he  lost ! 


(1)  [On  the  plaster  wall,  on  the  west  side  of  the  chapel,  these 
words  have  been  very  deeply  cut : — 

Quod  non  fecerunt  Goti, 

Hoc  FECERUNT  ScOTI. 

The  mortar  wall,  yet  fresh  when  we  saw  it,  supplying  the  place  of 
tne  statue  now  in  Lord  Elgin’s  collection,  serves  as  a comment  on 
this  text.  This  eulogy  of  the  Goths  alludes  to  an  unfounded  story 
of  a Greek  historian,  who  relates  that  Alaric,  either  terrified  by  two 
phantoms,  one  of  Minerva  herself,  the  other  of  Achilles,  terrible 
as  when  he  strode  towards  the  walls  of  Troy  to  his  friends,  or  struck 
with  a reverential  respect,  had  spared  the  treasures,  ornaments, 
and  people  of  the  venerable  city.— Hobhouse.] 

(2)  [In  the  original  MS.— 

“ Ah,  Athens ! scarce  escaped  from  Turk  and  Goth  : 

Hell  sends  a paltry  Scotchman  worse  than  both.”] 


Another  name  with  his  pollutes  my  shrine  : 

Behold  where  Dian’s  beams  disdain  to  shine ! 

Some  retribution  still  might  Pallas  claim, 

When  Venus  half  avenged  Minerva’s  shame.”8 

She  ceased  awhile,  and  thus  I dared  reply, 

To  soothe  the  vengeance  kindling  in  her  eye  : 

“ Daughter  of  Jove  ! in  Britain’s  injured  name, 

A true-born  Britain  may  the  deed  disclaim. 

Frown  not  on  England ; England  owns  him  not : 
Athena,  no  ! thy  plunderer  was  a Scot. 

Ask’st  thou  the  difference  ? From  fair  Phyle’s  towers 
Survey  Boeotia  ; — Caledonia’s  ours. 

And  well  I know  within  that  bastard  land7 
Hath  Wisdom’s  goddess  never  held  command  ; 

A barren  soil,  where  Nature’s  germs,  confined 
To  stern  sterility,  can  stint  the  mind  ; 

Whose  thistle  well  betrays  the  niggard  earth, 

Emblem  of  all  to  whom  the  land  gives  birth  ; 

Each  genial  influence  nurtured  to  resist ; 

A land  of  meanness,  sophistry,  and  mist. 

Each  breeze  from  foggy  mount  and  marshy  plain 
Dilutes  with  drivel  every  drizzly  brain, 

Till,  burst  at  length,  each  watery  head  o’erflows, 

Foul  as  their  soil,  and  frigid  as  their  snows. 

Then  thousand  schemes  of  petulance  and  pride 
Despatch  her  scheming  children  far  and  wide : 

Some  east,  some  west,  some  every  where  but  north. 
In  quest  of  lawless  gain,  Ihey  issue  forth. 

And  tli us — accursed  be  the  day  and  year  ! — 

She  sent  a Piet  to  play  the  felon  here. 

Yet  Caledonia  claims  some  native  worth, 

As  dull  Boeotia  gave  a Pindar  birth ; 

So  may  her  few,  the  letter’d  and  the  brave, 

Bound  to  no  clime,  and  victors  of  the  grave, 

Shake  off  the  sordid  dust  of  such  a land, 

And  shine  like  children  of  a happier  strand  ; 

As  once,  of  yore,  in  some  obnoxious  place. 

Ten  names  (if  found)  had  saved  a wretched  race.” 

“Mortal !”  the  blue-eyed  maid  resumed,  “once  more 
Bear  back  my  mandate  to  thy  native  shore. 

Though  fallen,  alas  ! this  vengeance  yet  is  mine, 

To  turn  my  counsels  far  from  lands  like  thine. 

Hear  then  in  silence  Pallas’  stem  behest ; 

Hear  and  believe,  for  Time  will  tell  the  rest. 

“ First  on  the  head  of  him  who  did  this  deed 
My  curse  shall  light, — on  him  and  all  his  seed : 
Without  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire, 

Be  all  the  sons  as  senseless  as  the  sire : 

If  one  with  wit  the  parent  brood  disgrace, 

Believe  him  bastard  of  a brighter  race  : 


(3)  This  is  spoken  of  the  city  in  general,  and  not  of  the  Acropolis 
in  particular.  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  by  some  supposed 
the  Pantheon,  was  finished  by  Hadrian;  sixteen  columns  are  stand- 
ing, of  the  most  beautiful  marble  and  architecture. 

(4)  [On  the  original  MS.  is  written — 

“ Aspice  quos  Pallas  Scoto  concedit  honores, 

Infril  stat  nomen — facta  supraque  vide.”] 

(5)  [For  Lord  Byron’s  detailed  remarks  on  Lord  Elgin  s dealing 
with  the  Parthenon,  see  Appendix,  note  A.  to  the  second  canto  ot 
Childe  Harold.] 

(6)  His  lordship’s  name,  and  that  of  one  who  no  longer  bears  it, 
are  carved  conspicuously  on  the  I arthenon;  above,  in  a part  not 
far  distant,  are  the  torn  remnants  of  the  basso  relievos,  destroyed 
in  a vain  attempt  to  remove  them. 

(7)  “ Irish  bastards,”  according  to  Si-.  Callaghan  O’Brallaghan. 


454 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


Still  with  1 is  hireling  artists  let  him  prate, 

And  Folly’s  praise  repay  for  Wisdom’s  hate; 

Long  of  their  patron’s  gusto  let  them  tell. 

Whose  noblest,  native  gusto  is— to  sell : 

To  sell,  and  make— may  Shame  record  the  day  !— 
The  state  receiver  of  his  pilfer’d  prev.1 
Meantime,  the  flattering,  feeble  dotard,  West, 
Europe’s  worst  dauber,  and  poor  Britain’s  best, 

With  palsied  hand  shall  turn  each  model  o’er 
And  own  himself  an  infant  of  fourscore.2 
Be  all  the  bruisers  cull’d  from  all  St,  Giles’ 

4 hat  art  and  nature  may  compare  their  styles  ; 

While  brawny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare, 

And  marvel  at  his  lordship’s  ‘stone  shop’3  there. 
Round  the  throng’d  gate  shall  sauntering  coxcombs 
creep, 

To  lounge  and  lucubrate,  to  prate  and  peep ; 

While  many  a languid  maid,  with  longing  sigh, 

On  giant  statues  casts  the  curious  eye  ; ° ° 

The  room  with  transient  glance  appears  to  skim, 

Yet  marks  the  mighty  back  and  length  of  limb  ; 
Mourns  o’er  the  difference  of  now  and  then; 

Exciaims,  These  Greeks  indeed  were  proper  men!’ 
Draws  sly  comparisons  of  these  with  those , 

And  envies  Lais  all  her  Attic  beaux. 

When  shall  a modern  maid  have  swains  like  these  ! 
Alas  ! Sir  Harry  is  no  Hercules  ! 

And  last  of  all,  amidst  the  gaping  crew, 

Some  calm  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view, 

In  silent  indignation  mix’d  with  grief, 

Admires  the  plunder,  but  abhors  the  thief.4 
Oh,  loathed  in  life,  nor  pardon’d  in  the  dust, 

May  hate  pursue  his  sacrilegious  lust ! 

Link’d  with  the  fool  that  fired  the  Ephesian  dome. 
Shall  vengeance  follow  far  beyond  the  tomb, 

And  Eratostratus  and  Elgin  shine 
In  many  a branding  page  and  burning  line ; 

Alike  reserved  for  aye  to  stand  accursed. 

Perchance  the  second  blacker  than  the  first. 

“ So  let  him  stand,  through  ages  yet  unborn. 

Fix  d statue  on  the  pedestal  of  Scorn  ; 
though  not  for  him  alone  revenge  shall  wait. 

But  fits  thy  country  for  her  coming  fate  • 

Hers  were  the  deeds  that  taught  her  lawless  son 
lo  do  what  oft  Britannia’s  self  had  done. 

Look  to  the  Baltic — blazing  from  afar, 

Your  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  war.5 6 7 
Not  to  such  deeds  did  Pallas  lend  her  aid, 

Or  break  the  compact  which  herself  had  made  ; 

Far  from  such  councils,  from  the  faithless  field 
She  fled— but  left  behind  her  Gorgon  shield  : 

A fatal  gift,  that  turn’d  your  friends  to  stone. 

And  left  lost  Albion  hated  and  alone. 

ci  ^ie  where  Ganges’  swarthy  race 

Shall  shake  your  tyrant  empire  to  its  base ; 


Lo  ! there  Rebellion  rears  her  ghastly  head. 

And  glares  the  Nemesis  of  native  dead  ; 

Till  Indus  rolls  a deep  purpureal  flood,  * 

And  claims  his  long  arrear  of  north  cm  blood. 

So  may  ye  perish  !—  Pallas,  when  she  gave 
Your  free-born  rights,  forbade  ye  to  enslave. 

‘Look  on  your  Spain! — she  clasps  the  hand  she 
hates, 

But  boldly  clasps,  and  thrusts  you  from  her  gates 
Bear  witness,  bright  Barossa  ! thou  canst  te!l 
Whose  were  the  sons  that  bravely  fought  and  fell. 
But  Lusitania,  kind  and  dear  ally, 

Can  spare  a few  to  fight,  and  sometimes  fly. 

Oh  glorious  field  ! by  Famine  fiercely  won, 
t he  Gaul  retires  for  once,  and  all  is  done  ! 

But  when  did  Pallas  teach,  that  one  retreat 
Retrieved  tlnee  long  olympiads  of  defeat  ? 

“ Look  last,  at  home— ye  love  not  to  look  there ; 

On  the  grim  smile  of  comfortless  despair  • 

Your  city  saddens:  loud  though  Revel  howls, 

Here  Famine  faints,  and  yonder  Rapine  prowls, 
oee  all  alike  of  more  or  less  bereft ; 

No  misers  tremble  when  there’s  nothing  left. 

‘Blest  paper  credit’ who  shall  dare  to° sing ? 

It  clogs  like  lead  Corruption’s  weary  wing. 

Yet  Pallas  pluck’d  each  premier  by  the  ear, 

Who  gods  and  men  alike  disdain’d  to  hear  • 

But  one,  repentant  o’er  a bankrupt  state, 

On  Pallas  calls,— but  calls,  alas  ! too  laie : 

Then  raves  for  * * ; to  that  Mentor  bends, 

I hough  he  and  Pallas  never  yet  were  friends. 

Him  senates  hear,  whom  never  yet  they  heard, 
Contemptuous  once,  and  now  no  less  absurd. 

So,  once  of  yore,  each  reasonable  frog 
Swore  faith  and  fealty  to  his  sovereign  ‘log.* 
thus  hail’d  your  rulers  their  patrician  clod. 

As  Egypt  chose  an  onion  for  a god. 

“ Now  fare  ye  well ! enjoy  your  little  hour ; 

Go,  grasp  the  shadow  of  your  vanish’d  power ; 

Gloss  o er  the  failure  of  each  fondest  scheme ; 

Your  strength  a name,  your  bloated  wealth  a dream. 
Gone  is  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  mankind, 

And  pirates  barter  all  that’s  left  behind.7 
No  more  the  hirelings,  purchased  near  and  far, 

Crowd  to  the  ranks  of  mercenary  war. 

The  idle  merchant  on  the  useless  quay 
Droops  o’er  the  bales  no  bark  may  bear  away ; 

Or,  back  returning,  sees  rejected  stores 
Rot  piecemeal  on  his  own  encumber’d  shores : 

The  starved  mechanic  breaks  his  rusting  loom, 

And  desperate  mans  him  ’gainst  the  coming  doom. 

Then  in  the  senate  of  your  sinking  state 

Show  me  the  man  whose  counsels  may  have  weight. 


(1)  [In  1816,  thirty  five  thousand  pounds  were  voted  bv  Pai 
ment  for  the  purchase  of  the  Elgin  marbles.] 

.hS?  ,Mr‘  Wfe%  °"  As!ei in<[  th?  “ E1gin  Collection”  (I  suppose 
thal  hear  of  the  Abershaw”  and  “Jack  Shephard”  collect* 
declares  himself  “ a mere  tyro"  in  art. 

Poor  Cribb  was  sadly  puzzled  when  the  marbles  were  first 
minted  at  Elgin  House:  he  asked  if  it  was  not  “ a stone  shop? 
He  was  right;  it  is  a shop.  1 ‘ 

(4)  [Phat  the  Elgin  marbles  will  contribute  to  the  improvem 
of  art  in  England,  cannot  be  doubted.  They  must  certainly  o 
e eyes  of  the  British  artists,  and  prove  that  the  true  and  o<*'-r 
umpiicity  and  beauty  is  the  study  of  nature.  JJ***  w 


right  to  diminish  the  interest  of  Athens  for  selfish  motives,  and  prevent 

successive  generations  of  other  nations  from  seeing  those  adre-ibie 

sculptures?  The  Temple  of  Minerva  was  spared  as  a beaco-  to  the 

world,  to  direct  it  to  the  knowledge  of  purity  of  taste.  V ia t can 
we  say  to  the  disappointed  traveller,  who  is  now  deprived  oi  .he  rich 
gratification  which  would  have  compensated  his  travel  and  his  Uni  f 
It  will  be  little  consolation  to  him  to  say,  he  may  find  the  scidv4-m 
of  the  Parthenon  in  England.— H.  W.  Williams.] 

(5)  [The  affair  of  Copenhagen.] 

(6)  “Blest  paper  credit!  last  and  best  supply, 

That  lends  Corruption  lighter  wings  to  fly  I i'W.  *. 

(7)  The  Deal  and  Dover  traffickers  in  specie. 


THE  WALTZ. 


455 


Vain  is  each  voice  where  tones  could  once  com- 
mand ; 

E’en  factions  cease  to  charm  a factious  land  : 

Yet  jarring  sects  convulse  a sister  isle. 

And  light  with  maddening  hands  the  mutual  pile. 

“ ’Tis  done,  ’tis  past,  since  Pallas  warns  in  vain 
The  Furies  seize  her  abdicated  reign : 

Wide  o’er  the  realm  they  wave  their  kindling  brands, 
And  wring  her  vitals  with  their  fiery  hands. 

But  one  convulsive  struggle  stid  remains, 

And  Gaul  shall  weep  ere  Albion  wear  her  chains. 

The  banner’d  pomp  of  war,  the  glittering  files. 

O’er  whose  gay  trappings  stern  Bellona  smiles  ; 

The  brazen  trump,  the  spirit-stirring  drum, 

That  bid  the  foe  defiance  ere  they  come ; 

The  hero  bounding  at  his  country’s  call, 

The  glorious  death  that  consecrates  his  fall, 

Swell  the  young  heart  with  visionary  charms, 

And  bid  it  antedate  the  joys  of  arms. 


But  know,  a lesson  you  may  yet  be  taught, 

With  deatli  alone  are  laurels  cheaply  bought : 

Not  in  the  conflict  Havoc  seeks  delight, 

His  day  of  mercy  is  the  day  of  fight. 

But  when  the  field  is  fought,  the  battle  vicn, 

Though  drench’d  with  gore,  his  woes  are  but  begun ; 
His  deeper  deeds  as  yet  ye  know  by  name ; 

The  slaughter’d  peasant  and  the  ravish’d  dame, 

The  rifled  mansion  and  the  foe-reap’d  field, 

111  suit  with  souls  at  home,  untaught  to  yield. 

Say  with  what  eye  along  the  distant  down 
Would  flying  burghers  mark  the  blazing  town  ? 

How  view  the  column  of  ascending  flames 
Shake  his  red  shadow  o’er  the  startled  Thames  ? 
Nay,  frown  not,  Albion!  for  the  torch  was  thine 
That  lit  such  pyres  from  Tagus  to  the  Rhine : 

Now  should  they  burst  on  thy  devoted  coast, 

Go,  ask  thy  bosom  who  deserves  them  most. 

The  law  of  heaven  and  earth  is  life  for  life, 

And  she  who  raised,  in  vain  regrets,  the  strife.”1 


ztt  malt} : 

AN  APOSTROPIIIC  HYMN.2 


'*  Qualis  in  Eurotae  ripis,  aut  per  juga  Cyntlii, 

Exercet  Diana  choros.”  * Virgil. 

“ Such  on  Eurotas’  banks,  or  Cynthia’s  height, 

Diana  seems  : and  so  she  charms  the  sight, 

When  in  the  dance  the  graceful  goddess  leads 
The  quire  of  nymphs,  and  overtops  their  heads.” 

Dryden’s  Virgil. 


TO  THE  PUBLISHER. 

Sir, 

I am  a country  gentleman  of  a midland  county. 
I might  have  been  a parliament-man  for  a certain 
borough ; having  had  the  offer  of  as  many  votes  as 
General  T.  at  the  general  election  in  1812.3  But  I 
was  all  for  domestic  happiness ; as,  fifteen  years  ago, 
on  a visit  to  London,  I married  a middle-aged  maid 
of  honour.  We  lived  happily  at  Hornem  Hall  till 
last  season,  when  my  wife  and  I were  invited  by  the 
Countess  of  Waltzaway  (a  distant  relation  of  my 
spouse)  to  pass  the  winter  in  town.  Thinking  no 
harm,  and  our  girls  being  come  to  a marriageable 
(or,  as  they  call  it,  marketable)  age,  and  having  be- 


(1) [“The  beautiful  but  barren  Hymettus,  the  whole  coast  of 
Attica,  her  hills  and  mountains,  Pentelicus,  Anchesmus,  Philopap- 
pus,  &c.  &c.  are  in  themselves  poetical ; and  would  be  so  if  the 
name  of  Athens,  of  Athenians,  and  her  very  ruins,  were  swept  from 
the  earth.  But,  am  I to  be  told  that  the  “nature”  of  Attica  would 
be  more  poetical  without  the  “ art”  of  the  Acropolis  ? of  the  Temple 
of  Theseus?  and  of  the  still  all  Greek  and  glorious  monuments  of 
her  exquisitely  artificial  genius  ? Ask  the  traveller  what  strikes 
him  as  most  poetical,  the  Parthenon,  or  the  rock  on  which  it  stands  ? 
The  columss  of  Cape  Colonna,  or  the  Cape  itself?  The  rocks  at 
the  foot  of  it,  or  the  recollection  that  Falconer’s  ship  was  bulged 
noon  them?  There  are  a thousand  rocks  and  capes  far  more  pic- 
turesque than  those  of  the  Acropolis  and  Cape  Sunium  in  them- 
t*lves.  But  it  is  the  “ art,"  the  columns,  the  temples,  the  wrecked 
vessel,  which  give  them  their  antique  and  their  modern  poetry,  and 


sides  a Chancery  suit  inveterately  entailed  upon  the 
family  estate,  we  came  up  in  our  old  chariot, — of 
which,  by  the  bye,  my  wife  grew  so  much  ashamed  in 
less  than  a week,  that  I was  obliged  to  buy  a second- 
hand barouche,  of  which  I might  mount  the  box, 
Mrs.  H.  says,  if  I could  drive,  but  never  see  the  in- 
side— that  place  being  reserved  for  the  Honourable 
Augustus  Tiptoe,  her  partner-general  and  opera-knight. 
Hearing  great  praises  of  Mrs.  H.’s  dancing  (she  was 
famous  for  birthnight  minuets  in  the  latter  end  of 
the  last  century),  I unbooted,  and  went  to  a ball  at 
the  Countess’s,  expecting  to  see  a country  dance,  or, 
at  most,  cotillions,  reels,  and  all  the  old  paces  to 
the  newest  tunes.  But,  judge  of  my  surprise,  on 
arriving,  to  see  poor  dear  Mrs.  Hornem  with  her 


not  the  spots  themselves.  I opposed,  and  will  ever  oppose,  the 
robbery  of  ruins  from  Athens,  to  instruct  the  English  in  sculpture; 
but  why  did  I do  so?  The  ruins  are  as  poetical  i n Piccadilly  as  they 
were  in  the  Parthenon:  but  the  Parthenon  and  its  rock  are  less  so 
without  them.  Such  is  the  poetry  of  art.” — Byron  Letters,  1821.] 

(2)  [This  trifle  was  written  at  Cheltenham  in  the  autumn  of  1812, 
and  published  anonymously  in  the  spring  of  the  following  year.  It 
was  not  very  well  received  at  the  time  by  the  public;  and  the 
author  was  by  no  means  anxious  that  it  should  be  considered  as  his 
handiwork.  “ I hear,”  he  says,  in  a letter  to  a friend,  “ that  a cer 
tain  malicious  publication  on  waltzing  is  attributed  to  me.  Thu 
report,  I suppose,  you  will  take  care  to  contradict;  as  the  author, ' 
am  sure,  will  not  like  that  I should  wear  his  cap  and  bells.”] 

(3)  State  of  the  poll  (last  day),  5. 


456 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


arms  half  round  the  loins  of  a huge  hussar-looking 
gent' em an  I never  set  eyes  on  before ; and  his,  to 
say  truth,  rather  more  than  half  round  her  waist, 

turning  round,  and  round,  and  round,  to  a d d 

see-saw  up-and-down  sort  of  tune,  that  reminded  me 
of  the  “ Black  joke,”  only  more  “ affetuoso ,”  till  it 
made  me  quite  giddy  witli  wondering  they  were  not 
so.  Bv-and-by  they  stopped  a bit,  and  I thought 
they  would  sit  or  fall  down : — but  no ; with  Mrs. 
H.’s  hand  on  his  shoulder,  “ quarn  familiariter”  1 (as 
Terence  said,  when  I was  at  school),  they  walked 
about  a minute,  and  then  at  it  again,  like  two  cock- 
chafers spitted  on  the  same  bodkin.  I asked  what 
all  this  meant,  when,  with  a loud  laugh,  a child  no 
older  than  our  Wilhelmina  (a  name  I never  heard  but 
in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  though  her  mother  would 
call  her  after  the  Princess  of  Swappenbach,)  said, 
“ Lord ! Mr.  Hornem,  can’t  you  see  they  are  valtz- 
ing?”  or  waltzing  (I  forget  which) ; and  then  up  she 
got,  and  her  mother  and  sister,  and  away  they  went, 
and  round-abouted  it  till  supper  time.  Now,  that  I 
know  what  it  is,  I like  it  of  all  things,  and  so  does 
Mrs.  H.  (though  I have  broken  my  shins,  and  four 
times  overturned  Mrs.  Hornem’s  maid,  in  practising 
the  preliminary  steps  in  a morning).  Indeed,  so 
much  do  I like  it,  that  having  a turn  for  rhyme, 
tastily  displayed  in  some  election  ballads,  and  songs 
in  honour  of  all  the  victories  (but  till  lately  I have 
had  little  practice  in  that  way),  I sat  down,  and  with 
the  aid  of  William  Pitzgerald,  Esq.,2  and  a few  hints 
from  Dr.  Busby,3  (whose  recitations  I attend,  and  am 
monstrous  fond  of  Master  Busby’s  manner  of  deliver- 
ing his  father’s  late  successful  “Drury  Lane  Address,”) 
I composed  the  following  hymn,  wherewithal  to  make 
my  sentiments  known  to  the  public  ; whom,  neverthe- 
less, I heartily  despise,  as  well  as  the  critics. 

I am,  Sir,  yours,  &c.  &c. 

HORACE  HORNEM. 

— ♦ — 

Malt?. 

Muse  of  the  many-twinkling  feet ! 4 whose  charms 
Are  now  extended  up  from  legs  to  arms  ; 


(1)  My  Latin  is  all  forgotten,  if  a man  can  be  said  to  have  for- 
gotten what  he  never  remembered ; but  I bought  my  title-page 
motto  of  a Catholic  priest  for  a three-shilling  bank  token,  after 
much  haggling  for  the  even  sixpence.  I grudged  the  money  to  a 
papist,  being  all  for  the  memory  of  Perceval  and  “No  popery,” 
and  quite  regretting  the  downfal  of  the  pope,  because  we  can’t  burn 
him  any  more. 

(2)  [See  anti,  p.  421.] 

(3)  [See  “ Rejected  Addresses.”] 

(4)  “ Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet.” — Gray. 

(5)  To  rival  Lord  Wellesley’s,  or  his  nephew’s,  as  the  reader 
pleases : — the  one  gained  a pretty  woman,  whom  he  deserved,  by 
fighting  for;  and  the  other  has  been  fighting  in  the  Peninsula 
many  a long  day,  “ by  Shrewsbury  clock,”  without  gaining  any 
thing  in  that  country  but  the  title  of  “ the  Great  Lord,”  and  “the 
Lord;’  which  savours  of  profanation,  having  been  hitherto  applied 
otiy  to  that  Being  to  whom  “ Te  Deums"  for  carnage  are  the 
rankest  blasphemy. — It  is  to  be  presumed  the  general  will  one  day 
return  to  his  Sabine  farm  : there 

“ To  tame  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain, 

Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer’d  Spain  1 ” 

The  Lord  Peterborough  conquered  continents  in  a summer;  we  do 
m*rc — we  contrive  both  to  conquer  and  lose  them  in  a shorter 


Terpsichore  !—  too  long  misdeem’d  a maid — 
Reproachful  term — bestow’d  but  to  upbraid — 
Henceforth  in  all  the  bronze  of  brightness  shine, 

The  least  a vestal  of  the  virgin  Nine. 

Ear  be  from  thee  and  thine  the  name  of  prude  ; 
Mock’d,  yet  triumphant ; sneer’d  at,  unsubdued ; 

Thy  legs  must  move  to  conquer  as  they  liy, 

If  but  thy  coats  are  reasonably  high  ; 

Thy  breast — if  bare  enough — requires  no  shield  ; 
Dance  forth — sans  armour  thou  shalt  take  the  field, 
And  own — impregnable  to  most  assaults, 

Thy  not  too  lawfully  begotten  “ Waltz.” 

Hail,  nimble  nymph  ! to  whom  the  young  hussai, 
The  whisker’ d votary  of  waltz  and  war, 

His.  night  devotes,  despite  of  spur  and  boots ; 

A sight  unmatch’d  since  Orpheus  and  his  brutes  : 
Hail,  spirit-stirring  Waltz  ! — beneath  whose  banners 
A modern  hero  fought  for  modish  manners  ; 

On  Hounslow’s  heath  to  rival  Wellesley’s5  fame, 
Cock’d — fired— and  miss’d  his  man — -but  gain’d  hi* 
aim  ; 

Hail,  moving  Muse  ! to  whom  the  fair  one’s  breast 
Gives  all  it  can,  and  bids  us  take  the  rest. 

Oh  ! for  the  flow  of  Busby,  or  of  Eitz, 

The  latter’s  loyalty,  the  former’s  wits, 

To  “ energise  the  object  I pursue,”  6 
And  give  both  Beliai  and  his  dance  their  due 

Imperial  Waltz  ! imported  from  the  Rhine 
(Earned  for  the  growth  of  pedigrees  and  wine), 

Long  be  thine  import  from  all  duty  free, 

And  hock  itself  be  less  esteem’d  than  thee  -. 

In  some  few  qualities  alike — for  hock 
Improves  our  cellar — thou  our  living  stock. 

The  head  to  hock  belongs — thy  subtler  art 
Intoxicates  alone  the  heedless  heart : 

Through  the  full  veins  thy  gentler  poison  swims, 

And  wakes  to  wantonness  the  willing  limbs. 

Oh,  Germany ! how  much  to  thee  we  owe, 

As  heaven-born  Pitt  can  testify  below, 

Ere  cursed  confederation  made  thee  Erance’s, 

And  only  left  us  thy  d — d debts  and  dances  ! 

Of  subsidies  and  Hanover  bereft, 

We  bless  thee  still — for  George  the  Third  is  left] 

Of  kings  the  best — and  last,  not  least  in  worth, 

Eor  graciously  begetting  George  the  Fourth. 


season.  If  the  “great  Lord’s”  Cincinnatian  progress  in  agricul- 
ture be  no  speedier  than  the  proportional  average  of  time  in  Pope’i 
couplet,  it  will,  according  to  the  farmers’  proverb,  be  “ploughing 
with  dogs.” 

By  the  bye  - one  of  this  illustrious  person’s  new  titles  is  forgotten 
— it  is,  however,  worth  remembering — “ Salvador  del  mnndo!" 
credite,  posteri ! If  this  be  the  appellation  annexed  by  the  inha- 
bitants of  the  Peninsula  to  the  name  of  a man  who  has  not  yet 
saved  them— query— are  they  worth  saving,  even  in  this  world? 
for,  according  to  the  mildest  modifications  of  any  Christian  creed, 
those  three  words  make  the  odds  much  against  them  in  the  next.— 
“ Saviour  of  the  world”  quotha! — it  were  to  be  wished  that  he,  or 
any  one  else,  could  save  a corner  of  it — his  country.  Yet  this 
stupid  misnomer,  although  it  shows  the  near  connexion  between 
superstition  and  impiety,  so  far  has  its  use,  that  it  proves  there  can 
be  little  to  dread  from  those  Catholics  (inquisitorial  Cathclics  too) 
who  can  confer  such  an  appellation  on  a Protestant.  I suoposo 
next  year  he  will  be  entitled  the  “Virgin  Mary:”  If  so  Lord 
George  Gordon  himself  would  have  nothing  to  object  to  such 
liberal  bastards  of  our  Lady  of  Babylon. 

(6)  [Among  the  addresses  sent  in  to  the  Drury  Lnna  Committal 
was  one  by  Dr.  Busby,  which  began  by  asking — 

“ When  energising  objects  men  pursue, 

What  are  the  prodigies  they  cannot  do? ”J 


HAIL,  NIMBLE  NYMPH!  TO  'WHOM  THE  YOI'NH  II  I.TSSAR, 

THE  WHISKEIi'fi  V'lTARY  OF  WALT’/,  AND  WAIT 

HIS  NIGHT;  DEVOTES,  DESPITE  <4?  SPI’KS  and  boots; 

A.  SIGHT:  I'NMA'P'll'li'  S.I.NPK  OHPHKI'S  AND  IIIS  IIHl'TKS. 

T/i/-:  walt:< 


THE  WALTZ. 


To  Germany,  and  highnesses  serene, 

Who  o\re  us  millions — don’t  we  owe  the  queen  ? 

To  Germany,  what  owe  we  not  besides  ? 

So  oft  bestowing  Brunswickers  and  brides  ; 

Who  paid  for  vulgar,  with  her  royal  blood, 

Drawn  from  the  stem  of  each  Teutonic  stud : 

Who  sent  us — so  be  pardon’d  all  her  faults — • 

A dozen  dukes,  some  kings,  a queen — and  W altz. 

But  peace  to  her — her  emperor  and  diet, 

Though  now  transferr’d  to  Buonaparte’s  “ fiat ! ” 
Back  to  my  theme — 0 Muse  of  motion  ! say, 

How  first  to  Albion  found  thy  Waltz  her  way  ? 

Borne  on  the  breath  of  hyperborean  gales, 

From  Hamburg’s  port  (while  Hamburg  yet  had  mails), 
Ere  yet  unlucky  Fame— compell’d  to  creep 
To  snowy  Gottenburg  —was  chill’d  to  sleep  ; 

Or,  starting  from  her  slumbers,  deign’d  arise, 
Heligoland  ! to  stock  thy  mart  with  lies  ; 

While  unburnt  Moscow 1 yet  had  news  to  send, 

Nor  owed  her  fiery  exit  to  a friend, 

She  came — Waltz  came — aud  with  her  certain  sets 
Of  true  despatches,  and  as  true  gazettes  : 

Then  flamed  of  Austerlitz  the  blest  despatch. 

Which  Moniteur  nor  Morning  Post  can  match ; 

And — almost  crush’d  beneath  the  glorious  news — 
Ten  plays,  and  forty  tales  of  Kotzebue’s  ; 

One  envoy’s  letters,  six  composers’  airs, 

And  loads  from  Frankfort  and  from  Leipsic  fairs ; 
Meiner’s  four  volumes  upon  womankind, 

Iiike  Lapland  witches  to  ensure  a wind ; 

Brunck’s  heaviest  tome  for  ballast,  and,  to  back  it, 
Of  Heyne,  such  as  should  not  sink  the  packet. 

Fraught  with  this  cargo — and  her  fairest  freight, 
Delightful  Waltz,  on  tiptoe  for  a mate, 

The  welcome  vessel  reach’d  the  genial  strand, 

And  round  her  flock’d  the  daughters  of  the  land. 

Not  decent  David,  when,  before  the  ark, 

His  grand  pas-seul  excited  some  remark  : 

Not  love-lorn  Quixote,  when  his  Sancho  thought 
The  knight’s  fandango  friskier  than  it  ought : 

Not  soft  Herodias,  when,  with  winning  tread, 

Her  nimble  feet  danced  off  another’s  head  ; 

Not  Cleopatra  on  her  galley’s  deck, 

Display’d  so  much  of  leg,  or  more  of  neck , 

Than  thou,  ambrosial  Waltz,  when  first  the  moon 
Beheld  thee  twirling  to  a Saxon  tune  ! 

To  you,  ye  husbands  of  ten  years  ! whose  brows 
Ache  with  the  annual  tributes  of  a spouse ; 


(1)  The  patriotic  arson  of  our  amiable  allies  cannot  be  sufficiently 
commended — nor  subscribed  for.  Amongst  other  details  omitted 
in  the  various  despatches  of  our  eloquent  ambassador,  he  did  not 

state  (being  too  much  occupied  with  the  exploits  of  Colonel  C , 

in  swimming  rivers  frozen,  and  galloping  over  roads  impassable,) 
that  one  entire  province  perished  by  famine  in  the  most  melan- 
choly manner,  as  follows : — In  General  Rostopchin’s  consummate 
conflagration,  the  consumption  of  tallow  and  train  oil  was  so  great, 
that  the  market  was  inadequate  to  the  demand : and  thus  one 
hundred  and  thirty-three  thousand  persons  were  starved  to  death, 
by  being  reduced  to  wholesome  diet l The  lamplighters  of  London 
have  since  subscribed  a pint  (of  oil)  a piece,  and  the  tallow- 
chandlers  have  unanimously  voted  a quantity  of  best  moulds 
"bur  to  the  pound),  to  the  relief  of  the  surviving  Scythians; — 
the  scarcity  will  soon,  by  such  exertions,  and  a proper  attention  to 
the  quality  rather  than  the  quantity  of  provision,  be  totally  alle- 
viated. It  is  said,  in  return,  that  the  untouched  Ukraine  has  sub- 
scribed sixty  thousand  beeves  for  a day’s  meal  to  our  suffering 
lufacturers. 

fj)  Dancing  girls— who  do  for  hire  what  Waltz  doth  gratis 
l 3)  loc  be  complained  now,  as  in  the  Lady  Baussifcre's 


457 

To  you  of  nine  years  less,  who  only  bear 
The  budding  sprouts  of  those  that  you  shall  wear, 
With  added  ornaments  around  them  roll’d 
Of  native  brass,  or  law-awarded  gold  ; 

To  you,  ye  matrons,  ever  on  the  watch 
To  mar  a son’s,  or  make  a daughter’s,  match  ; 

To  you,  ye  children  of — whom  chance  accords — 
Always  the  ladies,  and  sometimes  their  lords  ; 

To  you,  ye  single  gentlemen,  who  seek 
Torments  for  life,  or  pleasures  for  a week  ; 

As  Love  or  Hymen  your  endeavours  guide, 

To  gain  your  own,  or  snatch  another’s  bride 
To  one  and  all  the  lovely  stranger  came, 

And  every  ball-room  echoes  with  her  name. 

Endearing  Waltz  ! — to  thy  more  melting  tune 
Bow  Irish  jig,  and  ancient  rigadoon. 

Scotch  reels,  avaunt ! and  country-dance,  forego 
Your  future  claims  to  each  fantastic  toe  ! 

Waltz — Waltz  alone — both  legs  and  arms  demands. 
Liberal  of  feet,  and  lavish  of  her  hands  ; 

Hands  which  may  freely  range  in  public  sight 
Where  ne’er  before — but — pray  “ put  out  the  light." 
Methinks  the  glare  of  yonder  chandelier 
Shines  much  too  far — or  I am  much  too  near ; 

And  true,  though  strange — Waltz  whispers  this  re- 
“My  slippery  steps  are  safest  in  the  dark  !”  [mark! 
But  here  the  Muse  with  due  decorum  halts. 

And  lends  her  longest  petticoat  to  Waltz. 

Observant  travellers  of  every  time  ! 

Ye  quartos  publish’d  upon  every  clime ! 

Oh  say,  shall  dull  Romaika’s  heavy  round, 

Fandango’s  wriggle,  or  Bolero’s  bound ; 

Can  Egypt’s  Almas2 — tantalising  group — 

Columbia’s  caperers  to  the  warlike  whoop — 

Can  aught  from  cold  Kamschatka  to  Cape  Horn 
With  Waltz  compare,  or  after  Waltz  be  borne  ? 

Ah,  no  ! from  Morier’s  pages  down  to  Galt’s, 

Each  tourist  pens  a paragraph  for  “ Waltz.” 

Shades  of  those  belles  whose  reign  began  of  yore. 
With  George  the  Third’s — and  ended  long  before  ! — 
Though  in  your  daughters’  daughters  yet  you  thrive, 
Burst  from  your  lead,  and  be  yourselves  afive  ! 

Back  to  the  ball-room  speed  your  spectred  host : 

Fool’s  Paradise  is  dull  to  that  you  lost. 

No  treacherous  powder  bids  conjecture  quake; 

No  stiff-starch’d  stays  make  meddling  fingers  ache ; 
(Transferr’d  to  those  ambiguous  things  that  ape 
Goats  in  their  visage,3  women  in  their  shape  !) 


time,  of  the  “ Sieur  de  la  Croix,”  that  there  be  “ no  whiskers but 
how  far  these  are  indications  of  valour  in  the  field,  or  elsewhere, 
may  still  be  questionable.  Much  maybe,  and  hath  been,  avouched 
on  both  sides.  In  the  olden  time  philosophers  had  whiskers,  and 
soldiers  none — Scipio  himself  was  shaven — Hannibal  thought  his 
one  eye  handsome  enough  without  a beard ; but  Adrian,  the  em- 
peror, wore  a beard  (having  warts  on  his  chin,  which  neither  the 
empress  Sabina  nor  even  the  courtiers  could  abide) — Turenne  had 
whiskers,  Marlborough  none  — Buonaparte  is  unwhiskered,  the 
Regent  whiskered ; “ argal"  greatness  of  mind  and  whiskers  may 
or  may  not  go  together:  but  certainly  the  different  occurrences, 
since  the  growth  of  the  last  mentioned,  go  further  in  behalf  of 
whiskers  than  the  anathema  of  Anselm  did  against  long  hair  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  1. — Formerly,  red  was  a favourite  colour.  See 
Lodowick  Barrey’s  comedy  of  Ram  Alley,  1661:  Act  1.  Scene  1. 

“ Taffeta.  Now  for  a wager — What  colou-ed  beard  comes  next 
by  the  window? 

‘ Adriana . A black  man’s,  I think. 

“ Taffeta.  I think  not  so : I think  a rea,  for  that  in  t-c  st 
fashion.” 

There  is  “ nothing  new  under  the  sun;”  but  r.d,  then  a favv. 
rite,  has  now  subsided  into  a favourite' » colour. 

3 N 


458 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


No  damsel  faints  when  rather  closely  press’d, 

But  more  caressing  seems  when  most  caress’d  ; 
Superfluous  hartshorn,  and  reviving  salts, 

Both  banish’d  by  the  sovereign  cordial  “ Waltz.” 

Seductive  Waltz ! — though  on  thv  native  shore 
Even  Werter’s  self  proclaim’d  thee  half  a whore ; 
Werter — to  decent  vice  though  much  inclined, 

Yet  warm,  not  wanton ; dazzled,  but  not  blind — • 
Though  gentle  Genlis,  in  her  strife  with  Stael, 

Would,  even  proscribe  thee  from  a Paris  ball ; 

The  fashion  hails — from  countesses  to  queens, 

And  maids  and  valets  waltz  behind  the  scenes ; 

"Wide  and  more  wide  thy  witching  circle  spreads, 

And  turns — if  nothing  else — at  least  our  heads  ; 

With  thee  even  clumsy  cits  attempt  to  bounce, 

And  cockneys  practise  what  they  can’t  pronounce. 
Gods  ! how  the  glorious  theme  my  strain  exalts, 

And  rhyme  finds  partner  rhyme  in  praise  of  “ Waltz  ! ” 

Blest  was  the  time  Waltz  chose  for  her  debut ; 

The  court,  the  Regent,  like  herself  were  new ; 1 
New  face  for  friends,  for  foes  some  new  rewards ; 
New  ornaments  for  black  and  royal  guards ; 

New  laws  to  hang  the  rogues  that  roar’d  for  bread ; 
New  coins  (most  new) 2 to  follow  those  that  fled  ; 
New  victories — nor  can  we  prize  them  less, 

Though  Jenky  wonders  at  his  own  success  ; 

New  wars,  because  the  old  succeed  so  well. 

That  most  survivors  envy  those  who  fell ; 

New  mistresses — no,  old — and  yet  ’tis  true, 

Though  they  be  old,  the  thing  is  something  new ; 
Each  new,  quite  newr — (except  some  ancient  tricks),3 
New  white-sticks,  gold-sticks,  broom-sticks,  all  new 
sticks ! 

With  vests  or  ribands — deck’d  alike  in  hue, 

New  troopers  strut,  new  turncoats  blush  in  blue ; 

So  saith  the  muse : my ,4  what  say  you  F 

Such  was  the  time  when  Waltz  might  best  maintain 
Her  new  preferments  in  this  novel  reign ; 

Such  was  the  time,  nor  ever  yet  was  such  ; 

Hoops  are  no  more,  and  petticoats  not  much  ; 

Morals  and  minuets,  virtue  and  her  stays, 

And  tell-tale  powder — all  have  had  their  days. 

The  ball  begins — the  honours  of  the  house 
First  duly  done  by  daughter  or  by  spouse, 


(1)  An  anachronism — Waltz  and  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  are 
before  said  to  have  opened  the  ball  together:  the  bard  means  (if 
he  mean3  any  thing),  Waltz  was  not  so  much  in  vogue  till  the 
Regent  attained  the  acme  of  his  popularity.  Waltz,  the  comet, 
whiskers,  and  the  new  government,  illuminated  heaven  and  earth, 
In  all  their  glory,  much  about  the  same  time ; of  these  the  comet 
only  has  disappeared ; the  other  three  continue  to  astonish  us  still. 
— Printer's  Devil. 

(2)  Amongst  others  a new  ninepence  — a creditable  coin  now 
forthcoming,  worth  a pound,  in  paper,  at  the  fairest  calculation. 

(3)  “Oh  that  right  should  thus  overcome  might!"  Who  does 
not  remember  the  “ delicate  investigation”  in  the  “ Merry  Wives 
of  W'indsoi  ? ” — 

"Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near:  if  I suspect  without  cause,  why 
then  make  sport  at  me;  then  let  me  be  your  jest;  I deserve  it. 
How  now  ? whither  bear  you  this? 

"Mrs.  Ford.  What  have  you  to  do  whither  they  bear  it? — you 
were  best  meddle  with  buck- washing.” 

(4)  The  gentle,  or  ferocious,  reader  may  fill  up  the  blank  as  he 
pleases — there  are  several  dissyllabic  names  at  his  service  (being 
already  in  tbe  Regent’s):  it  would  not  be  fair  to  back  any  peculiar 
initial  against  the  alphabet,  as  every  month  will  add  to  the  list 
now  entered  for  the  sweepstakes : — a distinguished  consonant  is 
said  to  be  the  favourite,  much  against  the  wishes  of  the  knowing 
ones. 

(5)  ‘We  have  changed  all  that,”  says  the  Mock  Doctor — ’tis  all 


Some  potentate — or  royal  or  serene- — 

With  Kent’s  gay  grace,  or  sapient  Glostcr’s  mien. 
Leads  forth  the  ready  dame,  whose  rising  flush 
Might  once  have  been  mistaken  for  a blush. 

From  where  the  garb  just  leaves  the  bosom  free, 

That  spot  where  hearts5  were  once  supposed  to  be 
Round  all  the  confines  of  the  yielded  waist, 

The  strangest  hand  may  wander  undisplaced  ; 

The  lady’s  in  return  may  grasp  as  much 
As  princely  paunches  offer  to  her  touch. 

Pleased  round  the  chalky  floor  how  well  they  trip. 
One  hand  reposing  on  the  royal  hip ; 

The  other  to  the  shoulder  no  less  royal 
Ascending  with  affection  truly  loyal  ! 

Tlius  front  to  front  the  partners  move  or  stand, 

The  foot  may  rest,  but  none  withdraw  the  hand ; 

And  all  in  turn  may  follow  in  their  rank, 

The  Earl  of — Asterisk — and  Lady — Blank  ; 

Sir — Such-a-one — with  those  of  fashion’s  host, 

For  whose  blest  surnames — vide  “Morning  Post”-- 
(Or  if  for  that  impartial  print  too  late, 

Search  Doctors’  Commons  six  months  from  my  cUue)  • 
Thus  all  and  each,  in  movement  swift  or  slow, 

The  genial  contact  gently  undergo  ; 

Till  some  might  marvel,  with  the  modest  Turk, 

If  “ nothing  follows  all  this  palming  work  ?”6 
True,  honest  Mirza  ! — you  may  trust  my  rhyme — 
Something  does  follow  at  a fitter  time  ; 

The  breast  thus  publicly  resign’d  to  man. 

In  private  may  resist  him if  it  can 

O ye  who  loved  our  grandmothers  of  yore, 
Fitzpatrick,  Sheridan,7  and  many  more  ! 

And  thou,  my  Prince ! whose  sovereign  taste  and 
will 

It  is  to  love  the  lovely  beldames  still ! 

Thou  ghost  of  Queensburv  ! whose  judging  sprite 
Satan  may  spare  to  peep  a single  night, 

Pronounce — if  ever  in  your  days  of  bliss 
Asmodeus  struck  so  bright  a stroke  as  this  ? 

To  teach  the  young  ideas  how  to  rise, 

Flush  in  the  ‘cheek  , and  languish  in  the  eyes  ; 

Rush  to  the  heart,  and  lighten  through  the  frame, 
"With  half-told  wish  and  ill-dissembled  flame : 

For  prurient  nature  still  will  storm  the  breast — 

Who,  tempted  thus,  can  answer  for  the  rest  ? 


gone — Asmodeus  knows  where.  After  all,  it  is  of  no  great  import- 
ance how  women’s  hearts  are  disposed  of ; they  have  nature’s  privi- 
lege to  distribute  them  as  absurdly  as  possible.  But  there  are  also 
some  men  with  hearts  so  thoroughly  bad,  as  to  remind  us  of  those 
phenomena  often  mentioned  in  natural  history;  viz.  amass  of  solid 
stone — only  to  be  opened  by  force — and  when  divided,  you  discover 
a toad  in  the  centre,  lively,  and  with  the  reputation  of  being 
venomous. 

(G)  In  Turkey  a pertinent,  here  an  impertinent  and  superfluous, 
question — literally  put,  as  in  tne  text,  by  a Persian  to  Moiier,  on 
seeing  a waltz  in  Pera — Vide  Morier’s  Travels. 

(7)  [I  once  heard  Sheridan  repeat,  in  a ball-room,  some  verses, 
which  he  had  lately  written  on  waltzing;  and  of  which  I remember 
the  following — 

“ With  tranquil  step,  and  timid,  downcast  glanoe, 

Behold  the  well-pair’d  couple  now  advance. 

In  such  sweet  posture  our  first  parents  moved, 

While,  hand  in  hand,  through  Eden's  bowers  they  rowd, 

Ere  yet  the  Devil,  with  promise  fine  and  false, 

Turn’d  their  poor  heads,  and  taught  them  how  to  waits. 

One  hand  grasps  hers,  the  other  holds  her  hip : 

***** 

For  so  the  law's  laid  down  by  Baron  Trip.” 

This  gentleman,  whose  name  suits  so  aptly  as  a legal  authority  on 
the  subject  of  waltzing,  was,  at  the  time  these  verses  were  written, 
well  known  in  the  dancing  circles.— Moore.  j( 


ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 


459 


Jtat  ye — who  never  felt  a single  thought 
For  what  our  morals  are  to  be,  or  ought ; 

VYho  wisely  wish  the  charms  you  view  to  reap,  < 

gaY would  you  make  those  beauties  quite  so 

cheap  F 

Hot  from  the  hands  promiscuously  applied, 

Round  the  slight  waist,  or  down  the  glowing  side, 
Where  were  the  rapture  then  to  clasp  the  form, 

Prom  this  lewd  grasp  and  lawless  contact  warm  ? 

At  once  love’s  most  endearing  thought  resign, 

To  press  the  hand  so  press’d  by  none  but  thine  ; 

To  gaze  upon  that  eye  which  never  met 
Another’s  ardent  look  without  regret ; 

Approach  the  lip  which  all,  without  restraint, 

Come  near  enough — if  not  to  touch — to  taint ; 


If  such  thoa  lovest — love  her  hen  no  more, 

Or  give — like  her — caresses  to  a score  ; 

Her  mind  with  these  is  gone,  and  with  it  go 
The  little  left  behind  it  to  bestow. 

Voluptuous  Waltz  ! and  dare  I thus  blaspheme? 
Thy  bard  forgot  thy  praises  were  his  theme. 
Terpsichore,  forgive  ! — at  every  ball 
My  wife  now  waltzes — and  my  daughters  shall ; 

My  son — (or  stop — ’tis  needless  to  inquire — 

These  little  accidents  should  ne’er  transpire  ; 

Some  ages  hence  our  genealogic  tree 
Will  wear  as  green  a bough  for  him  as  me) — 
Waltzing  shall  rear,  to  make  our  name  amends. 
Grandsons  for  me — in  heirs  to  all  his  friends. 


<&TJe  to  spapoleon  ^Buonaparte*. 


“ Expende  Annibalem : — quot  libras  in  duce  summo 
Invenies?”  Juvenal,  Sat.  x.* 2 3 

The  Emperor  Nepos  was  acknowledged  by  the  Senate,  by  the  Italians,  and  by  the  Provincials  of  Gaul ; his  moral  virtues,  and 
military  talents,  were  loudly  celebrated;  and  those  who  derived  any  private  benefit  from  his  government  announced  in  prophetic  strains 
the  restoration  of  public  felicity. 


By  this  shameful  abdication,  he  protracted  his  life  a few  years,  in  a very  ambiguous  state,  between  an  Emperor  and  an  Exile,  till  — — " 
—Gibbon’s  Decline  and  Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  220.3  


’Tis  done — but  yesterday  a King ! 

And  arm’d  with  Kings  to  strive — 

And  now  thou  art  a nameless  thing ; 

So  abject — yet  alive  ! 

Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 

Who  strew’d  our  earth  with  hostile  bones, 
And  can  he  thus  survive  ? 4 
Since  he,  miscall’d  the  Morning  Star, 

Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 

Ill-minded  man ! why  scourge  thy  kind 
Who  bow’d  so  low  the  knee  ? 

By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 

Thou  taught’st  the  rest  to  see. 

With  might  unquestion’d, — power  to  save, — 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave, 

To  those  that  worshipp’d  thee ; 


Nor  till  thy  fall  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition’s  less  than  littleness  ! 

Thanks  for  that  lesson — it  will  teach 
To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  Philosophy  can  preach. 

And  vainly  preach’d  before. 

That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway, 
With, fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 


(1)  [The  reader  has  seen  that  Lord  Byron,  when  publishing 
''The  Corsair,”  in  January  1814,  announced  an  apparently  quite 
serious  resolution  to  withdraw,  for  some  years  at  least,  from  poetry. 
His  letters  of  the  February  and  March  following  abound  in  repeti- 
tions of  the  same  determination.  On  the  morning  of  the  ninth  of 
April,  he  writes, — “ No  more  rhyme  for — or  rather  from — me.  I 
have  taken  my  leave  of  that  stage,  and  henceforth  wifi  mountebank 
it  no  longer.”  In  the  evening,  a Gazette  Extraordinary  announced 
the  abdication  of  Fontainebleau,  and  the  Poet  violated  his  vows 
next  morning,  by  composing  this  Ode,  which  he  immediately  pub- 
lished. though  without  his  name.  His  diary  says,  April  10.  To- 
day I have  boxed  one  hour— written  an  ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte 
— copied  it — eaten  six  biscuits — drunk  four  bottles  of  soda-water, 
•nd  redde  away  the  rest  of  my  time.”] 

(2)  [“  Produce  the  urn  that  Hannibal  contains, 

And  weigh  the  mighty  dust  which  yet  remains  : 

And  is  this  all  ! ” 

I know  not  that  this  was  ever  done  in  the  old  world ; at  least,  with 
regard  to  Hannibal:  but,  in  the  statistical  account  of  Scotland,  I 
Snd  that  Sir  John  Paterson  had  the  curiosity  to  collect,  and  weigh, 
the  ashes  of  a person  discovered  a few  years  since  in  the  parish  of 
Eecles;  which  he  was  happily  enabled  to  do  with  great  facility,  as 
“ the  inside  of  the  coffin  was  smooth,  and  the  whole  body  visible.”  ! 


The  triumph,  and  the  vanity, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife5 — 
The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 
To  thee  the  breath  of  life ; 


Wonderful  to  relate,  he  found  the  whole  did  not  exceed  in  weight 

one  ounce  and  a half!  And  is  this  all  ! Alas  ! the  quot  libras 
itself  is  a satirical  exaggeration. — Gifford.] 

(3)  [“  I send  you  an  additional  motto  from  Gibbon,  which  you 
will  find  singularly  appropriate.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray, 
April  12,  1814.] 

(4)  [I  don’t  know— but  I think  7,  even  7 (an  insect  compared 

with  this  creature),  have  set  my  life  on  casts  not  a millionth  part 
of  this  man’s.  But,  after  all,  a crown  may  not  be  worth  dying  for. 
Yet,  to  outlive  Lodi  for  this  1 ! ! Oh  that  Juvenal  or  Johnson  could 
rise  from  the  dead ! * Expende — quot  libras  in  duce  summo  in- 

venies ? ’ I knew  they  were  light  in  the  balance  of  mortality ; but 
I thought  their  living  dust  weighed  more  carats.  Alas ! this  im- 
perial diamond  hath  a flaw  in  it,  and  is  now  hardly  fit  to  stick  in  a 
glazier’s  pencil ; — the  pen  of  the  historian  won’t  rate  it  worth  a 
ducat.  Psha!  ‘something  too  much  ot  this.’  But  I won’t  give 
him  up  even  now  ; though  all  his  admirers  have,  like  the  Than*'*, 
fallen  from  him.” — Byron  Diary , April  9.] 

(5)  “ Certaminis  gaudia ” — the  expression  of  Attila  in  hia 
harangue  to  his  army,  previous  to  the  battle  of  Chalona  given  in 
Cassiodorus 


/ 


460 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seem’d  made  but  to  obey 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife— 

All  quell’d  Dark  Spirit ! what  must  be 
Ihe  madness  of  thy  memory  J 

The  Desolator  desolate ! 

The  Victor  overthrown ! 

The  Arbiter  of  others’  fate 
A Suppliant  for  his  own  ! 

Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope, 
lhat  with  such  change  can  calmly  rope  8 
Or  dread  of  death  alone  ? 

To  die  a prince — or  live  a slave — 

Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave  ! 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak,* * * * 5 6 
Oream  d not  of  the  rebound  ; 

Chain  d by  the  trunk  lie  vainlv  broke — 
Alone  how  look’d  he  round  ? 

Ihou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength 
An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length 
And  darker  fate  hast  found  : 

He  fell,  the  forest  prowlers’  prey  ; 

But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away! 

The  Roman,2  when  his  burning  heart 
Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome 
Threw  down  the  dagger— dared  depart, 

In  savage  grandeur,  home— 

He  dared  depart  in  utter  scorn 
Of  men  that  such  a yoke  had  borne, 
ret  left  him  such  a doom ! 

His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandon’d  power. 

The  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  sway 
Had  lost  its  quickening  spell,3 
Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away. 

An  empire  for  a cell ; 

A strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 

A subtle  disputant  on  creeds, 

His  dotage  trifled  well  :4 
Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 
A bigot’s  shrine,  nor  despot’s  throne.* 

But  thou— from  thy  reluctant  hand 
Ihe  thunderbolt  is  wrun0* — 


yet  plaj^them pass/’— A priT ^ *hat  he  WU1 

ESS/a 

W r":‘ the  <*• 

common-place  and  Rosa  MatiMai  h m no.thin^>  besides  being 
publishing,  though our Ode ^iS  a ,h  ±„r  M “e  rtS°1U!ion  of  ■>« 


TTolawM^>?lleST’Sti the  hi?b  ““maud 

All  S -1  L • ly  weakness  clung . 

All  Evil  Spirit  as  thou  art, 

It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 
lo  see  thine  own  unstrung  : 

u'iJM  ®od’s,  fair  worTd  hath  been 
Ihe  footstool  of  a thing  so  mean ; 

kad  spilt  her  blood  for  him 
” h°  thus  can  hoard  his  own f 
And  Monarchs  bow’d  the  trembiing  limb 
And  thank’d  him  for  a throne  ! ’ 

m.urflfd0!l ! We  hold  tllee  dear, 

" ^ thu,s.  tnJ  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

in  humblest  guise  have  shown 
Uh  ! ne  er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A brighter  name  to  lure  mankind ! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore 
Nor  written  thus  in  vain—  ’ 

Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more 
Ur  deepen  every  stain  : 

If  thou  liadst  died  as  honour  dies 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise,’ 

To  shame  the  world  again 

But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height 
lo  set  m such  a starless  night  ?°  ‘ * 

Weigh’d  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 
Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay ; 

Thy  scales,  Mortality  ! are  just 
To  all  that  pass  away : 

But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
^ome  higher  sparks  should  animate, 
lo  dazzle  and  dismay : 

Nor  deom’d  Contempt  could  thus  mate  mirth 
ut  these,  the  Conquerors  of  the  earth. 

And  she,  proud  Austria’s  mournful  flower, 

Ihy  still  imperial  bride  ; 

^ oT-u  G^S  ^lei  ^reasI  Ihe  torturing  hour  P 
Still  clings  she  to  thy  side  P 
Must  she  too  bend,  must  she  too  share 
I hJ  repentance,  long  despair, 

Thou  throneless  Homicide  P 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem: 

Tis  worth  thy  vanish’d  diadem  !7 


SeSSSSS' rti™*£hiS  T Philip’  and  re,ired  to  a monast, 

hiS  fUnraI  obse1uies  in  his  life-time,  whic 

JouNSnv  ’4l  «bCen  USed  t0  think  a Alenin  and  affecting  at 
that  act  of  m‘7  d,sPose  his  mind  to  think  so ■ 

ouf often  tlfoSv,  ^ 18  50  iabIe  to  ridicu]e.  that  if  one  ma 

nhte  hundred JZ  iaUgb$  at  Jt’  le  )I  make  the  other  nine  tiiousan 
vTvfi  183M  y'mne  laU8h  ,o»„so, 

(6)  [“  But  who  would  rise  in  brightest  day 

To  set  without  one  parting  ray  ?” — MS.] 

SUgi  of  the  TiInin°Wnr  fat.  90Un< ; Neipperg,  a gentleman  in  th 
suite  ot  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  who  was  first  presented  to  Mari 

theTouef^e/ir  .^'Napoleon’s  abdSon  \ecame 
her  chamberlain,  and  then  her  husband.  He  is  said  t 

in  183l!]  a man  °f  remarkably  Plain  appearance.  The  Count  di«i 


461 


ode  to  napoleon  buonaparte. 


Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  Isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea ; 

That  element  may  meet  thy  smile 
It  ne’er  was  ruled  by  thee  ! 

Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand, 

In  loitering  mood  upon  the  sand, 

That  Earth  is  now  as  free ! 

That  Corinth’s  pedagogue1  hath  now 
Transferr’d  his  by-word  to  thy  brow. 

Thou  Timour  ? in  his  captive’s  cage2 
What  thoughts  will  there  be  tlnne. 
While  brooding  in  thy  prison’d  rage  ? 

But  one— “ The  world  was  mine  1 
Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 

All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone, 

Life  will  not  long  confine 
That  spirit  pour’d  so  widely  forth— 

So  long  obey’d— so  little  worth  ! 

Or,  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven,3 * 
Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shock  ? 

And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven, 

His  vulture  and  his  rock  ! 

Foredoom’d  by  God— by  man  accurst, 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  worst, 
The  very  Fiend’s  arch  mock;5 6 
He  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride. 

And,  if  a mortal,  had  as  proudly  died! 


f1,  i-TVnnvsins  tlie  Younger,  esteemed  a greater  tyrant  than  his 
'iL[Seing  for  second  time  banished  from  Syracuse,  retired 
Corinth,  where  he  was  obliged  to  turn  schoolmaster  for  a subsis- 
ace.] 

(2)  The  cage  of  Bajazet,  by  order  of  Tamerlane. 

(3)  Prometheus. 

U)  [In  first  draught— 

“ He  suffered  for  kind  acts  to  men, 

Who  have  not  seen  his  like  again, 

At  least  of  kingly  stock  ; 

Since  he  was  good,  and  thou  but  great. 

Thou  canst  not  quarrel  with  thy  fate.  ] 

. “ The  very  fiend’s  arch  mock — w 

To  lip  a wanton,  and  suppose  her  chaste. 

1 Shakspeare. 

rWe  believe  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  anecdote  here 
luded  to-of  Napoleon’s  having  found  leisure  for  an  unworthy 
nour,  the  very  evening  of  his  arrival  at  Fontainebleau.] 

(6)  [The  three  last  stanzas,  which  Lord  Byron  had  been  solicited 
Mr  Murray  to  write,  in  order  to  avoid  the  stamp  duty  then  lm- 

>sed  upon  publications  not  exceeding  a sheet,  were  not  published 
IS  the  res?  of  the  poem.  “ I don’t  like  them  at  all,”  says  Lord 
vron  “ and  they  had  better  be  left  out.  The  fact  is,  I can  t do 
it  thing  I am  asked  to  do,  however  gladly  I .would ; and  at  the  end 
■ a week  my  interest  in  a composition  goes  off.  J 

(7)  Tin  one  of  Lord  Byron’s  MS.  Diaries,  begun  at  Ravenna  in 

lav  1821,  we  find  the  following  : — “What  shall  1 write  ? another 

jurnal  t I think  not.  Any  thing  that  comes  uppermost,  and 

ill  it 

“ My  Dictionary. 

<1  AuQiistut. — I have  often  been  puzzled  with  his  character.  Was 

e a treat  mar.?  Assuredly.  But  not  one  of  my  great  men.  I 

a\re  always  looked  upon  Sylla  as  the  greatest  character  in  history, 

a laying  down  his  power  at  the  moment  when  it  was 
‘ Too  great  to  keep  or  to  resign,’ 


There  was  a day — there  was  an  hour,® 
While  earth  was  Gaul’s— Gaul  thine— 
When  that  immeasurable  power 
Unsated  to  resign 
Had  been  an  act  of  purer  fame, 

Than  gathers  round  Marengo’s  name. 

And  gilded  thy  decline, 

Through  the  long  twilight  of  all  time, 
Despite  some  passing  clouds  of  crime. 

But  thou  forsooth  must  be  a king. 

And  don  the  purple  vest, — 

As  if  that  foolish  robe  could  wring 
Remembrance  from  thy  breast. 

Where  is  that  faded  garment  ? where 
The  gewgaws  thou  wert  fond  to  wear. 

The  star— the  string— the  crest  ? 

Vain  froward  child  of  empire  ! say, 

Are  all  thy  playthings  snatch’d  away  r 

Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose. 

When  gazing  on  the  Great  ;7 * * * * * * * 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows, 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 

Yes— one— the  first— the  last— the  best— 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  W est, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate 
Bequeath  the  name  of  Washington, 

To  make  man  blush  there  was  but  One ! 


ud  thus  despising  them  all.  As  to  the  retention  of  hi.  power ^by 
ueustus  the  thing  was  already  settled.  If  he  had  given  it  up 
le  commonwealth  was  gone-the  republic  was .long  PJs^}^esu; 
Itation.  Had  Brutus  and  Cassius  gained  +the  b2^ 
rould  not  have  restored  the  republic.  Its  days  enued  with  the 
tracchi ; the  rest  was  a mere  struggle  of  parties.  You  might  as 
rell  cure  a consumption,  or  restore  a broken  egg,  as  revive  * state 
prey  to  every  uppermost  soldier,  as  Rome  had  long  been 
for  a despotism,  if  Augustus  could  have  been  sure  that  all  his 
uccessors  would  have  been  like  himself— (I  mean  not  as  Octavius, 

j 

’iberius  and  Caligula,  Augustus  had  been  immediately  succeeded , 
lyk^erva^  Tr^anf  the  Antonines,  or  even  by  Titus , and  hisfoUier 
-what  a difference  in  our  estimate  of  himself —So  far  from  gam 
nJ  S the  contrast,  I think  that  one  half  of  our  dis 

having  been  heired  by  Tiberius— and  one  half  of  Julius  Caesars 
ame  from  his  having  had  his  empire  consolidated  by  Augustus. 
rnTposHiai  there  "had  been  no  Octavius  and ^ Ti^nus  had 
iuinDed  the  life’  between,  and  at  once  succeeded  Julius  . And  yet 
tJ  is  difficult  to  sav  whether  hereditary  right  or  popular  choice  pro- 
luce  tlm  worser  sovereigns.  The  Roman  Consuls  make  a goodly 
how-  but  then  they  only  reigned  for  a year,  and  were  under  a sort 
if  personal  obligation  to  distinguish  themselves.  It 1S  ®t,U  ™°'® 
liffipii It  to  sav  which  form  of  government  is  the  worst— all  are  so 
!2d  “IL ^Socracy.  it  i,  the  worst  of  the  whole;  for  what 
n fact,  democracy?— an  aristocracy  of  blackguards.  ] 

(8)  [On  being  reminded  by  a friend  of  liis  recent  promise  not  to 
vrite  any  more  for  years  — “ There  was,”  replied  Lord  Byron,  a 
nen?al  reservation  in  my  pact  with  the  public,  in  behalf  of  anonymes, 
ind  even  had  there  not,  the  provocation  was  such  as  to  make 
It  physically  impossible  to  pass  over  this  epoch  of  triumphant  tame- 
ness ’Tis  a sad  business ; and  after  all,  I shall  think  higher  of 
rhyme  and  reason,  and  very  humbly  of  your  heroic  people,  tiU- 
Elba  becomes  a volcano,  and  sends  him  out  again.  I can  i thiRi- 
; t is  nil  over  vet.”  1 


fftefutto  ittclotfeg*' 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Thb  subsequent  poems  were  written  at  the  request  of 
my  friend,  the  Hon.  Douglas  Kinnaird,  for  a Selection 
of  Hebrew  Melodies,1 2  and  liave  been  published,  with 
the  music,  arranged  by  Mr.  Braliam  and  Mr.  Nathan. 

January,  1815. 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY.3 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies  ; 
And  all  that’s  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 

Thus  mellow’d  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 

Had  half  impair’d  the  nameless  grace. 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 

Or  softly  lightens  o’er  her  face  ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express, 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o’er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


THE  HARP  THE  MONARCH  MINSTREL 
SWEPT.4 

The  harp  the  monarch  minstrel  swept, 

The  King  ol  men,  the  loved  of  Heaven, 


(1)  [Lord  Byron  never  alludes  to  his  share  in  these  Melodies 
A^ith  complacency.  Mr.  Moore  having,  on  one  occasion,  rallied 
him  a little  on  the  manner  in  which  some  of  them  had  been  set  to 
music,  — “ Sunburn  Nathan,”  he  exclaims,  “ why  do  you  always 
twit  me  with  his  Ebrew  nasalities  ? Have  1 not  told  you  it  was  all 
Kinnaird’s  doing,  and  my  own  exquisite  facility  of  temper?”] 

(2)  [“  Neither  the  ancient  Jews,”  says  Dr.  Burney,  “ nor  the 
modern,  have  ever  had  characters  peculiar  to  music ; so  that  the 
melodies  used  in  their  religious  ceremonies  have,  at  all  times,  been 
traditional,  and  at  the  mercy  of  the  singers.” — Kalkbrenner  tells  us, 
that  “les  Juifs  Espagnols  lisent  et  chantent  leurs  pseaumes  bien 
differemment  que  les  Juifs  Hollandais,  les  Juifs  ltomains  autrement 
que  les  Juifs  de  la  Prusse  et  de  la  Hesse  ; et  tous  croient  chanter 
comme  on  chantait  dans  le  Temple  de  Jerusalem  l”— Hist.  de  la 
Mutique,  tom.  i.  p.  34.] 

(3)  [These  stanzas  were  written  by  Lord  Byron,  on  returning 
from  a ball-room,  where  he  had  seen  Mrs.  (now  Lady)  Wilmot 
Horton,  the  wile  of  his  relation,  the  present  Governor  of  Ceylon. 
On  this  occasion  Mrs.  Wilmot  Horton  had  appeared  in  mourning, 
with  numerous  spangles  on  her  dress.] 

(4)  [“  In  fhe  reign  of  King  David,  music  was  held  in  the  highest 

estimation  by  the  Hebrews.  The  genius  of  that  prince  for  music, 
and  his  attachment  to  the  study  and  practice  of  it,  as  well  as  the 
great  number  of  musicians  appointed  by  him  for  the  performance  of 
religious  rites  and  ceremonies,  could  not  fail  to  extend  its  influence 
and  augment  its  perfections;  for  it  was  during  this  period,  that 
music  was  first  honoured  by  being  admitted  in  the  ministry  of 


Which  Music  hallow’d  while  she  wept 
O’er  tones  her  heart  of  hearts  had  given. 
Redoubled  be  her  tears,  its  chords  are  riven  ? 

It  soften’d  men  of  iron  mould, 

It  gave  them  virtues  not  their  own ; 

No  ear.  so  dull,  no  soul  so  cold, 

That  felt  not,  fired  not  to  the  tone, 

Till  David’s  lyre  grew  mightier  than  his  throne ! 

It  told  the  triumphs  of  our  King, 

It  wrafted  glory  to  our  God ; 

It  made  our  gladden’d  valleys  ring. 

The  cedars  bow,  the  mountains  nod ; 

Its  sound  aspired  to  Heaven  and  there  abode  !5 

Since  then,  though  heard  on  earth  no  more, 
Devotion  and  her  daughter  Love, 

Still  bid  the  bursting  spirit  soar 
To  sounds  that  seem  as  from  above, 

Ln  dreams  that  day’s  broad  light  cannot  remove.® 


IE  THAT  HIGH  WORLD. 

If  that  high  world,  which  lies  beyond 
Our  own,  surviving  Love  endears; 

If  there  the  cherish’d  heart  be  fond, 

The  eye  the  same,  except  in  tears — 

How  welcome  those  untrodden  spheres ! 

How  sweet  this  very  hour  to  die  ! 

To  soar  from  earth  and  find  till  fears. 

Lost  in  thy  light — Eternity ! 

It  must  be  so  : ’tis  not  for  self  * 

That  we  so  tremble  on  the  brink ; 

And  striving  to  o’erleap  the  gulf, 

Yet  cling  to  Being’s  severing  link. 

Oh ! in  that  future  let  us  think  j 

To  hold  each  heart  the  heart  that  shares  ; J 
With  them  the  immortal  waters  drink, 

And  soul  in  soul  grow  deathless  theirs ! 


sacrifice,  and  worship  of  the  ark;  as  well  as  by  being  cultivated  b 
a king.”— Bukkey.] 

(5)  [“  When  Lord  Byron,  put  the  manuscript  into  my  hand,  j 

terminated  with  this  line.  As  this,  however,  did  not  complete  tli 
verse,  I wished  him  to  help  out  the  melody.  He  replied,  ‘ Why,  i 
have  sent  you  to  Heaven — it  would  be  difficult  to  go  further!  ’ Mi 
attention  for  a few  minutes  was  called  to  some  other  person,  ar; 
his  Lordship,  whom  I had  hardly  missed,  exclaimed,  ‘ Here,  Nathar^ 
I have  brought  you  down  again ;’  and  immediately  presented  nf 
the  beautiful  lines  which  conclude  the  melody  " — Nathan.]  : 

(6)  [The  hymns  of  David  excel  no  less  in  sublimity  and  tender 
ness  of  expression,  than  in  loftiness  and  purity  of  religious  senti 
ment.  In  comparison  with  them,  the  sacred  poetry  of  all  othe 
nations  sinks  into  mediocrity.  They  have  embodied  so  exquisite!; 
the  universal  language  of  religious  emotion,  that  (a  few  fierce  am 
vindictive  passages  excepted,  natural  in  the  warrior-poet  of  a sterne 
age,  they  have  entered,  with  unquestionable  propriety,  into  tin 
Christian  ritual.  The  songs  which  cheered  the  solitude  of  th< 
desert  caves  of  Engedi,  or  resounded  from  the  voice  of  the  Hebrev 
people  as  they  wound  along  the  glens  or  the  hill-sides  of  Judea 
have  been  repeated  for  ages  in  almost  every  part  of  the  habitabli 
world, — in  the  remotest  islands  of  the  ocean,  amongst  the  forests  o 
America,  or  the  sands  of  Africa.  How  many  human  hearts  hav< 
they  softened,  purified,  exalted!  — of  how  many  wretched  being! 
have  they  been  the  secret  consolation! — on  how  many  communitiei 
have  they  drawn  down  the  blessings  of  Divine  Providence,  b} 
bringing  the  affections  in  unison  with  their  deep  devotional  fervour  i 
— Milssan.] 


an  IB  WAILES  KN  ' BEAU  TIT. 

ONE  SHADE  THE  MORE.  ONE  RAT  THE  LESS. 

HAD  HALE  IMPAIR'D  THE  NAMELESS  GRACE 
WHICH  WAVES  IN  EVERY  RAVEN  TRESS 
OR  SOFTLY  LIGHTENS  O'ER  HER  FACE 
WHERE  THOUGHTS  SERENELY  SWEET  EXPRESS 

HOW  PTJRE.  HOW  DEAR.  THEIR  DWELLING  PLACE. 


JiEERE  W MEZOOIES  . 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


463 


THE  WILD  GAZELLE. 

Tee  wild  gazelle  on  J uduli’s  hills 
Exulting  yet  may  bound, 

And  drink  from  all  the  living  rilk. 

That  gusli  on  holy  ground  ; 

Its  airy  step  and  glorious  eye 

May  glance  in  tameless  transport  by  : — 

A step  as  fleet,  an  eye  more  bright. 

Hath  Judah  witness’d  there  ; 

And  o’er  her  scenes  of  lost  delight 
Inhabitants  more  fair. 

The  cedars  wave  on  Lebanon, 

But  Judah’s  statelier  maids  are  gone! 

More  blest  each  palm  that  shades  those  plains 
Than  Israel’s  scatter’d  race ; 

For,  taking  root,  it  there  remains 
In  solitary  grace : 
it  cannot  quit  its  place  of  birth, 
ft  will  not  live  in  other  earth. 

But  we  must  wander  witheringly, 

In  other  lands  to  die  ; 

And  where  our  fathers’  ashes  be, 

Our  own  may  never  lie  : 

Our  temple  hath  not  left  a stone, 

And  Mockery  sits  on  Salem’s  throne. 


OH!  WEEP  FOR  THOSE. 

Oh  ! weep  for  those  that  wept  by  Babel’s  stream. 
Whose  shrines  are  desolate,  whose  land  a dream  ; 
Weep  for  the  harp  of  Judah’s  broken  shell ; [dwell ! 
Mourn — where  their  God  hath  dwelt  the  Godless 

And  'where  shall  Israel  lave  her  bleeding  feet  ? 

And  when  shall  Zion’s  songs  again  seem  sweet  ? 

And  Judah’s  melody  once  more  rejoice 

l’he  hearts  that  leap’d  before  its  heavenly  voice  P 

Tribes  of  the  wandering  foot  and  weary  breast, 

How  shall  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest ! 

The  wild-dove  hath  her  nest,  the  fox  his  cave, 
Mankind  their  country — Israel  but  the  grave  ! 


ON  JORDAN’S  BANKS. 

On  Jordan’s  banks  the  Arab’s  camels  stray, 

On  Sion’s  hill  the  False  One’s  votaries  pray. 

The  Baai-adorer  bows  on  Sinai’s  steep — 

Yet  there — even  there — Oh  God  ! thy  thunders  sleep  : 

There — where  thy  finger  scorch’d  the  tablet  stone  ! 
There — where  thy  shadow  to  thy  people  shone  ! 

Thy  glory  shrouded  in  its  garb  of  fire  : 

Thyself — none  living  see  and  not  expire  ! 

Oh  ! in  the  lightning  let  thy  glance  appear ; 

Sweep  from  his  shiver’d  hand  the  oppressor’s  spear  : 
How  long  by  tyrants  shall  thy  land  be  trod ! 

How  long  thy  temple  worshipless,  Oh  God ! 


(1)  [Jephtha,  a bastard  son  of  Gilead,  having  been  wrongfully 
expelled  from  his  father’s  house,  had  taken  refuge  in  a wild 
country,  and  become  a noted  captain  of  freebooters.  His  kindred, 
groining  under  foreign  oppression,  began  to  look  to  their  valiant, 
though  lawless  compatriot,  whose  profession,  according  to  their 
asage,  was  no  more  dishonourable  than  that  of  a pirate  in  the  elder 
days  of  Greece.  They  sent  for  him,  and  made  him  head  of  their 
city.  Before  he  went  forth  against  the  Ammonites,  he  made  the 
memorable  .vow,  that,  if  he  returned  victorious,  he  would  sacrifice 


JEPHTHA’S  DAUGHTER.1 
Since  our  Country,  our  God — Ob,  my  sire  ! 
Demand  that  thy  Daughter  expire  ; 

Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy  vow— 
Strike  the  bosom  that’s  bared  for  thee  now ! 

And  the  voice  of  my  mourning  is  o’er, 

And  the  mountains  behold  me  no  more  : 

If  the  hand  that  I love  lay  me  low, 

There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow  ! 

And  of  this,  oh,  my  Father  ! be  sure — 

That  the  blood  of  thy  child  is  as  pure 
As  the  blessing  I beg  ere  it  flow, 

And  the  last  thought  that  soothes  me  below. 

Though  the  virgins  of  Salem  lament, 

Be  the  judge  and  the  hero  unbent ! 

I have  won  the  great  battle  for  thee, 

And  my  father  and  country  are  free  ! 

When  this  blood  of  thy  giving  hath  gush’d. 
When  the  voice  that  thou  lovest  is  hush’d, 
Let  my  memory  still  be  thy  pride. 

And  forget  not  I smiled  as  1 died ! 


OH!  SNATCH’D  AWAY  IN  BEAUTY’S  BLOOM 
On  ! snatch’d  away  in  beauty’s  bloom, 

On  thee,  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb ; 

But  on  tby  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year  ; 

And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom : 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a dream. 

And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread ; 

Fond  wretch  ! as  if  her  step  disturb’d  the  dead  ! 

Away  ! we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 

That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress  : 

Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  ? 

Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less  P 
And  thou — who  tell’st  me  to  forget, 

Tliy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 


MY  SOUL  IS  DARK. 

My  soul  is  dark — Oh ! quickly  string 
The  harp  I yet  can  brook  to  hear ; 

And  let  thy  gentle  fingers  fling 
Its  melting  murmurs  o’er  mine  ear. 

If  in  this  heart  a hope  be  dear, 

That  sound  shall  charm  it  forth  again : 

If  in  these  eyes  there  lurk  a tear, 

’Twill  flow,  and  cease  to  burn  my  brain. 

But  bid  the  strain  be  wild  and  deep, 

Nor  let  thy  notes  of  joy  be  first : 

I tell  thee,  minstrel,  I must  weep, 

Or  else  this  heavy  heart  will  burst ; 


as  a burnt  offering  whatever  first  met  him  on  his  entrance  into  hi» 
native  city.  He  gained  a splendid  victory.  At  the  news  of  it,  his 
only  daughter  came  dancing  forth,  in  the  gladness  of  heart,  and 
with  jocund  instruments  of  music,  to  salute  the  deliverer  of  his 
people.  The  miserable  father  rent  his  clothes  in  agony;  but  the 
noble-spirited  maiden  would  not  hear  of  the  disregard  of  the  tow  . 
she  only  demanded  a short  period  to  bewail  upon  the  mountains, 
like  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles,  her  dying  without  hope  of  becoming 
a bride  or  mother,  and  then  submitted  to  her  fate. — Milm  an.] 


464 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


For  it  hatn  been  by  sorrow  nursed, 

And  ached  in  sleepless  silence  long ; 
And  now  ’tis  doom’d  to  know  the  worst, 
And  break  at  once — or  yield  to  song.1 


1 SAW  THEE  WEEP. 

I saw  thee  weep — the  big  bright  tear 
Came  o’er  that  eye  of  blue  ; 

And  then  methought  it  did  appear 
A violet  dropping  dew : 

I saw  thee  smile — the  sapphire’s  blaze 
Beside  thee  ceased  to  shine ; 

It  could  not  match  the  living  rays 
That  fill’d  that  glance  of  thine. 

As  clouds  from  yonder  sun  receive 
A deep  and  mellow  dye, 

Which  scarce  the  shade  of  coming  eve 
Can  banish  from  the  sky, 

Those  smiles  unto  the  moodiest  mind 
Their  own  pure  joy  impart ; 

Their  sunshine  leaves  a glow  behind 
That  lightens  o’er  the  heart. 


THY  DAYS  ARE  DONE. 

Thy  days  are  dorfe,  thy  fame  begun  ! 

Thy  country’s  strains  record 
The  triumphs  of  her  chosen  Son, 

The  slaughters  of  his  sword  ! 

The  deeds  he  did,  the  fields  he  won, 

The  freedom  he  restored  ! 

Though  thou  art  fall’n,  while  we  are  free 
Thou  shalt  not  taste  of  death  ! 

The  generous  blood  that  flow’d  from  thee 
Disdain’d  to  sink  beneath  : 

Within  our  veins  its  currents  be, 

Thy  spirit  on  our  breath  ! 

Thy  name,  our  charging  hosts  along. 

Shall  be  the  battle-word  ! 

Thy  fall,  the  theme  of  choral  song 
From  virgin  voices  pour’d ! 

To  weep  would  do  thy  glory  wrong ; 

Thou  shalt  not  be  deplored. 


(1)  [“  It  was  generally  conceived  that  Lord  Byron’s  reported  sin- 
gularities approached  on  some  occasions  to  derangeme.nt;  and  at 
one  period,  indeed,  it  was  very  currently  asserted  that  his  intellects 
were  actually  impaired.  The  report  only  served  to  amuse  his  Lord- 
ship.  He  referred  to  the  circumstance,  and  declared  that  he  would 
try  how  a madman  could  write : seizing  the  pen  with  eagerness,  he 
fora  moment  fixed  his  eyes  in  majestic  wildness  on  vacancy;  when, 
like  a flash  of  inspiration,  without  erasing  a single  word,  the  above 
verses  were  the  result.” — Nathan.] 

(2)  [Haunted  with  that  insatiable  desire  of  searching  into  the 
secrets  of  futurity,  inseparable  from  uncivilized  man,  Saul  knew 
not  to  what  quarter  to  turn.  The  priests,  outraged  by  his  cruelty, 
had  forsaken  him  : the  prophets  stood  aloof ; no  dreams  visited 
his  couch;  he  had  persecuted  even  the  uulawful  diviners.  He 
hears  at  last  of  a female  necromancer,  a woman  with  the  spirit  of 
Ob ; strangely  similar  in  sound  to  the  Obeah  women  in  the  West 

Indies.  To  the  cave-dwelling  of  this  woman,  in  Endor,  the  monarch 
proceeds  in  disguise.  He  commands  her  to  raise  the  spirit  of 
Samuel.  At  this  daring  demand,  the  woman  first  recognises,  or 
pretends  to  recognise,  her  royal  visitor.  “Whom  seest  thou?” 
says  the  king.  — “ Mighty  ones  ascending  from  the  earth.” — “Of 
what  form?”— “An  old  man  covered  with  a mantle.”  Saul,  in 


SONG  OE  SAUL  BEFORE  IIIS  LAST  BATTLE 

Warriors  and  chiefs  ! should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 

Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a king’s,  in  your  path  : 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath  ! 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow, 

Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from  the  foe. 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy  feet ! 

Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not  to  meet. 

Farewell  to  others,  but  never  we  part, 

Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart ! 

Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway, 

Or  kingly  the  death,  which  awaits  us  to-day  ! 


SAJL.2 

Thou  whose  spell  can  raise  the  dead. 

Bid  the  prophet’s  form  appear. 

“ Samuel,  raise  thy  buried  head  ! 

King,  behold  the  phantom  seer!” 

Earth  yawn’d  ; he  stood  the  centre  of  a cloud  : 
Light  changed  its  hue,  retiring  from  his  shroud. 
Death  stood  all  glassy  in  his  fixed  eye ; 

His  hand  was  wither’d,  and  his  veins  were  dry ; 
His  foot,  in  bony  whiteness,  glitter’d  there, 
Shrunken  and  sinewless,  and  ghastly  bare  ; 

From  lips  that  moved  not  and  unbreathing  frame, 
Like  cavern’d  winds,  the  hollow  accents  came. 
Saul  saw,  and  fell  to  earth,  as  falls  the  oak, 

At  once,  and  blasted  by  the  thunder-stroke. 

“ Why  is  my  sleep  disquieted  ? 

Who  is  he  that  calls  the  dead  ? 

Is  it  thou,  0 King  ? Behold, 

Bloodless  are  these  limbs,  and  cold  : 

Such  are  mine ; and  such  shall  be 
Thine  to-morrow,  when  with  me  : 

Ere  the  coming  day  is  done, 

Such  shalt  thou  be,  such  thy  son. 

Fare  thee  well,  but  for  a day, 

Then  we  mix  our  mouldering  clay. 

Thou,  thy  race,  lie  pale  and  low, 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  many  a bow ; 

And  the  falchion  by  thv  side 
To  thy  heart  thy  hand  shall  guide  : 
Crownless,  breathless,  headless  fall, 

Son  and  sire,  the  house  of  Saul ! ” 3 


terror,  bows  down  his  head  to  the  earth ; and,  it  should  seem,  not 
daring  to  look  up,  receives  from  the  voice  of  the  spectre  the  awful 
intimation  of  his  defeat  and  death.  On  the  reality  of  thi*  appari- 
tion we  pretend  not  to  decide:  the  figure,  if  figure  there  were,  was 
not  seen  by  Saul;  and,  excepting  the  event  of  the  approaching  battle, 
the  spirit  said  nothing  which  the  living  prophet  had  not  said  be- 
fore, repeatedly. and  publicly.  But  the  fact  is  curious,  as  showing 
the  popular  belief  of  the  Jews  in  departed  spirits  to  have  been  the 
same  with  that  of  most  other  nations. — Milman.] 

(3)  [“Since  we  have  spoken  of  witches,”  said  Lord  Byron,  at 
Cephalonia,  in  1823,  “what  think  you  of  the  witch  of  Endor?  I 
have  always  thought  this  the  finest  and  most  finished  witch-scene 
that  ever  was  written  or  conceived  ; and  you  will  be  of  my  opinion, 
if  you  consider  all  the  circumstances  and  the  actors  in  the  case, 
together  with  the  gravity,  simplicity,  and  dignity  of  the  language. 
It  beats  all  the  ghost  scenes  I ever  read.  The  finest  conception  on 
a similar  subject  is  that  of  Goethe’s  Devil,  Mephistopheles;  and 
though,  of  course,  you  will  give  the  priority  to  the  former,  as  being 
inspired,  yet  the  latter,  if  you  know  it,  will  appear  to  you — at  lea*t 
it  does  to  me — one  of  the  finest  and  most  sublime  specimen*  of 
human  conception.”] 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


405 


all  IS  VANITY,  SAITH  THE  PREACHER.” 

Fame,  wisdom,  love,  and  power  were  mine. 

And  health  aud  youth  possess’d  me ; 

jyty  goblets  blush’d  from  every  vine, 

And  lovely  forms  caress’d  me ; 

I sunn’d  my"  heart  in  beauty’s  eyes, 

And  felt  my  soul  grow  tender ; 

All  earth  can  give,  or  mortal  prize. 

Was  mine  of  regal  splendour. 

I strive  to  number  o’er  what  days 
Remembrance  can  discover, 

Wliich  all  that  life  or  earth  displays 
Would  lure  me  to  live  over. 

There  rose  no  day,  there  roll’d  no  hour 
Of  pleasure  unembitter’d ; 

And  not  a trapping  deck’d  my  power 
That  gall’d  not  while  it  glitter’d. 

The  serpent  of  the  field,  by  art 
And  spells,  is  won  from  harming ; 

But  that  which  coils  around  the  heart, 

Oh ! who  hath  power  of  charming  ? 

It  will  not  list  to  wisdom’s  lore, 

Nor  music’s  voice  can  lure  it ; 

But  there  it  stings  for  evermore 
The  soul  that  must  endure  it. 


WHEN  COLDNESS  WRAPS  THIS  SUFFERING 
CLAY. 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay, 

Ah ! whither  strays  the  immortal  mind 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stray, 

But  leaves  its  darken’d  dust  behind. 

Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trarw 

By  steps  each  planet’s  heavenly  way  ? 

Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  ? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecay’d, 

A thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 

All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  display’d, 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 

E;:ch  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds 
So  darkly  of  departed  years, 

In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds, 

And  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  Creation  peopled  earth. 

Its  eye  shall  roll  through  chaos  back ; 

And  where  the  furthest  heaven  had  birth, 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 

And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes, 

Its  glance  dilate  o’er  all  to  be, 

While  sun  is  quench’d  or  system  breaks, 

Fix’d  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  Love,  Hope,  Hate,  or  Fear, 

It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure : 

And  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year ; 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 

Away,  away,  without  a wing, 

O’er  all,  through  all,  its  thought  shall  fiy ; 

A nameless  and  eternal  thing. 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 

The  King  was  on  his  throne, 

The  Satraps  throng’d  the  hall ; 

A thousand  bright  lamps  shone 
O’er  that  high  festival. 

A thousand  cups  of  gold. 

In  J udali  deem’d  divine — 
Jehovah’s  vessels  hold 

The  godless  Heathen’s  wine. 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall. 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand  : 

The  fingers  of  a man ; — 

A solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice ; 

All  bloodless  wax’d  his  look. 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 

“ Let  the  men  of  lore  appear. 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 

And  expound  the  words  of  fear 
Which  mar  our  royal  mirth.” 

Chaldea’s  seers  are  good, 

But  here  they  have  no  skill ; 

And  the  unknown  letters  stood 
Untold  and  awful  still. 

And  Babel’s  men  of  age 
Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore  ; 

But  now  they  were  not  sage, 

They  saw — but  knew  no  mor<? 

A captive  in  the  land, 

A stranger  and  a youth. 

He  heard  the  king’s  command, 

He  saw  that  writing’s  truth, 

The  lamps  around  were  bright. 

The  prophecy  in  view  ; 

He  read  it  on  that  night, — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

“ Belshazzar’s  grave  is  made, 

His  kingdom  pass’d  away, 

He,  in  the  balance  weigh’d, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay, 

The  shroud,  his  robe  of  state, 

His  canopy  the  stone : 

The  Mede’  is  at  his  gate  ! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne  ! ” 


SUN  OF  THE  SLEEPLESS  1 

Sun  of  the  sleepless ! melancholy  star  ! 

Whose  tearful  beam  glows  tremulously  far, 

That  show’st  the  darkness  thou  canst  not  dispel. 
How  like  art  thou  to  joy  remember’d  well ! 

So  gleams  the  past,  the  light  of  other  days, 

Which  shines,  but  warms  not  with  its  powerless  nys 
A night-boam  Sorrow  watcheth  to  behold, 

Distinct,  but  distant — clear — but  oh,  how  cold ! 

3 o 


466  LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


WERE  MY  BOSOM  AS  FALSE  AS  THOU 
DEEM’ST  IT  TO  BE. 

Were  my  bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem’st  it  to  be, 

I need  not  have  wander’d  from  far  Galilee ; 

It  was  but  abjuring  my  creed  to  efface 

The  curse  which,  thou  say’st,  is  the  crime  of  my  race : 

If  the  bad  never  triumph,  then  God  is  with  thee ! 

If  the  slave  only  sin,  thou  art  spotless  and  free ! 

If  the  Exile  on  earth  is  an  Outcast  on  high, 

Live  on  in  thy  faith,  but  in  mine  I will  die. 

I have  lost  for  that  faith  more  than  thou  canst  bestow, 
As  the  God  who  permits  thee  to  prosper  doth  know ; 
In  his  hand  is  my  heart  and  my  hope — and  in  thine 
The  land  and  the  life  which  for  him  I resign. 


HEROD’S  LAMENT  FOR  MARIAMNE.1 
Oh,  Mariamne  ! now  for  thee 

The  heart  for  which  thou  bled’st  is  bleeding ; 
Revenge  is  lost  in  agony, 

And  wild  remorse  to  rage  succeeding. 

Oh,  Mariamne  ! where  art  thou  ? 

Thou  canst  not  hear  my  bitter  pleading. 

Ah  ! couldst  thou — thou  wouldst  pardon  now, 
Though  Heaven  were  to  my  prayer  unheeding. 

And  is  she  dead  ? — and  did  they  dare 
Obey  my  frenzy’s  jealous  raving  ? 

My  wrath  but  doom’d  my  own  despair : 

The  sword  that  smote  her ’s  o’er  me  waving. — 
But  thou  art  cold,  my  murder’d  love ! 

A nd  this  dark  heart  is  vainly  craving 
For  her. who  soars  alone  above, 

And  leaves  my  soul  unworthy  saving. 

She’s  gone,  who  shared  my  diadem ; 

She  sunk,  with  her  my  joys  entombing ; 
i swept  that  flower  from  Judah’s  stem, 

Whose  leaves  for  me  alone  were  blooming ; 

And  mine’s  the  guilt,  and  mine  the  hell, 

This  bosom’s  desolation  dooming ; 

And  I have  earn’d  those  tortures  well. 

Which  unconsumed  are  still  consuming  ! 


ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF 
JERUSALEM  BY  TITUS. 

From  the  last  hill  that  looks  on  thy  once  holy  dome 
I beheld  thee,  oh  Sion  ! when  render’d  to  Rome  : 
*Twas  thy  last  sun  went  down,  and  the  flames  of  thy  fall 
Flash’d  back  on  the  last  glance  I gave  to  thy  wall. 

I look’d  for  thy  temple,  I look’d  for  my  home, 

And  forgot  for  a moment  my  bondage  to  come ; 

I beheld  but  the  death-fire  that  fed  on  thy  fane, 

And  the  fast  fetter’d  hands  that  made  vengeance  in  vain. 

On  many  an  eve,  the  high  spot  whence  I gazed 
Had  reflected  the  last  beam  of  day  as  it  blazed ; 

WJiik  1 stood  on  the  height,  and  beheld  the  decline 
Of  the  rays  from  the  mountain  that  shone  on  thy  shrine. 


[Mariamne,  the  wife  of  Herod  the  Great,  falling  under  the 
suspicion  of  infidelity,  was  put  to  death  by  his  order.  She  was  a, 
woman  of  unrivalled  beauty,  and  a haughty  spirit:  unhappy  in 

Soinp  the  object  of  passionate  attachment,  which  bordered  oa 
'enzy,  to  a man  who  had  more  or  less  concent  in  tha  murder  of 


And  now  on  that  mountain  I stood  on  that  day, 

But  I mark’d  not  the  twilight  beam  melting  away; 
Oh  ! would  that  the  lightning  had  glared  in  its  stead, 
And  the  thunderbolt  burst  on  the  conqueror’s  head ! 

But  the  Gods  of  the  Pagan  shall  never  profane 
The  shrine  where  Jehovah  disdain’d  not  to  reign; 
And  scatter’d  and  scorn’d  as  thy  people  may  be. 

Our  worship,  oh  Father,  is  only  for  thee. 


BY  THE  RIVERS  OF  BABYLON  WE  SAT 
DOWN  AND  WEPT. 

We  sate  down  and  wept  by  the  waters 
Of  Babel,  and  thought  o"f  the  day 
When  our  foe,  in  the  hue  of  his  slaughters. 

Made  Salem’s  high  places  his  prey ; 

And  ye,  oh  her  desolate  daughters  ! ’ 

Were  scatter’d  all  weeping  away. 

While  sadly  we  gazed  on  the  river 
Which  roll’d  on  in  freedom  below, 

They  demanded  the  song  ; but,  oh  never 
That  triumph  the  stranger  shall  know  S 
May  this  right  hand  be  wither’d  for  ever, 

Ere  it  string  our  high  harp  for  the  foe  ! 

On  the  willow  that  harp  is  suspended, 

Oh  Salem  ! its  sound  should  be  free  ; 

And  the  hour  when  thy  glories  were  ended 
But  left  me  that  token  of  thee  : 

And  ne’er  shall  its  soft  tones  be  blended 
With  the  voice  of  the  spoiler  by  me  ! 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 
The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green. 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen , 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown. 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither’d  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass’d ; 

And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax’d  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heav’d,  and  for  ever  grew 
still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 

But  through  it  there  roll’d  not  the  breath  of  his  pride  : 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 

With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 

The  lances,  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Asliur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 

And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Ba&i ; 

And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord ! 


her  grandfather,  father,  brother,  and  uncle,  and  who  had  tw 
commanded  her  death,  in  case  of  his  own.  Ever  after,  Herod  v 
haunted  by  the  image  of  the  murdered  Mariamne,  until  disorder  cf 
the  mind  brought  on  disorder  of  body,  which  led  tr.  temporary  a - 
rangement.— Mi  lw  am.] 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 


467 


k SPIRIT  PASS’D  BEFORE  ME. 

FROM  JOB. 

A snrjT  pass’d  before  me  : I beheld 
The  face  of  immortality  unveil’d — 

Deep  sleep  came  down  on  every  eye  save  mine — 
And  there  it  stood, — all  formless — but  divine  : 


Along  my  bones  the  creeping  flesh  did  quake  ; 

And  as  my  damp  hair  stiffen’d,  thus  it  spake  : 

“ Is  man  more  just  than  God  ? Is  man  more  pure 
Than  he  who  deems  even  Seraphs  insecure  ? 
Creatures  of  clay — vain  dwellers  in  the  dust ! 

The  moth  survives  you,  and  are  ye  more  just  ? 
Things  of  a day  ! you  wither  ere  the  night, 
Heedless  and  blind  to  Wisdom’s  wasted  light  l ’** 


Somegttc  pteceg.— me. 


PARE  THEE  WELL.1 * 3 


" Alas  I they  have  been  friends  in  youth ; 

But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  ; 

And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above; 

And  life  is  thorny ; and  youth  is  vain  : 

And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain ; 

* * * * • 

But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 

Like  cliffs,  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 

A dreary  sea  now  flows  between, 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been.” 

Coleridge's  Chriatabel. 


Fake  thee  well ! and  if  for  ever, 

Still  for  ever,  fare  thee  well  : 

Even  though  unforgiving,  never 
’Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 

Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 

While  that  placid  sleep  came  o’er  thee 
Which  thou  ne’er  canst  know  again  : 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show ! 

Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 
’Twas  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 

Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee — 
Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 

Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 

Founded  on  another’s  woe : 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me. 

Could  no  other  arm  be  found, 

Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 

To  inflict  a cureless  wound  ? 


(1)  [The  Hebrew  Melodies,  though  obviously  inferior  to  Lord 
BjTon’s  other  works,  display  a skill  in  versification  and  a mastery 
in  diction,  whicn  would  have  raised  an  inferior  artist  to  the  very 
summit  of  distinction. — Jeffrey.] 

[It  was  about  the  middle  of  April  that  his  twio  celebrated 
copies  of  verses,  “ Fare  thee  well,”  and  “ A Sketch,”  made  their 
appearance  in  the  newspapers;  and  while  the  latter  poem  was 
generally,  and,  it  must  be  owned,  justly  condemned,  as  a sort  of 
literary  assault  on  an  obscure  female,  whose  situation  ought  to 
have  placed  her  as  much  beneath  his  satire,  as  the  undignified 
mode  of  his  attack  certainly  raised  her  above  it,  with  regard  to  the 
other  poem,  opinions  were  a good  deal  more  divided.  To  many  it 
appeared  a strain  of  true  conjugal  tenderness, — a kind  of  appeal 
which  no  woman  with  a heart  could  resist;  while,  by  others,  on 
the  contrary,  it  was  considered  to  be  a mere  showy  effusion  of 
sentiment,  as  difficult  for  real  feeling  to  have  produced  as  it  was 
easy  for  fancy  and  art,  and  altogether  unworthy  of  the  deep  in- 

terests involved  in  the  subject.  To  this  latter  opinion  I confess 


Yet,  oil  yet,  thyself  deceive  not ; 

Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay. 

But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 
Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away  : 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth — 

Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat ; 

And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is — that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 
Than  the  wail  above  the  dead ; 

Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 
Wake  us  from  a widow’d  bed. 

And  when  thou  would  solace  gather. 

When  our  child’s  first  accents  flow. 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  “Father!” 
Though  his  care  she  must  forego  ? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  press’d, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  thee. 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  bless’d  ! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 
Those  thou  never  more  may’st  see. 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 

All  my  madness  none  can  know ; 

All  my  hopes,  where’er  thou  goest, 

Wither,  yet  with  thee  they  go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken  ; 

Pride,  which  not  a world  could  bow, 

Bows  to  thee — by  thee  forsaken, 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now : 


my  own  to  have,  at  first,  strongly  inclined:  and  suspicious  as  I 
could  not  help  thinking  the  sentiment  that  could,  at  such  a 
moment,  indulge  in  such  verses,  the  taste  that  prompted  or  sanc- 
tioned their  publication  appeared  to  me  even  still  more  question- 
able. On  reading,  however,  his  own  account  of  all  the  circum- 
stances in  the  Memoranda,  I found  that  on  both  points  I had,  in 
common  with  a large  portion  of  the  public,  done  him  injustice. 
He  there  described,  and  in  a manner  whose  sincerity  there  was  no 
doubting,  the  swell  of  tender  recollections  under  the  influence  of 
which,  as  he  sat  one  night  musing  in  J/s  study,  these  stanzas  were 
produced, — the  tears,  as  he  said,  falling  fast  over  the  paper  as  he 
wrote  them.  Neither  did  it  appear,  from  that  account,  to  have 
been  from  any  wish  or  intention  of  his  own,  but  through  the  in 
judicious  zeal  of  a friend  whom  he  had  suffered  to  take  a copy, 
tnat  the  verses  met  the  public  eye. — Moore.  The  appearance  cf 
the  MS.  confirms  this  account  of  the  circumstances  under  which  it 
was  written.  It  is  blotted  all  over  with  the  marks  of  tears.] 


468 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


B':t  ’tis  done, — all  words  are  idle — 

Words  from  me  are  vainer  still ; 

But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 
Force  their  way  without  the  will. — 

Fare  thee  well ! — thus  disunited. 

Torn  from  every  nearer  tie, 

Sear’d  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted, 

More  than  this  I scarce  can  die. 

March  17,  1816. 


A SKETCH.1 


Honest — honest  Iago ! 

If  that  thou  be’st  a devil,  1 cannot  kill  thee.” 

______  Shakspeare. 


Bukn  in  the  garret,  in  the  kitchen  bred. 

Promoted  thence  to  deck  her  mistress’  head ; 

Next — for  some  gracious  service  unexpress’d, 

And  from  its  wages  only  to  be  guess’d — 

Raised  from  the  toilet  to  the  table, — where 
Her  wondering  betters  wait  behind  her  chair. 

With  eye  unmoved,  and  forehead  unabash’d, 

She  dines  from  off  the  plat  e she  lately  wash’d. 

Quick  with  the  tale,  and  ready  with  the  lie — 

The  genial  confidante,  and  general  spy — 

Who  could,  ye  gods ! her  next  employment  guess — 
An  only  infant’s  earliest  governess  ! 

She  taught  the  child  to  read,  and  taught  so  well. 

That  she  herself,  by  teaching,  learn’d  to  spell. 

An  adept  next  in  penmanship  she  grows. 

As  many  a nameless  slander  deftly  shows  : 

What  she  had  made  the  pupil  of  her  art, 

None  know — but  that  high  Soul  secured  the  heart, 
And  panted  for  the  truth  it  could  not  hear, 

With  longing  breast  and  undeluded  ear. 

Foil’d  was  perversion  by  that  youthful  mind, 

Which  Flattery  fool’d  not — Baseness  could  not  blind, 
Deceit  infect  not — near  Contagion  soil — 

Indulgence  weaken — nor  Example  spoil — 

Nor  master’d  Science  tempt  her  to  look  down 
On  humbler  talents  with  a pitying  frown — 

Nor  Genius  swell — nor  Beauty  render  vain — 

Nor  Envy  ruffle  to  retaliate  pain — 

Nor  Fortune  change — Pride  raise — nor  Passion  bow, 
Nor  Virtue  teach  austerity — till  now. 

Serenely  purest  of  her  sex  that  live, 

But  wanting  one  sweet  weakness — to  forgive. 

Too  shock’d  at  faults  her  soul  can  never  know, 

She  deems  that  all  could  be  like  her  below  : 

Foe  to  all  vice,  yet  hardly  Virtue’s  friend, 

For  Virtue  pardons  those  she  would  amend. 

But  to  the  theme : — now  laid  aside  too  long, 

The  baleful  burthen  of  this  honest  song — 

Though  all  her  former  functions  are  no  more, 

She  rules  the  circle  which  she  served  before. 

If  mothers — none  know  why — before  her  quake  ; 

If  daughters  dread  her  for  the  mothers’  sake ; 

If  early  habits — those  false  links,  which  bind 
At  times  the  loftiest  to  the  meanest  mind — 


(1)  t ‘ I send  you  my  last  night’s  dream,  and  request  to  have  fifty 
copies  struck  off,  for  private  distribution.  I wish  Mr.  Gifford  to 
look  at  them.  They  are  from  life.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray, 
March  30,  1816.] 

(2)  [In  first  draught — “weltering.” — “1  doubt  about  * weltering. 
We  say  * weltering  in  blood  but  do  not  they  also  use  ‘ weltering 


Have  given  ner  power  too  deeply  to  instil 
The  angry  essence  of  her  deadly  will ; 

If  like  a snake  she  steal  within  your  walls, 

Till  the  black  slime  betray  her  as  she  crawls ; 

If  like  a viper  to  the  heart  she  wind, 

And  leave  the  venom  there  she  did  not  find ; 

What  marvel  that  this  hag  of  hatred  works 
Eternal  evil  latent  as  she  lurks, 

To  make  a Pandemonium  where  she  dwells, 

And  reign  the  Hecate  of  domestic  hells  ? 

Skill’d  by  a touch  to  deepen  scandal’s  tints 
With  all  the  kind  mendacity  of  hints,  [smile:  — 
While  mingling  truth  with  falsehood — sneers  w.:u 
A thread  of  candour  with  a web  of  wiles  ; 

A plain  blunt  show  of  briefly-spoken  seeming, 

To  hide  her  bloodless  heart’s  soul-harden’d  scheming ; 
A lip  of  lies — a face  form’d  to  conceal ; 

And,  without  feeling,  mock  at  all  who  feel : 

With  a vile  mask  the  Gorgon  would  disown  ; 

A cheek  of  parchment — and  an  eye  of  stone. 

Mark,  how  the  channels  of  her  yellow  blood 
Ooze  to  her  skin,  and  stagnate  there  to  mud, 

Cased  like  the  centipede  in  saffron  mail, 

Or  darker  greenness  of  the  scorpion’s  scale — 

(For  drawn  from  reptiles  only  may  we  trace 
Congenial  colours  in  that  soul  or  face) — 

Look  on  her  features  ! and  behold  her  mind 
As  in  a mirror  of  itself  defined  ; 

Look  on  the  picture ! deem  it  not  o’ercharged — 
There  is  no  trait  which  might  not  be  enlarged : 

Yet  true  to  “ Nature’s  journeymen,”  who  made 
This  monster  when  their  mistress  left  off  trade — 

This  female  dog-star  of  her  little  sky, 

Where  all  beneath  her  influence  droop  or  die. 

Oh ! wretch  without  a tear — without  a thought. 
Save  joy  above  the  ruin  thou  hast  wrought — 

The  time  shall  come,  nor  long  remote,  when  thou 
Shalt  feel  far  more  than  thou  inflictest  now ; 

Feel  for  thy  vile  self-loving  self  in  vain. 

And  turn  thee  howling  in  unpitied  pain. 

May  the  strong  curse  of  crush’d  affections  light 
Back  on  thy  bosom  with  reflected  blight ! 

And  make  thee  in  thy  leprosy  of  mind 
As  loathsome  to  thyself  as  to  mankind  ! 

Till  all  thy  self-thoughts  curdle  into  hate, 

Black — as  thy  will  for  others  would  create  : 

Till  thy  hard  heart  be  calcined  into  dust, 

And  thy  soul  welter  in  its  hideous  crust. 

Oh,  may  thy  grave  be  sleepless  as  the  bed, — 

The  widow’d  couch  ©f  fire,  that  thou  hast  spread 
Then,  when  thou  fain  wouldst  weary  Heaven  with 
prayer. 

Look  on  thine  earthly  victims — and  despair ! 

Down  to  the  dust ! — and,  as  thou  rott’st  away. 

Even  worms  shall  perish  on  thy  poisonous  clay. 

But  for  the  love  I bore,  and  still  must  bear. 

To  her  thy  malice  from  all  ties  would  tear — 

Thy  name — thy  human  name — to  every  eye 
The  climax  of  all  scorn  should  hang  on  high, 

Exalted  o’er  thy  less  abhorr’d  compeers — 

And  festering2  in  the  infamy  of  years. 

March  29,  181  rt. 


in  the  wind,’  * weltering  on  a gibbet  ?’  I have  no  dictionary,  so 
look.  In  the  mean  time,  I have  put  ‘festering;’  which,  perhaps- 
in  any  case  is  the  best  word  of  the  two.  Shakspeare  has  it  often, 
and  I do  not  think  it  too  strong  for  the  figure  in  this  thin},.  (Juickl 
quick  1 quick  1 quick  1 ” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray , April  2.J 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 


409 


STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA.1 * 

When  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark, 

And  reason  half  withheld  her  ray — 

And  hope  but  shed  a dying  spark 
Which  more  misled  my  lonely  way  ; 

In  tliat  deep  midnight  of  the  mind, 

And  that  internal  strife  of  heart, 

When  dreading  to  be  deem’d  too  kind, 

The  weak  despair — the  cold  depart ; 

When  fortune  changed — and  love  fled  far, 
And  hatred’s  shafts  flew  thick  and  fast, 
Thou  wert  the  solitary  star 

Which  rose,  and  set  not  to  the  last. 

Oh  ! blest  be  thine  unbroken  light ! 

That  watch’d  me  as  a seraph’s  eye, 

And  stood  between  me  and  the  night, 

For  ever  shining  sweetly  nigh. 

And  when  the  cloud  upon  us  came. 

Which  strove  to  blacken  o’er  thy  ray — 
Then  purer  spread  its  gentle  flame, 

And  dash’d  the  darkness  all  away. 

Still  may  thy  spirit  dwell  on  mine, 

And  teach  it  what  to  brave  or  brook — 
There’s  more  in  one  soft  word  of  thine 
Than  in  the  world’s  defied  rebuke. 

Thou  stood’st,  as  stands  a lovely  tree, 

That  still  unbroke,  though  gently  bent, 

Still  waves  with  fond  fidelity 
Its  boughs  above  a monument. 

The  winds  might  rend — the  skies  might  pour. 
But  there  thou  wert — and  still  wouldst  be 
Devoted  in  the  stormiest  hour 

To  shed  thy  weeping  leaves  o’er  me. 

But  thou  and  thine  shall  know  no  blight, 
Whatever  fate  on  me  may  fall ; 

For  heaven  in  sunshine  will  requite 
The  kind — and  thee  the  most  of  all. 

Then  let  the  ties  of  baffled  love 

Be  broken — thine  will  never  break  ; 

Thy  heart  can  feel — but  will  not  move  ; 

Thy  soul,  though  soft,  will  never  shake. 

And  these,  when  all  was  lost  beside, 

Were  found  and  still  are  fix’d  in  thee ; — 
And  bearing  still  a breast  so  tried. 

Earth  is  no  desert — ev’n  to  me. 


STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA.’ 

Though  the  day  of  my  destiny’s  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined,3 

(1)  [The  Poet’s  sister,  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Leigh. — These 
stanzas — the  parting  tribute  to  her,  whose  unshaken  tenderness  had 
been  the  author’s  sole  consolation  during  the  crisis  of  domestic 
misery— were,  we  believe,  the  last  verses  written  by  Lord  Byron  in 
England.  In  a note  to  Mr.  Rogers,  dated  April  16th,  he  say3,— 
“ My  sister  is  now  with  me,  and  leaves  town  to-morrow  ; we  shall 
sot  meet  again  for  some  time  at  all  events, — if  ever  ! and,  under 
theie  circumstances,  I trust  to  stand  excused  to  you  and  Mr.  Sheri- 
dan, for  being  unable  to  wait  upon  him  this  evening.”  On  the 
25th.  the  Poet  took  a last  leave  of  his  native  country.] 

(2)  [These  beautiful  verses,  so  expressive  of  the  writer’s  wounded 
feelings  at  the  moment,  were  written  in  July,  at  the  Campagne 
Diodati,  near  Geneva,  and  transmitted  to  England  for  publication, 
mth  ««uie  other  pieces.  “Be  careful,”  he  says,  “in  printing  the 


Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  disccra** 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find ; 

Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted. 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me, 

And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 
It  never  hath  found  but  in  thee. 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling. 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 

I do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  ol  thine ; 

And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean. 

As  the  breasts  I believed  <n  with  me. 

If  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  Chee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  ?s  shiver’d, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave, 
Though  I feel  that  my  soul  is  deliver’d 
To  pain — it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 

There  is  many  a pang  to  pursue  me : 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn — ■ 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

’Tis  of  the e that  I think — not  of  them.4  , 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me. 
Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake, 

Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me, 
Though  slander’d,  thou  never  couidst  shake, — 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me. 
Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly. 

Though  watchful,  ’twas  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor,  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie.5 

Yet  I blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one — 

If  my  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

’Twas  folly  not  sooner  to  shun  : 

And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me. 

And  more  than  I once  could  foresee, 

I have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perish’d. 
Thus  much  I at  least  may  recall, 

It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I most  cherish’d 
Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all : 

In  the  desert  a fountain  is  springing. 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a tree. 

And  a bird  in  the  solitude  singing, 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 

July  24,  7816. 


EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTA.6 
My  sister ! my  sweet  sister ! if  a name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine. 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I claim 
No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine; 


stanzas  beginning,  ‘ Though  the  day  of  my  destiny ’s,’  &c.,  which  1 

think  well  of  as  a composition.”] 

(3)  [“  Though  the  days  of  my  glory  are  over, 

And  the  sun  of  my  fame  hath  declined.” — MS.] 

(4)  [“  There  is  many  a pang  to  pursue  me, 

And  many  a peril  to  stem  : 

They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me; 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn.”— MS'.] 

(5)  [“  Though  watchful,  'twas  but  to  reclaim  me, 

Nor,  silent,  to  sanction  a lie.” — MS.] 

(6)  [These  stanzas— “ Than  which,”  says  the  Quarterly  Review, 
for  January,  1831 , “ there  is,  perhaps,  nothing  more  mournfully  aad 
desolately  beautiful  in  the  whole  range  of  Lord  Byron’s  poetry”— 
were  also  written  in  Diodati ; and  sent  home  at  the  time  for  pubH 


470 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Go  where  I will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same — 

A loved  regret  which  I would  not  resign. 

There  yet  arc  two  things  in  my  destiny, — 

A world  to  roam  through,  and  a home  with  thee. 

The  first  were  nothing — had  I still  the  last. 

It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness  ; 

But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast, 

And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  them  less. 

A strange  doom  is  thy  father’s  son’s,  and  past 
Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress  ; 

Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire’s1  fate  of  yore, — 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I on  shore. 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 
In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 
Of  perils,  overlook’d  or  unforeseen, 

I have  sustain’d  my  share  of  worldly  shocks, 

The  fault  was  mine  ; nor  do  I seek  to  screen 
My  errors  with  defensive  paradox ; 

I have  been  cunning  in  mine  overthrow. 

The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  reward, 

My  whole  life  was  a contest,  since  the  day 
That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that  which  marr’d 
The  gift, — a fate,  or  will,  that  walk’d  astray  ; 

And  I at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard, 

And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of  clay : 

But  now  I fain  would  for  a time  survive, 

If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I have  outlived,  and  yet  I am  not  old ; 

And  when  I look  on  this,  the  petty  spray 
Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which  have  roll’d 
Like  a wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away  : 
Something — I know  not  what — does  still  uphold 
A spirit  of  slight  patience  ; — not  in  vain, 

Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me, — or  perhaps  a cold  despair, 

Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  recur, — 

Perhaps  a kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 

(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer, 

And  with  light  armour  we  may  learn  to  bear,) 

Have  taught  me  a strange  quiet,  which  was  not 
The  chief  companion  of  a calmer  lot. 

I feel  almost  at  times  as  I have  felt 
In  happy  childhood  ; trees,  and  flowers,  and  brooks 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I dwelt 
Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books, 

Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 
My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks ; 

And  even  at  moments  I could  think  I see 
Some  living  thing  to  love — but  none  like  thee. 


cation,  in  case  Mrs.  Leigh  should  sanction  it.  “ There  is,”  he  says, 
“ amongst  the  manuscripts  an  Epistle  to  my  Sister,  on  which  1 
should  wish  her  opinion  to  be  consulted  before  publication  ; if  she 
objects-  of  course  omit  it.”  On  the  5th  of  October  he  writes, — 
“ My  sister  has  decided  on  the  omission  of  the  lines.  Upon  this 
point,  her  option  will  be  followed  As  I have  no  copy  of  them,  I 
request  that  you  will  preserve  one  for  me  in  MS. ; for  I never  can 
remember  a line  of  that  nor  any  other  composition  of  mine.  God 
help  me!  if  I proceed  in  this  scribbling,  I shall  have  frittered  away 
my  mind  before  I am  thirty ; but  poetry  is  at*  times  a real  relief  to 
me.  To-morrow  I am  for  Italy.”  The  Epistle  was  first  given  to 
the  world  in  1830.] 

(1)  [Admiral  Byron  was  remarkable  for  never  making  a voyage 
without  a tempest,  lie  was  known  to  the  sailors  by  the  facetious 
name  of  “ Foul- weather  Jack.” 


Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  create 
A fund  for  contemplation ; — to  admire 
Is  a brief  feeling  of  a trivial  date  ; 

But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  inspire  : 
Here  to  be  lonely  is  not  desolate, 

Por  much  I view  which  I could  most  desire, 

And,  above  all,  a lake  I can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

Oh  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  ! — but  I grow 
The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  I have  vaunted  so 
Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret ; 

There  may  be  others  which  I less  may  show  ; — 

I am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 

And  the  tide  rising  in  my  alter’d  eye. 

I did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake,2 
By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 
Leman’s  is  fair  ; but  think  not  I forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a dearer  shore  : 

Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make. 

Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before  ; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I have  loved,  they  arc 
Resign’d  for  ever,  or  divided  far. 

The  world  is  all  before  me  ; I but  ask 
Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply — 

It  is  but  in  her  summer’s  sun  to  bask. 

To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky, 

To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a mask, 

And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 

She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall  be 
My  sister— till  I look  again  on  thee. 

I can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one  ; 

And  that  I would  not ; for  at  length  I see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  begun. 

The  earliest — even  the  only  paths  for  me — 

Had  I but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  shun, 

I had  been  better  than  I now  can  be ; 

The  passions  which  have  torn  me  would  have  slept , 
/had  not  suffer’d,  and  thou  hadst  not  wept. 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  I to  do  ? 

Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with  Fame; 

And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me  grew, 
And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make — a name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I did  pursue; 

Surely  I once  beheld  a nobler  aim. 

But  all  is  over — I am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone  before 

And  for  the  future,  this  world’s  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care  ; 

I have  outlived  myself  by  many  a day ; 

Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were ; 


“ But,  though  it  were  tempest-toss’d, 

Still  his  hark  could  not  be  lost.” 

He  returned  safely  from  the  wreck  of  the  Wager  (in  Anson’s  voyagej, 
and  circumnavigated  the  world,  many  years  alter,  as  commander  ol 
a similar  expedition.] 

(2)  The  Lake  of  Newstead  Abbey.  [Thus  described  in  Do* 
J uan  : — 

“ Before  the  mansion  lay  a lucid  lake, 

Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 
By  a river,  which  its  soften’d  way  did  take 
In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spiead 
Around : the  wild  fowl  nestled  in  the  brake 
And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed; 

The  woods  sloped  downwards  to  its  brink,  and  stootf 
With  their  green  faces  fix’d  upon  the  flood."] 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 


*±  i i 


Mv  yc.vs  hwe  been  no  slumber,  but  the  prey 
. Of  ceaseless  vigils ; for  I had  the  share 
Of  life  which  might  have  fill  d a century, 

;cfore  its  fourth  in  time  had  pass’d  me  by. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come 
I am  content;  and  for  the  past  I feel 
Xot  thankless —for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would  steal, 
\nd  O the  present,  I would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  farther.— Nor  shall  I conceal 
That  with  all  this  I still  can  look  around, 
ind  worship  Nature  with  a thought  profound. 

Tor  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
I know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine ; 

We  were  and  are — 1 am,  even  as  thou  art 
Beings  who  ne’er  each  other  can  resign ; 

It  is!. he  same,  together  or  apart, 

Erom  life’s  commencement  to  its  slow  decline 
We  are  entwined— let  death  come  slow  or  fast, 
rhe  tie  which  bound  the  first  endures  the  last  ! 


LINES 

ON  HEARING  THAT  LADY  BYRON  WAS  ILL.1 

Ind  thou  wert  sad — yet  I was  not  with  thee ! 

And  thou  wert  sick,  and  yet  I was  not  near ; 
Rethought  that  joy  and  health  alone  could  be 
Where  1 was  not— and  pain  and  sorrow  here. 
Ind  is  it  thus  ? — it  is  as  I foretold. 

And  shall  be  more  so ; for  the  mind  recoils 
Upon  itself,  and  the  wreck’d  heart  lies  cold, 

While  heaviness  collects  the  shatter’d  spoils. 

[t  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 
We  feel  benumb’d,  and  wish  to  be  no  more, 
But  in  the  after-silence  on  the  shore, 

When  all  is  lost,  except  a little  life. 

I am  too  well  avenged  !— but  ’twas  my  right ; 

Whate’er  my  sins  might  be,  thou  wert  not  sent 
To  be  the  Nemesis  who  should  requite — 

Nor  did  Heaven  choose  so  near  an  instrument. 


Mercy  is  for  the  merciful ! — if  tlou 
Hast  been  of  such,  ’twill  be  accorded  now. 

Thy  nights  are  banish’d  from  the  realms  of  sleep  ! — 
Yes  ! they  may  flatter  thee,  but  thou  shall  feel 
A hollow' agony  which  will  not  heal, 

For  thou  art  pillow’d  on  a curse  too  deep ; 

Thou  hast  sown  in  my  sorrow,  and  must  reap 
The  bitter  harvest  'in  a woe  as  real ! 

I have  had  many  foes,  but  none  like  thee ; 

For  ’gainst  the  rest  myself  I could  defend, 

And  be  avenged,  or  turn  them  into  friend ; 

But  thou  in  safe  implacability 

Hadst  nought  to  dread  — in  thy  own  weakn^s 
shielded, 

And  in  my  love,  which  hath  but  too  much  yielded., 
And  spared,  for  thy  sake,  some  I should  not  spaie  - 
And  thus  upon  the  world— trust  in  thy  truth— 

And  the  wild  fame  of  my  ungovern’d  youth — 

On  things  that  were  not,  and  on  things  that  are-- 
Even  upon  such  a basis  hast  thou  built 
A monument,  whose  cement  hath  been  guilt ! 

The  moral  Clytemnestra  of  thy  lord, 

And  hew’d  down,  with  an  unsuspected  sword, 

Fame,  peace,  and  hope — and  all  the  better  life 
Which,  but  for  this  cold  treason  of  thy  heart. 
Might  still  have  risen  from  out  the  grave  of  strife, 
And  found  a nobler  duty  than  to  part.  > 

But  of  thy  virtues  didst  thou  make  a vice, 

Trafficking  with  them  in  a purpose  cold, 

For  present  anger,  and  for  future  gold 
And  buying  other’s  grief  at  any  price. 

And  thus  once  enter’d  into  crooked  ways, 

The  early  truth,  which  was  thy  proper  praise. 

Did  not  still  walk  beside  thee— but  at  times, 

And  with  a breast  unknowing  its  own  crimes, 

Deceit,  averments  incompatible, 

Equivocations,  and  the  thoughts  which  dwell 
In  Janus-spirits— the  significant  eye 
Which  learns  to  lie  with  silence— the  pretext 
Of  Prudence,  with  advantages  annex’d— 

The  acquiescence  in  all  things  which  tend. 

No  matter  how,  to  the  desired  end — 

All  found  a place  in  thy  philosophy. 

The  means  were  worthy,  and  the  end  is  won— 

I would  not  do  by  thee  as  thou  hast  done  !2 

J September.  18lf . 


(11  (These  verses  were  written  immediately  after  the  failure  of 
the  negotiation  for  a reconciliation  before  Lord  Byron  left  Switzer- 
land for  Italy,  but  were  not  intended  for  the  public  eye : as,  how- 
ever, they  have  recently  found  their  way  into  circulation,  we  in- 
clude them  in  this  collection.] 

(2)  [“  Lord  Byron  had  at  least  this  much  to  say  for  himself,  that 
he  was  not  the'  first  to  make  his  domestic  differences  a topic  of 
public  discussion.  On  the  contrary,  he  saw  himself,  ere  any  fact 
but  the  one  undisguised  and  tangible  one  was,  or  could  be  known, 
held  up  every  where,  and  by  every  art  of  malice,  as  the  most  in- 
famous of  men, -because  he  had  parted  from  his  wife.  He  was 
exquisitely  sensitive:  he  was  wounded  at  once  by  a thousand 
arrows  : and  all  this  with  the  most  perfect  and  indignant  know- 
ledge, that  of  all  who  were  assailing  him  wdone  knew  any  thing  ot 
the  real  merits  of  the  case.  Did  he  right,  then,  m publishing  those 
squibs  and  tirades?  No,  certainly:  it  would  have  been  nobler, 
better,  wiset  far,  to  have  utterly  scorned  the  assaults  of  such  ene- 
mies, and  taken  no  notice,  of  any  kind,  of  them.  But,  because  this 
young,  hot-blooded,  proud,  patrician  poet  did  not,  amidst  the 
exacerbation  of  feelings  which  he  could  no$  control,  act  m precisely 
the  most  dignified  and  wisest  of  all  possible  manners  of  action,  are 
we  entitled,  is  the  wcfrld  at  large  entitled  to  issue  a broad  sentence 
of  vituperative  condemnation?  Do  ice  know  all  that  he  had  suf- 
fered?—have  we  imagination  enough  to  comprehend  what  he 
suffered,  under  circumstances  such  as  these  ? — have  we  been  tried  in 
similar  circumstances,  whether  we  could  feel  the  wound  unflinch- 
ingly, and  keep  the  weapon  quiescent  in  the  hand  that  trembled 
with  all  the  excitements  of  insulted  privacy,  honour,  and  faith  ? 
/Let  poop.o  consider  for  a moment  what  it  is  that  they  demand  when 


they  insist  upon  a poet  of  Byron’s  class  abstaining  altogether  from 
expressing  in  his  works  any  thing  of  his  own  feelings  » wggid  to 
anv  thing  that  immediately  concerns  his  own  history.  » . te;*  ^un 
S^pSSTSnn  and" shape,  that  the  great  «d  d»t inguish.ng 
merit  of  his  poetry  is  the  intense  truth  with  wnich  that  poetry  ex 
presses  his  own  personal  feelings.  We  encourage  him  in  eveiyr 
possible  way  to  dissect  his  own  heart  for  our 
tempt  him  by  every  bribe  most  likely  to  act  powerfully  y g 
and  imaginative  man,  to  plunge  into  the  d; “*e  ‘ 
knowledge  ; to  madden  his  brain  with  eternal  sdf-^tini«,  to  find 
his  pride  and  his  pleasure  in  what  others  shrink  fiom  as  tor  ure 
we  tempt  him  to  indulge  in  these  dangerous  exercises,  until  they 
obvious'lv  acquire  the  power  of  leading  him  to  the  very  brink  of 
frenzy— we  tempt  him  to  find,  and  to  see  m this  perilous  vocation, 
the  staple  of  his  existence,  the  food  of  his  ambition,  the  very 
essence  of  his  glorv,— and  the  moment,  that,  by  habits  of  our  ow“ 
creating,  at  least  of  our  own  encouraging  and  confirming,  he  b 
carried  one  single  step  beyond  what  we  haPP®nJ° 
turn  round  with  all  the  bitterness  of  spleen,  and  reproach  him  with 
the  unmanliness  of  entertaining  the  public  with  his  feelings  in  regard 
to  his  separation  from  his  wife.  This  was  truly  the  conduct  of  a 
fair  and  liberal  public!  To  our  view  of  the  rna.ter,  Lord  B}ron. 
treated  as  lie  had  been,  tempted  as  he  had  been,  and  tortured 
insulted  as  he  was  at  the  moment,  did  no  more  forfeit  his  character 
by  writing  what  he  did  write  upon  that  unhappy  occasion,  than 
another  man,  under  circumstances  of  the  same  nature,  would  have 
done,  by  telling  something  of  his  mind  about  it  to  an  mtimate  friend 
across  the  fireT  The  public  had  forced  him  into  the  habits  ol 
familiarity,  and  they  received  his  confidence  with  nothing  but 
anger  and  scorn.” — Lock  HART.] 


ON  THE  DEATH  OE  THE  RIGHT  HON.  R.  B.  SHERIDAN.1 


SPOKEN  AT  DRURY-LANE  THEATRE.2 


When  the  last  sunshine  of  expiring  day 
In  summer’s  twilight  weeps  itself  away, 

Who  hath  not  felt  the  softness  of  the  hour 
Sink  on  the  heart,  as  dew  along  the  flower? 

With  a pure  feeling  which  absorbs  and  awes 
While  Nature  makes  that  melancholy  pause, 

Her  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge  where  Time 
Of  light  and  darkness  forms  an  arch  sublime, 

Who  hath  not  shared  that  calm  so  still  and  deep, 

The  voiceless  thought  which  would  not  speak  but  weep, 
A holy  concord — and  a bright  regret, 

A glorious  sympathy  with  suns  that  set  ? 

’Tie  not  harsh  sorrow — but  a tenderer  woe, 

Nameless,  but  dear  to  gentle  hearts  below, 

Felt  without  bitterness — but  full  and  clear, 

A sweet  dejection — a transparent  tear, 

Unmix’d  with  worldly  grief  or  selfish  stain, 

Shed  without  shame — and  secret  without  pain. 

Even  as  the  tenderness  that  hour  instils 
When  Summer’s  day  declines  along  the  hills, 

So  feels  the  fulness  of  our  heart  and  eyes, 

When  all  of  Genius  which  can  perish  dies. 

A mighty  Spirit  is  eclipsed — a Power 

Hath  pass’d  from  day  to  darkness— to  whose  hour 

Of  light  no  likeness  is  bequeath’d — no  name, 

Focus  at  once  of  all  the  rays  of  Fame  ! 

The  flash  of  Wit — the  bright  Intelligence, 

The  beam  of  Song — the  biaze  of  Eloquence, 

Set  with  their  Sun — but  still  have  left  behind 
The  enduring  produce  of  immortal  Mind ; 

Fruits  of  a genial  morn,  and  glorious  noon, 

A deathless  part  of  him  who  died  too  soon. 


(1)  [Mr.  Sheridan  died  the  7th  of  July,  1816,  and  this  monody 
was  written  at  Diodati  on  the  17th,  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Douglas 
Kinnaird.  “I  did  as  well  as  I could,”  says  Lord  Byron,  “but 
where  I have  not  my  choice,  I pretend  to  answer  for  nothing.”  A 
proof-sheet  of  the  poem,  with  the  words  “ by  request  of  a friend” 
in  the  title-page,  having  reached  him, — “ I request  you,”  he  says, 
“ to  expunge  that  same,  unless  you  please  to  add,  ‘ by  a person  of 
quality,’  or  ‘ of  wit  and  humour.’  It  is  sad  trash,  and  must  have 
been  done  to  make  it  ridiculous.”] 

(2)  [Sheridan’s  own  monody  on  Garrick  was  spoken  from  the 
same  boards,  by  Mrs.  Yates,  in  March,  1779.  “One  day,”  says 
Lord  Byron,  “ I saw  him  take  it  up.  He  lighted  upon  the  dedica- 
tion to  the  Dowager  Lady  Spencer.  On  seeing  it.  he  flew  into  a 
rage  and  exclaimed,  ‘that  it  must  be  a forgery,  as  he  had  never 
dedicated  any  thing  of  his  to  such  a d — d canting,’  &c.  &c. — and 
so  he  went  on  for  half  an  hour  abusing  his  own  dedication,  or  at 
least  the  object  of  it.  If  all  writers  were  equally  sincere,  it  would 
be  lujicrous.” — Byron  Diary , 1821.] 

(3^  [See  Fox,  Burke,  and  Pitt’s  eulogy  on  Mr.  Sheridan’s  speech 
on  the  charges  exhibited  against  Mr.  Hastings  in  the  House  of 
CuffitEons.  Mr.  Pitt  entreated  the  House  to  adjourn,  to  give'time 
for  a caimer  consideration  of  the  question  than  could  then  occur 
after  the  immediate  effect  of  that  oration. — “ Before  my  departure 
from  England,”  says  Gibbon,  “ I was  present  at  the  august  spectacle 
of  Mr.  Hastings’s  trial  in  Westminster  Hall.  It  is  not  my  province 
to  absolve  or  condemn  the  governor  of  India ; but  Mr.  Sheridan’s 
eloquence  demanded  my  applause;  nor  could  I hear  without  emo- 
tion the  personal  compliment  which  he  paid  me  in  the  presence  of 
the  British  nation.  This  display  of  genius  blazed  four  successive 
days,”  &c.  On  being  asked  by  a brother  Whig,  at  the  conclusion 


But  small  that  portion  ot  the  wondrous  whole. 

These  sparkling  segments  of  that  circling  soul. 

Which  all  embraced — and  lighten’d  over  all, 

To  cheer — to  pierce — to  please— or  to  appal. 

From  the  charm’d  council  to  the  Festive  board, 

Of  human  feelings  the  unbounded  lord ; 

In  whose  acclaim  the  loftiest  voices  vied,  [pride. 
The  praised — the  proud — who  made  his  praise  tlieii 
When  the  loud  erv  of  trampled  Hindostan3 
Arose  to  Heaven  in  her  appeal  from  man, 

His  was  the  thunder — his  the  avenging  rod, 

The  wrath — the  delegated  voice  of  God  ! 

Which  shook  the  nations  through  his  lips — and  blazed 
Till  vanquish’d  senates  trembled  as  they  praised.4 5 

And  here,  oh  ! here,  where  yet  all  young  and  warm, 
The  gay  creations  of  his  spirit  charm, 

The  matchless  dialogue — the  deathless  wit, 

Which  knew  not  what  it  was  to  intermit ; 

The  glowing  portraits,  fresh  from  life,  that  bring 
Home  to  our  hearts  the  truth  from  which  they  spring , 
These  wondrous  beings  of  his  Fancy,  wrought 
To  fulness  by  the  fiat  of  his  thought,  * 

Here  in  their  first  abode  you  still  may  meet, 

Bright  with  the  hues  of  his  Promethean  heat ; 

A halo  of  the  light  of  other  days, 

Which  still  the  splendour  of  its  orb  betrays. 

But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  Wisdom  yields  a base  delight, 

Men  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jar  in  the  music  which  was  born  their  own, 

Still  let  them  pause — all ! little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seem’d  Vice  might  be  but  Woe.* 


of  the  speech,  how  he  came  to  compliment  Gibbon  with  the  epithet 

“ luminous,”  Sheridan  answered,  in  a half  whisper,  “ 1 said, 

‘voluminous.’”] 

(4)  [“I  heard  Sheridan  only  once,  and  that  briefly ; but  I liked 
his  voice,  his  manner,  and  his  wit.  He  is  the  only  one  of  them  I , 
ever  wished  to  hear  at  greater  length.” — Byron  Diary , 1821.] 

(5)  [“  Once  I saw  Sheridan  cry,  after  a splendid  dinner.  I had 
the  honour  of  sitting  next  him.  The  occasion  of  his  tears  was  some 
observation  or  other  upon  the  subject  of  the  sturdiness  of  the  Whigs 
in  resisting  office  and  keeping  to  their  principles.  Sheridan  turned 
round: — ‘Sir,  it  is  easy  for  my  Lord  G.  or  Earl  G.  or  Marquis  B. 
or  Lord  H.,  with  thousands  upon  thousands  a year,  some  of  it 
either  presently  derived  or  inherited  in  sinecure  or  acquisitions 
from  the  public  money,  to  boast  of  their  patriotism  and  keep  aloof 
from  temptation:  but  they  do  not  know  from  what  temptation 
those  have  kept  aloof  who  had  equal  pride,  at  least  equal  talents,  j 
and  not  unequal  passions,  and  nevertheless  knew  not  in  the  course  j 
of  their  lives  what  it  was  to  have  a shilling  of  their  own.’  And  in 
saying  this  he  wept.  I have  more  than  once  heard  him  say,  ‘ that 
he  never  had  a shilling  of  his  own.’  To  be  sure,  he  contrived  to  . 
extract  a good  many  of  other  people’s  In  1815,  1 found  him  at  f 
my  lawyer’s.  Alter  mutual  greetings,  he  retired.  Before  recurring 

to  my  own  business,  I could  not  help  inquinng  that  of  Sheridan.  I 
‘ Oh,’  replied  the  attorney,  ‘ the  usual  thing ! to  stave  ofl  an  action.’ 

— ‘ Well,’  said  I,  1 and  what  do  you  mean  to  do?  ’ — ‘ Nothing  at  all  J 
for  the  present,’  said  he:  ‘ would  you  have  us  proceed  against  old 
Sherry  ? what  would  be  the  use  of  it  ? ’ and  here  he  began  laughing, 
and  going  over  Sheridan’s  good  gifts  of  conversation.  Such  wai 
Sheridan!  he  could  soften  an  attorney!  There  has  been  nothing 
like  it  since  the  days  of  Orpheus.” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 


THE  DREAM. 


473 


Hard  is  liis  fate  on  whom  the  public  gaze 
Is  fix’d  for  ever  to  detract  or  praise ; 

Repose  denies  her  requiem  to  his  name. 

And  Folly  loves  the  martyrdom  of  Fame. 

Hie  secret  enemy  whose  sleepless  eye 
Stands  sentinel — accuser— judge — and  spy, 

The  foe — the  fool — the  jealous — and  the  vain. 

The  envious  who  but  breathe  in  others’  pain, 

Behold  the  host ! delighting  to  deprave, 

TTud  track  the  steps  of  Glory  to  the  grave. 

Watch  every  fault  that  daring  Genius  owes 
Half  to  the  ardour  which  its  birth  bestows, 

Distort  the  truth,  accumulate  the  lie, 

And  pile  the  pyramid  of  Calumny ! 

These  are  his  portion — but  if  join’d  to  these 
Gaunt  Poverty  should  league  with  deep  Disease, 

If  the  high  Spirit  must  forget  to  soar, 

And  stoop  to  strive  with  Misery  at  the  door,* 1 

To  soothe  Indignity — and  face  to  face 

Meet  sordid  Rage— and  wrestle  with  Disgrace, 

To  find  in  Hope  but  the  renew’d  caress, 

The  serpent-fold  of  further  Faithlessness  ! — 

If  such  may  be  the  ills  which  men  assail, 

What  marvel  if  at  last  the  mightiest  fail  ? 

Breasts  to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling  given 
Bear  hearts  electric — charged  with  fire  from  Heaven, 
Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn, 

By  clouds  surrounded,  and  on  whirlwinds  borne, 


Driven  o’er  the  lowering  atmosphere  that  nurst 
Thoughts  which  have  turn’d  to  thunder — scorch — md 
burst.2 

But  far  from  us  and  from  our  mimic  scene 
Such  things  should  be — if  such  have  ever  been; 

Ours  be  the  gentler  wish,  the  kinder  task, 

To  give  the  tribute  Glory  need  not  ask, 

To  mourn  the  vanish’d  beam — and  add  our  mite 
Of  praise  in  payment  of  a long  delight. 

Ye  Orators  ! whom  yet  our  councils  yield, 

Mourn  for  the  veteran  Hero  of  your  field  ! 

The  worthy  rival  of  the  wondrous  Three  f 3 
Whose  words  were  sparks  of  Immortality ! 

Ye  Bards  ! to  whom  the  Drama’s  Muse  is  dear, 

He  was  your  Master — emulate  him  here  ! 

Ye  men  of  wit  and  social  eloquence  ! 4 
He  was  your  brother — bear  his  ashes  hence ! 

While  Powers  of  mind  almost  of  boundless  range,* 
Complete  in  kind — as  various  in  their  change, 

While  Eloquence — Wit— Poesy — and  Mirth, 

That  humbler  Harmonist  of  care  on  Earth, 

Survive  within  our  souls — while  lives  our  sense 
Of  pride  in  Merit’s  proud  pre-eminence, 

Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness — long  in  vain, 

And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain, 

Sighing  that  Nature  form’d  but  one  such  man, 

And  broke  the  die  —in  moulding  Sheridan. 

Diodati,  July  17,  ISt£ 


Zi)t  sDrcann* 


I. 

Ora  life  is  twofold  : Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
A boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
Death  and  existence : Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 

And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy  ; 
They  leave  a weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 
They  take  a weight  from  off  our  waking  toils, 


(1)  [This  was  not  fiction.  Only  a few  days  before  his  death, 
Sheridan  wrote  thus  to  Mr.  Rogers: — “I  am  absolutely  undone 
and  broken-hearted  They  are  going  to  put  the  carpets  out  of 
window,  and  break  into  Mrs.  S.’s  room  and  take  me:  150 1.  will 
remove  all  difficulty.  For  God’s  sake  let  me  see  you ! ” Mr.  Moore 
was  the  immediate  bearer  of  the  required  sum.  This  was  written 
on  the  15th  of  May.  On  the  14th  of  July,  Sheridan’s  remains  were 
deposited  in  Westminster  Ab'  ey, — bis  pall  bearers  being  the  Duke 
of  Bedford,  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale,  Earl  Mulgrave,  the  Lord  Bishop 
of  London,  Lord  Holland,  and  Earl  Spencer.] 

(2)  [“Abandon’d  by  the  skies,  whose  beams  have  nurst 

Their  very  thunders,  lighten — scorch — and  burst.” — MS.] 

(3)  Fox — Pitt — Burke.  [“  When  Fox  was  asked,  which  he 
thought  the  best  speech  he  had  ever  heard,  he  replied.  ‘Sheri- 
dan’s on  the  impeachment  of  Hastings  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
When  he  made  it,  Fox  advised  him  to  speak  it  over  again  in  West- 
minster Hall  on  the  trial,  as  nothing  better  could  be  made  of  the 
3ub'ect:  but  Sheridan  made  his  new  speech  as  different  as  possi- 
ble, and,  according  to  the  best  judges,  very  inferior,  notwithstand- 
ing the  panegyric  of  Burke,  who  exclaimed  during  the  delivery  of 
some  passages  of  it — ‘There,  that  is  the  true  style  — something 
between  poetry  and  prose,  and  better  than  either.’  ” — Byron  Diary, 
( from  Lord  Holland,)  1821.] 

(4)  [“  In  society  I have  met  Sheridan  frequently.  He  was  superb ! 
I have  seen  him  cut  up  Whitbread,  quiz  Madame  de  Stael,  annihi- 
late Col -nan,  and  do  little  less  by  some  others  of  good  fame  and 
ability  I have  met  him  at  all  olacea  and  parties— at  Whitehall 


They  do  divide  our  being ; they  become 
A portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 

And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity ; 

They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past, — they  speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future ; they  have  power — 

The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 

They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will, 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that’s  gone  by, 

The  dread  of  vanish’d  shadows — Are  they  so  ? 


i,  with  the  Melbournes,  at  the  Marquis  of  Tavistock’s,  at  Robins’* 
>e  the  auctioneers,  at  Sir  Humphrey  Davy’s,  at  Sam  Rogers’s — in  short, 
)f  in  most  kinds  of  company,  and  always  found  him  convivial  and 
11  delightful.” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

■e  (5)  [“  Lord  Holland  toM  me  a curious  piece  of  sentimentality  in 
n Sheridan.  The  other  night  we  were  all  delivering  our  respective 
•e  and  various  opinions  upon  him  and  other  huinmes  marquans,  and 
:e  mine  was  this  : — ‘ Whatever  Sheridan  has  done  or  chosen  to  do  has 
p been  par  excellence  always  the  best  of  its  kind.  He  has  written 
the  best  comedy  (School  for  Scandal),  the  best  drama  (in  my  mind, 
far  beyond  that  St.  Giles’s  lampoon,  the  Beggars’  Opera),  the  best 
] farce  (the  Critic — it  is  only  too  good  for  a farce),  and  the  best 

ie  address  (Monologue  on  Garrick),  and,  to  crown  all,  delivered  the 

i-  very  best  oration  (the  famous  Begum  speech)  ever  conceived  or 
s.  heard  in  this  country.’  Somebody  told  Sheridan  this  the  next  day, 

t-  and,  on  hearing  it,  he  burst  into  tears ! Poor  Brinsley ! if  they 

ie  were  tears  of  pleasure,  I would  rather  have  said  these  few,  liut  most 

i-  sincere,  words,  than  have  written  the  Iliad,  or  made  his  owr  cele- 

1-  brated  philippic.  Nay,  his  own  comedy  never  gratified  me  more 
3f  than  to  hear  that  he  had  derived  a moment’s  gratification  from  aoy 
ig  praise  of  mine.” — Byron  Diary , Dec.  17,  1813.] 

<j,  (6)  [In  the  first  draught  of  this  poem,  Lord  Byron  had  entitled 

it  “ The  Destiny."  Mr.  Moore  says,  “it  cost  him  many  a tear  in 
)!  writing,”  and  justly  characterises  it  as  “ the  most  mournful,  as 
i-  well  as  picturesque  ‘story  of  a wandering  life’  that  ever  came  from 
id  the  per.  and  heart  of  man.”  It  was  eompo*ed  at  Diodati.,  !xx  July 
11  1816.] 

3 p 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


474 

Is  not  the  psst  all  shadow  ? What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind  ? — The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 

I would  recall  a vision  which  I dream’d 
Perchance  in  sleep — for  in  itself  a thought, 

A slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 

And  curdles  a long  life  into  one  hour. 

ii. 

I saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a hill,  a gentle  hill, 

Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  ’twere  the  cape  of  a long  ridge  of  such, 

Sav.e  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 

But  a most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scatter’d  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ; — the  hill 
Was  crown’d  with  a peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fix’d, 

Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man  : 

These  two,  a maiden  and  a youth,  were  there 
Gazing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 

And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful : 

And  both  were  young — yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon’s  verge, 

The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood  ; 

The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 

And  that  was  shining  on  him  ; he  had  look’d 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away ; 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers  : 

She  was  his  voice  ; he  did  not  speak  to  her, 

But  trembled  on  her  words  : she  was  his  sight,1 
For  his  eye  follow’d  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 

Which  colour’d  all  his  objects  : — he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself ; she  was  his  life, 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 

Which  terminated  all : upon  a tone, 

A.  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his  heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share  : 

Her  sighs  were  not  for  him  ; to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a brother — but  no  more ; ’twas  much. 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow’d  on  him ; 

Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 

Of  a time-honour’ d race.2 — It  was'  a name  [why  ? 
Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not — and 
Time  taught  him  a deep  answer — when  she  loved 
Another  ; even  now  she  loved  another, 

And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 


(1)  t “ she  was  his  sight, 

For  never  did  he  turn  his  glance  until 

Her  own  had  led  by  gazing  on  an  object.” — MS.] 

(2)  [See  ante,  p.  184. — “Our  union,”  said  Lord  Byron  in  1821, 
“ would  have  hea.ed  feuds  in  which  blood  had  been  shed  by  our 
fathers — it  would  have  joined  lands,  broad  and  rich — it  would  have 
joiaed  at  least  om  heart  and  two  persons  not  ill-matched  in  years 
(•he  is  two  years  my  elder) — and -and — and — what  has  been  the 
result!”] 

(3i  [The  picture  which  Lord  Byron  has  here  drawn  of  his  youth- 
ful love  shows  how  genius  and  feeling  can  elevate  the  realities  of 
this  life,  and  give  to  the  commonest  events  and  objects  an  undying 
lustre.  The  old  hall  at  Annesley,  under  the  name  of  the  “antique 
oratory,”  will  long  call  up  to  fancy  the  “ maiden  and  the  youth” 
•ho  once  stood  iD  it;  while  the  image  of  the  “lover's  steed,” 


Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover’s  Heed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 

ill. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a steed  caparison’d  : 

Within  an  antique  Oratory  stood 

The  Boy  of  whom  1 spake  he  was  alone, 

And  p;de,  and  pacing  to  and  fro  : anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a pen,  and  traced 
Words  which  I could  not  guess  of;  then  he  lean’d 
His  bow’d  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  ’twere 
With  a convulsion — then  arose  again, 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 
What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears.3 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a kind  of  quiet : as  he  paused, 

The  Lady  of  his  love  re-enter’d  there  ; 

She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved, — she  knew, 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 
Was  darken’d  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all.4 
He  rose,  and  with  a cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand  ; a moment  o’er  his  face 
A tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came  ; 

He  dropp’d  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 
Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles;  he  pass’d 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 

And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way ; 

And  ne’er  repass’d  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

iv. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Boy  was  sprung  to  manhood  : in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a home, 

And  his  Soul  drank  their  sunbeams  : he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects  ; he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ; on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a wanderer ; 

There  was  a mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A part  of  all ; and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 

Couch’d  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruin’d  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  rear’d  them ; by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten’d  near  a fountain ; and  a man 
Clad  in  a flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while, 

While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber’d  around  : 

And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 

So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 

That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  Heaven.5 


though  suggested  by  the  unromantic  race-ground  of  Nottingham, 

will  not  the  less  conduce  to  the  general  charm  of  the  scent,  and 

share  a portion  of  that  light  which  only  Genius  could  shed  over  t. 
— Moore.] 

(4)  [“  I had  long  been  in  love  with  M.  A.  C.,  and  never  told  it, 
though  she  had  discovered  it  without.  I recollect  my  sensations, 
but  cannot  describe  them,  and  it  is  as  well.” — Byron  Diary , 1822.] 

(5)  [This  is  true  keeping — an  Eastern  picture  perfect  in  its  fore- 
ground, and  distance,  and  sky,  and  no  part  of  which  is  so  dwelt 
upon  or  laboured  as  to  obscure  the  principal  figure.  It  is  often  in 
the  slight  and  almost  imperceptible  touches  that  the  hand  of  the 
master  is  shown,  and  that  a single  spark,  struck  from  h>s  fancy 
lightens  with  a long  train  of  illumination  that  of  the  reader.  — Jim 
Walter  Scott.] 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


475 


y, 

Jl  change  cauie  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  One 
Who  did  not  love  her  better: — in  her  home, 

A thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  native  home, 

She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  Infancy, 

Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty, — but  behold  ! 

Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 

The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 

And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 

As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 

What  could  her  grief  be  ?— she  had  all  she  loved, 

And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 

Or  ill-repress’d  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 

What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  loved  him  not. 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 

Nor  could  he  be  a part  of  that  which  prey’d 
Upon  her  mind — a spectre  of  the  past. 

VI. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Wanderer  was  return’d. — I saw  him  stand 
Before  an  Altar — with  a gentle  bride  ; 

Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  Starlight  of  his  Boyhood ; — as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  altar,  o’er  his  brow  there  came 
The  selfsame  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  Oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude  ; and  then — 

As  in  that  hour — a moment  o’er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 
The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 

And  all  things  reel’d  around  him  ; he  could  see 
Net  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been — 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustom’d  hall, 

And  the  remember’d  chambers,  and  the  place. 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 

All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 

And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 

And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light : 

What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a time  ? 1 


VII. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Lady  of  his  love  ; — Oh  f she  was  changed, 

As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ; her  mind 
Had  wander’d  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 

They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  ; she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a fantastic  realm  ; her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things ; 

And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others’  sight  familiar  wrere  to  hers. 

And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy  ; but  the  wise 
Have  a far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a fearful  gift ; 

What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 

Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 

And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness. 

Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 2 

VIII. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore, 

The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 

Or  were  at  war  with  him ; he  was  a mark 
For  blight  and  desolation,  compass’d  round 
With  Hatred  and  Contention  ; Pain  was  mix’d 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until, 

Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days,3 
He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power, 

But  were  a kind  of  nutriment ; he  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men, 
And  made  him  friends  of  mountains  : with  the  stara 
And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe 
He  held  his  dialogues  ! and  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries  ; 

To  him  the  book  of  Night  was  open’d  wide. 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal’d 
A marvel  and  a secret — Be  it  so. 

IX. 

My  dream  was  past ; it  had  no  further  change. 

It  was  of  a strange  order,  that  the  doom 
Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 
Almost  like  a reality — the  one 
To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery.4 

July,  1810. 


Zftt  lament  of  Ca^od 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

At  Ferrara,  in  the  Library,  are  preserved  the  ori- 
ginal MSS.  of  Tasso’s  Gierusalemme  and  of  Guarini’s 


(1)  [This  touching  picture  agrees  closely,  in  many  of  its  circum- 
stances, with  Lord  Byron’s  own  prose  account  of  the  wedding  in 
his  Memoranda;  in  which  he  describes  himself  as  waking,  on  the 
morning  of  his  marriage,  with  the  most  melancholy  reflections,  on 
seeing  his  wedding-suit  spread  out  before  him.  In  the  same  mood, 
he  wandered  about  the  grounds  alone,  till  he  was  summoned  for 
the  ceremony,  and  joined,  for  the  first  time,  on  that  day,  his  bride 
and  her  family.  He  knelt  down — he  repeated  the  words  after  the 
clergyman ; but  a mist  was  before  his  eyes — his  thoughts  were 
elsewhere;  and  he  was  but  awakened  by  the  congratulations  of 
the  bystanders  to  find  that  he  was — married. — Moore.] 

(2)  [“  For  it  becomes  the  telescope  of  truth, 

°And  shows  us  all  things  naked  as  they  are.” — MS.] 

fi'  Mithridates  of  Poutus 


Pastor  Fido,  with  letters  of  Tasso,  one  from  Titian 
to  Ariosto,  and  the  inkstand  and  chair,  the  tomb 
and  the  house,  of  the  latter.  But,  as  misfortune  has 
a greater  interest  for  posterity,  and  little  or  none  for 


(4)  [This  poem  is  written  with  great  beauty  and  genius — but  is 
extremely  painful.  We  cannot  maintain  our  accustomed  tone  of 
levity,  or  even  speak  like  calm  literary  judges,  in  the  midst  of 
these  agonizing  traces  of  a wounded  and  distempered  spirit.  Even 
our  admiration  is  swallowed  up  in  a most  painful  feeling  of  pity 
and  of  wonder.  It  is  impossible  to  mistake  these  for  fictitious 
sorrow  s,  conjured  up  for  the  purpose  of  poetical  effect.  There  is  a 
dreadful  tone  of  sincerity,  and  an  energy  that  cannot  be  counter- 
feited, in  the  expression  of  wretchedness,  and  alienation  from 
human-kind,  which  occurs  in  every  line  of  this  poem. — Jeffrey. | 

(5)  [In  a moment  of  dissatisfaction  with  himself,  or  during  soua© 
melancholy  mood,  when  his  soul  felt  the  worthlessness  of  fame 
and  glory,  Lord  Byron  told  the  world  that  his  muse  shouhj,  lot 
a long  season,  shroud  herself  in  solitude  (see  ante,  p 460)  i ami 


£76  LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


the  cctemporary,  the  cell  where  Tasso  was  confined  in  | 
the  hospital  of  St.  Anna  attracts  a more  fixed  atten-  | 
tion  than  the  residence  or  the  monument  of  Ariosto — ‘ 
at  least  it  had  this  effect  on  me.  There  are  two  in- 
scriptions, one  on  the  outer  gate,  the  second  over  the 
cell  itself,  inviting,  unnecessarily,  the  wonder  and  the 
indignation  of  the  spectator.  Ferrara  is  much  decayed, 
and  depopulated  : the  castle  still  exists  entire ; and  I 
saw  the  court  where  Parisina  and  Hugo  were  beheaded, 
according  to  the  annal  of  Gibbon.* 1 


Wn  Hament  of  2Tasso. 


i. 

Long  years  ! — It  tries  the  thrilling  frame  to  bear 
And  eagle-spirit  of  a child  of  Song — 


every  true  lover  of  genius  lamented  that  her  lofty  music  was 
to  cease.  But  there  was  a tide  in  his  spirit  obeying  the  laws  of 
its  nature,  and  not  co  be  controlled  by  any  human  will.  When  he 
said  that  he  was  to  be  silent,  he  looked,  perhaps,  into  the  inner 
regions  of  his  soul,  and  saw  there  a dim,  hard,  and  cheerless  waste, 
like  the  sand  of  the  sea-shore  ; but  the  ebbed  waves  of  passion  in  due 
course  returned,  and  the  scene  was  restored  to  its  former  beauty 
and  magnificence, — its  foam,  its  splendours,  and  its  thunder.  The 
mind  of  a mighty  poet  cannot  submit  even  to  chains  of  its  own 
imposing:  when  it  feels  most  enslaved,  even  then,  perhaps,  is  it 
about  to  become  most  free ; and  one  sudden  flash  may  raise  it  from 
the  darkness  of  its  despondency  up  to  the  pure  air  of  untroubled 
confidence.  It  required,  therefore,  but  small  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  to  assure  ourselves  that  the  obligation  under  which  Lord 
Byron  had  laid  himself  could  not  bind,  and  that  the  potent  spirit 
within  him  would  laugh  to  scorn  whatever  dared  to  curb  the  frenzy 
of  its  own  inspirations. 

It  was  not  long,  therefore,  till  he  again  came  forth  in  his  perfect 
strength,  and  exercised  that  dominion  over  our  spirits  which  is 
truly  a power  too  noble  to  be  possessed  without  being  wielded. 
Though  all  his  heroes  are  of  one  family,  yet  are  they  a noble  band 
of  brothers,  whose  countenances  and  whose  souls  are  strongly  dis- 
tinguished by  peculiar  characteristics.  Each  personage,  as  he  ad- 
vances before  us,  reminds  us  of  some  other  being,  whose  looks, 
thoughts,  words,  and  deeds  had  troubled  us  by  their  wild  and  per- 
turbed grandeur.  But  though  all  the  same,  yet  are  they  all  strangely 
different.  We  hail  each  successive  existence  with  a profounder 
sympathy  ; and  we  are  lost  in  wonder,  in  fear,  and  in  sorrow,  at  the 
infinitely  varied  struggles,  the  endless  and  agonizing  modifications 
of  the  human  passions,  as  they  drive  along  through  every  gate  and 
avenue  of  the  soul,  darkening  or  brightening,  elevating  or  laying 
prostrate. 

From  such  agitating  and  terrific  pictures,  it  is  delightful  to  turn 
to  those  compositions  in  which  Lord  Byron  has  allowed  his  soul  to 
sink  down  into  gentler  and  more  ordinary  feelings.  Many  beautiful 
and  pathetic  strains  have  flowed  from  his  heart,  of  which  the  ten- 
derness is  as  touching  as  the  grandeur  of  his  nobler  works  is  agitat- 
ing and  sublime.  To  those,  indeed,  who  looked  deeply  into  his 
poetry,  there  never  was  at  any  time  a want  of  pathos , but  it  was'  a 
pathos  so  subduing  and  so  profound,  that  even  the  poet  himself 
seemed  afraid  of  being  delivered  up  unto  it;  nay,  he  seemed 
ashamed  of  being  overcome  by  emotions,  which  the  gloomy  pride  of 
his  intellect  often  vainly  strove  to  scorn  ; and  he  dashed  the  weak- 
ness from  his  heart,  and  the  tear  from  his  eyes,  like  a man  suddenly 
assailed  by  feelings  which  he  wished  to  hide,  and  which,  though 
true  to  his  nature,  were  inconsistent  with  the  character  which  that 
mysterious  nature  had  been  forced,  as  in  self  defence,  to  assume. 

But  there  is  one  poem  in  which  he  has  almost  wholly  laid  aside 
all  remembrance  of  the  darker  and  stormier  passions;  in  which  the 
tone  of  his  spirit  and  his  voice  at  once  is  changed,  and  where  he  who 
seemed  to  care  only  for  agonies,  and  remorse,  and  despair,  and  death, 
ana  insanity,  in  all  their  most  appalling  forms,  shows  that  he  has  a 
heart  that  can  feed  on  the  purest  sympathies  of  our  nature,  and 
deliver  itself  up  to  the  sorrows,  the  sadness,  and  the  melancholy  of 
humbler  souls.  The  “ Prisoner  of  Chillon”  is  a poem  over  which 
Infancy  has  shed  its  first  mysterious  tears  for  sorrows  so  alien  to  its 
own  happy  innocence, — over  which  the  gentle,  pure,  and  pious 
soul  of  Woman  has  brooded  with  ineffable,  and  yearning,  and  burst- 
ing tenderness  of  affection,  — and  over  which  old  Age,  almost 
loosened  from  this  world,  had  bowed  his  hoary  head  in  delig  ited 
approbation  of  that  fraternal  love,  whose  beauty  and  simplicity  fling 
a radiance  over  the  earth  he  is  about  to  leave,  and  exhibit  our 
fallen  nature  in  near  approximation  to  the  glories  of  its  ultimate 
lestiny.  The  “ Lament”  possesses  much  of  the  tenderness  and 
*athos  of  the  “ Prisoner  of  Chillon.”  Lord  Byron  has  not  delivered 


Long  years  of  outrage,  calumny,  and  wrong 
Imputed  madness,  prison’d  solitude,2 3 * * * * 
And  the  mind’s  canker  in  its  savage  mood, 

When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 
Parches  the  heart ; and  the  abhorred  grate, 
Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 
Works  through  the  throbbing  eyeball  to  the  brain. 
With  a hot  sense  of  heaviness  and  pain ; 

And  bare,  at  once,  Captivity  display’d 
Stands  scoffing  through  the  never-open'd  gate, 
Which  nothing  through  its  bars  admits,  save  day, 
And  tasteless  food,  which  I have  eat  alone 
Till  its  unsocial  bitterness  is  gone  ; 

And  I can  banquet  like  a beast  of  prey. 

Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 
Which  is  my  lair,  and — it  may  be — my  grave.8 
All  tiffs  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may  wear. 
But  must  be  borne.  I stoop  not  to  despair; 

For  I have  battled  with  mine  agony, 

And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 


himself  unto  any  one  wild  and  fearful  vision  of  the  imprisoned 
Tasso, — be  has  not  dared  to  allow  himself  to  rush  forward  with 
headlong  passion  into  the  horrors  of  his  dungeon,  and  to  describe, 
as  he  could  fearfully  have  done,  the  conflict  and  agony  of  his  utter- 
most despair, — but  he  shows  us  the  poet  sitting  in  his  cell,  and 
singing  there — a low,  melancholy,  wailing  Lament,  sometimes,  in- 
deed, bordering  on  utter  wretchedness,  but  oftener  partaking  of  a 
settled  grief,  occasionally  subdued  into  mournful  resignation, 
cheered  by  delightful  remembrances,  and  elevated  by  the  confident 
hope  of  an  immortal  fame.  His  is  the  gathered  grief  of  many 
years,  over  which  his  soul  has  brooded,  till  she  has  in  some  measure 
lost  the  power  of  misery ; and  this  soliloquy  is  one  which  we  can 
believe  he  might  have  uttered  to  himself  any  morning,  or  noon,  or 
night  of  his  solitude,  as  he  seemed  to  be  half  communing  with  his 
own  heart,  and  half  addressing  the  ear  of  that  human  nature  from 
which  he  was  shut  out,  but  of  which  he  felt  the  continual  and 
abiding  presence  within  liis  imagination. — Pkofmssor  Wilson.] 

(1)  [The  original  MS.  of  this  poem  is  dated,  “ The  Apennines, 
April  20,  1817.”  It  was  written  in  consequence  of  Lord  Byron 
having  visited  Ferrara,  for  a single  day,  on  his  way  to  Florence.  In 
a letter  from  Rome,  he  says, — “ The  * L;  ment  of  Tasso,’  which  I 
sent  from  Florence,  has,  I trust,  arrived.  I look  upon  it  as  a 
‘ These  be  good  rhymes  ! ’ as  Pope’s  papa  said  to  him  when  he  was 
a boy.”] 

(2)  [Tasso’s  biographer,  the  Abate  Serassi,  has  left  it  without 
doubt,  that  the  first  cause  of  the  poet’s  punishment  was  his  desire 
to  be  occasionally,  or  altogether,  free  from  his  servitude  at  the 
court  of  Alfonso.  In  1575,  Tasso  resolved  to  visit  Rome,  and  enjoy 
the  indulgence  of  the  jubilee;  “and  this  error,”  says  the  Abate, 
“ increasing  the  suspicion  already  entertained,  that  he  was  in  search 
of  another  service,  was  the  origin  of  his  misfortunes.  On  his  re- 
turn to  Ferrara,  the  Duke  refused  to  admit  him  to  an  audience,  and 
he  was  repulsed  from  the  houses  of  all  the  dependents  of  the  court ; 
and  not  one  of  the  promises  which  the  Cardinal  Albano  had  ob- 
tained for  him  was  carried  into  effect.  Then  it  v as  that  Tasso — 
after  having  suffered  these  hardships  for  some  tinr  e,  seeing  himself 
constantly  discountenanced  by  the  Duke  and  the  Princesses, 
abandoned  by  his  friends,  and  derided  by  his  enemies — could  no 
longer  contain  himself  within  the  bounds  of  moderation,  but,  giving 
vent  to  his  choler,  publicly  broke  forth  nto  the  most  injurious  ex- 
pressions imaginable,  both  against  the  Duke  and  all  the  house  of 
Este,  cursing  his  past  service,  and  retracting  all  the  praises  he  had 
ever  given  in  his  verses  to  those  princes,  or  to  any  individual  con- 
nected with  them,  declaring  that  they  were  all  a gang  of  poltroons, 
ingrates,  and  scoundrels  (poltroni,  ingrati,  e ribaldi).  For  this 
offence  he  was  arrested,  conducted  to  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna,  and 
confined  in  a solitary  cell  as  a madman.” — Serassi,  Vita  del 
Tasso.] 

(3)  [In  the  Hospital  of  St.  Anna,  at  Ferrara,  they  show  a cell, 

over  the  door  of  which  is  the  following  inscription  : — “ Rispettate, 

O posted,  la  celebrita  di  questa  stanza,  dove  Torquato  Tasso, 

infermo  piA  di  tristezza  che  delirio,  ditenuto  dimoro  anni  vii.  mesi 

ii.,  scrisse  verse  e prose,  e fA  rimesso  in  liberta  ad  instanza  della 
citta  di  Bergamo,  nel  giorno  vi.  Luglio,  1586.” — The  dungeon  is 

below  the  ground  floor  of  the  hospital,  and  the  light  penetrates 
through  its  grated  window  from  a small  yard,  which  seems  to  have 
been  common  to  other  cells.  It  is  nine  paces  long,  between  five 
and  six  wide,  and  about  seven  feet  high.  The  bedstead,  so  they 
tell,  has  been  carried  off  piecemeal,  and  the  door  half  cut  away,  by 
the  devotion  of  those  whom  “the  verse  and  prose”  of  the  prisonei 
have  brought  to  Ferrara.  The  poet  was  confined  in  this  room  from 
the  middle  of  March,  1579,  to  December,  1580,  when  he  was  re- 
moved to  a contiguous  apartment  much  larger,  in  which,  to  use  his 
own  expressions,  he  could  “ philosophize  and  walk  about."  The 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


477 


The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall, 

And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall ; 

And  revell’d  among  men  and  things  divine, 

And  pour’d  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 

In  honour  of  the  sacred  war  for  Him, 

The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven. 

For  he  has  strengthen’d  me  in  heart  and  limb. 

That  through  this  sufferance  I might  be  forgiven, 

I have  employ’d  my  penance  to  record 
How  Salem’s  shrine  was  won  and  how  adored. 

ii. 

But  this  is  o’er — my  pleasant  task  is  done  : — 1 
My  long-sustaining  friend  of  many  years ! 

If  I do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears, 

Know,  that  my  sorrows  have  wrung  from  me  none. 
But  thou,  my  young  creation  ! my  soul’s  child  ! 
Which  ever  playing  round  me  came  and  smiled, 

And  woo’d  me  from  myself  with  thy  sweet  sight, 
Thou  too  art  gone — and  so  is  my  delight : 

And  therefore  do  I weep  and  inly  bleed 
With  this  last  bruise  upon  a broken  reed. 

Thou  too  art  ended — what  is  left  me  now  ? 

For  I have  anguish  yet  to  bear — and  how  ? 

I know  not  that — but  in  the  innate  force 
Of  my  own  spirit  shall  be  found  resource. 

I have  not  sunk,  for  I had  no  remorse, 

Nor  cause  for  such  : they  call’d  me  mad  — and  why  ? 
Oh  Leonora  ! wilt  not  thou  reply  ?2 
I was  indeed  delirious  in  my  heart 
To  lift  my  love  so  lofty  as  thou  art ; 

But  still  my  frenzy  was  not  of  the  mind  ; 

I knew  my  fault,  and  feel  my  punishment 
Not  less  because  I suffer  it  unbent. 

That  thou  wert  beautiful,  and  I not  blind, 

Hath  been  the  sin  which  shuts  me  from  mankind  ; 
But  let  them  go,  or  torture  as  they  will, 

My  heart  can  multiply  thine  image  still ; 

Successful  love  may  sate  itself  away, 

The  wretched  are  the  faithful ; ’tis  their  fate 
To  have  all  feeling  save  the  one  decay, 

And  every  passion  into  one  dilate, 

As  rapid  rivers  into  ocean  pour  ; 

But  ours  is  fathomless,  and  hath  no  shore. 

hi. 

Above  me,  hark  ! the  long  and  maniac  cry 
Of  minds  and  bodies  in  captivity. 


inscription  is  incorrect  as  to  the  immediate  cause  of  his  enlargement, 
which  was  promised  to  the  city  of  Bergamo,  but  was  carried  into 
effect  at  the  intercession  of  Don  Vincenzo  Gonzaga,  Prince  of 
Mantua.— Hon  house.] 

(1)  [The  opening  lines  bring  the  poet  before  us  at  once,  as  if  the 
door  of  the  dungeon  was  thrown  open.  From  this  bitter  complaint, 
how  nobly  the  unconquered  bard  rises  into  calm,  and  serene,  and 
dignified  exultation  over  the  beauty  of  “ that  young  creation,  his 
soul’s  child,”  the  Gierusalemme  Liberata.  The  exultation  of 
conscious  genius  then  dies  away,  and  we  behold  him,  “ bound  be- 
tween distraction  and  disease,”  no  longer  in  an  inspired  mood,  but 
sunk  into  the  lowest  prostration  of  human  misery.  There  is  some- 
thing terrible  in  this  transition  from  divine  rapture  to  degraded 
agony. — W i lson  .] 

(2 ) [Tn  a letter  written  to  his  friend  Scipio  Gonzaga,  shortly  after 
hi«  confinement,  Tasso  exclaims — “Ah,  wretched  me!  I had  de- 
signed to  write,  besides  two  epic  poems  of  most  noble  argument, 
four  tragedies,  of  which  I had  formed  the  plan.  I had  schemed, 
too.  many  works  in  prose,  on  subjects  the  most  lofty,  and  most 
useful  to  human  life;  I had  designed  to  write  philosophy  with 
eloquence,  in  such  a manner  that  there  might  remain  of  me  an 
eternal  memory  in  the  world.  Alas!  I had  expected  to  close  my 
life  with  glory  and  renown  ; but  now,  oppressed  by  the  burden  cf  sc 
many  calamities,  I have  lost  every  prospect  of  reputation  and  of 
honour.  The  fear  of  perpetual  imprisonment  increases  my  melan- 


And  bark ! t-lie  lash  and  the  increasing  howl. 

And  the  half-inarticulate  blasphemy  ! 

There  be  some  here  with  worse  than  frenzy  foul. 

Some  who  do  still  goad  on  the  o’er-labour’d  mind. 
And  dim  the  little  light  that’s  left  behind 
With  needless  torture,  as  their  tyrant  will 
Is  wound  up  to  the  lust  of  doing  ill  :3 
With  these  and  with  their  victims  am  I class’d, 

’Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  long  years  have 
pass’d  : 

’Mid  sights  and  sounds  like  these  my  life  may  close  : 
So  let  it  be — for  then  I shall  repose. 

IV. 

I have  been  patient,  let  me  be  so  yet ; 

I had  forgotten  half  I would  forget. 

But  it  revives — Oh  ! would  it  were  my  Aot 
To  be  forgetful  as  I am  forgot !- — - 
Feel  I not  wroth  with  those  who  bade  me  dwell 
In  this  vast  lazar-house  of  many  woes  ? 

Where  laughter  is  not  mirth,  nor  thought  the  mind. 
Nor  words  a language,  nor  ev’n  men  mankind ; 

Where  cries  reply  to  curses,  shrieks  to  blows. 

And  each  is  tortured  in  his  separate  hell — 

For  we  are  crowded  in  our  solitudes — 

Many,  but  each  divided  by  the  wall, 

Which  echoes  Madness  in  her  babbling  moods  ; — 
While  all  can  hear,  none  heed  his  neighbour’s  call — 
None  ! save  that  One,  the  veriest  wretch  of  all,4 
Who  was  not  made  to  be  the  mate  of  these, 

Nor  bound  between  Distraction  and  Disease. 

Feel  I not  wroth  with  those  who  placed  me  here  ? 
Who  have  debased  me  in  the  minds  of  men, 

Debarring  me  the  usage  of  my  own, 

Blighting  my  life  in  best  of  its  career. 

Branding  my  thoughts  as  things  to  shun  and  fear  P 
Would  I not  pay  them  back  these  pangs  agaiu, 

And  teach  them  inward  Sorrow’s  stifled  groan? 

The  struggle  to  be  calm,  and  cold  distress. 

Which  undermines  our  Stoical  success  ? 

No'! — still  too  proud  to  be  vindictive — I 
Have  pardon’d  princes’  insults,  and  would  die. 

Yes,  Sister  of  my  Sovereign  ! for  thy  sake 
I weed  all  bitterness  from  out  my  breast, 

It  hath  no  business  where  thou  art  a guest ; 

Thy  brother  hates — but  I can  not  detest  ;5 
Thou  pitiest  not — but  I can  not  forsake. 


choly;  the  indignities  which  J suffer  augment  it;  and  the  squalo* 
of  my  beard,  my  hair,  and  habit,  the  sordidness  and  filth,  exceed- 
ingly annoy  me.  Sure  am  I,  that,  if  she  who  so  little  has  corre- 
sponded to  my  attachment — if  she  saw  me  in  such  a state,  and  in 
such  affliction— she  would  have  some  compassion  on  me.” — Upere, 

t.  x.  p.  387.] 

(3)  [For  nearly  the  first  year  of  his  confinement,  Tasso  endured 
all  the  horrors  of  a solitary  cell,  and  was  under  the  care  of  a gaoler 
whose  chief  virtue,  although  he  was  a poet  and  a man  of  letters, 
was  a cruel  obedience  to  the  commands  of  his  prince.  His  name 
was  Agostino  Mosti.  Tasso  says  of  him,  in  a letter  to  his  sister, 
“ ed  usa  meco  ogni  sorte  di  rigore  ed  inumanita.” — Hobhouse  ] 

(4)  [This  fearful  picture  is  finely  contrasted  with  that  which 
Tasso  draws  of  himself  in  youth,  when  nature  and  meditation  were 
forming  his  wild,  romantic,  and  impassioned  genius.  Indeed,  the 
great  excellence  of  the  “ Lament”  consists  in  the  ebbing  and  flowing 
of  the  noble  prisoner’s  soul ; — his  feelings  often  come  suddenly  from 
afar  off, — sometimes  gentle  airs  are  breathing,  and  then  all  at  once 
arise  the  storms  and  tempest,— the  gloom,  though  black  as  night 
while  it  endures,  gives  way  to  frequent  bursts  of  radiance, — and 
when  the  wild  strain  is  closed,  our  pity  and  commiseration  are 
blended  with  a sustaining  and  elevating  sense  of  the  grandeur  and 
majesty  of  his  character. — Wilson.] 

(5)  [Not  long  after  his  imprisonment,  Tassc  appealed  to  the 
mercy  of  Alfonso,  in  a canzone  of  great  beauty,  couched  in  terms  se 


478 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


T. 

Look  on  a love  which  knows  not,  to  despair,3 
But  all  unquencli’d  is  still  mv  better  part, 
Dwelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  silent  heart, 

As  dwells  the  gather’d  lightning  in  its  cloud, 
Encompass’d  with  its  dark  and  rolling  shroud, 
Till  struck, — forth  flies  the  all-etherial  dart ! 

And  thus  at  the  collision  of  thy  name 
The  vivid  thought  still  flashes  through  my  frame, 
And  for  a moment  all  things  as  they  were 
Elit  by  me; — they  are  gone — I am  the  same. 
And  yet  my  love  without  ambition  grew  ; 

I knew  thy  state,  my  station,  and  I knew 
A Princess  was  no  love-mate  for  a bard ; 

I told  it  not,  I breathed  it  not,  it  was 
Sufficient  to  itself,  its  own  reward  ; 

And  if  my  eyes  reveal’d  it,  they,  alas  ! 

Were  punish’d  by  the  silentness  of  thine, 

And  yet  I did  not  venture  to  repine. 

Thou  wert  to  me  a crystal-girded  shrine 
Worshipp’d  at  holy  distance,  and  around 
Hallow’d  and  meekly  kiss’d  the  saintly  ground; 
Not  for  thou  wert  a princess,  but  that  Love 
Plad  robed  thee  with  a glory,  and  array’d 
Thy  lineaments  in  beauty  that  dismay’d — 

Oh  ! not  dismay’d — but  awed,  like  One  above  ! 
And  in  that  sweet  severity  there  was 
A something  which  all  softness  did  surpass — 

I know  not  how — thy  genius  master’d  mine — 
My  star  stood  still  before  thee  • — if  it  were 
Presumptuous  thus  to  love  without  design, 

That  sad  fatality  hath  cost  me  dear ; 

But  thou  art  dearest  still,  and  I should  be 
Pit  for  this  cell,  which  wrongs  me — but  for  thee. 
The  very  love  which  lock’d  me  to  my  chain 
Hath  lighten’d  half' its  weight ; and  for  the  rest, 
Though  heavy,  lent  me  vigour  to  sustain, 

And  look  to  thee  with  undivided  breast, 

And  foil  the  ingenuity  of  Pain.3 


It  is  no  marvel — from  my  very  birth 

Mv  so-ih  vas  drunk  with  love, — which  did  pervade 

And  mingle  with  whate’er  I saw  on  earth ; 

Of  objects  all  inanimate  I made 
Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers, 

And  rocks,  whereby  they  grew,  a paradise, 

Where  I did  lay  me  down  within  the  shade 
Of  waving  trees,  and  dream’d  uncounted  hours, 
Though  I was  chid  for  wandering  ; and  the  Wise 
Shook  their  white  aged  heads  o’er  me,  and  said 
Of  such  materials  wretched  men  were  made, 


respectful  and  pathetic,  as  must  have  moved,  it  might  be  thought, 
the  severest  bosom  to  relent.  The  heart  of  Alfonso  was,  however, 
impregnable  to  the  appeal ; and  Tasso,  in  another  ode  to  the  prin- 
cesses, whose  pity  he  invoked  in  the  name  of  their  own  mother,  who 
had  herself  known,  if  not  the  like  horrors,  the  like  solitude  of  im- 
prisonment, and  bitterness  of  soul,  made  a similar  appeal.  “ Con- 
sidered merely  as  poems,”  says  Black,  “ these  canzoni  are  extremely 
beautiiul ; but,  if  we  contemplate  them  as  the  productions  of  a 
mind  diseased,  they  form  important  documents  in  the  history  of 
ntan.” — Life  of  Tasso,  vol.  ii.  p.  408.] 

(2)  [As  to  the  indifference  which  the  Princess  is  said  to  have 
exhibited  for  the  misfortunes  of  Tasso,  and  the  little  effort  she  made 
to  obtain  his  liberty,  this  is  one  of  the  negative  arguments  founded 
on  an  hypothesis  that  may  be  easily  destroyed  by  a thousand  others 
equally  plausible.  Was  not  the  Princess  anxious  to  avoid  her  own 
ruin  ? In  taking  too  warm  an  interest  for  the  poet,  did  she  not  risk 
destroying  herself,  without  saving  him? — Foscolo.] 


And  such  a truant  boy  would  end  in  woe, 

And  that  the  only  lesson  was  a blow ; 

And  then  they  smote  me,  and  I did  not  weep. 
But  cursed  them  in  my  heart,  and  to  my  haunt, 
Return’d  and  wept  alone,  and  dream’d  again 
The  visions  which  arise  without  a sleep. 

And  with  my  years  my  soul  began  to  pant 
With  feelings  of  strange  tumult  and  soft  pain ; 
And  the  whole  heart  exhaled  into  One  Want, 

But  undefined  and  wandering,  till  the  day 
I found  the. thing  I sought — and  that  was  thee 
And  then  I lost  my  being  all  to  be 
Absorb’d  in  thine — the  world  was  past  away — - 
Thou  didst  annihilate  the  earth  to  me  ! 

VII. 

I loved  all  Solitude — but  little  thought 
To  spend  I know  not  what  of  life,  remote 
From  all  communion  with  existence,  save 
The  maniac  and  his  tyrant ; — had  I been 
Their  fellow,  many  years  ere  this  had  seen 
My  mind  like  theirs  corrupted  to  its  grave,4 
But  who  hath  seen  me  writhe,  or  heard  me  rave  V 
Perchance  in  such  a cell  we  suffer  more 
Than  the  wreck’d  sailor  on  his  desert  shore ; 

The  world  is  all  before  him— mine  is  here, 

Scarce  twice  the  space  they  must  accord  my  biei. 
What  though  he  perish,  he  may  lift  his  eye 
And  with  a dying  glance  upbraid  the  sky — 

I will  not  raise  my  own  in  such  reproof, 

Although  ’tis  clouded  by  my  dungeon  roof. 

VIII. 

Yet  do  I feel  at  times  my  mind  decline,5 
But  with  a sense  of  its  decay : — I see 
Unwonted  lights  along  my  prison  shine. 

And  a strange  demon,  who  is  vexing  me 
With  pilfering  pranks  and  petty  pains,  below 
The  feeling  of  the  healthful  and  the  free ; 

But  much  to  One,  who  long  hath  suffer’d  so, 
Sickness  of  heart,  and  narrowness  of  place, 

And  all  that  may  be  borne,  or  can  debase. 

I thought  mine  enemies  had  been  but  Man, 

But  Spirits  may  be  leagued  with  them— all  Earth 
Abandons — Heaven  forgets  me  ; — in  the  dearth 
Of  such  defence  the  Powers  of  Evil  can, 

It  may  be,  tempt  me  further, — and  prevail 
Against  the  outworn  creature  they  assail. 

Why  in  this  furnace  is  my  spirit  proved 
Like  steel  in  tempering  fire  r because  I loved  ? 
Because  I loved  what  not  to  love,  and  see, 

Was  more  or  less  than  mortal,  and  than  me. 


(3)  [Tasso’s  profound  and  unconquerable  love  for  Leonora,  sat- 
tabling  itself  without  hope  throughout  years  of  darkness  and  soli- 
tude, breathes  a moral  dignity  over  all  his  sentiments,  and  we  feel 
the  strength  and  power  of  his  noble  spirit  in  the  un-upbiaiding 
devotedness  of  his  passion. — Wilson.] 

(4)  [“  My  mind  like  theirs  adapted  to  its  grave.” — MS.] 

(5)  [“  Nor  do  I lament,”  wrote  Tasso,  shortly  after  his  confine- 
ment, “that  my  heart  is  deluged  with  almost  constant  misery,  that 
my  head  is  always  heavy  and  often  painful,  that  my  sight  and  hesjr* 
ing  are  much  impaired,  and  that  all  my  frame  is  become  spare  and 
meagre;  but,  passing  all  this  with  a short  sigh,  what  I would 
bewail  is  the  infirmity  of  my  mind.  My  mind  sleeps,  not  thinks; 
my  fancy  is  chill,  and  forms  no  pictures  ; my  negligent  senses  will 
no  longer  furnish  the  images  of  things;  my  hand  is  sluggish  ir. 
writing,  and  my  pen  seems  as  if  it  shrunk  from  the  office.  I feel  as 
if  1 were  chained  in  all  my  operations,  and  as  if  I were  overcome  by  an 
unwonted  numbness  and  oppressive  stupor.” — Qpcre,  t.  viii.  p.  258.] 


ODE  ON  VENICE. 


470 


IX. 

I once  was  quick  in  feeling — that  is  o’er ; — 

My  scars  are  callous,  or  I should  have  dash’d 
Mv  brain  against  these  bars,  as  the  sun  flash’d 
In  mockery  through  them  ; — If  I bear  and  bore 
The  much  I have  recounted,  and  the  more 
Which  hath  no  words, — ’tis  that  I would  not  die 
And  sanction  with  self-slaughter  the  dull  lie 
Which  snared  me  here,  and  with  the  brand  of  shame 
Stamp  Madness  deep  into  my  memory, 

And  woo  Compassion  to  a blighted  name, 

Sealing  the  sentence  which  my  foes  proclaim. 

No — it  shall  be  immortal ! — and  I make 
A future  temple  of  my  present  cell, 

Which  nations  yet  shall  visit  for  my  sake.1 2 
While  thou,  Eerrara ! when  no  longer  dwell 
The  ducal  chiefs  within  thee,  sha't  fall  down, 

And  crumbling  piecemeal  view  thy  hearthless  halls, 
A poet’s  wreath  shall  be  thine  only  crown, — 

A poet’s  dungeon  thy  most  far  renown, 


While  strangers  wonder  o’er  thy  unpeopled  walls  ’* 
And  thou,  Leonora  !— thou — who  wert  ashamed 
That  such  as  I could  love — who  blush’d  to  hear 
To  less  than  monarchs  that  thou  couldst  be  dear, 
Go  ! tell  thy  brother,  that  my  heart,  untamed 
By  grief,  years,  weariness — and  it  may  be 
A taint  of  that  he  would  impute  to  me — 

From  long  infection  of  a den  like  this, 

Where  the  mind  rots  congenial  with  the  abyss, 
Adores  thee  still ; — and  add — that  when  the  towers 
And  battlements  which  guard  his  joyous  hours 
Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel  are  forgot, 

Or  left  untended  in  a dull  repose. 

This — this — shall  be  a consecrated  spot ! 

But  thou — when  all  that  Birth  and  Beauty  throws 
Of  magic  round  thee  is  extinct — slialt  have 
One  half  the  laurel  which  o’ershades  my  grave.3 
No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart. 

As  none  in  life  could  rend  thee  from  my  heart. 

Yes,  Leonora ! it  shall  be  our  fate 
To  be  entwined  for  ever — but  too  late ! 4 


mt  on  Wentce/ 


i. 

Ofi  Venice ! Venice  ! when  thy  marble  walls 
Are  level  with  the  waters,  there  shall  be 
A cry  of  nations  o’er  thy  sunken  halls, 

A loud  lament  along  the  sweeping  sea ! 

If  I,  a northern  wanderer,  weep  for  thee, 

What  should  thy  sons  do  ? — any  thing  but  weep  : 

And  yet  they  only  murmur  in  their  sleep. 

In  contrast  with  their  fathers — as  the  slime, 

The  dull  green  ooze  of  the  receding  deep, 

Is  with  the  dashing  of  the  spring-tide  foam. 

That  drives  the  sailor  shipless  to  his  home, 

Are  they  to  those  that  were ; and  thus  they  creep, 
Crouching  and  crab-like,  through  their  sapping  streets. 
Oh  ! agony— that  centuries  should  reap 
No  mellower  harvest ! Thirteen  hundred  years 
Of  wealth  and  glory  turn’d  to  dust  and  tears ; 


(1)  [“  Which  { after'dayf  } sha11  visit  for  my  sake-”— MSd 

(2)  [Those  who  indulge  in  the  dreams  of  earthly  retribution  will 
observe,  that  the  cruelty  of  Alfonso  was  not  left  without  its  recom- 
pense, even  in  his  own  person.  He  survived  the  affection  of  his 
subjects  ai  d of  his  dependants,  who  deserted  him  at  his  death ; and 
suffered  his  body  to  be  interred  without  princely  or  decent  honours. 
His  last  wishes  were  neglected;  his  testament  cancelled.  His 
kinsman,  Don  Ceesar,  shrank  from  the  excommunication  of  the 
Vatican,  and,  after  a short  struggle,  or  rather  suspense,  Ferrara 
passed  away  for  ever  from  the  dominion  of  the  house  of  Este. — 
Hobhouse.j 

(?)  [In  July,  1586,  after  a confinement  of  more  than  seven  years, 
Tasso  was  released  from  his  dungeon.  In  the  hope  of  receiving  his 
mother's  dowry,  and  of  again  beholding  his  sister  Cornelia,  he 
•hortlv  after  visited  Naples,  where  his  presence  was  welcomed  with 
every  demonstration  of  esteem  and  admiration.  Being  on  a visit  at 

Mola  di  Gaeta,  he  received  the  following  remarkable  tribute  of 
respect.  Marco  di  Sciarra,  the  notorious  captain  of  a numerous  troop 
of  banditti,  hearing  where  the  great  poet  was,  sent  to  compliment 
him,  and  offered  him  not  only  a free  passage,  but  protection  by  the 
way,  and  assured  him  that  he  and  his  followers  would  be  proud  to 
execute  his  orders.  See  Manso,  Vila  del  Tasso,  p.  219.] 


And  every  monument  the  stranger  meets, 

Church,  palace,  pillar,  as  a mourner  greets  ; 

And  even  the  1 /on  all  subdued  appears, 

And  the  harsh  sound  of  the  barbarian  drum, 

With  dull  and  daily  dissonance,  repeats 
The  echo  of  thy  tyrant’s  voice -along 
The  soft  waves,  once  all  musical  to  song, 

That  heaved  beneath  the  moonlight  with  the  throng 
Of  gondolas — and  to  the  busy  hum 
Of  cheerful  creatures,  whose  most  sinful  deeds 
Were  but  the  overbeating  of  the  heart, 

And  flow  of  too  much  happiness,  which  needs 
The  aid  of  age  to  turn  its  course  apart 
From  the  luxuriant  and  voluptuous  flood 
Of  sweet  sensations,  battling  with  the  blood. 

But  these  are  better  than  the  gloomy  errors. 

The  weeds  of  nations  in  their  last  decay, 


(4)  [The  “pleasures  of  imagination”  have  been  explained  and 
justified  by  Addison  in  prose,  and  by  Akenside  in  verse:  but  there 
are  moments  of  real  life  when  its  miseries  and  its  necessities  seem 
to  overpower  and  destroy  them.  The  history  of  mankind,  however, 
furnishes  proofs  that  no  bodily  suffering,  no  adverse  circumstances, 
operating  on  our  material  nature,  will  extinguish  the  spirit  of  ima- 
gination. Perhaps  there  is  no  instance  of  this  so  very  affecting  and 
so  very  sublime  as  the  case  of  Tasso.  They  who  have  seen  the 
dark,  horror-striking  dungeon-hole  at  Ferrara,  in  which  he  was 
confined  seven  years  under  the  imputation  of  madness,  will  have 
had  this  truth  impressed  upon  their  hearts  in  a manner  never  to  be 
erased.  In  this  vault,  of  which  the  sight  makes  the  hardest  heart 
shudder,  the  poet  employed  himself  in  finishing  and  correcting  his 
immortal  epic  poem.  Lord  Byron’s  “ Lament”  on  this  subject  is  as 
sublime  and  profound  a lesson  in  morality,  and  in  the  pictures  of 
the  recesses  of  the  human  soul,  as  it  is  a production  most  eloquent, 
most  pathetic,  most  vigorous,  and  most  elevating  among  the  gifts  of 
the  Muse.  The  bosom  which  is  not  touched  with  it — the  fancy 
which  is  not  warmed, — the  understanding  which  is  not  enlightened 
and  exalted  by  it,  is  not  fit  for  human  intercourse.  If  Lord  Byron 
had  written  nothing  but  this,  to  deny  him  the  praise  of  a grand 
poet  would  have  been  flagrant  injustice  or  gross  stupidity. — 
Brydgfs.] 

(5)  [This  Ode  was  transmitted  from  Venice,  in  1619,  along  with 
“ Mazeppa.”] 


480 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


When  Vice  walks  forth  with  her  unsoften’d  terrors. 
And  Mirth  is  madness,  and  but  smiles  to  slay  : 

And  Hope  is  nothing  but  a false  delay, 

The  sick  man’s  lightning  half  an  hour  ere  death, 
When  Faintness,  the  last  mortal  birth  of  Pain, 

And  apathy  of  limb,  the  dull  beginning 

Of  the  cold  staggering  race  which  Death  is  winning, 

Steals  vein  by  vein  and  pulse  by  pulse  away  ; 

Yet  so  relieving  the  o’er-tortured  clay, 

To  him  appears  renewal  of  his  breath, 

And  freedom  the  mere  numbness  of  his  chain ; — 

And  then  he  talks  of  life,  and  how  again 
He  feels  his  spirits  soaring — albeit  weak, 

And  of  the  fresher  air,  which  he  would  seek ; 

And  as  he  whispers  knows  not  that  he  gasps, 

That  his  thin  finger  feels  not  what  it  clasps, 

And  so  the  film  comes  o’er  him — and  the  dizzy 
Chamber  swims  round  and  round — and  shadows  busy, 
At  which  he  vainly  catches,  flit  and  gleam, 

Till  the  last  rattle  chokes  the  strangled  scream, 

And  all  is  ice  and  blackness, — and  the  earth 
That  which  it  was  the  moment  ere  our  birth. 

ii. 

There  is  no  hope  for  nations  ! — Search  the  page 
Of  many  thousand  years — the  daily  scene, 

The  flow  and  ebb  of  each  recurring  age, 

The  everlasting  to  be  which  hath  been , 

Hath  taught  us  nought  or  little : still  we  lean 
On  things  that  rot  beneath  our  weight,  and  wear 
Our  strength  away  in  wrestling  with  the  air ; 

For  ’tis  our  nature  strikes  us  down  : the  beasts 
Slaughter’d  in  hourly  hecatombs  for  feasts 
Are  of  as  high  an  order — they  must  go  [slaughter. 
Even  where  their  driver  goads  them,  though  to 
Ye  men,  who  pour  your  blood  for  kings  as  water, 
What  have  they  given  your  children  in  return  ? 

A heritage  of  servitude  and  woes, 

A blindfold  bondage,  where  your  hire  is  blows. 

What ! do  not  yet  the  red-hot  plougshares  burn, 

O’er  which  you  stumble  in  a false  ordeal, 

And  deem  this  proof  of  loyalty  the  real ; 

Kissing  the  hand  that  guides  you  to  your  scars, 

And  glorying  as  you  tread  the  glowing  bars  ? 

All  that  your  sires  have  left  you,  all  that  Time 
Bequeaths  of  free,  and  History  of  sublime, 

Spring  from  a different  theme  ! — Ye  see  and  read, 
Admire  and  sigh,  and  then  succumb  and  bleed  ! 

Save  the  few  spirits,  who,  despite  of  all, 

And  worse  than  all,  the  sudden  crimes  engender’d 
By  the  down-thundering  of  the  prison-wall, 

And  thirst  to  swallow  the  sweet  waters  tender’d, 
Gushing  from  Freedom’s  fountains — when  the  crowd, 
Madden’d  with  centuries  of  drought,  are  loud, 

And  trample  on  each  other  to  obtain 
The  cup  which  brings  oblivion  of  a chain 
Heavy  and  sore, — in  which  long  yoked  they  plough’d 
The  sand, — or  if  there  sprung  the  yellow  gram, 

’Twas  not  for  them,  their  necks  were  too  much  bow’d, 
And  their  dead  palates  chew’d  the  cud  of  nain  : — 

Yes  ! the  few  spirits — who,  despite  of  deeds 
Which  they  abhor,  confound  not  with  the  cause 
Those  momentary  starts  from  Nature’s  laws, 

Which,  like  the  pestilence  and  earthquake,  smite 
1 Jut  for  a term,  then  pass,  and  leave  the  earth 
With  all  her  seasons  to  repair  the  blight 
With  a few  summers,  and  again  put  forth 


Cities  and  generations — fair,  when  free — 

For,  Tyranny,  there  blooms  no  bud  for  thee  ! 

in. 

Glory  and  Empire  ! once  upon  these  towers 
With  Freedom — godlike  Triad  ! how  ye  sate  1 
The  league  of  mightiest  nations,  in  those  hours 
When  V enice  was  an  envy,  might  abate, 

But  did  not  quench,  her  spirit — in  her  fate 
All  were  enwrapp’d  : the  feasted  monarchs  knew 
And  loved  their  hostess,  nor  could  learn  to  hate, 
Although  they  humbled — with  the  kingly  few 
The  many  felt,  for  from  all  days  and  climes 
She  was  the  voyager’s  worship ; — even  her  crimes 
Wrere  of  the  softer  order — born  of  Love, 

She  drank  no  blood,  nor  fatten’d  on  the  dead, 

But  gladden’d  where  her  harmless  conquests  spread 
For  these  restored  the  Cross,  that  from  above 
Hallow’d  her  sheltering  banners,  which  incessant 
Flew  between  earth  and  the  unholy  Crescent, 

Which,  if  it  waned  and  dwindled,  Earth  may  thank 
The  city  it  has  clothed  in  chains,  which  clank 
Now,  creaking  in  the  ears  of  those  who  owe 
The  name  of  Freedom  to  her  glorious  struggles  ; 

Yet  she  but  shares  with  them  a common  woe, 

And  call’d  the  “kingdom”  of  a conquering  foe, — 

But  knows  what  all — and,  most  of  all,  we  know- 
With  what  set  gilded  terms  a tyrant  juggles  ! 

IV. 

The  name  of  Commonwealth  is  past  and  gone 
O’er  the  three  fractions  of  the  groaning  globe  ; 
Venice  is  crush’d,  and  Holland  deigns  to  own 
A sceptre,  and  endures  the  purple  robe  ; 

If  the  free  Switzer  yet  bestrides  alone 
His  chainless  mountains,  ’tis  but  for  a time, 

For  tyranny  of  late  is  cunning  grown, 

And  in  its  own  good  season  tramples  down 
The  sparkles  of  our  ashes  One  great  clime. 

Whose  vigorous  offspring  by  dividing  ocean 
Are  kept  apart  and  nursed  in  the  devotion 
Of  Freedom,  which  their  fathers  fought  for,  and 
Bequeath’d — a heritage  of  heart  and  hand, 

And  proud  distinction  from  each  other  land, 

Whose  sons  must  bow  them  at  a monarch’s  motion, 
As  if  his  senseless  sceptre  were  a wand 
Full  of  the  magic  of  exploded  science — 

Still  one  great  clime,  in  full  and  free  defiance, 

Yet  rears  her  crest,  unconquer’d  and  sublime, 

Above  the  far  Atlantic  ! — She  has  taught 
Her  Esau-brethren  that  the  haughty  flag, 

The  floating  fence  of  Albion’s  feebler  crag, 

May  strike  to  those  whose  red  right  hands  have  bought 
Rights  cheaply  earn’d  with  blood.—  Still,  still,  for  evtl 
Better,  though  each  man’s  life-blood  were  a river, 
That  it  should  flow,  and  overflow,  than  creep 
Through  thousand  lazy  channels  in  our  veins, 

Damm’d  like  the  dull  canal  with  locks  and  chains, 

And  moving,  as  a sick  man  in  his  sleep, 

Three  paces,  and  then  faltering : — better  be 
Where  the  extinguish’d  Spartans  still  are  free, 

In  their  proud  charnel  of  Thermopylae, 

Than  stagnate  in  our  marsh, — or  o’er  the  deep 
Fly,  and  one  current  to  the  ocean  add, 

One  spirit  to  the  souls  our  fathers  had, 

One  freeman  more,  America,  to  thee  ! 


Zi)t  #torgante  iWaggiore 

OP  PULCI.1 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Morgante  Maggiore,  of  the  first  canto  of  which 
tins  translation  is  offered,  divides  with  the  Orlando 
mnainorato  the  honour  of  having  formed  and  sug- 
gested the  style  and  story  of  Ariosto.  The  great 
defects  of  Boiardo  were  his  treating  too  seriously* *the 
narratives  of  chivalry,  and  his  harsh  style.  Ariosto, 


(1)  [The  following  translation  was  executed  at  Ravenna,  in 
February,  1820,  and  first  saw  the  light  in  the  pages  of  the  unfortu- 
nate journal  called  “ The  Liberal.”  The  merit  of  it,  as  Lord  Byron 
over  and  over  states  in  his  letters,  consists  in  the  wonderful  vcrbum 
pr»  verbo  closeness  of  the  version.  It  was.  in  fact,  an  exercise  of 
skill  in  this  art,  and  cannot  be  fairly  estimated,  without  continuous 
reference  to  the  original  Italian,  which  the  reader  will  therefore 
now  find  placed  opposite  to  the  text  Those  who  want  full  in- 
formation, and  clear  philosophical  views,  as  to  the  origin  of  the 
Romantic  Poetry  of  the  Italians,  will  do  well  to  read  at  length  an 
article  on  that  subject,  from  the  pen  of  the  late  Ugo  Foscolo,  in 
the  forty-second  number  of  the  Quarterly  Review.  We  extract 
from  it  the  passage  in  which  that  learned  writer  applies  himself 
more  particularly  to  the  Morgante  of  Pulci.  After  showing  that 
all  the  poets  of  this  class  adopted  as  the  groundwork  of  their 
fictions,  the  old  wild  materials  which  had  for  ages  formed  the 
stock  in  trade  of  the  professed  story-tellers. — in  those  days  a class 
of  persons  holding  the  same  place  in  Christendom,  and  more 
especially  in  Italy,  wh'ich  their  brothers  still  maintain  all  over  the 
East, — Foscolo  thus  proceeds : — 

“ The  customary  forms  of  the  narrative  all  find  a place  in 
romantic  poetry:  such  are  the  sentemious  reflections  suggested  by 
the  matters  which  he  has  just  related,  or  arising  in  anticipation  of 
those  which  he  is  about  to  relate,  and  which  the  story-teller  always 
epens  when  he  resumes  his  recitations ; his  defence  of  his  own 
merits  against  the  attacks  of  rivals  in  trade  ; and  his  formal  leave- 
taking  when  he  parts  from  his  audience,  and  invites  them  to  meet 
him  again  on  the  morrow.  This  method  of  winding  up  each  por- 
tion of  the  poem  is  a favourite  among  the  romantic  poets ; who 
constantly  finish  their  cantos  with  a distich,  of  which  the  words 
may  vary,  but  the  sense  is  uniform. 

* All’  altro  canto  ve  faro  sentire, 

Se  all’  altro  canto  mi  verrete  a udire.’ — Ariosto. 

Or  at  the  end  of  another  canto,  according  to  Harrington’s  transla- 
tion,— 

‘ I now  cut  off  abruptly  here  my  rhyme, 

And  keep  my  tale  unto  another  time.’ 

“ The  forms  and  materials  of  these  popular  stories  were  adopted 
by  writers  of  a superior  class,  who  considered  the  vulgar  tales  of 
their  predecessors  as  blocks  of  marble  finely  tinted  and  variegated 
by  the  hand  of  nature,  but  which  might  afford  a masterpiece,  when  i 
tastefully  worked  and  polished.  The  romantic  poets  treated  the  ! 
traditionary  fictions  just  as  Dante  did  the  legends  invented  by  the  ! 
monks  to  maintain  their  mastery  over  weak  minds.  He  formed 
them  into  a poem,  which  became  the  admiration  of  every  age  and 
nation ; but  Dante  and  Petrarca  were  poets,  who,  though  univer- 
sally celebrated,  were  not  universally  understood.  The  learned 
found  employment  in  writing  comments  upon  their  poems ; but  the 
ration,  without  even  excepting  the  higher  ranks,  knew  them  only 
by  name.  At  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century,  a few  obscure 
authors  began  to  write  romances  in  prose  and  rhyme,  taking  for 
their  subject  the  wars  of  Charlemagne  and  Orlando,  or  sometimes 
the  adventures  of  Arthur  and  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table. 
These  works  were  so  pleasing,  that  they  were  rapidly  multiplied: 
but  the  bards  of  romance  cared  little  about  style  or  versification, — 
they  sought  for  adventures,  and  enchantments,  and  miracles.  We 
here  obtain  at  least  a partial  explanation  of  the  rapid  decline  of 
Italian  poetry,  and  the  amazing  corruption  of  the  Italian  language, 
which  took  place  immediately  after  the  death  of  Petrarch,  and 
which  proceeded  from  bad  to  worse  until  the  era  of  Lorenzo  de’ 
Medici. 

“ It  was  then  that  Pulci  composed  his  Morgante  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  Madonna  Lucrezia,  the  mother  of  Lorenzo;  and  he  used 
to  recite  it  at  table  to  Ficino,  and  Politian,  and  Lorenzo,  and  the 
other  illustrious  characters  who  then  flourished  at  Florence : yet 
pulci  adhered  strictly  to  the  original  plan  of  the  popular  story- 
tellers : and  if  his  successors  have  embellished  them  so  that  they 
can  scarcely  be  recognised,  it  is  certain  that  in  no  other  poem  can 
they  be  found  so  genuine  and  native  as  in  the  Morgante.  Pulci 
accommodated  himself,  though  sportively,  to  the  genius  of  his  age; 
clas  ical  taste  and  sound  criticism  began  to  prevail,  and  great 
sndeaveurs  were  making  by  the  learned  to  separate  historical  truth 


in  his  continuation,  by  a judicious  mixiure  of  tho 
gaiety  of  Pulci,  lias  avoided  the  one ; and  Berni,  in 
his  reformation  of  Boiardo’s  poem,  has  corrected  the 
other.  Pulci  may  be  considered  as  the  precursor  and 
model  of  Berni  altogether,  as  he  has  partly  been  to 
Ariosto,  however  inferior  to  both  his  copyists.  He 
is  no  less  the  founder  of  a new  style  of  poetry  very 
lately  sprung  up  in  England.  I allude  to  that  of  the 


from  the  chaos  of  fable  and  tradition  : so  that,  though  Pulci  intro- 
duced the  most  extravagant  fables,  he  affected  to  complain  of  the 
errors  of  his  predecessors.  ‘I  grieve,’  he  said,  .‘for  my  emperor 
Charlemagne  : for  I see  that  his  history  has  been  badly  written 
and  worse  understood.’ 

‘ E del  mio  Carlo  imperador  m’  increbbe ; 

E stata  questa  istoria,  a quel  ch’  io  veggio, 

Di  Carlo,  male  intesa  e scritta  peggio.’ 

“ And  whilst  he  quotes  the  great  historian  Leonardo  Aretino 
with  respect,  he  professes  to  believe  the  authority  of  the  holy  Arch- 
bishop Turpin,  who  is  also  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  poem.  In 
another  passage,  where  he  imitates  the  apologies  of  the  story- 
tellers, he  makes  a neat  allusion  to  the  taste  of  his  audience  ‘ I 
know,’  he  says,  ‘that  I must  proceed  straightforward,  and  not  tell 
a single  lie  in  the  course  of  my  tale.  This  is  not  a story  of  mere 
invention  : and  if  I go  one  step  out  of  the  right  road,  one  chastises, 
another  criticises,  a third  scolds — they  try  to  drive  me  mad — but  in 
fact  they  are  out  of  their  senses.’ 

“ Pulci’s  versification  is  remarkably  fluent.  Yet  he  is  deficient 
in  melody;  his  language  is  pure,  and  his  expressions  flow  naturally ; 
but  his  phrases  are  abrupt  and  unconnected,  and  he  frequently 
writes  ungrammatically.  His  vigour  degenerates  into  harshness; 
and  his  love  of  brevity  prevents  the  development  of  his  poetical 
imagery.  He  bears  all  the  marks  of  rude  genius  ; he  was  capable 
of  delicate  pleasantry,  yet  his  smiles  are  usually  bitter  and  severe. 
His  humour  never  arises  from  points,  but  from  unexpected  situa 
tions  strongly  contrasted.  The  Emperor  Charlemagne  sentences 
King  Marsilius  of  Spain  to  be  hanged  for  high  treason ; and  Arch- 
bishop Turpin  kindly  offers  his  services  on  the  occasion. 

‘ E’  disse  : Io  vo’,  Marsilio,  che  tu  muoja 
Dove  tu  ordinasti  il  tradimento. 

Disse  Turpino : Io  voglio  fare  il  bqja 
Carlo  rispose : Ed  io  son  ben  contento 
Che  sia  trattato  di  questi  due  cani 
L’  opera  santa  con  le  sante  mani.’ 

“ Here  we  have  an  emperor  superintending  the  execution  of  a 
king,  who  is  hanged  in  the  presence  of  a vast  multitude,  all  ol 
whom  are  greatly  edified  at  beholding  an  archbishop  officiating  in 
the  character  of  a finisher  of  the  law.  Before  this  adventure  took 
place,  Caradoro  had  despatched  an  ambassador  to  the  emperor, 
complaining  of  the  shameful  conduct  of  a wicked  Paladin,  who 
had  seduced  the  princess  his  daughter.  The  orator  does  not  present 
himself  with  modern  diplomatic  courtesy. 

‘ Macon  t’abbatta  come  traditore, 

O disleale  e ingiusto  imperadore ! 

A Caradoro  e stato  scritto,  O Carlo, 

O Carlo  ! O Carlo ! (e  crqllava  la  testa) 

De  la  tua  corte,  che  non  puoi  negarlo, 

De  la  sua  figlia  cosa  disonesta.’ 

“ ‘ O Charles,’  he  cried,  ‘ Charles,  Charles ! ’ — and  as  he  cried 
He  shook  his  head—1  a sad  complaint  I bring 
Of  shameful  acts  which  cannot  be  denied: 

King  Caradore  has  ascertained  the  thing, 

Which  comes  moreover  proved  and  verified 
By  letters  from  your  own  side  of  the  water 
Respecting  the  behaviour  of  his  daughter.’ 

“ Such  scenes  may  appear  somewhat  strange ; but  Caradore  s 
embassy,  and  the  execution  of  King  Marsilius,  are  told  in  strict 
conformity  to  the  notions  of  the  common  people,  and  as  they  must 
still  be  described  if  we  wished  to  imitate  the  popular  story-tellers 
If  Pulci  be  occasionally  refined  and  delicate,  his  snatches  of 
amenity  resulted  from  the  national  character  of  the  Florentines, 
and  the  revival  of  letters.  But  at  the  same  time,  we  must  trace  to 
national  character,  and  to  the  influence  of  his  daily  companions, 
the  buffoonery  which,  in  the  opinion  of  foreigners,  frequently  dis- 
graces the  poem.  M.  Ginguene  has  criticised  Pulci  in  the  usual 
style  of  his  countrymen.  He  attributes  modern  manners  to  ancient 
times,  and  takes  it  for  granted  that  the  individuals  of  every  other 
nation  think  and  act  like  modern  Frenchmen.  On  these  principles, 
he  concludes  ,that  Pulci,  both  with  respect  to  his  subject  and  t« 
his  mode  of  treating  it,  intended  only  to  write  burlesque  poetry, 

i Q 


482 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ingenious  Whistlecraft.  The  serious  poems  on  Ron- 
cesvalles  in  the  same  language,  and  more  particularly 
the  excellent  one  of  Mr.  Merivale,  are  to  be  traced  to 
the  same  source.  It  has  never  yet  been  decided 
entirely  whether  Pulci’s  intention  was  or  was  not  to 
deride  the  religion  which  is  one  of  his  favourite  tppics. 
It  appears  to  me,  that  such  an  intention  would  have 
been  no  less  hazardous  to  the  poet  than  to  the  priest, 
particularly  in  that  age  and  country;  and  the  per- 
mission to  publish  the  poem,  and  its  reception  among 
the  classics  of  Italy,  prove  that  it  neither  was  nor  is 
so  interpreted.  That  he  intended  to  ridicule  the 
monastic  life,  and  suffered  his  imagination  to  play 
with  the  simple  dulness  of  his  converted  giant,  seems 
evident  enough ; but  surely  it  were  as  unjust  to 
accuse  him  of  irreligion  on  this  account,  as  to  de- 
nounce Fielding  for  his  Parson  Adams,  Barnabas, 
Thwackum,  Supple,  and  the  Ordinary  in  Jonathan 
Wild, — or  Scott,  for  the  exquisite  use  of  his  Cove- 
nanters in  the  “ Tales  of  my  Landlord.” 

In  the  following  translation  I have  used  the  liberty 
of  the  original  with  the  proper  names  ; as  Pulci  uses 
Gan,  Ganellon,  or  Ganellone ; Carlo,  Carlomagno,  or 
Carlomano ; Rondel,  or  llondello,  &c.,  as  it  suits  his 
convenience ; so  has  the  translator.  In  other  respects 
the  version  is  faithful  to  the  best  of  the  translator’s 


because,  as  he  says,  such  buffoonery  could  not  have  been  intro- 
duced into  a composition  recited  to  Lorenzo  de’  Medici  and  his 
enlightened  guests,  if  the  author  had  intended  to  be  in  earnest.  In 
the  fine  portrait  of  Lorenzo  given  by  Machiavelli  at  the  end  of  his 
Florentine  history,  the  historian  complains  that  he  took  more  plea- 
sure in  the  company  of  jesters  and  buffoons  than  beseemed  such  a 
man.  It  is  a little  singular  that  Benedetto  Varchi,  a contem- 
porary historian,  makes  the  same  complaint  of  Machiavelli  him- 
self. Indeed,  many  known  anecdotes  of  Machiavelli,  no  less  than 
his  fugitive  pieces,  prove  that  it  was  only  when  he  was  acting  the 
statesman  that  he  wished  to  be  grave  ; and  that  he  could  laugh  like 
other  men  when  he  laid  aside  his  dignity.  We  do  not  think  he  was 
in  the  wrong.  But,  whatever  opinion  may  be  formed  on  the  sub- 
ject, we  shall  yet  be  forced  to  conclude  that  great  men  may  be 
compelled  to  blame  the  manners  of  their  times,  without  being  able 
to  withstand  their  influence.  In  other  respects,  the  poem  of  Pulci 
is  serious,  both  in  subject  and  in  tone.  And  here  we  shall  repeat 
a general  observation,  which  we  advise  our  readers  to  apply  to  all 
the  romantic  poems  of  the  Italians — That  their  comic  hummr 
arises  from  the  contrast  between  the  constant  endeavours  of  the 
writers  to  adhere  to  the  forms  and  subjects  of  the  popular  story- 
tellers, and  the  efforts  made  at  the  same  time  by  the  genius  of  these 
writers  to  render  such  materials  interesting  and  sublime. 

“ This  simple  elucidation  of  the  causes  of  the  poetical  character 
of  the  Morgante  has  been  overlooked  by  the  critics ; and  they  have 
therefore  disputed  with  great  earnestness  during  the  last  two 
centuries,  whether  the  Morgante  is  written  in  jest  or  earnest ; and 
whether  Pulci  is  not  an  atheist,  who  wrote  in  verse  for  the  express 
purpose  of  scoffing  at  all  religion.  Mr.  Merivale  inclines,  in  his 
Orlando  in  Roneesvalles,  to  the  opinion  of  M.  Ginguene,  that  the 
Morgante  is  decidedly  to  be  considered  as  a burlesque  poem,  and 
a satire  against  the  Christian  religion.  Yet  Mr.  Merivale  himself 
acknowledges  that  it  is  wound  up  with  a tragical  effect,  and  dig- 
nified by  religious  sentiment ; and  is  therefore  forced  to  ‘ leave  the 
question  amongst  the  unexplained,  and  perhaps  inexplicable,  phe- 
nomena of  the  human  mind.’  If  a similar  question  had  not  been 
already  decided,  both  in  regard  to  Shakspeare  and  to  Ariosto,  it 
might  be  still  a subject  of  dispute  whether  the  former  intended  to 
write  tragedies,  and  whether  the  other  did  not  mean  to  burlesque 
his  heroes.  It  is  a happy  thing  that,  with  regard  to  those  two 
great  writers,  the  war  has  ended  by  the  fortunate  intervention  of 
the  general  body  of  readers,  who,  on  such  occasions,  form  their 
judgment  with  less  erudition  and  with  less  prejudice  than  the 
critics.  But  Pulci  is  little  read,  and  his  age  is  little  known.  We 
are  told  by  Mr.  Merivale,  that  ‘the  points  of  abstruse  theology  are 
discussed  in  the  Morgante  with  a degree  of  sceptical  freedom  which 
we  should  imagine  to  be  altogether  remote  from  the  spirit  of  the 
fifteenth  century.’  Mr.  Merivale  follows  M.  Ginguene,  who  fol- 
lows Voltaire.  And  the  philosopher  of  Ferney,  who  was  always 
beating  up  in  all  quarters  for  allies  against  Christianity,  collected 
all  the  scriptural  passages  of  Pulci,  upon  which  he  commented  in 
his  own  way.  But  it  is  only  since  the  Council  of  Trent,  that  any 
drabt  which  might  be  raised  on  a religious  dogma  exposed  an 
author  ti>  tiie  charge  of  impiety  ; whilst,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  a 
Catholic  might  be  sincerely  devout,  and  yet  allow  himself  a certain 
degree  of  latitude  in  theological  doubt.  At  one  and  the  same  time 
the  Florentines  might  well  believe  in  the  Gospel  and  laugh  at  a 


ability  in  combining  his  interpretation  of  the  on* 
language  with  the  not  very  easy  task  of  reducing  it 
to  the  same  versification  in  the  other.  The  reader, 
on  comparing  it  with  the  original,  is  requested  to 
remember  that  the  antiquated  language  of  Pulci, 
however  pure,  is  not  easy  to  the  generality  of  Italians 
themselves,  from  its  great  mixture  of  Tuscan  pro- 
verbs ; and  he  may  therefore  be  more  indulgent  to 
the  present  attempt.  How  far  the  translator  has 
succeeded,  and  whether  or  no  he  shall  continue  the 
work,  are  questions  which  the  public  will  decide.  He 
was  induced  to  make  the  experiment  partly  by  his 
love  for,  and  partial  intercourse  with,  the  Italian  Un- 
gua^e,  of  which  it  is  so  easy  to  acquire  a slight 
knowledge,  and  with  which  it  is  so  nearly  impossible 
for  a foreigner  to  become  accurately  conversant.  The 
Italian  language  is  like  a capricious  beauty,  who  ac- 
cords her  smiles  to  all,  her  favours  to  few,  and  some- 
times least  to  those  who  have  courted  her  longest. 
The  translator  wished  also  to  present  in  an  English 
dress  a part  at  least  of  a poem  never  yet  rendered 
into  a northern  language ; at  the  same  time  that  it 
has  been  the  original  of  some  of  the  most  celebrated 
productions  on  this  side  of  the  Alps,  as  well  as  of* 
those  recent  experiments  in  poetry  in  England  which 
have  been  already  mentioned. 


doctor  of  divinity:  for  it  was  exactly  at  this  era  that  they  had  been 
spectators  of  the  memorable  controversies  between  the  represen- 
tatives of  the  eastern  and  western  churches.  Greek  and  Latin 
bishops  from  every  corner  of  Christendom  had  assembled  at  Flo- 
rence for  the  purpose  of  trying  whether  they  could  possibly  under- 
stand each  other ; and  when  they  separated,  they  hated  each  othei 
worse  than  before.  At  the  very  time  when  Pulci  was  composing 
his  Morgante,  the  clergy  of  Florence  protested  against  the  excom- 
munication pronounced  by  Sixtus  IV.,  and  with  expressions  by 
which  his  holiness  was  anathematised  in  his  turn.  During  these  ■ 
proceedings,  an  archbishop,  convicted  of  being  a papal  emissary, 
was  hanged  from  one  of  the  windows  of  the  government  palace  at 
Florence : this  event  may  have  suggested  to  Pulci  the  idea  of  con- 
verting another  archbishop  into  a hangman.  The  romantic  poets 
substituted  literary  and  scientific  observations  for  the  trivial  degres- 
sions of  the  story-tellers.  This  was  a great  improvement;  and 
although  it  was  not  Well  managed  by  Pulci,  yet  he  presents  us 
with  much  curious  incidental  matter.  In  quoting  his  philosophical 
friend  and  contemporary  Matteo  Palmieri,  he  explains  the  instinct 
of  brutes  by  a bold  hypothesis — he  supposes  that  they  are  animatet 
by  evil  spirits.  This  idea  gave  no  offence  to  the  theologians  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  but  it  excited  much  orthodox  indignation  when 
Father  Bougeant,  a French  monk,  brought  it  forward  as  a new 
theory  of  his  own.  Mr.  Merivale,  after  observing  that  Pulci  died 
before  the  discovery  of  America  by  Columbus,  quotes  a passage 
‘ which  will  become  a very  interesting  document  for  the  philoso 
phical  historian.’  We  give  it  in  his  prose  translation : — ‘The  water 
is  level  through  its  whole  extent,  although,  like  the  earth,  it  has 
the  form  of  a globe.  Mankind  in  those  ages  were  much  more 
ignorant  than  now.  Hercules  would  blush  at  this  day  for  having 
fixed  his  columns.  Vessels  will  soon  pass  far  beyond  them.  They 
may  soon  reach  another  hemisphere,  because  every  thing  tends  to 
its  centre;  in  like  manner  as,  by  a divine  mystery,  the  earth  is 
suspended  in  the  midst  of  the  stars;  here  below  are  cities  and 
empires,  which  were  ancient.  The  inhabitants  of  those  regions 
were  called  Antipodes.  They  have  plants  and  animals  as  well  as 
you,  and  wage  wars  as  well  as  you.’ — Morgante , c.  xxv.  st.  229,  &c. 

“ The  more  we  consider  the  traces  of  ancient  science,  which 
break  in  transient  flashes  through  the  darkness  of  the  middle  ages, 
and  which  gradually  re-illuminated  the  horizon,  the  more  shall  we 
be  disposed  to  adopt  the  hypothesis  suggested  by  Bailly,  and  sup- 
ported by  him  with  seductive  eloquence.  He  maintained  that  all 
the  acquirements  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  had  been  transmitted 
to  them  as  the  wrecks  and  fragments  of  the  knowledge  once  pos- 
sessed by  primaeval  nations,  by  empires  of  sages  and  philosophers, 
who  were  afterwards  swept  from  the  face  of  the  globe  by  some  over- 
whelming catastrophe.  His  theory  may  be  considered  as  extrava- 
gant; but  if  the  literary  productions  of  the  Romans  were  not  yet 
extant,  it  would  seem  incredible,  that,  after  the  lapse  of  a few 
centuries,  the  civilisation  of  the  Augustan  age  could  have  been 
succeeded  in  Italy  by  such  barbarity.  The  Italians  were  so  igno- 
rant, that  they  forgot  their  family  names  ; and  before  the  eleventh 
century  individuals  were  known  only  by  their  Christian  names. 
They  had  an  indistinct  idea,  in  the  middle  ages,  of  the  existence  ot 
the  antipodes ; but  it  was  a reminiscence  of  ancient  knowledge. 
Dante  has  indicated  the  number  and  position  of  the  stars  com- 
posing the  polar  constellation  of  the  Austral  hemisphere.  At  th« 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


483 


51  ^organic  Jttaggtore. 


CANTO  PRIMO. 


I. 

In  principio  era  il  Yerbo  appresso  a Dio  ; 
Ed  era  Iddio  il  Yerbo,  e ’1  Yerbo  lui : 
Questo  era  nel  principio,  al  parer  mio  ; 
E nulla  si  pub  far  sanza  costui 
Pero,  giusto  Signor  benigno  e pio, 
Mandami  solo  un  de  gli  angeli  tui, 

Che  m’accompagni,  e rechimi  a meinoria 
Una  famosa  antica  e degna  storia. 

II. 

E tu  Yergine,  figlia,  e madre,  e sposa 
. Di  quel  Signor,  che  ti  dette  le  cliiave 
Del  cielo  e dell’  abisso,  e d’  ogni  cosa, 
Quel  di  che  Gabriel  tuo  ti  disse  Ave  ! 
Perche  tu  se’  de’  tuo’  servi  pietosa, 

Con  dolce  rime,  e stil  grato  e soave, 


same  time  he  tells  us,  that  when  Lucifer  was  hurled  from  the  celes- 
tial regions,  the  arch-devil  transfixed  the  globe;  half  his  body 
remained  on  our  side  of  the  centre  of  the  earth,  and  half  on  the 
other  side.  The  shock  given  to  the  earth  by  his  fall  drove  a great 
portion  of  the  waters  of  the  ocean  to  the  southern  hemisphere,  and 
only  one  high  mountain  remained  uncovered,  upon  which  Dante 
places  his  purgatory.  As  the  fall  of  Lucifer  happened  before  the 
creation  of  Adam,  it  is  evident  that  Dante  did  not  admit  that  the 
southern  hemisphere  had  ever  been  inhabited;  but,  about  thirty 
years  afterwards,  Petrarch,  who  was  better  versed  in  the  ancient 
writers,  ventured  to  hint  that  the  sun  shone  upon  mortals  who  were 
unknown  to  us. 

* Nella  stagion  che  il  ciel  rapido  inchina 
Vers’  occidente,  e che  il  di  nostro  vola 
A gente  che  di  la  forse  1’  aspetta.’ 

“In  the  course  of  half  a century  after  Petrarch,  another  step  was 
gained.  The  existence  of  the  antipodes  was  fully  demonstrated. 
Pulci  raises  a devil  to  announce  the  fact;  but  it  had  been  taught 
to  him  hy  his  fellow-citizen  Paolo  Toscanelli,  an  excellent  astro- 
nomer and  mathematician,  who  wrote  in  his  old  age  to  Christopher 
Columbus,  exhorting  him  to  undertake  his  expedition.  A few 
stanzas  have  been  translated  by  Mr.  Merivale,  with  some  slight 
variations,  which  do  not  wrong  the  original.  They  may  be  consi- 
dered as  a specimen  of  Pulci’s  poetry,  vdien  he  writes  with  imagi- 
nation and  feeling.  Orlando  bids  farewell  to  his  dying  horse. 

‘ His  faithful  steed,  that  long  had  served  him  well 
In  peace  and  war,  now  closed  his  languid  eye, 

Kneel’d  at  his  feet,  and  seemed  to  say  ‘ Farewell  1 
I’ve  brought  thee  to  the  destined  port,  and  die.’ 

Orlando  felt  anew  his  sorrows  swell 
When  lu>  beheld  his  Brigliadoro  lie 
Stretch’d  on  the  field,  that  crystal  fount  beside, 

Stiffen’d  his  limbs,  and  cold  his  warlike  pride : 

And,  ‘ O my  much-loved  steed,  my  generous  friend, 
Companion  of  my  better  years!  ’ he  said ; 

4 And  have  I lived  to  see  so  sad  an  end 
Of  all  thy  toils,  and  thy  brave  spirit  fled. 

O pardon  me,  if  e’er  1 did  offend 

With  hasty  wrong  that  mild  and  faithful  head!  ’ — 

Just  then,  his  eyes  a momentary  light 

Flash’d  quick;— -then  closed  again  in  endless  night.’ 

“ When  Orlando  is  expiring  on  the  field  of  battle,  an  angel 
descends  to  him,  and  promises  that  Alda  his  wife  shall  join  him  in 
paradise. 

‘ Bright  with  eternal  youth  and  fadeless  bloom, 

Thine  Aldabella  thou  shait  behold  once  more, 

Partaker  of  a bliss  beyond  the  tomb 
With  her  whom  Sinai’s  holy  hills  adore, 

Crown’d  with  fresh  flowers,  whose  colour  and  perfume 
Surpass  what  Spring’s  rich  bosom  ever  bore — 

Thy  mourning  widow  here  she  will  remain, 

And  be  in  Heaven  thy  joyful  spouse  again.’ 

“ Whilst  the  soul  of  Orlando  was  soaring  to  heaven,  a soft  and 
plaintive  strain  was  heard,  and  angelic  voices  joined  in  celestial 
harmony.  They  sang  the  psalm,  4 When  Israel  went  out  of  Egypt ;’ 
and  the  singers  were  known  to  be  angels  from  the  tremblitg  f 
tlieir  wings. 

‘ Poi  si  sentl  con  un  suon  dolce  e fioco 
Certa  armonia  con  si  soavi  accenti 
Che  ben  parea  d’  angelici  stromenti. 

#*»*** 

4 In  exit  a Israel,  cantar,  de  JEyypto, 


®f)c  jftlorgante  Jtflaggtore,1 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


I. 

In  the  beginning  was  the  Word  next  God ; 

God  was  the  Word,  the  Word  no  less  was  he  : 
This  was  in  the  beginning,  to  my  mode 

Of  thinking,  and  without  him  nought  could  be : 
Therefore,  just  Lord  ! from  out  thy  high  abode. 
Benign  and  pious,  bid  an  angel  flee, 

One  only,  to  be  my  companion,  who 

Shall  help  my  famous,  worthy,  old  song  through. 

n. 

And  thou,  oh  Yirgin-!  daughter,  mother,  bride 
Of  the  same  Lord,  who  gave  to  you  each  key 
Of  heaven,  and  hell,  and  every  thing  beside, 

The  day  thy  Gabriel  said  “ All  hail ! ” to  thee. 
Since  to  tiiy  servants  pity ’s  ne’er  denied, 

With  flowing  rhymes,  a pleasant  style  and  free, 


Sentito  fu  dagli  angeli  solenne 
Che  si  conobbe  al  tremolar  le  penne.’ 

“Dante  has  inserted  passages  from  the  Vulgate  in  hi* * *  ')ivina 
Commedia;  and  Petrarch,  the  most  religious  of  poets,  quotes 
Scripture  even  when  he  is  courting.  Yet  they  were  not  accused  of 
impiety.  Neither  did  Pulci  incur  the  danger  of  a posthumous 
excommunication  until  after  the  Reformation,  when  Pius  V.  (a 
Dominican,  who  was  turned  into  a saint  by  a subsequent  pope/ 
promoted  the  welfare  of  holy  mother  church  by  burning  a fen 
wicked  books,  and  hanging  a few  troublesome  authors.  The  notior 
that  Pulci  was  in  th£  odour  of  heresy  influenced  the  opinion  c 
Milton,  who  only  speaks  of  the  Morgante  as  a 4 sportful  romance. 
Milton  was  anxious  to  prove  that  Catholic  writers  had  ridiculed 
popish  divines,  and  that  the  Bible  had  been  subjected  to  privad 
judgment,  notwithstanding  the  popes  had  prohibited  the  reading  o, 
it.  His  ardour  did  not  allow  him  to  stop  and  examine  whether 
this  prohibition  might  not  be  posterior  to  the  death  of  Pulci. 
Milton  had  studied  Pulci  to  advantage.  The  knowledge  which  he 
ascribes  to  his  devils,  their  despairing  repentance,  the  lofty  senti- 
ments which  fie  bestows  upon  some  of  them,  and,  above  all,  the 
principle  that,  notwithstanding  their  crime  and  its  punishment, 
they  retain  the  grandeur  and  perfection  of  angelic  nature,  are  all 
to  be  found  in  the  Morgante  as  well  as  in- Paradise  Lost.  Ariosto 
and  Tasso  have  imitated  other  passages.  When  great  poets  borrow 
from  their  inferiors  in  genius,  they  turn  their  acquisitions  to  such 
advantage  that  it  is  diffleylt  to  detect  their  thefts,  and  still  more 
difficult  to  blame  them. 

44  The  poem  is  filled  with  kings,  knights,  giants,  and  devils. 
There  are  many  battles  and  many  duels.  Wars  rise  out  of  wars, 
and  empires  are  conquered  in  a day.  Pulci  treats  us  with  plenty 
of  magic  and  enchantment.  His  love  adventures  are  not  peculiarly 
interesting;  and,  with  the  exception  of  four  or  five  leading  person- 
ages, his  characters  are  of  no  moment.  The  fable  turns  wholly 
upon  the  hatred  which  Ganellon,  the  felon  knight  of  Maganza,  bears 
towards  Orlando  and  the  rest  of  the  Christian  Paladins.  Chat^- 
magne  is  easily  practised  upon  by  Ganellon,  his  prime  confidant  and 
man  of  business.  So  he  treats  Orlando  and  liis  friends  in  the  most 
scurvy  manner  imaginable,  and  sends  them  out  to  hard  service  in 
the  wars  against  France.  Ganellon  is  despatched  to  Spain  to  treat 
with  King  Marsilius,  being  also  instructed  to  obtain  the  cession  of 
a kingdom  for  Orlando;  but  he  concerts  a treacherous  device  with 
the  Spaniards,  and  Orlar.do  is  killed  at  the  battle  of  Roncesvalles. 
The  intrigues  of  Ganellon,  his  spite,  his  patience,  his  obstinacy, 
his  dissimulation,  his  affected  humility,  and  his  inexhaustible 
powers  of  intrigue,  are  admirably  depicted ; and  his  character  con- 
stitutes the  chief  and  finest  feature  in  the  poem.  Charlemagne  is 
a worthy  monarch,  but  easily  gulled.  Orlando  is  a real  hero, 
chaste  and  disinterested,  and  who  fights  in  good  earnest  for  the 
propagation  of  the  faith.  He  baptizes  the  giant  Morgante,  who 
afterwards  serves  him  like  a faithful  squire.  There  is  another 
giant,  whose  name  is  Margutte.  Morg  nte  falls  in  with  Margutte  ; 
and  they  become  sworn  brothers.  Margutte  is  a very  infidel  giant, 
ready  to  confess  his  filings,  and  full  of  drollery.  He  sets  all 
a-laughing.  readers,  giants,  devils,  and  heroes  ; and  he  finishes  his 
career  by  laughing  till  he  bursts.”] 

(1)  [“  About  the  Morgante  Maggiore,  I won’t  have  a line  omitted. 
It  may  circulate  oj  it  may  not,  but  all  the  criticism  on  earth  sha’n’t 
touch  a line,  unless  it  be  because  it  is  badly  translated.  Now  you 
say,  and  I say,  and  others  say,  that  the  translation  is  a good  one, 
and  so  it  shall  go  to  press  as  it  is.  Pulci  must  answer  for  his  own 
Vreligion  : I answer  for  the  translation  only.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr. 
Murray,  1820. — “ Why  don’t  you  publish  my  Pulci, — the  best  thing 
•ver  wrote.” — lb.  1821.] 


484 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Ajuta  i versi  miei  benignamente, 

E ’nfino  al  fine  allumina  la  niente. 

in. 

Era  nel  tempo,  quando  Eilomena 
Con  la  sorella  si  lamenta  e plOra, 

Che  si  ricorda  di  sua  antica  pena, 

E pe’  boschetti  le  ninfe  innamora 
E Febo  il  earro  temperalo  mena, 

Che  ’1  suo  Fetonte  1’  ammaestra  ancora 
Ed  appariva  appunto  all’  orizzonte, 

Tal  che  Titon  si  g raffia v a la  fronte. 

IV. 

Quand’io  varai  la  mia  barclietta,  prima 
Per  ubbidir  chi  sempre  ubbidir  debbe 
La  mente.  e faticarsi  in  prosa  e in  rima, 

E del  mio  Carlo  Imperador  m’increbbe  ; 
Che  so  quanti  la  penna  ha  posto  in  cima, 
Che  tutti  la  sua  gloria  prevarrebbe  : 

E stata  quella  istoria,  a quel  eh’  i’  veggio, 
Di  Carlo  male  intesa,  e scritta  peggio. 

v. 

Diceva  gia  Lionardo  Aretino, 

Che  s’egli  avesse  avuto  scrittor  degno. 
Com’  egli  ebbe  un  Ormanno  il  suo  Pipino 
Cli’ avesse  diligenzia  avuto  e ingegno  ; 
Sarebbe  Carlo  Magno  un  uom  divino  ; 

Pero  ch’egli  ebbe  gran  vittoric  e regno, 

E fece  per  la  chiesa  e per  la  fede 
Certo  assai  pm,  che  non  si  dice  o crede. 

VI. 

Guardisi  ancora  a san  Liberatore 
Quella  badfa  la  presso  a Manoppello, 

Gib.  ne  gli  Abbr-uzzi  fatta  per  suo  onore. 
Dove  fu  la  battaglia  e’l  gran  fiaggello 
D’  un  re  pagan,  che  Carlo  imperadore 
Uccise,  e tanto  del  suo  popol  fello  : 

E vedesi  tante  ossa,  e tanto  il  sauna, 

Che  tutte  in  Giusaffa  poi  si  vedranno. 

VII. 

Ma  il  mondo  cieco  e ignorante  non  prezza 
Le  sue  virtu,  com’  io  vorrei  vedere  : 

E tu,  Fiorenza,  de  la  sua  grandezza 
Possiedi,  e sempre  poirai  possedere 
Ogni  costume  ed  ogni  gentilezza 
Che  si  potesse  aquistare  o avere 
Col  senno  col  tesoro  o con  la  lancia 
Dal  nobil  sangue  e venuto  di  Francia. 

VIII. 

Dodici  paladini  aveva  in  corte 

Carlo  ; e ’1  piii  savio  a famoso  era  Orlando  : 
Gan  traditor  lo  coudusse  a la  morte 
In  Roncisvalle  un  trattato  ordinando ; 

La  dove  il  corno  sono  tanto  forte 
Dopo  la  dolorosa  rotta,  quando 
Ne  la  sua  commedia  Dante  qui  dice, 

E mettelo  con  Carlo  in  ciel  felice. 

ix. 

Era  per  Pasqua  quella  di  natale  : 

Carlo  la  corte  avca  tutta  in  Parigi : 

Orlando,  com’  io  dico,  il  principale 
Ewi,  il  Danese,  Astolfo,  e Anstiigi: 
Fannosi  teste  e cose  trio i dale, 

E molto  celebravan  San  Dionigi ; 

Angiolin  di  Bajona,  ed  Ulivieri 
V’  era  venuto.,  e ’1  gentil  Berlingliieri. 


Be  to  my  verses  then  benignly  kind. 

And  to  the  end  illuminate  my  mind. 

in. 

’Twas  in  the  season  when  sad  Philomel 
Weeps  with  her  sister,  who  remembers  and 
Deplores  the  ancient  woes  which  both  betel, 

And  makes  the  nymphs  enamour'd,  to  the  hand 
Of  Phaeton  by  Phoebus  loved  so  well 

Iiis  car  (but  temper’d  by  his  sire’s  command) 

Was  given,  and  on  the  horizon’s  verge  just  now 
Appear’d,  so  that  Tithonus  scratch’d  his  brow  : 

IV. 

When  I prepared  my  bark  first  to  obey, 

As  it  should  still  obey,  the  helm,  my  mind, 

And  carry  prose  or  rhyme,  and  this  my  lay 
Of  Charles  the  Emperor,  whom  you  wifi  find 
By  several  pens  already  praised  ; but  they 
Who  to  diffuse  his  glory  were  inclined, 

For  all  that  I can  see  in  prose  or  verse, 

Have  understood  Charles  badly,  and  wrote  worse. 

v. 

Leonardo  A retina  said  already, 

That  if,  like  Pepin,  Charles  had  had  a writer 
Of  genius  quick,  and  diligently  steady, 

No  hero  would  in  history  look  brighter; 

He  in  the  cabinet  being  always  ready, 

And  in  the  field  a most  victorious  fighter, 

Who  for  the  church  and  Christian  faith  had  wro/gnt 
Certes,  far  more  than  yet  is  said  or  thought. 

vi. 

You  still  may  see  at  Saint  Liberatore 
The  abbey,  no  great  way  from  Manopell, 

Erected  in  the  Abruzzi  to  his  glory, 

Because  of  the  great  battle  in  which  fell 
A pagan  king,  according  to  the  story, 

And  felon  people  whom  Charles  sent  to  hell : 

And  there  are  bones  so  many,  and  so  many, 

Near  them  Giusaffa’s  would  seem  few,  if  any. 

VII. 

But  the  world,  blind  and  ignorant,  don’t  prize 
His  virtues  as  I wish  to  see  them : thou, 

Florence,  by  his  great  bounty  don’t  arise, 

And  hast,  and  may  have,  if  thou  wilt  allow, 

All  proper  customs  and  true  courtesies : 

Whate’er  thou  hast  acquired  from  them  till  no\* 
With  knightly  courage,  treasure,  or  the  lance, 

Is  sprung  from  out  the  noble  blood  of  France. 

VIII. 

Twelve  paladins  had  Charles  in  court,  of  whom 
The  wisest  and  most  famous  was  Orlando ; 

Him  traitor  Gan  conducted  to  the  tomb 
In  Roncesvalles,  as  the  villain  plann’d  too, 

While  the  horn  rang  so  loud,  and  knell’d  the  doora 
Of  their  sad  rout,  though  he  did  all  knight  can  do ; 
And  Dante  in  his  comedy  has  given 
To  him  a happy  seat  with  Charles  in  heaven. 

IX. 

’Twas  Christmas-dav ; in  Paris  all  his  court 
Charles  held ; the  chief,  I say,  Orlando  was. 

The  Dane ; Astolfo  there  too  did  resort, 

Also  Ansuigi,  the  gay  time  to  pass 
In  festival  and  in  triumphal  sport, 

The  much-renown’d  St.  Dennis  being  the  cause ; 
Angiolin  of  Bayonne,  and  Oliver, 

And  gentle  Belinghieri  too  came  there : 


MORGAN TE  MAGGIORE. 


485 


X. 

Eravi  Avolio  ed  Avino  ed  Ottone, 

Di  Normandia,  Riccardo  Paladino, 

E ’1  savio  Namo,  e ’1  vecchio  Salamone, 
Gualtier  da  Monlione,  e Baldovino 
Ch  ’era  figliuol  del  tristo  Ganellone. 

Troppo  lieto  era  il  figliuol  di  Pipino  ; 

Tan  to  clie  spesso  d’  allegrezza  geme 
Yeggendo  tutti  i paladini  insieme. 

XI. 

Ma  la  Eortuna  attenta  sta  nascosa, 

Per  guastar  sempre  ciascun  nostro  effetto  : 
Mentre  che  Carlo  cosi  si  riposa, 

Orlando  governava  in  fatto  e in  detto 
La  corte  e Carlo  Magno  ed  ogni  cosa : 

•Gan  per  invidia  scoppia  il  malaaetto, 

E cominciava  un  di  con  Carlo  a dire  : 

Abbiam  noi  sempre  Orlando  ad  ubbidire  ? 

XII. 

Io  ho  creduto  mille  volte  dirti : 

Orlando  ha  in  se  troppa  presunzione : 

Noi  siam  qui  conti,  re,  duclii  a servirti, 

E Namo,  Ottone,  Uggieri  e Salamone, 

Per  onorarti  ognun,  per  ubbidirti : 

Che  costui  abbi  ogni  reputazione 
Nol  sofferrem  ; ma  siam  deliberate 
Da  un  fanciulio  non  esser  governati. 

XIII. 

Tu  cominciasti  insino  in  Aspramonte 
A dargli  a intender  che  fusse  gagliardo, 

E facesse  gran  cose  a quella  fonte ; 

Ma  se  non  fusse  stat.o  il  buon  Gherardo, 

10  so  che  la  vittoria  era  d’  Almonte  : 

Ma  egli  ebbe  sempre  F occhio  a lo  stendardo  : 
Che  si  voleva  quel  di  coronarlo  : 

Questo  e colui  ch’  ha  meritato,  Carlo. 

XIV. 

Se  ti  ricorda  gia  sendo  in  Guascogna, 

Quando  e’  vi  venne  la  gente  di  Spagna, 

11  popol  de’  cristiani  avea  vergogna, 

Se  non  mostrava  la  sua  forza  magna. 

Il  ver  convien  pur  dir,  quando  e’  bisogna : 
Sappi  ch’  ognuno  imperador  si  lagna : 

Quant’  io  per  me,  ripassero  que’  monti 
Ch’  io  passai  ’n  qua  con  sessantaduo  conti. 

xv. 

La  tua  grandezza  dispensar  si  vuole, 

E far  che  ciascun  abbi  la  sua  parte  : 

La  corte  tutta  quanta  se  ne  duole  : 

Tu  credi  che  costui  sia  forse  Marts  ? 

Orlando  un  giorno  udi  queste  parole, 

Che  si  sedeva  soletto  in  disparte  : 
Dispiacquegli  di  Gan  quel  clie  diceva; 

Ma  molto  piu  che  Carlo  gli  credeva. 

XVI. 

E voile  con  la  spada  uccider  Gano  ; 

Ma  Ulivieri  in  quel  mezzo  si  mise, 

E Durlindana  gli  trasse  di  mano, 

E cosi  il  me’  che  seppe  gli  divise. 

Orlando  si  sdegno  con  Carlo  Mano, 

E poco  men  che  quivi  non  1’  uccise  ; 

E dipartissi  di  Parigi  solo, 

E scoppia  e ’mpazza  di  sdegno  e di  duolo. 


x. 

Avolio,  and  Arino,  and  Othone 

Of  Normandy,  and  Richard  Paladin, 

Wise  Hamo,  and  the  ancient  Salamone, 

Walter  of  Lion’s  Mount  and  Baldovin, 

Who  was  the  son  of  the  sad  Ganellone, 

Were  there,  exciting  too  much  gladness  in 
The  son  of  Pepin : — when  his  knights  came  hither. 
He  groan’d  with  joy  to  see  them  altogether 

xi. 

But  watchful  Portune,  lurking,  takes  good  heed 
Ever  some  bar  ’gainst  our  intents  to  bring  : 

While  Charles  reposed  him  thus,  in  word  and  deed. 

Orlando  ruled  court,  Charles,  and  every  thing ; 
Curst  Gan,  with  envy  bursting,  had  such  need 
To  vent  his  spite,  that  thus  with  Charles  the  king 
One  day  he  openly  began  to  say, 

“ Orlando  must  we  always  then  obey  ? 

XII. 

“ A thousand  times  I’ve  been  about  to  say, 

Orlando  too  presumptuously  goes  on  ; 

Here  are  we,  counts,  kings,  dukes,  to  own  thy  sway, 
Hamo,  and  Otho,  Ogiej;  Solomon, 

Each  have  to  honor  thee  and  to  obey ; 

But  he  has  too  much  credit  near  the  throne. 

Which  we  won’t  suffer,  but  are  quite  decided 
By  such  a boy  to  be  no  longer  guided. 

XIII. 

“And  even  at  Aspramont  thou  didst  begin 
To  let  him  know  he  was  a gallant  knight. 

And  by  the  fount  did  much  the  day  to  win ; 

But  I know  who  that  day  had  won  the  fight 
If  it  had  not  for  good  Gherardo  been  : 

The  victory  was  Almonte’s  else  ; his  sight 
He  kept  upon  the  standard,  and  the  laurels 
In  fact  and  fairness  are  his  earning,  Charles. 

XIV. 

“ If  thou  rememberest  being  in  Gascony, 

When  there  advanced  the  nations  out  of  Spain, 

The  Christian  cause  had  suffer’d  shamefully, 

Had  not  his  valour  driven  them  back  again. 

Best  speak  the  truth  when  there’s  a reason  why  : 
Know  then,  oh  emperor  ! that  all  complain  : 

As  for  myself,  1 shall  repass  the  mounts 
O’er  which  I.  cross’d  with  two  and  sixty  counts. 

xv. 

“ ’Tis  fit  thy  grandeur  should  dispense  relief, 

So  that  each  here  may  have  his  proper  part, 

For  the  whole  court  is  more  or  less  in  grief : 

Perhaps  thou  deem’st  this  lad  a Mars  in  heart  ?’* 
Orlando  one  day  heard  this  speech  in  brief, 

As  by  himself  it  chanced  he  sate  apart ; 

Displeased  he  was  with  Gan  because  he  said  it, 

But  much  more  still  that  Charles  should  give  him  credit 

XVI. 

And  with  the  sword  he  would  have  murder’d  Gan, 
But  01  ver  thrust  in  between  the  pair, 

And  from  his  hand  extracted  Durlindan, 

And  thus  at  length  they  separated  were. 

Orlando,  angry  too  with  Carloman, 

Wanted  but  little  to  have  slain  him  there ; 

Then  forth  alone  from  Paris  went  the  chief, 

And  burst  and  madden’d  with  disdain  and  griei. 


486 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ivn. 

Ad  Ermellina  moglie  del  Danese 
Tolse  Cortaria,  e poi  tolse  Rondello  ; 

E ’n  verso  Brara  il  suo  cammin  poi  prese. 
Alda  la  bella,  come  vide  quello, 

Per  abbracciarlo  le  braccia  distese. 

Orlando,  che  ismarrito  avea  il  cervello, 

Com’  ella  disse  : ben  venga  il  mio  Orlando  : 
Gli  voile  in  su  la  testa  dar  col  brando, 

XVIII. 

Come  colui  che  la  furia  consiglia, 

Egli  pareva  a Gan  dar  veramente  : 

Alda  la  bella  si  fe’  maraviglia  : 

Orlando  si  ravvide  prestamente  : 

E la  sua  sposa  pigliava  la  briglia, 

E scese  dal  caval  subitamente  : 

Ed  ogni  cosa  narrava  a costei,  • 

E riposossi  alcun  giorno  con  lei. 

XIX. 

Poi  si  parti  portato  dal  furore, 

E termino  passare  in  Pagama ; 

E mentre  che  eavalca,  il  traditore 
Di  Gan  sempre  ricorda  per  la  via  : 

E cavalcando  d’  uno  in  altro  errore. 

In  un  desertc  truova  una  badia 
In  luoglii  oscuri  e paesi  lontani, 

Ch’  era  a’  confin’  tra  cristiani  e pagani. 

xx. 

L’  abate  si  chiamava  Chiaramonte, 

Era  del  sangue  disceso  d’Angiante  : 

Di  sopra  a la  badia  v’  era  un  gran  monte, 
Dove  abitava  alcun  hero  gigante, 

De’  quali  uno  avea  nome  Passamonte, 

L’  altro  Alabastro,  e ’1  terzo  era  Morgante : 
Con  certe  frombe  gittavan  da  alto, 

Ed  ogni  di  facevan  qualclie  assalto. 

XXI. 

1 monachetti  non  potieno  uscire 

Del  monistero  o per  legne  o per  acque  : 
Orlando  picchia,  e non  volieno  aprire, 

Pin  che  a 1’  abate  a la  fine  pur  piacque; 
Entrato  drento  cominciava  a dire, 

Come  colui,  che  di  Maria  gia  nacque 
Adora,  ed  era  cristian  battezzato, 

E com’  egli  era  a la  badia  arrivato. 

XXII. 

Disse  T abate  : il  ben  venuto  sia 
Di  quel  ch’  io  ho  volentier  ti  daremo, 

Poi  che  tu  credi  al  figliuol  di  Maria ; 

E la  cagion,  cavalier,  ti  diremo, 

Accio  che  non  1’  imputi  a villania, 

Perclie  a 1*  entrar  resistenza  facemo, 

E non  ti  voile  aprir  quel  monachetto : 

Cosi  intervien  ch;  vive  con  sospetto. 

XXIII. 

Quando  ci  venni  al  principio  abitare 
Queste  montagne,  benche  sieno  oscure 
Come  tu  vedi.;  pur  si  potea  stare 
Sanza  sospetto,  ch'  ell’  eran  sicure  : 

Sol  da  le  fiere  t’  avevi  a guardare ; 

Fernoci  spcsso  di  brutte  paure  ; 

Or  ci  bisogna,  se  vogliamo  starci, 

Da  le  bestie  dimestiche  guardarci. 


XVII. 

From  Ermellina,  consort  of  the  Dane, 

He  took  Cortana,  and  then  took  Rondell, 

And  on  towards  Brara  prick’d  him  o’er  the  piaS 
And  when  she  saw  him  coming,  Aldabelle 
Stretch’d  forth  her  arms  to  clasp  her  lord  agaS 
Orlando,  in  whose  brain  all  was  not  well, 

As  “ Welcome,  my  Orlando,  home,”  she  s?'d, 

Raised  up  his  sword  to  smite  her  on  the 

XVIII. 

Like  him  a fury  counsels  ; his  revenge 
On  Gan  in  that  rash  act  he  seem’d  to  take. 

Which  Aldabella  thought  extremely  strange  ; 

But  soon  Orlando  found  himself  awake ; 

And  his  spouse  took  his  bridle  on  this  change, 

And  he  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and  spake 
Of  every  thing  which  pass’d  without  demur, 

And  then  reposed  himself  some  days  with  her. 

XIX. 

Then  full  of  wrath  departed  from  the  place, 

And  far  as  pagan  countries  roam’d  astray, 

And  while  he  rode,  yet  still  at  every  pace 
The  traitor  Gan  remember’d  by  the  way ; 

And  wandering  on  in  error  a long  space, 

An  abbey  which  in  a lone  desert  lay, 

’Midst  glens  obscure,  and  distant  lands,  he  found, 
Which  form’d  the  Christian’s  and  the  pagan’s  bound, 

xx. 

The  abbot  was  call’d  Clermont,  and  by  blood 
Descended  from  Anglante  : under  cover 
Of  a great  mountain’s  brow  the  abbey  stood, 

But  certain  savage  giants  look’d  him  over ; 

One  Passamont  was  foremost  of  the  brood, 

And  Alabaster  and  Morgante  hover 
Second  and  third,  with  certain  slings,  and  throw 
In  daily  jeopardy  the  place  below. 

XXI. 

The  monks  could  pass  the  convent  gate  no  more, 
Nor  leave  their  cells  for  water  or  for  wood  ; 
Orlando  knock’d,  but  none  would  ope,  before 
Unto  the  prior  it  at  length  seem’d  good ; 

Enter’d,  he  said  that  he  was  taught  to  adore 
Him  who  was  born  of  Mary’s  holiest  blood, 

And  was  baptized  a Christian ; and  then  show’d 
How  to  the  abbey  he  had  found  his  road. 

XXII. 

Said  the  abbot,  “ You  are  welcome ; what  is  mine 
We  give  you  freely,  since  that  you  believe 
With  us  in  Mary  Mother’s  Son  divine ; 

And  that  you  may  not,  cavalier,  conceive 
The  cause  of  our  delay  to  let  you  in 
To  be  rusticity,  you  shall  receive 
The  reason  why  our  gate  was  barr’d  to  you : 

Thus  those  who  in  suspicion  live  must  do. 

XXIII. 

“ When  hither  to  inhabit  first  we  came 

These  mountains,  albeit  that  they' are  obscure, 

As  you  perceive,  yet  without  fear  or  blame 
They  seem’d  to  promise  an  asylum  sure  : 

From  savage  brutes  alone,  too  fierce  to  tame, 

’Twas  fit  our  quiet  dwelling  to  secure  ; 

But  now,  if  here  we’d  stay,  we  needs  must  guard 
Against  domestic  beasts  with  watch  and  ward. 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


487 


XXIV. 

“ These  make  us  stand,  in  fact,  upon  th?  watch  ; 

For  late  there  have  appear’d  three  giants  rough; 
What  nation  or  what  kingdom  bore  the  batch 
1 know  not,  but  they  are  all  of  savage  stuff ; 

When  force  and  malice  with  some  genius  match, 

You  know,  they  can  do  all — we  are  _ot  eraugb  : 
And  these  so  much  our  orisons  derange, 

I know  not  what  to  do,  till  matters  change. 

XXV. 

“ Our  ancient  fathers  living  the  desert  in. 

For  just  and  holy  works  were  duly  fed  ; 

Think  not  they  lived  on  locusts  sole,  ’tis  certain 
That  manna  was  rain’d  down  from  heaven  instead  ; 
But  here  ’tis  fit  we  keep  on  the  alert  in  [bread. 

Our  bounds,  or  taste  the  stones  shower’d  down  for 
From  off  yon  mountain  daily  raining  faster, 

Aud* flung  by  Passamont  and  Alabaster. 


XXIV. 

Queste  ci  fan  piuttosto  stare  a segno 
Sonci  appariti  tre  lieri  giganti. 

Non  so  di  quel  paese  o di  qual  regno, 

Ma  molto  son  feroci  tutti  quant  i : 

La  forza  e T malvoler  giunt’  a lo  ’ngegno 
Sai  che  pub  ’1  tutto;  e noi  non  siani  bastanti; 
Questi  pert  urban  si  1*  orazion  nostra, 

Che  non  so  piii  che  far,  s’  altri  nol  mostra. 

xxv. 

Gk  antichi  padri  nostri  nel  deserto, 

Se  le  lor  opre  sante  erano  e giuste, 

Del  ben  servir  da  Dio  n’  avean  buon  merto ; 
Ne  creder  sol  vivessin  di  locuste ; 

Piovea  dal  ciel  la  manna,  questo  e certo ; 

Ma  qu'i  convieu  che  spesso  assaggi  e guste 
Sassi  che  piovon  di  sopra  quel  monte, 

Che  gettauo  Alabastro  e Passamoute. 

xxvr. 

E T terzo  ch’  e Morgante,  assai  piu  fiero, 
Isveglie  e pini  e faggi  e cerri  e gli  oppi, 

E gettagli  infin  qui : questo  e pur  vero  ; 

Non  posso  far  che  d ’ira  non  iscoppi. 

Mentre  che  parlan  cosi  in  cimitero, 

Un  sasso  par  che  Rondel  quasi  sgroppi; 

Che  da’  giganti  giii  venne  da  alto 
Tanto,  ch’  e’  prese  sotto  il  tetto  un  salto. 

XXVII. 

lirati  drento,  cavalier,  per  Dio, 

Disse  1’  aba  ,e,  che  la  manna  casca. 

Rispon  le  Orlando  : caro  abate  mio, 

Costui  non  vuol  die  ’1  mio  caval  piu  pasca : 
Yeggo  che  lo  guarrebbe  del  restio  : 

Quel  sasso  par  che  di  buon  braccio  nasca. 
Rispose  il  sauto  padre  : io  non  t’  inganno. 
Credo  che  T monte  un  giorno  gitteranno. 

XXVIII. 

Orlando  govemar  fece  Rondello, 

E ordinar  per  se  da  colazione : 

Poi  disse : abate,  io  voglio  andare  a quello 
Che  dette  al  mio  caval  con  quel  cantone. 
Disse  1’  abate  : come  car  fratello 
Consiglierotti  sanza  passione  ? 

10  ti  sconforto,  baron,  di  tal  gita ; 

Ch’  io  so  die  tu  vi  lascerai  la  vita. 

XXIX. 

Quel  Passamonte  porta  in  man  tre  dardi : 

Chi  frombe,  chi  baston,  chi  muzzafrusti ; 

Sai  che  giganti  piii  di  noi  gagliardi 
Son  per  ragion,  che  son  anco  piu  giusti ; 

E pur  se  vuoi  andar  fa  die  ti  guardi, 

Che  questi  son  villan  molto  e robusti. 
Rispose  Orlando  : io  lo  vedro  per  certo  ; 

Ed  avviossi  a pie  su  pel  deserto. 

XXX. 

Disse  1’  abate  col  segnarlo  in  fronte  : 

Ya,  che  da  Dio  e me  sia  benedetto. 

Orlando,  poi  die  salito  ebbe  il  monte. 

Si  dirizzo,  come  1’  abate  detto 
Gli  avea,  dove  sta  quel  Passamonte ; 

11  quale  Orlando  veggendo  soletto, 

Molto  lo  squadra  di  drieto  e aavante ; 

Poi  domando,  se  star  volea  per  fante  ? 


xxvi. 

“ The  third,  Morgante,  ’s  savagest  by  far ; he 
Plucks  up  pines,  beeches,  poplar-trees,  and  oaks, 
And  flings  them,  our  community  to  bury ; 

And  all  that  I can  do  but  more  provokes.'* 

While  thus  they  parley  in  the  cemetery, 

A stone  from  one  of  their  gigantic  strokes, 

Which  nearly  crush’d  Rondell,  came  tumbling  over. 

So  that  he  took  a long  leap  under  cover. 

XXVII. 

“ For  God-sake,  cavalier,  come  in  with  speed  ; 

The  manna’s  falling  now,”  the  abbot  cried. 

“ This  fellow  does  not  wish  my  horse  should  feed, 
Dear  abbot,”  Roland  unto  him  replied. 

“Of  restiveness  he’d  cure  him  had  lie  need; 

That  stone  seems  with  good  will  and  aim  applied.’ 
The  holy  father  said,  “ I don’t  deceive ; 

They  ’ll  one  day  fling  the  mountain,  I believe.* 

XXVIII. 

Orlando  bade  them  take  care  of  Rondello, 

And  also  made  a breakfast  of  his  own : 

“Abbot,”  he  said,  “I  want  to  find  that  fellow 
Who  flung  at  my  good  horse  yon  corner  stone.** 
Said  the  abbot,  “ Let  not  my  advice  seem  shallow  ; 

As  to  a brother  dear  I speak  alone  ; 

I would  dissuade  you,  baron,  from  this  strife, 

As  knowing  sure  that  you  will  lose  your  life. 

XXIX. 

“ That  Passamont  has  in  Ids  hand  three  darts — 

Such  slings,  clubs,  ballast-stones,  that  yield  yog 
must ; 

You  know  that  giants  have  much  stouter  hearts 
Than  us,  with  reason,  in  proportion  just : 

If  go  you  will,  guard  well  against  their  arts, 

For  these  are  very  barbarous  and  robust.” 

Orlando  answer’d,  “ This  I’ll  see,  be  sure. 

And  walk  the  wild  on  foot  to  be  secure.” 

XXX. 

The  abbot  sign’d  the  great  cross  on  his  front, 

“Then  go  you  with  God’s  benison  and  mine 
Orlando,  after  he  had  scaled  the  mount, 

As  the  abbot  had  directed,  kept  the  line 
Right  to  the  usual  haunt  of  Passamont ; 

Who,  seeing  him  alone  in  this  design, 

Survey’d  him  fore  and  aft  with  eyes  observant. 

Then  ask’d  him,  “ If  he  wish’d  to  stay  as  servant  ?* 


488 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


XXXI. 

E'  promettova  di  farlo  godere. 

Orlando  disse  : pazzo  Saracino, 

10  vengo  a te,  coin’  e di  Dio  volere, 

Per  darti  matte,  e non  per  ragazzino  ; 

A’  monaci  suoi  fatto  hai  dispiacere  ; 

Non  pub  piu  comportarti  can  mastino. 
Questo  gigante  armar  si  corse  a furia, 
Quando  sent!  cli’  e’  gli  diceva  ingiuria, 

XXXII. 

E ritornato  ove  aspettava  Orlando, 

11  qual  non  s’  era  partito  da  bomba  ; 

Subito  venne  la  corda  girando, 

E lascia  un  sasso  andar  fuor  de  la  fromba, 
Che  in  su  la  testa  giugnea  rotolando 
A1  conte  Orlando,  e 1’  elmetto  rimbornba ; 

E’  cadde  per  la  pena  tramortito  ; 

Ma  piu  clie  morto  par,  tanto  e stordito. 

XXXIII. 

Passamonte  penso  cite  fusse  morto, 

E disse  : io  voglio  andarmi  a disarmare  : 
Questo  poltron  per  chi  m’  aveva  scorto  ? 

Ma  Cristo  i suoi  non  suole  abbandonare, 
Massime  Orlando,  eh’  egli  arebbe  il  torto. 
Mentre  il  gigante  1’  arme  va  a spogliare, 
Orlando  in  questo  tempo  si  risente, 

E rivocava  e la  forza  e la  mente. 

xxxiv. 

E grido  forte  : gigante,  ove  vai  ? 

Ben  tl  pensasti  d’  a verm  i ammazzato ! 
Volgit.i  a drieto,  che,  s’  ale  non  hai, 

Non  puoi  da  me  fuggir,  can  rinnegato  : 

A tradimento  ingiuriato  m’  hai. 

Donde  il  gigante  allor  maravigliato 
Si  volse  a drieto,  e riteneva  il  passo  ; 

Poi  si  chino  per  tor  di  terra  un  sasso. 

XXXV. 

Orlando  avea  Cortana  ignuda  in  mano  ; 

Trasse  a la  testa : e Cortana  tagliava  : 

Per  mezzo  il  teschio  parti  del  pagano, 

E Passamonte  morto  rovinava  : 

E nel  cadere  il  superbo  e villano 
Divotamente  Macon  bestemmiava ; 

Ma  mentre  che  bestemmia  il  crudo  e acerbo, 
Orlando  ringraziava  il  Padre  e ’1  Verbo. 

XXXVI. 

Dicendo  : quanta  grazia  oggi  m’  ha’  data ! 
Scmpre  ti  sono,  o signor  mio,  tenuto ; 

Per  te  conosco  la  vita  salvata ; 

Pero  che  dal  gigante  era  abbattuto  : 

Ogni  cosa  a ragion  fai  misurata ; 

Non  val  nostro  pot.er  sanza  il  tuo  ajuto. 
Priegoti,  sopra  me  tenga  la  mano, 

Tanto  che  ancor  ritorm  a Carlo  Mano. 

XXXVII. 

Poi  ck’  ebbe  questo  detto  sen’  andoe, 

Tanto  che  trouva  Alabastro  piu  basso 
Che  si  sforzava,  quando  e’  lo  trovoe, 

Di  sveglier  d’  una  ripa  fuori  un  masso. 
Orlando,  com  ’e’  giunse  a quel,  gridoe ; 

Che  pensi  tu,  ghiotton,  gittar  quel  sasso  ? 
Quando  Alabastro  queslo  grido  intende, 
Subitamentc  la  sua  fromba  prende 


XXXI. 

And  promised  him  an  office  of  great  ease. 

But,  said  Orlando,  “ Saracen  insane  : 

I come  to  kill  you,  if  it  shall  so  please 

God,  not  to  serve  as  footboy  in  your  train; 

You  with  his  monks  so  oft  have  broke  the  pea^e — 
Vile  dog  ! ’tis  past  his  patience  to  sustain.” 

The  giant  ran  to  fetch  his  arms,  quite  furious, 

When  he  received  an  answer  so  injurious, 

XXXII. 

And  being  return’d  to  where  Orlando  stood, 

Who  had  not  moved  him  from  the  spot,  and  swinging 
The  cord,  he  hurl’d  a stone  with  strength  so  rune? 

As  sliow’d  a sample  ot'  his  skill  in  slinging; 

It  roll’d  on  Count  Orlando’s  helmet  good 

And  head,  and  set  both  head  and  helmet  ringing. 

So  that  he  swoon’d  with  pain  as  if  he  died, 

But  more  than  dead,  he  seem’d  so  stupified. 

XXXIII. 

Then  Passamont,  who  thought  him  slain  outrigni, 
Said,  “ I will  go,  and  while  he  lies  along, 

Disarm  me  : why  such  craven  did  I fight  ?” 

But  Christ  his  servants  ne’er  abandons  long, 
Especially  Orlando,  such  a knight. 

As  to  desert  would  almost  be  a wrong. 

While  the  giant  goes  to  put  off  his  defences, 

Orlando  has  recall’d  his  force  and  senses  : , 

XXXIV. 

And  loud  he  shouted,  “ Giant,  where  dost  go  ? 

Thou  thought’ st  me  doubtless  for  the  bier  outlaid ; 
To  the  right  about — without  wings  thou’rt  too  slow 
To  fly  my  vengeance — currish  renegade  ! 

’Twas  but  by  treachery  thou  laid’st  me  low 
The  giant  his  astonishment  betray’d. 

And  turn’d  about,  and  stopp’d  his  journey  on, 

And  then  he  stoop’d  to  pick  up  a great  stone. 

XXXV. 

Orlando  had  Cortana  bare  in  hand  ; 

To  split  the  head  in  twain  was  what  he  schemed  « 
Cortana  clave  the  skull  like  a true  brand, 

And  pagan  Passamont  died  unredeem’d, 

Yet  harsh  and  haughty,  as  he  lay  he  bann’d, 

And  most  devoutly  Macon  still  blasphemed ; 

But  while  his  crude,  rude  blasphemies  he  heard, 
Orlando  thank’d  the  Father  and  the  Word, — 

xxxvi. 

Saying,  “ What  grace  to  me  thou’st  this  day  given ! 

And  I to  thee,  oh  Lord  ! am  ever  bound. 

I know  my  life  was  saved  by  thee  from  heaven, 

Since  by  the  giant  I was  fairly  down’d. 

All  things  by  thee  are  measured  just  and  even  ; 

Our  power  without  thine  aid  would  nought  ha 
1 pray  thee  take  heed  of  me,  till  I can  [found  ; 

At  least  return  once  more  to  Carloman.” 

XXXVII. 

And  having  said  thus  much,  he  went  his  way ; 

. And  Alabaster  he  found  out  below, 

Doing  the  very  best  that  in  him  lay 
To  root  from  out  a bank  a rock  or  two. 

Orlando,  when  he  reach’d  him,  loud  ’gan  say 

“ llow  think’st  thou,  glutton,  such  a stone  to  thro\«  °* 
When  Alabaster  heard  his  deep  voice  ring, 

He  suddenly  betook  him  to  his  sling. 


MORGAN TE  MAGGIORE. 


489 


XXXVIII. 

E’trasse  d’  una  pietra  raolto  grossa, 

Tanto  cli’  Orlando  bisogno  schermisse  ; 
Che  se  1’  avesse  giunto  la  percossa, 

Non  bisognava  il  medico  venisse. 

Orlando  adopero  poi  la  sua  possa ; 

Nel  pettignon  tutta  la  spada  misse : 

E morto  cadde  questo  babalone, 

E non  dimentico  pero  Macone. 

xxxix. 

Morgante  aveva  al  suo  modo  un  palagio 
Fatto  di  frasche  e di  schegge  e di  terra : 
Quivi,  secondo  lui,  si  posa  ad  agio ; 

Quivi  la  notte  si  rincliiude  e serra. 

Orlando  picchia,  e daragli  disagio, 

Perclie  il  gigante  dal  sonno  si  sferra ; 
Vennegli  a])rir  come  unacosa  matta; 

Cli*  uu’  aspra  visione  aveva  fatta. 

XL. 

E’gli  parea  cli’  un  feroce  serpente 
L ’ avea  assalito,  e cliiamar  Macometto  ; 
Ma  Macometto  non  valea  niente : 

Oud’  e'  shiamava  Gesii  benedetto  ; 

E liberato  1’  avea  final mente. 

Venne  alia  porta,  ed  ebbe  cosi  detto ; 

Chi  buzza  qua  ? pur  sempre  borbottando. 
Tu  ’1  saprai  tosto,  gli  rispose  Orlando. 

XLI. 

V engo  per  farti,  come  a’  tuo’  fratelli. 

Far  de’  peccati  tuoi  la  penitenzia, 

Da’  monaci  mandato,  cattivelli, 

Come  stato  e divina  providenzia; 

Pel  mal  ch’  avete  fatto  a torto  a quelli, 

E dato  in  ciel  cosi  questa  sentenzia ; 

Sappi,  che  freddo  gia  piii  cli’  un  pilastro 
Lasciato  ho  Passamonte  e ’1  tuo  Alabastro. 

XLII. 

Disse  Morgante  : o gentil  cavaliere, 

Per  lo  tuo  Dio  non  mi  dir  villania : 

Di  grazia  il  nome  tuo  vorrei  sapere ; 

Se  se’  Cristian,  deli  dillo  in  cortesia. 
Rispose  Orlando  : di  cotal  mastiere 
Contenterotti  per  la  fede  mia  : 

Adoro  Cristo,  ch’  e Signor  verace  ; 

E puoi  tu  adorarlo,  se  ti  piace. 

XLII  I. 

Rispose  il  Saracin  con  umil  voce  : 

10  ho  fatto  una  strana  visione, 

Che  m’  assaliva  un  serpente  feroce : 

Non  mi  valeva  per  cliiamar  Macone  ; 

Onde  al  tuo  Dio  che  fu  confitto  in  croce 
Rivolsi  presto  la  mia  intenzione  : 

E’  mi  soccorse,  e fui  libero  e sano, 

E son  disposto  al  tutto  esser  Cristiano. 

XLIV. 

Rispose  Orlando  : baron  giusto  e pio, 

Se  questo  buon  voler  terrai  nel  core, 

L ’ anima  tua  ara  quel  vero  Dio 
Che  ci  pub  sol  gradir  d’  eterno  onore  : 

E s’  tu  vorrai,  sarai  compagno  mio, 

E amerotti  con  perfetto  amore  : 

Gl’  idoli  vostri  son  bugiardi  e vani : 

11  vero  Dio  e lo  Dio  de’  Cristiani. 


XXXVIII. 

And  hurl’d  a fragment  of  a size  so  large, 

That  if  it  had  in  fact  fulfill’d  its  mission, 

And  Roland  not  avail’d  him  of  his  targe, 

There  would  have  been  no  need  of  a physician. 
Orlando  set  himself  in  turn  to  charge, 

And  in  his  bulky  bosom  made  incision 
With  all  his  sword.  The  lout  fell ; but  o’ertlnu'wn,  he 
However  by  no  means  forgot  Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante  had  a palace  in  his  mode. 

Composed  of  branches,  logs  of  wood,  and  earth, 

And  stretch’d  himself  at  ease  in  this  abode, 

And  shut  himself  at  night  within  his  berth. 

Orlando  knock’d,  and  knock’d  again,  to  goad 
The  giant  from  his  sleep  ; and  he  came  forth 
The  door  to  open,  like  a crazy  thing, 

For  a rough  dream  had  shook  him  slumbering. 

XL. 

He  thought  that  a fierce  serpent  had  attack’d  him  ; 

And  Mahomet  he  call’d ; but  Mahomet 
Is  nothing  worth,  and  not  an  instant  back’d  him  ; 

But  praying  blessed  Jesu,  he  was  set 
At  liberty  from  all  the  fears  which  rack’d  him  ; 

And  to  the  gate  he  came  with  great  regret— 

“ Who  knocks  here  ?”  grumbling  all  the  while,  said  he 
“ That,”  said  Orlando,  “ you  will  quickly  see. 

XLI. 

“ I come  to  preach  to  you,  as  to  your  brothers, 

Sent  by  the  miserable  monks — repentance  ; 

For  Providence  divine,  in  you  and  others, 

Condemns  the  evil  done  my  new  acquaintance. 

’Tis  writ  on  high — your  wrong  must  pay  another’s 
From  heaven  itself  is  issued  out  this  sentence. 
Know  then,  that  colder  now  than  a pilaster 
I left  your  Passamont  and  Alabaster.” 

XLII. 

Morgante  said,  “ Oh,  gentle  cavalier  ! 

Now  by  thy  God  say  me  no  villany ; 

The  favour  of  your  name  I fain  would  hear, 

And  if  a Christian,  speak  for  courtesy.” 

Replied  Orlando,  “ So  much  to  your  ear 
I by  my  faith  disclose  contentedly ; 

Christ  I adore,  who  is  the  genuine  Lord, 

And,  if  you  please,  by  you  may  be  adored.” 

XLIH. 

The  Saracen  rejoin’d  in  humble  tone, 

“ I have  had  an  extraordinary  vision  ; 

A savage  serpent  fell  on  me  alone. 

And  Macon  would  not  pity  my  condition; 

Hence  to  thy  God,  who  for  ye  did  atone 
Upon  the  cross,  preferr’d  I my  petition  ; 

His  timely  succour  set  me  safe  and  free. 

And  I a Christian  am  disposed  to  be.” 

XLIV. 

Orlando  answer’d,  “ Baron  just  and  pious, 

If  this  good  wish  your  heart  can  really  inoTa 
To  the  true  God,  you  will  not  then  deny  us 
Eternal  honour,  you  will  go  above, 

And,  if  you  please,  as  friends  we  will  ally  ur. 

And  I will  love  you  with  a perfect  love. 

Your  idols  are  vain  liars,  full  of  fraud  : 

The  only  true  God  is  the  Christian’s  God, 

3 & 


490 


LOllI)  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


XIV. 

Venne  questo  Signor  sanza  peccato 
Ne  la  sua  madre  verginc  pulzella  : 

Se  conoscessi  quel  Signor  beato, 

Sanza  ’1  qual  non  resplende  sole  o stella, 
Aresti  gia  Macon  tuo  rinnegato, 

E la  sua  fede  iniqua  ingiusta  e fella  : 
Battezzati  al  mio  Dio  bi  buon  talento. 
Morgante  gli  risposo  : io  son  contento. 

XLVI. 

E corse  Orlando  subito  abbracciare  : 

Orlando  gran  carezze  gli  facea, 

E disse : a la  badia  ti  vo’  menare. 

Morgante,  audianci  presto,  respondea : 

Co’  monaci  la  pace  ci  vuol  fare. 

De  la  qual  cosa  Orlando  in  se  godea, 

Dicendo  ; frat.el  mio  divoto  e buono, 

10  vo  che  chiegga  a 1’  abate  perdono. 

XLVII. 

Da  poi  clie  Dio  ralluminato  t’  ha, 

Ed  aceltato  per  la  sua  umiltade ; 

Vuolsi  che  tu  ancor  usi  umilta. 

Disse  Morgante  : per  la  tua  bontade, 

Poi  che  il  tuo  Dio  mio  sempre  omai  sara, 
Dimmio  del  nome  tuo  la  veritade, 

Poi  di  me  dispor  puoi  al  tuo  comando ; 

Ond’  e’  gli  disse,  com’  egli  era  Orlando. 

XLVIII. 

Disse  il  gigante : Gesu  benedetto 
Per  mille  volte  ringraziato  sia  ; 

Sentito  t’  ho  nomar,  baron  perfetto, 

Per  tutti  i tempi  de  la  vita  mia  : 

E,  com’  io  dissi,  sempremai  suggetto 
Esser  1i  vo’  per  la  tua  gagliardia. 

Insieme  molte  cose  ragionaro, 

E ’n  verso  la  badia  poi  s’  inviaro. 

XLIX. 

E per  la  via  da  que’  giganti  morti 
Orlando  con  Morgante  si  ragiona  : 

De  la  lor  morte  vo’  che  ti  conforti ; 

E poi  che  piace  a Dio,  a me  perdona ; 

A’  monaci  avean  fatto  mille  torti ; 

E la  nostra  scrittura  aperto  suona. 

11  ben  remunerato,  e ’1  mal  punito  ; 

E mai  non  ha  questo  Signor  fallito, 

L. 

Pero  cli’  egli  ama  la  giustizia  tanto, 

Che  vuol,  che  sempre  il  suo  giudicio  morda 
Ognun  ch’  abbi  peccato  tanto  o quanto ; 

E cost  il  ben  ristorar  si  ricorda  : 

E non  saria  senza  giustizia  santo  : 

Adunque  al  suo  voler  presto  t’  accorda ; 

Che  debbe  ognun  voler  quel  che  vuol  questo, 
Ed  accordarsi  volentieri  e presto. 

LI. 

sonsi  i nostri  dottori  accordati, 

Pigliando  tutti  una  conclusione, 

Che  que  che  son  nel  ciel  glorificati, 

S’  avessin  nel  pensier  compassione 
De’  miscri  parenti  che  dannati 
Son  ne  lo  inferno  in  gran  confusione, 

La  lor  felicita  nulla  sarebbe  ; 

E vedi  che  qui  ingiusto  Iddio  parrebbe. 


XLV. 

“ The  Lord  descended  to  the  virgin  breast 
Of  Mary  Mother,  sinless  and  divine  ; 

If  you  acknowledge  the  Redeemer  blest, 

Without  whom  neither  sun  nor  star  can  shine, 
Abjure  bad  Macon’s  false  and  felon,  test. 

Your  renegado  god,  and  worship  mine, — 

Baptize  yourself  with  zeal,  since  you  repent.” 

To  which  Morgante  answer’d,  “I’m  content.” 

XLVI. 

And  then  Orlando  to  embrace  him  flew, 

And  made  much  of  his  convert,  as  he  cried, 

“ To  the  abbey  I will  gladly  marshal  you.” 

To  whom  Morgante,  “ Let  us  go,”  replied  : 

“ I to  the  friars  have  for  peace  to  sue.” 

Which  thing  Orlando  heard  with  inward  pride, 
Saying,  “ My  brother,  so  devout  and  good, 

Ask  t he  abbot  pardon,  as  I wish  you  would  : 

XLVII. 

“ Since  God  has  granted  your  illumination, 

Accepting  you  in  mercy  for  his  own, 

Humility  should  be  vour  first  oblation.” 

Morgante  said,  “ For  goodness’  ^ake,  make  known— 
Since  that  your  God  is  to  be  mine — your  station. 

And  let  your  name  in  verity  be  shown  ; 

Then  will  I every  thing  at  your  command  do  ” 

On  which  the  other  said,  he  was  Orlando. 

XLVIII. 

“ Then,”  quoth  the  giant,  “ blessed  be  Jesu 
A thousand  times  with  gratitude  and  praise ! 

Oft,  perfect  baron  ! have  1 heard  of  you 

Through  all  the  different  periods  of  my  days : 

And,  as  1 said,  to  be  your  vassal  too 

I wish,  for  your  great  gallantry  always.” 

Thus  reasoning,  they  continued  much  to  say, 

And  onwards  to  the  abbey  went  their  way. 

XLIX. 

And  by  the  way  about  the  giants  dead 
Orlando  with  Morgante  reason’d  : “ Be, 

For  their  decease,  I pray  you,  comforted ; 

And,  since  it  is  God’s  pleasure,  pardon  me  ; 

A thousand  wrongs  unto  the  monks  they  bred. 

And  our  true  Scripture  soundeth  openly, 

Good  is  rewarded,  and  chastised  the  ill, 

Which  the  Lord  never  faileth  to  fulfil : 

L. 

“Because  his  love  of  justice  unto  all 

Is  such,  he  wills  his  judgment  should  devour 
All  who  have  sin,  however  great  or  small ; 

But  good  he  well  remembers  to  restore. 

Nor  without  justice  holy  could  we  call 
Him,  whom  I now  require  you  to  adore. 

All  men  must  make  his  will  their  wishes  sway. 

And  quickly  and  spontaneously  obey, 

LI. 

“ And  here  our  doctors  are  of  one  accord, 

Coming  on  this  point  to  the  same  conclusion, — 
That  in  their  thoughts  who  praise  in  bjaven  the  Loti 
If  pity  e’er  was  guilty  of  intrusion 
For  their  unfortunate  relations  stored 

In  hell  below,  and  damn’d  in  great  confusion,— 
Their  happiness  would  be  reduced  to  nought. 

And  thus  unjust  the  Almighty’s  self  be  thought. 


MORGAN TE  MAGGIORE. 


401 


LII. 

Ma  egii  anno  posto  in  Gesu  ferma  spene ; 

E tanto  pare  a lor,  quanto  a lui  pare 
Afferman  cio  cli’  e’  fa,  che  facci  bene, 

E che  non  possi  in  nessun  modo  errare  : 

Se  padre  o madre  e nell’  eterne  pene, 

Di  questo  non  si  posson  conturbare : 

Che  quel  che  piace  a Dio,  sol  piace  a loro  : 
Questo  s’  osserva  ne  1*  eterno  coro. 

lui. 

Al  savio  suol  bastar  poche  parole, 

Disse  Morgante ; tu  il  potrai  vedere, 

De’  miei  fratelli,  Orlando,  se  mi  duole, 

E s’  io  m’  accordero  di  Dio  al  volere, 

Come  tu  di’  che  in  ciel  servar  si  suole : 

Morti  co’  morti ; or  pensiam  di  godere ; 

Io  vo  tagliar  le  mani  a tutti  quanti, 

E porterolle  a que’  monaci  santi, 

LIV. 

Accio  cli’  ognun  sia  piu  sicuro  e certo, 

Com’  e’  son  morti,  e non  abbin  paura 
Andar  soletti  per  questo  deserto ; 

E perche  veggan  la  mia  mente  pura 
A quel  Signor  che  m’  ha  il  suo  regno  aperto. 
E tratto  fuor  di  tenebre  si  oscura. 

E poi  taglio  le  mani  a’  due  fratelli, 

E lasciagli  a le  here  ed  agli  uccelli. 

LV. 

A la  badia  insieme  se  ne  vanno, 

Ove  1’  abate  assai  dubbioso  aspetta : 

I monaci  che  ’1  fatto  ancor  non  sanno, 
Correvano  a 1’  abate  tutti  in  fretta, 

Dicendo  paurosi  e pien’ d’  affanno  : 

Volete  voi  costui  drento  si  metta? 

Quando  1’  abate  vedeva  il  gigante, 

Si  turbo  tutto  nel  primo  sembiante. 

LVI. 

Orlando  che  turbato  cosi  il  vede, 

Gli  disse  presto : abate,  datti  pace, 

Questo  e Cristiano,  e in  Cristo  nostro  crede, 
E rinnegato  ha  il  suo  Macon  fallace. 
Morgante  i moncherin  mostro  per  fede, 

Come  i giganti  ciascun  morto  giace  ; 

Donde  1’  abate  ringraziavia  Iddio, 

Dicendo ; or  m’  hai  contento,  Signor  mio. 

lvii. 

E psguardava,  e squadrava  Morgante, 

La  sua  grand ezza  e una  volta  e due, 

E poi  gli  disse  : 0 famoso  gigante, 

Sappi  cli’  io  non  mi  maraviglio  piiie, 

Che  tu  svegliessi  e gittassi  le  piante, 

Quand’  io  riguardo  or  le  fattezze  tue  : 

Tu  sarai  or  perfetto  e vero  amico 
A Cristo,  quanto  tu  gli  eri  nimico. 

lviii. 

Un  nostro  apostol,  Saul  gia  chiamato, 

Persegui  molto  la  fede  di  Cristo  : 

Un  giorno  poi  da  lo  spirto  infiammato, 
Perche  pur  mi  persegui  ? disse  Cristo  : 

E’  si  ravvide  allor  del  suo  peccato 
Ando  poi  predicando  sempre  Cristo ; 

E fatto  e or  de  la  fede  una  tromba, 

La  qual  per  tutto  risuona  e rimbomba. 


LII. 

“ But  they  in  Christ  -ave  firmest  hope,  and  all 
Which  seems  to  him,  to  them  too  must  appear 
Well  done ; nor  could  it  otherwise  befall ; 

He  never  can  in  any  purpose  err. 

If  sire  or  mother  suffer  endless  thrall, 

They  don’t  disturb  themselves  for  him  or  her , 
What  pleases  God  to  them  must  joy  inspire ; — 

Such  is  the  observance  of  the  eternal  choir.” 

un. 

“ A word  unto  the  wise,”  Morgante  said, 

“ Is  wont  to  be  enough,  and  you  shall  see 
How  much  I grieve  about  my  brethren  dead ; 

And  if  the  will  of  God  seem  good  to  me, 

Just,  as  you  tell  me,  ’tis  in  heaven  obey’d — 

Ashes  to  ashes, — merry  let  us  be  ! 

I will  cut  off  the  hands  from  both  their  trunks. 

And  carry  them  unto  the  holy  monks. 

LIV. 

“So  that  all  persons  may  be  sure  and  certain 
That  they  are  dead,  and  have  no  further  fear 
To  wandSr  solitary  this  desert  in, 

And  that  they  may  perceive  my  spirit  clear 
By  the  Lord’s  grace,  who  hath  withdrawn  the  curtail 
Of  darkness,  making  his  bright  realm  appear.” 

He  cut  his  brethren’s  hands  off  at  these  words, 

And  left  them  to  the  savage  beasts  and  birds. 

LV. 

Then  to  the  abbey  they  went  on  together, 

Where  waited  them  the  abbot  in  great  doubt. 

The  monks,  who  knew  not  yet  the  fact,  ran  tliitfc  ^ 

To  their  superior,  all  in  breathless  rout, 

Saying  with  tremor,  “ Please  to  tell  us  whether 
You  wish  to  have  this  person  in  or  out  ?” 

The  abbot,  looking  through  upon  the  giant, 

Too  greatly  fear’d,  at  first,  to  be  compliant. 

LVI. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  thus  agitated, 

Said  quickly,  “ Abbot,  be  thou  of  good  cheer ; 

He  Christ  believes,  as  Christian  must  be  rated, 

And  bath  renounced  his  Macon  false which  her* 
Morgante  with  the  hands  corroborated, 

A proof  of  both  the  giants’  fate  quite  clear : 

Thence,  with  due  thanks,  the  abbot  God  adored, 
Saying,  “ Thou  hast  contented  me,  oh  Lord  ! ” 

LVII. 

He  gazed  ; Morgante’s  height  he  calculated, 

And  more  than  once  contemplated  his  size  ; 

And  then  he  said,  “ Oh  giant  celebrated  ! 

Know,  that  no  more  my  wonder  will  arise, 

How  you  could  tear  and  fling  the  trees  you  late  did, 
When  I behold  your  form  with  my  own  eyes, 

You  now  a true  and  perfect  friend  will  show 
Yourself  to  Christ,  as  once  you  were  a foe. 

LVIII. 

“ And  one  of  our  apostles,  Saul  once  named. 

Long  persecuted  sore  the  faith  of  Christ, 

Till,  one  day,  by  the  Spirit  being  inflamed, 

‘ Why  dost  thou  persecute  me  thus  ?’  said  Christ ; 
And  then  from  his  offence  he  was  reclaim’d. 

And  went  for  ever  after  preaching  Christ, 

And  of  the  faith  became  a trump,  whose  sounding 
O’er  the  whole  earth  is  echoiag  and  rebounding. 


492 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


LIX. 

Cosi  farai  tu  ancor,  Morgantc  mio  : 

E chi  s’  cmenda,  e scritto  nel  Vangelc, 

Che  maggior  festa  fa  d’  un  solo  Iddio, 

Che  di  novantanove  altri  su  in  cielo  : 

Io  ti  conforto  ch’  ogui  tuo  disio 
Rivolga  a quel  Signor  con  giusto  zelo, 

Che  tu  sarai  felice  in  sempitwno, 

Ch’  eri  perduto,  e dannato  all’  inferno. 

LX. 

E grande  onore  a Morgante  faceva 
L’  abate,  e molti  di  si  son  posti : 

Un  giorno,  come  ad  Orlando  piaceva, 

A spasso  in  qua  e in  la  si  sono  andati : 

L’  abate  in  una  camera  sua  aveva 
Molte  armadure  e certi  archi  appiccati : 
Morgante  gliene  piacque  un  che  ne  vede ; 

Onde  e’  sel  cinse  bench’  oprar  nol  crede. 

Lxr. 

Avea  quel  luogo  d’  acqua  carestia : 

Orlando  disse  come  buon  fratello  : 

Morgante,  vo’  che  di  piacer  ti  sia 
Andar  per  1’  acqua ; ond’  e’  rispose  a quello  : 
Comanda  cio  che  vuoi  che  fatto  sia 
E posesi  in  ispalla  un  gran  tinello, 

Ed  avviossi  la  verso  una  lonte 
Dove  solea  ber  sempre  appie  del  monte. 
lxii. 

Giunto  a la  fonte,  sente  un  gran  fracasso 
Di  subito  venir  per  la  foresta  : 

Una  saetta  cavo  del  turcasso, 

Peseta  a 1’  arco,  ed  alzava  la  testa ; 

Ecco  apparire  un  gran  gregge  al  passo 
Di  porci,  e vanno  con  molta  tempesta  ; 

E arrivorno  alia  fontana  appunto 
Donde  il  gigante  e da  lor  sopraggiunto. 

LXIII. 

Morgante  a la  ventura  a un  saetta  ; 

Appunto  ne  1*  orecchio  lo  ’ncarnava : 

Da  P altro  lato  passo  la  verretta  ; 

Onde  il  cinglr  il  giu  morto  gambettava ; 

Un  altro,  quasi  per  fame  vendetta, 

Addosso  al  gran  gigante  irato  andava ; 

E perche  e’  giunse  troppo  tosto  al  varco, 

Non  fu  Morgante  a tempo  a trar  con  1’  arco. 

LXIV. 

Yedendosi  venuto  il  porco  adosso, 

Gli  dette  in  su  ia  testa  un  gran  punzone  1 
Per  modo  che  gl’infranse  insino  a 1’  osso, 

E morto  allato  a quell’  altro  lo  pone : 

Gli  altri  porci  veggendo  quel  percosso, 

Si  misson  tutti  in  fuga  pel  vallone  ; 

Mo/gante  si  levo  il  tinello  in  collo, 

Ch’era  pien  d’ acqua,  e non  si  muove  un  crollo. 
LXV. 

Da  1*  una  spalla  il  tinello  avea  posto. 

Da  1’  altra  i porci,  e spacciava  il  terreno ; 

E torna  a la  badia,  ch’  e pur  discosto, 

Ch’  una  gocciola  d’  acqua  non  va  in  seno. 
Orlando  che  ’1  vedca  tornar  si  tosto 
Co’  porci  morti,  e con  quel  vaso  picno; 
Maravigliossi  che  sia  tauto  forte  ; 

Cosi  1’  abate  ; e spalancan  le  portc. 

(1)  [“Gli  dette  in  su  la  testa  un  gran  punzone."  It  is  strange 
that  Pulci  should  have  literally  anticipate  5 the  technical  terms  of 
my  old  friend  and  master,  Jackson,  and  the  art  which  he  has  car- 
ried to  its  highest  pitch.  “ A punch  on  the  head,”  or  “ a punch  in 


LIX. 

“ So,  my  Morgante,  you  may  do  likewise ; 

He  who  repents — thus  writes  the  Evangelist— 
Occasion^  more  rejoicing  in  the  skies 
Than  ninety-nine  of  the  celestial  list. 

You  may  be  sure,  should  each  desire  arise 
With  just  zeal  for  the  Lord,  that  you’ll  exist 
Among  the  happy  saints  for  evermore ; 

But  you  were  lost  and  damn’d  to  hell  before  !’* 

LX. 

And  thus  great  honour  to  Morgante  paid 
The  abbot : many  days  they  did  repose. 

One  day,  as  with  Orlando  they  both  stray’d, 

And  saunter’d  here  and  there,  where’er  they  chose, 
The  abbot  show’d  a chamber,  where  array’d 
Much  armour  was,  and  hung  up  certain  bows ; 

And  one  of  these  Morgante  for  a whim 
Girt  on,  though  useless,  he  believed,  to  him. 

LXl. 

There  being  a want  of  water  in  the  place, 

Orlando,  like  a worthy  brother,  said, 

“ Morgante,  I could  wish  you  in  this  case 
To  go  for  water.”  “ You  shall  be  obey’d 
In  all  commands,”  was  the  reply,  “ straightways.” 
Upon  his  shoulder  a great  tub  lie  laid, 

And  went  out  on  his  way  unto  a fountain, 

Where  he  was  wont  to  drink  below  the  mountain. 

LXII. 

Arrived  there,  a prodigious  noise  he  hears, 

Which  suddenly  along  the  forest  spread  ; 

Whereat  from  out  his  quiver  he  prepares 
An  arrow  for  his  bow,  and  lifts  his  head , 

And  lo  ! a monstrous  herd  of  swine  appears, 

And  onward  rushes  with  tempestuous  tread. 

And  to  the  fountain’s  brink  precisely  pours  ; 

So  that  the  giant’s  join’d  by  all  the  boars. 

LXIII. 

Morgante  at  a venture  shot  an  arrow, 

Which  pierced  a pig  precisely  in  the  ear. 

And  pass’d  unto  the  other  side  quite  thorough  ; 

So  that  the  boar,  defunct,  lay  tripp’d  up  near. 
Another,  to  revenge  his  fellow  farrow, 

Against  the  giant  rush’d  in  fierce  career, 

And  reach’d  the  passage  with  so  swift  a foot, 
Morgante  was  not  now  in  time  to  shoot. 

LXIV. 

Perceiving  that  the  pig  was  on  him  close, 

He  gave  him  such  a punch  upon  the  head 
As  floor’d  him  so  that  he  no  more  arose, 

Smashing  the  very  bone  ; and  he  fell  dead 
Next  to  the  other.  Having  seen  such  blows, 

The  other  pigs  along  the  valley  fled ; 

Morgante  on  his  neck  the  bucket  took, 

Pull  from  the  spring,  which  neither  swerved  nor  shook. 

LXV. 

The  tun  was  on  one  shoulder,  and  there  were 
The  hogs  on  t’other,  and  he  brush’d  apace 
On  to  the  abbey,  though  by  no  means  near, 

Nor  spilt  one  drop  of  water  in  his  race. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  so  soon  appear 

With  the  dead  boars,  and  with  that  brimful  vase, 
Marvell’ d to  see  his  strength  so  very  great ; 

So  did  the  abbot,  and  set  wide  the  gate. 


the  head” — “ un  punzone  in  su  la  testa,” — is  the  exact  and  fre- 
quent phrase  of  our  best  pugilists,  who  little  dream  that  they  are 
talking  the  purest  Tuscan. 


MORGAN TE  MAGGIORE. 


493 


LX  VI. 

£ monaci  veggendo  1’  acqua  fresca 
Si  rallegrorno,  ma  piu.  de’  cinghiali ; 

Ch’  ogni  animal  si  rallegra  de  1’  esca ; 

E posano  a dormire  i breviali : 

Ognun  s’  affanna,  e non  par  die  gl’  incresca, 
Accio  che  questa  carne  non  s’insali, 

E che  poi  secca  sapesse  di  victo  : 

E la  diginne  si  restorno  a drieio. 

LXVII. 

E ferno  a scoppia  corpo  per  un  tratto, 

E sciiffian,  che  parien  de  l’acqua  usciti ; 
Tanto  che  ’1  cane  sen  doleva  e ’1  gatto, 

Che  gli  ossi  rimanean  troppo  puliti. 

L’  abate,  poi  che  molto  onoro  ha  fatto 
A tutti,  un  di  dopo  questi  conviti 
Dett.e  a Morgante  un  destrier  molto  bello, 
Che  lungo  tempo  term  to  avea  quello. 

LXVII  I. 

Morgante  in  su  *n  un  prato  il  caval  mena, 

E vuol  che  corra,  e che  facci  ogni  pruova, 

E pensa  che  di  ferro  abbi  la  schiena, 

O forse  non  credeva  schiacciar  1’  uova : 
Questo  caval  s’  accoscia  per  la  pena, 

E scoppia,  e ’n  su  la  terra  si  ritruova. 

Dieca  Morgante  : lieva  su,  rozzone  ; 

E va  pur  punzecchiando  co  lo  sprone. 

LXIX. 

Ma  finalmente  convien  ch’  egli  smonte, 

E disse  : io  son  pur  leggier  come  penna, 

Ed  e scoppiato ; che  ne  di’  tu,  conte  ? 
Rispose  Orlando  : un  arbore  d’  antenna 
Mi  par  piuttosto,  e la  gaggia  la  fronte : 
Lascialo  andar,  che  la  fortuna  accenna 
Che  meco  appiede  ne  venga,  Morgante. 

Ed  io  cosi  verra,  disse  il  gigante. 

LXX. 

Quando  sera  mestier,  tu  mi  vedrai 
Com’  io  mi  proverb  ne  la  battaglia. 

Orlando  disse : io  credo  tu  farai 
Come  buon  cavalier,  se  Dio  mi  vaglia ; 

Ed  anco  me  dormir  non  mirerai : 

Di  questo  tuo  caval  non  te  ne  caglia : 
Yorrebbesi  portarlo  in  qualche  bosco  ; 

Ma  il  modo  ne  la  via  non  ci  conosco. 

LXXI. 

Disse  il  gigante : io  il  portero  ben  io. 

Da  poi  che  portar  me  non  ha  voluto, 

Per  render  ben  per  mal,  come  fa  Dio ; 

Ma  vo’  che  a porlo  addosso  mi  dia  ajuto. 
Orlando  gh  dicea : Morgante  mio, 

S’  al  mio  consiglio  ti  sarai  attenuto, 

Questa  caval  tu  non  ve  ’1  porteresti, 

Che  ti  fara  come  tu  a lui  facesti. 

lxxii. 

Gaarda  che  non  facesse  la  vendetta, 

Come  fece  gia  Nesso  cosi  morto : 

Non  so  se  la  sua  istoria  hai  inteso  o letta ; 

E’  ti  fara  scoppiar ; datti  conforto. 

Disse  Morgante  : ajuta  ch’  io  me  *1  metta 
Addosso,  e poi  vedrai  s’io  ve  lo  porto : 

Io  porterei,  Orlando  mio  gentile, 

Con  le  campane  la  quel  campanile. 


LX  VI. 

The  monks,  who  saw  the  water  frcs/i  and  good, 
Rejoiced,  but  much  more  to  perceive  the  pork  * 
All  animals  are  glad  at  sight  of  food  : 

They  lay  their  breviaries  to  sleep,  and  work 
With  greedy  pleasure,  and  in  such  a mood, 

That  the  flesh  needs  no  salt  beneath  the'r  fo:k. 
Of  rankness  and  of  rot  there  is  no  fear, 

For  all  the  fasts  are  now  left  in  arrear. 

LXVII. 

As  though  they  wish’d  to  burst  at  once,  they  ats  . 

And  gorged  so  that,  as  if  the  bones  had  been 
In  water,  sorely  grieved  the  dog  and  cat, 

Perceiving  that  they  all  were  pick’d  too  clean 
The  abbot,  who  to  all  did  honour  great, 

A few  days  after  this  convivial  scene, 

Gave  to  Morgante  a fine  horse,  well  train’d. 

Which  lie  long  time  had  for  himself  maintain’ J 

LXVIII. 

The  horse  Morgante  to  a meadow  led, 

To  gallop,  and  to  put  him  to  the  proof, 

TI  linking  that  he  a back  of  iron  had. 

Or  to  skim  eggs  unbroke  was  light  enough  •, 

But  the  horse,  sinking  with  the  pain,  fell  dead. 

And  burst,  while  cold  on  earth  lay  head  and  hook 
Morgante  said,  “ Get  up,  thou  sulky  cur  ! ” 

And  still  continued  pricking  with  tiie  spur. 

LXIX. 

But  finally  he  thought  fit  to  dismount, 

And  said,  “ I am  as  light  as  any  feather, 

And  he  has  burst ; — to  this  what  say  you,  count  ? 

Orlando  answer’d,  “ Like  a ship’s  mast  rather 
You  seem  to  me,  and  with  the  truck  for  front ; — 
Let  him  go ; Fortune  wills  that  we  together 
Should  march,  but  you  on  foot  Morgante  still.” 

To  which  the  giant  answer’d,  “ So  I will. 

LXX. 

“ When  there  shall  be  occasion,  you  will  see 
How  I approve  my  courage  in  the  fight.” 

Orlando  said,  “ I really  think  you’ll  be, 

If  it  should  prove  God’s  will,  a goodly  knight ; 
Nor  will  you  napping  there  discover  me. 

But  never  mind  your  horse,  though  out  of  sight 
’Twere  best  to  carry  him  into  some  wood, 

If  but  the  means  or  way  I understood.” 

LXXI. 

The  giant  said,  “ Then  carry  him  I will, 

Since  that  to  carry  me  he  was  so  slack— 

To  render,  as  the  gods  do,  good  for  ill ; 

But  lend  a hand  to  place  him  on  my  back.” 
Orlando  answer’d,  “If  my  counsel  still 
May  weigh,  Morgante,  do  not  undertake 
To  lift  or  carry  this  dead  courser,  who, 

As  you  have  done  to  him,  will  do  to  you. 

LXXTI. 

“ Take  care  he  don’t  revenge  himself,  though  de^d. 
As  Nessus  did  of  old  beyond  all  cure. 

I don’t  know  if  the  fact  you’ve  heard  or  read  ; 

But  he  will  make  you  burst,  you  may  be  sure.” 

“ But  help  him  on  my  back,”  Morgante  said, 

“ And  you  shall  see  what  weight  I can  enduie. 

In  place,  my  gentle  Roland,  of  this  palfrey, 

With  all  the  bells,  I’d  carry  yonder  belfry.” 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


LXXIII. 

Disse  1’  abate  : il  campanil  v’  e bene  • 

Ma  le  campane  voi  1’  avete  rotte. 

Dicea  Morgante,  e’  ne  porton  le  pene 
Color  che  morti  son  la  in  quelle  grott 
E levossi  il  cavallo  in  su  le  schiene, 

E disse  : guarda  s’io  sento  di  gotte, 
Orlando,  nelle  gambe,  e s’  io  lo  posso; 

E fe’  duo  salti  col  cavallo  addosso. 

LXXIV. 

Era  Morgante  come  una  montagna : 

Se  facea  questo,  non  e maraviglia ; 

Ma  pure  Orlando  con  seco  si  lagna ; 
Perche  pur  era  omai  di  sua  famiglia ; 
Temenza  avea  non  pigliasse  magagna. 

Un’  altra  volta  costui  riconsiglia : 

Posalo  ancor,  nol  portare  al  deserto. 

Disse  Morgante  : il  portero  per  certo. 

LXXV. 

E portollo,  e gittollo  in  luogo  strano, 

E torno  a la  badia  subitament.e. 

Diceva  Orlando  : or  die  piii  dimoriano  ? 
Morgante,  qui  non  facciam  noi  niente  ; 

E prese  un  giorno  1’  abate  per  mano, 

E disse  a quel  molto  discretamente, 

Che  vuol  partir  de  la  sua  reverenzia, 

E domandava  e perdono  e licenzia. 

LXXVI. 

E de  gli  onor  ricevuti  da  questi, 

Qualche  volta  potendo,  ara  buon  merito ; 

E dice : io  intendo  ristorare  e presto 
I persi  giorni  del  tempo  preterito  : 

E’  son  piii  di  che  licenzia  arei  chiesto, 
Benigno  padre,  se  non  ch’  io  mi  perito ; 
Non  so  mostrarvi  quel  che  drento  sento; 
Tanto  vi  veggo  del  mio  star  contento. 

LXXVI  i. 

lo  me  ne  porto  per  sempre  nel  core 
L’  abate,  la  badia,  questo  deserto ; 

Tanto  v’  ho  posto  in  picciol  tempo  amore  : 
Rendavi  su  nel  ciel  per  me  buon  merto 
Quel  vero  Dio,  quello  eterno  Signore, 

Che  vi  serba  il  suo  regno  al  fine  aperto : 
Noi  aspettiam  vostra  benedizione, 
Raccomandiamci  a le  vostre  orazione. 

LXXVI1I. 

Quando  1’  abate  il  conte  Orlando  intese, 
Rinteneri  nel  cor  per  la  dolcezza, 

Tanto  fervor  nel  petto  se  gli  accese ; 

E disse  : cavalier,  se  a tua  prodezza 
Non  sono  stato  benigno  e cortese, 

Come  conviensi  a la  gran  gentillezza; 

Che  so  che  cio  ch’  i’  ho  fatto  e stato  poco, 
Incolpa  la  ignoranzia  nostra,  e il  loco. 

LXXIX. 

Noi  ti  potremo  di  messe  onorare, 

Di  prediche  di  laude  e paternostri, 
Piuttosto  elm  da  cena  o desinare, 

O d’  alt ri  convenevol  che  da  chiostri : 

Tu  m’  hai  di  te  si  fatto  innamorare 
Per  mille  alfee  cccellenzie  che  tu  mostri ; 
Ch’  io  me  ne  vengo  ove  tu  andrai  con  teco, 
E d’  altra  carte  tu  resti  qui  meco. 


LXXIII. 

The  abbot  said,  “ The  steeple  may  do  wel, 

But,  for  the  bells,  you’ve  broken  them,  I *vot.” 
Morgante  answer’d,  “ Let  them  pay  in  hell 
The  penalty  who  lie  dead  in  yon  grot 
And  hoisting  up  the  horse  from  where  he  fell. 

He  said,  “ Now  look  if  I the  gout  have  got, 
Orlando,  in  the  legs — or  if  I have  force — 

And  then  he  made  two  gambols  with  the  horse 

LXXIV. 

Morgante  was  like  any  mountain  framed ; 

So  if  he  did  this,  ’tis  no  prodigy ; 

But  secretly  himself  Orlando  blamed, 

Because  he  was  one  of  his  family ; 

And  fearing  that  he  might  be  hurt  or  maim’d. 

Once  more  he  bade  him  lay  his  burden  by  : 

“ Put  down,  nor  bear  him  further  the  desert  in.” 
Morgante  said,  “ I’ll  carry  him  for  certain.” 

LXXV. 

He  did  ; and  stow’d  him  in  some  nook  away, 

And  to  the  abbey  then  return’d  with  speed. 
Orlando  said,  “ Why  longer  do  we  stay  ? 

Morgante,  here  is  nought  to  do  indeed.” 

The  abbot  by  the  hand  he  took  one  day, 

And  said,  with  great  respect,  he  had  agreed 
To  leave  his  reverence ; but  for  this  decision 
He  wish’d  to  have  his  pardon  and  permission. 

LXXVI. 

The  honours  they  continued  to  receive 
Perhaps  exceeded  what  his  merits  claim’d : 

He  said,  “ 1 mean,  and  quickly,  to  retrieve 

The  lost  days  of  time  past,  which  may  be  blamed 
Some  days  ago  I should  have  ask’d  your  leave, 
Kind  father,  but  I really  was  ashamed, 

And  know  not  how  to  show  my  sentiment. 

So  much  I see  you  with  our  stay  content. 

lxxvii. 

“ But  in  my  heart  I bear  through  every  clime 
The  abbot,  abbey,  and  this  solitude — 

So  much  I love  you  in  so  short  a time  ; 

For  me,  from  heaven  reward  you  with  all  good 
The  God  so  true,  the  eternal  Lord  sublime  ! 

Whose  kingdom  at  the  last  hath  open  stood. 
Meantime  we  stand  expectant  of  your  blessing, 

And  recommend  us  to  your  prayers  with  pressing.” 

LXXVII  i. 

Now  when  the  abbot  Count  Orlando  heard, 

His  heart  grew  soft  with  inner  tenderness, 

Such  fervour  in  his  bosom  bred  each  word ; 

And,  “ Cavalier,”  he  said,  “ if  I have  less 
Courteous  and  kind  to  your  great  worth  appear’d, 
Than  fits  me  for  such  gentle  blood  to  express, 

I know  I have  done  too  little  in  this  case ; 

But  blame  our  ignorance,  and  this  poor  place. 

LXXIX. 

“ We  can  indeed  but  honour  you  with  masses, 

And  sermons,  thanksgivings,  and  pater-nosters 
Hot  suppers,  dinners  (fitting  other  places 
In  verity  much  rather  than  the  cloisters) ; 

But  such  a love  for  you  my  heart  embraces, 

For  thousand  virtues  winch  your  bosom  fostert, 
That  wheresoe’er  you  go  I too  shall  be, 

And,  on  the  other  part,  you  rest  with  me. 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE. 


495 


LXXX. 

Tanto  cli’  a questo  par  coutraddizione ; 

Ma  so  che  tu  se’  savio,  e ’ntendi  e gusti, 

E intendi  il  mio  parlar  per  discrizione ; 

De’  beneficj  iuoi  pietosi  e giusti 
Renda  il  Signore  a te  munerazione, 

I)a  cui  manclato  in  queste  selve  fusti ; 

Per  le  virtu  del  qual  liberi  siamo, 

E grazie  a lui  e a te  noi  ne  rendiamo. 

LXXXI. 

Tu  ci  hai  salvato  T anima  e la  vita : 

Tanta  perturbazion  gia  que’  giganti 
Ci  detton,  clie  la  strada  era  sinarrita 
Da  ritrovar  Gesu  con  gli  altri  santi : 

Pero  troppo  ci  duol  la  tua  partita, 

E sconsolati  restiam  tutti  quanti ; 

Ne  ritener  possiamti  i rnesi  e gli  anni : 

Cbe  tu  non  se’  da  vestir  questi  panni, 

LXXXII. 

Ma  da  portar  la  lancia  e T armadura : 

E puossi  meritar  cou  essa,  come 
Con  questa  cappa ; e leggi  la  scrittura  : 
Questo  gigante  al  ciel  drizzo  le  some 
Per  tua  virtu  ; va  in  pace  a tua  ventura 
Chi  tu  ti  sia,  cli’io  non  ricerco  il  nome; 

Ma  diro  sempre,  s’  io  son  domandato, 

Cli’  un  angiol  qui  da  Dio  fussi  mandato. 

LXXXIII. 

Se  c’  e armadura  o cosa  che  tu  voglia, 

Vattene  in  zambra  e pigliane  tu  stessi, 

E cuopri  a questo  gigante  le  scoglia. 
Rispose  Orlando  : se  armadura  avessi 
Prima  cbe  noi  uscissim  de  la  soglia, 

Che  questo  mio  compagno  difendessi : 
Questo  accetto  io,  e sarammi  piacere. 

Disse  1’  abate : venite  a vedere. 

LXXXI  v. 

E in  certa  cameretta  entrati  sono, 

Che  d’  armadure  vecchie  era  copiosa  ; 

Dice  1’  abate  : tutte  ve  le  dono, 

Morgante  va  rovistando  ogni  cosa; 

Ma  solo  un  certo  sbergo  gli  fu  buono, 

Ch’  avea  tutta  la  maglia  rugginosa : 
Maravigliossi  che  lo  cuopra  appunto : 

Che  mai  piii  gnun  forse  glien’  era  aggiunto. 

LXXXV. 

Questo  fu  d’  un  gigante  smisurata, 

Ch  ’a  la  badia  fu  morto  per  antico 
Dal  gran  Milon  a’ Angrante,  ch’  arrivato ; 

V’  era,  s’appunto  questa  istoria  dico; 

Ed  era  ne  le  mura  istoriato, 

Come  e’  fu  morto  questo  gran  nimico, 

Che  fece  a la  badia  gia  lunga  guerra  : 

E Milon  v’  e com’  e’  l’abbatte  in  terra. 

LXXX  VI. 

Veggendo  questa  istoria  il  conte  Orlando, 

Era  suo  cor  disse  : o Dio,  che  sai  sol  tutto, 
Come  venue  Milon  qui  capitando, 

Che  ha  questo  gigante  qui  distrutt.o  ? 

E lesse  certe  lettre  lacrimando, 

Che  non  pote  tenir  piu  il  viso  asciutto. 

Com’  io  diro  ne  la  seguente  istoria : 

Di  mal  vi  guardi  il  Re  de  1’  alta  gloria. 


LXXX. 

“ This  may  involve  a seeming  contraaict.ion ; 

But  you  I know  are  sage,  and  feel,  and  taste. 

And  understand  my  speech  with  full  conviction. 

For  your  just  pious  deeds  may  you  be  graced 
With  the  Lord’s  great  reward  and  benediction, 

By  whom  you  were  directed  to  this  waste : 

To  his  high  mercy  is  our  freedom  due, 

For  which  we  render  thanks  to  him  and  you. 

LXXXI. 

“ You  saved  at  once  our  life  and  soul : such  fear 
The  giants  caused  us,  that  the  way  was  lost, 

By  which  we  could  pursue  a fit  career 
In  search  of  Jesus  and  the  saintly  host ; 

And  your  departure  breeds  such  sorrow  here, 

That  comfortless  we  all  are  to  our  cost ; 

But  months  and  years  you  would  not  stay  in  sloth, 
Nor  are  you  form’d  to  wear  our  sober  cloth; 

LXXXIT. 

“ But  to  bear  arms,  and  wield  the  lance  ; indeed, 
With  these  as  much  is  done  as  with  this  cowl ; 

In  proof  of  which  the  Scripture  you  may  read. 

This  giant  up  to  heaven  may  bear  his  soul 
By  your  compassion  : now  in  peace  proceed. 

Your  state  and  name  I seek  not  to  unroll ; 

But,  if  I’m  asked,  this  answer  shall  be  given. 

That  here  an  angel  was  sent  down  from  heaven. 

LXXXIII. 

“ If  you  want  armour  or  aught  else,  go  in, 

Look  o’er  the  wardrobe,  and  take  what  you  choose 
And  cover  with  it  o’er  this  giant’s  skin.” 

Orlando  answer’d,  “ If  there  should  lie  loose 
Some  armour,  ere  our  journey  we  begin, 

Which  might  be  turn’d  to  my  companion’s  use, 
The  gift  would  be  acceptable  to  me.” 

| The  abbot  said  to  him,  “ Come  in  and  see.” 

LXXXIV. 

And  in  a certain  closet,  where  the  wall 
Was  cover’d  with  old  armour  like  a crust, 

The  abbot  said  to  them,  “ I give  you  all.” 

Morgante  rummaged  piecemeal  from  the  dust 
The  whole,  which,  save  one  cuirass,  was  too  smo<. 

And  that  too  had  the  mail  inlaid  with  rust. 

They  wonder’d  how  it  fitted  him  exactly, 

Which  ne’er  has  suited  others  so  compactly. 

LXXXV, 

’Twas  an  immeasurable  giant’s,  who 
By  the  great  Milo  of  Agrante  fell, 

Before  the  abbey  many  years  ago. 

The  story  on  the  wall  was  figured  well ; 

In  the  last  moment  of  the  abbey’s  foe, 

Who  long  had  waged  a war  implacable  : 

Precisely  as  the  war  occurr’d  they  drew  him. 

And  there  was  Milo  as  he  overthrew  him. 

LX  XXVI. 

Seeing  this  history,  Count  Orlando  said 
In  his  own  heart,  “ Oh  God,  who  in  the  sky 
Know’st  all  things  ! how  was  Milo  hither  led  ? 

Who  caused  the  giant  in  this  place  to  die?” 
x\nd  certain  letters,  weeping,  then  he  read, 

So  that  he  could  not  keep  his  visage  dry, — 

As  I will  tell  in  the  ensuing  story. 

From  evil  keep  you  the  high  King  of  glory 


€i)t  of  3Dante* 


•*  ’Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 

And  coming  events  cast  iheir  shadows  before." 

Campbell. 


DEDICATION. 

L iDY  ! if  for  the  cold  and  cloudy  clime 

Where  I was  born,  but  where  I would  not  die. 

Of  the  great  Poet-Sire  of  Italy 
I dare  to  build  the  imitative  rhyme, 

Harsh  Runic  copy  of  the  South’s  sublime, 

Thou  art  the  cause ; and  howsoever  I 
Fall  short  of  his  immortal  harmony, 

Thy  gentle  heart  will  pardon  me  the  crime. 

Thou,  in  the  pride  of  Beauty  and  of  Youth, 

Spakest ; and  for  thee  to  speak  and  be  obey’d 
Are  one  ; but  only  in  the  sunny  South 

Such  sounds  are  utter’d,  and  such  charms  display’d, 
So  sweet  a language  from  so  fair  a mouth — 

Ah ! to  what  effort  would  it  not  persuade  ? 

Ravenna,  June  21,  1819. 


PREFACE. 

In  the  course  of  a visit  to  the  city  of  Ravenna  in  the 
summer  of  ]819,  it  was  suggested  to  the  author  that 
having  composed  something  on  the  subject  of  Tasso’s 
confinement,  lie  should  do  the  same  on  Dante’s  exile, 
— the  tomb  of  the  poet  forming  one  of  the  principal 
objects  of  interest  in  that  city,  both  to  the  native  and 
to  the  stranger. 

“ On  this  hint  I spake,”  and  the  result  has  been 
the  following  four  cantos,  in  terza  rima,  now  offered 
to  the  reader.  If  they  are  understood  and  approved, 
it  is  my  purpose  to  continue  the  poem  in  various 
other  cantos,  to  its  natural  conclusion  in  the  present 
age.  The  reader  is  requested  to  suppose  that  Dante 
addresses  him  in  the  interval  between  the  conclusion 
of  the  Divina  Commedia  and  his  death,  and  shortly 
before  the  latter  event,  foretelling  the  fortunes  of 
Italy  in  general  in  the  ensuing  centuries.  In  adopt- 
ing this  plan  I have  had  in  my  mind  the  Cassandra  of 
Lycophron,  and  the  Prophecy  of  Nereus  by  Horace, 
as  well  as  the  Prophecies  of  Holy  Writ.  The  measure 
a lopted  is  the  terza  rima  of  Dante,  which  I am  not 
aware  to  have  seen  hitherto  tried  in  our  language, 
except  it  may  be  by  Mr.  Hayley,  of  whose  translation 
I never  saw  but  one  extract,  quoted  in  the  notes  to 
Caliph  Vathek  ; so  that — if  I do  not  err — this  poem 
may  be  considered  as  a metrical  experiment.  The 
cantos  are  short,  and  about  the  same  length  of  those 


(1)  [This  poem,  which  Lord  Byron,  in  sending  it  to  Mr.  Murray, 
cailed  “ the  best  thing  he  had  ever  done,  if  not  unintelligible, ” 
was  written,  in  the  summer  of  1819,  at 

w— * “ that  place 

Of  old  renown,  once  in  the  Adrian  sea, 

Ravenna! — whe'e  from  Dante’s  sacred  tomb 
He  had  so  oft,  as  many  a verse  declares, 

Brawn  inspiration.” — Rogers. 

The  Prophecy,  however,  was  first  published  in  May,  1821.  It  is 
dedicated  to  the  Countess  Uuiccioli,  who  thus  describes  the  origin 
of  its  composition — “On  my  departure  from  Venice,  Lord  Byron 
ba<l  promised  to  come  and  see  me  at  Ravenna.  Dante’s  tomb,  the 


ol  the  poet,  whose  name  1 have  borrowed,  and  most 
probably  taken  in  vain. 

Amongst  the  inconveniences  of  authors  in  the 
present  day,  it  is  difficult  for  any  who  have  a name, 
good  or  bad,  to  escape  translation.  I have  had  the 
fortune  to  see  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold 
translated  into  Italian  versi  sciolti, — that  is,  a poem 
written  in  the  Spenserean  stanza  into  blank  verse , 
without  regard  to  the  natural  divisions  of  the  stanza 
or  of  the  sense.  If  the  present  poem,  being  on  a 
national  topic,  should  chance  to  undergo  the  same 
fate,  I would  request  the  Italian  reader  to  remember 
that  when  1 have  failed  in  the  imitation  of  his  great 
“ Padre  Alighier,”  I have  failed  in  imitating  that 
which  all  study  and  few  understand,  since  to  this 
very  day  it  is  not  yet  settled  what  was  the  meaning 
of  the  allegory  in  the  first  canto  of  the  Inferno,  unless 
Count  Marehetti’s  ingenious  and  probable  conjecture 
may  be  considered  as  having  decided  the  question. 

He  may  also  pardon  my  failure  the  more,  as  I am 
not  quite  sure  that  he  would  be  pleased  with  my 
success,  since  the  Italians,  with  a pardonable  nation- 
ality, are  particularly  jealous  of  all  that  is  left  them 
as  a nation — their  literature;  and  in  the  present 
bitterness  of  the  classic  and  romantic  war,  are  but 
ill  disposed  to  permit  a foreigner  even  to  approve  01 
imitate  them,  without  finding  some  fault  with  his 
ultramontane  presumption.  I can  easily  enter  into 
all  this,  knowing  what  would  be  thought  in  England 
of  an  Italian  imitator  of  Milton,  or  if  a translation  of 
Monti,  or  Pindemonte,  or  Arici,  should  be  held  up 
to  the  rising  generation  as  a model  for  their  future 
poetical  essays.  But  I perceive  that  1 am  deviating 
into  an  address  to  the  Italian  reader,  when  my  busi- 
ness is  with  the  English  one ; and  be  they  few  or 
many,  I must  take  my  leave  of  both. 


OTje  of  Dante.* 1 

CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


Once  more  in  man’s  frail  world ! which  I had  left 
So  long  that  ’twas  forgotten;  and  I feel 
The  weight  of  clay  again, — too  soon  bereft 
Of  the  immortal  vision  which  could  heal 


classical  pine  wood,*  the  relics  of  antiquity  which  are  to  be  found 
in  that  place,  afforded  a sufficient  pretext  for  me  to  invite  him  tc 
come,  and  for  him  to  accept  my  invitation.  He  came  in  the  month 
of  June,  1819,  arriving  at  Ravenna  on  the  day  of  the  festival  of  the 
Corpus  Domini.  Being  deprived  at  this  time  of  his  books,  hi* 
horses,  and  all  that  occupied  him  at  Venice,  I begged  him  ti 
gratify  me  by  writing  something  on  the  subject  of  Dante;  and 
with  his  usual  facility  and  rapidity,  he  composed  his  Prophecy.”] 

(1)  [Dante  Alighieri  was  born  in  Florence  in  May,  1265,  of  ai 
ancient  and  honourable  family.  In  the  early  part  of  his  life  1m 
gained  some  credit  in  a military  character,  and  distinguished  him 

* [“  ’Twas  in  a grove  of  spreading  pines  he  strayed,”  &c. 

Duyden’s  Theodore  and  Jlonorio*} 


CANTO  I. 


THE  PROPHECY  OE  DANTE. 


497 


My  earthly  sorrows,  and  to  God’s  own  skies 
Lift  me  from  that  deep  gulf  without  repeal, 
nere  late  my  ears  rung  with  the  damned  cries 
WOf  souls  in  hopeless  bale;  and  from  that  place 
Of  lesser  torment,  whence  men  may  arise 
Pure  from  the  fire  to  join  the  angelic  race ; 

Midst  whom  my  own  bright  Beatrice1  bless’d 
^ly  spirit  with  her  light ; and  to  the  base 
Of  the  eternal  Triad  ! first,  last,  best, 

Mysterious,  three,  sole,  infinite,  great  God ! 

Soul  universal ! led  the  mortal  guest, 

Uublasted  by  the  glory,  though  he  trod 
Prom  star  to  star  to  reach  the  almighty  throne. 

Oh  Beatrice  ! whose  sweet  limbs  tire  sod 
So  long  hath  press’d,  and  the  cold  marble  stone. 

Thou  sole  pure  seraph  of  my  earliest  love, 

Love  so  ineffable,  and  so  alone, 

That  nought  on  earth  could  more  my  bosom  move, 
And  meeting  thee  in  heaven  was  but  to  meet 
That  without  which  my  soul,  like  the  arkless  dove, 
Had  wander’d  still  in  search  of,  nor  her  feet 
Relieved  her  wing  till  found ; without  thy  light 
My  paradise  had  still  been  incomplete.^ 

Since  my  tenth  sun  gave  summer  to  my  sight 
Thou  wert  my  life,  the  essence  of  my  thought, 
Loved  ere  I knew  the  name  of  love,3  and  bright 
Still  in  these  dim  old  eyes,  now  overwrought 

With  the  world’s  war,  and  years,  and  banishment, 
And  tears  for  thee,  by  other  woes  untaught ; 

For  mine  is  not  a nature  to  be  bent 

By  tyrannous  faction,  and  the  brawling  crowd. 

And  though  the  long,  long  conflict  hath  been  spent 
In  vain,  and  never  more,  save  when  the  cloud 
Which  overhangs  the  Apennine,  my  mind’s  eye 
Pierces  to  fancy  Florence,  once  so  proud 
Of  me,  can  I return,  though  but  to  die, 

Unto  my  native  soil,  they  have  not  yet 
Quench’d  the  old  exile’s  spirit,  stern  and  high. 

Bat  the  sun,  though  not  overcast,  must  set, 

And  the  night  cometh ; I am  old  in  days, 

And  deeds,  and  contemplation,  and  have  met 
Destruction  face  to  face  in  all  his  ways. 

The  world  hath  left  me,  what  it  found  me,  pure, 
And  if  I have  not  gather’d  yet  its  praise, 

I sought  it  not  by  any  baser  lure ; 

Man  wrongs,  and  Time  avenges,  and  my  name 
May  form  a monument  not  all  obscure. 


self  by  his  bravery  in  an  action  where  the  Florentines  obtained  a 
signal  victory  over  the  citizens  of  Arezzo.  He  became  still  more 
eminent  by  the  acquisition  of  court  honours ; and  at  the  age  of 
thirty-five  he  rose  to  be  one  of  the  chief  magistrates  of  Florence, 
when  that  dignity  was  conferred  by  the  suffrages  of  the  people. 
From  this  exaltation  the  poet  himself  dated  his  principal  misfor- 
tunes. Italy  was  at  that  time  distracted  by  the  contending  factions 
of  the  Ghibelines  and  Guelphs, — among  the  latter  Dante  took  an 
active  part.  In  one  of  the  proscriptions  he  was  banished,  his  pos- 
sessions confiscated,  and  he  died  in  exile  in  1321.  Boccaccio  thus 
describes  his  person  and  manners  : — “ He  was  of  the  middle  stature, 
of  a mild  disposition,  and,  from  the  time  he  arrived  at  manhood, 
frave  in  his  manner  and  deportment.  His  clothes  were  plain,  and 
fis  dress  always  conformable  to  his  years:  his  face  was  long;  his 
■)se  aquiline ; his  eyes  rather  large  than  otherwise.  His  com- 
fexion  was  dark,  melancholy,  and  pensive.  In  his  meals  he  was 
extremely  moderate ; in  his  manners  most  courteous  and  civil ; 
and,  both  in  public  and  private  life,  he  was  admirably  decorous.”] 
(1)  The  reader  is  requested  to  adopt  the  Italian  pronunciation  of 
Beatrice,  sounding  all  the  syllables. 

(t)  “ Che  sol  per  le  belle  opre 

Lne  fanno  in  Cielo  il  sole  e 1’  altre  stelle 
Dentro  di  lui’  si  crede  il  Paradiso, 

Cosi  se  guardi  fiso 

Pensar  ben  dei  ch’  ogni  terren’  piacere.” 

Canzone,  in  which  Dante  describes  the  person  of  Beatrice,  Strophe 

third. 


Though  such  was  not  my  ambition’s  end  or  aim, 

To  add  to  the  vain-glorious  list  of  those 
Who  dabble  in  the  pettiness  of  fame, 

And  make  men’s  fickle  breath  the  wind  that  blows 
Their  sail,  and  deem  it  glory  to  be  class’d 
With  conquerors,  and  virtue’s  other  foes, 

In  bloody  chronicles  of  ages  past. 

I would  have  had  my  Florence  great  and  free  : 4 
Oh  Florence  ! Florence ! unto  me  thou  wast 
Like  that  Jerusalem  which  the  Almighty  lie 

Wept  over,  “ but  thou  wouldst  not as  the  bird 
Gathers  its  young,  I would  have  gather’d  thee 
Beneath  a parent  pinion,  hadst  thou  heard 
My  voice  ; but  as  the  adder,  deaf  and  fierce, 
Against  the  breast  that  cherish’d  thee  was  stirr’d 
Thy  venom,  and  my  state  thou  didst  amerce, 

And  doom  this  body  forfeit  to  the  fire. 

Alas  ! how  bitter  is  his  country’s  curse 
To  him  who  for  that  country  would  expire. 

But  did  not  merit  to  expire  by  her, 

And  loves  her,  loves  her  even  in  her  ire. 

The  day  may  come  when  she  will  cease  to  err, 

The  day  may  come  she  would  be  proud  to  have 
The  dust  she  dooms  to  scatter,  and  transfer5 
Of  him,  whom  she  denied  a home,  the  grave. 

But  this  shall  not  be  granted  ; let  my  dust 
Lie  where  it  falls ; nor  shall  the  soil  which  gave 
Me  breath,  but  in  her  sudden  fury  thrust 
Me  forth  to  breathe  elsewhere,  so  reassume 
My  indignant  bones,  because  her  angry  gust 
Forsooth  is  over,  and  repeal’d  her  doom ; 

No, — she  denied  me  what  was  mine — my  root. 

And  shall  not  have  what  is  not  hers — my  tomb. 
Too  long  her  armed  wrath  hath  kept  aloof 

The  breast  which  would  have  bled  for  her,  the  heart 
That  beat,  the  mind  that  was  temptation  proof, 

The  man  who  fought,  toil’d,  travell’d,  and  each  part 
Of  a true  citizen  fulfill’d,  and  saw 
For  his  reward  the  Guelf’s  ascendant  art 
Pass  his  destruction  even  into  a law. 

These  things  are  not  made  for  forgetfulness, 
Florence  shall  be  forgotten  first ; too  raw 
The  wound,  too  deep  the  wrong,  and  the  distress 
Of  such  endurance  too  prolong’d  to  make 
My  pardon  greater,  her  injustice  less, 

Though  late  repented ; yet — yet  for  her  sake 
I feel  some  fonder  yearnings,  and  for  thine, 


(3)  [According  to  Boccaccio,  Dante  was  a lover  long  before  e 
was  a soldier,  and  his  passion  for  the  Beatrice  whom  he  has  n 
mortalized  commenced  while  he  was  in  his  ninth  year,  and  she  in 
her  eighth  year.  It  is  said  that  their  first  meeting  was  at  a banquet 
in  the  house  of  Folco  Portinaro,  her  father;  and  certain  it  is,  that 
the  impression  then  made  on  the  susceptible  and  constant  heart  of 
Dante  was  not  obliterated  by  her  death,  which  happened  alter  an 
interval  of  sixteen  years. — Cary.] 

(4)  “ L’  Esilio  che  m’  b dato  onor  mi  tegno. 

***** 

Cader  tra’  bouni  e pur  di  lode  degno.” 

Sonnet  of  Dante, 

in  which  he  represents  Right,  Generosity,  and  Temperance  a* 
banished  from  among  men,  and  seeking  refuge  from  Love,  who 
inhabits  his  bosom. 

(5)  “ Ut  si  quis  predictorum  ullo  tempore  in  fortiam  dicti  com- 
munis pervenerit,  talis  perveniens  igne  comburatur,  sic  quod  motin- 
tur."  Second  sentence  of  Florence  against  Dante,  and  the  fourteen 
accused  with  him.  The  Latin  is  worthy  of  the  sentence. — [On  the 
27th  of  January,  1302,  Dante  was  mulcted  eight  thousand  lire,  and 
condemned  to  two  years’ banishment;  and  in  case  the  fine  was  not 
paid  his  goods  were  to  be  confiscated.  On  the  eleventh  of  March, 
the  same  year,  he  was  sentenced  to  a punishment  due  only  to  the 
most  desperate  of  malefactors.  The  decree,  that  he  and  his 
associates  in  exile  should  be  burned,  if  they  fell  into  the  hands  of 
their  enemies,  was  first  discovered,  in  1772,  by  the  Come  Ludovxo 
Savioli.  See  Tiraboschi  where  the  sentence  is  given  &t  length.] 

3 8 


498 


LORD  BYRON’S  WOll-vS. 


L AM  TO  II 


My  own  Beatrice,  I would  hardly  take 
Vengeance  upon  the  land  which  once  was  mine, 

And  still  is  hallow’d  by  thy  dust’s  return, 

Which  would  protect  the  murderers  like  a shrine. 
And  save  ten  thousand,  foes  by  tny  sole  urn. 

Though,  like  old  Marius1  from  Minturnse’s  marsh 
And  Carthage  ruins,  my  lone  breast  may  bum 
At  times  with  evil  feelings  hot  and  harsh. 

And  sometimes  the  last  pangs  of  a vile  foe 
Writhe  in  a dream  before  me,  and  o’erarch 
My  brow  with  hopes  of  triumph, — let  them  go  ! 

Sucli  are  the  last  infirmities  of  those 

Who  long  have  suffer’d  more  than  mortal  woe, 

And  yet  being  mortal  still,  have  no  repose 
But  on  the  pillow  of  Revenge — Revenge, 

Who  sleeps  to  dream  of  blood,  and  waking  glows 
With  the  oft-baffled,  slakeless  thirst  of  change, 

When  we  shall  mount  again,  and  they  that  trod 
Be  trampled  on,  while  Death  and  Ate  range 

O’er  humbled  heads  and  sever’d  necks Great  God  ! 

Take  these  thoughts  from  me — to  thy  hands  I yield 
My  many  wrongs,  and  thine  almighty  rod 
Will  fall  on  those  who  smote  me, — be  my  shield  ! 

As  thou  hast  been  in  peril,  and  in  pain, 

In  turbulent  cities,  and  the  tented  field — 

In  toil,  and  many  troubles  borne  in  vain 
For  Florence.2 — I appeal  from  her  to  Thee ! 

Thee,  whom  I late  saw  in  thy  loftiest  reign. 

Even  in  that  glorious  vision,  which  to  see 
And  live  was  never  granted  until  now, 

And  yet  thou  hast  permitted  this  to  me. 

Alas  ! with  what  a weight  upon  my  brow 
The  sense  of  earth  and  earthly  things  come  back. 
Corrosive  passions,  feelings  dull  and  low, 

The  heart’s  quick  throb  upon  the  mental  rack, 

Long  day,  and  dreary  night ; the  retrospect 
Of  half  a century  bloody  and  black, 

And  the  frail  few  years  I may  yet  expect 
Hoary  and  hopeless,  but  less  hard  to  bear, 

For  I have  been  too  long  and  deeply  wreck’d 
On  the  lone  rock  of  desolate  Despair, 

To  lift  my  eyes  more  to  the  passing  sail 
Which  shuns  that  reef  so  horrible  and  bare  ; 

Nor  raise  my  voice — for  who  would  heed  my  wail  ? 

I am  not  of  this  people,  nor  this  age, 

And  yet  my  harpings  will  unfold  a tale 
T\  liich  shall  preserve  these  times  when  not  a page 
Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract 
An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage, 


(1)  [Under  the  pretence  of  opposing  the  power  of  Sylla,  Marius, 
who  had  been  five  times  elected  to  the  consulship,  aimed  at  the 
sovereign  power.  Stapylton  says,  that  the  Minturnian  fens,  in 
which  he  was  discovered  by  Sylla’s  emissaries,  were  in  Switzer- 
land ! For  this  accurate  piece  of  topography,  he  was  indebted  to 
the  old  scholiast.  The  spot,  however,  lies  on  the  right  hand  of  the 
ferry  of  Garigliano,  as  you  go  from  Rome  to  Naples. — Giffohd.] 

(2)  [In  one  so  highly  endowed  by  nature,  and  so  consummate  by 
instruction,  we  may  well  sympathise  with  a resentment  which  exile 
and  poverty  rendered  perpetually  fresh.  But  the  heart  of  Dante 
was  naturally  sensible,  and  even  tender:  his  poetry  is  full  of  com- 
parisons from  rural  life;  and  the  sincerity  of  his  early  passion  for 
Beatrice  pierces  through  the  veil  of  allegory  that  surrounds  her. 
But  the  memory  of  his  injuries  pursued  him  into  the  immensity  of 
eternal  light;  and  in  the  company  of  saints  and  angels,  his  unfor- 
giving spirit  darkens  at  the  name  of  Florence. — Halt.am.] 

(3)  This  lady,  whose  name  was  Gemma , sprung  from  one  of  the 
most  powerful  Guelf  families,  named  Donati.  Corso  Donati  was 
the  principal  adversary  of  the  Ghibellines.  She  is  described  as 
being  “ Admod'/m  morosa,  ut  de  Xantippe  Socratis  philosophi  con - 
juge  tcriptum  esse  legimus,"  according  to  Giannozzo  Manetti.  But 

Lionardo  Aretfno  is  scandalized  with  Boccace,  in  his  life  of  Dante, 
for  saying  that  literary  men  should  not  marry.  “ Qui  il  Boccaccio 
dod  ha  pacicnza,  e dice,  lo  rnogli  esser  contrarie  agli  studj;  e non 


Did  not.  my  verso  embalm  full  ma.iy  mi  act 
Worthless  as  they  who  wrought  it : ’tis  the  doom 
Of  spirits  of  my  order  to  be  rack’d 
In  life,  to  wear  their  hearts  out,  and  consume 
Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone ; 

Then  future  thousands  crowd  around  their  tomb, 
And  pilgrims  come  from  climes  where  they  h? 
known 

The  name  of  him— who  now  is  but  a name, 

And  wasting  homage  o’er  the  sullen  stone, 

Spread  his — by  him  unheard,  unheeded — fame  ; 

And  mine  at  least  hath  cost  me  dear : to  die 
Is  nothing ; but  to  wither  thus — to  tame 
My  mind  down  from  its  own  infinity — 

To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men, 

A common  sight  to  every  common  eye, 

A wanderer,  while  even  wolves  can  find  a den, 

Ripp'd  from  all  kindred,  from  all  home,  all  tilings 
That  make  communion  sweet,  and  soften  pain — 

To  feel  me  in  the  solitude  of  kings 

Without  the  power  that  makes  them  bear  a crown — 
To  envy  every  dove  his  nest  and  wings 
Which  waft  him  where  the  Apennine  looks  down 
On  Arno,  till  he  perches,  it  may  be, 

Within  my  all  inexorable  town. 

Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she,3 

Their  mother,  the  cold  partner  who  hath  brought 
Destruction  for  a dowry4 — this  to  see 
And  feel,  and  know  without  repair,  hath  taught 
A bitter  lesson  ; but  it  leaves  me  free  : 

I have  not  vilely  found,  nor  basely  sought, 

They  made  an  Exile — not  a slave  of  me. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


The  Spirit  of  the  fervent  days  of  Old,  [thought 
When  words  were  things  that  came  to  pass,  aid 
Flash’d  o’er  the  future,  *bidding  men  behold 
Their  children’s  children’s  doom  already  brought 
Forth  from  the  abyss  of  time  which  is  to  be, 

The  chaos  of  events,  where  lie  half-wrought 
Shapes  that  must  undergo  mortality ; 

What  the  great  Seers  of  Israel  wore  within, 

That  spirit  was  on  them,  and  is  on  me, 

And  if,  Cassandra-like,  amidst  the  din, 

Of  conflict  none  will  hear,  or  hearing  heed 
This  voice  from  out  the  Wilderness,  the  sin 


si  ricorda  che  Socrate  il  pill  nobile  filosofo  che  mai  fosse,  ebb# 
moglie  e figliuoli  e uffici  della  Repubblica  nella  sua  Citta  ; e Aris- 
totele  che,  &c.  &c.  ebbe  due  mogli  in  varj  tempi,  ed  ebbe  figliuoli, 
e ricchezze  assai. — E'Marco  Tullia — e Catone — e Varrone— e Se- 
neca— ebbero  moglie,”  &c.  &c.  It  is  odd  that  honest  Lionardo’a 
examples,  with  the  exception  of  Seneca,  and,  for  any  thing  I know, 
of  Aristotle,  are  not  the  most  felicitous.  Tully’s  Teremia,  and 
Socrates’  Xantippe,  by  no  means  contributed  to  their  husbands' 
happiness,  whatever  they  might  as  to  their  philosophy — Cato  gave 
away  his  wife — of  Varro’s  we  know  nothing — and  of  Seneca’s  only 
tha't  she  was  disposed  to  die  with  him,  but  recovered,  and  lived 
several  years  afterwards.  But,  says  Lionardo,  “ L’  uomo  b animals 
civile,  secondo  piace  a tutti  i filosofi.”  And  thence  concludes  that 
the  greatest  proof  of  the  animal's  civism  is  “ laprimacongiunzione, 
dalla  quale  multiplicata  nasce  la  Citt&.” 

(4)  [The  violence  of  Gemma’s  temper  proved  a source  of  th# 
bitterest  suffering  to  Dante ; and  in  that  passage  of  the  Inferno, 
where  one  of  the  characters  says — 

‘ La  fiera  mogli  pill  ch’  altro,  mi  nuoce, 

‘ me,  my  wife, 

Of  savage  temper,  more  than  aught  beside, 

Hath  to  this  evil  brought,’ 

his  own  conjugal  unhappiness  must  have  recur»-«d  forcibly  and 
painfully  to  his  mind. — Cary.] 


CANTO  n. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


499 


Be  theirs,  and  my  own  feelings  be  my  meed, 

The  only  guerdon  I have  ever  known. 

Hast  tnou  not  bled  ? and  hast  thou  still  to  bleed, 
Italia  ? Ah  ! to  me  such  things,  foreshown 
With  dim  sepulchral  light,  bid  me  forget 
In  thine  irreparable  wrbngs  my  own  ; 

We  can  have  but  one  country,  and  even  yet 
Thou’rt  mine — my  bones  shall  be  within  thy  breast, 
My  soul  within  thy  language,  which  once  set 
With  our  old  Roman  sway  in  the  wide  West 
Rut  I will  make  another  tongue  arise 
As  lofty  and  more  sweet,  in  which  express’d 
The  hero’s  ardour,  or  the  lover’s  sighs, 

Shall  find  alike  such  sounds  for  every  theme 
That  every  word,  as  brilliant  as  thy  skies, 

Shall  realise  a poet’s  proudest  dream, 

And  make  thee  Europe’s  nightingale  of  song; 

So  that  all  present  speech  to  thine  shall  seem 
The  note  of  meaner  birds,  and  every  tongue 

Confess  its  barbarism  when  compared  with  thine. 
This  shalt  thou  owe  to  him  thou  didst  so  wrong/ 
Thy  Tuscan  Bard,  the  banish’d  Ghibelline. 

Woe  ! woe ! the  veil  of  coming  centuries 
Is  rent, — a thousand  years  which  yet  supine 
Lie  like  the  ocean  waves  ere  winds  arise. 

Heaving  in  dark  and  sullen  undulation, 

Float  from  eternity  into  these  eyes ; [tion. 

The  storms  yet  sleep,  the  clouds  still  keep  their  sta- 
The  unborn  earthquake  yet  is  in  the  womb, 

The  bloody  chaos  yet  expects  creation, 

But  all  things  are  disposing  for  thy  doom; 

The  elements  £\vait  but  for  the  word, 

“ Let  there  be  darkness  ! ” and  thou  grow’st  a tomb  ! 
Yes ! thou,  so  beautiful,  shalt  feel  the  sword. 

Thou,  Italy  ! so  fair  that  Paradise, 

Revived  in  thee,  blooms  forth  to  man  restored : 

Ah  ! must  the  sons  of  Adam  lose  it  twice  ? 

Thou,  Italy  ! whose  ever  golden  fields, 

Plough’d  by  the  sunbeams  solely,  would  suffice 
For  the  world’s  granary ; thou,  whose  sky  heaven  gilds 
With  brighter  stars,  and  robes  with  deeper  blue ; 
Thou,  in  whose  pleasant  places  Summer  builds 
Her  palace,  in  whose  cradle  Empire  grew. 

And  form’d  the  Eternal  City’s  ornaments 
From  spoils  of  kings  whom  freemen  overthrew  ; 
Birthplace  of  heroes,  sanctuary  of  saints, 

Where  earthly  first,  then  heavenly  glory  made 
Her  home ; thou,  all  which  fondest  fancy  paints. 
And  finds  her  prior  vision  but  portray’d 

In  feeble  colours,  when  the  eye — from  the  Alp 
Of  horrid  snow,  and  rock,  and  shaggy  shade 
Of  desert-loving  pine,  whose  emerald  scalp 
Nods  to  the  storm — dilates  and  dotes  o’er  thee. 
And  wistfully  implores,  as  ’twere,  for  help 
To  see  thy  sunny  fields,  my  Italy, 

Nearer  and  nearer  yet,  and  dearer  still 
The  more  approach’d,  and  dearest  were  they  free, 
Thou — thou  must  wither  to  each  tyrant’s  will : 

The  Goth  hath  been, — the  German,  Frank,  and  Hun 
Are  yet  to  come, — and  on  the  imperial  hill 
Ruin,  already  proud  of  the  deeds  done 
By  the  old  barbarians,  there  awaits  the  new. 
Throned  on  the  Palatine,  while  lost  and  won 
Home  at  her  feet  lies  bleeding ; and  the  hue 


(1)  See  “ Sacco  di  Roma,”  generally  attributed  to  Guicciardini. 
There  is  another  written  by  a Jacopo  Buonaparte. — [The  original 
MS.  of  the  latter  work,  is  preserved  in  the  Itoyal  Library  at  Paris, 
it  is  entitled,  “ Ragguaglio  Storico  di  tutto  T occorso,  gioruo  per 


Of  human  sacrifice  and  Roman  slaughter 
Troubles  the  clotted  air,  of  late  so  blue, 

And  deepens  into  red  the  saffron  water 

Of  Tiber,  thick  with  dead  ; the  helpless  priest 
And  still  more  helpless  nor  less  holy  daughter, 
Yow’d  to  their  God,  have  shrieking  fled,  and  ceased 
Their  ministry  : the  nations  take  their  prey, 

Iberian,  Almain,  Lombard,  and  the  beast 
And  bird,  wolf,  vulture,  more  humane  than  they 
Are  ; these  but  gorge  the  flesh  and  lap  the  gore 
Of  the  departed,  and  then  go  their  way ; 

But  those,  the  human  savages,  explore 
All  paths  of  torture,  and  insatiate  yet. 

With  Ugolino  hunger  prowl  for  more. 

Nine  moons  shall  rise  o’er  scenes  like  this  and  set ; 
The  chiefless  army  of  the  dead,  which  late 
Beneath  the  traitor  Prince’s  banner  met, 

Hath  left  its  leader’s  ashes  at  the  gate  ; 

Had  but  the  royal  Rebel  lived,  perchance 
Thou  hadst  been  spared,  but  his  involved  thy  fate. 
Oh  ! Rome,  the  spoiler  or  the  spoil  of  France, 

From  Brennus  to  the  Bourbon,  never,  never 
Shall  foreign  standard  to  thy  walls  advance 
But  Tiber  shall  become  a mournful  river. 

Oh  ! when  the  strangers  pass  the  Alps  and  Po, 
Crush  them,  ye  rocks  ! floods  whelm  them,  and  foi 
Why  sleep  the  idle  avalanches  so,  [ever 

To  topple  on  the  lonely  pilgrim’s  head  ? 

Why  doth  Eridanus  but  overflow 
The  peasant’s  harvest  from  his  turbid  bed  ? 

Were  not  each  barbarous  horde  a nobler  prey  ? 

Over  Cambyses’  host  the  desert  spread 
Her  sandy  ocean,  and  the  sea  waves’  sway 
Roll’d  over  Pharaoh  and  his  thousands, — why. 
Mountains  and  waters,  do  ye  not  as  they  ? 

And  you,  ye  men  ! Romans,  who  dare  not  die, 

Sons  of  the  conquerors  who  overthrew 
Those  who  o’erthrew  proud  Xerxes,  where  yet  lie 
The  dead  whose  tomb  Oblivion  never  knew, 

Are  the  Alps  weaker  than  Thermopylae  P 
Their  passes  more  alluring  to  the  view 
Of  an  invader  ? is  it  they,  or  ye, 

That  to  each  host  the  mountain-gate  unbar, 

And  leave  the  march  in  peace,  the  passage  free  P 
W hy.  Nature’s  self  detains  the  victor’s  car, 

And  makes  your  land  impregnable,  if  earth 
Could  be  so ; but  alone  she  will  not  war, 

Yet  aids  the  warrior  worthy  of  his  birth 

In  a soil  where  the  mothers  bring  forth  men : 

Not  so  with  those  whose  souls  are  little  worth ; 

For  them  no  fortress  can  avail, — the  den 
Of  the  poor  reptile  which  preserves  its  sting 
Is  more  secure  than  walls  of  adamant,  when 
The  hearts  of  those  within  are  quivering. 

Are  ye  not  brave  ? Yes,  yet  the  Ausonian  soil 
Hath  hearts,  and  bands,  and  arms,  and  hosts  to 
Against  Oppression  ; but  how  vain  the  toil,  [bring 
While  still  Division  sows  the  seeds  of  woe 
And  weakness,  till  the  stranger  reaps  the  spoil. 

Oh  ! my  own  beauteous  land  ! so  long  laid  low. 

So  long  the  grave  of  thy  own  children’s  hopes, 
When  there  is  but  required  a single  blow 
To  break  the  chain,  yet — yet  the  Avenger  stops, 

And  Doubt  and  Discord  step  ’twixt  thine  and  thee, 


giorno,  nel  Sacco  di  Roma  dell  anno  MDXXVII,  scritto  da  Jacopo 
Buonaparte,  gentiluomo  Samminiatese,  the  vi  si  trovd  present©.'’ 
An  edition  of  it  was  printed  at  Cologne  in  1756,  to  which  is  prefixed 
a genealogy  of  the  Buonaparte  family.] 


500 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  III. 


And  join  their  strength  to  that  which  with  thee 
What  is  there  wanting  then  to  set  thee  free,  [copes ; 
And  show  thy  beauty  in  its  fullest  light  ? 

To  make  the  Alps  impassable  ; and  we, 

Her  sons,  may  do  this  with  one  deed Unite. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD 


From  out  the  mass  of  never-dying  ill,  [Sword, 

Th.e  Plague,  the  Prince,  the  Stranger,  and  the 
Vials  of  wrath  but  emptied  to  refill 
And  flow  again,  I cannot  all  record 

That  crowds  on  my  prophetic  eye  : the  earth 
And  ocean  written  o’er  would  not  afford 
Space  for  the  annal,  yet  it  shall  go  forth  ; 

Yes,  all,  though  not  by  human  pen,  is  graven, 

There  where  the  farthest  suns  and  stars  have  birth, 
Spread  like  a banner  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 

The  bloody  scroll  of  our  millennial  wrongs 
Waves,  and  the  echo  of  our  groans  is  driven 
Athwart  the  sound  of  archangelic  songs, 

And  Italy,  the  martyr’d  nation’s  gore, 

Will  not  in  vain  arise  to  where  belongs 
Omnipotence  and  mercy  evermore  : 

Like  to  a harpstring  stricken  by  the  wind. 

The  sound  of  her  lament  shall,  rising  o’er 
The  seraph  voices,  touch  the  Almighty  Mind. 
Meantime  1,  humblest  of  thy  sons,  and  of 
Earth’s  dust  by  immortality  refined 
To  sense  and  suffering,  though  the  vain  may  scoff, 
And  tyrants  threat,  and  meeker  victims  bow 
Before  the  storm  because  its  breath  is  rough, 

To  thee,  my  country ! whom  before,  as  now, 

I loved  and  love,  devote  the  mournful  lyre 
And  melancholy  gift  high  powers  allow 
To  read  the  future ; and  if  now  my  fire 
Is  not  as  once  it  shone  o’er  thee,  forgive ! 

I but  foretell  thy  fortunes — then  expire  ; 

Think  not  that  I would  look  on  them  and  live. 

A spirit  forces  me  to  see  and  speak. 

And  for  my  guerdon  grants  not  to  survive ; 

My  heart  shall  be  pour’d  over  thee  and  break : 

Yet  for  a moment,  ere  I must  resume 
Thy  sable  web  of  sorrow,  let  me  take 
Over  the  gleams  that  flash  athwart  thy  gloom 

A softer  glimpse ; some  stars  shine  through  thy 
And  many  meteors,  and  above  thy  tomb  [night, 
Leans  sculptured  Beauty,  which  Death  cannot  blight ; 
And  from  thine  ashes  boundless  spirits  rise 
To  give  thee  honour,  and  the  earth  delight ; 

Thy  soil  shall  still  be  pregnant  with  the  wise, 

The  gay,  the  learn’d,  the  generous,  and  the  brave, 
Native  to  thee  as  summer  to  thy  skies, 

Conquerors  on  foreign  shores,  and  the  far  wave,1 
Discoverers  of  new  worlds,  which  take  their  name;2 
For  thee  alone  they  have  no  arm  to  save. 

And  all  thy  recompense  is  in  their  fame, 

A noble  one  to  them,  but  not  to  thee — ■ 

Shall  they  be  glorious,  and  thou  still  the  same  ? 

Oh  ! more  than  these  illustrious  far  shall  be 
The  being — and  even  yet  he  may  be  born — 


(I)  Alexander  Parma,  Spinola,  Pescara,  Eugene  of  Savoy, 
Montecucco. 


The  mortal  saviour  who  snail  set  them  free. 

And  see  thy  diadem,  so  changed,  and  worn 
By  fresh  bavbarians,  on  thy  brow  replaced  : 

And  the  sweet  sun  replenishing  thy  morn, 

Thy  moral  morn,  too  long  with  clouds  defaced, 

And  noxious  vapours  from  Avernus  risen, 

Such  as  all  they  must  breathe  who  are  debased 
By  servitude,  and  have  the  mind  in  prison. 

Yet  through  this  centuried  eclipse  of  woe 
Some  voices  shall  be  heard,  and  earth  shall  listen ; 
Poets  shall  follow  in  the  path  I show, 

Aud  make  it  broader ; the  same  brilliant  sky 
Which  cheers  the  birds  to  song  shall  bid  them  glow 
And  raise  their  notes  as  natural  and  high  ; 

Tuneful  shall  be  their  numbers  ; they  shall  sing 
Many  of  love,  and  some  of  liberty, 

But  few  shall  soar  upon  that  eagle’s  wing, 

And  look  in  the  sun’s  face  with  eagle’s  gaze, 

All  free  and  fearless  as  the  feather’d  king, 

But  fly  more  near  the  earth  ; how  many  a phrase 
Sublime  shall  lavish’d  be  on  some  small  prince 
In  all  the  prodigality  of  praise ! 

And  language,  eloquently  false,  evince 
The  harlotry  of  genius,  which,  like  beauty. 

Too  oft  forgets  its  own  self-reverence, 

And  looks  on  prostitution  as  a duty. 

He  who  once  enters  in  a tyrant’s  hall3 
As  guest  is  slave,  his  thoughts  become  a booty, 
And  the  first  day  which  sees  the  chain  enthral 
A captive,  sees  his  half  of  manhood  gone — 4 
The  soul’s  emasculation  saddens  all 
His  spirit ; thus  the  Bard  too  near  the  throne 
Quails  from  his  inspiration,  bound  to  please, — 
How  servile  is  the  task  to  please  alone  ! 

To  smooth  the  verse  to  suit  his  sovereign’s  ease 
And  royal  leisure,  nor  too  much  prolong 
Aught  save  his  eulogy,  and  find,  and  seize, 

Or  force,  or  fore;e  fit  argument  of  song  ! [bles 

Thus  trammel  I’d,  thus  condemn’d  to  Flattery’s  ire 
He  toils  through  all,  still  trembling  to  be  wrong  : 
For  fear  some  noble  thoughts,  like  heavenly  rebels, 
Should  rise  up  in  high  treason  to  his  brain, 

He  sings,  as  the  Athenian  spoke,  with  pebbles 
In’s  mouth,  lest  truth  should  stammer  thro’  his  strain 
But  out  of  the  long  file  of  sonneteers 
There  shall  be  some  who  will  not  sing  in  vain, 

And  he,  their  prince,  shall  rank  among  my  peers,5 
And  love  shall  be  his  torment ; but  his  grief 
Shall  make  an  immortality  of  tears,. 

And  Italy  shall  hail  him  as  the  Chief 
Of  Poet-lovers,  and  his  higher  song 
Of  Freedom  wreathe  him  with  as  green  a leaf. 

But  in  a farther  age  shall  rise  along 

The  banks  of  Po  two  greater  still  than  he ; 

The  world  which  smiled  on  him  shall  do  them  wrong 
Till  they  are  ashes,  and  repose  with  me. 

The  first  will  make  an  epoch  with  his  lyre, 

And  fill  the  earth  with  feats  of  chivalry : 

His  fancy  like  a rainbow,  and  his  fire, 

Like  that  of  Heaven,  immortal,  and  his  thought 
Borne  onward  with  a wing  that  cannot  til  e : 
Pleasure  shall,  like  a butterfly  new  caught, 

Flutter  her  lovely  pinions  o’er  his  theme, 

And  Art  itself  seem  into  Nature  wrought 


(3)  A verse  from  the  Greek  tragedians,  with  which  Pompey  i x)k 
leave  of  Cornelia  on  entering  the  boat  in  which  he  was  slain. 

(4)  The  verse  and  sentiment  are  taken  from  Homer. 

(5)  Petrarch. 


(2)  Columbus,  Americus  Vespasius,  Sebastian  Cabot* 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


By  the  transparency  of  liis  bright  dream. — 

The  second,  of  a tenderer,  sadder  mood, 

Shall  pour  his  soul  out  o’er  Jerusalem  ; 

He,  too,  shall  sing  of  arms,  and  Christian  blood 
Shed  where  Christ  bled  for  man  ; and  his  high  harp 
Shall,  by  the  willow  over  Jordan’s  flood, 
evive  a song  of  Sion,  and  the  sharp 
Conflict,  and  final  triumph  of  the  brave 
And  pious,  and  the  strife  of  hell  to  warp 
Their  hearts  from  their  great  purpose,  until  wave 
The  red-cross  banners  where  the  first  red  Cross 
Was  crimson’d  from  his  veins  who  died  to  save, 
Shall  be  his  sacred  argument ; the  loss 
Of  years,  of  favour,  freedom,  even  of  fame 
Contested  for  a time,  while  the  smooth  gloss 
Of  courts  would  slide  o’er  his  forgotten  name, 

And  call  captivity  a kindness,  meant 
To  shield  him  from  insanity  or  shame, 

Such  shall  be  his  meet  guerdon  ! who  was  sent 
To  be  Christ’s  Laureate — they  reward  him  well ! 
Florence  dooms  me  but  death  or  banishment, 

Ferrara  him  a pittance  and  a cell, 

Harder  to  bear  and  less  deserved,  for  I 

Had  stung  the  factions  which  I strove  to  quell ; 

But  this  meek  man,  who  with  a lover’s  eye 
Will  look  on  earth  and  heaven,  and  who  will  deign 
To  embalm  with  his  celestial  flattery 
Vs  poor  a thing  as  e’er  was  spawn’d  to  reign, 

What  will  he  do  to  merit  such  a doom  ? 

Perhaps  he’ll  love , — and  is  not  love  in  vain 
Torture  enough  without  a living  tomb  ? 

Yet  it  will  be  so — he  and  his  compeer, 

The  Bard  of  Chivalry,  will  both  consume 
In  penury  and  pain  too  many  a year, 

And,  dying  in  despondency,  bequeath 

To  the  kind  world,  which  scarce  will  yield  a tear, 

A heritage  enriching  all  who  breathe 
With  the  wealth  of  a genuine  poet’s  soul, 

And  to  the  country  a redoubled  wreath 
Unmatch’d  by  time  ; not  Hellas  can  unroll 
Through  her  olympiads  two  such  names,  though  one 
Of  hers  be  mighty ; — and  is  this  the  whole 
Of  such  men’s  destiny  beneath  the  sun  ? 1 
Must  all  the  finer  thoughts,  the  thrilling  sense, 

The  electric  blood  with  which  their  arteries  run, 
Their  body’s  self-tuned  soul  with  the  intense 
Feeling  of  that  which  is,  and  fancy  of 
That  which  should  be,  to  such  a recompense 
Conduct  ? shall  their  bright  plumage  on  the  rough 
Storm  be  still  scatter’d?  Yes,  and  it  must  be ; 

For,  form’d  of  far  too  penetrable  stuff, 

These  birds  of  Paradise  but  long  to  flee 

Back  to  their  native  mansion,  soon  they  find 
Earth’s  mist  with  their  pure  pinions  not  agree, 

And  die  or  are  degraded  : for  the  mind 
Succumbs  to  long  infection,  and  despair, 

And  vulture  passions  flying  close  behind, 

Await  the  moment  to  assail  and  tear ; 

And  when  at  length  the  winged  wanderers  stoop, 
Then  is  the  prey-birds’  triumph,  then  they  share 
The  spoil,  o’erpower’d  at  length  by  one  fell  swoop. 


(1)  [“Why  is  it  necessary  to  adept  the  invidious  and  too  common 
practice  of  weighing  the  transcendent  talents  of  Ariosto  and  Tasso 
tr.  opposite,  and  as  it  were  contending,  scales  ? Reader!  if  you  have 
Already  had  the  delight  of  perusing  the  last  production  of  Lord 
Byron’s  inuse,  how  must  you  have  admired  those  exquisitely  beau- 
tifal  and  affecting  portraitures  of  the  two  matchless  poets  which 
oondude  the  third  canto  of  the  ‘ Prophecy  of  Dante  1 ' We  there 


501 

Yet  some  have  been  untouch’d  who  learn’d  to  bear, 
Some  whom  no  power  could  ever  force  to  droop, 
Who  could  resist  themselves  even,  hardest  care  ! 

And  task  most  hopeless;  but  some  such  have  been, 
And  if  my  name  amongst  the  number  were, 

That  destiny  austere,  and  yet  serene, 

Were  prouder  than  more  dazzling  fame  unbless’d ; 
The  Alp’s  snow  summit  nearer  heaven  is  seen 
Than  the  volcano’s  fierce  eruptive  crest, 

Whose  splendour  from  the  black  abyss  is  flung, 
While  the  scorch’d  mountain,  from  whose  burning 
breast 

A temporary  torturing  flame  is  wrung, 

Shines  for  a night  of  terror,  then  repels 

Its  fire  back  to  the  hell  from  whence  it  sprung, 

The  hell  wliich  in  its  entrails  ever  dwells. 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 


Many  are  poets  who  have  never  penn’d 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance  the  best : 

They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  would  not  lend 
Their  thoughts  to  meaner  beings  ; they  compress’d 
The  god  within  them,  and  rejoin’d  the  stars 
Unlaurell’d  upon  earth,  but  far  more  blcss’d 
Than  those  who  are  degraded  by  the  jars 
Of  passion,  and  their  frailties  link’d  to  fame. 
Conquerors  of  high  renown,  but  full  of  scars. 

Many  are  poets,  but  without  the  name, 

For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  overfeeling  good  or  ill;  and  aim 
At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate, 

And  be  the  new  Prometheus  of  new  men, 

_ Bestowing  fire  from  heaven,  and  then,  too  late. 
Finding  the  pleasure  given  repaid  with  pain, 

And  vultures  to  the  heart  of  the  bestowers 
Who,  having  lavish’d  his  high  gift  in  vain, 

Lies  chain’d  to  his  lone  rock  by  the  sea-shore  ? 

So  be  it : we  can  bear. — But  thus  all  they 
Whose  intellect  is  an  o’ermastering  power 
Which  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  clay 
Or  lightens  it  to  spirit,  whatsoe’er 
The  form  which  their  creations  may  essay, 

Are  bards ; the  kindled  marble’s  bust  may  wear 
More  poesy  upon  its  speaking  brow 
Than  aught  less  than  the  Homeric  page  may  bear ! 
One  noble  stroke  with  a whole  life  may  glow, 

Or  deify  the  canvass  till  it  shine 
With  beauty  so  surpassing  all  below, 

That  they  who  kneel  to  idols  so  divine 

Break  no  commandment,  for  high  heaven  is  there 
Transfused,  transfigurated  : and  the  line 
Of  poesy,  which  peoples  but  the  air 

With  thought  and  beings  of  our  thought  reflected, 
Can  do  no  more : then  let  the  artist  share 
The  palm,  he  shares  the  peril,  and  dejected 
Faints  o’er  the  labour  unapproved — Alas  ! 

Despair  and  Genius  are  too  oft  connected. 

Within  the  ages  which  before  me  pass 


see  them  contrasted  without  such  invidious  comparison,  or  depre- 
ciation of  the  one  to  exalt  the  other;  and  characterised  in  numbcr8, 
style,  and  sentiment,  so  wonderfully  Dantesqiie,  that — maste»mg 
our  uncongenial  language,  and  habitual  modes  of  thought  as  well  as 
expression — they  seem  to  have  been  inspired  by  the  very  genius  ot 
the  inarrivabile  Dante  himself.”  — Glenbervie,  Ricciardetto. 
p.  106.] 


502 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Art  shall  resume  and  equal  even  the  sway 
Which  with  Apelles  and  old  Phidias 
She  held  in  Hellas’  nnforgotten  day. 

Ye  shall  be  taught  by  Ruin  to  revive 
The  Grecian  forms  at  least  from  their  decay, 
And  R,oman  souls  at  last  again  shall  live 
In  Roman  works  wrought  by  Italian  hands, 

And  temples,  loftier  than  the  old  temples,  give 
New  wonders  to  the  world ; and  while  still  stands 
The  austere  Pantheon,  into  heaven  shall  soar 
A dome1,  its  image,  while  the  base  expands 
Into  a fane  surpassing  all  before, 

Such  as  all  flesh  shall  flock  to  kneel  in : ne’er 
Such  sight  hath  been  unfolded  by  a door 
As  this,  to  which  all  nations  shall  repair, 

And  lay  their  sins  at  this  huge  gate  of  heaven. 
And  the  bold  Architect  unto  whose  care 
The  daring  charge  to  raise  it  shall  be  given, 

Whom  all  arts  shall  acknowledge  as  their  lord,2 
Whether  into  the  marble  chaos  driven 
His  chisel  bid  the  Hebrew,3  at  whose  word 
Israel  left  Egypt,  stop  the  waves  in  stone, 

Or  hues  of  lleli  be  by  his  pencil  pour’d 
Over  the  damn’d  before  the  Judgment-throne,4 
Such  as  I saw  them,  such  as  all  shall  see, 

Or  fanes  be  built  of  grandeur  yet  unknown, 


(1)  The  cupola  of  St.  Peter’s. 

(2)  [“  If,”  says  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  “the  high  admiration  and 
esteem  in  which  Michael  Angelo  has  been  held  by  all  nations,  and 
in  all  ages,  should  be  put  to  the  account  of  prejudice,  it  must  still 
be  granted  that  those  prejudices  could  not  have  been  entertained 
without  a cause : the  ground  of  our  prejudice  then  becomes  the 
source  of  our  admiration.  Rut  from  whatever  it  proceeds,  or  what- 
ever it  is  called,  it  will  not,  I hope,  be  thought  presumptuous  in  me 
to  appear  in  the  train,  I cannot  say  of  his  imitators,  but  of  his  ad 
mirers.  1 have  taken  another  course,  one  more  suited  to  my 
abilities,  and  to  the  taste  of  the  times  in  which  I live.  Yet,  how 
ever  unequal  1 feel  myself  to  that  attempt,  were  I now  to  begin  the 
world  again,  I would  tread  in  the  steps  of  that  great  master.  To 
kiss  the  hem  of  his  garment,  to  catch  the  slightest  of  his  perfections, 
would  be  glory  and  distinction  enough  for  an  ambitious  man.” — 
Sir  Joshua  Ruynolds’s  Discourses , vol.ii.  p.21(i.] 

*3)  The  statue  of  Moses  on  the  monument  of  Julius  II. 

SONETTO 

Di  Giovanni  Battista  Zappi. 

Chi  b costui,  che  in  dura  pietra  scolto, 

Siede  gigante;  e le  piu  illustri,  e conte 
Opre  dell’  arte  avvanza,  e ha  vive,  e pronte 
Le  labbra  si,  che  le  parole  ascol  o? 

Quest’  e Mos£ ; ben  me  ’1  diceva  il  folto 

Onor  del  mento,  e ’1  doppio  raggio  in  fronte, 

Quest’  b Mos&,  quando  scendea  del  monte, 

E gran  parte  del  Nume  avea  nel  volto 
Tal  era  alior,  che  le  sonanti,  e vaste 
Acque  ei  sospese  a se  d’  intorno,  e tale 
Quando  il  mar  chiuse,  e ne  fe  tomba  altrui. 

E voi  sue  turbe  un  rio  vitello  alzaste  t 
Alzata  aveste  imago  a questa  egualel 
Ch’  era  men  fallo  1’  adorar  costui. 

[“  And  who  is  he  that,  shaped  in  sculptured  stone. 

Sits  giant-like?  stern  monument  of  art 
Unparallel’d,  while  language  seems  to  start 
From  his  prompt  lips,  and  we  his  precepts  own  ? 

— ’Tis  Moses ; by  his  beard’s  thick  honours  known, 

And  the  twin  beams  that  from  his  temples  dart ; 

’Tis  Moses  ; seated  on  the  mount  apart, 

Whilst  yet  the  Godhead  o’er  his  features  shone  : 

Such  once  he  look’d,  when  ocean’s  sounding  wave 
Suspended  hung,  and  such  amidst  the  storm, 

When  o’er  his  foes  the  refluent  waters  roar’d. 

An  idol  calf  his  followers  did  engrave; 

But  had  they  raised  this  awe-commanding  form, 

Then  had  they  with  less  guilt  their  work  adored.” 

Rogers.] 

(4)  The  Last  Judgment,  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. — [“  It  is  obvious, 
throughout  Michael  Angelo’s  works,  that  the  poetical  mind  of 

Dante  influenced  his  feelings.  The  demons  in  the  Last  Judgment, 
with  all  their  mixed  and  various  passions,  may  find  a prototype  in 

‘ La  Divina  Commedia.'  The  figures  rising  from  the  grave  mark 
his  study  of  ‘ L'  Inferno  e il  Purgatorio and  the  subject  of  the 
Brazen  Serpent,  in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  must  remind  every  reader 


The  stream  of  his  great  thoaghts  shall  spring  from  me, 5 
The  Ghibelliue,  who  traversed  the  three  realms 
Which  form  the  empire  of  eternity. 

Amidst  the  clash  of  swords  and  clang  of  helms, 

The  age  which  I anticipate,  no  less 
Shall  be  the  Age  of  Beauty,  and  while  whelms 
Calamity  the  nations  with  distress, 

The  genius  of  my  country  shall  arise, 

A Cedar  towering  o’er  the  Wilderness, 

Lovely  in  all  its  branches  to  all  eyes, 

Fragrant  as  fair,  and  recognised  afar, 

Wafting  its  native  incense  through  the  skies. 
Sovereigns  shall  pause  amidst  their  sport  of  war, 
Wean’d  for  an  hour  from  blood,  to  turn  and  gaze 
On  canvass  or  on  stone  ; and  they  who  mar 
All  beauty  upon  earth,  compell’d  to  praise, 

Shall  feel  the  power  of  that  which  they  destroy 
And  Art’s  mistaken  gratitude  shall  raise 
To  tyrants  who  but  take  her  for  a toy 
Emblems  and  monuments,  and  prostitute 
Her  charms  to  pontiffs  proud,6  who  but  employ 
The  man  of  genius  as  the  meanest  brute 
To  bear  a burthen,  and  to  serve  a need, 

To  sell  his  labours,  and  his  soul  to  boot. 

Who  toils  for  nations  may  be  poor  indeed, 

But  free  ; who  sweats  for  monarchs  is  no  more 


of  canto  xxv.  dell’  Inferno,  where  the  flying  serpents,  the  Writhiags 
and  contortions  of  the  human  body  from  envenomed  wounds,  ^.rt> 
described  with  pathos  and  horror;  and  the  execution  of  Haman,  in 
the  opposite  angle  of  the  same  ceiling,  is  doubtless  designed  from 
these  lines. — 

‘ Poi  piovve  dentro  all’  alta  fantasia 
Un  crocifisso  dispettoso  e fiero 
Nella  sua  vista,  e cotal  si  moria. 

Intorno  ed  esso  era  ’1  grande  Assuero 
Ester  suasposa,  e ’1  giusto  Mardocheo, 

Che  fu  al  dire  ed  al  far  cosi  ’ntero.’  ” — Dupva.] 

(5)  I have  read  somewhere  (if  I do  not  err,  for  I cannot  recollect 
where,)  that  Dante  was  so  great  a favourite  of  Michael  Angelo’s, 
that  he  had  des  gned  the  whole  of  the  Divina  Commedia;  but  that 
the  volume  containing  these  studies  was  lost  by  sea. — [“  Michael 
Angelo’s  copy  of  Dante,”  says  Duppa,  “ was  a large  folio,  with 
Landino’s  commentary  ; and  upon  the  broad  margin  of  the  leaves  he 
designed,  with  a’  pen  and  ink,  all  the  interesting  subjects  This 
book  was  possessed  by  Antonio  Montauti,  a sculptor  and  architect 
of  Florence,  who,  being  appointed  architect  to  St.  Peter’s,  re- 
moved to  Rome,  and  shipped  his  effects  at  Leghorn  for  Civita 
Vecchia,  among  which  was  this  edition  of  Dante : in  the  voyage 
the  vessel  foundered  at  sea,  and  it  was  unfortunately  lost  in  tne 
wreck.”] 

(6)  See  the  treatment  of  Michael  Angelo  by  Julius  II.,  and  his 
neglect  by  Leo  X [Julius  II.  was  no  sooner  seated  on  the  papal 
throne  than  he  was  surrounded  by  men  of  genius,  and  Michael 
Angelo  was  among  the  first  invited  to  his  court.  The  pope  had  a 
personal  attachment  to  him,  and  conversed  with  him  upon  every 
subject,  as  well  as  sculpture,  with  familiarity  and  friendship ; and, 
that  he  might  visit  him  frequently,  and  with  perfect  convenience, 
caused  a covered  bridge  to  be  made  from  the  Vatican  palace  to  his 
study,  to  enable  him  to  pass  at  all  times  without  being  observed. 
On  paying  his  visit  one  morning,  Michael  Angelo  was  rudely  in- 
terrupted by  the  person  in  waiting,  who  said,  “ 1 have  an  order  not 
to  let  you  enter.”  Michael  felt  with  indignation  this  unmerited  dis- 
grace, and,  in  the  warmth  of  resentment,  desired  him  to  tell  the 
Pope,  “from  that  time  forward,  if  his  Holiness  should  want  him, 
he  should  have  to  seek  him  in  another  place.”  On  his  return  home, 
he  ordered  his  servants  to  sell  the  furniture  in  his  house  to  the 
Jews,  and  to  follow  him  to  Florence.  Himself,  the  same  evening, 
took  post,  and  arrived  at  Poggibonzi  castle,  in  Tuscany,  before  he 
rested.  The  Pope  despatched  five  couriers,  with  orders  to  conduct 
him  back:  but  he  was  not  overtaken  until  he  was  in  a foreign  state. 
A reconciliation  was  however,  a few  months  altei,  effected  at 
Bologna,  through  the  mediation  of  the  gonfaloniere.  As  Michael 
Angelo  entered  the  presence  chamber,  the  Pope  gave  him  an 
askance  look  of  displeasure,  and  after  a short  pause  saluted  him, 
“ In  the  stead  of  your  coming  to  us,  you  seem  to  have  expected  that 
we  should  wait  upon  you.”  Michael  Angelo  replied  with  submis- 
sion, that  his  error  arose  from  too  hastily  feeling  a disgrace  that  he 
was  unconscious  of  meriting,  and  hoped  his  Holiness  would  pardon 
what  was  past.  The  Pope  thereupon  gave  him  his  benediction,  aze- 
restored  him  to  his  friendship.  The  whole  reign  of  Leo  X.  wao  fl 
blank  in  the  life  of  Michael  Angelo. — Duppa  ] 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


505 


Than  the  gilt  chamberlain,  who,  clothed  and  fee’d. 
Stands  sleek  and  slavish,  bowing  at  his  door. 

Oh,  Power  that  rulcst  and  inspirest ! how 
Is  it  that  they  on  earth,  whose  earthly  power 
Is  likest  thine  in  heaven  in  outward  show, 

Least  like  to  thee  in  attributes  divine, 

Tread  on  the  universal  necks  that  bow, 

And  then  assure  us  that  their  rights  are  thine  ? 

Axi  how  is  it  that  they,  the  sons  of  fame. 

Whose  inspiration  seems  to  them  to  shine 
From  high,  they  whom  the  nations  oftest  name. 

Must  pass  their  days  in  penury  or  pain, 

Or  step  to  grandeur  through  the  paths  of  shame, 
And  Avear  a deeper  brand  and  gaudier  chain? 

Or  if  their  destiny  be  born  aloof 

From  lowliness,  or  tempted  thence  in  vain, 

In  their  OAvn  souls  sustain  a harder  proof, 

The  inner  war  of  passions  deep  and  fierce  ? 

Florence  ! when  thy  harsh  sentence  razed  my  roof, 
I loved  thee ; but  the  vengeance  of  my  verse, 

The  hate  of  injuries  which  every  year 
Makes  greater,  and  accumulates  my  curse, 

Shall  live,  outliving  all  thou  boldest  dear, 

Thy  pride,  thy  Avealth,  thy  freedom,  and  even  that , 
The  most  infernal  of  all  evils  here, 

The  sway  of  petty  tyrants  in  a state ; 

For  such  SAvay  is  not  limited  to  kings, 

And  demagogues  yield  to  them  but  in  date, 

As  swept  off  sooner ; in  all  deadly  things 
Which  make  men  hate  themselves,  and  one  another, 
In  discord,  cowardice,  cruelty,  all  that  springs 


(1)  [In  his  “ Convito,”  Dante  speaks  of  his  banishment,  and  the 
poverty  and  distress  which  attended  it,  in  very  affecting  terms. 
“Alas!”  said  he.  “had  it  pleased  the  Dispenser  of  the  Universe, 
that  the  occasion  of  this  excuse  had  never  existed ; that  neither 
others  had  committed  wrong  against  me,  nor  I suffered  unjustly; 
suffered,  I say,  the  punishment  of  exile  and  of  poverty ; since  it  was 
the  pleasure  of  the  citizens  of  that  fairest  and  most  renowned 
daughter  of  Borne,  Florence,  to  cast  me  forth  out  of  her  sweet 
bosom,  in  which  I ^ad  my  birt..  and  nourishment  even  to  the  ripe- 
ness of  my  age,  ar  i in  which,  with  her  good-will,  I desire,  with  all 
my  heart,  to  rest  this  wearied  spirit  of  mine,  and  to  terminate  the 
time  allotted  to  mo  on  earth.  Wandering  over  almost  every  part, 
to  which  this  our  language  extends,  I have  gone  about  like  a men- 
dicant, showing  against  my  will  the  wound  with  which  fortune  has 
smitten  me,  and  which  is  often  imputed  to  his  ill-deserving  on 
whom  it  is  inflicted.  I have,  indeed,  been  a vessel  without  sail  and 
without  steerage,  carried  about  to  divers  ports,  and  roads,  and 
shores,  by  the  dry  wind  that  springs  out  of  sad  poverty,  and  have 
appeared  before  the  eyes  of  many  who,  perhaps,  from  some  report 
that  had  reached  them,  had  imagined  me  of  a different  form ; in 
whose  sight  not  only  my  person  was  disparaged,  but  every  action 
of  mine  became  of  less  value,  as  well  already  performed,  as  those 
which  yet  remained  for  me  to  attempt.”] 

(2)  [About  the  year  1316,  the  friends  of  Dante  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining his  restoration  to  his  country  and  his  possessions,  on  condi- 
tion that  he  should  pay  a certain  sum  of  money,  and,  entering  a 
church,  there  avow  himself  guilty,  and  ask  pardon  of  the  republic. 
The  following  was  his  answer,  on  this  occasion,  to  one  of  his  kins- 
men :-r-“  From  your  letter,  which  I received  with  due  respect  and 
affection,  I observe  how  much  you  have  at  heart  my  restoration  to 
my  country.  I am  bound  to  you  the  more  gratefully,  that  an  exile 
rarely  finds  a friend.  But,  after  mature  consideration,  I must,  by 
my  answer,  disappoint  the  wishes  of  some  little  minds;  and  I con- 
fide in  the  judgment  to  which  your  impartiality  and.  prudence  will 
lead  you.  Your  nephew  and  mine  has  written  to  me,  what  indeed 
had  been  mentioned  by  many  other  fiiends,  that  by  a decree  con- 
cerning the  exiles,  I am  allowed  to  return  to  Florence,  provided  I 
pay  a certain  sum  of  money,  and  submit  to  the  humiliation  of  ask- 
ing and  receiving  absolution : wherein,  my  Father,  I see  two  pro- 
positions that  are  ridiculous  and  impertinent.  I speak  of  the  im- 

f eminence  of  those  w ho  mention  such  conditions  to  me : for  in  your 
;tter,  dictated  by  judgment  and  discretion,  there  is  no  such  thing. 
Is  such  an  invitation  to  return  to  his  country  glorious  for  Dante, 
after  suffering  in  exile  almost  fifteen  years  ? Is  it  thus,  then,  they 
would  recompense  innocence  which  all  the  world  knows,  and  the 
labour  and  fatigue  of  unremitting  study?  Far  from  the  man  who  is 
familiar  with  philosophy  be  the  senseless  baseness  of  a heart  of 
earth,  that  could  do  like  a little  sciolist,  and  imitate  the  infamy  of 
•ome  others,  by  offering  himself  up  as  it  were  in  chains.  Far  from 
the  man  who  cries  aloud  for  justice  this  compromise,  by  his  money, 


From  Death  the  Sin-born’s  inccsb  Avith  bis  mother. 

In  rank  oppression  in  its  rudest  shape, 

The  faction  Chief  is  but  the  Sultan’s  brether, 

And  the  Avorst  despot’s  far  less  human  ape  : 

Florence ! Avhen  this  lone  spirit,  which  so  long 
Yearn’d  as  the  captive  toiling  at  escape. 

To  fly  back  to  thee  in  despite  of  Avrong, 

An  exile,  saddest  of  all  prisoners,1 
Who  has  the  whole  Avorld  for  a dungeon  strong, 
Seas,  mountains,  and  the  horizon’s  verge  for  bars, 
Which  shut  him  from  the  sole  small  spot  of  earth 
Where — Avhatsoe’er  his  fate — he  still  Avere  hers. 

His  country’s,  and  might  die  where  he  had  birth — - 
Florence  ! when  this  lone  spirit  shall  return 
To  kindred  spirits,  thou  wilt  feel  my  worth, 

And  seek  to  honour  with  an  empty  urn 
The  ashes  thou  shalt  ne’er  obtain2 — Alas  ! 

“ What  have  I done  to  thee,  my  people  ?”3  Btera 
Are  all  thy  dealings,  but  in  this  they  pass 
The  limits  of  man’s  common  malice,  for 
All  that  a citizen  could  be  I Avas  ; 

Raised  by  thy  will,  all  thine  in  peace  or  war, 

And  for  this  thou  hast  warr’d  Avith  me. — ’Tis  done 
I may  not  overleap  the  eternal  bar 
Built  up  betAveen  us,  and  will  die  alone, 

Beholding  with  the  dark  eye  of  a seer 
The  evil  days  to  gifted  souls  foreshoAvn, 

Foretelling  them  to  those  who  will  not  hear. 

As  in  the  old  time,  till  the  hour  be  come  [tear, 
When  Truth  shall  strike  their  eyes  through  many  s 
And  make  them  own  the  Prophet  in  his  tomb.4 


with  his  persecutors  ! No,  my  Father,  this  is  not  the  way  that  shall 
lead  me  back  to  my  country.  But  I shall  return  with  hasty  steps, 
if  you  or  any  other  can  open  to  me  a way  that  shall  not  derogate 
from  the  fame  and  honour  of  Dante  ; but  if  by  no  such  way  Florence 
can  be  entered,  then  Florence  I shall  never  enter.  What!  shall  I 
not  every  where  enjoy  the  sight  of  the  sun  and. stars?  and  may  1 not 
seek  and  contemplate,  in  every  corner  of  the  earth  under  the 
canopy  of  heaven,  consoling  and  delightful  truth,  without  first  ren- 
dering myself  inglorious,  nay  infamous,  to  the  people  and  republic 
of  Florence?  Bread,  I hope,  will  not  fail  me.”  Yet  he  continued 
to  experience 

‘ How  salt  the  savour  is  of  other’s  bread, 

Hotiv  hard  the  passage  to  descend  and  climb 
By  others’  stairs  ! ’ 

His  countrymen  persecuted  even  his  memory:  he  was  excommu- 
nicated after  death  by  the  Pope.”] 

(3)  “ E scrisse  piu  volte  non  solamente  a particolari  cittadini 
del  reggimento,  ma  ancora  al  popolo,  e intra  1’  altre  una  Epistola 
assai  lunga  che  cornincia: — ‘Papule  mi,  quid  feci  t>biV” — Vita  di 
Dante,  scriltu  da  Lionardo  Areiino. 

(4)  [Dante  died  at  Ravenna  in  1321,  in  the  palace  of  his  patron, 
Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  who  testified  his  sorrow  and  respect  by 
the  sumptuousness  of  his  obsequies,  and  by  giving  orders  to  erect  a 
monument,  which  he  did  not  live  to  complete.  His  countrymen 
showed,  too  late,  that  they  knew  the  value  of  what  they  had  lost. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  next  century,  they  entreated  that  the  mortal 
remains  of  their  illustrious  citizen  mig..t  be  restored  to  them,  and 
deposited  among  the  tombs  of  their  fathers.  But  the  people  of 
Ravenna  were  unwilling  to  part  with  the  sad  and  honourable 
memorial  of  their  own  hospitality.  No  better  success  attended  the 
subsequent  negotiations  of  the  Florentines  for  the  same  purpose, 
though  renewed  under  the  auspices  of  Leo  X.,  and  conducted 
through  the  powerful  mediation  of  Michael  Angelo. 

Never  did  any  poem  rise  so  suddenly  into  notice,  after  the  death 
of  its  author,  as  the  Divina  Commedia.  About  the  year  1350, 
Giovanni  Visconti,  Archbishop  of  Milan,  selected  six  of  the  most 
learned  men  in  Italy, — two  divines,  two  philosophers,  and  two 
Florentines, — and  gave  them  in  charge  to  contribute  their  joint 
endeavours  towards  the  compilation  of  an  ample  comment,  a copy 
of  which  is  preserved  in  the  Laurentiau  library.  At  Florence,  a 
public  lecture  was  founded  for  the  pur  ose  of  explaining  a poem; 
which  was  at  the  same  time  the  boast  and  the  disgrace  of  the  city. 
The  decree  for  this  institution  was  passed  in  1373;  and  in  that  yeai 
Boccaccio  was  appointed,  with  a salary  of  a hundred  florins,  to  de- 
liver lectures  in  one  ol  the  churches  on  the  first  of  their  poets.  The 
example  of  Florence  was  speedily  followed  by  Bologna,  Pisa,  Pia 
cenza,  and  Venice.  It  is  only  within  a few  years  that  the  merit*  of 
this  great  and  original  poet  were  attended  to  and  made  known  in 
this  country.  And  this  seems  to  be  owing  to  a translation  of  the 
very  pathetic  story  of  Count  Ugoiino ; to  the  judicious  and  spirited 


#‘rance6ca  of  fti'mint* * * 2 


DA KTjG,  L’lNFERNO.’ 

CANTO  V. 

Siede  la  terra  dove  nata  fui 

Su  la  marina,  dove  il  Po  discende, 

Per  aver  pace  coi  seguaci  sui. 

Amor,  che  al  cor  gentil  ratio  s’  apprende, 

Prese  costui  della  bella  persona 

Che  mi  fu  tolta ; e il  modo  ancor  m*  offende. 

Amor,  che  a nullo  amat.o  amar  perdona, 

Mi  prese  del  costui  piacer  si  forte, 

Che,  come  vedi,  ancor  non  m’  abbandona; 

Amor  condusse  noi  ad  una  morte  : 

Caina5  attende  chi  in  vita  ci  spense  :6 


summary  given  of  this  poem  in  the  31st  section  of  the  History  of 
English  Poetry;  and  to  Mr.  Hayley’s  translations  of  the  three  cantos 
of  the  Inferno.  “Dante  believed,”  says  Ugo  Foscolo,  “ that,  by  his 
sufferings  on  earth,  he  atoned  for  the  errors  of  humanity— 

* Ma  la  bonta  divina  ha  si  gran  braccia, 

Che  prends  cio  che  si  rivolge  a lei.’ 

‘ So  wide  arms 

Hath  goodness  infinite,  that  it  receives 
All  who  turn  to  it.’ — 

And  he  seems  to  address  Heaven  in  the  attitude  of  a worshipper, 
rather  than  a suppliant.  Being  convinced  ‘ that  Man  is  then  truly 
happy  when  he  freely  exercises  all  his  energies,’  he  walked  through 
the  world  with  an  assured  step,  ‘ keeping  his  vigils’ — 

‘ So  that  nor  night  nor  slumber  with  closed  stealth 
Convey’d  from  him  a single  step  in  all 
The  goings  on  of  time.’ 

He  collected  the  opinions,  the  follies,  the  vicissitudes,  the  miseries, 
and  the  passions  that  agitate  mankind;  and  left  behind  him  a 
monument,  which,  while  it  humbles  us  by  the  representation  of  our 
own  wretchedness,  should  make  us  glory  that  we  partake  of  the 
same  nature  with  such  a man,  and  encourage  us  to  make  the  best 
use  of  our  fleeting  existence.”] 

(1)  [This  translation,  of  what  is  generally  considered  the  most 
exquisitely  pathetic  episode  in  the  Divina  Commedia,  was  executed 
in  March,  1820,  at  Ravenna,  where,  just  five  centuries  before,  and 
in  the  very  house  in  which  the  unfortunate  lady  was  born,  Dante's 
poem  had  been  composed. 

In  mitigation  of  the  crime  of  Francesca,  Boccaccio  relates,  that 
“ Guido  engaged  to  give  his  daughter  in  marriage  to  Lanciotto,  the 
e»dest  son  of  his  enemy,  the  master  of  Rimini.  Lanciotto,  who  was 
hideously  deformed  in  countenance  and  figure,  foresaw  that,  if  he 
presented  himself  in  person,  he  should  be  rejected  by  the  lady.  He 
therefore  resolved  to  ma:  ry  her  by  proxy,  and  sent  as  his  represen- 
tative his  younger  brother,  Paolo,  the  handsomest  and  most  accom- 
plished man  in  all  Italy.  Francesca  saw  Paolo  arrive,  and  imagined 
she  beheld  her  future  husband  That  mistake  was  the  commence- 
ment of  her  passion.  The  friends  of  Guido  addressed  him  in  strong 
remonstrances,  and  mournful  predictions  of  the  dangers  to  which  he 
exposed  a daughter,  whose  high  spirit  would  never  brook  to  be 
sacrificed  with  impunity.  But  Guido  was  no  longer  in  a condition 
to  make  war;  and  the  necessities  of  the  politician  overcame  the 
feelings  of  the  father.” 

In  transmitting  his  version  to  Mr.  Murray,  Lord  Byron  says — 
•Enclosed  you  will  find,  line  for  line,  in  third  rhyme  (terza  rima), 
of  which  your  British  blackguard  reader  as  yet  understands  nothing, 
Fanny  of  Rimini.  You  know  that  she  was  born  here,  and  married, 
and  slain,  from  Cary,  Boyd,  and  such  people,  i have  done  it  into 
cramp  English,  line  for  line,  and  rhyme  for  rhyme,  to  try  the  possi- 
bility. It  it  is  published,  publish  it  with  the  original." 

In  one  of  the  poet’s  MS.  Diaries  we  find  the  following  passage: — 
“January  ID,  1821,  past  midnight — one  of  the  clock.  I have  been 
reading  Frederick  Schlegel  (‘  Lectures  on  the  History  of  Literature, 
Ancient  and  Modern,’)  till  now,  and  I can  make  out  nothing.  He 
evidently  shows  a great  power  of  words,  but  there  is  nothing  to  be 
taken  hold  of.  He  is  like  Hazlitt  in  English,  who  talks  pimples ; a 
red  and  white  corruption  rising  up  (in  little  imitation  of  mountains 
upon  maps),  but  containing  nothing,  and  discharging  nothing,  ex- 
cept their  own  humours.  I like  him  the  worse  (that  is,  Schlegel), 
because  he  always  seems  upon  the  verge  of  meaning;  and,  lo  ! he 
goo o down  like  sunset,  or  melts  like  a rainbow ; leaving  a rather 
»itli  confusion.  Of  Dante,  he  says,  that  ‘ at  no  time  has  the 


FROM  THE  INFERNO  OF  DANTE. 

CANTO  Y. 

“Tiie  land  where  1 was  born3  sits  by  the  seas, 
Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  Po  descends, 

With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 

Love,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehends, 
Seized  him  for  the  fair  person  which  was  ta’en4 5 6 
From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  offends. 

Love,  who  to  none  beloved  to  love  again 

Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  to  please,  so  strong, 
That,  as  thou  seest,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 

Love  to  one  death  conducted  us  along, 

But  Caina  waits  for  him  our  life  who  ended 


greatest  and  most  national  of  all  Italian  poets  ever  been  much  (he 
favourite  of  his  countrymen  ! ’ ’Tis  false.  There  have  been  more 
editors  and  commentators  (and  imitators  ultimately)  of  Dante  than 
of  all  their  poets  put  together.  Not  a favourite!  Why,  they  talk 
Dante — write  Dante — and  think  and  dream  Dante,  at  this  moment 
(1821),  to  an  excess  which  would  be  ridiculous,  but  that  he  deserves 
it.  He  says  also  that  Dante’s  ‘chief  defect  is  a want,  in  a word,  of 
gentle  feelings.’  Of  gentle  feelings! — and  Francesca  of  Rimini — 
and  the  father’s  feelings  in  Ugolino — and  Beatrice — and  ‘ La  Pia  !’ 
Why,  there  is  a gentleness  in  Dante  beyond  all  gentleness,  when  he 
is  tender.  It  is  true  that,  treating  of  the  Christian  Hades,  or  Hell, 
there  is  not  much  scope  or  site  for  gentleness  : but  who  but  Dante 
could  have  introduced  any  ‘gentleness’  at  all  into  Hell ? Is  there 
any  in  Milton’s?  No — and  Dante’s  Heaven  is  all  love,  and  glory, 
and  majesty.”  This  translation  was  first  published  in  1830.] 

(2)  [Francesca,  daughter  of  Guido  da  Polenta,  Lord  of  Ravenna 
and  of  Cervia,  was  given  by  her  father  in  marriage  to  Lanciotto,  son 
of  Malatesta,  Lord  of  Rimini,  a man  of  extraordinary  courage,  but 
deformed  in  his  person.  His  brother,  Paolo,  who  unhappily  pos- 
sessed those  graces  which  the  husband  of  Francesca  wanted,  en- 
gaged her  affections;  and  being  taken  in  adultery,  they  were  both 
put  to  death  by  the  enraged  Lancii  Ito.  The  interest  of  this  pathetic 
narrative  is  much  increased,  when  it  is  recollect*  1 ctiat  the  father  of 
this  unfortunate  lady  was  the  beloved  friend  ana  generous  protector 
of  Dante  during  his  latter  days.  See  ante,  p.  503,  and  also  Canto 
xxvi.  of  the  Inferno,  where  Dante,  speaking  of  Ravenna,  says — 

L’  aquila  da  Polenta  la  si  cova, 

Si  che  Cirvia  ricopre  co’  suoi  vanni. 

There  Polenta’s  eagle  broods, 

And  in  his  broad  circumference  of  plume 
O’ershadows  Cervia.  Cary. 

Guido  was  the  son  of  Ostasio  da  Polenta,  and  made  himself  mas- 
ter of  Ravenna  in  1265.  In  1322,  he  was  deprived  of  his  sovereignty, 
and  died  at  Bologna  in  the  year  following.  He  is  enumerated,  by 
Tiraboschi,  among  the  poets  of  his  time.] 

(3)  Ravenna. 

(4)  [Among  Lord  Byron’s  unpublished  letters  we  find  the  follow- 
ing:— 

“ Varied  readings  of  the  translation  from  Dante. 

Seized  him  for  the  fair  person,  which  in  its 
Bloom  was  ta’en  from  me,  yet  the  mode  offends, 
or, 

Seized  him  for  the  fair  form,  of  which  in  its 
Bloom  I was  reft,  and  yet  the  mode  offends. 

Love,  which  to  none  beloved  to  love  remits, 

( with  mutual  wish  to  please  ] 

Seized  me  < with  wish  of  pleasing  him  > so  strong, 

(.with  the  desire  to  please  ) 

That,  as  thou  see’st,  not  yet  that  passion  quits,  &c. 

You  will  find  these  readings  vary  from  the  MS.  1 sent  you.  They 
are  closer,  but  rougher:  take  which  is  liked  best;  or,  if  you  like, 
print  them  as  variations.  They  are  all  close  to  the  text.  ’—  Byron 
Letters .] 

(5)  [From  Cain,  the  first  fratricide.  By  CainA  we  are  to  under- 
stand that  part  of  the  Inferno  to  which  murderers  are  condemned.] 

(6)  [The  whole  history  of  woman’s  love  is  as  highly  and  completely 
wrought,  we  think,  in  these  few  lines,  as  that  of  Juliet  in  the  whole 
tragedy  of  Shakspeare.  Francesca  imputes  the  passion  her  brother- 
in-law  conceived  for  her,  not  to  depravity,  but  nobleness  of  heart  in 
him.,  and  to  her  own  loveliness.  With  a mingled  feelirg  of  koon 


FRANCESCA  OF  RIMINI. 


50o 


Queste  parole  da  lor  ci  fur  porte. 

Da  ch’  io  intesi  quell’  aniiue  offense 
Cliinai  il  viso,  e tanto  il  tenni  basso 
Fin  che  il  Poeta  mi  disse  : “ Che  pense  ?’* 
Quando  risposi  incomminciai  : “ Alii  lasso  ! 
Quanti  dolci  pensier,  quanto  desio 
Meno  costoro  al  doloroso  passo  !” 

Poi  mi  rivolsi  a loro,  e parlai  io, 

E eominciai : Francesca,  i tuoi  martiri 
A lagrimar  mi  fanno  trist.o  e pio. 

Ma  dimmi : al  tempo  de’  dolci  sospiri 
A che,  e come  concedet.te  Amore 
Che  conosceste  i dubbiosi  desiri  ? 

Ed  ella  a me  : nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria;* 1  e cio  sa  il  tuo  dottore. 

Ma  se  a conoscer  la  prima  radice 

Del  nostro  amor  tu  hai  cotanto  affetto 
Faro2  come  colui  che  piange  e dice. 

Noi  leggevamo  un  giorno  per  diletto 
Di  Lancillotto,3 4  come  Amor  lo  strinse  : 
Soli  eravamo,  e senza  alcun  sospetto. 

Per  pm  fiate  gli  ocelli  ci  sospinse 
Quella  lettura,  e scolorocci  il  viso  : 

Ma  solo  un  punto  fu  quel  che  ci  vinse. 
Quando  leggemmo  il  disiato  riso 
Esser  baciato  da  cotanto  am  ante, 

Questi,  che  mai  da  me  non  fia  diviso, 

La  bocca  mi  bacio  tutto  tremante  : 

Galeotto  fu  il  libro,  e chi  lo  scrisse — 

Quel  giorno  piii  non  vi  leggemmo  avante. 
Vlentre  che  1’  uno  spirto  questo  clisse, 

L’  altro  piangeva  si  che  di  pietade 
Io  venni  men  cosi  com’  io  morisse, 

E caddi  come  corpo  morto  cade. 


These  were  the  accents  utter’d  by  her  tongue. — 
Since  I first  listen’d  to  these  souls  offemkJ, 

I bow’d  my  visage,  and  so  kept  it  till — [bended* 
“ What  think’st  thou  ?”  said  the  bard  ; when  I un- 
And  recommenced  : “ Alas  ! unto  such  ill 

How  many  sweet  thoughts,  what  strong  ecstasies, 
Led  these  their  evil  fortune  to  fulfil ! ” 

And  then  I turn’d  unto  their  side  my  eyes, 

And  said,  “ Francesca,  thy  sad  destinies 
Have  made  me  sorrow  till  the  tears  arise. 

But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 

By  what  and  how  thy  love  to  passion  rose, 

So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognise  r” 

Then  she  to  me  : “ The  greatest  of  all  woes 
Is  to  remind  us  of  our  happy  days4 
In  misery,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows.5 
But  if  to  learn  our  passion’s  first  root  preys 
Upon  thy  spirit  with  such  sympathy, 

I will  do  even  as  he  who  weeps  and  says.6— 

We  read  one  day  for  pastime,  seated  nigh, 

Of  Lancilot,  how  love  enchain’d  him  too. 

We  were  alone,  quite  unsuspiciously. 

But  oft  our  eyes  met,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 
All  o’er  discolour’d  by  that  reading  were; 

But  one  point  only  wholly  us  o’erthrew  ;7 
When  we  read  the  long-sigh’d-for  smile  of  her. 

To  be  thus  kiss’d  by  such  devoted  lover,8 
Pie  who  from  me  can  be  divided  ne’er 
Kiss’d  my  mouth,  trembling  in  the  act  all  over. 
Accursed  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote  ! 

That  day  no  further  leaf  we  did  uncover.” — — 
While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot, 

The  other  wept,  so  that  with  pity’s  thralls 
I swoon’d  as  if  by  death  I had  been  smote, 

And  fell  down  even  as  a dead  body  falls  9 


sorrow  and  complacent  naivete,  she  says  she  was  fair,  and  that  an 
ignominious  death  robbed  him  of  her  beauty.  She  confesses  that 
she  loved,  because  she  was  beloved, — that  charm  had  deluded  her; 
and  she  declares,  with  transport,  that  joy  had  not  abandoned  her 
even  in  hell — 

“piacer  si  forte, 

Che,  come  vedi,  ancor  non  m’  abbandona.” 

It  is  thus  that  Dante  unites  perspicuity  with  conciseness,  and  the 
most  naked  simplicity  with  the  profoundest  observation  of  the  heart. 
Her  guilty  passion  survives  its  punishment  by  Heaven — but  without 
a shade  of  impiety.  How  striking  is  the  contrast  of  her  extreme 
happiness  in  the  midst  of  torments  that  can  never  cease ; when 
resuming  her  narrative,  she  looks  at  her  lover,  and  repeats  with 
enthusiasm — 

“ Questi,  che  mai  da  me  non  fia  diviso.” — 

She  nevertheless  goes  on  to  relieve  her  brother-in-law  from  all  im- 
putation of  having  seduced  her.  Alone,  and  unconscious  of  their 
danger,  they  read  a love-story  together.  They  gazed  upon  each 
other,  pale  with  emotion ; but  the  secret  of  their  mutual  passion 
never  escaped  their  lips  : — 

“ Per  piu  fiate  gli  occhi  ci  sospinse 
Quell  a lettura,  e scolorocci  il  viso ; 

Ma  solo  un  punto  fu  qual  che  ci  vinse.” 

The  description  of  two  happy  lovers  in  the  story  was  the  ruin  of 
Francesca.  It  was  the  romance  of  Lancilot  and  Genevra,  wife  of 
Arthur,  King  of  England  : — ■ 

“ Quando  leggemmo  il  disiato  riso 
Esser  baciato  da  cotanto  amante, 

Questi,  che  mai  da  me  non  fia  diviso 
La  bocca  mi  bacio  tutto  tremante,” 

After  this  avowal,  she  hastens  to  complete  the  picture  with  one 
touch  which  covers  her  with  confusion — 

“ Quel  giorno  piii  non  vi  leggemmo  avante.” 

She  utters  not  another  word  ! — and  yet  we  fancy  her  before  us,  with 
her  downcast  and  glowing  looks;  whilst  her  lover  stands  by  her 
side,  listening  in  silence  and  in  tears.  Dante,  too,  who  had 
hitherto  questioned  her,  no  longer  ventures  to  inquire  in  what  man- 
ner her  husband  had  put  her  to  death  ; but  is  so  overawed  by  pity, 
that  he  sinks  into  a swoon.  Nor  is  this  to  be  considered  as  merely 
a poetical  exaggeration.  The  poet  had  probably  known  her  when 
a girl,  blooming  in  innocence  and  beauty  under  the  paternal  roof. 
This,  we  think,  is  the  true  account  of  the  overwhelming  sympathy 
with  which  her  form  overpowers  him.  The  episode,  too,  was 
Written  by  him  in  the  very  house  in  which  she  was  born,  and  in 


which  he  had  himself,  during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  exile,  found 
a constant  asylum. — Macaulay. 

“ I pass  each  day  where  Dante’s  bones  are  laid; 

A little  cupola,  more  neat  than  solemn, 

Pro  acts  his  dust, — but  reverence  here  is  paid 

To  the  bard’s  tomb,  and  not  the  warrior’s  column  : 

The  time  must  come  when,  both  alike  decay’d, 

The  chieftain’s  trophy,  and  the  poet’s  volume, 

Will  sink  where  lie  the  songs  and  wars  of  earth, 

Before  Pelides’  death  or  Homer’s  birth.” 

Don  Juan,  Canto  iii.j 

(1)  [“  In  omni  adversitate  fortunae  infelicissimum  genus  infortunii 
est  fuisse  felicem.” — Boetius.  Dante  himself  tells  us  that  Boetius 
and  Cicero  de  Amicitia  were  the  two  first  books  that  engaged  his 
attention.] 

(2)  [“  In  some  of  the  editions  it  is  ‘ dirb,’  in  others  ‘faro;’— an 
essential  difference  between  ‘saying’  and  ‘doing,’  which  I know 

not  how  to  decide.  Ask  Foscolo.  The  d d editions  drive  me 

mad.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  M.~\ 

(3)  [One  of  the  Knights  of  Arthur’s  Round  Table,  and  the  lovei 
of  Genevra,  celebrated  in  romance.  See  Southey’s  “ King  Arthur,” 
vol.  i.  p.52.  Whitaker,  the  historian  of  Manchester,  makes  out  for 
the  knight  both  a local  habitation  and  a name.  “ The  name  of 
Lancelot,”  he  says,  “ is  an  appellation  truly  British,  and  significa- 
tive of  royalty;  Lance  being  a Celtic  term  for  a spear,  and  Leod, 
Lod,  or  Lot,  importing  a people.  He  was  therefore  (!)  a British 
sovereign ; and  since  he  is  denominated  Lancelot  of  the  Lake,  per- 
haps (!)  he  resided  at  Coccium,  in  the  region  Linnis,  and  was  the 
monarch  of  Lancashire ; as  the  kings  of  Creones,  living  at  Selma, 
on  the  forest  of  Morven,  are  generally  denominated  sovereigns  of 
Morven;  or,  more  properly',  was  King  of  Cheshire,  and  resided  at 
Pool-ton  Lancelot,  in  the  hundred  of  Wirrall.”  See  also  Ellis’s 
Specimens  of  early  Romances,  vol.  i.  p.  271.] 

(4)  [“  Is  to  {"remhM  us'of  } our  ha^  days.”-MS.] 


(5)  [“  In  misery  and  | j thy  teacher  knows.”— MS.] 

(6)  [“  I will  | doele^n  } as  he  weeps  and  says.”— MS.] 


(7)  [“  But  one  point  only  us  { j 

(8)  [“  To  be  thus  kiss’d  by  such  | } lov*  ”-MS.] 

(9)  [The  episode  of  Francesca  of  Rimini  is  thua  translated  by 
Cary  : and  it  is  only  justice  to  Lord  Byron  to  give  the  passage  hen* 

3 T 


®f)e  23Iuc£: 


A LITERARY  ECLOGUE.1 


“ Nimium  ne  crede  colori.” — Virgil. 

O trust  not,  ye  beautiful  creatures,  to  hue, 

Though  your  hair  were  as  red  as  your  stockings  are  blue. 


ECLOGUE  FIRST.2 

London — Before  the  Boor  of  a Lecture  Room . 

Enter  Tracy,  meeting  Inkel. 

ftifc.  You ’re  too  late. 

Tra.  Is  it  over  ? 

Ink.  Nor  will  be  this  hour. 

But  the  benches  are  cramm’d,  like  a garden  in  flower, 
With  the  pride  of  our  belles,  who  have  made  it  the 
fashion ; [passion” 

So,  instead  of  “ beaux  arts,”  we  may  say  “ la  belle 
For  learning,  which  lately  has  taken  the  lead  in 
The  world,  and  set  all  the  fine  gentlemen  reading. 
Tra.  I know  it  too  well,  and  have  worn  out  my 
patience 

* With  studying  to  study  your  new  publications. 
There’s  Vamp,  Scamp,  and  Mouthy,  and  Wordswords 
and  Co.3 4 

With  their  damnable — 


Ink.  Hold,  my  good  friend,  do  yon  know 

Whom  you  speak  to? 

Tra.  Right  well,  boy,  and  so  does  “ the  Row 
You’re  an  author — a poet — ■ 

Ink.  And  think  you  that  1 

Can  stand  tamely  in  silence  to  hear  you  decry 
The  Muses  ? 

Tra.  Excuse  me : I meant  no  offence 

To  the  Nine  ; though  the  number  who  make  some 
pretence 

To  their  favours  is  such but  the  subject  to  drop, 

I am  just  piping  hot  from  a publisher’s  shop, 

(Next  door  to  the  pastry-cook’s ; so  that  when  I 
Cannot  find  the  new  volume  I wanted  to  buy 
On  the  bibliopole’s  shelves,  it  is  only  two  paces, 

As  one  finds  every  author  in  one  of  those  places  ;) 
Where  I just  had  been  skimming  a charming  critique, 
So  studded  with  wit,  and  so  sprinkled  with  Greek ! 
Where  your  friend — you  know  who — hast  just  got 
such  a threshing, 


in  order  to  show  how  he  succeeded  in  overcoming  all  the  difficulties  | 
*f  rhyme,  with  which  Mr.  Cary  does  not  grapple  : — 

“ ‘ The  land  that/gave  me  birth  j 

Is  situate  on  the  coast,  where  Po  descends 
To  rest  in  ocean  with  his  sequent  streams. 

“ ‘ Love,  that  in  gentle  heart  is  quickly  learnt,  j 

Entangled  him  by  that  fair  form,  from  me 
Ta’en  in  such  cruel  sort,  as  grieves  me  still : 

Love,  that  denial  takes  from  none  beloved,  j 

Caught  me  with  pleasing  him  so  passing  well, 

That,  as  thou  seest,  he  yet  deserts  me  not. 

Lpve  brought  us  to  one  death  : Caina  waits 

The  soul,  who  spilt  our  life.’  Such  were  their  words ; 

At  hearing  which  downward  I bent  my  looks, 

And  held  them  there  so  long,  that  the  Bard  cried  : 

‘ What  art  thou  pondering?  ’ I in  answer  thus  : 

‘ Alas  ! by  what  sweet  thoughts,  what  fond  desire, 

Must  they  at  length  to  that  ill  pass  have  reach’d  1 ’ 

“Then  turning,  I to  them  my  speech  address’d, 

And  thus  began  : ‘ Francesca!  your  sad  fate 
Even  to  tears  my  grief  and  pity  moves. 

But  tell  me  ; in  the  time  of  your  sweet  sighs, 

By  what,  and  how  Love  granted,  that  ye  knew 
Your  yet  uncertain  wishes?  ’ She  replied  : 

* No  greater  grief  than  to  remember  days 
Of  joy,  when  misery  is  at  hand.  That  kens 
Thy  learn’d  instructor.  Yet  so  eagerly 
If  thou  art  bent  to  know  the  primal  root 
From  whence  our  love  gat  being,  I will  do 
As  one.  who  weeps  and  tells  his  tale.  One  day, 

For  our  delight,  we  read  of  Lancelot, 

How  him  love  thrall’d.  Alone  we  were,  and  no 
Suspicion  near  us.  Ofttimes  by  that  reading 
Our  eyes  were  drawn  together,  and  the  hue 
Fled  from  our  alter’d  cheek.  But  at  one  point 
Alone  we  fell.  When  of  that  smile  we  read, 

The  wished  smile,  so  rapturously  kiss’d 
By  one  so  deep  in  love,  then  he,  who  ne’er 
From  me  shall  separate,  at  once  my  lips 
All  trembling  kiss'd.  The  book  and  writer  both 
Were  love’s  purveyors.  In  its  leaves  that  day 
We  read  no  more.’  While  thus  one  spirit  spake, 

The  other  wail’d  so  sorely,  that  heart  struck, 

I,  through  compassion  fainting,  seem’d  not  f$.r 
From  death,  and  like  a corse  fell  to  the  ground.” 

Th-* * *  story  of  Francesca  and  Paolo  is  a great  favourite  with  the 
Ittlivis.  It  is  noticed  by  all  the  historians  of  Ravenna.  Petrarch 
Introduces  it,  in  his  Trionfi  d’  Amore,  among  his  examples  of 
•alamitous  passion  ; and  Tassoni,  in  his  Secchia  Rapita,  repre- 


sents Paolo  Malatesta  as  leading  the  troops  of  Rimini,  and  de- 
scribes him,  when  mounted  on  his  charger,  as  contemplating  • 
golden  sword-chain,  presented  to  him  by  Francesca : — 

“ Rimini  vien  con  la  bandiera  sesta, 

Guida  mille  cavalli,  e mille  fanti— 

Halli  donata  al  dispartir  Francesca 
L’  aurea  catena,  a cui  la  spada  appende. 

La  vi  mirando  al  misero,  e rinfresca 
Quel  foco  ognor,  che  1’  anima  gli  accende, 

Quanto  cerca  fuggir,  tanto  s’  invesca.” 

“ To  him  Francesca  gave  the  golden  chain 

At  parting-time,  from  which  his  sword  was  hung; 

The  wretched  lover  gazed  at  it  with  pain, 

Adding  new  pangs  to  those  his  heart  had  wrung ; 

The  more  he  sought  to  fly  the  luscious  bane, 

The  firmer  he  was  bound,  the  deeper  stung.”] 

(1)  [This  trifle,  which  Lord  Byron  has  himself  designated  as  a 
“mere  buffoonery,  never  meant  for  publication,”  was  written  in 
1820,  and  first  appeared  in  “ The  Liberal.”  The  personal  allusions 
in  which  it  abounds  are,  for  the  most  part,  sufficiently  intelligible; 
and.  with  a few  exceptions,  so  good-humoured,  that  the  parties 
concerned  may  be  expected  to  join  in  the  laugh.] 

(2)  [“About  the  year  1781,  it  was  rmich  the  fashion  for  severa. 
ladies  to  ha«e  evening  assemblies,  where  the  fair  sex  might  parti- 
cipate in  conversation  with  literary  and  ingenious  men,  animated 
by  a desire  to  please.  These  societies  were  denominated  Blue- 
stocking Clubs ; the  origin  of  which  title  being  little  known,  it  may 
be  worth  while  to  relate  it.  One  of  the  most  eminent  members  of 
those  societies,  when  they  first  commenced,  was  Mr.  Still ingfleet, 
whose  dress  was  remarkably  grave,  and  in  particular  it  was 
observed  that  he  wore  blue  stockings.  Such  was  the  excellence 
of  his  conversation,  that  his  absence  was  felt  as  so  great  a loss, 
that  it  used  to  be  said,  ‘ We  can  do  nothing  without  the  blue  stock- 
ingsand  thus  by  degrees  the  title  was  established.” — Boswell , 
vol.  viii.  p.  8(i.  Sir  William  Forbes,  in  his  Life  of  Dr.  Beattie, 
says,  that  “ a foreigner  of  distinction  hearing  the  expression,  trans- 
lated it  literally,  1 Bos  Bleu'  by  which  these  meetings  came  to  be 
distinguished.  Miss  Hannah  More,  who  was  herself  a member, 
has  written  a poem  with  the  title  of  ‘ Bas  Bleu,’  in  allusion  to  this 
mistake  of  the  foreigner,  in  which  she  has  characterised  most  of 
the  eminent  personages  of  which  it  was  composed.”] 

(3)  [See  the  stanzas  on  Messrs.  Wordsworth  and  Southey  in  Don 
Juan,  canto  iii  ] 

(4)  [Paternoster-row — long  and  s>.  \ celebrated  as  a very  bazaar 
of  booksellers.  Sir  Walter  Scott  “hitches  into  rhyme”  one  of  the 
most  important  firms — that 

“ Of  Longman,  Hurst,  Rees,  Orme,  and  Brown, 

Our  fathers  of  the  Row.” 


THE  BLUES. 


507 


That  it  is,  as  the  phrase  goes,  extremely  “ refreshing .” 1 
What  a beautiful  word  ! 

Ink.  Very  true  ; ’tis  so  soft 

And  so  cooling — they  use  it  a little  too  oft ; 

And  the  papers  have  got  it  at  last — but  no  matter. 

So  they’ve  cut  up  our  friend  then? 

Tra.  Not  left  him  a tatter — 

Not  a rag  of  his  present  or  past  reputation, 

Which  they  call  a disgrace  to  the  age  and  the  nation. 
Ink.  I’m  sorry  to  hear  this  ! for  friendship,  you 

know [so. 

Our  poor  friend  ! — but  I thought  it  would  terminate 
Our  friendship  is  such,  I’ll  read  nothing  to  shock  it. 
You  don’t  happen  to  have  the  Review  in  your  pocket  ? 

Tra.  No ; I left  a round  dozen  of  authors  and  others 
(Very  sorry,  no  doubt,  since  the  cause  is  a brother’s) 
All  scrambling  and  jostling,  like  so  many  imps, 

And  on  fire  with  impatience  to  get  the  next  glimpse. 
Ink.  Let  us  join  them. 

Tra.  What,  won’t  you  return  to  the  lecture  ? 
Ink*  Why,  the  place  is  so  cramm’d,  there’s  not 
room  for  a spectre. 

Besides,  our  friend  Scamp  is  to-day  so  absurd — ■ 

Tra.  IIow  can  you  know  that  till  you  hear  him  ? 
Ink.  I heard 

Quite  enough  ; and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  retreat 
Was  from  his  vile  nonsense,  no  less  than  the  heat. 
Tra.  I have  had  no  great  loss  then  ? 

Ink.  Loss  ! — such  a palaver  ! 

I’d  inoculate  sooner  my  wife  with  the  slaver 
Of  a dog  when  gone  rabid,  than  listen  two  hours 
To  the  torrent  of  trash  which  around  him  he  pours, 
Pump’d  up  with  such  effort,  disgorged  with  such  labour, 

That come  — do  not  make  me  speak  ill  of  one’s 

neighbour. 

Tra.  I make  you ! 

Ink.  Yes,  you ! I said  nothing  until 

You  compeH’d  me,  by  speaking  the  truth 

Tra.  To  speak  ill  ? 

Is  that  your  deduction  ? 

Ink.  When  speaking  of  Scamp  ill, 

I certainly  follow , not  set  an  example. 

The  fellow ’s  a fool,  an  impostor,  a zany. 

Tra.  And  the  crowd  of  to-day  shows  that  one  fool 
makes  many. 

But  we  two  will  be  wise. 

Ink.  Pray,  then,  let  us  retire. 

Tra.  I would,  but 

Ink.  There  must  be  attraction  much  higher 

Than  Scamp,  or  the  Jew’s  harp  he  nicknames  his  lyre, 
To  call  you  to  this  hotbed. 

Tra.  I own  it — ’tis  true — 

A fair  lady 

Ink.  A spinster  ? 

Tra.  Miss  Lilac ! 

Ink.  The  Blue ! 

The  heiress  ? 

Tra.  The  angel ! 

Ink.  The  devil ! why,  man  ! 

Pray  get  out  of  this  hobble  as  fast  as  you  can. 

You  wed  with  Miss  Lilac  1 ’twould  be  your  perdition  : 
She ’s  a poet,  a chymist,  a mathematician. 

Tra  I say  she’s  an  angel. 


i\)  [This  cant  phrase  was  first  used  in  the  Edinburgh  Review — 
probably  by  Mr.  Jeffrey.] 

t2)  [“  Her  favourite  science  was  the  mathematical— 

In  short  she  was  a walking  calculation. 


Ink.  Say  rather  an  angle. 

If  you  and  she  ma.ry,  you’ll  certainly  wrangle.2 
I say  she’s  a Blue,  man,  as  blue  as  the  ether. 

Tra.  And  is  that  any  cause  for  not  coming  together  ? 
Ink.  Humph  ! I can’t  say  I know  any  happy  alliance 
Which  has  lately  sprung  up  from  a wedlock  with 
science. 

She’s  so  learned  in  all  things,  and  fond  of  concerning 
Herself  in  all  matters  connected  with  learning, 

That 

Tra.  What  ? 

Ink.  I perhaps  may  as  well  hold  my  tongue  ; 

But  there’s  five  hundred  people  can  tell  you  you’re 
wrong. 

Tra.  You  forget  Lady  Lilac’s  as  rich  as  a Jew. 

Ink.  Is  it  miss  or  the  cash  of  mamma  you  pursue  ? 
Tra.  Why,  Jack,  I’ll  be  frank  with  you — something 
of  both. 

The  girl ’s  a fine  girl. 

Ink.  And  you  feel  nothing  loth 

To  her  good  lady-mother’s  reversion  ; and  yet 
Her  life  is  as  good  as  your  own,  1 will  bet. 

Tra.  Let  her  live,  and  as  long  as  she  likes ! 1 
demand  [hand. 

Nothing  more  than  the  heart  of  her  daughter  and 
Ink.  Why,  that  heart’s  in  the  inkstand — that  hand 
on  the  pen. 

Tra.  A propos — Will  you  write  me  a song  now 
and  then  ? 

Ink.  To  what  purpose  ? 

Tra.  You  know,  my  dear  friend,  that  in  prose 

My  talent  is  decent,  as  far  as  it  goes ; 

But  in  rhyme 

Ink.  You’re  a terrible  stick,  to  be  sure. 

Tra.  I own  it ; and  yet,  in  these  times,  there ’s  no 
lure 

For  the  heart  of  the  fair  like  a stanza  or  two  ; 

And  so,  as  I can’t,  will  you  furnish  a few  ? 

Ink.  In  your  name  ? 

Tra.  In  my  name.  I will  copy  them  out, 

To  slip  into  her  hand  at  the  very  next  rout. 

Ink.  Are  you  so  far  advanced  as  to  hazard  this  ? 
Tra.  Why, 

Do  you  think  me  subdued  by  a Blue-stocking’s  eye. 
So  far  as  to  tremble  to  tell  her  in  rhyme 
What  I’ve  told  her  in  prose,  at  the  least,  as  sublime  ? 
Ink.  As  sublime  ! If  it  be  so,  no  need  of  my  Muse. 
Tra.  But  consider,  dear  Inkel,  she’s  one  of  the 
“ Blues.” 

Ink.  As  sublime  ! — Mr.  Tracy — I’ve  nothing  to  say. 
Stick  to  prose — As  sublime  ! ! — but  I wish  you  good 
day.  [wrong ; 

Tra.  Nay,  stay,  my  dear  fellow — consider  — I’m 
I own  it : but,  prithee,  compose  me  the  song. 

Ink.  As  sublime  ! ! 

Tra.  I but  used  the  expression  in  haste. 

Ink.  That  may  be,  Mr.  Tracy,  but  shows  damn’d 
bad  taste. 

Tra.  I own  it — I know  it— acknowledge  it — what 
Can  I say  to  you  more  ? 

Ink.  I see  what  you’d  be  at : 

You  disparage  my  parts  with  insidious  abuse, 

Till  you  think  you  can  turn  them  best  to  your  own  use. 


Miss  Edgeworth’s  novels  stepping  from  their  covers, 

Morality’s  prim  personification 

But — oh ! ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual, 

Inform  us  truly,  have  they  not  hen-peck’d  you  all  ? ” 

Don  Juan,  Canto  L, 


508 


LORD  BYROW’S  WORKS. 


Tra.  And  is  that  not  a sign  I respect  them  ? 

Ink.  Why  that 

To  be  sure  makes  a difference. 

Tra.  I know  what  is  what  : 

And  you,  who  ’re  a man  of  the  gay  world,  no  less 
Than  a poet  of  t’other,  may  easily  guess 
That  I never  could  mean,  by  a word,  to  offend 
A genius  like  you,  and  moreover  my  friend. 

Ink.  No  doubt ; you  by  this  time  should  know 
what  is  due 

To  a man  of but  come — let  us  shake  hands. 

Tra.  You  knew, 

And  you  knew,  my  dear  fellow,  how  heartily  I, 
Whatever  you  publish,  am  ready  to  buy.  [for  sale, 
Ink.  That’s  my  bookseller’s  business ; I care  not 
fndeed  the  best  poems  at  first  rather  fail. 

There  were  Renegade’s  epics,  and  Botherby’s  plays,1 

And  my  own  grand  romance 

Tra.  Had  its  full  share  of  praise. 

[ myself  saw  it  puff’d  in  the  “ Old  Girl’s  Review.”2 
Ink.  What  Review?  [Trevoux;”3 

Tra.  ’Tis  the  English  “ Journal  de 

A clerical  work  of  our  jesuits  at  home. 

Have  you  never  yet  seen  it  ? 

Ink.  That  pleasure ’s  to  come. 

Tra.  Make  haste  then. 

Ink.  Why  so  ? 

Tra.  I have  heard  people  say 

That  it  threaten’d  to  give  up  the  ghost  t’other  day. 
Ink.  Well,  that  is  a sign  of  some  spirit. 

Tra.  No  doubt. 

Shall  you  be  at  the  Countess  of  Fiddlecome’s  rout  ? 
Ink.  I’ve  a card,  and  shall  go  : but  at  present,  as 
soon  [the  moon 

As  friend  Scamp  shall  be  pleased  to  step  down  from 
(Where  he  seems  to  be  soaring  in  search  of  his  wits), 
And  an  interval  grants  from  his  lecturing  fits, 

I’m  engaged  to  the  Lady  Bluebottle’s  collation, 

To  partake  of  a luncheon  and  learn’d  conversation  : 
’Tis  a sort  of  re-union  for  Scamp,  on  the  days 
Of  his  lecture,  to  treat  him  with  cold  tongue  and 
praise. 

And  I own,  for  my  own  part,  that  ’tis  not  unpleasant. 
Will  you  go  ? There’s  Miss  Lilac  will  also  be  present. 
Tra.  That  “metal’s  attractive.” 

Ink.  No  doubt — to  the  pocket. 

Tra.  You  should  rather  encourage  my  passion  than 
shock  it. 

But  let  us  proceed ; for  I think,  by  the  hum 

Ink.  Y ery  true ; let  us  go,  then,  before  they  can 
come, 

Or  else  we’ll  be  kept  here  an  hour  at  their  levy, 

On  the  rack  of  cross  questions,  by  all  the  blue  bevy. 
Hark  ! Zounds,  they’ll  be  on  us  ; 1 know  by  the  drone 
Of  old  Botherby’s  spouting  ex-cathedra  tone. 

Ay  ! there  he  is  at  it.  Poor  Scamp  ! better  join 
Your  friends,  or  he’ll  pay  you  back  in  your  own  coin. 
Tra.  All  fair ; ’tis  but  lecture  for  lecture. 


(1)  [Messrs.  Southey  and  Sotheby.] 

(2)  [“  My  Grandmother’s  Review,  the  British.”  This  heavy 
journal  has  since  been  gathered  to  its  grandmothers,] 

(3)  [The  “Journal  de  Trevoux”  (in  fifty-six  volumes)  is  one  of 
the  most  curious  collections  of  literary  gossip  in  the  world, — and 
the  Poet  paid  the  British  Review  an  extravagant  compliment, 
when  he  made  this  comparison.] 

(4i  [“  Sothoby  is  a good  man— rhymes  well  (if  not  wisely);  but 
is  a bore.  He  seizes  you  by  the  button.  One  night  of  a rout  at 
fclra.  Hope’s,  he  had  fastened  upon  me — (something  about  Aga- 


Ink.  That’s  clear. 

But  for  God’s  sake  let’s  go,  or  the  Bore  will  be  here. 
Come,  come  : nay,  I’m  off.  [Exit  Inker 

Tra.  _ You  are  right,  and  I’ll  follow  ; 

’Tis  high  time  for  a “ Sic  me  serwfeit  Apollo.” 4 
And  yet  we  shall  have  the  whole  crew  on  our  kibes, 
Blues,  dandies,  and  dowagers,  and  second-hand  scribes, 
All  flocking  to  moisten  their  exquisite  throttles 
With  a glass  of  Madeira  at  Lady  Bluebottle’s. 

[Exit  Tracy. 


ECLOGUE  SECOND. 

An  Apartment  in  the  House  of  Lady  Bluebottle — 
A Table  prepared. 

Sir  Richard  Bluebottle  solus. 

Was  there  ever  a man  who  was  married  so  sorry  ? 
Like  a fool,  I must  needs  do  the  thing  In  a hurry. 

My  life  is  reversed,  and  my  quiet  destroy’d ; 

My  days,  which  once  pass’d  in  so  gentle  a void, 

Must  now,  every  hour  of  the  twelve,  be  employ’d  : 
The  twelve,  do  I say  ? — of  the  whole  twenty-four, 

Is  there  one  which  I dare  call  my  own  any  more  ? 
What  with  driving  and  visiting,  dancing  and  dining, 
What  with  learning,  and  teaching,  and  scribbling,  and 
shining 

In  science  and  art,  I’ll  be  cursed  if  I know 
Myself  from  my  wife  ; for  although  we  are  two, 

Yet  she  somehow  contrives  that  all  things  shall  be  done 
In  a style  which  proclaims  us  eternally  one. 

But  the  thing  of  all  things  which  distresses  me  more 
Than  the  bills  of  the  week  (though  they  trouble  me 
sore), 

Is  the  numerous,  humourous,  backbiting  crew 
Of  scribblers,  wits,  lecturers,  white,  black,  and  blue, 
Who  are  brought  to  my  house  as  an  inn,  to  my  cost— 
For  the  bill  here,  it  seems,  is  defray’d  by  the  Lost — 
No  pleasure  ! no  leisure  ! no  thought  for  my  pains, 
But  to  hear  a vile  jargon  which  addles  my  brains ; 

A smatter  and  chatter,  glean’d  cat  of  reviews, 

By  the  rag,  tag,  and  bobtail,  of  those  they  call  '‘Blues;  * 

A rabble  who  know  not But  soft,  here  they  come  ! 

Would  to  God  I were  deaf!  as  I’m  not,  I’ll  be  dumo. 

Enter  Lady  Bluebottle,  Miss  Lilac,  Lady  Blue 
MOUNT,  Mr.  BoTHERBYr,  INKEL,  TrACY,  MlSS 
Mazarine,  and  others , with  Scamp,  the  Lecturer , 
8pc.  8pc. 

Lady  Blueb.  Ah  ! Sir  Richard,  good  morning ; I’ve 
brought  you  some  friends. 

Sir  Rich,  {bows,  and  afterwards  aside.)  If  friends, 
they’re  the  first. 

Lady  Blueb.  But  the  luncheon  attends. 

I pray  ye  be  seated,  “ sans  ceremonie .” 

Mr.  Scamp,  you’re  fatigued;  take  your  chair  there, 
next  me.  [ They  all  sit. 


memnon,  or  Orestes,  or  some  of  his  plays)  notwithstanding'  my 
symptoms  of  manifest  distress— (for  I was  in  love,  and  just  nicked 
a minute  when  neither  mothers,  nor  husbands,  nor  rivals,  nor 
gossips  were  near  my  then  idol,  who  was  beautiful  as  the  statues 
of  the  gallery  where  we  stood  at  the  time.  Sotheby,  I say,  had 
seized  upon  me  by  the  button  and  the  heart-strings,  and  spared 
neither.  William  Spencer,  who  likes  fun,  and  don't  dislike  mis- 
chief, saw  my  case,  and  coming  up  to  us  both,  took  me  by  the 
hand,  and  pathetically  bade  me  farewell;  ‘ for,’  said  he  ‘ I see  it  is 
all  over  with  you.’  Sotheby  then  went  his  way:  ( sic  me  terra  oti 
Apollo.'  ” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 


THE  BLUES. 


509 


Sir  Rich,  {aside)  If  be  does,  bis  fatigue  is  to  come. 

Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Tracy— 

Lady  Biuemount— Miss  Lilac— be  pleased,  pray,  to 

place  ye ; 

And  you,  Mr.  Botberby — 

Both.  Ob,  my  dear  lady, 

I obey.  . 

Lady  Blueb.  Mr.  Intel,  I ought  to  upbraid  ye : 

You  were  not  at  the  lecture. 

Ink.  Excuse  me,  I was  ; 

But  the  beat  forced  me  out  in  the  best  part— alas  ! 

And  when — 

Lady  Blueb.  To  be  sure  it  was  broiling : but  then 
You  have  lost  such  a lecture ! 

Both.  The  best  of  the  ten. 

Tra.  How  can  you  know  that  ? there  are  two  more. 
Both.  Because 

I defy  him  to  beat  this  day’s  wondrous  applause. 

The  very  walls  shook. 

jnk.  Oh,  if  that  be  the  test, 

I allow  our  friend  Scamp  hath  this  day  done  h is  best. 
Miss  Lilac,  permit  me  to  help  you ;— a wing  ? 

Miss  Lil.  No  more,  sir,  I thank  you.  Who  lectures 
next  spring  ? 

Both.  Dick  D under. 

Ink.  That  is,  if  he  lives. 

Miss  Lil.  And  why  mot  ? 

Ink.  No  reason  whatever,  save  that  he’s  a sot. 

Lady  Biuemount ! a glass  of  Madeira  ? 

Lady  Bluem.  With  pleasure. 

Ink.  How  does  your  friend  Wordswords,  that  Win- 
dermere treasure  F 

Does  he  stick  to  his  lakes,  like  the  leeches  he  sings, 
And  their  gatherers,  as  Homer  sung  warriors  and 
kings  ? 

Lady  Blueb.  He  has  just  got  a place. 
jnk.  As  a footman  ? 

Lady  Bluem.  . Tor  shame ! 

Nor  profane  with  your  sneers  so  poetic  a name. 

Ink.  Nay,  I meant  him  no  evil,  but  pitied  his 
master ; 

Eor  the  poet  of  pedlars  ’twere,  sure,  no  disaster 
To  wear  a new  livery  ; the  more,  as  ’tis  not  [coat. 
The  first  time  he  has  turn’d  both  his  creed  and  his 
Lady  Bluem.  Eor  shame  ! I repeat.  If  Sir  George 
could  but  hear 

Lady  Blueb.  Never  mind  our  friend  Inkel ; we  all 
know,  my  dear, 

’Tis  his  way. 

Sir  Rich.  But  this  place 

jnk.  Is  perhaps  like  friend  Scamp  s, 

A lecturer’s.  „ 

Lady  Blueb.  Excuse  me— ’tis  one  m “ the  Stamps  : 
He  is  made  a Collector.1 

Tra  Collector ! 

Sir  Rich.  How? 

Miss  Lil.  What  ? 

Ink  I shall  think  of  him  oft  when  I buy  a new  hat : 

There  his  works  will  appear 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir,  they  reach  to  the  Ganges. 

Ink.  I sha’n’t  go  so  far— I can  have  them  at 
Grange’s.2 


Lady  Blueb.  Oh  fie ! 

Miss  Lil.  And  for  shame  ! 

Lady  Bluem.  You’re  too  bad. 

Both.  Verygiod! 

Lady  Bluem.  How  good  ? 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  nought — ’tis  his  phrase. 

Lady  Bluem.  He  grows  rude. 

Lady  Blueb.  He  means  nothing ; nay,  ask  him. 

Lady  Bluem.  Pray,  sir ! did  you  mean 

What  you  say  ? 

Ink.  Never  mind  if  lie  did  ; ’twill  be  seen 

That  whatever  he  means  won’t  alloy  what  he  says. 
Both.  Sir! 

Ink.  Pray  be  content  with  your  portion  of  praise ; 
’Twas  in  your  defence. 

Both.  If  you  please,  with  submission, 

I can  make  out  my  own. 

Ink.  It  would  be  your  perdition. 

While  you  live,  my  dear  Botberby,  never  defend 
Yourself  or  your  works  ; but  leave  both  to  a iriend. 

A propos — Is  your  play  then  accepted  at  last  ? 

Both.  Yt  last  ? 

Ink.  Why  1 thought — that’s  to  say — there  had 
pass’d 

A few  green-room  whispers,  which  hinted— you 
know, 

That  the  taste  of  the  actors  at  best  is  so  so.3 

Both.  Sir,  the  green-room’s  in  rapture,  and  so’s 
the  committee. 

Ink.  Ay— yours  are  the  plays  for  exciting  our  “ pity 
And  fear,”  as  the  Greek  says:  for  “purging  the 
mind,” 

I doubt  if  you’ll  leave  us  an  equal  behind. 

Both.  I have  written  the  prologue,  and  meant  tt 
have  pray’d 
For  a spice  of  your  wit  in  an  epilogue’s  aid. 

Ink.  Well,  time  enough  yet,  when  the  play ’s  to  be 
play’d. 

Is  it  cast  yet  ? 

Both  The  actors  are  fighting  for  parts, 

As  is  usual  in  that  most  litigious  of  arts. 

Lady  Blueb.  We’ll  all  make  a party,  and  go  the 
first  night. 

Tra.  And  you  promised  the  epilogue,  Inkel. 

Ink.  Not  quite. 

However,  -to  save  my  friend  Botherby  trouble, 

I’ll  do  what  I can,  though  my  pains  must  be  double. 
Tra.  Why  so  ? 

Ink  To  do  justice  to  what  goes  beiore. 

Both.  Sir,  I’m  happy  to  say,  I have  no  fears  on 
that  score 

Your  parts,  Mr.  Inkle,  are . . 

Inkt  Never  mmd  mine; 

Stick  to  those  of  your  play,  which  is  quite  your  own 
line. 

Lady  Bluem.  You’re  a fugitive  writer,  I think,  sir, 
of  rhymes  ? 

Ink.  Yes,  ma’am  ; and  a fugitive  reader  sometimes. 
On  Wordswords,  for  instance,  I seldom  alight, 

Or  on  Mouthey,  his  friend,  without  taking  to  flight 
Lady  Bluem.  Sir,  your  taste  is  too  summon : but 
time  and  posterity 


(1)  [Mr.  Wordsworth  is  collector  of  stamps  for  Cumberland  and 

Westmoreland.]  . 

(2)  Grange  is  or  was  a famous  pastry  cook  and  fruiterer  in  Ficca 
dally. 

(3)  [“  When  1 belonged  to  the  Drury  Lane  Committee,  the  num 
her  of  plays  upon  the  she)  vet  1 ?r»  about  five  hundred.  Mr.  Sotheby 


obligingly  offered  us  all  his  tragedies,  and  I pledged  myself,  and 
-notwithstanding  many  squabbles  with  my  committee  brethren- 
did  get  Ivan  accepted,  read,  and  the  parts  distributee.  But  lo I id 
the  very  heart  of  the  matter,  upon  some  tepid- ness  on  me  part  ol 
Kean,  or  warmth  on  that  of  the  author,  Sotheby  withdrew  bu 
play.” — Byron  Diary , 1821.] 


510 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Will  right  these  great  men,  and  this  age’s  severity 
Become  its  reproach. 

Ink.  I’ve  no  sort  of  objection, 

So  I’m  not  of  the  party  to  take  the  infection. 

Lady  Blueb.  Perhaps  you  have  doubts  that  they 
ever  will  take  I 

Ink.  Not  at  all;  on  the  contrary,  those  of  the  lake 
Have  taken  already,  and  still  will  continue 
To  take — what  they  can,  from  a groat  to  a guinea, 

Of  pension  or  place -but  the  subject’s  a bore. 

Lady  Bhem.  Well,  sir,  the  time’s  coming. 

Ink.  Scamp  ! don’t  you  feel  sore  ? 

What  say  you  to  this  ? 

Scamp.  They  have  merit,  I own  ; 

Though  their  system’s  absurdity  keeps  it  unknown. 
Ink.  Then  why  not  unearth  it  in  one  of  your 
lectures  ? 

Scamp.  It  is  only  time  past  which  comes  under  my 
strictures. 

Lady  Blueb.  Come,  a truce  with  all  tartness  : — the 
joy  of  my  heart 

Vs  to  see  Nature’s  triumph  o’er  all  that  is  art. 

Wild  Nature  ! — Grand  Shakspeare  ! 

Both.  And  down  Aristotle  ! 

Lady  Bluem.  Sir  George1  thinks  exactly  with  Lady 
Bluebottle ; 

And  my  Lord  Seventy-four,2  who  protects  our  dear 
Bard, 

And  who  gave  him  his  place,  has  the  greatest  regard 
For  the  poet,  who  singing  of  pedlars  and  asses,3 
Has  found  out  the  M ay  to  dispense  with  Parnassus. 
Tra.  And  you,  Scamp  ! — 

Scamp.  I needs  must  confess  I’m  embarrass’d. 
Ink.  Don’t  call  upon  Scamp,  who’s  already  so 
harass’d 

With  old  schools , and  new  schools,  and  no  schools,  and 
all  schools. 

Tra.  Well,  one  thing  is  certain,  that  some  must  be 
fools 

I should  like  to  know  who. 

Ink.  And  I should  not  be  sorry 

To  kuenv  who  are  not : — it  Mrould  save  us  some  worry. 
Lady  Blueb.  A truce  with  remark,  and  let  nothing 
control 

This  “ feast  of  our  reason,  and  flow  of  the  soul.” 

Oh  ! my  dear  Mr.  Botherby  ! sympathise !— I 
Now  feel  such  a rapture,  I’m  ready  to  fly, 

I feel  so  elastic — “ so  buoyant — so  buoyant !”  4 
Ink.  Tracy ! open  the  window. 

Tra.  I wish  her  much  joy  on’t. 


(1)  [The  late  Sir  George  Beaumont — a constant  friend  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth.] 

(2)  [It  was  noc  the  present  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  but  James,  the  first 
earl,  who  offered  to  build,  and  completely  furnish  and  man,  a ship 
of  seventy-four  guns,  towards  the  close  of  the  American  war,  for  the 
service  of  his  country,  at  his  own  expense; — hence  the  sobriquet  in 
the  text.] 

(3)  [“  We  learn  from  Horace,  ‘ Homer  sometimes  sleeps 

We  feel,  without  him,  Wordsworth  sometimes  wakes, — 
To  show  with  what  complacency  he  creeps, 

With  his  dear  ‘ wagoners'  around  his  lakes. 

He  wishes  for  ‘a  boat’  to  sail  the  deeps — 

Of  ocean  ?— No,  of  air  ; and  then  he  makes 
Another  outcry  for  ‘ a little  boat,’ 

And  drivels  seas  to  set  it  well  afloat. 


Both.  For  God’s  sake,  my  Lady  Bluebottle,  cl  eck  not 
This  gentle  emotion,  so  seldom  our  lot 
Upon  earth.  Give  it  way ; ’tis  an  impulse  which  lifts 
Our  spirits  from  earth  ; the  sublimest  of  gifts  ; 

For  which  poor  Prometheus  was  chain’d  to  his  moun- 
tain ; 

’Tis  the  source  of  all  sentiment  — feeling’s  true 
fountain  : 

’Tis  the  Vision  of  Heaven  upon  Earth : ’tis  the  gas 
Of  the  soul : ’tis  the  seizing  of  shades  as  they  pass, 
And  making  them  substance  : ’tis  something  divine. — 

Ink.  Shall  I help  you,  my  friend,  to  a little  more 
wine  ? 

Both.  I thank  you  ; not  any  more,  sir,  till  I dine. 

Ink.  Apropos — Do  you  dine  with  Sir  Humphry5 
to-day  ? 

Tra.  I should  think  with  Duke  Humphry  Mras  more 
in  your  way. 

Ink.  It  might  be  of  yore  ; but  Mre  authors  now  look 
To  the  knight,  as  a landlord,  much  more  than  the 
Duke. 

The  truth  is,  each  Mrriter  now  quite  at  his  ease  is, 

And  (except  with  his  publisher)  dines  where  he 
pleases. 

But  ’tis  now  nearly  five,  and  I must  to  the  Park. 

Tra.  And  I’ll  take  a turn  M’ith  you  there  till  *tis  dark 
And  you,  Scamp — 

Scamp . Excuse  me  ; I must  to  my  notes, 

For  my  lecture  next  M’eek. 

Ink.  He  must  mind  whom  he  quotes 

Out  of  “ Elegant  Extracts.” 

Lady  Blueb.  Well,  now  we  break  up  ; 

But  remember  Miss  Diddle 6 invites  us  to  sup. 

Ink.  Then  at  two  hours  past  midnight  we  all  meet 
again, 

For  the  sciences,  sandwiches,  hock,  and  champagne  ! 

Tra.  And  the  sweet  lobster  salad  ! 

Both.  I honour  that  meal ; 

For  ’tis  then  that  our  feelings  most  genuinely — feel. 

Ink.  True ; feeling  is  truest  then,  far  beyond 
question ; 

I wish  to  the  gods  ’irwas  the  same  with  digestion  ! 

Lady  Blueb.  Pshaw  ! — never  mind  that ; for  one 
moment  of  feeling 
Is  worth — God  knoMrs  what. 

Ink.  ’Tis  at  least  worth  concealing 

For  itself,  or  what  follows But  here  conies  your 

carriage. 

Sir  Rich,  {aside).  I wish  all  these  people  were 
d d with  my  marriage ! [Exeunt. 


“ ‘ Pedlars,’  and  * boats,’  and  ‘ waggons ! ’ Oh  1 ye  shades 
Of  Pope  and  Dryden,  are  we  come  to  this? 

That  trash  of  such  sort  not  alone  evades  . 

Contempt,  but  from  the  bathos’  vast  abyss 
Floats  scumlike  uppermost,  and  these  Jack  Cades 
Of  sense  and  song  above  your  graves  may  hiss — 

The  ‘little  boatman’  and  his  ‘ Peter  Bell’ 

Can  sneer  at  him  who  drew  ‘ Achitophel  1 ’ ” 

lion  Juan,  Canto  m.] 

(4)  Fact  from  life,  with  the  tuords. 

(5)  [The  late  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  President  of  the  Royal 
Society.] 

(ti)  [The  late  Miss  Lydia  White,  whose  hospitable  functions  have 
not  yet  been  supplied  to  the  circle  of  London  artists  and  literati— 
an  accomplished,  clever,  and  truly  amiable,  but  very  eccentric  lady. 
The  name  in  the  text  could  only  have  been  suggested  by  the  jing- 
ling resemblance  it  has  to  Lydia.] 


mt  Wt£ton  of  ^ungment, 

by  guevedo  EEDIVIVUS.1 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  COMPOSITION  SO  ENTITLED  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OE  “ WAT  TYLEK.’ 


**  A Daniel  come  to  judgment!  yea,  a Daniel ! ^ 
I thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 


PREFACE. 

It  hath  been  wisely  said,  that  “One  fool  make3 
aianj  and  it  hath  been  poetically  observed, 

« That  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread.”— Pope. 

If  Mr.  Southey  had  not  rushed  in  where  he  had  no 
business,  and  where  he  never  was  before,  and  never 
will  be  again,  the  following  poem  would  not  have 


(1)  [In  1821,  Mr.  Southey  published  a piece,  in  English  hexa- 
meters, entitled  “ A Vision  of  Judgment;”  and  which  Lord  Byron, 
in  criticising  it,  laughs  at  as  “ the  Apotheosis  of  George  the  1 hird. 

In  the  preface  to  this  poem,  after  some  observations  on  the  peculiar 
style  of  its  versification,  Mr.  Southey  introduced  the  following 
remarks 

“ I am  well  aware  that  the  public  are  peculiarly  intolerant  of  such 
innovations;  not  less  so  than  the  populace  are  of  any  foreign 
fashion,  whether  of  foppery  or  convenience.  Would  that  this  literary 
intolerance  were  under  the  influence  of  a saner  judgment,  and  re- 
garded the  morals  more  than  the  manner  of  a composition ; the 
spirit  rather  than  the  form  ! Would  that  it  were  directed  against 
those  monstrous  combinations  of  horrors  and  mockery,  lewdness 
and  impiety,  with  which  English  poetry  has,  in  our  days,  first  been 
polluted  ! For  more  than  half  a century  English  literature  had  been 
distinguished  by  its  moral  purity,  the  effect,  and,  in  its  turn,  the 
cause, °of  an  improvement  in  national  manners.  A father  might, 
without  apprehension  of  evil,  have  put  into  the  hands  of  his  chil- 
dren any  book  which  issued  from  the  press,  if  it  did  not  bear,  either 
in  its  title-page  or  frontispiece,  manifest  signs  that  it  was  intended 
as  furniture  for  the  brothel.  There  was  no  danger  in  any  work 
which  bore  the  name  of  a respectable  publisher,  or  was  to  be  pro- 
cured at  any  respectable  bookseller’s.  This  was  particularly  the 
case  with  regard  to  our  poetry.  It  is  now  no  longer  so  : and  woe 
to  those  by  whom  the  offence  cometh  ! The  greater  the  talents  of 
the  offender,  the  greater  is  his  guilt,  and  the  more  enduring  will  be 
his  shame.  Whether  it  be  that  the  laws  are  in  themselves  unable 
to  abate  an  evil  of  t nis  magnitude,  or  whether  it  be  that  they  are  re- 
missly administered,  and  with  such  injustice  that  the  celebrity  of  an 
offender  serves  as  a privilege  whereby  he  obtains  impunity,  indi- 
viduals are  bound  to  consider  that  such  pernicious  works  would 
neither  be  published  nor  written,  if  they  were  discouraged  as  they 
might,  and  ought  to  be,  by  public  feeling : every  person,  therefore, 
who  purchases  such  books,  or  admits  them  into  his  house,  promotes 
the  mischief,  and  thereby,  as  far  as  in  him  lies,  becomes  an  aider 
and  abettor  of  the  crime. 

“ The  publication  of  a lascivious  book  is  one  of  the  worst  offences 
which  can  be  committed  against  the  well-being  of  society.  It  is  a 
sin,  to  the  consequences  of  which  no  limits  can  be  assigned,  and 
those  consequences  no  after-repentance  in  the  writer  can  counter- 
act. Whatever  remorse  of  conscience  he  may  feel  when  his  hour 
comes  (and  come  it  must!)  will  be  of  no  avail.  The  poignancy  of 
a death-bed  repentance  cannot  cancel  one  copy  of  the  thousands 
which  are  sent  abroad;  and  as  long  as  it  continues  to  be  read,  so 
long  is  he  the  pander  of  posterity,  and  so  long  is  he  heaping  up 
guilt  upon  his  soul  in  perpetual  accumulation. 

“These  remarks  are  not  more  severe  than  the  offence  deserves, 
even  when  applied  to  those  immoral  writers  who  have  not  been 
conscious  of  any  evil  intention  in  their  writings,  who  would  acknow- 


* [“  Summi  poetae  in  omni  poetarurn  steculo  viri  fuerunt  probi ; 
<n  nostris  id  vidimus  et  videmus ; neque  alius  est  error  a veritate 
ongius  quam  magna  ingenia  magnis  necessario  corrumpi  vitiis. 
Secundoplerique  posthabent  primum,  himalignitate,  illi  ignorantia , 
et  quum  aiiquem  inveniuni  styli  morumque  vitiis  notatum,  nec  in- 
ficetum  tainen  nec  in  libris  edendis  parcum,  eum  stipant,  praedicant, 
occupant,  amplectuntur.  Si  mores  aliquantulum  vellet  corrigere, 
si  stylum  curare  paululum,  si  fervido  ingenio  temperare,  si  morse 
tantillum  interponere,  turn  ingens  nescio  quid  et  vere  epicum,  qua- 
draginta  annos  natus,  procuderat.  Ignorant  vero  febriculis  non 
iadicari  vires,  impatrentiara  ab  imbecillitate  non  differre ; ignorant 


been  written.  It  is  not  impossible  that  it  may  be  as 
good  as  his  own,  seeing  that  it  cannot,  by  any  species 
of  stupidity,  natural  or  acquired,  be  worse.  The 
| gross  flattery,  the  dull  impudence,  the  renegado  m- 
| tolerance  anti  impious  cant,  of  the  poem  by  the  author 
of  “ Wat  Tyler,”  are  something  so  stupendous  as  to 
form  the  sublime  of  himself— containing' the  quint- 
essence of  his  own  attributes. 


ledge  a little  levity,  a little  warmth  of  colouring,  and  so  forth,  in 
that  sort  of  language  with  which  men  gloss  over  their  favourite  vices, 
and  deceive  themselves.  What  then  should  be  said  of  those  for 
whom  the  thoughtlessness  and  inebriety  of  wanton  youth  can  no 
longer  be  pleaded,  but  who  have  written  in  sober  manhood  and 
with  deliberate  purpose? — Men  of  diseased  * hearts  and  depraved 
imaginations,  who,  forming  a system  of  opinions  to  suit  their  own 
unhappy  course  of  conduct,  have  rebelled  against  the  holiest  ordi- 
nances of  human  society,  and  hating  that  revealed  religion  which, 
with  all  their  efforts  and  bravadoes,  they  are  unable  entirely  to  dis- 
believe, labour  to  make  others  as  miserable  as  themselves,  by  in- 
fecting them  with  a moral  virus  that  eats  into  the  soul ! The  school 
which  they  have  set  up  may  properly  be  called  the  Satanic  school  ; 
for  though  their  productions  breathe  the  spirit  of  Belial  in  their 
lascivious  parts,  and  the  spirit  of  Moloch  in  those  loathsome  images 
of  atrocities  and  horrors  which  they  delight  to  represent,  they  are 
more  especially  characterized  by  a Satanic  spirit  of  pride  and  auda- 
cious impiety,  which  still  betrays  the  wretched  feeling  of  hopeless- 
ness wherewith  it  is  allied. 

“This  evil  is  political  as  well  as  moral,  for  indeed  moral  and 
political  evils  are  inseparably  connected.  Truly  lias  it  been  affirmed 
bv  one  of  our  ablest  and  clearest  reasoners,  that  ‘the  destruction  of 
o-bvernments  may  be  proved  and  deduced  from  the  general  corrup- 
tion of  the  subjects’  manners,  as  a direct  and  natural  cause  thereof, 
by  a demonstration  as  certain  as  any  in  the  mathematics.’  There 
is  no  maxim  more  frequently  enforced  by  Machiavelli,  than  that 
where  the  manners  of  a people  are  generally  corrupted,  there  the 
government  cannot  long  subsist, — a truth  which  all  history  ex- 
emplifies ; and  there  is  no  means  whereby  that  corruption  can  be  so 
surely  and  rapidly  diffused,  as  by  poisoning  the  waters  of  lite- 

ra  “ Let  rulers  of  the  state  look  to  this,  in  time  ! But,  to  use  the 
words  of  Southey,  if  ‘ our  physicians  think  the  best  way  of  curing  a 
disease  is  to  pamper  it,  the  Lord  in  mercy  prepare  the  kingdom  to 

suffer,  what  He  by  miracle  only  can  prevent!’ 

“No  apology  is  offered  for  these  remarks.  The  subject  led  to 
them  ; and  the  occasion  of  introducing  them  was  willingly  taken, 
because  it  is  the  duty  of  every  one,  whose  opinion  may  have  any 
influence,  to  expose  the  drift  and  aim  of  those  writers  who  are 
labouring  to  subvert  the  foundations  of  human  virtue  and  of  human 
happiness.” 

Lord  Byron  rejoined  as  follows  ; — 

“ Mr.  Southey,  in  his  pious  preface  to  a poem  whose  blasphemy 
is  as  harmless  as  the  sedition  of  Wat  Tyler,  because  it  is  equally 
absurd  with  that  sincere  production,  calls  upon  the  ‘ legislature  to 
look  to  it,’  as  the  toleration  of  such  writings  led  to  the  French 
Revolution : not  such  writings  as  Wat  Tyler,  but  as  those  of  the 
* Satanic  School.’  This  is  not  true,  and  Mr.  Southey  knows  it 
to  be  not  true.  Every  French  writer  of  any  freedom  was  perse- 


a levi  homine  et  inconstante  multa  fortasse  scribi  posse  plusquam 
mediocria,  nihil  compositum,  arduum,  aeternum.” — Savagius  Lan- 
dor,  De  Cultu  atque  Usu  Latini  Sermonis.  “ This  essay,  which  is 
full  of  fine  critical  remarks  and  striking  thoughts  felicitously  ex- 
pressed, reached  me  from  Pisa,  while  the  proof  of  the  present  sheet 
was  before  me.  Of  its  author  (the  author  of  Gebir  and  Count 
Julian)  I will  only  say  in  this  place,  that,  to  have  obtained  hi* 
approbation  as  a poet,  and  possessed  h’s  friendship  as  a man,  will 
be  remembered  among  the  honours  of  my  life,  when  the  petty 
enmities  < f this  generation  will  be  forgotten,  and  its  ephemera* 
reputations  shall  have  passed  away.” — Mr.  Southey' i note,} 


512 


LORD  B\RON’S  WORKS. 


So  much  for  his  poem — a word  on  his  preface.  In 
this  preface  it  has  pleased  the  magnanimous  Laureate 
to  draw  the  picture  of  a supposed  “ Satanic  School,” 


cuted;  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  were  exiles,  Marmontel  and  Diderot 
were  sent  to  the  Bastile,  and  a perpetual  war  was  waged  with  the 
whole  class  by  the  existing  despotism.  In  the  next  place,  the 
French  Revolution  was  not  occasioned  by  any  writings  whatsoever, 
but  must  have  occurred  had  no  such  writers  ever  existed.  It  is  the 
fashion  to  attribute  every  thing  to  the  French  Revolution,  and  the 
French  Revolution  to  every  thing  but  its  real  cause.  That  cause  is 
obvious  — the  government  exacted  too  much,  and  the  people  could 
neither  give  nor  bear  more.  Without  this,  the  Encyclopedists  might 
have  written  their  fingers  off  without  the  occurrence  of  a single 
alteration.  A.nd  the  English  revolution — (the  first,  I mean)— what 
was  it  occasioned  by  ? The  Puritans  were  surely  as  pious  and 
moral  as  Wesley  or  his  biographer?  Acts — acts  on  the  part  of 
government,  anti  not  writings  against  them,  have  caused  the  past 
convulsions,  and  are  tending  to  the  future. 

“ I look  upon  such  as  inevitable,  though  no  revolutionist : I wish 
to  see  the  English  constitution  restored,  and  not  destroyed.  Born 
an  aristocrat,  and  naturally  one  by  temper,  with  the  gre.iter  part  of 
my  present  property  in  the  funds,  what  have  I to  gain  by  a revolu- 
tion ? Perhaps  I have  no  more  to  lose  in  every  way  than  Mr. 
Southey,  with  all  his  places  and  presents  for  panegyrics  and  abuse 
into  the  bargain.  But  that  a revolution  is  inevitable,  I repeat.  The 
government  may  exult  over  the  repression  of  petty  tumults  ; these 
are  but  the  receding  waves  repulsed  and  bioken  for  a moment  on 
the  shore,  while  the  great  tide  is  still  rolling  on  and  gaining  ground 
with  every  breaker.  Mr.  Southey  accuses  us  of  attacking  the  reli- 
gion of  the  country;  and  is  he  abetting  it  by  writing  lives  of 
Wesley  t One  mode  of  worship  is  merely  destroyed  by  another. 
There  never  was,  nor  ever  will  be,  a country  without  a religion. 
We  shall  be  told  of  France  again : but  it  was  on)-  Paris  and  a 
frantic  party,  which  for  a moment  upheld  their  dogmatic  nonsense 
of  theo-philanthropy.  The  church  of  England,  if  overthrown,  will 
be  swept  away  by  the  sectarians  and  not  by  the  sceptics.  People 
are  too  vyise,  too  well  informed,  too  certain  of  their  own  immense 
importance  in  the  realms  of  space,  ever  to  submit  to  the  impiety  of 
doubt.  There  may  be  a few  such  diffident  speculators,  like  water 
in  the  pale  sunbeam  of  human  reason,  but  they  are  very  few ; and 
their  opinions,  without  enthusiasm  or  appeal  to  the  passions,  can 
never  gain  proselytes— unless,  indeed,  they  are  persecuted — that,  to 
be  sure,  will  increase  any  thing. 

“ Mr.  Southey,  with  a cowardly  ferocity,  exults  over  the  antici- 
pated ‘death-bed  repentance’  of  the  objects  of  his  dislike;  and 
indulges  himself  in  a pleasant  ‘ Vision  of  Judgment’  in  prose  as  well 
as  verse,  full  of  impious  impudence.  What  Mr.  Southey’s  sensa- 
tions or  o^irs  may  be  in  the  awful  moment  of  leaving  this  state  of 
existence,  neither  he  nor  we  can  pretend  to  decide.  In  common,  I 
presume,  with  most  men  of  any  reflection,  I have  not  waited  for  a 
‘ death-bed’  to  repent  of  many  of  my  actions,  notwithstanding  the 
‘diabolical  pride’  which  this  pitiful  renegado  in  his  rancour  would 
impute  to  those  who  scorn  him.  Whether  upon  the  whole  the 
good  or  evil  of  my  deeds  may  preponderate  is  not  for  me  to  ascer- 
tain ; but  as  my  means  and  opportunities  have  been  greater,  I shall 
limit  my  present  defence  to  an  assertion,  (easily  proved,  if  necessary,) 
that  I,  ‘ in  my  decree,’  have  done  more  real  good  in  any  one  given 
year,  since  I was  twenty,  than  Mr.  Southey  in  the  whole  course  of 
his  shifting  and  turncoat  existence.  There  are  several  actions  to 
which  I can  look  back  with  an  honest  pride,  not  to  be  damped  by 
the  calumnies  of  a hireling.  There  are  others  to  which  I recur  with 
sorrow  and  repentance ; but  the  only  act  of  my  life  of  wiiich  Mr. 
Southey  can  have  any  real  knowledge,  as  it  was  one  which  brought 
me  in  contact  with  a near  connexion  of  his  own  [Mr.  Coleridge], 
did  no  dishonour  to  that  connexion  nor  to  me. 

“ I am  not  ignorant  of  Mr.  Southey’s  calumnies  on  a different 
occasion,  knowing  them  to  be  such,  which  he  scattered  abroad  on 
his  return  from  Switzerland  against  me  and  others : they  have  done 
him  no  good  in  this  world ; and  if  his  creed  be  the  right  one,  they 
will  do  him  less  in  the  next.  What  his  ‘death-bed’  may  be,  it  is 
not  my  province  to  predicate;  let  him  settle  it  with  his  Maker,  as  I 
must  do  with  mine.  There  is  something  at  once  ludicrous  and 
blasphemous  in  this  arrogant  scribbler  of  all  work  sitting  down  to 
deal  damnation  and  destruction  upon  his  fellow-creatures,  with  Wat 
Tyler,  the  Apotheosis  of  George  the  Third,  and  the  Elegy  on 
Martin  the  regicide,  all  shuffled  together  in  his  writing-desk.  One 
of  his  consohrtions  appears  to  be  a Latin  note  from  a work  of  a Mr. 
Landor,  the  author  of  ‘ Gebir,’  whose  friendship  for  Robert  Southey 
will,  it  seems,  ‘ be  an  honour  to  him  when  the  ephemeral  disputes 
and  ephemeral  reputations  of  the  day  are  forgotten. ’ I for  one 
neither  envy  him  ‘ the  friendship,’  nor  the  glory  in  reversion  which 
is  to  accrue  from  it,  like  Mr.  Thelusson’s  fortune,  in  the  third  and 
fourth  generation.  This  friendship  will  probably  be  as  memorable 
as  his  own  epics,  which  (as  1 quoted  to  him  ten  or  twelve  years 
ago  in  * English  Bards’)  Porson  said  ‘ would  be  remembered  when 
Homer  and  Virgil  are  forgotten, — and  not  till  then.’  For  the  pre- 
sent I leave  him.” 

Mr  Southey  was  not  disposed  to  let  this  pass  unanswered.  He, 
«r.  the  5th  of  January,  18*  • addressed  to  the  Editor  of  the  London 
■Courier  a letter,  of  which  we  shall  quote  all  that  is  of  importance  : — 

“ I come  at  once  to  his  Lordship’s  charge  against  me,  blowing 
away  tbi*  abuse  with  which  it  is  frothed,  and  evaporating  a strong 


the  which  lie  dotli  recommend  to  the  notice  &f  the 
legislature  ; thereby  adding  to  his  other  laurels  the 
ambition  of  those  of  an  informer.  If  there  exists  any 

acid  in  which  it  is  suspended.  The  residuum  then  appears  to  be, 
that  ‘ Mr.  Southey,  on  his  return  from  Switzerland  (in  1817),  scat- 
tered abroad  calumnies,  knowing  them  to  be  such,  against  Lord 
Byron  and  others.’  To  this  I reply  with  a direct  and  positive 
denial. 

“If  I had  been  told  in  that  country  that  Lord  Byron  had  turned 
Turk,  or  Monk  of  La  Trappe, — that  he  had  furnished  a harem , or 
endowed  an  hospital,  I might  have  thought  the  account,  whichever 
it  had  been,  possible,  and  repeated  it  accordingly ; passing  it,  as  it 
had  been  taken,  in  the  small  change  of  conversation,  for  no  more 
than  it  was  worth.  In  this  manner  I might  have  spoken  of  lnm,  as 
of  Baron  Geramb,*  the  Green  Man,t  the  Indian  Jugglers,  or  any 
other  figurante  of  the  time  being.  There  was  no  reason  for  any 
particular  delicacy  on  my  part  in  speaking  of  his  Lordship:  and, 
indeed,  I should  have  thought  any  thing  which  might  be  reported 
of  him,  would  have  injured  his  character  as  little  as  the  story  which 
so  greatly  annoyed  Lord  Keeper  Guildford^  that  he  had  ridden  a 
rhinoceros.  He  may  ride  a rhinoceros,  and  though  every  body 
would  stare,  no  one  would  wonder.  But  making  no  inquiry  con- 
cerning him  when  1 was  abroad,  because  I felt  no  curiosity,  I heard 
nothing,  and  had  nothing  to  repeat.  . When  I spoke  of  wonders  to 
my  friends  and  acquaintance  on  my  return,  it  was  of  the  flying  tree 
at  Alpnacht,  and  the  eleven  thousand  virgins  at  Cologne — not  of 
Lord  Byron.  I sought  for  no  staler  subject  than  St.  Ursula. 

“ Once,  and  only  once,  fn  connexion  with  Switzerland,  I have 
alluded  to  his  Lordship ; and,  as  the  passage  was  curtailed  in  the 
press,  I take  this  opportunity  of  restoring  it.  In  the  ‘ Quarterly 
Review,’  speaking  incidentally  of  the  Jungfrau,  I said,  ‘ it  was  the 
scene  where  Lord  Byron’s  Manfred  met  the  Devil  and  bullied  him 
— though  the  Devil  must  have  won  his  cause  before  any  tribunal  in 
this  world,  or  the  next,  if  he  had  not  pleaded  more  feebly  for  him- 
self than  his  advocate,  in  a cause  of  canonisation,  ever  pleaded  for 
him.’ 

“ With  regard  to  the  ‘others,’  whom  his  Lordship  accuses  me  of 
calumniating,  I suppose  he  alludes  to  a party  of  his  friends,  whose 
names  I found  written  in  the  Album  at  Mont-Anvert, . with  an 
avowal  of  Atheism  annexed,  in  Greek,  and  an  indignant  comment 
in  the  same  language,  underneath  it. J Those  names,  with  that 
avowal  and  the  comment,  I transcribed  in  my  note-book,  and  spoke 
of  the  circumstance  on  my  return.  If  I had  published  it,  the  gen- 
tleman in  question  would  not  have  thought  himself  slandered,  by- 
having  that  recorded  of  him  which  he  has  so  often  recorded  of 
himself. 

“ The  many  opprobrious  appellations  which  Lord  Byron  has  be- 
stowed upon  me,  I leave,  as  I find  them,  with  the  praises  which  he 
has  bestowed  upon  himself. 

‘ How  easily  is  a noble  spirit  discern'd 
From  harsh  and  sulphurous  matter  that  flies  out 
In  contumelies,  makes  a noise,  and  stinks!  ’ — B.  Jon  soy. 
But  I am  accustomed  to  such  things;  and,  so  far  from  irritating 
me  are  the  enemies  who  use  such  weapons,  that,  when  I hear  of 
their  attacks,  it  is  some  satisfaction  to  think  they  have  thus  em- 
ployed the  malignity  which  must  have  been  employed  somewhere, 
and  could  not  have  been  directed  against  any  person  whom  it  could 
possibly  molest  or  injure  less.  The  viper,  however  venomous  in 
purpose,  is  harmless  in  effect,  while  it  is  biting  at  the  file.  It  is 
seldom,  indeed,  that  I waste  a word,  or  a thought,  upon  those  who 
are  perpetually  assailing  me.  But  abhorring,  as  I do,  the  per- 
sonalities which  disgrace  our  current  literature,  and  averse  from 
controversy  as  I am,  both  by  principle  and  inclination,  I make  no 
profession  of  non-resistance.  When  the  offence  and  the  offender 
are  such  as  to  cal!  for  the  whip  and  the  branding-iron,  it  has  been 
both  seen  ana  felt  that  I can  inflict  them. 

“ Lord  Byron’s  present  exacerbation  is  evidently  produced  by  an 
infliction  of  this  kind— not  by  hearsay  reports  of  my  conversation, 
four  years  ago,  transmitted  him  from  England  The  cause  may  he 
found  in  certain  remarks  upon  the  Satanic  school  of  poetry,  con- 
tained in  my  preface  to  the  ‘ Vision  of  Judgment.’  Well  would  it 
be  for  Lord  Byron  if  he  could  look  back  upon  any  of  his  writings, 
with  as  much  satisfaction  as  I shall  always  do  upon  what  is  there 
said  of  that  flagitious  school  Many  persons,  and  parents  especially, 
have  expressed  their  gratitude  to  me  for  having  applied  the  brand- 
ing-iron where  it  was  so  richly  deserved.  The  Edinburgh  Reviewer, 
indeed,  with  that  honourable  feeling  by  which  his  criticisms  are  so 
peculiarly  distinguished,  suppressing  the  remarks  themselves,  h--»s 
imputed  them  wholly  to  envy  on  my  part.  I give  him,  in  this 
instance,  full  credit  for  sincerity:  I believe  he  was  equally  in- 
capable of  comprehending  a worthier  motive,  or  of  inventing  a 


* (Baron  Geramb, — a German  Jew,  who,  for  some  time,  excited 
much  public  attention  in  London  by  the  extravagance  of  his  dress. 
Being  very  troublesome  and  menacing  in  demanding  remuneration 
from  Government,  for  a proposal  he  had  made  of  engaging  a body 
of  Croat  troops  in  the  service  of  England,  he  was,  in  1812,  sent  out 
of  the  country  under  the  alien  act.] 

+ [The  •*  Green  Man”  was  a popular  afterpiece,  so  called  from 
the  hero,  who  wore  every  thing  green,  hat,  gloves,  &c.  &c.] 

I [Mr.  P B.  Shelley  signed  his  name,  with  the  addition  of  u&o«, 
in  this  album.] 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.  513 


where,  excepting  in  his  imagination,  such  a School,  is 
, he  not  sufficiently  armed  against  it  by  his  own  intense 
vanity  ? The  truth  is,  that  there  are  certain  writers 
I whom  Mr  S.  imagines,  like  Scrub,  to  have  “ talked  of 
him  ; for  they  laughed  consumedly.” 

| I think  I know  enough  of  most  of  the  writers  to 
i whom  he  is  supposed  to  allude,  to  assert,  that  they,  in 
their  individual  capacities,  have  done  more  good,  in 
the  charities  of  life,  to  their  fellow-creatures  in  any 
i one  year,  than  Mr.  Southey  has  done  harm  to  himself 
by  his  absurdities  in  his  whole  life ; and  this  is 
saying  a great  deal.  But  I have  a few  questions  to 
ask. 

lstly.  Is  Mr.  Southey  the  author  of  “Wat Tyler?” 
2ndly.  Was  he  not  refused  a remedy  at  law  by  the 
highest  judge  of  his  beloved  England,  because  it  was 
a blasphemous  and  seditious  publication?* 1 


worse;  and  as  I have  never  condescended  to  expose,  in  any  in- 
stance, his  pitiful  malevolence,  1 thank  him  for  having,  in  this, 
stripped  it  bare  himself,  and  exhibited  it  in  its  bald,  naked,  and 
undisguised  deformity. 

“Lord  Byron,  like  his  encomiast,  has  not  ventured  to  bring  the 
matter  of  those  animadversions  into  view.  He  conceals  the  fact, 
that  they  are  directed  against  the  authors  of  blasphemous  and 
lascivious  books ; against  men  who,  not  content  with  indulging  their 
own  vices,  labour  to  make  others  the  slaves  of  sensuality,  like 
themselves ; against  public  panders,  who,  mingling  impiety  with 
lewdness,  seek  at  once  to  destroy  the  cement  of  social  order,  and 
to  carry  profanation  and  pollution  into  private  families,  and  into 
the  hearts  of  individuals. 

“ His  Lordship  has  thought  it  not  unbecoming  in  him  to  call  me 
a scribbler  of  all  work.  Let  the  word  scribbler  pass  ; it  is  an  ap- 
pellation which  will  not  stick,  like  that  of  the  Satanic  school.  But, 
if  a scribbler,  how  am  I one  of  all  work?  I will  tell  Lord  Byron 
what  I have  not  scribbled — what  kind  of  work  I have  not  done.  I 
have  never  published  libels  upon  my  friends  and  acquaintance,  ex- 
pressed my  sorrow  for  those  libels,  and  called  them  in  during  a 
mood  of  better  mind — and  then  re-issued  them,  when  the  evil 
spirit,  which  for  a time  had  been  cast  out,  had  returned  and  taken 
possession,  with  seven  others,  more  wicked  than  himself.  I have 
never  abused  the.  power,  of  which  every  author  is  in  some  degree 
possessed,  to  wound  the  character  of  a man,  or  the  heart  of  a woman. 

I have  never  sent  into  the  world  a book  to  which  I did  not  dare  to 
affix  my  name ; or  which  I feared  to  claim  in  a court  of  justice,  if 
it  were  pirated  by  a knavish  bookseller.  1 have  never  manufactured 
furniture  for  the  brothel.  None  of  these  thi'igs  have  I done  ; none 
of  the  foul  work  by  which  literature  is  perverted  to  the  injury  of 
mankind.  My  hands  are  clean  ; there  is  no  ‘ damned  spot’  upon 
them  — no  taint,  which  ‘ all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  r,ot 
sweeten.’ 

“Of  the  works  which  I have  done,  it  becomes  me  not  here  to 
speak,  save  only  as  relates  to  the  Satanic  School,  and  its  Coryphaeus, 
the  author  of  ‘Don  Juan.’  I have  held  up  that  school  to  public 
detestation,  as  enemies  to  the  religion,  tne  institutions,  and  the 
domestic  morals  of  the  country.  1 have  given  them  a designation 
to  which  their  founder  and  leader  ansivers.  I have  sent  a stone  from 
my  sling  which  has  smitten  their  Goliah  in  the  forehead.  I have 
fastened  his  na  ne  upon  the  gibbet,  for  reproach  and  ignominy,  as 
long  as  it  shall  endure. — Take  it  down  who  can ! 

“One  word  of  advice  to  Lord  Byron  before  I conclude.  When 
he  attacks  me  again,  let  it  be  in  rhyme.  For  one  who  has  so  little 
command  of  himself,  it  will  be  a great  advantage  that  his  temper 
should  be  obliged  to  keep  tune.  And  while  he  may  still  indulge  in 
the  same  rankness  and  virulence  of  insult,  the  metre  will,  in  some 
degree,  seem  to  lessen  its  vulgarity.” 

Lord  Byron,  without  waiting  for  the  closing  hint  of  the  foregoing 
letter,  had  already  “attacked”  Mr.  Southey  “in  rhyme.”  On 
October  1,  1821,  he  says  to  Mr.  M^ore, — 

“ I have  written  about  sixty  stanzas  of  a poem,  in  octave  stanzas 
(in  the  Pulci  style,  which  the  fools  in  England  think  was  invented  by 
Whistlecraft — it  is  as  old  as  the  hills,  in  Italy),  called  ‘ The  Vision 
of  Judgment,’  by  Quevedo  Redivivus.  In  this  it  is  my  intention  to 
nut  the  said  George’s  Apotheosis  in  a Whig  point  of  view,  not  for- 
getting the  Poet  Laureate,  for  his  preface  and  his  other  demerits.” 

Lord  Byron  had  proceeded  some  length  in  the  performance  thus 
announced,  before  Mr.  Southey’s  letter  to  the  “ Courier”  fell  into 
his  hands.  On  seeing  it,  his  Lordship’s  feelings  were  so  excited, 
that  he  could  not  wait  for  revenge  in  inkshed,  but  on  the  instant 
lespatched  a cartel  of  mortal  defiance  to  the  Poet  Laureate, 
through  the  me  urn  of  Mr.  Douglas  Kinnaird,  — to  whom  he  thus 
iTites,  February  6,  1822  : — 

'*  I have  got  Southey’s  pretended  reply:  what  remains  to  be  done 
is  to  call  him  out.  The  question  is,  would  he  come  ? for,  if  he 
wouid  not,  the  wh  e thing  would  appear  ridiculous,  if  I were  to 
fctke  a long  and  exp  nsive  journey  to  no  purpose.  You  must  be  my 
•econd,  and,  as  such»  I wish  to  consult  you.  I apply  to  you  as  one 


3rdly.  Was  lie  not  entitled  by  William  Smith,  in 
full  parliament,  “ a rancorous  renegado  ?”  2 

4thly.  Is  he  not  poet  laureate,  with  his  own  lines 
on  Martin  the  regicide  staring  him  in  the  face  ? 3 

And,  Stilly.  Putting  the  four  preceding  items  to- 
gether, with  what  conscience  dare  he  call  the  attention 
of  the  laws  to  the  publications  of  others,  be  they  what 
they  may  ? 

1 say  nothing  of  the  cowardice  of  such  a proceeding ; 
its  meanness  speaks  for  itself;  but  I wish  to  touch 
upon  the  motive , which  is  neither  more  nor  less  than 
that  Mr.  S.  has  been  laughed  at  a little  in  some  recent 
publications,  as  he  was  of  yore  in  the  “ Anti-jacobin” 
by  his  present  patrons.4  Hence  all  this  “ skimble- 
scamble  stuff”  about  “ Satanic,”  and  so  forth.  How- 
ever, it  is  worthy  of  him — “ qualis  ab  incevto .” 

If  there  is  any  thing  obnoxious  to  the  political 


well  versed  in  the  dueno,  or  monomachie.  Of  course  I snail  come 
to  England  as  privately  as  possible,  and  leave  it  (supposing  that  1 
was  the  survivor)  in  the  same  manner;  having  no  other  object  whicn 
could  bring  me  into  that  country  except  to  settle  quarrels  accumu- 
lated during  my  absence.” 

Mr.  Kinnaird,  justly  appreciating  the  momentary  exacerbation 
under  which  Lord  Byron  had  written  the  challenge  which  this  letter 
enclosed,  and  fully  aware  how  absurd  the  whole  business  would 
seem  to  his  distant  friend,  after  the  lapse  of  such  a period  as  must 
intervene  before  the  return  of  post  from  Keswick  to  Ravenna,  put 
Lord  Byron's  warlike  missive  aside ; and  it  never  was  heard  of  by 
Mr.  Southey  until  after  the  death  of  its  author.  Meantime  Lord 
Byron  had  continued  his  “ attack  in  rhyme” — and  his  “ Vision  of 
Judgment,”  after  ineffectual  negotiations  with  various  publishers 
in  London,  at  length  saw  the  light  in  1822,  in  the  pages  of  the  un- 
fortunate “Liberal.”] 

(1)  [In  1821,  when  Mr  Southey  applied  to  the  Court  of  Chancery 
for  an  injunction  to  restrain  the  publication  of  “Wat  Tyler,”  Lord 
Chancellor  Eldon  pronounced  the  following  judgment: — “ I have 
looked  into  all  the  affidavits,  and  have  read  the  book  itself.  The 
bill  goes  the  length  of  stating,  that  the  work  was  composed  by  Mr. 
Southey  in  the  year  1794  ; that  it  is  his  own  production,  and  that  it 
has  been  published  by  the  defendants  without  his  sanction  or 
authority;  and  therefore  seeking  an  account  of  the  profits  which 
have  arisen  from,  and  an  injunction  to  restrain,  the  publication.  I 
have  examined  the  cases  that  I have  been  able  to  meet  with  con- 
taining precedents  for  injunctions  of  this  nature,  and  I find  that 
they  all  proceed  upon  the  ground  of  a title  to  the  property  in  the 
plaintiff.  On  this  head  a distinction  has  been  taken,  to  which  a 
considerable  weight  of  authority  attaches,  supported,  as  it  is,  by  the 
opinion  of  Lord  Chief  Justice  Eyre ; who  has  expressly  laid  it  down, 
that  a person  cannot  recover  in  damages.J'or  a work  which  is,  in  its 
nature,  calculated  to  do  injury  to  the  public.  Upon  the  same 
principle  this  court  refused  an  injunction  in  the  case  of  Walcot” 
(Peter  Pindar)  “v.  Walker,  inasmuch  as  he  could  not  have  re- 
covered damages  in  an  action.  After  the  fullest  consideration,  I 
remain  of  the  same  opinion  as  that  which  I entertained  in  deciding 
the  case  referred  to.  Taking  all  the  circumstances  into  my  con- 
sideration, it  appears  to  me,  that  I cannot  grant  this  injunction, 
until  after  Mr.  Southey  shall  have  established  his  right  to  the  pro- 
perty by  action.” — Injunction  refused.] 

(2)  [Mr.  William  Smith,  M.P.  for  Norwich,  made  a virulent 
attack  on  Mr.  Southey  in  the  House  of  Commons  on  the  14th  of 
March,  1817,  and  the  Laureate  replied  by  a letter  in  the  Courier  ] 

(3)  [Among  the  effusions  of  Mr.  Southey’s  juvenile  muse,  we 
find  this 

“ Inscription  for  the  Apartment  in  Chepstow  Castle,  where 
Henry  Martin,  the  Regicide,  was  imprisoned  thirty  years. 

“ For  thirty  years  secluded  from  mankind 
Here  Martin  linger’d.  Often  have  these  walls 
Echo’d  his  footsteps,  as  with  even  tread 
He  paced  around  his  prison.  Not  to  him 
Did  Nature’s  fair  varieties  exist; 

He  never  saw  the  sun’s  delightful  beams ; 

Save  when  through  yon  high  bars  he  pour’d  a sad 
And  broken  splendour.  Dost  thou  ask  his  crimet 
He  had  rebell'd  against  the  King,  and  sal 
In  judgment  on  him;  for  his  ardent  mind 
Shaped  goodliest  plans  of  happiness  on  earth, 

And  peace  and  liberty.  Wild  dreams!  but  such 
As  Plato  loved;  such  as,  with  holy  zeal, 

Our  Milton  worshipp’d.  Blessed  hopes  ! awhile 
From  man  withheld,  even  to  the  latter  days, 

When  Christ  shall  come,  and  all  things  be  fulfill’d.”] 

(4)  [The  following  imitation  of  the  Inscription  on  the  Rtgicide’s 
Apartment,  written  by  Mr.  Canning,  appeared  in  the  “Anti* 
jacobin — ' 

3 u 


Lv^i xu  15 Y RON’S  WORKS. 


514 

ODinions  of  a portion  of  the  public  in  the  following 
poem,  they  may  thank  Mr.  Southey.  He  might  have 
written  hexameters,  as  he  has  written  every  thing 
else,  for  aught  that  the  writer  cared— had  they  been 
upon  another  subject.  But  to  attempt  to  canonise 
a monarch,  who,  whatever  were  his  household  virtues, 
was  neither  a successful  nor  a patriot  king, — inasmuch 
as  several  years  of  his  reign  passed  in  war  with 
America  and  Ireland,  to  say  nothing  of  the  aggression 
upon  France, — like  all  other  exaggeration,  necessarily 
begets  opposition.  In  whatever  manner  he  may  be 
spoken  of  in  this  new  “ Vision,”  his  public  career  will 
not  be  more  favourably  transmitted  by  history.  Of 
his  private  virtues  (although  a little  expensive  to  the 
nation)  there  can  be  no  doubt. 

With  regard  to  the  supernatural  personages  treated 
of,  I can  only  say  that  I know  as  much  about  them, 
and  (as  an  honest  man)  have  a better  right  to  talk  of 
them,  than  Robert  Southey.  I have  also  treated  them 
more  tolerantly.  The  way  in  which  that  poor  insane 
creature,  the  Laureate,  deals  about  his  judgments  in 
the  next  world,  is  like  his  own  judgment  in  this.  If 
it  was  not  completely  ludicrous,  it  would  be  some- 
thing worse.  I don’t  think  that  there  is  much  more 
to  say  at  present. 

QUEVEDO  RED1VIVUS. 

F.S. — It  is  possible  that  some  readers  may  object, 
in  these  objectionable  times,  to  the  freedom  with  which 
paints,  angels,  and  spiritual  persons  discourse  in  this 
“ Vision.”  But,  for  precedents  upon  such  points,  I 
must  refer  him  to  Fielding’s  “Journey  from  this 
World  to  the  next,”  and  to  the  Visions  of  myself,  the 
said  Quevedo,  in  Spanish  or  translated.  The  reader 
is  also  requested  to  observe,  that  no  doctrinal  tenets 
are  insisted  upon  or  discussed  ; that  the  person  of  the 
Deity  is  carefully  withheld  from  sight,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  for  the  Laureate,  who  hath  thought 
roper  to  make  him  talk,  not  “ like  a school  divine,” 
ut  like  the  unscholarlike  Mr.  Southey.  The  whole 
action  passes  on  the  outside  of  heaven  ; and  Chaucer’s 
Wife  of  Bath,  Pulci’s  Morgante  Maggiore,  Swift’s 
Tale  of  a Tub,  and  the  other  works  above  referred  to, 
are  cases  in  point  of  the  freedom  with  which  saints, 
&c.  may  be  permitted  to  converse  in  works  not  intended 
to  be  serious.  Q..  R. 

***  Mr.  Southey  being,  as  he  says,  a good  Chris 
tian  and  vindictive,  threatens,  I understand,  a reply  to 
this  our  answer.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  his  visionary 
faculties  will  in  the  mean  time  have  acquired  a little 
more  judgment,  properly  so  called : otherwise  he  will 
get  himself  into  new  dilemmas.  These  apostate 
jacobins  furnish  rich  rejoinders.  Let  him  take  a spe- 
cimen. Mr.  Southey  laudeth  grievously  “one  Mr. 
Landor,”  who  cultivates  much  private  renown  in  the 
shape  of  Latin  verses ; and  not  long  ago,  the  poet 
laureate  dedicated  to  him,  it  appeareth,  one  of  his 


“ Inscription  for  the  Door  of  the  Cell  in  Newgate,  where  Mrs. 
Brownrigg,  the  ’Prentice-cide,  was  confined,  previous  to  her 
execution. 

« For  one  long  term,  or  ere  her  trial  came, 

Here  Brownrigg  linger’d.  Often  have  these  cells 
Echo’d  her  blasphemies,  as  with  shrill  voice 
She  scream’d  for  fresh  geneva.  Not  to  her 
Did  the  blithe  fields  of  Tothill,  or  thy  street, 

St.  Giles,  its  fair  varieties  expand  ; 

Till  at  the  last  in  slow-drawn  cart  she  went 
To  execution.  DoU  thou  ask  her  crime? 

She  whipp'd,  two  female  'prentices  to  death. 

And  hid  them  in  the  coal-hole.  For  her  mind 


fugitive  lyrics,  upon  the  strength  of  a poem  called 
Gebir.  Who  could  suppose,  that  in  this  same  Gebir 
the  aforesaid  Savage  Landor* 1  (for  such  is  his  grim 
cognomen)  putteth  into  the  infernal  regions  no  less  a 
person  than  the  hero  of  his  friend  Mr.  Southey’s 
heaven, — yea,  even  George  the  Third  ! See  also  how 
peisonal  Savage  becometh,  when  he  hath  a mind. 
The  following  is  his  portrait  of  our  late  gracious 
sovereign : — 

(Prince  Gebir  having  descended  into  the  infernal  regions,  the 
shades  of  his  royal  ancestors  are,  at  his  request,  called  up  to  his 
view;  and  he  exclaims  to  his  ghostly  guide) — 

“ Aroar,  what  wretch  that  nearest  us  ? what  wretch 
Is  that  with  eyebrows  white  and  slanting  brow? 

Listen!  him  yonder,  who,  bound  down  supine, 

Shrinks  yelling  from  that  sword  there,  engine-hung. 

He  too  amongst  my  ancestors  ! 1 hate 

The  despot,  but  the  dastard  I despise. 

Was  he  our  countryman  ?” 

“Alas,  O king ! 

Iberia  bore  him,  but  the  breed  accurst 
Inclement  winds  blew  blighting  from  north-east* 

“ He  was  a warrior  then,  nor  fear’d  the  gods  ?” 

“ Gebir,  he  fear’d  the  demons,  not  the  gods, 

Though  them  indeed  his  daily  face  adored; 

And  was  no  warrior,  yet  the  thousand  lives 
Squander’d,  as  stones  to  exercise  a sling, 

And  the  tame  cruelty  and  cold  caprice — 

Oh  madness  of  mankind ! address’d,  adored ! ” — 

Gebir,  p.  28. 

I omit  noticing  some  edifying  Ithyphallics  of  Sa- 
vagius,  wishing  to  keep  the  proper  veil  over  them,  if 
his  grave  but  somewhat  indiscreet  worshipper  will 
suffer  it ; but  certainly  these  teachers  of  “ great  moral 
lessons”  are  apt  to  be  found  in  strange  company. 


ITtston  of  ^utogment. 


i. 

Saint  Petek  sat  by  the  celestial  gate  : 

His  keys  were  rusty,  and  the  lock  was  dull. 
So  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late ; 

Not  that  the  place  by  any  means  was  full, 
But  since  the  Gallic  era  “ eighty-eight” 

The  devils  had  ta’en  a longer,  stronger  pull, 
And  “ a pull  altogether,”  as  they  say 
At  sea — which  drew  most  souls  another  way. 

ii. 

The  angels  all  were  singing  out  of  tune, 

And  hoarse  with  having  little  else  to  do, 
Excepting  to  wind  up  the  sun  and  moon. 

Or  curb  a runaway  young  star  or  two, 

Or  wild  colt  of  a comet,  which  too  soon 
Broke  out  of  bounds  o’er  the  ethereal  blue. 
Splitting  some  planet  with  its  playlul  tail, 

As  boats  are  sometimes  by  a wanton  whale. 


Shaped  strictest  plans  of  discipline.  Sage  schemes ! 

Such  as  Lycurgus  taught,  when  at  the  shrine 

Of  the  Orthyan  goddess  he  bade  flog 

The  little  Spartans ; such  as  erst  chastised 

Our  Milton,  when  at  college.  For  this  act 

Did  Brownrigg  swing.  Harsh  laws  ! But  time  shall  come, 

When  France  shall  reign,  and  laws  be  all  repeal’d.”] 

(1)  [Walter  Savage  Landor,  Esq.,  author  of  “Count  Julian,  a 
tragedv" — “Imaginary  Conversations,”  in  three  series— and  vano  »« 
other  works,  was  an  early  friend  of  Mr.  Southey,  and  difference  oi 
politics  has  never  disturbed  their  personal  feelings  towards  each 
other.  Mr.  Landor  has  long  resided  in  Italy.] 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT, 


515 


in. 

The  guardian  seraphs  had  retired  on  high, 

Finding  their  charges  past  all  care  below  ; 
Terrestrial  business  fill’d  nought  in  the  sky 
Save  the  recording  angel’s  black  bureau ; 

Who  found,  indeed,  the  facts  to  multiply 
With  such  rapidity  of  vice  and  wo, 

That  he  had  stripp’d  off  both  his  wings  in  quills, 

And  yet  was  in  arrear  of  human  ills. 

IV. 

His  business  so  augmented  of  late  years, 

That  he  was  forced,  against  his  will  no  doubt, 

(Just  like  those  cherubs,  earthly  ministers,) 

For  some  resource  to  turn  himself  about, 

And  claim  the  help  of  his  celestial  peers, 

To  aid  him  ere  lie  should  be  quite  worn  out, 

By  the  increased  demand  for  his  remarks ; 

Six  angels  and  twelve  saints  were  named  his  clerks. 

v. 

This  was  a handsome  board — at  least  for  heaven  : 

And  yet  they  had  even  then  enough  to  do, 

So  many  conquerors’  cars  were  daily  driven, 

So  many  kingdoms  fitted  up  anew ; 

Each  day  too  slew  its  thousands  six  or  seven, 

Till  at  the  crowning  carnage,  Waterloo, 

They  threw  their  pens  down  in  divine  disgust — 

The  page  was  so  besmear’d  with  blood  and  dust. 

VI. 

This  by  the  way ; ’tis  not  mine  to  record 

What  angels  shrink  from  : even  the  very  devil 
Or.  this  occasion  his  own  work  abhorr’d, 

So  surfeited  with  the  infernal  revel : 

Though  he  himself  had  sharpen’d  every  sword, 

It  almost  quench’d  his  innate  thirst  of  evil. 

(Here  Satan’s  sole  good  work  deserves  insertion — 
’Tis,  that  he  has  both  generals  in  reversion.) 

VII. 

Let ’s  skip  a few  short  years  of  hollow  peace, 

Which  peopled  earth  no  better,  hell  as  wont, 

And  heaven  none — they  form  the  tyrant’s  lease, 

With  nothing  but  ne\v  names  subscribed  upon ’t : 
’Twill  one  day  finish : meantime  they  increase, 

“ With  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,”  and  all  in  front, 
Like  Saint  John’s  foretold  beast ; but  ours  are  born 
Less  formidable  in  the  head  than  horn. 

VIII. 

In  the  first  year  of  freedom’s  second  dawn1 

Died  George  the  Third  ;2  although  no  tyrant,  one 
Who  shielded  tyrants,  till  each  sense  withdrawn 
Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun  : 


(1)  [George  III.  died  the  29th  of  January,  1820, — a year  in  which 
the  revolutionary  spirit  broke  out  all  over  the  south  of  Europe.] 

(2)  [Here,  perhaps,  the  reader  will  thank  us  for  transcribing  a 
few  of  Mr.  Southey’s  hexameters  : — 

Pensive,  though  not  in  thought,  I stood  at  the  window,  beholding 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  vale;  the  valley  disrobed  of  its  verdure: 
Thus  as  I stood,  the  bell,  which  awhile  from  its  warning  had 
rested,  [evening. 

Sent  forth  its  note  again,  toll!  toll!  through  the  silence  of 
’Tis  a deep  dull  sound,  that  is  heavy  and  mournful  at  all  times, 
For  it  tells  of  mortality  always.  But  heavier  this  day 
Fell  on  the  conscious  ear  its  deeper  and  mournfuller  import, 

Yea,  in  the  heart  it  sunk ; for  this  was  the  day  when  the  herald, 
Breaking  his  wand,  should  proclaim,  that  George  our  King  was 
departed. 

Thou  art  released ! I cried  : thy  soul  is  deliver’d  from  bondage ! 
Thou,  who  hast  lain  so  long  in  mental  and  visual  darkness, 

Thou  art  in  yonder  heaven  ! thy  place  is  in  light  and  in  glory. 


A better  farmer  ne’er  brush’d  cicw  from  lawn, 

A worse  king  never  left  a realm  undone  ! 

He  died — but  left  his  subjects  still  behind, 

One  half  as  mad — and  t’  other  no  less  blind. 

IX. 

He  died ! — his  death  made  no  great  stir  on  earth  ; 

His  burial  made  some  pomp ; there  was  profusion 
Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,  and  no  great  dearth 

Of  aught  but  tears — save  those  shed  by  collusion. 
For  these  things  may  be  bought  at  their  true  worth  ; 

Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion — 

Bought  also  ; and  the  torches,  cloaks,  and  banners, 
Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  manners, 

x. 

Form’d  a sepulchral  melodrame.  Of  all 

The  fools  who  flock’d  to  swell  or  see  the  show, 
Who  cared  about  the  corpse  ? The  funeral 

Made  the  attraction,  and  the  black  the  wo.  [pall ; 
There  throbb’d  not  there  a thought  which  pierced  the 
And  when  the  gorgeous  coffin  was  laid  low, 

It  seem’d  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 
The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold.3 

XI. 

So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust ! It  might 
Return  to  what  it  must  far  sooner,  were 
The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  fight 
Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  fire,  and  air; 

But  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 
What  nature  made  him  at  his  birth,  as  bare 
As  the  mere  million’s  base  unmummied  clay — 

Yet  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay. 

XII. 

Tie’s  dead — and  upper  earth  with  him  has  done  ; 

He’s  buried;  save  the  undertaker’s  bill, 

Or  lapidary  scrawl,  the  world  is  gone 
For  him,  unless  he  left  a German  will ; 

But  where’s  the  proctor  who  will  ask  his  son  ? 

In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  still. 

Except  that  household  virtue,  most  uncommon, 

Of  constancy  to  a bad,  ugly  woman. 

xm. 

“ God  save  the  king  ! ” It  is  a large  economy 
In  God  to  save  the  like ; but  if  he  will 
Be  saving,  all  the  better  ; for  not  one  am  I 
Of  those  wTio  think  damnation  better  still : 

I hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 
In  this  small  hope  of  bettering  future  ill 
By  circumscribing,  with  some  slight  restriction, 

The  eternity  of  hell’s  hot  jurisdiction. 


Come,  and  behold! — methought  a startling  voice  from  the  twi- 
Answer’d  ; and  therewithal  I felt  a stroke  as  of  lightning,  [light 
With  a sound  like  the  rushing  of  winds,  or  the  roaring  of  waters. 
If  from  without  it  came,  I knew  not,  so  sudden  the  seizure; 

Or  if  the  brain  itself  in  that  strong  flash  had  expended 

All  its  electric  stores.  Of  strength  and  of  thought  it  bereft  me; 

Hearing,  and  sight,  and  sense  were  gone.”  * 

Southey’s  Vision  of  Judgment .] 

(3;  t“  So  by  the  unseen  comforted,  raised  I my  head  in  obedience, 
And  in  a vault.  I found  myself  placed,  arch’d  over  on  all  sides. 
Narrow  and  low  was  that  house  of  the  dead.  Around  it  were 
coffins, 

Each  in  its  niche,  and  palls,  and  urns,  and  funeral  hatchments, 
Velvets  of  Tyrian  dye,  retaining  their  hues  unfaded; 

Blazonry  vivid  still,  as  if  fresh  from  the  touch  of  the  limner; 

Nor  was  the  golden  fringe,  nor  the  golden  broidery,  tarnish’d. 
Whence  came  the  light  whereby  that  place  of  death  was  dis* 
cover’d  ? 

For  there  was  no  lamp,”  &c. — Southey.] 


516 


,ORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


XIV. 

I know  this  is  unpopular ; I know 
’Tis  blasphemous  ; I know  one  may  be  damn’d 
For  hoping  no  one  else  may  e’er  be  so  ; 

I know  .ny  catechism  ; I know  we  are  cramm’d 
With  the  best  doctrines  till  we  quite  o’erflow  ; 

I know  that  all  save  England’s  church  have  shamm’d, 
And  that  the  other  twice  two  hundred  churches 
And  synagogues  have  made  a damrid  bad  purchase. 

xv. 

God  help  us  all ! God  help  me  too  ! I am, 

God  knows,  as  helpless  as  the  devil  can  wish, 

And  not  a whit  more  difficult  to  damn, 

Than  is  to  bring  to  land  a late-hook’d  fish, 

Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  lamb  ; 

Not  that  I’m  fit  for  such  a noble  dish, 

As  one  day  will  be  that  immortal  fry 
Of  almost  every  body  born  to  die. 

xvi. 

Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 

And  nodded  o’er  his  keys  ; when,  lo  ! there  came 
A wondrous  noise  lie  had  not  heard  of  late — 

A rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream,  and  flame  ; 

In  short,  a roar  of  things  extremely  great, 

Which  would  have  made  aught  save  a saint  exclaim ; 
But  he,  with  first  a start  and  then  a wink, 

Said,  “ There’s  another  star  gone  out,  I think  ! ” 

XVII. 

But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 

A cherub  flapp’d  his  right  wing  o’er  his  eyes — 

At  which  Saint  Peter  yawn’d,  and  rubb’d  his  nose. 

“ Saint  porter,”  said  the  angel,  “ prithee  rise  !” 
Waving  a goodly  wing,  which  glow’d,  as  glows 
An  earthly  peacock’s  tail,  with  heavenly  dyes  ; 

To  which  the  saint  replied,  “ Well,  what’s  the  matter  F 
Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  all  this  clatter  ?” 

XVIII. 

“No,”  quoth  the  cherub;  “George  the  Third  is 
dead.” 1 * [apostle  : 

“And  who  is  George  the  Third?”  replied  the 
“ What  George ? what  Third?”  “The  king-  of 
England,”  said 

The  angel.  “ Well ! he  won’t  find  kings  to  jostle 
Him  on  his  way ; but  does  he  wear  his  head  P 
Because  the  last  we  saw  here  had  a tustle, 

And  ne’er  would  have  got  into  heaven’s  good  graces, 
Had  he  not  flung  his  head  in  all  our  faces. 


1 ) [“  O’er  the  adamantine  gates  an  angel  stood  on  the  summit. 

Ho ! he  exclaim’d,  King  George  of  England  cometh  to  judgment ! 
Hear,  heaven  ! Ye  Angels,  hear!  Souls  of  the  Good  and  the 
Wicked 

Whom  it  concerns,  attend  ! Thou  Hell,  bring  forth  his  accusers ! 
As  the  sonorous  summons  was  utter’d,  the  Winds,  who  were 
waiting.  [corners, 

Bore  it  abroad#thro’  Heaven;  and  Hell,  in  her  nethermost 
Heard  and  obey’d  in  dismay. 

A multitudinous  army 

Came  at  the  awful  call.  In  semicircle  inclining, 

Tier  over  tier  they  took  their  place : aloft,  in  the  distance, 

Far  as  the  sight  could  pierce,  that  glorious  company  glisten’d. 
From  the  skirts  of  the  shining  assembly,  a slippery  vapour 
Bose  in  the  blue  serene,  and  moving  onward  it  deepen’d. 
Taking  a denser  form.” — Southey.j 

12)  [Louis  XVI.,  guillotined  in  January,  1793. 

(8)  [“Then  I beheld  the  King.  From  a cloud  which  covered  the 
pavement 


XIX. 

“ He  was,  if  I remember,  king  of  France  ;• 

That  head  of  his,  which  could  not  keep  a cro1 
On  earth,  yet  ventured  in  my  face  to  advance 
A claim  to  those  of  martyrs — like  my  own  : 

If  I had  had  my  sword,  as  I had  once 

When  I cut  ears  off,  1 had  cut  him  down ; 

But  having  but  my  keys , and  not  my  brand, 

I only  knock’d  his  head  from  out  his  hand. 

XX. 

“ And  then  he  set  up  such  a headless  howl, 

That  all  the  saints  came  out  and  took  him  in , 
And  there  he  sits  by  St.  Paul,  cheek  by  jowl ; 

That  fellow  Paul — the  parvenu ! The  skin 
Of  Saint  Bartholomew,  which  makes  his  cowl 
In  heaven,  and  upon  earth  redeem’d  his  sin, 

So  as  to  make  a martyr,  never  sped 
Better  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  head. 

XXI. 

“ But  had  it  come  up  here  upon  its  shoulders. 
There  would  have  been  a different  tale  to  tell ; 
The  fellow-feeling  in  the  saints  beholders 
Seems  to  have  acted  on  them  like  a spell ; 

And  so  this  very  foolish  head  heaven  solders 
Back  on  its  trunk  : it  may  be  very  well. 

And  seems  the  custom  here  to  overthrow 
Whatever  has  been  wisely  done  below.” 

XXII. 

The  angel  answer’d,  “ Peter  ! do  not  pout : 

The  king  who  comes  has  head  and  all  entire. 
And  never  knew  much  what  it  was  about — 

He  did  as  doth  the  puppet — by  its  wire, 

And  will  be  judged  like  all  the  rest,  no  doubt : 

My  business  and  your  own  is  not  to  inquire 
Into  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  cue — 

Which  is  to  act  as  we  are  bid  to  do.” 

XXIII. 

While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan, 
Arriving  like  a rush  of  mighty  wind, 

Cleaving  the  fields  of  space,  as  doth  the  swan 
Some  silver  stream  (say  Ganges,  Nile,  or  Inde, 
Or  Thames,  or  Tweed),  and  ’midst  them  an  old  mai 
With  an  old  soul,  and  both  extremely  blind, 
Halted  before  the  gate,  and  in  his  shroud 
Seated  their  fellow-traveller  on  a cloud.3 


His  reverend  form  uprose : heavenward  his  face  was  directed, 
Heavenward  his  eyes  were  raised,  and  heavenward  his  arms  were 
extended. 

Presently  one  approached  to  greet  him  with  joyful  obeisance; 

He  of  whom,  in  an  hour  of  woe,  the  assassin  bereaved  us 
When  his  counsels  most,  and  his  resolute  virtue,  were  needed. 
Thou!  said  the  Monarch,  here?  Thou,  Perceval,  summoned 
before  me  ? — 

Then,  as  his  waken’d  mind  to  the  weal  of  the  country  reverted. 
What  of  his  Son,  he  ask’d,  what  course  by  the  prince  had  been 
follow’d  ? 

Right  in  his  Father’s  steps  hath  the  Regent  trod,  was  the  answer: 
Firm  hath  he  proved  and  wise,  at  a time  when  weakness  or  error 
Would  have  sunk  us  in  shame,  and  to  ruin  have  hurled  us 
headlong.— 

Peace  is  obtain’d  then  at  last,  with  safety  and  honour  1 the  Monarch 
Cried,  and  he  clasp’d  his  hands,  — I thank  thee,  O merciful 
Father  1 — • 

Peace  hath  been  won  by  the  sword,  the  faithful  minister  answti’d. 
Paris  hath.”  &c. — Southey.] 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


517 


XXIV. 

But  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  bright  host 
A Spirit  of  a different  aspect  waved 
flis  wings,  like  thunder-clouds  above  some  coast 
Whose  barren  beach  with  frequent  wrecks  is  paved; 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  tempest-toss’ d ; 

Fierce  and  unfathomable  thoughts  engraved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face, 

And  where  he  gazed  a gloom  pervaded  space. 

XXV. 

As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate 
Ne’er  to  be  enter’d  more  by  him  or  Sin, 

With  such  a glance- of  supernatural  hate, 

As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  himself  within ; 

He  patter’d  with  his  keys  at  a great  rate, 

And  sweated  through  his  apostolic  skin  : 

Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor, 

Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 

XXVI. 

The  very  cherubs  huddled  all  together, 

Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon  ; and  they  felt 
A tingling  to  the  tip  of  every  feather, 

And  form’d  a circle  like  Orion’s  belt  [whither 
Around  their  poor  old  charge ; who  scarce  knew 
His  guards  had  led  him,  though  they  gently  dealt 
With  royal  manes  (for  by  many  stories, 

And  true,  we  learn  the  angels  are  all  Tories). 

XXVIT. 

As  things  were  in  this  posture,  the  gate  flew 
Asunder,  and  the  flashing  of  its  hinges 
Filing  over  space  an  universal  hue 
Of  many-colour’d  flame,  until  its  tinges 
Reach’d  even  our  speck  of  earth,  and  made  a new 
Aurora  borealis  spread  its  fringes 
O’er  the  North  Pole  ; the  same  seen,  when  ice-bound, 
.By  Captain  Parry’s  crew,  in  “ Melville’s  Sound.” 1 

xxvia. 

Vnd  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued  beaming 
A beautiful  and  mighty  thing  of  Light,2 
Radiant  with  glory,  like  a banner  streaming 
Victorious  from  some  world-o’erthroyving  fight : 

My  poor  comparisons  must  needs  be  teeming 
With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the  night 
Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions,  saving 
Johanna  Southcote,3  or  Bob  Southey  raving. 

XXIX. 

'Twas  the  archangel  Michael : all  men  know 
The  make  of  angels  and  archangels,  since 
There’s  scarce  a scribbler  has  not  one  to  show, 

From  the  fiends’  leader  to  the  angels’  prince. 


(1)  [See  Captain  Edward  Parry’s  Voyage,  in  1819-20,  for  the 
Discovery  of  a North-west  passage. — “1  believe  it  is  almost  im- 
possible for  words  to  give  an  idea  of  the  beauty  and  variety  which 
this  magnificent  phenomenon  displayed.  The  luminous  arch  had 
broken  into  irregular  masses,  streaming  with  much  rapidity  in  dif- 
ferent directions,  varying  continually  in  shape  and  interest,  and 
extending  themselves  from  north,  by  the  east,  to  north.  At  one 
time  a part  of  the  arch  near  the  zenith  was  bent  into  convolutions 
resembling  those  of  a snake  in  motion,  and  undulating  rapidly,  an 
appearance  which  we  had  not  before  observed.  The  end  towards 
the  north  was  also  bent  like  a shepherd’s  crook.  The  usual  pale 
light  of  the  aurora  strongly  resembled  that  produced  by  the  com- 
bustion of  phosphorus;  a very  slight  tinge  of  red  was  noticed  on 
this  occasion,  when  the  aurora  was  most  vivid,  but  no  other  colours 
were  visible.”  P.135.] 

<2)  [“  Thus  as  he  spake,  methought  the  surrounding  space  dilated; 

Qvsr  head  I beheld  the  infinite  ether;  beneath  us 


There  also  are  some  altar-pieces,  though 
I really  can’t  say  that  they  much  evince 
One’s  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits ; 

But  let  the  connoisseurs  explain  their  merits. 

XXX. 

Michael  flew  forth  in  glory  and  in  good ; 

A goodly  work  of  him  from  whom  all  glory 
And  good  arise  ; the  portal  past — lie  stood  ; 

Before  him  the  young  cherubs  and  saints  hoary— 
(I  say  young , begging  to  be  understood 

By  looks,  not  years  ; and  should  be  very  sorry 
To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  St.  Peter, 

But  merely  that  they  seem’d  a little  sweeter). 

XXXI. 

The  cherubs  and  the  saints  bow’d  down  before 
That  arch-angelic  hierarch,  the  first 
Of  essences  angelical,  who  wore 

The  aspect  of  a god  ; but  this  ne’er  nursed 
Pride  in  his  heavenly  bosom,  in  whose  core 

No  thought,  save  for  his  Maker’s  service,  durst 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high  ; 

He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 

XXXII.  • 

He  and  the  sombre  silent  Spirit  met — 

They  knew  each  other  both  for  good  and  ill ; 

Such  was  their  power,  that  neither  could  forget 
His  former  friend  and  future  foe  ; but  still 
There  was  a high,  immortal,  proud  regret 
In  cither’s  eye,  as  if  ’twere  less  their  will 
Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 
Their  date  of  war,  and  their  “ champ  clos”  the  sphere* 

XXXIII. 

But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space  : we  know 
From  Job,  that  Satan  hath  the  power  to  pay 
A heavenly  visit  thrice  a year  or  so ; 

And  that  “the  sons  of  God,”  like  those  of  clay, 
Must  keep  him  company  ; and  we  might  show 
From  the  same  book,  in  how  polite  a way 
The  dialogue  is  held  between  the  Powers 
Of  Good  and  Evil — but  ’twould  take  up  hours. 

xxxiv. 

And  this  is  not  a theologic  tract, 

To  prove  with  Hebrew  and  with  Arabic, 

If  Job  be  allegory  or  a fact, 

But  a true  narrative  ; and  thus  I pick 
From  out  the  whole  but  such  and  such  an  act, 

As  sets  aside  the  slightest  thought  of  trick. 

’Tis  every  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion, 

And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 


Lay  the  solid  expanse  of  the  firmament  spread  like  a pavement ; 
Wheresoever  I look’d,  there  was  light  and  glory  around  me; 
Brightest  it  seem’d  in  the  East,  where  the  New  Jerusalem  glitter’d 
Eminent  on  a hill,  there  stood  the  Celestial  City; 

Beaming  afar  it  shone  ; its  towers  and  cupolas  rising 
High  in  the  air  serene,  with  the  brightness  of  gold  in  the  furnace, 
Where  on  their  Ineadth  the  splendour  lay  intense  and  quiescent. 
Part  with  a fierier  glow,  and  a short  quick  tremulous  motion. 
Like  the  burning  pyropus;  and  turrets  and  pinnacles  sparkled, 
Playing  in  jets  of  light,  with  a diamond-like  glory  coruscant. 
Drawing  near,  i beheld  what  over  the  portal  was  written  : 

This  is  the  Gate,”  &c. — Southey.] 

(3). [Johanna  Southcote,  the  aged  lunatic,  who  fancied  her&elf, 
and  was  believed  by  many  thousand  followers,  to  be  with  child  of 
a new  Messiah,  died  in  1815.  There  is  a full  accoout  of  her  im  th« 
Quarterly  Review,  vol.  xxiv.  p.  496.] 


518 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


XXXV. 

The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 

The  gate  of  heaven ; like  eastern  thresholds  is 
The  place  where  Death’s  grand  cause  is  argued  o’er, 
And  souls  despatch’d  to  that  world  or  to  this  ; 

And  therefore  Michael  and  the  other  wore 
A civil  aspect : though  they  did  not  kiss, 

Yet  still  between  his  Darkness  and  his  Brightness 
There  pass’d  a mutual  glance  of  great  politeness. 

xxxvi. 

The  Archangel  bow’d,  not  like  a modern  beau. 

But  with  a graceful  oriental  bend, 

Pressing  one  radiant  arm  just  where  below 
The  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to  tend. 

He  turn’d  as  to  an  equal,  not  too  low, 

But  kindly ; Satan  met  his  ancient  friend 
With  more  hauteur,  as  might  an  old  Castilian 
Poor  noble  meet  a mushroom  rich  civilian. 

XXXVII. 

He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 

An  instant ; and  then  raising  it,  he  stood 
In  act  to  assert  his  right  or  wrong,  and  show 

Cause  why  King  George  by  no  means  could  or  should 
Make  out  a case#to  be  exempt  from  woe 
Eternal,  more  than  other  kings,  endued 
"With  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  history  mentions, 
Who  long  have  “ paved  hell  with  their  good  inten- 
tions.” 1 

XXXVIII. 

Michael  began  : “ What  wouldst  thou  -with  this  man, 
Now  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord  ? What  ill 
Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race  began, 

That  thou  canst  claim  him  ? Speak  ! and  do  thy  will 
If  it  be  just : if  in  this  earthly  span 
He  hath  been  greatly  failing  to  fulfil 
His  duties  as  a king  and  mortal,  say, 

And  he  is  thine  ; if  not,  let  him  have  way.” 

XXXIX. 

“ Michael !”  replied  the  Prince  of  Air,  “ even  here, 
Before  the  Gate  of  him  thou  servest,  must 
I claim  my  subject : and  will  make  appear 
That  as  he  was  my  worshipper  in  dust, 

So  shall  he  be  in  spirit,  although  dear 

To  thee  and  thine,  because  nor  wine  nor  lust 
Were  of  his  weaknesses  ; yet  on  the  throne 
He  reign’d  o’er  millions  to  serve  me  alone. 

XL. 

*c  Look  to. qur  earth,  or  rather  mine  ; it  was, 

Once,  more  thy  master’s  : but  I triumph  not 
In  this  poor  planet’s  conquest ; nor,  alas  ! 

Need  he  thou  servest  envy  me  my  lot : 

With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds  which  pass 
In  worship  round  him,  he  may  have  forgot 
Yon  weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things  : 

1 think  few  worth  damnation  save  their  kings, — 

XLI. 

“ And  these  but  as  a kind  of  quit-rent,  to 
Assert  my  right  as  lord  ; and  even  had 
l such  an  inclination,  ’twere  (as  you 

W’ ell  know)  superfluous  ; they  are  grown  so  bad, 


That  hell  has  nothing  better  left  to  do 

Than  leave  them  to  themselves : so  much  mere  mai 
And  evil  by  their  own  internal  curse, 

Heaven  cannot  make  them  better,  nor  I wor3e.  . ’ 

XLI  I. 

“ Look  to  the  earth,  I said,  and  say  again : 

When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak,  pool 
worm 

Began  in  youth’s  first  bloom  and  flush  to  reign, 

The  world  and  he  both  wore  a different  form, 

And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 

Of  ocean  call’d  him  king  : through  many  a storm 
His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time  ; 

Eor  the  rough  virtues  chose  them  for  their  clime. 

XLIII. 

“ He  came  to  his  sceptre  young  ; he  leaves  it  old : 
Look  to  the  state  in  which  he  found  his  realm, 

And  left  it ; and  his  annals  too  behold, 

How  to  a minion  first  he  gave  the  helm  ; 

How  grew  upon  his  heart  a thirst  for  gold, 

The  beggar’s  vice,  which  can  but  overwhelm 
The  meanest  hearts  ; and  for  the  rest,  but  glance 
Thine  eye  along  America  and  Prance. 

XLIV. 

“ ’Tis  true,  he  was  a tool  from  first  to  last 
(I  have  the  workmen  safe) ; but  as  a tool 
So  let  him  be  consumed.  Prom  out  the  past 
Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  the  rule 
Of  monarchs — from  the  bloody  rolls  amass’d 
Of  sin  and  slaughter — from  the  Csesar’s  school, 
Take  the  worst  pupil ; and  produce  a reign  [slain. 
More  drench’d  with  gore,  more  cumber’d  with  tin 

XLV. 

“ He  ever  warr’d  with  freedom  and  the  free  : 

Nations  as  men,  home  subjects,  foreign  foes, 

So  that  they  utter’d  the  word  ‘Liberty  !’ 

Pound  George  the  Third  their  first  opponent.  Whose 
History  was  ever  stain’d  as  his  will  be 
With  national  and  individual  woes  F 
I grant  his  household  abstinence ; I grant 
His  neutral  virtues,  which  most  monarchs  want » 

XLVI. 

“ I know  he  was  a constant  consort ; own 
He  was  a decent  sire,  and  middling  lord. 

All  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a throne; 

As  temperance,  if  at  Apicius’  board, 

Is  more  than  at  an  anchorite’s  supper  shown. 

I grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord ; 

And  this  was  well  for  him,  but  not  for  those 
Millions  who  found  him  what  oppression  chose. 

XLVII. 

“ The  New  World  shook  him  off;  the  Old  yet  groans 
Beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared,  if  not 
Completed  : he  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones 
To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot 
Compassion  for  him — his  tame  virtues ; drones 
Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now  forgot 
A lesson  which  shall  be  re-taught  them,  wake 
Upon  the  thrones  of  earth  ; but  let  them  quake  ! 

hell  is  paved  with  good  intentions.’  ” — Boswell  rol  * n.  .W 
1835.] 


(1)  [“No  saint  in  the  course  of  his  religious  warfare  was  more 
sensible  of  the  unhappy  failure  of  pious  resolves  than  Dr.  Johnson  : 
he  said  one  day,  talking  to  an  acquaintance  on  this  subject,  ‘ Sir, 


THE  VISION  OE  JUDGMENT. 


519 


XLVIII. 

**  Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 
The  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on  earth,  implored 
A part  of  that  vast  all  they  held  of  old,—* - 
Freedom  to  worship — not  alone  your  Lord, 
Michael,  but  you,  and  you,  Saint  Peter  ! Cold 
Must  be  your  souls,  if  you  have  not  abhorr’d 
The  foe  to  Catholic  participation 
In  ali  the  license  of  a Christian  nation. 

XLIX. 

“ True  ! he  allow’d  them  to  pray  God : but  as 
A consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the  law 
Which  would  have  placed  them  upon  the  same  base 
With  those  who  did  not  hold  the  saints  in  awe.” 
But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place, 

And  cried,  “ You  may  the  prisoner  withdraw  : 

Ere  heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guelph, 
While  I am  guard,  may  I be  damn’d  myself ! 

L. 

“ Sooner  will  I with  Cerberus  exchange 
My  office  (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 

Than  see  this  royal  Bedlam  bigot  range 

The  azure  fields  of  heaven,  of  that  be  sure  ! ” 

“ Saint !”  replied  Satan,  “you  do  well  to  avenge 
The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites  endure ; 1 
And  if  to  this  exchange  you  should  be  given, 

I ’ll  try  to  coax  our  Cerberus  up  to  heaven.” 

LI. 

Here  Michael  interposed  : “ Good  saint ! and  devil ! 

Pray,  not  so  fast ; you  both  outrun  discretion. 
Saint  Peter ! you  were  wont  to  be  more  civil : 

Satan,  excuse  this  warmth  of  his  expression, 

And  condescension  to  the  vulgar’s  level : 

Even  saints  sometimes  forget  themselves  in  session. 
Have  you  got  more  to  say?” — “ No.” — “ If  you  please, 
I ’ll  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses.” 

LII. 

Then  Satan  turn’d  and  waved  his  swarthy  hand, 
Which  stirr’d  with  its  electric  qualities 
Clouds  farther  off  than  we  can  understand, 

Although  we  find  him  sometimes  in  our  skies ; 
Infernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land  ' 

In  all  the  planets,  and  hell’s  batteries 
Let  off  the  artillery,  which  Milton  mentions 
As  one  of  Satan’s  most  sublime  inventions.3 

LIII. 

This  was  a signal  unto  such  damn’d  souls 
As  have  the  privilege  of  their  damnation 


(1)  [George  Ill  ’s  determination  against  the  Catholic  claims.] 

(2)  [ “ From  the  opposite  region, 

Heavy  and  sulphurous  clouds  roll’d  on,  and  completed  the  circle. 
There  with  the  Spirits  accurst,  in  congenial  darkness  enveloped 
Were  the  Souls  of  the  Wicked,  who,  wilful  in  guilt  and  error, 
Chose  the  service  of  sin,  and  now  were  abiding  its  wages. 
Change  of  place  to  them  brought  no  reprieval  from  anguish ; 
They  in  their  evil  thoughts  and  desires  of  impotent  malice, 
Envy,  and  hate,  and  blasphemous  rage,  and  remorse  unavail- 
Carried  a hell  within,  to  which  all  outer  affliction,  [ing, 

So  it  abstracted  the  sense,  might  be  deemed  a remission  of 
torment.  [shall’d; 

At  the  edge  of  the  cloud,  the  Princes  of  Darkness  were  mar- 
Dimly  descried  within  were  wings  and  truculent  faces ; 

And  in  the  thick  obscure  there  struggled  a mutinous  uproar, 
Railing,  and  fury,  and  strife,  that  the  whole  deep  body  of 
darkness 

Roll’d  like  a troubled  sea,  with  a wide  and  a manifold  motion.” 

Southey.] 


Extended  far  beyond  the  mere  controls 

Of  worlds  past,  present,  or  to  come  ; no  station 
Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 

Of  hell  assign’d  ; but  where  their  inclination 
Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of  game, 

They  may  range  freely — being  damn’d  the  same. 

LIV. 

They  are  proud  of  this— as  very  well  they  may, 

It  being  a sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt  key 
Stuck  in  their  loins  ;3  or  like  to  an  “ entree” 

Up  the  back  stairs,  oi  such  freemasonry. 

I borrow  my  comparisons  from  clay. 

Being  clay  myself.  Let  not  those  spirits  be 
.Offended  with  such  base  low  likenesses ; 

We  know  their  posts  are  nobler  far  than  these. 

LV. 

When  the  great  signal  ran  from  heaven  to  hell — 
About  ten  million  times  the  distance  reckon’d 
From  our  sun  to  its  earth,  as  we  can  tell 

How  much  time  it  takes  up,  even  to  a second, 

For  every  ray  that  travels  to  dispel 

The  fogs  of  London,  through  which,  dimly  beacon’d. 
The  weathercocks  are  gilt  some  thrice  a year, 

If  that  the  summer  is  not  too  severe  4 

LVI. 

I say  that  I can  tell — ’twas  half  a minute  : 

I know  the  solar  beams  take  up  more  time 
Ere,  pack’d  up  for  their  journey,  they  begin  it ; 

But  then  their  telegraph  is  less  sublime, 

And  if  they  ran  a race,  they  would  not  win  it 

’Gainst  Satan’s  couriers  bound  for  their  own  clime. 
The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every  ray 
To  reach  its  goal — the  devil  not  half  a day. 

LVII. 

Upon  the  verge  of  space,  about  the  size 
Of  half-a-crown,  a little  speck  appear’d 
(I’ve  seen  a something  like  it  in  the  skies 
In  the  iEgean,  ere  a squall) ; it  near’d, 

And,  growing  bigger,  took  another  guise  ; 

Like  an  aerial  ship  it  tack’d,  and  steer’d, 

Or  was  steer’d  (I  am  doubtful  of  the  grammar 
Of  the  last  phrase,  which  makes  the  stanza  stammer ; — 

LVIII. 

But  take  your  choice) ; and  then  it  grew  a cloud  ; 

And  so  it  was — a cloud  of  witnesses.5 
But  such  a cloud  ! No  land  e’er  saw  a crowd 
Of  locusts  numerous  as  the  heavens  saw  these ; 


(3)  [A  gold  or  gilt  key,  peeping  from  below  the  skirts  of  the  coat, 
marks  a lord  chamberlain.] 

(4)  [An  allusion  to  Horace  Walpole’s  expression  in  a letter — 
“ The  summer  has  set  in  with  its  usual  severity.”] 

(5)  [“  On  the  cerulean  floor  by  th<jf  dread  circle  surrounded, 

Stood  the  soul  of  the  King  alone.  In  front  was  the  Presence 
Veil’d  with  excess  of  light;  and  behind  was  the  blackness  of 
darkness ; [tion — 

When  the  trumpet  was  blown,  and  the  Angel  made  proclama- 
Lo,  where  the  King  appears ! Come  forward,  ye  who  arraign 
him ! 

Forth  from  the  lurid  cloud  a Demon  came  at  the  summons. 

1 1 was  the  Spirit  by  whom  his  righteous  reign  had  been  troubled ; 
Likest  in  form  uncouth  to  the  hideous  Idols  whom  India 
(Long  by  guilty  neglect  to  hellish  delusions  abandon’d,) 
Worships  with  horrible  rites  of  self-destruction  and  torture. 
Many-headed  and  monstrous  the  Fiend ; with  numberless  face* 
Numberless  bestial  ears  erect  to  all  rumours,  and  restless, 


520 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


They  shadow’d  with  their  myriads  space  ; their  loud 
And  vaiied  cries  were  like  those  of  wild  geese 
fit* *  nations  may  be  liken’d  to  a goose), 

And  realised  the  phrase  of  “ hell  broke  loose.” 

LIX. 

Her-  crash’d  a sturdy  oatli  of  stout  John  Bull, 

Who  damn’d  away  his  eyes  as  heretofore  : 

There  Paddy  brogued  “By  Jasus  !” — “ What’s  your 
wull  ?”  [swore 

The  temperate  Scot  exclaim’d  : the  French  ghost 
In  certain  terms  I sha’n’t  translate  in  full, 

As  the  first  coachman  will ; and  ’midst  the  war, 

The  voice  of  Jonathan  was  heard  to  express, 

“ Our  president  is  going  to  war,  I guess.” 

LX. 

Besides  there  were  the  Spaniard,  Dutch,  and  Dane  ; 

In  short,  an  universal  shoal  of  shades, 

From  Otaheite’s  isle  to  Salisbury  Plain, 

Of  all  climes  and  professions,  years  and  trades, 
Ready  to  swear  against  the  good  king’s  reign, 

Bitter  as  clubs  in  cards  are  against  spades : 

All  summon’d  by  his  grand  “ subpoena,”  to 
Try  if  kings  mayn’t  be  damn’d  like  me  or  you. 

LXI. 

When  Michael  saw  this  host,  he  first  grew  pale, 

As  angels  can;  next,  like  Italian  twilight. 

He  turn’d  all  colours — as  a peacock’s  tail, 

Or  sunset  streaming  through  a Gothic  skylight 
In  some  old  abbey,  or  a trout  not  stale, 

Or  distant  lightning  on  the  horizon  by  night 
Or  a fresh  rainbow,  or  a grand  review 
Of  thirty  regiments  in  red,  green,  and  blue. 

LXIT. 

Then  he  address’d  himself  to  Satan : “ Why — 

My  good  old  friend,  for  such  I deem  you,  though 
Our  different  parties  make  us  fight  so  shy, 

I ne’er  mistake  you  for  a personal  foe  ; 


And  with  numberless  mouths  which  were  fill’d  with  lies  as 
with  arrows. 

Clamours  arose  as  he  came,  a confusion  of  turbulent  voices, 
Maledictions,  and  blatant  tongues,  and  viperous  hisses; 

And  in  the  hubbub  of  senseless  sounds  the  watchwords  of 
faction, — fsion. — 

Freedom,  Invaded  Rights,  Corruption,  and  War,  and  Oppres- 
Loudlv  enounced  were  heard.” — Southey.] 

(1)  [ “ But  when  he  stood  in  the  Presence, 

Then  was  the  Fiend  dismay’d,  though  with  impudence  clothed 
as  a garment;  [scatter’d 

And  the  lying  tongues  were  mute,  and  the  lips,  which  had 
Accusation  and  slander,  were  still.  No  time  for  evasion 
This,  in  the  Presence  he  stood:  no  place  for  flight;  lor  dis- 
sembling [ness, 

No  possibility  there.  From  the  souls  on  the  edge  of  the  dark- 
rwo  he  produced,  prime  movers  and  agents  of  mischief,  and 
bade  them  [labour’d. 

Show  themselves  faithful  now  to  the  cause  for  which  they  had 
Wretched  and  guilty  souls,  where  now  their  audacity  ? Where 
Are  the  insolent  tongues  so  ready  of  old  at  rejoinder?  [now 


• [In  reference  to  this  part  of  Mr.  Southey’s  poem,  the  Eclectic 
Reviewer,  we  believe  the  late  Rev.  Robert  Hall,  said  — “Mr. 
Southey’s  ‘Vision  of  Judgment’  is  unquestionably  a profane  poem. 
The  assertion  will  stagger  those  only  who  do  not  consider  what  is 
the  import  of  the  word.  Profaneness  is  the  irreverent  use  of  sacred 
n mes  an  I things.  A burlesque  of  things  sacred,  whether  inten- 
tional or  not,  is  profaneness.  To  apply  the  language  of  Scripture 
in  a ludicrous  connexi  n is  to  profane  it.  The  mummery  of  prayer 
on  the  stage,  though  in  a serious  play,  is  a gross  profanation  of 
sacred  things.  And  all  acts  which  come  under  the  taking  of  God’s 
name  in  vain  are  acts  of  profaneness.  According  to  this  definition 
of  the  word,  the  Laureate’s  ‘ Vision  of  Judgment’  is*  a poem  grossly 
'nd  unpardonably  profane.  Mr.  Southey’s  intention  was,  we  are 
well  persuaded,  very  far  from  being  irreligious;  and,  indeed,  the 


Our  difference  Vi  political,  Uk .U  J 

Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below, 

You  know  my  great  respect  for  you  ; and  thil 
Makes  me  regret  whate’er  you  do  amiss — 

LXIII. 

“ Why,  my  dear  Lucifer,  would  you  abuse 
My  call  for  witnesses  ? I did  not  mean 
That  you  .should  half  of  earth  and  hell  produce 
’Tis  even  superfluous,  since  two  honest,  clean. 
True  testimonies  are  enough  : we  lose 
Our  time,  nay,  our  eternity,  between 
The  accusation  and  defence  : if  we 
Hear  both,  ’twill  stretch  our  immortality.” 

LXIV. 

Satan  replied,  " To  me  the  matter  is 
Indifferent,  in  a personal  point  of  view : 

I can  have  fifty  better  souls  than  this 

With  far  less  trouble  than  we  have  gone  througn 
Already  ; and  I merely  argued  his 

Late  majesty  of  Britain’s  case  with  you 
Upon  a point  of  form;  you  may  dispose 
Of  him;  I’ve  kings  enough  beiow,  God  knows  !” 

LXV. 

Thus  spoke  the  Demon1  (late  call’d  “multifaced” 

By  multo-scribbling  Southey).  “ Then  we’ll  call 
One  or  two  persons  of  the  myriads  placed 
Around  our  congress,  and  dispense  with  all 
The  rest,”  quoth  Michael : “ Who  may  be  so  graced 
As  to  speak  first  ? there’s  choice  enough — who  shall 
Tt  be  ?”  Then  Satan  answer’d,  “ There  are  many; 
But  you  may  choose  Jack  Wilkes  as  well  as  any.” 

LXVT. 

A merry,  cock-eyed,  curious-looking  sprite 
Upon  the  instant  started  from  the  throng, 

Dress’d  in  a fashion  now  forgotten  quite  ;2 
For  all  the  fashions  of  the  flesh  stick  long 


Where  the  lofty  pretences  of  public  virtue  and  freedom? 
Where  the  gibe,  and  the  jeer,  and  the  threat,  the  envenom’d 
invective,  [malice? 

Calumny,  falsehood,  fraud,  and  the  whole  ammunition  of 
Wretched  and  guilty  souls,  they  stood  in  the  face  of  their 
Sovereign,  [injured, 

Conscious  and  self-condemn’d  ; confronted  with  him  they  had 
At  the  judgment-seat*  they  stood.” — Southey.] 

(2)  [ “ Beholding  the  foremost, 

Him  hv  the  cast  of  his  eye  oblique,  i knew  as  the  firebrand 
Whom  the  unthinking  populace  held  for  their  idol  and  hero, 
Lord  of  Misrule  in  his  day.  But  how  was  that  countenance 
alter’d 

Where  emotion  of  fear  or  of  shame  had  never  been  witness’d ; 
That  invincible  forehead  abash’d  ; and  those  eyes  wherein  malic* 
Once  had  been  wont  to  shine  with  wit  and  hilarity  temper’d, 
Into  how  deep  a gloom  their  mournful  expression  had  settled 
Little  availed  it  now  that  not  from  a purpose  malignant, 

Not  with  evil  intent,  he  had  chosen  the  service  of  evil, 

But  of  his  own  desires  the  slave,  with  profligate  impulse, 

Solely  by  selfishness  moved,  and  reckless  of  aught  that  might 
Could  he  plead  in  only  excuse  a confession  of  baseness  ! [follow, 


profaneness  of  the  poem  partly  arises  from  the  ludicrous  effect 
prodi  ced  by  the  bad  taste  and  imbecility  of  the  performance,  for 
which  his  intentions  are  clearly  not  answerable.  Whatever  liberties 
a poet  may  claim  to  take,  in  representations  partly  allegorical,  with 
the  invisible  realities  of  the  world  to  come,  the  ignis  fatuus  of  poli- 
tical zeal  has,  in  this  instance,  carried  Mr.  Southey  far  beyond  any 
assignable  bounds  of  poetical  licence.  It  would  have  been  enough 
to  celebrate  the  apotheosis  of  the  monarch;  but,  when  he  proceeds 
to  travestie  the  final  judgment,  and  to  convert  the  awful  triounal  of 
Heaven  into  a drawing-room  levee,  where  he,  the  Poet  Laureate, 
takes  upon  himself  to  play  the  part  of  a lord  in  waiting,  presenting 
one  Georgian  worthy  after  another  to  kiss  hands  on  promotion, «»• 
what  should  be  grave  is,  indeed,  turned  to  farce.”] 


THE  VISION  OF  J UDGMENT. 


521 


By  people  in  the  next  world ; wliere  unite 
All  the  costumes  since  Adam’s,  right  or  wrong, 
From  Eve’s  fig-leaf  down  to  the  petticoat. 

Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 

f 

LXYII. 

The  spirit  look’d  around  upon  the  crowds 
Assembled,  and  exclaim’d,  “ My  friends  of  all 
Tiie  spheres,  we  shall  catch  cold  amongst  these  clouds ; 

So  let’s  to  business : why  this  general  call? 

If  those  are  freeholders  I see  in  shrouds, 

And  ’tis  for  an  election  that  they  bawl. 

Behold  a candidate  with  unturn’d  coat ! 

Saint  Peter,  may  I count  upon  youx  vote  ? ” 

lxyii  r. 

“ Sir,”  replied  Michael,  “you  mistake;  these  things 
Are  of  a former  life,  and  what  we  do 
Above  is  more  august ; to  judge  of  kings 
Is  the  tribunal  met : so  now  you  know.” 

“Then  I presume  those  gentlemen  with  wings,” 

Said  Wilkes,  “ are  cherubs ; and  that  soul  below 
Looks  much  like  George  the  Third,  but  to  my  mind 
A good  deal  older — Bless  me  ! is  he  blind  ?” 

LXIX. 

“ He  is  what  you  behold  him,  and  his  doom 
Depends  upon  his  deeds,”  the  Angel  said. 

“ If  you  have  aught  to  arraign  in  him,  the  tomb 
Gives  license  to  the  humblest  beggar’s  head 
To  lift  itself  against  the  loftiest.” — “ Some,” 

Said  Wilkes,  “ don’t  wait  to  see  them  laid  in  lead, 
For  such  a liberty — and  I,  for  one, 

Have  told  them  what  I thought  beneath  the  sun.” 

LXX. 

“ Above  the  sun  repeat,  then,  what  thou  hast 
To  urge  against  him,”  said  the  Archangel.  “ Why,” 
Replied  the  spirit,  “ since  old  scores  are  past, 

Must  I turn  evidence  ? In  faith,  not  I. 

Besides,  I beat  him  hollow  at  the  last, 

With  all  his  Lords  and  Commons : in  the  sky 
I don’t  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  since 
His  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a prince. 

LXXI. 

“ Foolish,  no  doubt,  and  wicked,  to  oppress 
A poor  unlucky  devil  without  a shilling ; 

But  then  I blame  the  man  himself  much  less 
Than  Bute  and  Grafton,  and  shall  be  unwilling 


Could  he  hide  the  extent  of  his  guilt ; or  hope  to  atone  for 
Faction  excited  at  home,  when  all  old  feuds  were  abated, 
Insurrection  abroad,  and  the  train  of  woes  that  had  follow’d ! 
Discontent  and  disloyalty,  like  the  teeth  of  the  dragon, 

He  had  sown  on  the  winds  ; they  had  ripen’d  beyond  the  Atlantic  ; * 
Thence  in  natural  birth,  sedition,  revolt,  revolution, 

France  had  received  the  seeds,  and  reap’d  the  harvest  of  horrors; 
Where — where  should  the  plague  be  stay’d?  Oh,  most  to  be  pitied 
They  of  all  souls  in  bale,  who  see  no  term  to  the  evil 
They  by  their  guilt  have  raised,  no  end  to  their  inner  upbraidings  ! 
Him  I could  not  choose  but  know,”  &c. — Southey.] 

(2)  [For  the  political  history  of  John  Wilkes,  who  died  chamber- 
lain  of  the  city  of  London,  we  must  refer  to  any  history  of  the 
reign  of  George  III.  His  profligate  personal  character  is  abun- 


* [“  Our  new  world  has  generally  the  credit  of  having  first  lighted 
the  torch  which  was  to  illuminate,  and  soon  set  in  a blaze,  the 
finest  part  of  Europe;  jet  1 think  the  first  flint  was  struck,  and  the 
first  spark  elicited,  by  the  patriot  John  Wilkes,  a few  years  before. 
In  a time  of  profound  peace,  the  restless  spirit  of  men,  deprived  of 
other  objects  of  public  curiosity,  seized  with  avidity  on  those  ques- 
tions which  were  then  agitated  with  so  much  violence  in  England, 
touching  the  right®  of  the  people  and  of  the  government,  and  the 


To  see  him  punish’d  here  for  their  excess, 

Since  they  were  both  damn’d  long  ago,  and  still  in 
Their  place  below  : for  me,  I have  forgiven, 

And  vote  his *  * habeas  corpus’  into  heaven.” 

LXXII. 

“ Wilkes,”  said  the  Devil,  “ I understand  all  this; 

You  turn’d  to  half  a courtier  ere  you  died,2 
And  seem  to  think  it  would  not  be  amiss 
To  grow  a whole-  one  on  the  other  side 
Of  Charon’s  ferry  ; you  forget  that  his 
Reign  is  concluded ; whatsoe’er  betide, 

He  won’t  be  sovereign  more  : you’ve  lost  your  labour* 
For  at  the  best  he  will  but  be  your  neighbour. 

LXXIII. 

“ However,  I knew  what  to  think  of  it. 

When  I beheld  you  in  your  jesting  way, 

Flitting  and  whispering  round  about  the  spit 
Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day, 

With  Fox’s  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 

His  pupil ; I knew  what  to  think,  I say : 

That  fellow  even  in  hell  breeds  farther  ills  ; 

I ’ll  have  him  gugffd, — ’twas  one  of  his  own  bills. 

LXXIV. 

“ Call  Junius  !”3  From  the  crowd  a shadow  stalk’d, 
And  at  the  name  there  was  a general  squeeze. 

So  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  walk’d 
In  comfort,  at  their  own  aerial  ease, 

But  were  all  ramm’d,  and  jamm’d  (but  to  be  balk’d, 
As  we  shall  see),  and  jostled  hands  and  knees, 

Like  wind  compress’d  and  pent  within  a bladder, 

Or  like  a human  colic,  which  is  sadder. 

LXXV. 

The  shadow  came— a tall,  thin,  giey-hair’d  figure. 
That  look’d  as  it  had  been  a shade  on  earth  ; 

Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigour, 

But  nought  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its  birth ; 

Now  it  wax’d  little,  then  again  grew  bigger, 

With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savage  mirth  ; 

But  as  you  gazed  upon  its  features,  they 
Changed  every  instant — to  what , none  could  say. 

LXX  VI. 

The  more  intently  the  ghosts  gazed,  the  less 

Could  they  distinguish  whose  the  features  were  ; 
The  Devil  himself  seem’d  puzzled  even  to  guess  ; 
They  varied  like  a dream — now  here,  now  there ; 


dantly  displayed  in  the  collection  of  his  letters,  published  by  hit 
daughter  ! since  his  death.] 

(3)  [“  Who  might  the  other  be,  his  comrade  in  guilt  and  in  suffering, 
Brought  to  the  proof  like  him,  and  shrinking  like  him  from 
the  trial  ? 

Nameless  the  Libeller  lived,  and  shot  his  arrows  in  darkness ; 
Undetected  he  passed  to  the  grave,  and,  leaving  behind  him 
Noxious  works  on  earth,  and  the  pest  of  an  evil  example. 
Went  to  the  world  beyond,  where  no  offences  are  hidden. 
Mask’d  had  he  been  in  his  life,  and  now  a visor  of  iron, 
Riveted  round  his  head,  had  abolish’d  his  features  for  ever. 
Speechless  the  slanderer  stood,  and  turn’d  his  face  from  the 
Iron-bound  as  it  was, ...  so  insupportably  dreadful  [Monarch, 
Soon  or  late  to  conscious  guilt  is  the  eye  of  the  injured  ” 

Southey.] 

nature  of  power.  The  end  of  the  political  drama  was  in  favour  of 
what  was  called,  and  in  some  respects  was,  the  liberty  of  the  people. 
Encouraged  by  the  success  of  this  great  comedian,  the  curtain  was 
no  sooner  dropped  on  the  scene  of  Europe,  than  new  actors  hastened 
tG  raise  it  again  in  America,  and  to  give  the  world  a new  play 
infinitely  more  interesting  and  mere  brilliant  than  the  first.”  — 
M.  Simond.] 

3 x 


522 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


\nd  several  people  swore  from  out  the  press, 

They  knew  him  perfectly ; and  one  could  swear 
He  was  his  father  : upon  which  another 
Was  sure  lie  was  his  mother’s  cousin’s  brother: 

LXXVII. 

Another,  that  he  was  a duke,  or  knight, 

An  orator,  a lawyer,  or  a priest, 

A nabob,  a man-midwife  D but  the  wight 
Mysterious  changed  his  countenance  at  least 
As  oft  as  they  their  minds : though  in  full  sight 
He  stood,  the  puzzle  only  was  increased ; 

The  man  was  a phantasmagoria  in 
Himself — he  was  so  volatile  and  thin.1 2 

LXXVII  i. 

The  moment  that  you  had  pronounced  him  one. 

Presto  ! his  face  changed,  and  he  was  another ; 

And  when  that  change  was  hardly  well  put  on, 

It  varied,  till  I don’t  think  his  own'  mother 
(If  that  he  had  a mother)  would  her  son 

Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from  one  to  t’  other ; 

Till  guessing  from  a pleasure  grew  a task, 

At  this  epistolary  “ Iron  Mask.”3 

LXXIX. 

For  sometimes  he  like  Cerberus  would  seem — 

“ Three  gentlemen  at  once”  (as  sagely  says 
Good  Mrs.  Malaprop) ; then  you  might  deem 
That  he  was  not  even  one  ; now  many  rays 
Were  flashing  round  him ; and  now  a thick  steam 
Hid  him  from  sight — like  fogs  on  London  days  : 
Now  Burke,  now  Tooke,  he  grew  to  people’s  fancies. 
And  certes  often  like  Sir  Philip  Francis.4 

LXXX. 

I’ve  an  hypothesis — ’tis  quite  my  own  ; 

I never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
Of  doing  people  harm  about  the  throne, 

And  injuring  some  minister  or  peer, 

On  whom  the  stigma  might  perhaps  be  blown : 

It  is — my  gentle  public,  lend  thine  ear  ! 

(1)  [Among  the  various  persons  to  whom  the  Letters  of  Junius 
have  been  attributed,  we  find  the  Duke  of  Portland,  Lord  George 
Sackville,  Sir  Philip  Francis,  Mr.  Burke,  Mr.  Dunning,  the  Rev. 
John  Horne  Tooke,  Mr.  Hugh  Boyd,  Dr.  Wilmot,  &c  ] 

(2)  [“I  don’t  know  what  to  think.  Why  should  Junius  be  dead? 
If  suddenly  apoplexed,  would  he  rest  in  his  grave  without  sending 
his  eidw\os  to  shout  in  the  ears  of  posterity,  ‘Junius  was  X.  Y.  Z., 
Esq.  buried  in  the  parish  of  * * * * V Repair  his  monument,  ye 
church  wardens  ! Print  a new  edition  of  his  Letters,  ye  booksellers  ! 
Impossible,— the  man  must  be  alive,  and  will  never  die  without 
the  disclosure.  I like  him; — he  was  a good  hater  ."  — Byron  Diary, 
Nov.  23,  1813.  Sir  Philip  Francis  died  in  Dec.  1818.] 

(3)  [The  mystery  of  “ l’homme  au  masque  de  fer,”  the  everlasting 
puzzle  of  the  last  century,  has  at  length,  in  general  opinion,  been 
cleared  up,  by  a French  work  published  in  1825,  and  which  formed 
the  basis  of  an  entertaining  one  in  English  by  Lord  Dover.  See 
Quarterly  Review,  vol.  xxxiv.  p.  19.] 

(4)  [That  the  work  entitled  “ The  identity  of  Junius  with  a dis- 
tinguished Living  Character  established”  proves  Sir  Philip  Francis 
to  be  Junius,  we  will  not  affirm ; but  this  we  can  safely  assert ; 
that  it  accumulates  such  a mass  of  circumstantial  evidence  as  ren- 
ders it  extremely  difficult  to  believe  he  is  not,  and  that,  if  so  many 
coincidences  shall  be  found  to  have  misled  us  in  this  case,  our  faith 
in  all  conclusions  drawn  from  proofs  of  a similar  kind  may  hence- 
forth be  shaken. — Mackintosh.] 

(5)  [The  well-known  motto  of  Junius  is,  “ Stat  nominis  umbra.”] 
16}  [“  Caitiffs,  are  ye  dumb?  cried  the  multifaced  Demon  in  anger; 

Think  ye  then  by  shame  to  shorten  the  term  of  your  penance? 
Back  to  your  penal  dens! — And  with  horrible  grasp  gigantic 
Seizing  the  guilty  pair,  he  swung  them  aloft,  and  in  vengeance 
Hurl'd  them  all  abroad,  far  into  the  sulphurous  darkness. 

Sons  of  Faction,  be  warn’d!  And  ye,  ye  Slanderers!  learn  ye 
Justice,  aift  bear  in  mind  that  after  death  there  is  judgment. 


’Tis  that  what  Junius  we  are  wont  to  call 
Was  really , truly,  nobody  at  all. 

LXXXI. 

I don’t  see  wherefore  letters  should  not  be 
Written  without  hands,  since  we  daily  view 
Them  written  without  heads  ; and  books,  we  see. 

Are  fill’d  as  well  without  the  latter  too  : 

And  really  till  we  fix  on  somebody 

For  certain  sure  to  claim  them  as  his  due, 

Their  author,  like  the  Niger’s  mouth,  will  bother 
The  world  to  say  if  there  be  mouth  or  author. 

LXXXII. 

“ And  who  and  what  art  thou  ?”  the  Archangel  said. 

“ For  that  you  may  consult  my  title-page,” 

Replied  this  mighty  shadow  of  a shade  : 

“ If  I have  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 

I scarce  shall  tell  it  now.” — “ Canst  thou  upbraid,” 
Continued  Michael,  “ George  Rex,  or  allege 
Aught  further  ?”  Junius  answer’d,  “ You  had  better 
First  ask  him  for  his  answer  to  my  letter  : 

LXXXIII. 

" M”  charges  upon  reeord  will  outlast 
The  crass  of  both  his  epitaph  and  tomb.” 

“ Repent’st  thou  not,”  said  Michael,  “ of  some  past 
Exaggeration?  something  which  may  doom 
Thyself  if  false,  as  him  if  true  ? Thou  wast 
Too  bitter — is  it  not  so  ? — in  thy  gloom 
Of  passion?” — “Passion  !”  cried  the  phantom  dim, 

“ I loved  my  country,  and  I hated  him. 

LXXXIV. 

“ What  I have  written,  I have  written : let 
The  rest  be  on  his  head  or  mine  ! ” So  spoke 
Old  “ Nominis  Umbra  5 and  while  speaking  yet, 
Away  he  melted  in  celestial  smoke.6 
Then  Satan  said  to  Michael,  “ Don’t  forget 

To  call  George  Washington,7  and  John  Horne  Tooke, 
And  Franklin  ; — but  at  this  time  there  was  heard 
A cry  for  room,  though  not  a phantom  stirr’d. 


Whirling,  away  they  flew  ! Nor  long  himself  did  he  tarry, 

Ere  from  the  ground  where  he  stood,  caught  up  by  a vehement 
whirlwind,  [thunder 

He  too  was  hurried  away:  and  the  blast  with  lightning  and 
Vollying  aright  and  aleft  amid  the  accumulate  blackness, 
Scatter’d  its  inmates  accurst,  and  beyond  the  limits  of  ether 
Drove  the  hircine  host  obscene  ; they  howling  and  groaning 
Fell  precipitate  down  to  their  dolorous  place  of  endurance.” 

Southey.] 

<7',  [ “ The  roll  of  the  thunder 

Ceased,  and  all  sounds  were  hush’d,  till  again  from  the  gate 
adamantine 

Was  the  voice  of  the  Angel  heard  through  the  silence  of  Heaven 
Ho!  he  exclaim’d,  King  George  of  England  standeth  in  judg- 
ment ! [raign’d  him, 

Hell  hath  been  dumb  in  his  presence.  Ye  who  on  earth  ar- 
Come  ye  before  him  now,  and  here  accuse  or  absolve  him! 

From  the  Souls  of  the  Blessed, 

Some  were  there  then  who  advanced ; and  more  from  the  skirts 
of  the  meeting, 

Spirits  who  had  not  yet  accomplish’d  their  purification, 

Yet  being  cleansed  from  pride,  from  faction  and  error  deliver’!, 
Purged  of  the  film  wlierewivh  the  eye  of  the  mind  is  clouded, 

They,  in  their  better  state,  saw  all  things  clear 

One  alone  remain’d,  when  the  rest  had  retired  to  their  station: 
Silently  he  had  stood,  and  still  unmoved  and  in  silence, 

With  a steady  mien,  regarded  the  face  of  the  Monarch. 
Thoughtful  awhile  he  gazed : — 

‘ Here  then  at  the  Gate  of  Heaven  we  are  met  1’  said  the  Spirit, 
‘ King  of  England ! albeit  in  life  opposed  to  each  other, 

Here  we  meet  at  last.  Not  unprepared  for  the  meeting 
Ween  I ; for  we  had  both  outlived  all  enmity,  rendering 
Each  to  each  that  justice  which  each  from  each  had  withholden. 
In  the  course  of  events,  to  thee  I seem’d  as  a Rebel, 

Thou  a Tyrant  to  me; — so  strongly  doth  circumstance  rule  men 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT 


523 


LXXXV. 

ki  length  with  jostling,  elbowing,  and  the  aid 
01'  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post, 

The  devil  Asmodeus  to  the  circle  made 
His  way,  and  look’d  as'  if  his  journey  cost 
Some  trouble.  When  his  burden  down  he  laid, 

“ What’s  this?”  cried  Michael;  “why,  ’tis  not  a 
ghost  ?” 

“ I know  it,”  quoth  the  incubus  ; “ but  he 
Shall  be  one,  if  you  leave  the  affair  to  me. 

LXXXVI. 

“ Confound  the  renegado  ! I have  sprain’d 
My  left  wing,  lie’s  so  heavy  ; one  would  think 
Some  of  his  works  about  his  neck  were  chain’d. 

But  to  the  point ; while  hovering  o’er  the  brink 
Of  Skiddaw* 1  (where  as  usual  it  still  rain’d), 

I saw  a taper,  far  below  me,  wink, 

And  stooping,  caught  this  fellow  at  a libel — 

No  less  on  history  than  the  Holy  Bible. 

LXXXVII. 

“ The  former  is  the  devil’s  scripture,  and 
The  latter  yours,  good  Michael ; so  the  affair 
Belongs  to  all  of  us,  you  understand. 

I snatch’d  him  up  just  as  you  see  him  there. 

And  brought  him  off  for  sentence  out  of  hand  : 

I’ve  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the  air — 

At  least  a quarter  it  can  hardly  be  : 

I dare  say  that  his  wife  is  still  at  tea.” 

LXXXVIII. 

Here  Satan  said,  “ I know  this  man  of  old, 

And  have  expected  him  for  some  time  here; 

A siffier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold, 

Or  more  conceited  in  his  petty  sphere : 

But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 

Such  trash  below  your  wing,  Asmodeus  dear : 

We  had  the  poor  wretch  safe  (without  being  bored 
With  carriage)  coming  of  his  own  accord. 

LXXXIX. 

“ But  since  he’s  here,  let’s  see  what  he  has  done.” 

“ Done ! ” cried  Asmodeus,  “ he  anticipates 
The  very  business  you  are  now  upon, 

And  scribbles  as  if  head  clerk  to  the  Eates. 

Who  knows  to  wliat  his  ribaldry  may  run, 

When  such  an  ass  as  this,  like  Balaam’s,  prates 
“ Let’s  hear,”  quoth  Michael,  “ what  he  has  to  say; 
You  know  we’re  bound  to  that  in  every  way.” 

xc. 

Now  the  bard,  glad  to  get  an  audience,  which 
By  no  means  often  was  his  case  below. 

During  evil  days,  when  right  and  wrong  are  confounded  ! ’ 

‘ Washington  ! ’ said  the  Monarch,  * well  hast  thou  spoken,  and 
truly. 

Just  to  thyself  and  to  me.  On  them  is  the  guilt  of  the  contest 
Who,  for  wicked  ends,  with  foul  arts  of  faction  and  falsehood, 
Kindled  and  fed  the  flame  : but  verily  they  have  their  guerdon. 
Thou  and  I are  free  from  offence.’ — 

When  that  Spirit  withdrew,  the  Monarch  around  the  assembly 
look’d,  but  none  else  came  forth,”  &c. — Southey.] 

(1)  [Mr.  Southey’s  residence  is  on  the  shore  of  Derwentwater, 
near  the  mountain  Skiddaw'.] 

(2)  [ “ Mediocribus  esse  poetis 

Non  Di,  non  homines,  non  concessere  columnae.” — Horac e.] 

(S)  [The  king’s  trick  of  repeating  his  words  in  this  way  was  a fer- 
tile source  of  ridicule  to  Ptter  Pindar  (Dr.  Wolcot);  for  example — 
“ The  conquering  monarch,  stopping  to  take  breath 
Amidst  the  regiments  of  death, 


Began  to  cough,  and  hawk,  ana  .ism,  and  pitch 
His  voice  into  that  awful  note  of  woe 
To  all  unhappy  hearers  within  reach 

Of  poets  when  the  tide  of  rhyme ’s  in  flow ; 

But  stuck  fast  with  his  first  hexameter, 

Not  one  of  all  whose  gouty  feet  would  stir. 

xci. 

But  ere  the  spavin’d  dactyls  could  be  spurr’d 
Into  recitative,  in  great  dismay. 

Both  cherubim  and  seraphim  were  heard 
To  murmur  loudly  through  their  long  array ; 

And  Michael  rose  ere  lie  could  get  a word 

Of  all  his  founder’d  verses  under  way,  [best — 

And  cried,  “ For  God’s  sake,  stop,  my  friend ! ’twere 
Non  Ni,  non  homines — you  know  the  rest.”2 

xcn. 

A general  bustle  spread  throughout  the  throng, 
Which  seem’d  to  hold  all  verse  in  detestation; 

The  angels  had  of  course  enough  of  song 
When  upon  service  ; and  the  generation 
Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not  long 
Before,  to  profit  by  a new  occasion ; [what ! 3 

The  monarch,  mute  till  then,  exclaim’d,  “ What ! 
Pye 4 come  again?  No  more — no  more  of  that !” 

xcm. 

The  tumult  grew;  an  universal  cough 
Convulsed  the  skies,  as  during  a debate. 

When  Castlereagli  has  been  up  long  enough 
(Before  he  was  first  minister  of  state, 

I mean — the  slaves  hear  now ) ; some  cried  ‘‘Off,  off!” 
As  at  a farce ; till,  grown  quite  desperate, 

The  bard  Saint  Peter  pray’d  to  interpose 
(Himself  an  author)  only  for  his  prose. 

XCIV. 

The  vailet  was  not  an  ill-favour’d  kna^ 

A good  deal  like  a vulture  in  the  face, 

With  a hook  nose  and  a hawk’s  eye,  which  gave 
A'  smart  and  sharper-looking  sort  of  grace 
To  his  whole  aspect,  which,  though  rather  grave. 

Was  by  no  means  so  ugly  as  bis  case ; 

But  that  indeed  was  hopeless  as  can  be, 

Quite  a poetic  felony  “ de  se” 

xcv. 

Then  Michael  blew  his  trump,  and  still’d  the  noise 
With  one  still  greater,  as  is  yet  the  mode 
On  earth  besides  ; except  some  grumbling  voice, 
Which  now  and  then  will  make  a slight  inroad 
Upon  decorous  silence,  few  will  twice 

Lift  up  their  lungs  when  fairly  overcrow’d  ; 

Now  turn’d  to  Whitbread  with  complacence  round; 

And,  merry,  thus  address’d  the  man  of  beer:— 

4 Whitbread,  is ’t  true  ? I hear,  I hear, 

You’re  of  an  ancient  family — renown.’d — 

What?  What?  I’m  told  that  you’re  a limb 
Of  Pym,  the  famous  fellow  Pj  m : 

What,  Whitbread,  is  it  true  what  people  say? 

Son  of  a roundhead  are  you?  hse?  hae?  hae? 

Thirtieth  of  January  don’t  you  feed? 

Yes,  yes,  you  eat  calf’s  head,  you  eat  calf’s  head  1 ’ ”] 

(4)  [Henry  James  Pye,  the  predecessor  of  Mr.  Southey  in  the 
poet-laureateship,  died  in  1813.  He  was  the  author  of  many  works, 
besides  his  official  Odes,  among  others  “ Alfred.”  an  epic  poem — 
all  of  which  have  been  long  since  defunct.  Pye  was  a man  of 
good  fhmily  in  Berkshire,  sat  some  time  in  parliament,  and  was 
eminently  respectable  ia  every  thing  but  his  poetry.] 


524 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


And  now  cue  >fira  coiua  piead  his  own  bad  cause. 
With  ail  the  t itudes  of  self-applause. 

xcvi. 

He  said — (I  only  give  the  heads) — lie  said, 

He  meant  no  harm  in  scribbling ; ’twas  his  way 
Upon  all  topics ; ’twas,  besides,  his  bread, 

Of  which  he  butter’d  both  sides : ’twould  delay 
Too  long  the  assembly  (he  was  pleased  to  dread), 

And  take  up  rather  more  time  than  a day, 

To  name  his  works — he  would  but  cite  a few — 
“WatTyler” — “Rhymes  on  Blenheim” — “Waterloo.” 

XCVII. 

He  had  written  praises  of  a regicide  ; 

He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  whatever ; 

He  had  written  for  republics  far  and  wide, 

And  then  against  them  bitterer  than  ever ; 

For  pantisocracy  he  once  had  cried 

Aloud,  a scheme  less  moral  than  ’twas  clever ; 

grew  a hearty  anti-jacobin — 
ad  turn’d  his  coat — and  would  have  turn’d  his  skin. 

xcvm. 

He  had  sung  against  all  battles,  and  again 
In  their  high  praise  and  glory  ; he  had  call’d 
Reviewing1  “the  ungentle  craft,”  and  then 
Become  as  base  a critic  as  e’er  crawl’d — 

Fed,  paid,  and  pamper’d  by  the  very  men 

By  whom  his  muse  and  morals  had  been  maul’d  : 
He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker  prose, 
And  more  of  both  than  any  body  knows. 

xcix. 

He  had  written  Wesley’s  life : — here  turning  round 
To  Satan,  “ Sir,  I ’m  ready  to  write  yours, 

In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound, 

With  notes  and  preface,  all  that  most  allures 
The  pious  purchaser:  and  there’s  no  ground  # 

For  fear,  for  I can  choose  my  own  reviewers  : 

So  let  me  have  the  proper  documents 
That  T may  add  you  to  my  other  saints.” 

c. 

Satan  bow’d,  and  was  silent.  “ Well,  if  you, 

With  amiable  modesty,  decline 


(I)  See  “ Life  of  Henry  Kirke  White." 

12)  [“  Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  Gates ; and  ye  everlasting  Portals, 

Be  ye  lift  up!  For  lo  ! a glorified  Monarch  approacheth, 

One  who  in  righteousness  reign’d,  and  religiously  govern’d  his 
people. 

Who  are  these  that  await  him  within  T — Nassau,  the  Deliverer, 
Him  I knew  . . . Thou,  too,  O matchless  Eliza, 

Excellent  Queen,  wert  there!  and  thy  brother’s  beautiful  spirit. 
There  too  was  he  of  the  sable  mail,  the  hero  of  Cressy, 
Lion-hearted  Richard  was  there,  redoubtable  warrior. 

I saw  the  spirit  of  Alfred — 

Alfred,  than  whom  no  prince  with  loftier  intellect  gifted. 

. . . Bede  I beheld,  who,  humble  and  holy, 

Shone  like  a single  star,  serene  in  a night  of  darkness. 

Bacon  also  was  there,  the  marvellous  Friar; 

Thee,  too,  Father  Chaucer ! I saw,  and  delitthted-to  see  thee — 
And  Shakspeare,  who  in  our  hearts  for  himself  hath  erected  an 
. . . . A train  whom  nearer  duty  attracted,  [empire. 

Through  the  Gate  of  Bliss  came  forth  to  welcome  their  Sove- 
reign. 

Many  were  they,  and  glorious  all.  Conspicuous  among  them 
Wolfe  was  seen ; and  4the  Seaman  who  fell  on  the  shores  of 
Owhyhee.* 

And  the  mighty  Musician  of  Germany, t ours  by  adoption, 
Who  beheld  in  the  king  his  munificent  pupil  and  patron — 
There,  too,  Wesley,  I saw  and  knew — And  Burke  I beheld  there. 


My  offer,  what  says  Mieri&c.  ? There  are  Tew 
Whose  memoirs  could  be  render’d  more  divi:*. 
Mine  is  a pen  of  all  work  ; not  so  new 

As  it  was  once,  but  I would  j.ake  you  shine 
Like  your  own  trumpet.  By  the  way,  my  own 
Has  more  of  brass  in  it,  and  is  as  well  blown. 

ci. 

“ But  talking  about  trumpets,  here’s  my  Vision  ! 

Now  you  shall  judge,  all  people  ; yes,  you  shall 
Judge  with  my  judgment,  and  by  my  decision 
Be  guided  who  shall  enter  heaven  or  fall.2 
I settle  all  these  things  by  intuition, 

Times  present,  past,  to  come,  heaven,  hell,  and  all. 
Like  king  Alfonso.3  When  I thus  see  double, 

I save  the  Deity  some  worlds  of  trouble.” 

cn. 

He  ceased,  and  drew  forth  an  MS. ; and  no 
Persuasion  on  the  part  of  devils,  or  saints, 

Or  angels,  now  could  stop  the  torrent ; so 
He  read  the  first  three  lines  of  the  contents ; 

But  at  the  fourth,  the  whole  spiritual  show 
Had  vanish’d,  with  variety  of  scents, 

Ambrosial  and  sulphureous,  as  they  sprang, 

Like  lightning,  off  from  his  “melodious  twang.”4  f 

cm. 

Those  grand  heroics  acted  as  a spell ; 

The  angels  stopp’d  their  ears  and  plied  their  pinion , 
The  devils  ran  howling,  deafen’d,  down  to  hell ; 

The  ghosts  fled,  gibbering,  for  their  own  dominions— 
(For  ’tis  not  yet  decided  where  they  dwell, 

And  I leave  every  man  to  his  opinions) ; 

Michael  took  refuge  in  his  trump — but,  lo  ! 

His  teeth  were  set  on  edge,  he  could  not  blow ! 

civ. 

Saint  Peter,  who  has  hitherto  been  known 
For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his  keys, 

And  at  the  fifth  line  knock’d  the  poet  down;5 

Who  fell  like  Phaeton,  but  more  at  ease, 

Into  his  lake,  for  there  he  did  not  drown ; 

A different  web  being  by  the  Destinies 
Woven  for  the  Laureate’s  final  wreath,  whene’er 
Reform  shall  happen  either  here  or  there. 


Here,  where  wrongs  are  forgiven,  was  the  injured  Hastings 
beside  him ; 

There  was  our  late-lost  Queen,  the  nation’s  example  of  virtue,” 
&c.  &c.  Southet.] 

(3)  Alfonso,  speaking  of  the  Ptolomean  system,  said,  that  “ had 
he  been  consulted  at  the  creation  of  the  world,  he  would  have 
spared  the  Maker  some  absurdities.” 

(4)  See  Aubrey’s  account  of  the  apparition  which  disappeared 
“ with  a curious  perfume  and  a most  melodious  twang  or  see  the 
“ Antiquary ,”  vol.  i.  p.  225. — [“  As  the  vision  shut  his  volume,  a 
strain  of  delightful  music  seemed  to  fill  the  apartment." — “The 
usual  time,”  says  Grose,  “ at  which  ghosts  make  their  appear- 
ance is  midnight,  and  seldom  before  it  is  dark  ; though  some  auda- 
cious spirits  have  been  said  to  appear  even  by  day-light ; but  of 
this  there  are  few  instances,  and  those  mostly  ghosts  v/ho  had  been 
laid,  and  whose  terms  of  confinement  were  expired.  I cannot  learn 
that  ghosts  carry  tapers  in  their  hands,  as  they  are  sometimes 
depicted.  Dragging  chains  is  not  the  fashion  of  English  ghosts; 
chains  and  black  vestments  being  chiefly  the  accoutrements  of  foreign 
spectres  seen  in  arbitrary  governments ; dead  or  alive,  English 
spirits  are  free.  During  the  narration  of  its  business,  a ghost  must 
by  no  means  be  interrupted  by  questions  of  any  kind : its  narration 
being  completed,  it  vanishes  away,  frequently  in  a flash  of  light; 
in  which  case,  some  ghosts  have  been  so  considerate  as  to  desir* 
the  par.ty  to  whom  they  appeared  to  shut  their  eyes: — sometimes 
its  departure  is  attended  with  most  delightful  music.’’] 

(5)  [“  When  I beheld  them  meet,  the  desire  of  my  soul  o’ercame  me; 

And  when  with  harp  and  voice  the  loud  hosannahs  of  welcome 


• Cook. 


*■  Handel, 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


525 


cv. 

He  first  sank  to  the  bottom — like  his  works, 

But  soon  rose  to  the  surface — like  himself ; 

For  all  corrupted  things  are  buoy’d  like  corks,* 1 
By  their  own  rottenness,  light  as  an  elf. 

Or  wisp  that  flits  o’er  a morass : he  lurks, 

It  may  be,  still,  like  dull  books  on  a shelf, 

In  his  own  den,  to  scrawl  some  “Life”  or  “Vision,”2 
As  Welborn  says — “ the  devil  turn’d  precisian.” 


Fill’d  the  rejoicing  sky,  as  the  happy  company  enter’d 
Through  the  Everlasting  Gates,  I,  too,  press’d  forward  to  enter — 
But  the  weight  of  the  body  withheld  me. — I stoop’d  to  the 
fountain, 

Eager  to  drink  thereof,  and  to  put  away  all  that  was  earthly. 
Darkness  came  over  me  then  at  the  chilling  touch  of  the  water, 
And  my  feet  methought  sunk,  and  I fell  precipitate.  Starting, 
Then  1 awoke,  and  beheld  the  mountains  in  twilight  before  me, 
Dark  and  distinct;  and,  instead  of  the  rapturous  sound  of 
hosannahs, 

Heard  the  bell  from  the  tower,  toll!  toll!  through  the 
silence  of  evening.” — Southev.] 

(1)  A drowned  body  lies  at  the  bottom  till  rotten;  it  then  floats, 
as  most  people  know. 

(2)  [Southey’s  Vision  of  Judgment  appears  to  us  to  be  an  ill- 
judged,  and  not  a well-executed  work.  It  certainly  has  added 
nothing  to  the  reputation  of  its  author  in  any  respect.  The  noble- 
ness of  his  motive  does  not  atone  for  the  indiscretion  of  putting  it 
into  so  reprehensible  a form.  Milton’s  example  will,  perhaps,  be 
pleaded  in  his  vindication ; but  Milton  alone  has  ever  founded  a 
fiction  on  the  basis  of  revelation,  without  degrading  his  subject. 
He  alone  has  succeeded  in  carrying  his  readers  into  the  spiritual 
world.  No  other  attempt  of  the  kind  has  ever  appeared  that  can 
be  read  without  a constant  feeling  of  something  like  burlesque, 
and  a wish  that  the  Tartarus  and  Elysium  of  the  idolatrous  Greeks 
should  still  be  the  hell  and  the  heaven  of  poetry.  A smile  at  the 
puerilities,  and  a laugh  at  the  absurdity  of  the  poet,  might  then  be 
enjoyed  by  the  reader,  without  an  apprehension  that  he  was  guilty 
of  profanity  in  giving  it.  Milton  has  been  blamed  by  the  most 
judicious  critics,  and  his  warmest  admirers,  for  expressing  the 
counsels  of  Eternal  Wisdom,  and  the  decrees  of  Almighty  Power, 
by  words  assigned  to  the  Deity.  It  offends  against  poetical  pro- 
priety and  poetical  probability.  It  is  impossible  to  deceive  our- 
selves into  a momentary  and  poetical  belief  that  words  proceeded 
from  the  Holy  Spirit,  except  on  the  warrant  of  inspiration  itself.  It 
is  here  only  that  Milton  fails,  and  here  Milton  sometimes  shocks. 
The  language  and  conduct  ascribed  by  Milton  to  his  inferior  spirits, 
accord  so  well  with  our  conceptions  and  belief  respecting  their 
nature  and  existence,  that  in  many  places  we  forget  that  they  are, 
in  any  respect,  the  creatures  of  imagination.  The  blasphemies  of 
Milton’s  devils  offend  not  a pious  ear,  because  they  are  devils  who 
utter  them.  Nor  are  we  displeased  with  the  poet’s  presumption  in 
feigning  language  for  heavenly  spirits,  because  it  is  a language  that 
lifts  the  soul  to  heaven  ; and  we  more  than  believe,  we  know 
and  feel,  that,  whatever  may  be  the  nature  of  the  language  of 
angels,  the  language  of  the  poet  truly  interprets  their  sentiments. 
The  words  are  human ; but  the  trpths  they  express,  and  the  doc- 
trines they  teach,  are  divine.  Nothing  of  the  same  kind  can  be 
said  of  any  other  fable,  serious  or  ludicrous,  pious  or  profane, 
that  has  yet  been  written  in  any  age  or  language. — Blackwood, 
1822.] 

(3)  [The  “Vision  of  Judgment”  appeared,  as  has  been  already 
said,  in  “The  Liberal” — a Journal  which,  consisting  chiefly  of 
pieces  by  the  late  Mr.  Hazlitt  and  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  was  not  saved 
from  ruin  by  a few  contributions,  some  of  the  highest  merit,  by  Lord 
Byron  In  his  work  entitled  “ Lord  Byron  and  his  Contemporaries,” 
Mr.  Hunt  assaulted  the  dead  poet,  with  reference  to  this  unhappy 
Journal ; and  his  charges  were  thus  taken  to  pieces  at,  the  time  in 
the  Quarterly  Review ; — 

“ Mr.  Hunt  describes  himself  as  pressed  by  Lord  Byron  into  the 
undertaking  of  that  hapless  magazine  : Lord  Byron,  on  the  con- 
trary, represents  himself  as  urged  to  the  service  by  the  Messrs. 
Hunt  themselves.”  e.g. 

“ ‘Genoa,  Oct.  9th,  1822.  — I am  afraid  the  Journal  is  a bad 
business,  and  won’t  do,  but  in  it  I am  sacrificing  myself  for  others. 
I can  have  no  advantage  in  it.  I believe  the  brothers  Hunts  to  be 
honest  men ; I am  sure  that  they  are  poor  ones ; they  have  not  a 
Nap.  They  pressed  me  to  engage  in  this  work,  and  in  an  evil  hour 
1 consented;  still  I shall  not  repent  if  I can  do  them  the  least 
service.  I have  done  all  I can  for  Leigh  Hunt  since  he  came  here, 
but  it  is  almost  useless : his  wife  is  ill ; his  six  children  not  very 
tractable  ; and  in  affairs  of  this  world  he  himself  is  a perfect  child. 
The  death  of  Shelley  left  them  totally  aground ; and  I could  not  see 
them  in  such  a state  without  using  the  common  feelings  of  humanity, 
and  what  means  were  in  my  power  to  set  them  afloat  again.’ 

“Again — Mr.  Hunt  represents  Lord  Byron  as  dropping  his  con- 
nexion with  ‘ The  Liberal,’  partly  because  his  friends  at  home 
(Messrs.  Moore,  Hobhouse,  Murray,  &c.)  told  him  it  was  a discredit- 
able one,  and  partly  because  the  business  did  not  turn  out  lucrative. 


CVI. 

As  for  the  rest,  to  come  to  the  conclusion 
Of  this  true  dream,  the  telescope  is  gone 
Which  kept  my  optics  free  from  all  delusion. 

And  sliow’d  me  what  I in  my  turn  have  shown ; 

All  I saw  farther,  in  the  last  confusion, 

Was,  that  King  George  slipp’d  into  heaven  for  one : 
And  when  the  tumult  dwindled  to  a calm, 

I left  him  practising  the  hundredth  psalm.3 


“ ‘ It  is  a mistake  to  suppose,  that  he  was  not  mainly  influenced 
by  the  expectation  of  profit.  He  expected  very  large  returns  from 
The  Liberal.’  Readers  in  these  days  need  not  be  told,  that 
periodical  works  which  have  a large  sale  are  a mine  of  wealth : 
Lord  Byron  had  calculated  that  matter  well.’ — Lord  Byron  and  his 
Contemporaries,  p.  50. 

“ ‘ The  failure  of  the  large  profits — the  non-appearance  of  the 
golden  visions  he  had  looked  for,  of  the  Edinburgh  or  Quarterly 
returns— of  the  solid  and  splendid  proofs  of  this  new  country, 
which  he  should  conquer  in  the  regions  of  notoriety,  to  the  dazzling 
of  all  men’s  eyes  and  his  own — this  it  was — this  was  the  bitter 
disappointment  which  made  him  determine  to  give  way.’ — Ibid. 
p.  51. 

“ Now  let  us  hear  Lord  Byron  himself: — 

“ ‘ Genoa,  9>>re  18th,  1822. — They  will,  of  course,  attribute  mo- 
tives of  all  kinds;  but  I shall  not  abandon  a man  like  Hunt  be- 
cause he  is  unfortunate.  Why,  I could  have  no  pecuniary  motives, 
and,  least  of  all,  in  connexion  with  Hunt.’ 

“ ‘Genoa,  lObre  25,  1822. — Now  do  you  see  what  you  and  your 
friends  do  by  your  injudicious  rudeness  ? actually  cement  a sort  of 
connexion  which  you  strove  to  prevent,  and  which,  had  the  Hunts 
prospered,  would  not,  in  all  probability,  have  continued.  As  it'is, 

I will  not  quit  them  in  their  adversity,  though  it  should  cost  me 
character,  fame,  money,  and  the  usual  et  cetera.  My  original 
motives  I already  explained ; (in  the  letter  which  you  thought  pro- 
per to  show;)  they  are  the  true  ones,  and  I abide  by  them,  as 
I tell  you,  and  I told  Leigh  Hunt,  when  he  questioned  me  on  the 
subject  of  that  letter.  He  was  violently  hurt,  and  never  will  forgive 
me  at  the  bottom  ; but  I cannot  help  that.  1 never  meant  to  make 
a parade  of  it ; but  if  he  chose  to  question  me,  1 could  only  answer 
the  plain  truth ; and  I confess,  I did  not  see  any  thing  in  the  lettei 
to  hurt  him,  unless  I said  he  was  “ a bore,”  which  I don’t  remem- 
ber. Had  this  Journal  gone  on  well,  and  I could  have  aided  to 
make  it  better  for  them,  I should  then  have  left  them,  after  a safe 
pilotage  off  a lee  shore,  to  make  a prosperous  voyage  by  themselves. 
As  it  is,  I can’t,  and  would  not  if  I could,  leave  them  among  the 
breakers.  As  to  any  community  of  feeling,  thought,  or  opinion, 
between  Leigh  Hunt  and  me,  there  is  little  or  none.  We  meet 
rarely,  hardly  ever ; but  I think  him  a good-principled  and  able 
man,  and  must  do  as  I would  be  done  by.’  ” 

The  Reviewer  proceeds  to  comment  on  Mr.  Hunt’s  general  abuse 
of  Lord  Byron’s  manners,  habits,  and  conversation : 

“ The  witness  is,  in  our  opinion,  disqualified  to  give  evidence 
upon  any  such  subjects : his  book  proves  him  to  be  equally  igno- 
rant of  what  manners  are,  and  incompetent  to  judge  what  manners 
ought  to  be;  his  elaborate  portraiture  of  his  own  habits  is  from  be- 
ginning to  end  a very  caricature  of  absurdity;  and  the  man  who 
wrote  this  book,  studiously  cast,  as  the  whole  language  of  it  is,  fn  a 
free-and-easy,  conversational  tone,  has  no  more  right  to  decide 
about  the  conversation  of  such  a man  as  Lord  Byron,  than  has  a 
pert  apprentice  to  pronounce  ex  cathedra  — from  his  one-shilling 
gallery,  to  wit — on  the  dialogue  of  a polite  comedy.  We  can  easily 
believe,  that  Lord  Byron  never  talked  his  best  when  this  was  his 
Companion.  We  can  also  believe,  that  Lord  Byron’s  serious  con- 
versation, even  in  its  lowest  tone,  was  often  unintelligible  to  Mr. 
Leigh  Hunt.  We  are  morally  certain,  that  in  such  company  Lord 
Byron  talked,  very  often  indeed,  for  the  mere  purpose  of  amusing 
himself  at  the  expense  of  his  ignorant,  fantastic,  lackadaisical 
guest;  that  he  considered  the  Magnus  Apollo  of  Paradise  Row  as 
a precious  butt,  and  acted  accordingly.  We  therefore  consider  Mr. 
Hunt's  evidence  as  absolutely  inadmissible,  on  strong  preliminary 
grounds.  But  what  are  we  to  say  to  it,  when  we  find  it,  as  we  do, 
totally  and  diametrically  at  variance  both  with  the  substance  and 
complexion  of  Lord  Byron’s  epistolary  correspondence ; and  with 
the  oral  testimonies  of  men  whose  talents,  originally  superior  be- 
yond all  possibility  of  measurement  to  Mr.  Hunt’s,  have  been 
matured  and  perfected  by  study,  both  of  books  and  men,  such  as 
j Mr.  Hunt  never  even  dreamed  of;  who  had  the  advantage  of  meet- 
ing Lord  Byron  on  terms  of  perfect  equality  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses ; and  who,  qualified,  as  they  probably  were,  above  any  of 
their  contemporaries,  to  appreciate  Lord  Byron,  whether  as  a poet, 
or  as  a man  of  high  rank  and  pre-eminent  fame,  mingling  in  the 
world  in  society  such  as  he  ought  never  to  have  sunk  below,  all  with 
one  voice  pronounce  an  opinion  exactly  and  in  every  particular,  as 
well  as  looking  to  things  broadly  and  to  the  general  effect,  the  re- 
verse of  that  which  this  unworthy  and  ungrateful  dependent  has 
j thought  himself  justified  in  promulgating,  on  the  plea  of  a penury 
j which  no  Lord  Byron  survives  to  relieve?  It  is  too  bad,  that  he 
who  has,  in  his  own  personal  conduct,  as  well  as  in  liis  writings,  so 


fflfye  Hfije  of  Hroinc: 


OR,  CARMEN  SECTJLARE  ET  ANNUS  HAUD  MIRABILIS.* 1 


“ Impar  Congressus  Achilli.’* 


I. 

The  “ good  old  times” — all  times  when  old  are  good — 
Are  gone  ; the  present  might  be  if  they  would  ; 

Great  things  have  been,  and  are,  and  greater  still 
Want  little  of  mere  mortals  but  their  will : 

A wider  space,  a greener  field,  is  given 

To  those  who  play  their  “ tricks  before  high  heaven.” 

I know  not  if  the  angels  weep,  but  men 

Have  wept  enough — for  what  ? — to  weep  again  ! 

ii. 

All  is  exploded — be  it  good  or  bad. 

Reader ! remember  when  thou  wert  a lad, 

Then  Pitt  was  all ; or,  if  not  all,  so  much, 

His  very  rival  almost  deem’d  him  such.2 
We,  we  have  seen  the  intellectual  race 
Of  giants  stand,  like  Titans,  face  to  face — - 
Athos  and  Ida,  with  a dashing  sea 
Of  eloquence  between,  which  flow’d  all  free, 

As  the  deep  billows  of  the  iEgean  roar 
Betwixt  the  Hellenic  and  the  Phrygian  shore. 

But  where  are  they — the  rivals  ! a few  feet 
Of  sullen  earth  divide  each  winding  sheet.3 4 
How  peaceful  and  how  powerful  is  the  grave. 

Which  hushes  all ! a calm,  unstormy  wave, 


much  tc  answer  for — who  abused  great  opportunities  and  great 
talents  so  lamentably — who  sinned  so  deeply,  both  against  the 
society  to  which  he  belonged  and  the  literature  in  which  his  name 
will  ever  hold  a splendid  place  — it  is  really  too  bad,  that  Lord 
Byron,  in  addition  to  the  grave  condemnation  of  men  able  to 
appreciate  both  his  merits  and  his  demerits,  and  well  disposed  to 
think  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger  of  the  worst  errors  that  ex- 
isted along  with  so  much  that  was  excellent  and  noble— it  is  by 
much  too  bad,  that  this  great  man’s  glorious  though  melancholy 
memory 

‘ Must  also  bear  the  vile  attacks 
Of  ragged  curs  and  vulgar  hacks’ 

whom  he  fed; — that  his  bones  must  be  scraped  up  from  their  bed 
of  repose  to  be  at  once  grinned  and  howled  over  by  creatures 
who,  even  in  the  least  hyena-like  of  their  moods,  can  touch 
nothing  that  mankind  would  wish  to  respect  without  polluting  it.” 

Mr.  Moore’s  Verses  on  Mr.  Hunt’s  work  must  not  be  omitted 

here : — 

“ Next  week  will  be  published  (as  ‘ Lives’  are  the  rage) 

The  whole  Reminiscences,  wondrous  and  strange, 

Of  a small  puppy-dog  that  lived  once  in  the  cage 
Of  the  late  noble  lion  at  Exeter  ’Change. 

“ Though  the  dog  is  a dog  of  the  kind  they  call  ‘ saa,’ 

’Tis  a puppy  that  much  to  good  breeding  pretends; 

And  few  dogs  have  such  opportunities  had 
Of  knowing  how  lions  behave — among  friends. 

“ How  that  animal  eats,  how  he  moves,  how  he  drinks, 

Is  all  noted  down  by  this  Boswell  so  small ; 

And  'tis  plain,  from  each  sentence,  the  puppy-dog  thinks 
That  the  lion  was  no  such  great  things  after  all. 

•*  Though  he  roar’d  pretty  well  — this  the  puppy  allows — 

It  was  all,  he  says,  borrow’d — all  second  hand  roar; 

And  he  vastly  prefers  his  own  little  bow-wows 
To  the  loftiest  war-note  the  lion  could  pour. 


Which  oversweeps  the  world.  The  theme  is  old 
Of  “ dust  to  dust but  half  its  tale  untold  : 

Time  tempers  not  its  terrors — still  the  worm 
Winds  its  cold  folds,  the  tomb  preserves  its  form. 
Varied  above,  but  still  alike  below  ; 

The  urn  may  shine,  the  ashes  will  not  glow, 
Though  Cleopatra’s  mummy  cross  the  sea 
O’er  which  from  empire  she  lured  Anthony  ; 
Though  Alexander’s  urn  a show  be  grown, 

On  shores  he  wept  to  conquer,  though  unknown — ■ 
How  vain,  how  worse  than  vain,  at  length  appear 
The  madman’s  wish,  the  Macedonian’s  tear ! 

He  wept  for  worlds  to  conquer — half  the  earth 
Knows  not  his  name,  or  but  his  death,  and  birth. 
And  desolation ; while  his  native  Greece 
Hath  all  of  desolation,  save  its  peace. 

He  “wept  for  worlds  to  conquer  !”  he  who  ne’er 
Conceived  the  globe,  he  panted  not  to  spare  ! 

With  even  the  busy  Northern  Isle  unknown, 
Which  holds  his  urn,  and  never  knew  his  throne.* 

hi. 

But  where  is  he,  the  modern,  mightier  far, 

Who,  born  no  king,  made  monarchs  draw  his  car  j 


“ ’Tis,  indeed,  as  good  fun  as  a Cynic  could  ask, 

To  see  how  this  cockney-bred  setter  of  rabbits 
Takes  gravely  the  lord  of  the  forest  to  task. 

And  judges  of  lions  by  puppy-dog  habits. 

“ Nay,  fed  as  he  was  (and  this  makes  it  a dark  case) 

With  sops  every  day  from  the  lion’s  own  pan, 

He  lifts  up  his  leg  at  the  noble  beast’s  carcass, 

And— does  all  a dog,  so  diminutive,  can. 

However,  the  book’s  a good  book,  being  rich  in 
Examples  and  warnings  to  lions  high-bred, 

How  they  suffer  small  mongrelly  curs  in  their  kitchen, 

Who  ’ll  feed  on  them  living,  and  foul  them  when  dead.”] 

(1)  [This  poem  was  written  by  Lord  Byron  at  Genoa,  in  tha 
early  part  of  the  year  1823;  and  published  in  London,  by  Mr. 
John  Hunt.  Its  authenticity  was  much  disputed  at  the  time.] 

(2)  [Mr.  Fbx  used  to  say — “ I never  want  a word,  but  Pitt  neve, 
wants  ihe  word.”] 

(3)  [The  grave  of  Mr.  Fox,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  is  within 
eighteen  inches  of  that  of  Mr.  Pitt, — 

“ Where — taming  thought  to  human  pride  !— 

The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 

Drop  upon  Fox’s  grave  the  tear, 

’Twill  trickle  to  his  rival’s  bier : 

O’er  Pitt’s  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 

And  Fox’s  shall  the  notes  rebound. 

The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry — 

* Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die; 

Speak  not  for  those  a separate  doom, 

Whom  fate  made  brothers  in  the  tomb; 

But  search  the  land  of  living  men, 

Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  again  1 ’ ” 

Sir  Walter  Scott  1 

(4)  [A  sarcophagus,  of  breccia,  supposed  to  have  contained  the 
dust  of  Alexander,  which  came  into  the  possession  of  the  English 
army,  in  consequence  of  the  capitulation  of  Alexandria,  in  Feb 
ruary,  1S02,  was  presented  by  George  111  to  the  British  Museum.] 


THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE. 


527 


The  new  Sesostris,  whose  unharness’d  kings,1 
[ Freed  from  the  bit,  believe  themselves  with  wings, 

I Aud  spurn  the  dust  o’er  which  they  crawl’d  of 
late, 

Chain’d  to  the  chariot  of  the  chieftain’s  state  ? 

Yes  ! where  is  lie,  the  champion  and  the  child 
Of  all  that’s  great  cr  littie,  wise  or  wild  ? 

AY  hose  game  was  empires,  and  whose  stakes  were 
thrones  ? 

AVliose  table  earth — whose  dice  were  human  bones  ? 
Behold  the  grand  result  in  yon  lone  isle,2 
And,  as  thy  nature  urges,  weep  or  smile. 

Sigh  to  behold  the  eagle’s  lofty  rage 
Reduced  to  nibble  at  his  narrow  cage  ; 

Smile  to  survey  the  queller  of  the  nations 
Now  daily  squabbling  o’er  disputed  rations ; 

AYeep  to  perceive  him  mourning,  as  he  dines, 

O’er  curtail’d  dishes  and  o’er  stinted  wines ; 

O’er  petty  quarrels  upon  petty  things. 

Is  this  the  man  who  scourged  or  feasted  kings  ? 
Behold  the  scales  in  which  his  fortune  hangs, 

A surgeon’s3  statement,  and  an  earl’s4  harangues  ! 

A bust  delay’d,5  a book  refused,  can  shake 
The  sleep  of  him  who  kept  the  world  awake. 

Is  this  indeed  the  tamer  of  the  great, 

Now  slave  of  all  could  tease  or  irritate — 

The  paltry  gaoler6  and  the  prying  spy, 

The  staring  stranger  with  his  note-book  nigh  ?7 
Plunged  in  a dungeon,  he  had  still  been  great ; 

How  low,  how  little  was  this  middle  state. 

Between  a prison  and  a palace,  where 
How  few  could  feel  for  what  he  had  to  bear ! 

Vain  his  complaint, — my  lord  presents  his  bill, 

His  food  and  wine  were  doled  out  duly  still : 

Vain  was  his  sickness,  never  was  a clime 
So  free  from  homicide — to  doubt’s  a crime  : 

And  the  stiff  surgeon,  who  maintain’d  his  cause, 

Hath  lost  his  place,  and  gain’d  the  world’s  applause.8 
But  smile — though  all  the  pangs  of  brain  and  heart 
Disdain,  defy,  the  tardy  aid  of  art ; 

Though,  save  the  few  fond  friends  and  imaged  face 
Of  that  fair  boy  his  sire  shall  ne’er  embrace, 

None  stand  by  his  low  bed — though  even  the  mind 
Be  wavering,  which  long  awed  and  awes  mankind ; 


(1)  [Sesostris  is  said,  by  Diodorus,  to  have  had  his  chariot  drawn 
by  eight  vanquished  sovereigns : — 

“ High  on  his  car  Sesostris  struck  my  view, 

Whom  scepter’d  slaves  in  golden  harness  drew  ; * 

His  hands  a bow  and  pointed  jav’lin  hold, 

His  giant  limbs  are  arm’d  in  scales  of  gold.” — Pope.] 

(2)  [St.  Helena.] 

(3)  [Mr.  Barry  O’Meara.] 

(4)  [Earl  Bathurst.] 

(5)  [The  bust  of  his  son.] 

(6}  [Sir  Hudson  Lowe.] 

(7)  [Captain  Basil  Hall’s  interesting-  account  of  his  interview  with 
the  ex-emperor  occurs  in  his  “ Voyage  to  Loo-choo.”] 

(8)  [The  circumstances  under  which  Mr.  O’Meara’s  dismissal 

.rom  his  Majesty’s  service  took  place  wiU  suffice  to  show  how  little 

“ the  stiff  surgeon”  merited  the  applause  of  Lord  Byron.  In  a 
letter  to  the  Admiralty  Board  by  Mr.  O’M.,  dated  Oct.  28.  1818, 
there  occurred  the  following  paragraph  : — “ In  the  third  interview 
which  Sir  Hudson  Lowe  had  with  Napoleon  Buonaparte,  in  May, 
1816,  he  proposes  to  the  latter  to  send  me  away,  and  to  replace 
me  by  Mr.  Baxter,  who  had  been  several  years  surgeon  in  the 
Corsican  Rangers.  Failing  in  this  attempt,  he  adopted  the  resolu- 
tion of  manifesting  great  confidence  in  me,  by  loading  me  with 
civilities,  inviting  me  constantly  to  dine  with  him,  conversing  for 
hours  together  with  me  alone,  both  in  his  own  house  and  grounds, 
and  at  Longwood,  either  in  my  own  room,  or  under  the  trees  and 
elsewhere.  On  some  of  these  occasions  he  made  to  me  observations 
upon  the  benefit  which  would  result  to  Europe  from  the  death  of 


Smile — for  the  letter'd  eagle  breaks  his  chain, 

And  higher  worlds  than  this  are  his  again.9 

IV. 

How,  if  that  soaring  spirit  still  retain 
A conscious  twilight  of  his  blazing  reign. 

How  must  he  smile,  on  looking  down,  to  see 
The  little  that  he  was  and  sought  to  be  ! 

What  though  his  name  a wider  empire  found 
Than  his  ambition,  though  with  scarce  a bound  , 
Though  first  in  glory,  deepest  in  reverse, 

He  tasted  empire’s  blessings  and  its  curse  ; 

Though  kings,  rejoicing  in  their  late  escape 
From  chains,  would  gladly  be  their  tyrant’s  ape  ; 
How  must  he  smile,  and  turn  to  you  lone  grave. 
The  proudest  sea-mark  that  o’ertops  the  wave * 
What  though  his  gaoler,  duteous  to  the  last, 

Scarce  deem’d  the  coffin’s  lead  could  keep  him  fast. 
Refusing  one  poor  line  along  the  lid, 

To  date  the  birth  and  death  of  all  it  hid  ; 

That  name  shall  hallow  the  ignoble  shore, 

A talisman  to  all  save  him  who  bore : 

The  fleets  that  sweep  before  the  eastern  blast 
Shall  hear  their  sea-boys  hail  it  from  the  mast ; 
When  \rictory’s  Gallic  column  shall  but  rise, 

Like  Pompey’s  pillar,  in  a desert’s  skies, 

The  rocky  isle  that  holds  or  held  his  dust 
Shall  crown  the  Atlantic  like  the  hero’s  bust. 

And  mighty  nature  o’er  his  obsequies 
Do  more  than  niggard  envy  still  denies. 

But  what  are  these  to  him  ? Can  Glory’s  lust 
Touch  the  freed  spirit  or  the  fetter’d  dust  ? 

Small  care  hath  he  of  what  his  tomb  consists ; 
Nought  if  he  sleeps — nor  more  if  he  exists : 

Alike  the  better-seeing  shade  will  smile 
On  the  rude  cavern  of  the  rocky  isle. 

As  if  his  ashes  found  their  latest  home 
In  Rome’s  Pantheon  or  Gaul’s  mimic  dome. 

He  wants  not  this  ; but  France  shall  feel  the  want 
Of  this  last  consolation,  though  so  scant ; 

Her  honour,  fame,  and  faith  demand  his  bones 
To  rear  above  a pyramid  of  thrones  ; 

Or  carried  onward  in  the  battle’s  van, 

To  form,  like  Guesclin’s10  dust,  her  talisman. 


Napoleon  Buonaparte  ; of  which  event  he  spoke  in  a manner  which, 
considering  his  situation  and  mine,  was  peculiarly  distressing  to 
me.” — Tiie  Secretary  to  the  Admiralty  was  instructed  to  answer  in 
these  terms: — “It  is  impossible  to  doubt  the  meaning  which  this 
passage  was  intended  to  convey  ; and  my  Lords,  can  as  little  doubt 
that  the  insinuation  is  a calumnious  falsehood : but  if  it  were 
true,  and  if  so  horrible  a suggestion  were  made  to  you,  directly 
or  indirectly,  it  was  your  bounden  duty  not  to  have  lost  a moment 
in  communicating  it  to  the  Admiral  on  the  spot,  or  to  the  Secretary 
of  State,  or  to  their  Lordships.  An  overture  so  monstrous  in  itself, 
and  so  deeply  involving,  not  merely  the  personal  character  of  the 
governor,  but  the  honour  of  the  nation,  and  the  important  interest 
committed  to  his  charge,  should  not  have  been  reserved  in  your 
own  breast  for  two  years,  to  be  produced  at  last,  not  (as  it  would  ap- 
pear) from  a sense  of  public  duty,  but  in  furtherance  of  your  own 
personal  hostility  against  the  governor.  Either  the  charge  is  in  the 
last  degree  false  and  calumnious,  or  you  can  have  no  possible 
excuse  for  having  hitherto  suppressed  it.  In  either  case,  and  with- 
out adverting  to  the  general  tenour  of  your  conduct,  as  stated  ia 
your  letter,  my  Lords  consider  you  to  be  an  improper  person  to 
continue  in  his  Majesty’s  service ; and  they  haye  directed  your 
name  to  be  erased  from  the  list  of  naval  surgeons  accordingly.” 
O’Meara  died  in  1836.] 

(9)  [Buonaparte  died  the  5th  of  May,  1821.] 

(10)  [Guesclin,  constable  of  France,  died  in  the  midst  of  his 
triumphs,  before  Chateauneuf  de  Randon,  in  1380.  The  English 
garrison,  which  had  conditioned  to  surrender  at  a certain  time, 
marched  out  the  day  after  his  death  ; and  the  commander  respect 
fully  laid  the  keys  of  the  fortress  on  the  bier,  so  that  it  migh 
appear  to  have  surrendered  to  his  ashes.]. 


528 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


But  be  it  as  it  is — the  time  may  come 

His  name  shall  beat  the  alarm,  like  Ziska’s  drum.1 

Y. 

Oh  heaven  ! of  which  he  was  in  power  a feature ; 

Oh  earth ! of  which  he  was  a noble  creature ; 

Thou  isle  ! to  be  remember’d  long  and  well. 

That  saw’st  the  unfledged  eaglet  chip  his  shell ! 

Ye  Alps,  which  view’d  him  in  his  dawning  flights 
Hover,  the  victor  of  a hundred  fights  ! 

Thou  Rome,  who  saw’st  thy  Caesar’s  deeds  outdone  ! 
Alas  ! why  pass’d  he  too  the  Rubicon — 

The  Rubicon  of  man’s  awaken’d  rights. 

To  herd  with  vulgar  kings  and  parasites  ? 

Egypt ! from  whose  all  dateless  tombs  arose 
Forgotten  Pharaohs  from  their  long  repose. 

And  shook  within  their  pyramids  to  hear 
A new  Cambyses  thundering  in  their  ear ; 

While  the  dark  shades  of  forty  ages  stood 
Like  startled  giants  by  Nile’s  famous  flood  ;2 
Or  from  the  pyramid’s  tall  pinnacle 
Beheld  the  desert  peopled,  as  from  hell, 

With  clashing  hosts,  who  strew’d  the  barren  sand 
To  re-manure  the  uncultivated  land  ! 

Spain ! which,  a moment  mindless  of  the  Cid, 

Beheld  his  banner  flouting  thy  Madrid ! 

Austria ! which  saw  thy  twice-ta’en  capital 
Twice  spared  to  be  the  traitress  of  his  fall ! 

Ye  race  of  Frederic  ! — Frederics  but  in  name 
And  falsehood — heirs  to  all  except  his  fame  ; 

Who,  crush’d  at  Gena,  crouch’d  at  Berlin,  fell 
First,  and  but  rose  to  follow  ! Ye  who  dwell 
Where  Kosciusko  dwelt,  remembering  yet 
The  unpaid  amount  of  Catherine’s  bloody  debt ! 
Poland  ! o’er  which  the  avenging  angel  past. 

But  left  thee  as  he  found  thee,  still  a waste. 
Forgetting  all  thy  still  enduring  claim, 

Thy  lotted  people  and  extinguish’d  name. 

Thy  sigh  for  freedom,  thy  long  flowing  tear, 

That,  sound  that  crashes  in  the  tyrant’s  ear — 
Kosciusko  ! On — on — on — the  thirst  of  war 
Gasps  for  the  gore  of  serfs  and  of  their  czar. 

The  half  barbaric  Moscow’s  minarets 
Gleam  in  the  sun,  but  ’tis  a sun  that  sets ! 

Moscow  ! thou  limit  of  his  long  career, 

For  which  rude  Charles  had  wept  his  frozen  tear 
To  see  in  vain — he  saw  thee — how  ? with  spire 
Ynd  palace  fuel  to  one  common  fire. 

To  this  the  soldier  lent  his  kindling  match, 

To  this  the  peasant  gave  his  cottage  thatch, 

To  this  the  merchant  flung  his  hoarded  store. 

The  prince  his  hall — and  Moscow  was  no  more  ! 

Sublimest  of  volcanos  ! Etna’s  flame 

tfales  before  thine,  and  quenchless  Hecla’s  tame ; 


(1)  [John  Ziska — a distinguished  leader  of  the  Hussites.  It  is 
j«“Corded  of  him,  that,  in  dying,  he  ordered  his  skin  to  be  made  the 
. overing  of  a drum.  The  Bohemians  hold  his  memory  in  super- 
• titious  veneration.] 

(2)  [At  the  battle  of  the  pyramids,  in  July,  1798,  Buonaparte 
#tid, — “ Soldiers ! from  the  summit  of  yonder  pyramids  forty  ages 
dehold  you.”] 

(3)  [Gustavus  Adolphus  fell  at  the  great  battle  of  Lutzen,  in 
November,  1032.] 

(4)  [The  Isle  of  Elba.] 

'5)  I refer  the  reader  to  the  first  address  of  Prometheus  in 
Sschvlus,  when  he  i»  left  alone  by  his  attendants,  and  before  the 


Vesuvius  shows  his  blaze,  an  usual  sight 
For  gaping  tourists,  from  his  hackney’d  height : 

Thou  stand’st  alone  unrivall’d,  till  the  fire 
To  come,  in  which  all  empires  shall  expire  ! 

Thou  other  element ! as  strong  and  stem. 

To  teach  a lesson  conquerors  will  not  learn ! — 

Whose  icy  wing  flapp’d  o’er  the  faltering  foe. 

Till  fell  a hero  with  each  flake  of  snow ; 

How  did  thy  numbing  beak  and  silent  fang 
Pierce,  till  hosts  perish’d  with  a single  pang ! 

In  vain  shall  Seine  look  up  along  his  banks 
For  the  gay  thousands  of  his  dashing  ranks  ! 

In  vain  shall  France  recall  beneath  her  vines 
Her  youth — their  blood  flows  faster  than  her  urines ; 
Or  stagnant  in  their  human  ice  remains 
In  frozen  mummies  on  the  Polar  plains. 

In  vain  will  Italy’s  broad  sun  awaken 

Her  offspring  chill’d ; its  beams  are  now  forsaken. 

Of  alLthe  trophies  gather’d  from  the  war. 

What  shall  return  ? — the  conqueror’s  broken  car 
The  conqueror’s  yet  unbroken  heart ! Again 
The  horn  of  Roland  sounds,  and  not  in  vain. 

Lutzen,  where  fell  the  Swede  of  victory,3 4 
Beholds  him  conquer,  but,  alas  ! not  die  : 

Dresden  surveys  three  despots  fly  once  more 
Before  their  sovereign — sovereign  as  before ; 

But  there  exhausted  Fortune  quits  the  field, 

And  Leipsic’s  treason  bids  the  unvanquish’d  yield  . 
The  Saxon  jackal  leaves  the  lion’s  side 
To  turn  the  bear’s,  and  wolf’s,  and  fox’s  guide ; 

And  backward  to  the  den  of  his  despair 
The  forest  monarch  shrinks,  but  finds  no  .air ! 

Ob  ye  ! and  each,  and  all ! Oh  France  ! who  fo1  nd 
Thy  long  fair  fields,  plough’d  up  as  hostile  ground.. 
Disputed  foot  by  foot,  till  treason,  still 
His  only  victor,  from  Montmartre’s  hill 
Look’d  down  o’er  trampled  Paris!  and  thou  Isle/ 
Which  seest  Etruria  from  thy  ramparts  smile. 

Thou  momentary  shelter  of  his  pride. 

Till  woo’d  by  danger,  his  yet  weeping  bride ! 

Oh,  France  ! retaken  by  a single  march. 

Whose  path  was  through  one  long  triumphal  arch  ! , 
Oh,  bloody  and  most  bootless  Waterloo ! 

Which  proves  how  fools  may  have  their  fortune  too. 
Won  half  by  blunder,  half  by  treachery  : 

Oh,  dull  Saint  Helen  ! with  thy  gaoler  nigh — 

Hear  ! hear  Prometheus5  from  his  rock  appeal 
To  earth,  air,  ocean,  all  that  felt  or  feel 
His  power  and  glory,  all  who  yet  shall  hear 
A name  eternal  as  the  rolling  year : 

He  teaches  them  the  lesson  taught  so  long, 

So  oft,  so  vainly — learn  to  do  no  wrong ! 


arrival  of  the  Chorus  of  Sea-nymphs.  [Thus  translated  by 
Potter  : — 

“ Ethereal  air.  and  ye  swift-winged  winds, 

Ye  rivers  springing  from  fresh  founts,  ye  waves, 

That  o’er  th’  interminable  ocean  wreath 
Your  crisped  smiles,  thou  all-producing  earth, 

And  thee,  bright  sun,  I call,  whose  flaming  orb 
Views  the  wide  world  beneath,  see  what,  a god, 

I suffer  from  the  gods ; with  what  fierce  pains, 

Behold,  what  tortures  for  revolving  ages 
I here  must  struggle ; such  unseemly  chains 
This  new-raised  ruler  of  the  gods  devised. 

Ah  me ! That  groan  bursts  from  my  anguish’d  bai£V 
My  present  woes  and  future  to  bemoan. — 

For  favours  shown 

To  mortal  man  I bear  this  weight  of  woe  I”} 


THE  AGE  OE  BRONZE. 


529 


A single  step  into  the  right  had  made 
This  man  the  W ashington  of  worlds  betray’d : 

A single  step  into  the  wrong  has  given 
His  name  no  doubt  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven ; 

The  reed  of  Fortune,  and  of  thrones  the  rod. 

Of  Fame  the  Moloch  or  the  demigod ; 

His  country’s  Caesar,  Europe’s  Hannibal, 

Witnout  their  decent  dignity  of  fall. 

Yet  Vanity  herself  had  better  taught 
A surer  path  even  to  the  fame  he  sought, 

By  pointing  out  on  history’s  fruitless  page 
Ten  thousand  conquerors  for  a single  sage. 

While  Franklin’s  quiet  memory  climbs  to  heaven, 
Calming  the  lightning  which  he  thence  hath  riven, 

Or  drawing  from  the  no  less  kindled  earth 
Freedom  and  peace  to  that  which  boasts  his  birth  j1 
While  Washington’s  a watchword,  such  as  ne’er 
Shall  sink  while  there’s  an  echo  left  to  air  :2 
While  even  the  Spaniard’s  thirst  of  gold  and  war 
Forgets  Pizarro  to  shout  Bolivar!3 
Alas  ! why  must  the  same  Atlantic  wave 
Which  wafted  freedom  gird  a tyrant’s  grave — 

The  king  of  kings,  and  yet  of  slaves  the  slave, 

Who  bursts  the  chains  of  millions  to  renew 
The  very  fetters  which  his  arm  broke  through, 

And  crush’d  the  rights  of  Europe  and  his  own, 

To  flit  between  a dungeon  and  a throne  ? 

VI. 

But  ’twill  not  be — the  spark’s  awaken’d — lo! 

The  swarthy  Spaniard  feels  his  former  Mow  ; 

The  same  high  spirit  which  beat  back  the  Moor 
Through  eight  long  ages  of  alternate  gore 
Revives — and  where  ? in  that  avenging  clime 
Where  Spain  was  once  synonymous  with  crime, 
Where  Cortes’  and  Pizarro’s  tanner  flew. 

The  infant  world  redeems  her  name  of  “ New!* 

*Tis  the  old  aspiration  breathed  afresh, 

To  kindle  souls  within  degraded  flesh, 

Such  as  repulsed  tne  Persian  from  the  shore 
Where  Greece  was — No  ! she  still  is  Greece  once  more. 
One  common  cause  makes  myriads  of  one  breast. 
Slaves  of  the  east,  or  helots  of  the  west ; 

On  Andes’  and  on  Athos’  peaks  unfurl’d, 

The  self-same  standard  streams  o’er  either  world : 

The  Athenian  wears  again  Harmodius’  sword  ;4 5 
The  Chili  chief  abjures  his  foreign  lord ; 

The  Spartan  knows  himself  once  more  a Greek, 

Young  Freedom  plumes  the  crest  of  each  cacique ; 
Debating  despots,  hemm’d  on  either  shore. 

Shrink  vainly  from  the  roused  Atlantic’s  roar ; 
Through  Caipe’s  strait  the  rolling  tides  advance, 
Sweep  slightly  by  the  half-tamed  land  of  France, 

Dash  o’er  the  old  Spaniard’s  cradle,  and  would  fain 
Unite  Ausonia  to  the  mighty  main  : 

But  driven  from  thence  awhile,  yet  not  for  aye, 

Break  o’er  th’  JEgean,  mindful  of  the  day 
Of  Salamis  ! — there,  there  the  waves  arise, 

Not  to  be  lull’d  by  tyrant  victories. 


(1)  [The  well-known  motto  on  a French  medal  of  Franklin 
was— 

“ Eripuit  coelo  fulmen,  sceptrumque  fyrannis.”] 

(2i  [“To  be  the  first  man  ( not  the  Dictator),  not  the  Sylla,  but 
the  Washington,  or  Aristides,  the  leader  in  talent  and  truth,  is  to 
be  next  to  the  Divinity.” — Byton  Diary.] 

(8)  [Simon  Bolivar,  the  liberator  of  Colombia  and  Peru,  died  at 
San  Pedro,  December,  1830,  of  an  illness  brought  on  by  excessive 
fatigue  and  exertion.} 


Lone,  lost,  abandon’d  in  their  utmost  need 
By  Christians,  unto  whom  they  gave  their  creed. 

The  desolated  lands,  the  ravaged  isle, 

The  foster’d  feud  encouraged  to  beguile. 

The  aid  evaded,  and  the  cold  delay, 

Prolong’d  but  in  the  hope  to  make  a prey  ;s — 

These,  these  shall  tell  the  tale,  and  Greece  can  show 
The  false  friend  worse  than  the  infuriate  foe. 

But  this  is  well : Greeks  only  should  free  Greece, 

Not  the  barbarian,  with  his  mask  of  peace. 

How  should  the  autocrat  of  bondage  be 
The  king  of  serfs,  and  set  the  nations  free  ? 

Better  still  serve  the  haughty  Mussulman, 

Than  swell  the  Cossaque’s  prowling  caravan 
Better  still  toil  for  masters,  than  await, 

The  slave  of  slaves,  before  a Russian  gate,— 
Numbered  by  hordes,  a human  capital, 

A live  estate,  existing  but  for  thrall, 

Lotted  by  thousands,  as  a meet  reward 
For  the  first  courtier  in  the  Czar’s  regard ; 

While  their  immediate  owner  never  tastes 
His  sleep,  sans  dreaming  of  Siberia’s  wastes ; 

Better  succumb  even  to  their  own  despair. 

And  drive  the  camel  than  purvey  the  bear. 

VII. 

But  not  alone  within  the  hoariest  clime 
Where  Freedom  dates  her  birth  with  that  of  Time, 
And  not  alone  where,  plunged  in  night,  a crowd 
Of  Incas  darken  to  a dubious  cloud, 

The  dawn  revives  : renown’ d,  romantic  Spain 
Holds  back  the  invader  from  her  soil  again. 

Not  now  the  Roman  tribe  nor  Punic  horde 
Demand  her  fields  as  lists  to  prove  the  sword  ; 

Not  now  the  Yandal  or  the  Yisigoth 
Pollute  the  plains,  alike  abhorring  both ; 

Nor  old  Pelayo  on  his  mountain  rears 
The  warlike  fathers  of  a thousand  years. 

That  seed  is  sown  and  reap’d,  as  oft  the  Moor 
Sighs  to  remember  on  his  dusky  shore. 

Long  in  the  peasant’s  song  or  poet’s  page 
Has  dwelt  the  memory  of  Abencerrage  ; 

The  Zegri,  and  the  captive  victors,  flung 
Back  to  the  barbarous  realm  from  whence  they  sprung. 
But  these  are  gone — their  faith,  their  swords,  then 
sway. 

Yet  left  more  anti-christian  foes  than  they : 

The  bigot  monarch  and  the  butcher  priest, 

The  Inquisition,  with  her  burning  feast, 

The  faith’s  red  “ auto,”  fed  with  human  fuel. 

While  sate  the  catholic  Moloch,  calmly  cruel. 
Enjoying,  with  inexorable  eye. 

That  fiery  festival  of  agony  ! 

The  stern  or  feeble  sovereign,  one  or  both 
By  turns  ; the  haughtiness  whose  pride  was  slokfi  : 
The  long  degenerate  noble ; the  debased 
Hidalgo,  and  the  peasant  less  disgraced, 

But  more  degraded ; the  unpeopled  realm ; 

The  once  proud  navy  which  forgot  the  helm ; 


(4)  [The  famous  hymn,  ascribed  to  Callistratus : — 

“ Cover’d  with  myrtle-wreaths,  I *11  wear  my  sword 
Like  brave  Harmodius,  and  his  patriot  friend 
Aristogeiton,  who  the  laws  restored, 

The  tyrant  slew,  and  bade  oppression  end,”  &c. 

(5)  [For  the  first  authentic  account  of  the  Russian  intrigues  in 
Greece,  in  the  years  alluded  to,  see  “Gordons  History  of  tn« 
Greek  Revolution”  (1832),  vol.  i.] 

8 Y 


530 


LORD  BYllON’S  WORKS. 


l’lie  once  impervious  phalanx  disarray’d  ; 

The  idle  forge  that  form’d  Toledo’s  blade ; 

The  foreign  wealth  that  flow’d  on  ev’ry  shore, 

Save  hers  who  earn’d  it  with  the  natives’  gore  ; 

The  very  language  which  might  vie  with  Rome’s, 

And  once  was  known  to  nations  like  their  homes. 
Neglected  or  forgotten  : — such  was  Spain ; 

But  such  she  is  not,  nor  shall  be  again. 

These  worst,  these  home  invaders,  felt  and  feel 
The  new  Numantine  soul  of  old  Castile. 

Up  ! up  again ! undaunted  Tauridor ! 

The  bull  of  Phalaris  renews  his  roar ; 

Mount,  chivalrous  Hidalgo ! not  in  vain 
Revive  the  cry — “ Iago  ! and  close  Spain ! ” 1 
Yes,  close  her  with  your  armed  bosoms  round, 

And  form  the  barrier  which  Napoleon  found, — 

The  exterminating  war,  the  desert  plain, 

The  streets  without  a tenant,  save  the  slain; 

The  wild  sierra,  with  its  wilder  troop 
Of  vulture-plumed  guerrillas,  on  the  stoop 
Bor  their  incessant  prey ; the  desperate  wall 
Of  Saragossa,  mightiest  in  her  fall ; 

The  man  nerved  to  a spirit,  and  the  maid 
Waving  her  more  than  Amazonian  blade;2 
The  knife  of  Arragon,3  Toledo’s  steel ; 

The  famous  lance  of  chivalrous  Castile ; 

The  unerring  rifle  of  the  Catalan  ; 

The  Andalusian  courser  in  the  van  ; 

The  torch  to  make  a Moscow  of  Madrid ; 

Aud  in  each  heart  the  spirit  of  the  Cid  : — 

Such  have  been,  such  shall  be,  such  are.  Advance, 
And  win — not  Spain,  but  thine  own  freedom,  Prance  ! 

VIII. 

But  lo  ! a Congress  ! 4 What!  that  hallow’d  name 
Which  freed  the  Atlantic  ? May  we  hope  the  same 
Bor  outworn  Europe  ? With  the  sound  arise, 

Like  Samuel’s  shade  to  Saul’s  monarchic  eyes, 

The  prophets  of  young  Breedom,  summon’d  far 
Prom  climes  of  Washington  and  Bolivar; 

Henry,  the  forest-born  Demosthenes, 

Whose  thunder  shook  the  Philip  of  the  seas;5 
And  stoic  Pranklin’s  energetic  shade. 

Robed  in  the  lightnings  which  his  hand  allay’d ; 

And  Washington,  the  tyrant-tamer,  wake, 

To  bid  us  blush  for  these  old  chains,  or  break. 


(1)  [“Santiago  y serra  EspatTa  !"  the  old  Spanish  war-cry.] 

(2)  [See  ante , p.  10.] 

(3)  The  Arragonians  are  peculiarly  dexterous  in  the  use  of  this 
weapon,  and  displayed  it  particularly  in  former  French  wars. 

(4)  [The  Congress  of  the  Sovereigns  of  Russia,  Austria,  Prussia, 
& c.  &c.  &c.  which  assembled  at  Verona,  in  the  autumn  of  1823.] 

(5)  [Patrick  Henry,  of  Virginia,  a leading  member  of  the 
American  Congress,  died  in  June,  1 797.  Lord  Byron  alludes  to 
his  famous  speech  in  1765,  in  which,  on  saying,  “Caesar  had  his 
Brutus— Charles  the  First  had  his  Cromwell  — and  George  the 

Third ” Henry  was  interrupted  with  a shout  of  “Treason! 

treason  ! ! ” — but  coolly  finished  the  sentence  with — “ George  the 
Third  may  profit  by  their  example .”] 

(6)  [“I  have  been  over  Verona.  The  amphitheatre  is  wonderful 
— beats  even  Greece.  Of  the  truth  of  Juliet’s  story,  they  seem 
tenacious  to  a degree,  insisting  cm  the  fact — giving  a date  (1303), 
and  showing  a tomb.  It  is  a plain,  open,  and  partly  decayed 
sarccphagus,  with  withered  leaves  in  it,  in  a wild  and  desolate  con- 
ventual garden;  once  a cemetery,  now  ruined  to  the  very  graves. 
The  situation  struck  me  as  very  appropriate  to  the  legend,  being 
blighted  as  their  love,  j have  brought  away  a few  pieces  of  the 
granite,  to  give  to  my  daughter  and  my  nieces.  The  Gothic  monu- 
ments of  the  Scaliger  princes  pleased  me,  but  ‘a  poor  virtuoso  am 
I/” — Byron  Letters,  Nov.  1816.] 

(7)  [Cano  I.  Della  Scala,  surnamed  the  Great,  died  in  1329:  he 


But  who  compose  this  senate  of  the  few 
That  should  redeem  the  many  ? Who  renew 
This  consecrated  name,  till  now  assign’d 
To  councils  held  to  benefit  mankind  ? 

Who  now  assemble  at  the  holy  call  ? 

The  blest  Alliance,  which  says  three  are  all ! 

An  earthly  trinity ! which  wears  the  shape 
Of  heaven’s,  as  man  is  mimick’d  by  the  ape. 

A pious  unity  ! in  purpose  one — 

To  melt  three  fools  to  a Napoleon. 

Why,  Egypt’s  gods  were  rational  to  these ; 

Their  dogs  and  oxen  knew  their  own  degrees. 

And,  quiet  in  their  kennel  or  their  shed, 

Cared  little,  so  that  they  were  duly  fed ; 

But  these,  more  hungry,  must  have  something  mor  #,  • 
The  power  to  bark  and  bite,  to  toss  and  gore. 

Ah  ! how  much  happier  were  good  iEsop’s  frogs 
Than  we  ! for  ours  are  animated  logs, 

With  ponderous  malice  swaying  to  and  fro, 

And  crushing  nations  with  a stupid  blow ; 

All  duly  anxious  to  leave  little  work 
Unto  the  revolutionary  stork. 

IX. 

Thrice  blest  Verona  ! since  the  holy  three 
With  their  imperial  presence  shine  on  thee  ; 

Honour’d  by  them,  thy  treacherous  site  forgets  • 

The  vaunted  tomb  of  “ all  the  Capulets  :”6 
Thy  Scaligers — for  what  was  “ Hog  the  Great,” 

“ Can  Grande,”7  (which  I venture  to  translate,) 

To  these  sublimer  pugs  ? Thy  poet  too, 

Catullus,  whose  old  laurels  yield  to  new  ;8 
Thine  amphitheatre,  where  Romans  sate ; 

And  Dante’s  exile  shelter’d  by  thy  gate  ; 

Thy  good  old  man,  whose  world  was  all  within 
Thy  wall,  nor  knew  the  country  held  him  in  :9 
Would  that  the  royal  guests  it  girds  about 
Were  so  far  like,  as  never  to  get  out ! 

Ay,  shout ! inscribe ! rear  monuments  of  shame, 

To  tell  Oppression  that  the  world  is  tame  ! 

Crowd  to  the  theatre  with  loyal  rage. 

The  comedy  is  not  upon  the  stage ; 

The  show  is  rich  in  ribandry  and  stars, 

Then  gaze  upon  it  through  thy  dungeon  bars ; 

Clap  thy  permitted  palms,  kind  Italy, 

Bor  thus  much  still  thy  fetter’d  hands  are  free ! 


was  the  protector  of  Dante,  who  celebrated  him  as*  “ il  Grat 
Lombardo.”] 

(8)  [Verona  has  been  distinguished  as  the  cradle  of  many  illus- 
trious men.  There  is  one  still  living : 

Per  cui  la  fama  in  te  chiara  risuona 
Egregia,  eccelsa,  alma  Verona, — 

I mean  Ippolito  Pindemonte,  a poet  who  lias  caught  a portion  of 
that  sun  whose  setting  beams  yet  gild  the  horizon  of  Italy.  His 
rural  pieces,  for  their  chaste  style  of  colouring,  their  repose,  and 
their  keeping,  may  be  said  to  be  in  poetry,  what  the  landscapes  of 
Claude  Lorraine  are  in  picture. — Rose.] 

(9)  [Claudian’s  famous  old  man  of  Verona,  “ qui  suburbium 
nunquam  egressus  est.” — The  Latin  verses  are  beautifully  iniutod 
by  Cowley : — 

“ Happy  the  man  who  his  whole  life  doth  bound 
Within  th’  enclosure  of  his  little  ground  : 

Happy  the  man  whom  the  same  humble  place 
(Th’  hereditary  cottage  of  his  race) 

From  his  first  rising  infancy  has  known, 

And,  by  degrees,  sees  gently  bending  down, 

With  natural  propension,  to  that  earth 
Which  both  preserved  his  life  and  gave  him  birth 
Him  no  false  distant  lights,  by  Fortune  set, 

Could  ever  into  foolish  wanderings  get; 

No  change  of  Consuls  marks  to  him  the  year: 

The  change  of  seasons  is  his  calendar,  &c.  dco.] 


531 


THE  AGE  OE  BRONZE. 


Resplendent  sight ! Behold  the  coxcomb  Czar,1 
The  autocrat  of  waltzes  and  of  war  ! 

As  eager  for  a plaudit  as  a lealm, 

And  just  as  fit  for  flirting  as  the  helm ; 

A Calmuck  beauty  with  a Cossack  wit. 

And  generous  spirit,  when  ’tis  not  frost-bit ; 

Now  half  dissolving  to  a liberal  thaw, 

But  harden’d  back  whene’er  the  morning’s  raw  ; 

With  no  objection  to  true  liberty. 

Except  that  it  would  make  the  nations  free. 

How  well  the  imperial  dandy  prates  of  peace  ! 

How  fain,  if  Greeks  would  be  his  slaves,  free  Greece  . 
How  nobly  gave  he  back  the  Poles  their  Diet, 

Then  told  pugnacious  Poland  to  be  quiet ! 

How  kindly  would  he  send  the  mild  Ukraine, 

With  all  her  pleasant  pulks,  to  lecture  Spain ! 

How  royally  show  off  in  proud  Madrid 
His  goodly  person,  from  the  South  long  hid 
A blessing  cheaply  purchased,  the  world  knows, 

By  having  Muscovites  for  friends  or  foes. 

Proceed,  thou  namesake  of  great  Philip’s  son ! 

La  Harpe,  thine  Aristotle,  beckons  on ; 

And  that  which  Scythia  was  to  him  of  yore 
Find  with  thy  Scythians  on  Iberia’s  shore. 

Yet  think  upon,  thou  somewhat  aged  youth, 

Thy  predecessor  on  the  banks  of  Pruth  ; 

Thou  hast  to  aid  thee,  should  his  lot  be  thine. 

Many  an  old  woman,  but  no  Catherine* 

Spain,  too,  hath  rocks,  and  rivers,  and  defiles — 

The  bear  may  rush  into  the  lion’s  toils. 

Fatal  to  Goths  are  Xeres’  sunny  fields  ;* 3 
Think’st  thou  to  thee  Napoleon’s  victor  yields  ? 
Better  reclaim  thy  deserts,  turn  thy  swords 
To  ploughshares,  shave  and  wash  thy  Bashkir  hordes, 
Redeem  thy  realms  from  slavery  and  the  knout. 

Than  follow  headlong  in  the  fatal  route, 

To  infest  the  clime  whose  skies  and  laws  are  pure 
With  thy  foul  legions.  Spain  wants  no  manure : 

Her  soil  is  fertile,  but  she  feeds  no  foe ; 

Her  vultures,  too,  were  gorged  not  long  ago  ; 

And  wouldst  thou  furnish  them  with  fresher  prey  r 
Alas  ! thou  wilt  not  conquer,  but  purvey. 

I am  Diogenes,  though  Russ  and  Hun 
Stand  between  mine  and  many  a myriad’s  sun ; 

But  were  I not  Diogenes,  I’d  wander 
Rather  a worm  than  such  an  Alexander  ! 

Be  slaves  who  will,  the  cynic  shall  be  free; 

His  tub  hath  tougher  walls  than  Sinope : 

Still  will  he  hold  his  lantern  up  to  scan  ^ 

The  face  of  monarchs  for  an  “ honest  man.” 

XT. 

And  what  doth  Gaul,  the  all-prolific  land 
Of  ne  plus  ultra  ultras  and  their  band 


(1)  [The  Emperor  Alexander;  who  died  in  1825.] 

(2)  The  dexterity  of  Catherine  extricated  Peter  (called  the  Great 
by  courtesy),  when  surrounded  by  the  Mussulmans  on  the  banks  of 
the  river  Pruth. 

3)  [“  Eight  thousand  men  had  to  Asturias  march’d 
Beneath  Count  Julian’s  banner,  the  remains 
Of  that  brave  army  which  in  Africa 
So  well  against  the  Mussulman  made  head, 

Till  sense  of  injuries  insupportable, 

And  raging  thirst  of  vengeance,  overthrew 

Their  leader’s  noble  spirit.  To  revenge 

His  quarrel,  twice  that  number  left  their  bones, 

Slain  in  unnatural  battle  on  the  field 


Of  mercenaries  ? and  ber  noisy  chambers 
And  tribune,  which  each  orator  first  clambers 
Before  he  finds  a voice,  and  when  ’tis  found, 

Hears  “ the  lie”  echo  for  his  answer  round  ? 

Our  British  Commons  sometimes  deign  to  “hear  !” 

A Gallic  senate  hath  more  tongue  than  ear ; 

Even  Constant,  their  sole  master  of  debate, 

Must  fight  next  day  his  speech  to  vindicate. 

But  this  costs  little  to  true  Franks,  who  had  rather 
Combat  than  listen,  were  it  to  their  father. 

What  is  the  simple  standing  of  a shot, 

To  listening  long,  and  interrupting  not  ? 

Though  this  was  not  the  method  of  old  Rome, 

When  Tally  fulmined  o’er  each  vocal  dome, 
Demosthenes  has  sanction’d  the  transaction,  ^ 

In  saying  eloquence  meant  “ Action,  action  ! 

XII. 

But  where’s  the  monarch  ? hath  he  dined  ? or  vet 
Groans  beneath  indigestion’s  heavy  debt  ? 

Have  revolutionary  pates  risen, 

And  turn’d  the  royal  entrails  to  a prison  ? 

Have  discontented  movements  stirr’d  the  troops  F 
Or  have  no  movements  follow’d  traitorous  soups  ? 
Have  Carbonaro4 5  cooks  not  carbonadoed 
Each  course  enough  ? or  doctors  dire  dissuaded 
Repletion?  Ah!  in  thy  dejected  looks 
I read  all  France’s  treason  in  her  cooks  ! 

Good  classic  Louis  ! is  it,  canst  thou  say, 

Desirable  to  be  the  “ Desire  ?” 

Why  wouldst  thou  leave  calm  Hartwell’s  green  abode,4 
Apician  table,  and  Horatian  ode, 

To  rule  a people  who  will  not  be  ruled, 

And  love  much  rather  to  be  scourged  than  school’d  P 
Ah ! thine  was  not  the  temper  or  the  taste 
For  thrones ; the  table  sees  thee  better  placed ; 

A mild  Epicurean,  form’d,  at  best, 

To  be  a kind  host  and  as  good  a guest, 

To  talk  of  letters,  and  to  know  by  heart 
One  half  the  poet’s,  all  the  gourmand’s  art ; 

A scholar  always,  now  and  then  a wit. 

And  gentle  when  digestion  may  permit ; — 

But  not  to  govern  lands  enslaved  or  free ; 

The  gout  was  martyrdom  enough  for  thee. 

XIII. 

Shall  noble  Albion  pass  without  a phrase 
From  a bold  Briton  in  her  wonted  praise  ? 

“ Arts  — arms — and  George  — and  glory  and  t.»e 
isles — 

And  happy  Britain— wealth— and  Freedom’s  smiles— 
White  cliffs,  that  held  invasion  far  aloof— 

Contented  subjects,  all  alike  tax-proof— 

Proud  Wellington,  with  eagle  beak  so  curl’d, 

That  nose,  the  hook  where  he  suspends  the  world ! 6 


Of  Xeres,  where  the  sceptre  from  the  Goths 

By  righteous  Heaven  was  reft"— Southey's  Roderick .] 

(4)  [According  to  Botta,  the  Neapolitan  republicans  who,  during 
the  reign  of  King  Joachim,  fled  to  the  recesses  of  the  Abruzzi,  and 
there  formed  a secret  confederacy,  were  the  first  that  assumed  the 
designation,  since  familiar  all  over  Italy,  of  “ Carbonari  (col- 
liers).] 

(5)  [Hartwell,  in  Buckinghamshire — The  residence  of  Louis 
XVI II.,  during  the  latter  years  of  the  Emigration.] 

(g)  *<  Naso  suspendit  adunco.” — Horace. 

The  Roman  applies  it  to  one  who  merely  was  imperious  to  his 
acquaintance.. 


532 


LORD  BYRON  S WORKS. 


And  Waterloo— and  trade— and (hush  ! not  yet 

A syllable  of  imposts  or  of  debt) 

And  ne’er  (enough)  lamented  Castlereagh, 

Whose  penknife  slit  a goose-quill  t’other  day— 

And  ‘pilots  who  have  weather’d  every  storm’ J 

(But,  no,  not  even  for  rhyme’s  sake,  name  Reform).’ 
lnese  are  the  themes  thus  sung  so  oft  before, 
Methinks  we  need  not  sing  them  any  more ; * 

Round  in  so  many  volumes  far  and  near, 

Ihere  s no  occasion  you  should  find  them  here. 

Yet  something  may  remain  perchance  to  chime 
With  reason,  and,  what’s  stranger  still,  with  rhyme. 
^en  yns  thy  genius,  Canning  ! may  permit, 

Who,  bred  a statesman,  still  wast  born  a wit 
And  never,  even  in  that  dull  House,  couldst  tame 
1 o unleaven’d  prose  thine  own  poetic  flame  ; 

Our  last,  our  best,  ,our  only  orator,* 2 
Lven  I can  praise  thee — Tories  do  no  more  : 

Nay,  not  so  much;— they  hate  thee,  man,  because 
lily  spirit  less  upholds  them  than  it  awes. 

The  hounds  will  gather  to  their  huntsman’s  hollo, 
And  where  he  leads  the  duteous  pack  will  follow5; 
But  not  for  love  mistake  their  yelling  cry ; 

Their  yelp  for  game  is  not  an  eulogy° ; 

Less  faithful  far  than  the  four-footed  pack, 

A dubious  scent  would  lure  the  bipeds  back, 
lhy  saddle-girchs  are  not  yet  quite  secure. 

Nor  royal  stallion’s  feet  extremely  sure  ;3 * 
The  unwieldly  old  white  horse  is  apt  at  last 
To  stumble,  kick,  and  now  and  then  stick  fast 
With  his  great  self  and  rider  in  the  mud ; 

But  what  of  that  ? the  animal  shows  blood. 

XIV. 

Alas,  the  country ! how  shall  tongue  or  pen 
Bewail  her  now  ^country  gentlemen  P 
The  last  to  bid  the  cry  of  warfare  cease. 

The  first  to  make  a malady  of  peace. 

1 or  what  were  all  these  country  patriots  born  ? 
lo  hunt,  and  vote,  and  raise  the  price  of  corn  ?' 

But  corn,  like  every  mortal  thing,  must  fall, 

Kings,  conquerors,  and  markets' most  of  all. 

And  must  ye  fall  with  every  ear  of  grain  ? 

Why  would  you  trouble  Buonaparte’s  reign  ? 

He  was  your  great  Triptolemus  ; his  vices 
Destroy  d but  realms,  and  still  maintain’d  your  prices : 
He  amplified  to  every  lord’s  content 
The  grand  agrarian  alchymy,  liight  rent. 

Why  did  the  tyrant  stumbie  on  the  Tartars, 
wi  j^er  w^eat  to  such  desponding  quarters  ? 

Why  did  you  chain  him  on  yon  isle  so  lone  ? 

The  man  was  worth  much  more  upon  his  throne. 

True,  blood  and  treasure  boundlessly  were  spilt, 

But  what  of  that  ? the  Gaul  may  bear  the  guilt ; 

But  bread  was  high,  the  farmer  paid  his  way. 

And  acres  told  upon  the  appointed  day. 

But  where  is  now  the  goodly  audit  ale  ? 

The  purse-proud  tenant,  never  known  to  fail  ? 


The  farm  which  never  yet  was  left  on  band  ? 

I lie  marsh  reclaim’d  to  most  improving  land? 

The  impatient  hope  of  the  expiring  lease  ? 

The  doubling  rental  P What  an  evil’s  peace  ! 

In  vain  the  prize  excites  the  ploughman’s  skill. 

In  vain  the  Commons  pass  their  patriot  bill ; 

The  landed  interest— (you  may  understand 
The  phrase  much  better  leaving  out  the  land)— 

The  land  self-interest  groans  from  shore  to  shore 
For  fear  that  plenty  should  attain  the  poor. 

Up,  up  again,  ye  rents  ! exalt  your  notes. 

Or  else  the  ministry  will  lose  their  votes. 

And  patriotism,  so  delicately  nice, 

Her  loaves  will  lower  to  the  market  price ; 

For  ah  ! ‘ the  loaves  and  fishes,”  once  so  high. 

Are  gone — their  oven  closed,  their  ocean  dry, 

And  nought  remains  of  all  the  millions  spent, 
Excepting  to  grow  moderate  and  content. 

They  who  are  not  so,  had  their  turn— and  turn 
About  still  flows  from  Fortune’s  equal  urn; 

Now  let  their  virtue  be  its  own  reward, 

And  share  the  blessings  which  themselves  prepared. 
See  these  inglorious  Cincinnati  swarm, 

Farmers  of  war,  dictators  of  the  farm  | 

Their  ploughshare  was  the  sword  in  hireling  hands 
Their  fields  manured  by  gore  of  other  lands  ; 

Safe  in  their  barns,  these  Sabine  tillers  sent 
Their  brethren  out  to  battle— why  ? for  rent ! 

Year  after  year  they  voted  cent,  per  cent., 

Blood,  sweat,  and  tear-wrung  millions — why?  for  rent 
They  roar  d,  they  dined,  they  drank,  they  swore  the- 
meant 

To  die  for  England — why  then  live  ? — for  rent ! 

The  peace  has  made  one  general  malcontent 
Of  these  high-market  patriots  ; war  was  rent ! 

Their  love  of  country,  millions  all  mis-spent. 

How  reconcile  ? by  reconciling  rent ! 

And  will  they  not  repay  the  treasures  lent  ? 

No  : down  with  every  thing,  and  up  with  rent ! 

Their  good,  ill,  health,  wealth,  joy,  or  discontent, 
Being,  end,  aim,  religion— rent,  rent,  rent ! 

Thou  sold  st  thy  birthright,  Esau  ! for  a mess  ; 

Thou  shouldst  have  gotten  more,  or  eaten  less ; 

Now  thou  hast  swill’d  thy  pottage,  thy  demands 
Are  idle ; Israel  says  the  bargain  stands. 

Such,  landlords  ! was  your  appetite  for  war, 

And,  gorged  with  blood,  you  grumble  at  a scar  ! 

What ! would  they  spread  their  earthquake  even  i • 
cash  ? 

And  when  land  crumbles,  bid  firm  paper  crash  ? 

So  rent  may  rise,  bid  bank  and  nation  fall, 

And  found  on  ’Change  a Fundling  Hospital  ? 

Lo  ! Mother  Church,  while  all  religion  writhes, 

Like  Niobe,  weeps  o’er  her  offspring,  Tithes ; 

The  prelates  go  to — where  the  saints  have  gone. 

And  proud  pluralities  subside  to  one ; 

Church,  state,  and  faction  wrestle  in  the  dark, 

Toss  d by  the  deluge  in  their  common  ark.  „ 


(1)  [“The  Pilot  that  weather’d  the  storm”  is  the  burthen  of  a 
•ong,  in  honour  of  Pitt,  by  Mr.  Canning.] 

(2)  [“  I have  never  heard  any  one  who  fulfilled  my  ideal  of  an 
orator.  Grattan  would  have  been  near  it,  but  for  his  harlequin 
delivery  Pitt  I never  heard-Fox  but  once:  and  then  he  st?uck 
me  as  a debater,  which  to  me  seems  as  different  from  an  orator  as 
an  improvisator  or  a versifier  from  a poet.  Grey  is  great,  but  it  is 
not  oratory  Canning  is  sometimes  very  like  one.  Whitbread  was 
the  Demosthenes  of  bad  taste  and  vulgar  vehemence,  but  strong,  and 
Jsnglisn.  Holland  is  impressive  from  sense  and  sincerity.  Burdett 


is  sweet  and  silvery  as  Belial  himself,  and,  I think,  the  gre^i 

favounte  in  Pandemonium.”— Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

(3)  [On  the  suicide  of  Lord  Londonderry,  in  August,  1822  Mr 

Canning  who  had  prepared  to  sail  for  India  as  Governor- General, 
was  made  Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs,— not  much,  it  wju 
alleged,  to  the  personal  satisfaction  of  George  the  Fourth,  or  of  tht 
high  Tories  m the  cabinet.  He  lived  to  verify  some  of  the  pre 
dictions  of  the  poet— to  abandon  the  foreign  policy  of  his  pre- 
decessor—to  break  up  the  Tory  party  by  a coalition  with  the 

Wings— and  to  prepare  the  way  for  Reform  in  Parliament.] 


533 


THE  AGE  OF  BRONZE. 


Shorn  of  her  bishops,  banks,  and  dividends. 

Another  Babe!  soars— but  Britain  ends. 

And  why  ? to  pamper  the  self-seeking  wants, 

A iid  prop  the  hill  of  these  agrarian  ants.  . 

“ Go  to  these  ants,  thou  sluggard,  and  be  wise  ; 
Admire  their  patience  through  each  sacrifice, 
frill  taught  to  feel  the  lesson  of  their  pride, 

The  price  of  taxes  and  of  homicide  ; 

Admire  their  justice,  which  would  fain  deny 
The  debt  of  nations : pray  who  made  it  high  f 

xv. 

Or  turn  to  sail  between  those  shifting  rocks, 

The  new  Symplegades — the  crushing  Stocks, 

Where  Midas  might  again  his  wish  behold 
In  real  paper  or  imagined  gold. 

That  magic  palace  of  Alcina  shows 
More  wealth  than  Britain  ever  had  to  lose, 

Were  all  her  atoms  of  unleaven’d  ore, 

And  all  her  pebbles  from  Pactolus’  shore. 

There  Fortune  plays,  while  Rumour  holds  the  stake, 
And  the  world  trembles  to  bid  brokers  break. 

How'  rich  is  Britain  ! not  indeed  in  mines, 

Or  peace  or  plenty,  corn  or  oil,  or  wines ; 

No  land  of  Canaan,  full  of  milk  and  honey, 

Nor  (save  in  paper  shekels)  ready  money ; 

But  let  us  not  to  own  the  truth  refuse, 

Was  ever  Christian  land  so  rich  in  Jews  ? 

Those  parted  with  their  teeth  to  good  King  John, 
And  now,  ye  kings ! they  kindly  draw  your  own  ; 
All  states,  all  things,  all  sovereigns  they  control. 
And  waft  a loan  “ from  Indus  to  the  pole.” 

The  banker— broker— baron1— brethren,  speed 
To  aid  these  bankrupt  tyrants  in  their  need. 

Nor  these  alone  ; Columbia  feels  no  less 
Fresh  speculations  follow  each  success  ; 

And  philanthropic  Israel  deigns  to  drain 
Her  mild  per-centage  from  exhausted  Spam. 

Not  without  Abraham’s  seed  can  Russia  march ; 
fris  gold,  not  steel,  that  rears  the  conqueror’s  arch. 
Two  Jews,  a chosen  people,  can  command 
In  every  realm  their  scripture-promised  land  :— 
Two  Jews  keep  down  the  Romans,  and  uphold 
The  accursed  Hun,  more  brutal  than  of  old : 

Two  Jews— but  not  Samaritans — direct 
The  world,  with  all  the  spirit  of  their  sect. 

What  is  the  happiness  of  earth  to  them  ? ^ 

A congress  forms  their  “ New  Jerusalem, 

Where  baronies  and  orders  both  invite— 

Oh,  holy  Abraham  ! dost  thou  see  the  sight . 

Thy  followers  mingling  with  these  royal  swine, 
Who  spit  not  “ on  their  Jewish  gaberdine,” 

But  honour  them  as  portion  of  the  show  - 
(Where  now,  oh  pope ! is  thy  forsaken  toe  ? 

Could  it  not  favour  Judah  with  some  kicks? 

Or  has  it  ceased  to  “ kick  against  the  pricks  ? ) 


On  Shylock’s  shore  behold  them  stand  afresh,  # 

To  cut  from  nations’  hearts  their  “ pound  of  flesh. 

XVI. 

Strange  sight  this  Congress  ! destined  to  unite 
All  that’s  incongruous,  ail  that’s  opposite. 

I speak  not  of  the  Sovereigns — they’re  alike, 

A common  coin  as  ever  mint  could  strike  : 

But  those  who  sway  the  puppets,  pull  the  strings. 
Have  more  of  motley  than  their  heavy  kings. 

Jews,  authors,  generals,  charlatans,  combine, 

While  Europe  wonders  at  the  vast  design : 

There  Metternich,  power’s  foremost  parasite, 

Cajoles ; there  Wellington  forgets  to  fight ; 

There  Chateaubriand  forms  new  books  of  martyrs ; 
And  subtle  Greeks* 3  intrigue  for  stupid  Tartars  ; 

There  Montmorenci,  the  sworn  foe  to  charters,4 
Turns  a diplomatist  of  great  eclat, 

To  furnish  articles  for  the  “ Debats 
Of  war  so  certain — yet  not  quite  so^sure 
As  his  dismissal  in  the  “ Moniteur.” 

Alas  ! how  could  his  cabinet  thus  err  ? 

Can  peace  be  worth  an  ultra-minister  ? 

He  falls  indeed,  perhaps  to  rise  again, 

“ Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer’d  Spain.” 5 

XVII. 

Enough  of  this— a sight  more  mournful  woes 
The  averted  eye  of  the  reluctant  muse.. 

The  imperial  daughter,  the  imperial  bride. 

The  imperial  victim — sacrifice  to  pride  ; 

The  mother  of  the  hero’s  hope,  the  boy, 

The  young  Astyanax  of  modern  .Troy  ;6 7 
The  still  pale  shadow  of  the  loftiest  queen 
That  earth  has  yet  to  see,  or  e’er  hath  seen  ; 

She  flits  amidst  the  phantoms  of  the  hour, 

The  theme  of  pity,  and  the  wreck  of  power. 

Oh,  cruel  mockery  ! Could  not  Austria  spare 
A daughter  ? What  did  France’s  widow  there  ? 

Her  fitter  place  was  by  St.  Helen’s  wave, 

Her  only  throne  is  in  Napoleon’s  grave. 

But,  no, — she  still  must  hold  a petty  reign, 

Flank’d  by  her  formidable  chamberlain  ; 

The  martial  Argus,  whose  not  hundred  eyes 
Must  watch  her  through  these  paltry  pageantries  ; 
What  though  she  share  no  more,  and  shared  m vain* 
A sway  surpassing  that  of  Charlemagne, 

Which  swept  from  Moscow  to  the  southern  seas  ; 
Yet  still  she  rules  the  pastoral  realm  of  cheese, 
Where  Parma  views  the  traveller  resort, 

To  note  the  trappings  of  her  mimic  court. 

But  she  appears  ! Verona  sees  her  shorn 
Of  all  her  beams — while  nations  gaze  and  mourn 
Ere  yet  her  husband’s  ashes  have  had  time 
To  chill  in  their  inhospitable  clime  ; i 
(If  e’er  those  awful  ashes  can  grow  cola  ;— 


(1)  [The  head  of  the  illustrious  house  of  Montmorenci  has 
usually  been  designated  “ le  premier  baron  Chretien  ; his  ancestor 
having,  it  is  supposed,  been  the  first  noble  convert  to  Christianity 
in  France.  Lord  Byron  perhaps  alludes  to  the  well-known  joke  of 
Talleyrand,  who,  meeting  the  Duke  of  Montmorenci  at  the  same 
party  with  M.  Rothschild,  soon  after  the  latter  had  been  ennobled 
by  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  is  said  to  have  begged  leave  to  present 
M.  le  premier  baron  Jnif  to  M.  le  premier  baron  Chretien .J 

(2)  Monsieur  Chateaubriand,  who  has  not  forgotten  the  author  m 
the  minister,  received  a handsome  compliment  at  Verona  from  a 
literary  sovereign : “Ah!  Monsieur  C.,  are  you  related  to  that 
Chateaubriand  who  — who  — who  has  written  something J (ecru 
quelquc  chose!)  It  is  said  that  the  author  of  Atala  repented  him 
ror  a moment  of  his  legitimacy. 

(3)  [Count  Capo  d’Istrias— afterwards  President  of  Greece.  The 


count  was  murdered  in  September,  1831,  by  the  brother  and  »» 

of  a Mainote  chief  whom  he  had  imprisoned.] 

(4)  [The  Duke  de  Montmorenci-Laval.] 

(5)  [From  Pope’s  verses  on  Lord  Peterborough  :— 

“ And  he,  whose  lightning  pierced  the  Iberian  lines, 

Now  forms  my  quincunx,  and  now  ranks  my  vines, 

Or  tames  the  genius  of  the  stubborn  plain. 

Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquer’d  Spain.  J 
(61  TNapoleon  Francois  Charles  Joseph,  Duke  of  Reicnstadt, 
died  If  the  palace  of  Schonbrunn,  July  22,  1832,  having  jus, 
attained  his  twenty-first  year.] 

(7)  [Count  Neipperg,  chamberlain  and  second  husband  ^oMana- 

Louisa,  had  but  one  eye.  The  count  died  u 1831.  See  anti, 
p.  461]. 


534 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


But  no— their  embers  soon  will  burst  the  mould  •) 
She  comes  .'—the  Andromache  (but  not  Racine’s,’ 
Nor  Homer’s,)— Lo  ! on  Pyrrhus’  arm  she  leans  ! 
les  ! the  right  arm,  yet  red  from  Waterloo, 

Which  cut  her  lord’s  half-shatter’d  sceptre  througn 
Is  offer’d  and  accepted  ! Could  a slave 
Do  more  ? or  less  ? -r-and  he  in  his  new  grave  ! 

Her  eye,  her  cheek,  betray  no  inward  strife. 

And  the  ^-empress  grows  as  ex  a wife ! 

So  much  for  human  ties  in  royal  breasts ! 

Why  spare  men’s  feelings,  when  their  own  are  jests  ? 

XVIII. 

But,  tired  of  foreign  follies,  I turn  home, 

And  sketch  the  group— the  picture ’s  yet  to  come. 


My  muse  ’gan  weep,  but,  ere  a tear  was  spilt, 

She  caught  Sir  William  Curtis  in  a kilt ! 

While  throng’d  the  chief's  of  every  Highland  clan 
To  hail  their  brother,  Vicli  Ian  Alderman  ! 

Guildhall  grows  Gael,  and  echoes  with  Erse  roar, 
While  all  the  Common  Council  cry  “ Clavmore!” 

To  see  proud  Albyn’s  tartans  as  a belt 
Gird  the  gross  sirloin  of  a city  Celt,1 
She  burst  into  a laughter  so  extreme, 

That  I awoke — and  lo  ! it  was  no  dream  ! 

Here,  reader,  will  we  pause  : — if  there’s  no  harm  in  i 
This  first — you’ll  have,  perhaps,  a second  “ Carmen.”  ' 


#cca£t£mal  jpteccg*  1807— 1824 


THE  ADIEU. 

WRITTEN  UNDER  THE  IMPRESSION  THAT  THE  AUTHOR 
WOULD  SOON  DIE. 

Adieu,  thou  Hill ! 2 where  early  joy 
Spread  roses  o’er  my  brow ; 

Where  Science  seeks  each  loitering  boy 
With  knowledge  to  endow.  ° 

Adieu,  my  youthful  friends  or  foes. 

Partners  of  former  bliss  or  woes ; 

No  more  through  Ida’s  paths  we  stray  : 

Soon  must  I share  the  gloomy  cell, 

Whose  ever-slumbering  inmates  dwell 
Unconscious  of  the  day. 

Adieu,  ye  hoarv  Regal  Fanes, 

Ye  spires  of  Granta’s  vale, 

Where  Learning  robed  in  sable  reigns, 

And  Melancholy  pale! 

Ye  comrades  of  the  jovial  hour. 

Ye  tenants  of  the  classic  bower, 

On  Cama’s  verdant  margin  placed. 

Adieu  ! while  memory  still  is  mine, 

For,  offerings  on  Oblivion’s  shrine, 

These  scenes  must  be  effaced. 

Adieu,  ye  mountains  of  the  clime 
Where  grew  my  youthful  years  ; 

Where  Loch  na  Garr  in  snows  sublime 
His  giant  summit  rears. 

Why  did  my  childhood  wander  forth 
From  you,  ye  regions  of  the  North, 

With  sons  of  pride  to  roam  ? 

Why  did  I quit  my  Highland  cave, 

Marr  s dusky  heath,  and  Dee’s  clear  wave. 

To  seek  a Sotheron  home  ? 


®n  Fourth  is  8aid  t0  have  been  somewhat  annoyed, 

to  «L  hei  evee'«°°m  at  llol>T°od  (Aug.  1822)  in  full  Stuart 
~?hat’  Of  «'S,0ne  firre  3im'arl>r  attirecl  'and  of  similar  bulk) 
that  of  Sir  William  Curtis.  The  city  knight  had  every  thing 

leu  n'fe  8nU^k  in  the  farter.  He  asked  the  King! 
< he  did  not  think  him  well  dressed  - Yes  ! " replied  his  Majesty 


Hall  of  my  Sires  ! a long  farewell— 

Yet  why  to  thee  adieu  ? 

Thy  vaults  will  echo  back  my  knell, 

Thy  towers  my  tomb  will  view  : 

The  faltering  tongue  which  sung  thy  fall. 
And  former  glories  of  thy  Hall3 
Forgets  its  wonted  simple  note— 

But  yet  the  Lyre  retains  the  strings. 

And  sometimes,  on  JEolian  wings. 

In  dying  strains  may  float. 

Fields,  which  surround  yon  rustic  cot, 
While  yet  I linger  here. 

Adieu  ! you  are  not  now  forgot, 

To  retrospection  dear. 

Streamlet  !4  along  whose  rippling  surge, 
My  youthful  limbs  were  wont  to  urge 
At  noontide  heat  their  pliant  course ; 
Plunging  with  ardour  from  the  shore, 

Thy  springs  will  lave  these  limbs  no  more^ 
Deprived  of  active  force. 

And  shall  I here  forget  the  scene, 

Still  nearest  to  my  breast  ? 

Rocks  rise,  and  rivers  roll  between 
The  spot  which  passion  blest ; 

Yet,  Mary,5 6  all  thy  beauties  seem 
Fresh  as  in  Love’s  bewitching  dream, 

To  me  in  smiles  displayed  ; 

Till  slow  disease  resigns  his  prey 
To  Death,  the  parent  of  decay, 

Thine  image  cannot  fade. 

And  thou,  my  Friend  !°  whose  gentle  love 
Yet  thrills  my  bosom’s  chords, 

How  much  thy  friendship  was  above 
Description’s  power  of  words ! 


only  you  have  no  spoon  in  your  hose."  * The  devoarer  of  urtit 

had  a fine  engraving  executed  of  himself  in  his  Celtic  attire.) 

(2)  [Harrow  ] (3)  [See  anti,  pp.  378,  402.] 

(4)  [The  river  Grete,  at  Southwell.] 

(5)  [Mary  Duff.  See  ante,  p.  416,  note.] 

(6)  [Eddlestone,  the  Cambridge  chorister.  See  anti,  p.  «c98.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


53o 


*07. 


Still  near  my  breast  thy  gift  I wear 
W iiieh  sparkled  once  with  Eeeling’s  tear. 

Of  Love  the  pure,  the  sacred  gem ; 

Our  souls  were  equal,  and  our  lot 
In  that  dear  moment  quite  forgot ; 

Let  Pride  alone  condemn  ! 

All,  all  is  dark  and  cheerless  now  ! 

No  smile  of  Love’s  deceit 
Can  wann  my  veins  with  wonted  glow. 

Can  bid  Life’s  pulses  beat : 

Not  e’en  {lie  hope  of  future  fame, 

Can  wake  my  faint,  exhausted  frame, 

Or  crown  with  fancied  wreaths  my  head. 
Mine  is  a short  inglorious  race, — 

To  humble  in  the  dust  my  face. 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

Oh  Fame ! thou  goddess  of  my  heart ; 

On  him  who  gains  thy  praise, 

Pointless  must  fall  the  Spectre’s  dart. 
Consumed  in  Glory’s  blaze ; 

But  me  she  beckons  from  the  earth. 

My  name  obscure,  unmark’d  my  birth. 

My  life  a short  and  vulgar  dream ; 

Lost  in  the  dull,  ignoble  crowd, 

My  hopes  recline  within  a shroud. 

My  late  is  Lethe’s  stream. 

"When  I repose  beneath  the  sod. 

Unheeded  in  the  clay, 

Where  once  my  playful  footsteps  trod, 

Where  now  my  head  must  lay ; 

The  meed  of  Pity  will  be  shed 
In  dew-drops  o’er  my  narrow  bed, 

By  nightly  skies,  and  storms  alone 
No  mortal  eye  will  deign  to  steep 
With  tears  the  dark  sepulchral  deep 
Which  hides  a name  unknown. 

Forget  this  world,  my  restless  sprite. 

Turn,  turn  thy  thoughts  to  Heaven : 

There  must  thou  soon  direct  thy  flight. 

If  errors  are  forgiven. 

To  bigots  and  to  sects  unknown, 

Bow  down  beneath  the  Almighty’s  Throne  ; 

To  Him  address  thy  trembling  prayer  : 

He.  who  is  merciful  and  just. 

Will  not  reject  a child  of  dust. 

Although  his  meanest  care. 

# 

Father  of  Light ! to  Thee  I call. 

My  soul  is  dark  within  : 

Thou,  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow’s  fall, 

Avert  the  death  of  sin. 

Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star, 
Who  calm’st  the  elemental  war. 

Whose  mantle  is  yon  boundless  sky, 

My  thoughts,  my  words,  my  crimes  forgive ; 
And,  since  I soon  must  cease  to  live, 

Instruct  me  how  to  die. 

1807.  [First  published,  1832.] 


TO  A YAIN  LADY. 

Ah.  heedless  girl ! why  thus  disclose 
What  ne’er  was  meant  for  other  ears  : 
Why  thus  destroy  thine  own  repose, 
And  dig  the  source  of  future  tears  ? 


Oh,  thou  wilt  weep,  imprudent  maid, 

While  lurking  envious  foes  will  smile. 

For  all  the  follies  thou  hast  said 
Of  those  who  spoke  but  to  beguile. 

Vain  girl ! thy  ling’ring  woes  are  nigii. 

If  thou  believ5 st  what  striplings  say  : 

Oh,  from  the  deep  temptation  fly. 

Nor  fall  the  specious  spoiler’s'  prey 

Dost  thou  repeat,  in  childish  boast, 

The  words  man  utters  to  deceive  ? 

Thy  peace,  thy  hope,  thy  all  is  lost, 

If  thou  canst  venture' to  believe. 

While  now  amongst  thy  female  peers 
Thou  tell’st  again  the  soothing  tale, 

Canst  thou  not  mark  the  rising  sneers 
Duplicity  in  vain  would  veil  ? 

These  tales  in  secret  silence  hush. 

Nor  make  thyself  the  public  gaze  : 

What  modest  maid  without  a blush 
ttecounts  a flattering  coxcomb’s  praise 

Will  not  the  laughing  boy  despise 
Her  who  relates  each  fond  conceit — • 

Wko,  thinking  Heaven  is  in  her  eyes, 

Yet  cannot  see  the  slight  deceit  ? 

For  she  who  takes  a soft  delight 

These  amorous  nothings  in  revealing 

Must  credit  all  we  say  or  write, 

While  vanity  prevents  concealing. 

Cease,  if  you  prize  your  beauty’s  reign  [ 

No  jealousy  bids  me  reprove  : 

One,  who  is  thus  from  nature  vain, 

I pity,  but  I cannot  love. 

January  15,  1807.  [First  publish*  1SSJ 


TO  ANNE. 

Oh,  Anne  ! your  offences  to  me  have  been  grievous 
I thought  from  my  wrath  no  atonement  could  sa 
you; 

But  woman  is  made  to  command  and  deceive  us — • 

I look’d  in  your  face,  and  I almost  forgave  you. 

I vow’d  I could  ne’er  for  a moment  respect  you, 

Yet  thought  that  a day’s  separation  was  long : 
When  we  met,  I determined  again  to  suspect  you — 
Your  smile  soon  convinced  me  suspicion  was  wreug 

I swore,  in  a transport  of  young  indignation, 

With  fervent  contempt  evermore  to  disdain  you: 

I saw  you — my  anger  became  admiration ; 

And  now,  all  my  wish,  all  my  hope,  ’s  to  regain  you 

With  beauty  like  yours,  oh,  how  vain  the  cont&ntijn 
Thus  lowly  I sue  for  lorgiveness  before  you; — 

At  once  to  conclude  suen  a fruitless  dissension. 

Be  false,  my  sweet  Anne,  when  I cease  to  adc:  e you 

January  16,  1807.  [First  publishe  1 1832.J 


536 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

Oh,  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  the  Fates  have  decreed 
The  heart  which  adores  you  should  wish  to  dissever ; 

Such  Fates  were  to  me  most  unkind  ones  indeed ; — 
To  hear  me  from  love  and  from  beauty  for  ever. 

Your  frowns,  lovely  girl,  are  the  Fates  which  alone 
Could  bid  me  from  fond  admiration  refrain ; 

By  these,  every  hope,  every  wish  were  o’erthrown, 

Till  smiles  should  restore  me  to  rapture  again. 

As  the  ivy  and  oak,  in  the  forest  entwined, 

The  rage  of  the  tempest  united  must  weather, 

My  love  and  my  life  were  by  nature  design’d 
To  flourish  alike,  or  to  perish  together. 

Then  say  not,  sweet  Anne,  that  the  Fates  have  decreed, 
Your  lover  should  bid  you  a lasting  adieu  : 

Till  Fate  can  ordain  that  his  bosom  shall  bleed, 

His  soul,  his  existence,  are  center’d  in  you. 

1S07.  [First  published,  1832.] 


FO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  A SONNET  BEGINNING, 

w ‘fiAD  IS  MY  VERSE.’  YOU  S4.Y,  ‘AND  YET  NO  TEAR.’  ” 

Thy  verse  is  “sad”  enough,  no  doubt, 

A devilish  deal  more  sad  than  witty ! 

Why  we  should  weep  I can’t  find  out, 

Unless  for  ikee  we  weep  in  pity. 

Yet  there  is  one  I pity  more ; 

And  much,  alas  ! I think  he  needs  it : 

For  he,  I’m  sure,  will  suffer  sore, 

Who,  to  his  own  misfortune,  reads  it. 

Thy  rhymes,  without  the  aid  of  magic, 

May  once  be  read — but  never  after : 

Yet  their  effect’s  by  no  means  tragic, 

Although  by  far  too  dull  for  laughter. 

But  would  you  make  our  bosoms  bleed. 

And  of  no  common  pang  complain — 

If  you  would  make  us  weep  indeed, 

Tell  us,  you’ll  read  them  o’er  again. 

March  8,  1807.  [First  published,  1832.] 


ON  FINDING  A FAN. 

In  one  who  felt  as  once  he  felt, 

This  might,  perhaps,  have  farm’d  the  flame ; 

But  now  his  heart  no  more  will  melt. 

Because  that  heart  is  not  the  same. 

As  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low, 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light, 

And  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow, 

Now  quenches  all  their  blaze  in  night, 

Thus  has  it  been  witli  passion’s  fires — 

As  many  a boy  and  girl  remembers — 

While  every  hope  of  love  expires, 

Extinguish’d  with  the  dying  embers. 


The  first,  though  not  a spark  survive, 

Some  careful  hand  may  teach  to  burs 
The  lust,  alas  ! can  ne’er  survive  : 

No  touch  can  bid  its  warmth  return. 

Or,  if  it  chance  to  wake  again, 

Not  always  doom’d  its  heat  to  smothei, 

It  sheds  (so  wayward  fates  ordain) 

Its  former  warmth  around  another. 

1807.  [First  published,  .352.] 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  MUSE. 

Thou  Power ! who  hast  ruled  me  through  infancy’* 
days, 

Young  offspring  of  Fancy,  ’tis  time  we  should  part; 
Then  rise  on  the  gale  this  the  last  of  my  lays, 

The  coldest  effusion  which  springs  from  my  heart. 

This  bosom,  responsive  to  rapture  no  more, 

Shall  hush  thy  wild  notes,  nor  implore  thee  to  sing ; 
The  feelings  of  childhood,  which  taught  thee  to  soar, 
Are  wafted  far  distant  on  Apathy’s  wing. 

Though  simple  the  themes  of  my  rude  flowing  Lyre, 
Yet  even  these  themes  are  departed  for  eve' ; 

No  more  beam  the  eyes  which  my  dream  could  Aspire 
Mv  visions  are  flown,  to  return, — ala*  neve  ! 

When  drain’d  is  the  nectar  which  gladdens  the  Dow:, 
How  vain  is  the  effort  delight  to  prolong ! 

When  cold  is  the  beauty  which  dwelt  in  my  soul, 
What  magic  of  Fancy  can  lengthen  my  song  ? 

Can  the  lips  sing  of  Love  in  the  desert  alone, 

Of  kisses  and  smiles  which  they  now  must  resign  ? 
Or  dwell  with  delight  on  the  hours  that  are  flown  ? 
Ah,  no  ! for  those  hours  can  no  longer  be  mine. 

Can  they  speak  of  the  friends  that  I lived  but  to  love? 

Ah,  surely  affection  ennobles  the  strain ! 

But  how  can  my  numbers  in  sympathy  move, 

When  I scarcely  can  hope  to  behold  them  again  ? 

Can  I sing  of  the  deeds  which  my  Fathers  have  done, 
And  raise  my  loud  harp  to  the  fame  of  my  Sires  ? 
For  glories  like  theirs,  oh,  how  faint  is  my  tone  ! 

For  Heroes’  exploits  how  unequal  my  fires  ! 

Untouch’d,  then,  my  Lyre  shall  reply  to  the  blast — 
’Tis  hush’d;  and  my  feeble  endeavours  are  o’er  ; 
And  those  who  have  heard  it  will  pardon  the  past, 
When  tnev  know  that  its  murmurs  shall  vibrate  no 
more. 

And  soon  shall  its  wild  erring  notes  be  forgot, 

Since  early  affection  and  love  are  o’ercast : 

Oh ! blest  had  my  fate  been,  and  happy  my  iot, 

Had  the  first  strain  of  love  been  the  dearest,  the  last! 

Farewell,  my  young  Muse ! since  we  now  can  ne  ej 
meet ; 

If  our  songs  have  been  languid,  they  surely  are  few . 
Let  us  hope  that  the  present  at  least  will  be  sweet— 
The  present — which  seals  our  eternal  Adieu. 

1807.  [First  publisl  id,  ll?2? 


1807. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


537 


TO  AN  OAK  AT  NEWSTEAD.1 

Iotjng  Oak  ! when  I planted  thee  deep  in  the  ground, 
I hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than  mine  ; 

That  thy  dark-waving  branches  would  flourish  around, 
And  ivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 

Such,  such  was  my  hope,  when,  in  infancy’s  years. 

On  the  land  of  my  fathers  I rear’d  thee  with  pride : 

They  are  past,  and  I water  thy  stem  with  my  tears, — 
Thy  decay  not  the  weeds  that  surround  thee  can 
hide. 

I left  thee,  my  Oak,  and,  since  that  fatal  hour, 

A stranger  has  dwelt  in  the  hall  of  mv  si-re  ; 

Till  manhood  shall  crown  me,  not  mine  is  the  power, 
But  his,  whose  neglect  may  have  bade  thee  expire. 

Oh  ! hardy  thou  wert — even  now  little  care 
Might  revive  thy  young  head,  and  thy  wounds 
gently  heal : 

But  thou  wert  not  fated  affection  to  share — 

Eor  wlio  could  suppose  that  a Stranger  would  feel  ? 

Ah,  droop  not,  my  Oak  ! lift  thy  head  for  a while ; 

Ere  twice  round  yon  Glory  this  planet  shall  run, 

The  hand  of  thy  Master  will  teach  thee  to  smile, 
When  Infancy’s  years  of  probation  are  done. 

Oh,  live  then,  my  Oak ! tow’r  aloft  from  the  weeds, 
That  clog  thy  young  growth,  and  assist  thy  decay, 

For  still  in  thy  bosom  are  life’s  early  seeds, 

And  still  may  thy  branches  their  beauty  display. 

Oh  ! yet,  if  maturity’s  years  may  be  thine, 

Though  I shall  lie  low  in  the  cavern  of  death, 

On  thy  leaves  yet  the  day -beam  of  ages  may  shine, 
Uninjured  by  time,  or  the  rude  winter’s  breath. 

For  centuries  still  may  thy  boughs  lightly  wave 
O’er  the  corse  of  thy  lord  in  thy  canopy  laid  ; 

While  the  branches  thus  gratefully  shelter  his  grave, 
The  chief  who  survives  may  recline  in  thy  shade. 

And  as  he,  with  his  boys,  shall  revisit  this  spot, 

He  will  tell  them  in  whispers  more  softly  to  tread. 

Oh  ! surely,  by  these  I shall  ne’er  be  forgot : 
Remembrance  still  hallows  the  dust  of  the  dead. 

And  here,  will  they  say,  when  in  life’s  glowing  prime, 
Perhaps  he  has  pour’d  forth  his  young  simpl®  lay. 

And  here  must  he  sleep,  till  the  moments  of  time 
Are  lost  in  the  hours  of  Eternity’s  day. 

1807.  [First  published,  1832.] 


(1)  [Lord  Byron,  on  his  first  arrival  at  Newstead,  in  1798,  planted 
an  oak  in  the  garden,  and  nourished  the  fancy,  that  as  the  tree 
flourished  so  should  he.  On  revisiting  the  abbey,  during  Lord  Grey 
de  Ruthven’s  residence  there,  he  found  the  oak  choked  up  by 
weeds,  and  almost  destroyed; — hence  these  lines.  Shortly  after 
Colonel  Wildman,  the  present  proprietor,  took  possession,  he  one 
day  noticed  it,  and  said  to  the  servant  who  was  with  him,  “ Here 
is  a fine  young  oak;  but  it  must  be  cut  down,  as  it  grows  in  an 
improper  place.” — “ I hope  not,  sir,”  replied  the  man  ; “ for  it’s 
the  one  that  my  lord  was  so  fond  of,  because  he  set  it  himself.” 
The  Colonel  has,  of  course,  taken  every  possible  care  of  it.  It  is 
aiready  inquired  after,  by  strangers,  as  the  Byron  oak,”  and 
promises  to  share,  in  after  times,  the  celebrity  of  Shakspeare’s 
mulberry,  and  Pope’s  willow.] 

(2)  Some  years  ago,  when  at  Harrow,  a friend  of  the  author 

engraved  on  a particular  spot  the  names  of  both,  with  a few  adai- 


ON  REVISITING  HARROW.2 

Here  once  engaged  the  stranger’s  view 
Young  Friendship’s  record  simply  traced  ; 

Few  were  her  words, — but  yet,  though  few, 
Resentment’s  hand  the  line  defaced. 

Deeply  she  cut — but  not  erased, 

Tlie  characters  were  still  so  plain. 

That  Friendship  once  return’d,  and  gazed, — 

Till  Memory  hail’d  the  words  again. 

Repentance  placed  them  as  before ; 

Forgiveness  join’d  her  gentle  name ; 

So  fair  the  inscription  seem’d  once  more 
That  Friendship  thought  it  still  the  same. 

Thus  might  the  Record  now  have  been ; 

But,  all,  in  spite  of  Hope’s  endeavour, 

Or  Friendship’s  tears,  Pride  rush’d  between, 

And  blotted  out  the  line  for  ever. 

September,  1807. 


EPITAPH  ON  JOHN  ADAMS,  OF  SOUTHWELL. 

A CARRIER,  WHO  DIED  OF  DRUNKENNESS. 

John  Adams  lies  here  of  the  parish  of  Southwell, 

A ^Carrier  who  carried  his  can  to  his  mouth  well ; 

He  carried  so  much,  and  he  carried  so  fast, 

He  could  carry  no  more — so  was  carried  at  last ; 

For,  the  liquor  he  drank,  being  too  much  for  one, 

He  could  not  carry  off, — so  lie’s  now  carri-on. 

September,  1807. 


TO  MY  SON.3 

Those  flaxen  locks,  those  eyes  of  blue. 
Bright  as  thy  mother’s  in  their  hue ; 
Those  rosy  lips,  whose  dimples  play 
And  smile  to  steal  the  heart  away, 

Recall  a scene  of  former  joy, 

And  touch  thy  father’s  heart,  my  Boy  ! 

And  thou  canst  lisp  a father’s  name — 

Ah,  William,  were  thine  own  the  same, — 
No  self-reproach — but,  let  me  cease — 
My  care  for  thee  shall  purchase  peace ; 
Thy  mother’s  shade  shall  smile  in  joy. 
And  pardon  all  the  past,  my  Boy  ! 

Her  lowly  grave  the  turf  has  prest, 

And  thou  hast  known  a stranger’s  breast. 


tional  words,  as  a memorial.  Afterwards,  on  receiving  some  real 
or  imagined  injury,  the  author  destroyed  the  frail  recora  before  he 
left  Harrow.  On  revisiting  the  place  in  1807,  he  wrote  under  i* 
these  stanzas. 

(3)  [“  Whether  these  verses  are,  in  any  degree,  founded  on  fact, 
I have  no  accurate  means  of  determining.  Fond  as  Lord  Byron 
was  of  recording  every  particular  of  his  youth,  such  an  event,  or 
rather  era,  as  is  here  commemorated,  would  have  been,  of  all 
others,  the  least  likely  to  pass  unmentioned  by  him;  and  yet 
neither  in  conversation  nor  in  any  of  his  writings  do  I remember 
even  an  allusion  to  it.  On  the  other  hand,  so  entirely  was  all  that 
he  wrote, — making  allowance  for  the  embellishments  of  fancy, — 
the  transcript  of  his  actual  life  and  feelings,  that  it  is  not  easy  to 
suppose  a poem,  so  full  of  natural  tenderness,  to  have  been  indebted 
for  its  origin  to  imagination  alone.” — Moore.  But  see  post,  Don 
Juan,  canto  xvi.  st.  61.] 

3 z 


538 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Derision  sneers  upon  thy  birth, 

And  yields  thee  scarce  a name  on  eartli ; 

Yet  shall  not  these  one  hope  destroy, — 

A Bather’s  heart  is  thine,  my  Boy  ! 

Why,  let  the  world  unfeeling  frown, 

Must  I.  fond  Nature’s  claim  disown  ? 

Ah,  no — though  moralists  reprove, 

I hail  thee,  dearest  child  of  love, 

Bair  cherub,  pledge  of  youth  and  joy — 

A Bather  guards  thy  birth,  my  Boy ! 

Oh,  ’twill  be  sweet  in  thee  to  trace. 

Ere  age  has  wrinked  o’er  my  face. 

Ere  half  my  glass  of  life  is  run, 

At  once  a brother  and  a son ; 

And  all  my  wane  of  years  employ 
In  justice  done  to  thee,  my  Boy  ! 

Although  so  young  thy  heedless  sire. 

Youth  will  not  damp  parental  fire  ; 

And,  wert  thou  still  less  dear  to  me. 

While  Helen’s  form  revives  in  thee. 

The  breast,  which  beat  to  former  joy, 

Will  ne’er  desert  its  pledge,  my  Boy  ! 

1807.  [First  published,  1830.] 


FAREWELL ! IB  EVER  BONDEST  PRAYER. 

Barewell  ! if  ever  fondest  prayer 
Bor  other’s  weal  avail’d  on  high. 

Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air. 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 

’Twere  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh  : 

Oh  ! more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell. 

When  wrung  from  guilt’s  expiring  eye, 

Are  in  that  word — Barewell ! — Barewell ! 

These  lips  are  mute,  these  eyes  are  dry ; 

But  in  my  breast  and  in  my  brain, 

Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by, 

The  thought  that  ne’er  shall  sleep  again. 

My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel : 

I only  know  we  loved  in  vain — 

I only  feel— Barewell ! — Barewell ! 

1808. 


BRIGHT  BE  THE  PLACE  OB  THY  SOUL. 

Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul ! 

No  lovelier  spirit  than  thine 
E’er  burst  from  its  mortal  control, 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 

On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine, 

As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be ; 

And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine, 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 

Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb  ! 

May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be  : 

Tiiere  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom 
In  aught  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 


Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 
May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest : 

But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see ; 

Bor  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  blest  9 

l $sa. 


WHEN  WE  TWO  PARTED. 

When  we  two  parted 
In  silence  and  tears. 

Half  broken-hearted 
To  sever  for  years, 

Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold. 

Colder  thy  kiss ; 

Truly  that  hour  foretold 
Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 
Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 

It  felt  like  the  warning 
Of  what  I feel  now. 

Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame 
I hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A knell  to  mine  ear  ; 

A shudder  comes  o’er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 

They  know  not  I knew  thee. 

Who  knew  thee  too  well 
Long,  long  shall  I rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I grieve. 

That  thy  heart  could  forget. 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 

If  I should  meet  thee 
After  long  years, 

How  should  1 greet  thee  ? — 

With  silence  and  tears. 

'803 

TO  A YOUTHBUL  BRIEND.1 

Eew  years  have  pass’d  since  thou  and  I 
Were  firmest  friends,  at  least  in  name, 

And  childhood’s  gay  sincerity 

Preserved  our  feelings  long  the  same. 

But  now,  like  me,  too  well  thou  know’st 
What  trifles  oft  the  heart  recall ; 

And  those  who  once  have  loved  the  most 

* Too  soon  forget  they  loved  at  all. 

And  such  the  change  the  heart  displays, 

So  frail  is  early  friendship’s  reign, 

A month’s  brief  lapse,  perhaps  a day’s. 

Will  view  thy  mind  estranged  again. 

If  so,  it  never  shall  be  mine 

To  mourn  the  loss  of  such  a heart ; 

The  fault  was  Nature’s  fault,  not  thine, 

Which  made  thee  fickle  as  thou  art. 


(1)  [This  copy  of  verses,  and  that  which  follows,  originallyap- 
peared in  the  volume  published,  in  1809,  by  Mr.  (now  the  Right 
Hon.  Sir  John)  Hobhouse,  under  the  title  of  “ Imitations  and 


Translations,  together  with  original  poems,”  and  bearing  te* 
modest  epigraph — “ Nos  licec  novimus  esse  nihil.”] 


180$. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


539 


As  rolls  the  ocean’s  changing  tide, 

So  human  feelings  ebb  and  flow  ; 

And  who  would  in  a breast  confide, 

Where  stormy  passions  ever  glow? 

It  boots  not  that,  together  bred, 

Our  childish  days  were  days  of  joy : 

My  spring  of  life  has  quickly  fled  ; 

Thou,  too,  hast  ceased  to  be  a boy. 

And  when  we  bid  adieu  to  youth, 

Slaves  to  the  specious  world’s  control, 
We  sigh  a long  farewell  to  truth ; 

That  world  corrupts  the  noblest  soul. 

Ah,  joyous  season  ! when  the  mind 
Dares  all  things  boldly  but  to  lie  ; 

When  thought  ere  spoke  is  unconfined. 
And  sparkles  in  the  placid  eye. 

Not  so  in  Man’s  maturer  years, 

When  Man  himself  is  but  a tool ; 

When  interest  sways  our  hopes  and  fears, 
And  all  must  love  and  hate  by  rule. 

With  fools  in  kindred  vice  the  same, 

We  learn  at  length  our  faults  to  blend ; 
And  those,  and  those  alone,  may  claim 
The  prostituted  name  of  friend. 

Such  is  the  common  lot  of  man  : 

Can  we  then  ’scape  from  folly  free  ? 

Can  we  reverse  the  general  plan. 

Nor  be  what  all  in  turn  must  be  ? 

No  ; for  myself,  so  dark  my  fate 

Through  every  turn  of  life  hath  been ; 
Man  and  the  world  so  much  I hate, 

I care  not  when  I quit  the  scene. 

But  thou,  with  spirit  frail  and  light. 

Wilt  shine  awhile,  and  pass  away; 

As  glow-worms  sparkle  through  the  night, 
But  dare  not  stand  the  test  of  day. 

Alas  ! whenever  folly  calls 

Where  parasites  and  princes  meet, 

(E or  cherish’d  first  in  royal  halls, 

The  welcome  vices  kindly  greet) 

Ev’n  now  thou’rt  nightly  seen  to  add 
One  insect  to  the  fluttering  crowd ; 

And  still  thy  trifling  heart  is  glad 
To  join  the  vain,  and  court  the  proud. 

There  dost  thou  glide  from  fair  to  fair, 

Still  simpering  on  with  eager  haste, 

As  flies  along  the  gay  parterre. 

That  taint  the  flowers  they  scarcely  taste. 


(1)  [Lord  Byron  gives  the  following  account  of  this  cup  : — “ The 
gardener,  in  digging,  discovered  a skull  that  had  probably  belonged 
to  some  jolly  friar  or  monk  of  the  abbey,  about  the  time  it  was 
demonasteried.  Observing  it  to  be  of  giant  size,  and  in  a perfect 
state  of  preservation,  a strange  fancy  seized  me  of  having  it  set 
and  mounted  as  a drinking  cup.  I accordingly  sent  it  to  town, 
and  it  returned  with  a very  high  polish,  and  of  a mottled  colour 
like  tortoiseshell.”  It  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Colonel  Wild- 
man,  the  proprietor  of  Newstead  Abbey.  In  several  of  our  elder 
dramatists,  mention  is  made  of  the  custom  of  quaffing  wine  out  of  j 
similar  cups.  For  example,  in  Dekker’s  “ Wonder  of  a Kingdom,”  | 


But  say,  what  nymph  will  prize  the  flame 
Which  seems,  as  marshy  vapours  move, 

To  flit  along  from  dame  1o  dame, 

An  ignis-fatuus  gleam  of  love  ? 

Wrhat  friend  for  thee,  howe’er  inclined. 

Will  deign  to  own  a kindred  care  ? 

Who  will  debase  his  manly  mind. 

For  friendship  every  fool  may  share? 

In  time  forbear ; amidst  the  throng 
No  more  so  base  a thing  be  seen ; 

No  more  so  idly  pass  along : 

Be  something,  any  thing,  but — mean. 

• 6C&. 


LINES  INSCRIBED  UPON  A CUP  FORMED 
FROM  A SKULL.1 

Staut  not — nor  deem  my  spirit  fled : 

In  me  behold  the  only  skull, 

From  which,  unlike  a living  head, 

Whatever  flows  is  never  dull. 

I lived,  I loved,  I quaff’d,  like  thee  : 

I died  : let  earth  my  bones  resign : 

Fill  up — thou  canst  not  injure  me  ; 

The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 

Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape, 

Than  nurse  the  earth-worm’s  slimy  brood  • 

And  circle  in  the  goblet’s  shape 
The  drink  of  Gods,  than  reptiles’  food. 

Where  once  my  wit,  perchance,  hath  shone, 

In  aid  of  others’  let  me  shine  ; 

And  when,  alas  ! our  brains  are  gone, 

What  nobler  substitute  than  wine  ? 

• 

Quaff  while  thou  canst : another  race, 

When  thou  and  thine,  like  me,  are  sped. 

May  rescue  thee  from  earth’s  embrace, 

And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 

Why  no — since  through  life’s  little  day 
Our  heads  such  sad  effects  produce  ? 

Redeem’d  from  worms  and  wasting  clay, 

This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use. 

Newstead  Abbey,  1808. 


WELL ! THOU  ART  HAPPY.2 

Well  ! thou  art  happy,  and  I feel 
That  I should  thus  be  happy  too  ; 
For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 


“ Would  I had  ten  thousand  soldiers’  heads, 

Their  skulls  set  all  in  silver ; to  drink  healths 
To  his  confusion  who  first  invented  war.”] 

(2)  [These  lines  were  printed  originally  in  Mr.  Hobhouse's 
Miscellany.  A few  days  before  they  were  written,  the  Poet  had 
been  invited  to  dine  at  Annesley.  On  the  infant  daughter  ot 
his  fair  hostess  being  brought  into  the  room,  he  started  involun- 
tarily, and  with  the  utmost  difficulty  suppressed  his  emotion.  T« 
the  sensations  of  that  moment  we  are  indebted  for  these  beautiftw 
stanzas.] 


540 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


1 80S 


Thy  husband’s  Dlest — and  ’twill  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot : 

But  let  them  pass — Oh ! how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not ! 

When  late  I saw  thy  favourite  child, 

I thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break ; 

But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 

I kiss’d  it  for  its  mother’s  sake. 

I kiss’d  it, — and  repress’d  my  sighs, 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see  ; 

But  then  it  had  its  mother’s  eyes, 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu ! I must  away : 

While  thou  art  blest  I ’ll  not  repine ; 

But  near  thee  I can  never  stay ; 

My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I deem’d  that  time,  I deem’d  that  pride 
Had  quench’d  at  length  my  boyish  flame  ; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 

My  heart  in  all, — save  hope,— the  same. 

Yet  was  I calm  : I knew  the  time 

My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  look  ; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a crime — 

We  met, — and  not  a nerve  was  shook. 

I saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 

Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there  : 

One  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace ; 

The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 


Unhonour’d  falls,  unnoticed  all  his  worth. 

Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth : 

While  man,  vain  insect ! hopes  to  be  forgiven, 

And  claims  himself  a sole  exclusive  heaven. 

Oh  man  ! thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 

Debased  by  slavery,  or  corrupt  by  power, 

Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  disgust, 
Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust ! 

Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a cheat, 

Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit ! 

By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 

Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 
Ye  ! who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn, 

Pass  on — it  honours  none  you  wish  to  mourn  : 

To  mark  a friend’s  remains  these  stones  arise ; 

I never  knew  but  one, — and  here  he  lies. 

Newstead  Abbey,  November  30,  1808 


. TO  A LADY,2 

ON  BEING  ASKED  MY  REASON  FOR  QUITTING  ENGLAND 
IN  THE  SPRING. 

When  Man,  expell’d  from  Eden’s  bowers, 

A moment  linger’d  near  the  gate, 

Each  scene  recall’d  the  vanish’d  hours, 

And  bade  him  curse  his  future  fate. 

But,  wandering  on  through  distant  climea, 

He  learnt  to  bear  his  load  of  grief ; 

Just  gave  a sigh  to  other  times, 

And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 


Away  ! away  ! my  early  dream 
Remembrance  never  must  awake  : 

Oh ! where  is  Lethe’s  fabled  stream  ? 

My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break. 

November  2,  1808. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  MONUMENT  OF  A 
NEWFOUNDLAND  DOG.1 
When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth, 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth, 

The  sculptor’s  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe, 

And  storied  urns  record  who  rests  below ; 

When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen, 

Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been : 

But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend, 

The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend, 

Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master’s  own, 

Who  labours,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 


Thus,  lady  ! 3 will  it  be  with  me. 

And  I must  view  thy  charms  no  more ; 

For,  while  I linger  near  to  thee, 

I sigh  for  all  I knew  before. 

In  flight  I shall  be  surely  wise, 

Escaping  from  temptation’s  snare  ; 

I cannot  view  my  paradise 

Without  the  wish  of  dwelling  there.4 

December  2,  1808. 


REMIND  ME  NOT,  REMIND  ME  NOT. 

Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not, 

Of  those  beloved,  those  vanish’d  hours, 
When  all  my  soul  was  given  to  thee ; 
Hours  that  may  never  be  forgot, 

Till  time  unnerves  our  vital  powers, 

And  thou  andl  shall  cease  to  be. 


( 1)  [This  monument  is  still  a conspicuous  ornament  in  the  garden 
of  Newstead.  The  following  is  the  inscription  by  which  the  verses 
are  preceded  : — 

“ Near  this  spot 

Are  deposited  the  Remains  of  one 
Who  possessed  Beauty  without  Vanity, 

Strength  without  Insolence, 

Courage  without  Ferocity, 

And  all  the  Virtues  of  Man  without  his  Vices. 

This  Praise,  which  would  be  unmeaning  Flattery 
If  inscribed  over  human  ashes, 

Is  but  a just  tribute  to  the  Memory  of 
BOATSWAIN,  a Dog, 

Who  was  born  at  Newfoundland,  May,  1803, 

And  died  at  Newstead  Abbey,  Nov.  18,  1808.” 


l^>rd  Byron  thus  announced  the  death  of  his  favourite  to  his  friend 
lodgson:— “ Boatswain  is  dead!— he  expired  in  a state  of  mad- 
,ess,  on  the  18th,  after  suffering  much,  yet  retaining  all  the  gentle- 
iess  of  his  nature  to  the  last;  never  attempting  to  do  the  least 
njury  to  any  one  near  him.  I have  now  lost  every  thing,  except 
>ld  Murray.”  By  the  will  executed  in  1811,  he  directed  that  his 


own  body  should  be  buried  in  a vault  in  the  garden,  near  his  faith- 
ful dog.] 

(2)  [In  the  original  MS.  “To  Mrs.  Musters,”  &c.  The  reader 
will  find  a portrait  of  this  lady  in  Finden’s  Illustrations  of  Byron, 
No.  III.] 

(3)  [In  the  first  copy,  “ Thus,  Mary ! ”] 

(4)  [In  Mr.  Hobhouse’s  volume,  the  line  stood, — “ Without  a 
wish  to  enter  there.”  The  following  is  an  extract  from  an  unpub- 
lished letter  of  Lord  Byron,  written  in  1823,  only  three  days  previous 
to  his  leaving  Italy  for  Greece Miss  Chaworth  was  two  years 
older  than  myself.  She  married  a man  of  an  ancient  and  re- 
spectable family,  but  her  marriage  was  not  a happier  one  than  my 
own.  Her  conduct,  however,  was  irreproachable;  but  there  was 
not  sympathy  between  their  characters.  I had  not  seen  her  for 
many  years,  when  an  occasion  offered.  I was  upon  the  point, 
with  her  consent,  of  paying  her  a visit,  when  my  sister,  who  has 
always  had  more  influence  over  me  than  any  one  else,  persuaded 
me  not  to  do  it.  1 For,’  said  she,  ‘ if  you  go  you  will  fall  in  iova 
again,  and  then  there  will  be  a scene;  one  step  will  lead  to  another, 
et  cela  fera  un  Mat.’  I was  guided  by  those  reasons,  and  shortly 
after  married,— with  what  success  it  is  useless  to  say.  j 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


541 


1 808. 

Can  I forget — ca.;st  thou  forget, 

When  playing  with  thy  golden  hair, 

How  quick  thy  fluttering  heart  did  move  ? 

Oh  ! by  my  soul,  I see  thee  yet, 

With  eyes  so  languid,  breast  so  fair, 

And  lips,  though  silent,  breathing  love. 

When  thus  reclining  on  my  breast, 

Those  eyes  threw  back  a glance  so  sweet, 

As  half  reproach’d  yet  raised  desire, 

And  still  we  near  and  nearer  prest, 

And  still  our  glowing  lips  would  meet. 

As  if  in  kisses  to  expire. 

And  then  those  pensive  eyes  would  close. 

And  bid  their  lids  each  other  seek, 

Veiling  the  azure  orbs  below ; 

While  their  long  lashes’  darken’d  gloss 
Seem’d  stealing  o’er  thy  brilliant  cheek, 

Like  raven’s  plumage  smooth’d  on  snow. 

I dreamt  last  night  our  love  return’d, 

And,  sooth  to  say,  that  very  dream 
W as  sweeter  in  its  phantasy. 

Than  if  for  other  hearts  I burn’d, 

For  eyes  that  ne’er  like  thine  could  beam 
In  rapture’s  wild  reality. 

Then  tell  me  not,  remind  me  not, 

Of  hours  which,  though  for  ever  gone. 

Can  still  a pleasing  dream  restore, 

Till  thou  and  I shall  be  forgot, 

And  senseless  as  the  mouldering  stone 
Which  tells  that  we  shall  be  no  more. 


THERE  WAS  A TIME,  I NEED  NOT  NAME. 

There  was  a time,  I need  not  name, 

Since  it  will  ne’er  forgotten  be, 

When  all  our  feelings  were  the  same 
As  still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee. 

And  from  that  hour  when  first  thy  tongue 
Confess’d  a love  which  equall’d  mine, 

Though  many  a grief  my  heart  hath  wrung, 
Unknown  and  thus  unfelt  by  thine, 

None,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this — 

To  think  how  all  that  love  hath  flown ; 


(1)  [The  melancholy  which  was  now  gaining  fast  upon  the  young 
poet’s  mind  was  a source  of  much  uneasiness  to  his  friends.  It  was 
at  this  period,  that  the  following  pleasant  verses  were  addressed  to 
him  by  Mr.  Hobliouse: — 

EPISTLE 

TO  A YOUNG  NOBLEMAN  IN  LOVE. 

Hatl!  generous  youth,  whom  glory’s  sacred  flam 
Inspires  and  animates  to  deeds  of  fame; 

Who  feel  the  noble  wish  before  you  die 
To  raise  the  finger  of  each  passer-by : 

Hail!  may  a future  age  admiring  view 
A Falkland  or  a Clarendon  in  you. 

But  as  your  blood  with  dangerous  passion  boils, 

Beware  ! and  fly  from  Venus’  silken  toils  : 

Ah ! Jet  the  head  protect  the  weaker  heart, 

And  Wisdoi> ’s  jEgis  turn  on  Beauty’s  dart. 

» * * * • 

But  if  ’tis  fix’d  that  every  lord  must  pair, 

And  you  and  Newstead  must  not  want  an  heir, 

Lose  not  your  pains,  and  scour  the  country  rcurid, 

To  find  a treasure  that  can  ne’er  be  found  1 


Transient  as  every  faithless  kiss, 

But  transient  in  thy  breast  alone. 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew. 
When  late  I heard  thy  lips  declare. 
In  accents  once  imagined  true, 

Remembrance  of  the  days  that  were. 

Yes  ; my  adored,  yet  most  unkind ! 

Though  thou  wilt  never  love  again, 
To  me  ’tis  doubly  sweet  to  find 
Remembrance  of  that  love  remain. 

Yes  ! ’tis  a glorious  thought  to  me, 

Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine, 
Whate’er  thou  art  or  e’er  shalt  be, 
Thou  hast  been  dearly,  solely  mine. 


AND  WILT  THOU  WEEP  WHEN  I AM  LOW  t 

And  wilt  thou  weep  when  I am  low  ? 

Sweet  lady  ! speak  those  words  again  : 

Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so — 

I would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 

My  heart  is  sad,  my  hopes  are  gone, 

My  blood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast ; 

And  when  I perish,  thou  alone 
Wilt  sigh  above  my  place  of  rest. 

And  yet,  methinks,  a gleam  of  peace 

Doth  through  my  cloud  of  anguish  shine  ; 

And  for  awhile  my  sorrows  cease. 

To  know  thy  heart  hath  felt  for  mine. 

Oh  lady  ! blessed  be  that  tear — 

It  falls  for  one  who  cannot  weep  : 

Such  precious  drops  are  doubly  dear 
To  those  whose  eyes  no  tear  may  steep. 

Sweet  lady ! once  my  heart  was  warm 
With  every  feeling  soft  as  thine ; 

But  beauty’s  self  hath  ceased  to  charm 
A wretch  created  to  repine. 

Yet  wilt  thou  weep  when  I am  low  ? 

Sweet  lady  ! speak  those  words  again ; 

Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so— 

I would  not  give  that  bosom  pain.1 


No ! take  the  first  the  town  or  court  affords, 
Trick’d  out  to  stock  a market  for  the  lords  ; 

By  chance  perhaps  your  luckier  choice  may  fall 
On  one,  though  wicked,  not  the  worst  of  all : 
***** 

One  though  perhaps  as  any  Maxwell  free, 

Yet  scarce  a copy,  Claribel,  of  thee: 

Not  very  ugly,  and  not  very  old, 

A little  pert  indeed,  but  not  a scold; 

One  that,  in  short,  may  help  to  lead  a life 
Not  farther  much  from  comfort  than  from  strife; 
And  when  she  dies,  and  disappoints  your  fears. 
Shall  leave  some  joys  for  your  declining  years. 

But,  as  your  early  youth  some  time  allows, 

Nor  custom  yet  demands  you  for  a spouse. 

Some  hours  of  freedom  may  remain  as  yet 
For  one  who  laughs  alike  at  love  and  debt ; 

Then,  why  in  haste?  put  off  the  evil  day, 

And  snatch  at  youthful  comforts  whilst  you  mayj 
Pause  ! nor  so  soon  the  various  bliss  forego 
That  single  souls,  and  such  alone,  can  know: 

Ah  1 why  too  early  careless  life  resign, 

Your  morning  slumber,  and  your  evening  wine; 


542 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


1809, 


PILL  THE  GOBLET  AGAIN. 

A SONG. 

Fill  His  goblet  again  ! for  I never  before 
Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its  core  ; 
Let  us  drink  ! — who  would  uot  ? — since,  through 
life’s  varied  round, 

In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply ; 

I have  bask’d  in  the  beam  of  a dark  rolling  eye ; 

I have  loved  ! — who  has  not  ? — but  what  heart  can 
declare, 

That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there  ? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart’s  in  its 
* spring, 

And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 

I had  friends  ! — who  has  not  ? — but  what  tongue  will 
avow. 

That  friends,  rosy  wine  ! are  so  faithful  as  thou  ? 

The  heart  of  a mistress  some  boy  may  estrange, 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam — thou  never  canst 
change : 

Thou  grow’st  old — who  does  not  ? — but  on  earth  what 
appears, 

Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its  years  ? 

Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow. 
Should  a rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below, 

We  are  jealous! — who’s  not? — thou  hast  no  such 
alloy ; 

For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we  enjoy. 

Then  the  season  of  youth  and  its  vanities  past, 

For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last ; 

There  we  find — do  we  not? — in  the  flow  of  the 
soul. 

That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 

When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  open’d  on  earth. 

And  Misery’s  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 

Hope  was  left, — was  she  not  ? — but  the  goblet  we 
kiss, 

And  care  not  fcr  Hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

Long  life  to  the  grape  ! for  when  summer  is  flown, 
The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own  : 

We  must  die — who  shall  not? — May  our  sins  be 
forgiven, 

And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven. 


Your  loved  companion,  and  his  easy  talk; 

Your  Muse,  invoked  in  every  peaceful  walk. 

What!  can  no  more  your  scenes  paternal  please, 

Scenes  sacred  long  to  wise,  unmated  ease? 

The  prospect  lengthen’d  o’er  the  distant  down, 

Lakes,  meadows,  rising  woods,  and  all  your  own? 

What!  shall  your  Newstead,  shall  your  cloister’d  bowers, 
The  high  o’er-hanging  arch  and  trembling  towers  1 
Shall  these,  profaned  with  folly  or  with  strife, 

And  ever  fond,  or  ever  angry  wife ! 

Shall  these  no  more  confess  a manly  sway, 

But  changeful  woman's  changing  whims  obey? 

Who  may,  perhaps,  as  varying  humour  calls, 

Contract  your  cloisters  and  o’erthrow  your  walls  ; 

Let  Repton  loose  o’er  all  the  ancient  ground, 

Change  round  to  square,  and  square  convert  to  round; 
Root  up  the  elms’  and  yews’  too  solemn  gloom, 


STANZAS  TO  A LADY,1  ON  LEAVING 
ENGLAND. 

’Tis  done — and  shivering  in  the  gale 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail ; 

And  whistling  o’er  the  bending  mast, 

Loud  sings  on  high  the  fresh’ning  blast ; 

And  I must  from  this  land  be  gone. 

Because  I cannot  love  but  one. 

But  could  I be  what  I have  been, 

And  could  I see  what  I have  seen — 

Could  I repose  upon  the  breast 
Which  once  my  warmest  wishes  blest— 

I should  not  seek  another  zone 
Because  I cannot  love  but  one. 

’Tis  long  since  I beheld  that  eye 
Which  gave  me  bliss  or  misery ; 

And  I have  striven,  but  in  vain. 

Never  to  think  of  it  again  : 

For  though  I fly  from  Albion, 

I still  can  only  love  but  one. 

As  some  lone  bird,  without  a mate. 

My  weary  heart  is  desolate  ; 

I look  around,  and  cannot  trace 
One  friendly  smile  or  welcome  face. 

And  ev’n  in  crowds  am  still  alone. 

Because  I cannot  love  but  one. 

And  I will  cross  the  whitening  foam. 

And  I will  seek  a foreign  home  ; 

Till  I forget  a false  fair  face, 

I ne’er  shall  find  a resting-place  ; 

My  own  dark  thoughts  I cannot  shun, 

But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

The  poorest,  veriest  wretch  on  earth 
Still  finds  some  hospitable  hearth, 

Where  friendship’s  or  love’s  softer  glow 
May  smile  in  joy  or  soothe  in  woe  ; 

But  friend  or  leman  I have  none, 

Because  I cannot  love  but  one. 

I go — but  wheresoe’er  I flee, 

There ’s  not  an  eye  will  weep  for  me ; 

There’s  not  a kind  congenial  heart, 

Where  I can  claim  the  meanest  part ; 

Nor  thou,  who  hast  my  hopes  undone, 

Wilt  sigh,  although  I iove  but  one. 


And  fill  with  shrubberies  gay  and  green  their  room; 

Roll  down  the  terrace  to  a gay  parterre, 

Where  gravel’d  walks  and  flowers  alternate  glare; 

And  quite  transform,  in  ev’ry  point  complete, 

Your  gothic  abbey  to  a country  seat. 

Forget  the  fair  one,  and  your  fate  delay ; 

If  not  avert,  at  least  defer  the  day, 

When  you  beneath  the  female  yoke  shall  bend, 

And  lose  your  wit,  your  temper,  and  your  friend. 

Trim  Coli.  Camb.  1S08. 

In  his  mother’s  copy  of  Mr.  Hobhouse’s  volume,  now  before  us 
Lord  Byron  has  here  written  with  a pencil,, — “ I have  lost  them  all, 
and  shall  wed  accordingly.  181).  B.”] 

(1)  [In  the  original,  “ To  Mrs.  Musters."] 


1809 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


543 


To  think  of  every  early  scene, 

Of  what  we  are,  and  what  we’ve  been, 

Would  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe — 
But  mine,  alas  ! has  stood  the  blow  ; 

Yet  st  ill  beats  on  as  it  begun, 

And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 

And  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see, 

And  why  that  early  love  was  crost, 

Thou  know’st  the  best,  I feel  the  most ; 

But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 

I’ve  tried  another’s  fetters  too, 

With  charms  perchance  as  fair  to  view ; 

And  I would  fain  have  loved  as  well, 

But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

’Twould  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view, 

And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu  ; 

Yet  wish  1 not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  that  wanders  o’er  the  deep; 

His  home,  his  hope,  his  youth  are  gone, 

Yet  still  he  loves,  and  loves  but  one.* 1 

1809. 


LINES  TO  MR.  HODGSON. 

WRITTEN  ON  BOARD  THE  LISBON  PACKET. 

Huzza  ! Hodgson,  we  are  going, 

Our  embargo’s  off  at  last ; 

Favourable  breezes  blowing 

Bend  the  canvass  o’er  tiie  mast. 

From  aloft  the  signal’s  streaming, 

Hark ! the  farewell  gun  is  fired ; 

Women  screeching,  tars  blaspheming, 

Tell  us  that  our  time’s  expired. 

Here’s  a rascal 
Come  to  task  all, 

Prying  from  the  custom-house  ; 

Trunks  unpacking 
Cases  cracking, 

Not  a corner  for  a mouse 

’Scapes  unsearch’d  amid  the  racket, 

Ere  we  sail  on  board  the  Packet. 

Now  our  boatmen  quit  their  mooring, 

And  ail  hands  must  ply  the  oar ; 

Baggage  from  the  quay  is  lowering, 

We’re  impatient, — push  from  shore. 

“ Have  a care ! that  case  holds  liquor — 
Stop  the  boat — I’m  sick — oh  Lord  !” 

“ Sick,  ma’am  damme,  you’ll  be  sicker. 
Ere  you’ve  been  an  hour  on  board.” 


(I)  [Thus  corrected  by  himself,  in  his  mother’s  copy  of  Mr. 
Ilobhouse’s  Miscellany;  the  two  last  lines  being  originally— 

“ Though  wheresoe’er  my  bark  may  run, 

I love  but  thee,  I love  but  one.”] 

(J)  [Lord  Byron’s  three  servants.] 


Thus  are  screaming 
Men  and  women, 

Gemmen,  ladies,  servants,  Jacks 
Here  entangling, 

All  are  wrangling, 

Stuck  together  close  as  wax. — 

Such  the  general  noise  and  racket, 

Ere  we  reach  the  Lisbon  Packet. 

Now  we’ve  reach’d  her,  lo  ! the  captain. 

Gallant  Kidd,  commands  the  crew ; 
Passengers  their  berths  are  clapt  in, 

Some  to  grumble,  some  to  spew. 

“ Hey  day  ! call  you  that  a cabin  ? 

Why  ’tis  hardly  three  feet  square  ; 

Not  enough  to  stow  Queen  Mab  in — 

Who  the  deuce  can  harbour  there?” 

“ Who,  sir  ? plenty — 

Nobles  twenty 

Did  at  once  my  vessel  fill.” — 

“ Did  they  ? J esus, 

How  you  squeeze  us ! 

Would  to  God  they  did  so  still : 

Then  I’d  scape  the  heat  and  racket 
Of  the  good  ship,  Lisbon  Packet.” 

Fletcher  ! Murray  ! Bob  ! 2 where  are  you  t 
Stretch’d  along  the  deck  like  logs — 

Bear  a hand,  you  jolly  tar,  you  ! 

Here’s  a rope’s  end  for  the  dogs. 

Hobhous#m uttering  fearful  curses. 

As  the  hatchway  down  he  rolls, 

Now  his  breakfast,  now  his  verses, 

Vomits  forth — and  damns  our  souls. 

“ Here ’s  a stanza 
On  Braganza — 

Help  ! ” — “ A couplet  ?” — “ No,  a cup 
Of  warm  water — ” 

“ What’s  the  matter  ?” 

“ Zounds ! my  liver’s  coming  up  ; 

I shall  not  survive  the  racket 
Of  this  brutal  Lisbon  Packet.” 

Now  at  length  we’re  off  for  Turkey, 

Lord  knows  when  we  shall  come  back ! 
Breezes  foul  and  tempests  murky 
May  unship  us  in  a crack. 

But,  since  life  at  most  a jest  is, 

As  philosophers  allow, 

Still  to  laugh  by  far  the  best  is, 

Then  laugh  on — as  I do  now. 

Laugh  at  all  things, 

Great  and  small  things, 

Sick  or  well,  at  sea  or  shore  ; 

While  we’re  quaffing, 

Let’s  have  laughing — 

Who  the  devil  cares  for  more  ? — 

Some  good  wine  ! and  who  would  lack  it, 

Ev’n  on  board  the  Lisbon  Packet?3 

Falmouth  Roads,  June  30,  18<39. 

[First  published,  1830.] 


(3)  [In  the  letter  in  which  these  lively  verses  were  enclosed. 
Lord  Byron  says  “ I leave  England  without  regret— I shall  return 
to  it  without  pleasure.  I am  like  Adam,  the  first  convict  sen- 
tenced to  transportation ; but  I have  no  Eve,  and  have  eaten  no 
apple  but  what  was  sour  as  a crab;  and  thus  ends  my  first  chan- 
ter.”] 


544 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM,  AT  MALTA. 

As  o’er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 
Some  name  arrests  the  passer-by  ; 

Thus,  when  thou  view’st  this  page  alone, 

May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye ! 

And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read, 

Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year, 

Reflect  on  me  as  on  the  dead, 

And  think  my  heart  is  buried  here. 

September  14,  1809. 


TO  FLORENCE.1 

Oh  Lady  ! when  I left  the  shore, 

The  distant  shore  which  gave  me  birth, 

I hardly  thought  to  grieve  once  more, 

To  quit  another  spot  on  earth : 

Yet  here,  amidst  this  barren  isle, 

Where  panting  Nature  droops  the  head, 

Where  only  thou  art  seen  to  smile, 

I view  my  parting  hour  with  dread. 

Though  far  from  Albin’s  craggy  shore, 

Divided  by  the  dark  blue  main  ; 

A few,  brief,  rolling,  seasons  o’er, 

Perchance  I view  her  cliffs  again  : 

But  wheresoe’er  I now  may  roam,  # 

Through  scorching  clime,  and  varied  sea, 

Though  Time  restore  me  to  my  home, 

I ne’er  shall  bend  mine  eyes  on  thee  : 

On  thee,  in  whom  at  once  conspire 

All  charms  which  heedless  hearts  can  move, 

Whom  but  to  see  is  to  admire, 

And,  oh  1 forgive  the  word — to  love. 

Forgive  the  word,  in  one  who  ne’er 
With  such  a word  can  more  offend; 

And  since  thy  heart  I cannot  share. 

Believe  me,  what  I am,  thy  friend. 

And  who  so  cold  as  look  on  thee, 

Thou  lovely  wand’rer,  and  be  less  ? 

Nor  be,  what  man  should  ever  be, 

The  friend  of  Beauty  in  distress  ? 

Ah  ! who  would  think  that  form  had  past 
Through  Danger’s  most  destructive  path, 


(1)  [These  lines  were  written  at  Malta.  The  lady  to  whom  they 
were  addressed,  and  whom  he  afterwards  apostrophises  in  the 
stanzas  on  the  thunderstorm  of  Zitza  and  in  Childe  Harold,  is 
thus  mentioned  in  a letter  to  his  mother: — “This  letter  is  com- 
mitted to  the  charge  of  a very  extraordinary  lady,  whom  you  have 
doubtless  heard  of.  Mrs.  Spencer  Smith,  of  whose  escape  the  Mar- 
quis de  Salvo  published  a narrative  a few  years  ago.  She  has  since 
been  shipwrecked  ; and  her  life  has  been  from  its  commencement 
so  fertile  in  remarkable  incidents,  that  in  a romance  they  would 
appear  improbable.  She  was  born  at  Constantinople,  where  her 
father,  Baron  Herbert,  was  Austrian  ambassador;  married  un- 
happily, yet  has  never  been  impeached  in  point  of  character;  ex- 
cited the  vengeance  of  Buonaparte,  by  taking  a part  in  some  con- 
spiracy; several  times  risked  her  life;  and  is  not  yet  five  and 
twenty.  She  is  here  on  her  way  to  England  to  join  her  husband, 
being  obliged  to  leave  Trieste,  where  she  was  paying  a visit  to  her 
mother,  by  the  approach  of  the  French,  and  embarks  soon  in  a ship 
of  war.  Since  my  arrival  here  I have  had  scarcely  any  other 
companion.  I have  found  her  very  pretty,  very  accomplished,  and 
extremely  eccentric.  Buonaparte  is  even  now  so  incensed  against 


1809. 

Had  braved  the  death-wing’d  tempest’s  blast, 
And  ’scaped  a tyrant’s  fiercer  wrath  ? 

Lady ! when  I shall  view  the  walls 
Where  free  Byzantium  once  arose. 

And  Stamboul’s  Oriental  halls 
The  Turkish  tyrants  now  enclose ; 

Though  mightiest  in  the  lists  of  fame. 

That  glorious  city  still  shall  be ; 

On  me  ’twill  hold  a dearer  claim, 

As  spot  of  thy  nativity  : 

And  though  I bid  thee  now  farewell, 

When  I behold  that  wondrous  scene, 

Since  where  thou  art  I may  not  dwell, 

’Twill  soothe  to  be,  where  thou  hast  been. 

September,  1809. 


STANZAS 

COMPOSED  DURING  A THUNDER-STORM.2 

Chill  and  mirk  is  the  nightly  blast. 

Where  Pindus’  mountains  rise, 

And  angry  clouds  are  pouring  fast 
The  vengeance  of  the  skies. 

Our  guides  are  gone,  our  hope  is  lost, 

And  lightnings,  as  they  play, 

But  show  where  rocks  our  path  have  crost. 
Or  gild  the  torrent’s  spray. 

Is  yon  a cot  I saw,  though  low  P 
When  lightning  broke  the  gloom — 

How  welcome  were  its  shade  ! — ah,  no ! 
’Tis  but  a Turkish  tomb. 

Through  sounds  of  foaming  waterfalls, 

I hear  a voice  exclaim — 

My  way-worn  countryman,  who  calls 
On  distant  England’s  name. 

A shot  is  fired — by  foe  or  friend  P 
Another — ’tis  to  tell 

The  mountain-peasants  to  descend. 

And  lead  us  where  they  dwell. 

Oh ! who  in  such  a night  will  dare 
To  tempt  the  wilderness  ? 

And  who  ’mid  thunder  peals  can  hear 
Our  signal  of  distress  ? 


her,  that  lier  life  would  be  in  danger  if  she  were  taken  prisoner  a 
second  time.”] 

(2)  [This  thunderstorm  occurred  during  the  night  of  the  11th 
October,  1809,  when  Lord  Byron’s  guides  had  lost  the  road  to  Zitza, 
near  the  range  of  mountains  formerly  called  Pindus,  in  Albania. 
Mr.  Hobhouse,  who  had  rode  on  before  the  rest  of  the  party,  and 
arrived  at  Zitza  just  as  the  evening  set  in,  describes  the  thunder  as 
“ roaring  without  intermission,  the  echoes  of  one  peal  not  ceasing 
to  roll  in  the  mountains,  before  another  tremendous  crash  burst 
over  our  heads ; whilst  the  plains  and  the  distant  hills  appeared 
in  a perpetual  blaze.”  “The  tempest,”  he  says,  “was  altogethei 
terrific,  and  worthy  of  the  Grecian  Jove.  My  Friend,  with  the 
priest  and  the  servants,  did  not  enter  our  hut  till  three  in  tke  morn- 
ing. I now  learnt  from  him  that  they  had  lost  their  way,  and 
that,  after  wandering  up  and  down  in  total  ignorance  of  their  posi- 
tion, they  had  stopped  at  last  near  some  Turkish  tombstones  and  a 
torrent,  which  they  saw  by  the  flashes  of  lightning. . They  had  been 
thus  exposed  for  nine  hours.  It  was  long  before  we  ceased  to 
talk  of  the  thunderstorm  in  the  plain  of  Zitza.”] 


1809. 


OCCASIONAL  F1ECES. 


545 


And  who  that  heard  our  shouts  would  rise 
To  try  the  dubious  road  ? 

Nor  rather  deem  from  nightly  cries 
That  outlaws  were  abroad. 

Clouds  burst,  skies  flash,  oh,  dreadful  hour ! 
More  fiercely  pours  the  storm  ! 

Yet  here  one  thought  has  still  the  power 
To  keep  my  bosom  warm. 

While  wand’ring  through  each  broken  path. 
O’er  brake  and  craggy  brow ; 

While  elements  exhaust  their  wrath, 

Sweet  Florence,  where  art  thou  ? 

Not  on  the  sea,  not  on  the  sea, 

Thy  bark  hath  long  been  gone  : 

Oh,  may  the  storm  that  pours  on  me, 

Bow  down  my  head  alone  ! 

Full  swiftly  blew  the  swift  Siroc, 

When  last  I press’d  thy  lip ; 

And  long  ere  now,  with  foaming  shock, 
Impell’a  thy  gallant  ship. 

Now  thou  art  safe  ; nay,  long  ere  now 
Hast  trod  the  shore  of  Spain ; 

’Twere  hard  if  aught  so  fair  as  thou 
Should  linger  on  the  main. 

And  since  I now  remember  thee 
In  darkness  and  in  dread, 

* As  in  those  hours  of  revelry 

Which  mirth  and  music  sped ; 

Do  thou,  amid  the  fair  white  walls. 

If  Cadiz  yet  be  free, 

At  times  from  out  her  latticed  halls 
Look  o’er  the  dark  blue  sea ; 

Then  think  upon  Calypso’s  isles. 

Endear’d  by  days  gone  by ; 

To  others  give  a thousand  smiles, 

To  me  a single  sigh.1 

And  when  the  admiring  circle  mark 
The  paleness  of  thy  face, 

A half-form’d  tear,  a transient  spark 
Of  melancholy  grace, 

Again  thou ’It  smile,  and  blushing  shun 
Some  coxcomb’s  raillery ; 

Nor  own  for  once  thou  thought’ st  on  one. 
Who  ever  thinks  on  thee. 

Though  smile  and  sigh  alike  are  vain, 

When  sever’d  hearts  repine. 

My  spirit  flies  o’er  mount  and  main. 

And  mourns  in  search  of  thine. 


(1)  [“  These  stanzas,”  says  Mr.  Moore,  “ have  a music  in  them, 
.▼hich,  independently  of  all  meaning,  is  enchanting.”] 

(2)  On  the  3d  of  May,  1810,  while  the  Salsette  (Captain  Bathurst) 
was  lying  in  the  Dardanelles.  Lieutenant  Ekenhead  of  that  frigate 
and  the  writer  of  these  rhymes  swam  from  the  European  shore  to 
the  Asiatic — by  the  by,  from  Abydos  to  Sestos  would  have  been 
more  correct.  The  whole  distance  from  the  place  whence  we 
started  to  our  landing  on  the  other  s;ae,  including  the  length  we 
were  carried  by  the  current  was  computed  by  those  on  board  the 
frigate  at  upwards  of  four  English  miles;  though  the  actual  breadth 
is  barely  one.  The  rapidity  of  the  current  is  such  that  no  boat  can 
row  directly  across,  and  it  may,  in  some  measure,  be  estimated  from 
the  circumstance  of  the  whole  distance  being  accomplished  by  one 
of  the  parties  in  an  hour  and  five,  and  by  the  other  in  an  hour  and 


STANZAS 

WHITTEN  IN  PASSING  THE  AMBRACIAN  GULP. 

Through  cloudless  skies,  in  silvery  sheen. 
Full  beams  the  moon  on  Actium’s  coast; 

And  on  these  waves,  for  Egypt’s  queen, 

The  ancient  world  was  won  and  lost. 

And  now  upon  the  scene  I look, 

The  azure  grave  of  many  a Roman ; 

Where  stern  Ambition  once  forsook 
Flis  wavering  crown  to  follow  woman. 

Florence  ! whom  I will  love  as  well 
As  ever  yet  was  said  or  sung, 

(Since  Orpheus  sang  his  spouse  from  hell) 
Whilst  thou  art  fair  and  I am  young ; 

Sweet  Florence  ! those  were  pleasant  times. 
When  worlds  were  staked  for  ladies’  eyes : 

Had  bards  as  many  realms  as  rhymes, 

Thy  charms  might  raise  new  Antonies. 

Though  Fate  forbids  such  things  to  be. 

Yet,  by  thine  eyes  and  ringlets  curl’d ! 

I cannot  lose  a world  for  thee, 

But  would  not  lose  thee  for  a world. 

November  14, 


THE  SPELL  IS  BROKE,  THE  CHARM  IS 
FLOWN ! 

WRITTEN  AT  ATHENS,  JANUARY  16,  1810. 

The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown ! 

Thus  is  it  with  life’s  fitful  fever  : 

We  madly  smile  when  we  should  groan; 
Delirium  is  our  best  deceiver. 

Each  lucid  interval  of  thought 

Recalls  the  woes  of  Nature’s  charter, 

And  he  that  acts  as  wise  men  ought. 

But  lives,  as  saints  have  died,  a martyr. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  SWIMMING  FROM  SESTOS 
TO  ABYDOS.2 

Ip,  in  the  month  of  dark  December, 

Leander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  will  not  the  tale  remember  ?) 

To  cross  thy  stream,  broad  Hellespont ! 


ten,  minutes.  The  water  was  extremely  cold,  from  the  melting  of 
the  mountain  snows.  About  three  weeks  before,  in  April,  we  had 
made  an  attempt ; but,  having  ridden  all  the  way  from  the  Troad  the 
same  morning,  and  the  water  being  of  an  icy  dullness,  we  found  it 
necessary  to  postpone  the  completion  till  the  frigate  anchored 
below  the  castles,  when  we  swam  the  straits,  as  just  stated;  enter- 
ing a considerable  way  above  the  European,  and  landing  below  the 
Asiatic,  fort.  Chevalier  says  that  a young  Jew  swam  the  same  dis- 
tance for  his  mistress  ; and  Oliver  mentions  its  having  been  done  by 
a Neapolitan;  but  our  consul,  Tarragona,  remembered  neither  of 
these  circumstances,  and  tried  to  dissuade  us  from  the  attempt.  A 
number  of  the  Salsette’s  crew  were  known  to  have  accomplished  a 
greater  distance ; and  the  only  thing  that  surprised  me  was,  that, 
as  doubts  had  been  entertained  of  the  truth  of  Leander’s  story, 
no  traveller  had  ever  endeavoured  to  ascertain  its  practicability. 

4 A 


546 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


\8Jfl 


If,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roar’d, 

He  sped  to  Hero,  nothing  loth, 

And  thus  of  old  thy  current  pour’d. 

Fair  Venus  ! how  I pity  both  ! 

For  me,  degenerate  modern  wretch, 

Though  in  the  genial  month  of  May, 

My  dripping  limbs  I faintly  stretch. 

And  think  I’ve  done  a feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  cross’d  the  rapid  tide. 

According  to  the  doubtful  story, 

To  woo, — and — Lord  knows  what  beside, 

And  swam  for  Love,  as  I for  Glory ; 

Iwere  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  best : 

Sad  mortals  ! thus  the  Gods  still  plague  you ! 
He  lost  his  labour,  I my  jest ; 

For  he  was  drown’d,  and  I’ve  the  ague.1 

May  9,  1810. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  TRAVELLERS’ 
BOOK  AT  ORCHOMENUS. 

IN  THIS  BOOK  A TRAVELLER  HAD  WRITTEN  : — 

“ Fair  Albion,  smiling,  sees  her  son  depart 
T''  trace  the  birth  and  nursery  of  art : 

Noble  his  object,  glorious  is  his  aim ; 

He  comes  to  Athens,  and  he  writes  his  name.” 

BENEATH  WHICH  LORD  BYRON  INSERTED  THE  FOL- 
LOWING : — 

The  modest  bard,  like  many  a bard  unknown, 
Rhymes  on  our  names,  but  wisely  hides  his  own ; 

But  yet,  whoe’er  he  be,  to  say  no  worse, 

His  name  would  bring  more  credit  than  his  verse.2 

1810. 


(1)  [“  My  companion,”  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  “had  before  made 
a more  perilous,  but  less  celebrated  passage;  for  1 recollect  that, 
when  we  were  in  Portugal,  he  swam  from  Old  Lisbon  to  Belem 
Castle,  and  having  to  contend  with  a tide  and  counter  current, 
the  wind  blowing  freshly,  was  but  little  less  than  two  hours  in 
crossing.”] 

(2)  [At  Orchomenus,  where  stood  the  Temple  of  the  Graces,  I 
was  tempted  to  exclaim,  “ Whither  have  the  Graces  fled? ” Little 
did  I expect  to  find  them  here;  yet  here  comes  one  of  them  with 
golden  cups  and  coffee,  and  another  with  a book.  The  book  is  a 
register  of  names,  some  of  which  are  far  sounded  by  the  voice  of 
fame.  Among  them  is  Lord  Byron’s,  connected  with  some  lines 
which  I here  send  you. — H.  W.  Williams.] 

(3)  [We  copy  the  following  interesting  account  of  the  Maid  of 
Athens  and  her  family  from  the  late  eminent  artist,  Mr.  Hugh 
Williams  of  Edinburgh’s  “ Travels  in  Italy,  Greece,”  & c. — “Our 
servant,  who  had  gone  before  to  procure  accommodation,  met  us  at 
the  gate,  and  conducted  us  to  Theodore  Macri,  the  Consulina’s, 
where  we  at  pres«/*t  live.  This  lady  is  the  widow  of  the  consul, 
and  has  three  lovely  daughters;  the  eldest  celebrated  for  her 
beauty,  and  said  to  be  the  ‘ Maid  of  Athens’  of  Lord  Byron.  Their 
apartment  is  immediately  opposite  to  ours,  and,  if  you  could  see 
them,  as  we  do  now,  through  the  gently  waving  aromatic  plants 
before  our  window,  you  would  leave  your  heart  in  Athens.  The- 
resa, the  Maid  of  Athens,  Catinco,  and  Mariana,  are  of  middle 
stature.  On  the  crown  of  the  head  of  each  is  a red  Albanian  skull- 
cap, with  a blue  tassel  spread  out  and  fastened  down  like  a star. 
Near  the  edge  or  bottom  of  the  skull- cap  is  a handkerchief  of 
various  colours  bound  round  their  temples.  The  youngest  wears 
her  hair  loose,  falling  on  her  shoulders, — the  hair  behind  descend- 
ing down  the  back  nearly  to  the  waist,  and,  as  usual,  mixed  with 
silk.  The  two  eldest  generally  have  their  hair  bound,  and  fastened 
under  the  handkerchief.  Their  upper  robe  is  a pelisse  edged  with 
fur,  hanging  loose  down  to  the  ankles;  below  is  a handkerchief  of 
muslin  covering  the  bosom,  and  terminating  at  the  waist,  which  is 
short ; under  that,  a gown  of  striped  silk  or  muslin,  with  a gore 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART. 

Z uin  Hov,  <rdi  dyanit). 

Maid  of  Athens,3  ere  we  part, 

Give,  oh,  give  back  my  heart ! 

Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 

Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 

Hear  my  vow  before  I go, 

Zcirj  fj.ov,  acts  ayanS .4 

By  those  tresses  nnconfined, 

Woo’d  by  eacli  Aegean  wind  ; 

By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks’  blooming  tinge ; 

By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

Zoarj  fiov,  eras  ayairw. 

By  that  lip  I long  to  taste  ; 

By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 

By  all  the  token-flowers5  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 

By  love’s  alternate  joy  and  woe, 

Z <or)  fxo v,  tray  dyancH. 

Maid  of  Athens  ! I am  gone  : 

Think  of  me,  sweet ! when  alone. 

Though  I fly  to  Istambol,6 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 

Can  I cease  to  love  thee  ? No  ! 

Zcorj  aov,  aas  ayandS. 

Athens,  1810. 


TRANSLATION 

OF  THE  NURSE’S  DOLE  IN  THE  MEDEA  OF  EURIPIDES. 

On  how  I wish  that  an  embargo 
Had  kept  in  port  the  good  ship  Argo  ! 

Who,  still  unlaunch’d  from  Grecian  docks, 

Had  never  pass’d  the  Azure  rocks. 

But  now  I fear  her  trip  will  be  a 

Damn’d  business  for  my  Miss  Medea,  &c.  &c.7 

June,  1810. 


round  the  swell  of  the  loins,  falling  in  front  in  graceful  negligence; 
— white  stockings  and  yellow  slippers  complete  their  attire.  The 

two  eldest  have  black,  or  dark,  hair  and  eyes  ; their  visage  oval,  and 

complexion  somewhat  pale,  with  teeth  of  dazzling  whiteness. 
Their  cheeks  are  rounded,  and  noses  straight,  rather  inclined  to 
aquiline.  The  youngest,  Mariana,  is  very  fair,  her  face  not  so 
finely  rounded,  but  has  a gayer  expression  than  her  sisters’,  whose 
countenances,  except  when  the  conversation  has  something  of  mirth 
in  it,  may  be  said  to  be  rather  pensive.  Their  persons  are  elegant, 
and  their  manners  pleasing  and  lady- like,  such  as  would  be  fasci- 
nating in  any  country.  They  possess  very  considerable  powers  of 
conversation,  and  their  minds  seem  to  be  more  instructed  than  those 
of  the  Greek  women  in  general.  With  such  attractions,  it  would, 
indeed,  be  remarkable,  if  they  did  not  meet  with  great  attentions 
from  the  travellers  who  occasionally  are  resident  in  Athens.  They 
sit  in  the  eastern  style,  a little  reclined,  with  their  limbs  gathered 
under  them  on  the  divan,  and  without  shoes.  Their  employments 
are  the  needle,  tambouring,  and  reading.” 

(4)  Romaic  expression  of  tenderness : if  I translate  it,  I shall 
affront  the  gentlemen,  as  it  may  seem  that  I supposed  they  could 
not;  and  if  I do  not,  I may  affront  the  ladies.  For  fear  of  any  mis- 
construction on  the  part  of  the  latter,  I shall  do  so,  begying  pardon 
of  the  learned.  It  means,  “My  life,  I love  you!”  which  sounds 
very  prettily  in  all  languages,  and  is  as  much  in  fashion  in  Greece 
at  this  day  as,  Juvenal  tells  us,  the  two  first  words  were  amongst 
the  Roman  ladies,  whose  erotic  expressions  were  all  Hellenised. 

^5)  In  the  East  (where  ladies  are  not  taught  to  write,  lest  they 
should  scribble  assignations)  flowers,  cinders,  pebbles,  See.  convey 
the  sentiments  of  the  parties  by  that  universal  deputy  of  Mercury 
— an  old  woman.  A cinder  says,  “I  burn  for  thee;”  a bunch  of 
flowers  tied  with  hair,  “ Take  me  and  fly;”  but  a pebble  declares — 
what  nothing  else  can. 

(6)  Constantinople. 

(7)  [“  I am  just  come  from  an  expedition  through  the  Bosphorus 
to  the  Black  Sea  and  the  Cyanean  Symplegades,  up  which  last  1 
scrambled  with  as  great  risk  as  ever  the  Argonauts  escaped  vu 


1811. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


547 


MY  EPITAPH. 

Youth,  Nature,  and  relenting  Jove, 

To  keep  my  lamp  in  strongly  strove  ; 

But  Romanelli  was  so  stout, 

He  beat  all  three — and  blew  it  out  } 

Oct.  1810. 


SUBSTITUTE  EOR  AN  EPITAPH. 
Kind  Reader  ! take  your  choice  to  cry  or  laugh  ; 
Here  Harold  lies — but  where’s  his  Epitaph  ? 

If  such  you  seek,  try  Westminster,  and  view 
Ten  thousand  just  as  fit  for  him  as  you. 

Athens. 


LINES  WRITTEN  BENEATH  A PICTURE.* 2 
Dear  object  of  defeated  care  ! 

Though  now  of  Love  and  thee  bereft, 

To  reconcile  me  with  despair, 

Thine  image  and  my  tears  are  left. 

’Tis  said  with  Sorrow  Time  can  cope ; 

But  this  I feel  can  ne’er  be  true  ; 
f or  by  the  death-blow  of  my  Hope 
My  Memory  immortal  grew. 

Athens,  January,  1 81 1 -3 4 


TRANSLATION  OE  THE  EAMOUS  GREEK 
WAR  SONG, 

“ Aeurc  ndt&et  tu>v  'EWijvotv”  * 

Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise ! 

The  glorious  hour ’s  gone  forth. 

And,  worthy  of  such  ties, 

Display  who  gave  us  birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons  of  Greeks  ! let  us  go 
In  arms  against  the  foe, 

Till  their  hated  blood  shall  flow 
In  a river  past  our  feet. 


their  hoy.  You  remember  the  beginning  of  the  nurse's  dole  in  the 
Medea,  of  which  I beg  you  to  take  the  following  translation,  done 
on  the  summit.” — Lord  B.  to  Mr.  Henry  Drury,  June  17,  1810.] 

(1)  [“  I have  just  escaped  from  a physician  and  a fever.  In  spite 
of  my  teeth  and  tongue,  the  English  consul,  my  Tartar,  Albanian, 
dragoman,  forced  a physician  upon  me,  and  in  three  days  brought 
me  to  the  last  gasp.  In  this  state  I made  my  epitaph.” — Lord 
Byron  to  Mr.  Hodgson,  Oct.  3,  1810.] 

(2)  [These  lines  are  copied  from  a leaf  of  the  original  MS.  of  the 
second  canto  of  “ Childe  Harold.”] 

(3)  [On  the  departure,  in  July,  1810,  of  his  friend  and  fellow- 
traveller,  Mr.  Hobhouse,  for  England,  Lord  Byron  fixed  his  head- 
quarters at  Athens,  where  he  had  taken  lodgings  in  a Franciscan 
convent;  making  occasional  excursions  through  Attica  and  the 
Morea,  and  employing  himself,  in  the  interval  of  his  tours,  in  col- 
lecting materials  for  those  notices  on  the  state  of  modern  Greece 
which  are  appended  to  the  second  canto  of  “ Childe  Harold.”  In 
this  retreat  also  he  wrote  “Hints  from  Horace,”  “The  Curse  of 
Minerva,”  and  “Remarks  on  the  Romaic,  or  Modern  Greek  Lan- 
guage.” He  thus  writes  to  his  mother  : — “ At  present,  I do  not 
care  to  venture  a winter’s  voyage,  even  if  I were  otherwise  tired  of 
travelling"  but  I am  so  convinced  of  the  advantages  of  looking  at 
mankind,  instead  of  reading  about  them,  and  the  bitter  effects  of 
staying  at  home  with  all  the  narrow  prejudices  of  an  islander,  that 
I think  there  should  be  a law  amongst  us  to  send  our  young  men 
abroad,  Tor  a term,  among  the  few  allies  our  wars  have  left  us. 
Here  I see,  and  have  conversed  with,  French,  Italians,  Germans, 
Danes,  Greeks,  Turks,  Americans,  &c.  &c.  &c  ; and,  without 
losing  sight  of  my  own,  I can  judge  of  the  countries  and  manners 
of  others.  When  I see  the  superiority  of  England  (which,  by  the 
by,  we  are  a good  deal  mistaken  about  in  many  things),  I am 
pleased;  and  where  I find  her  inferior,  I am  at  least  enlightened. 
Now,  1 might  have  stayed,  smoked  in  your  towns,  or  fogged  in 
your  country,  a century,  without  being  sure  of  this,  and  without 
acquiring  any  thing  more  useful  or  amusing  at  home.  I keep  no 
journal : nor  have  1 any  intention  of  scribbling  my  travels.  I have 
done  with  authorship;  and  if,  in  my  last  production,  I have  con- 


Tlien  manfully  despising 
The  Turkish  tyrant’s  yoke, 

Let  your  country  see  you  rising. 

And  all  her  chains  are  broke. 

Brave  shades  of  chiefs  and  sages. 

Beheld  the  coming  strife  ! 

Hellenes  of  past  ages. 

Oh,  start  again  to  life  ! 

At  the  sound  of  my  trumpet,  breaking 
Your  sleep,  oh,  join  with  me  ! 

And  the  seven-hill’d5 6 7  city  seeking, 

Eight,  conquer,  till  we’re  free. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  &o. 

Sparta,  Sparta,  why  in  slumbers 
Lethargic  dost  thou  lie  ? 

Awake  and  join  thy  numbers 
With  Athens,  old  ally  ! 

Leonidas  recalling, 

That  chief  of  ancient  song. 

Who  saved  ye  once  from  falling, 

The  terrible  ! the  strong ! 

Who  made  that  bold  diversion 
In  old  Thermopylae, 

And  warring  with  the  Persian 
To  keep  his  country  free  ; 

With  his  three  hundred  waging 
The  battle,  long  he  stood. 

And  like  a lion  raging, 

Expired  in  seas  of  blood. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  &c.® 


TRANSLATION  OE  THE  ROMAIC  SONG. 

“ Mwevid  net  'tit'  7rep(/?6X« 

’npatoraru  Xur|£<7>”  &C.7 

I enter  thy  garden  of  roses,8 
Beloved  and  fair  Haidee, 

Each  morning  where  Elora  reposes, 

For  surely  I see  her  in  thee. 


vinced  the  critics  or  the  world  I was  something  more  than  they 

took  me  for,  I am  satisfied ; nor  will  I hazard  that  reputation  by 
a future  effort.  It  is  true,  I have  some  others  in  manuscript, 

but  I leave  them  for  those  who  come  after  me;  and,  if  deemed 
worth  publishing,  they  may  serve  to  prolong  my  memory,  when  I 
myself  shall  cease  to  remember.  1 have  a famous  Bavarian  artist 
taking  some  views  of  Athens,  &c.  &c.  for  me.  This  will  be  better 
than  scribbling — a ^isease  I hope  myself  cured  of.  I hope,  on  my 
return,  to  lead  a quiet,  recluse  life  ; but  God  knows,  and  does  best 
for  us  all.”] 

(4)  The  song  Aeere  naidet,  & c.  was  written  by  Riga,  who  perished 
in  the  attempt  to  revolutionise  Greece.  This  translation  is  as  literal 
as  the  author  could  make  it  in  verse.  It  is  of  the  same  measure 
as  that  of  the  original.  [While  at  the  Capuchin  convent,  Lord 
Byron  devoted  some  hours  daily  to  the  study  of  the  Romaic  ; and 
various  proofs  of  his  diligence  will  be  found  in  the  Appi.ndix. 
See  Remarks  on  the  Romaic  or  Modern  Greek  Language,  with 
Specimens  and  Translations.] 

(5)  Constantinople.  “ E7rTaXo0o?.” 

(6)  [Riga  was  a Thessalian,  and  passed  the  first  part  of  his 
youth  among  his  native  mountains,  in  teaching  ancient  Greek  to 
his  countrymen.  On  the  first  burst  of  the  French  revolution,  he 
joined  himself  to  some  other  enthusiasts,  and  with  them  perambu- 
lated Greece,  rousing  the  bold,  and  encouraging  the  timid,  by  his 
minstrelsy.  He  afterwards  went  to  Vienna  to  solicit  aid  for  a 
rising,  which  he  and  his  comrades  had  for  years  been  endeavouring 
to  accomplish ; but  he  was  given  up  by  the  Austrian  government 
to  the  Turks,  who  vainly  endeavoured  by  torture  to  force  from  him 
the  names  of  the  other  conspirators.] 

(7)  The  song  from  which  this  is  taken  is  a great  favourite  with 
the  young  girls  of  Athens  of  all  classes.  Their  manner  of  singing 
it  is  by  verses  in  rotation,  the  whole  number  present  joining  in  the 
chorus.  I have  heard  it  frequently  at  our  “ xcpoi,”  in  the  wintei 
of  1810-11.  The  air  is  plaintive  and  pretty. 

(8)  [National  songs  and  popular  works  of  amusement  throw  no 
small  light  on  the  manners  of  the  people  : they  are  materials  which 
most  travellers  have  w itliin  their  reach,  but  which  they  almost  alway* 


548 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


1811 


Oh,  Lovely  ! thus  low  I implore  thee, 

Receive  this  fond  truth  from  my  tongue, 

Which  utters  its  song  to  adore  thee, 

Yet  trembles  for  what  it  has  sung ; 

As  the  branch,  at  the  bidding  of  Nature, 

Adds  fragrance  and  fruit  to  the  tree, 

Through  her  eyes,  through  her  every  feature, 
Shines  the  soul  of  the  young  Haidee. 

But  the  loveliest  garden  grows  hateful 
When  Love  has  abandon’d  the  bowers  ; 

Bring  me  hemlock— since  mine  is  ungrateful, 

That  herb  is  more  fragrant  than  flowers. 

The  poison,  when  pour’d  from  the  chalice, 

Will  deeply  embitter  the  bowl ; 

But  when  drunk  to  escape  from  thy  malice, 

The  draught  shall  be  sweet  to  my  soul. 

Too  cruel ! in  vain  I implore  thee 
My  heart  from  these  horrors  to  save : 

Will  nought  to  my  bosom  restore  thee  ? 

Then  open  the  gates  of  the  grave. 

As  the  chief  who  to  combat  advances 
Secure  of  his  conquest  before, 

Thus  thou,  with  those  eyes  for  thy  lances, 

Hast  pierced  through  my  heart  to  its  core. 

Ah,  tell  me,  my  soul ! must  I perish 
By  pangs  which  a smile  would  dispel  F 
Would  the  hope,  which  thou  once  bad’st  me  cherish, 
For  torture  repay  me  too  well  ? 

Now  saa  is  the  garden  of  roses. 

Beloved  but  false  Haidee  ! 

There  Flora  all  wither’d  reposes, 

And  mourns  o’er  thine  absence  with  me. 


ON  PARTING. 

The  kiss,  dear  maid  ! thy  lip  has  left 
Shall  never  part  from  mine, 

Till  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 
Untainted  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly  beams. 

An  equal  love  may  see  : 

The  tear  that  from  thine  eyelid  streams 
Can  weep  no  change  in  me. 

1 ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest 
In  gazing  when  alone ; 

Nor  one  memorial  for  a breast. 

Whose  thoughts  are  all  thine  own. 

Nor  need  I write — to  tell  the  tale 
My  pen  were  doubly  weak  : 

Oh  ! what  can  idle  words  avail, 

Unless  the  heart  could  speak  ? 

By  day  or  night,  in  weal  or  woe, 

That  heart,  no  longer  free, 

Must  bear  the  love  it,  cannot  show, 

And  silent,  ache  for  thee. 

March,  1811. 


EPITAPH  FOR  JOSEPH  BLACKETT, 

LATE  POET  AND  SHOEMAKER.1 

Stranger!  behold,  interr’d  together, 

The  souls  of  learning  and  of  leather. 

Poor  Joe  is  gone,  but  left  his  all: 

You’ll  find  his  relics  in  a stall. 

His  works  were  neat,  and  often  found 
Well  stitch’d,  and  with  morocco  bound. 

Tread  lightly — where  the  bard  is  laid 
He  cannot  mend  the  shoe  he  made ; 

Yet  is  he  happy  in  his  hole, 

With  verse  immortal  as  his  sole. 

But  still  to  business  he  held  fast, 

And  stuck  to  Phoebus  to  the  last. 

Then  who  shall  say  so  good  a fellow 
Was  only  “leather  and  prunella?” 

For  character — he  did  not  lack  it ; 

And  if  he  did,  ’twere  shame  to  “ Black-it.” 

Malta,  May  16,  1ft!! 


FAREWELL  TO  MALTA. 

Adieu,  ye  joys  of  La  Yalette  ! 

Adieu,  sirocco,  sun,  and  sweat ! 

Adieu,  thou  palace  rarely  enter’d ! 

Adieu,  ye  mansions  where — I’ve  ventured  ! 
Adieu,  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs  ! 

(How  surely  he  who  mounts  you  swears  !) 
Adieu,  ye  merchants  often  failing ! 

Adieu,  thou  mob  for  ever  railing ! 

Adieu,  ye  packets — without  letters  ! 

Adieu,  ye  fools — who  ape  your  betters  ! 
Adieu,  thou  damned’st  quarantine, 

That  gave  me  fever,  and  the  spleen  ! 

Adieu  that  stage  which  make  us  yawn,  Sirs, 
Adieu  his  Excellency’s  dancers  ! 

Adieu  to  Peter — whom  no  fault’s  in, 

But  could  not  teach  a colonel  waltzing  , 
Adieu,  ye  females  fraught  with  graces  ! 
Adieu  red  coats  and  redder  faces  ! 

Adieu  the  supercilious  air 
Of  all  that  strut  “ en  militaire  !” 

I go — but  God  knows  when,  or  why, 

To  smoky  towns  and  cloudy  sky. 

To  things  (the  honest  truth  to  say) 

As  bad — but  in  a different  way. 

Farewell  to  these,  but  not  adieu, 
Triumphant  sons  of  truest  blue  ! 

While  either  Adriatic  shore, 

And  fallen  chiefs,  and  fleets  no  more, 

And  nightly  smiles,  and  daily  dinners, 
Proclaim  you  war  and  women’s  winners. 
Pardon  my  Muse,  who  apt  to  prate  is, 

And  take  my  rhyme — because  *tis  “ gratis/* 

And  now  I’ve  got  to  Mrs.  Fraser, 

Perhaps  you  think  I mean  to  praise  her — 
And  were  I vain  enough  to  think 
My  praise  was  worth  this  drop  of  ink, 

A line — or  two — were  no  hard  matter, 

As  here,  indeed,  I need  not  flatter : 


disdain  to  collect.  Lord  Byron  has  shown  abetter  taste ; and  it  is  to 
be  hoped  that  his  example  will,  in  future,  be  generally  followed. — 
George  Elms.] 


(1)  [Some  notice  of  this  poetaster  has  been  given,  atilt  o. 
He  died  in  1810,  and  his  works  have  followed  him.] 


1811. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


549 


But  she  must  be  content  to  shine 
In  better  praises  than  in  mine, 

With  lively  air,  and  open  heart, 

And  fashion’s  ease,  without  its  art ; 

Her  hours  can  gaily  glide  along, 

Nor  ask  the  aid  of  idle  song. 

And  now,  0 Malta  ! since  iliou’st  got  us, 

Thou  little  military  hothouse  ! 

I’ll  not  offend  with  words  uncivil, 

And  wish  thee  rudely  at  the  Devil, 

But  only  stare  from  out  my  casement, 

And  ask,  for  what  is  such  a place  meant  ? 

Then,  in  my  solitary  nook, 

Return  to  scribbling,  or  a book, 

Or  take  my  physic  while  I’m  able 
(Two  spoonfuls  hourly  by  the  label). 

Prefer  my  nightcap  to  my  beaver, 

And  bless  the  gods — I’ve  got  a fever! 

May  26,  1811.  [First  published,  1832.] 


TO  DIVES. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Unhappy  Dives  ! in  an  evil  hour 
’Gainst  Nature’s  voice  seduced  to  deeds  accurst ! 
Once  Eortune’s  minion,  now  thou  feel’st  her  power  ; 
Wrath’s  viol  on  thy  lofty  head  hath  burst. 

In  Wit,  in  Genius,  as  in  Wealth  the  first, 

How  wond’rous  bright  thy  blooming  morn  arose ! 
But  thou  wert  smitten  with  til’  unhallow’d  thirst 
Of  Crime  un-named,  and  thy  sad  noon  must  close 
In  scorn,  and  solitude  unsought,  the  worst  of  woes. 

1811.  [First  published,  1832.] 


ON  MOORE’S  LAST  OPERATIC  FARCE,  OR 
FARCICAL  OPERA. 

Good  plays  are  scarce, 

So  Moore  writes  farce  : 

The  poet’s  fame  grows  brittle — 

We  knew  before 
That  Little' s Moore, 

But  now  ’tis  Moore  that’s  little. 

Sept.  14,  1811.  [First  published,  1830.1] 


EPISTLE  TO  A FRIEND,1 2 

TN  ANSWER  TO  SOME  LTNES  EXHORTING  THE  AUTHOR 
TO  BE  CHEERFUL,  AND  TO  “ BANISH  CARE.” 

“ Oh  ! banish  care” — such  ever  be 
The  motto  of  thy  revelry ! 

Perchance  of  mine,  when  wassail  nights 
Renew  those  riotous  delights, 


(1)  [“On  a leaf  of  one  of  Lord  Byron’s  paper  books  I find  an 
Epigram,  which,  though  not  perhaps  particularly  good,  I consider 
myself  bound  to  insert.” — Moore.  The  farce  in  question  was 
called  “M.P. ; or,  the  Blue  Stocking,”  and  came  out  at  the  Lyceum 
Theatre,  on  the  9th  of  September.] 

(2)  [Mr.  Francis  Hodgson  (not  then  the  Reverend).  See  anU, 
p.  543.] 

(3)  [These  lines  will  show  with  what  gloomy  fidelity,  even  while 
under  the  pressure  of  recent  sorrow,  Lord  Byron  reverted  to  the 
disappointment  of  his  early  affection,  as  the  chief  source  of  all  his 
sufferings  and  errors,  present  and  to  come. — Moore.] 

(4)  [The  anticipations  of  his  own  future  career  in  these  con- 
cluding lines  are  of  a nature,  it  must  be  owned,  to  awaken  more  of 
horroj.  £b*n  of  interest,  were  we  not  prepared,  by  so  many  instances 


Wherewith  the  children  of  Despair 
Lull  the  lone  heart,  and  “ banish  care.” 

But  not  in  morn’s  reflecting  hour, 

When  present,  past,  and  future  lower, 

When  all  I loved  is  changed  or  gone, 

Mock  with  such  taunts  the  woes  of  one, 

Whose  every  thought — but  let  them  pass— 
Thou  know’st  I am  not  what  I was. 

But,  above  all,  if  thou  wouldst  hold 
Place  in  a heart  that  ne’er  was  cold, 

By  all  the  powers  that  men  revere, 

By  all  unto  thy  bosom  dear, 

Thy  joys  below,  thy  hopes  above, 

Speak — speak  of  any  thing  but  love. 

’Twere  long  to  tell,  and  vain  to  hear. 

The  tale  of  one  who  scorns  a tear ; 

And  there  is  little  in  that  tale 
Which  better  bosoms  would  bewail. 

But  mine  has  suffer’d  more  than  well 
’Twould  suit  philosophy  to  tell. 

I’ve  seen  my  bride  another’s  bride, — • 

Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side,- — 

Have  seen  the  infant,  which  she  bore, 

Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore, 

When  she  and  I in  youth  have  smiled, 

As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child ; 

Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain. 

Ask  if  I felt  no  secret  pain ; 

And  I have  acted  well  my  part, 

And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 

Return’d  the  freezing  glance  she  gave  ; 

Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman’s  slave, — 

Have  kiss’d,  as  if  without  design, 

The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine. 

And  sliow’d,  alas  ! in  each  caress 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less.3 

But  let  this  pass — I’ll  whine  no  more, 

Nor  seek  again  an  eastern  shore ; 

The  world  befits  a busy  brain, — 

I’ll  hie  me  to  its  haunts  again. 

But  if,  in  some  succeeding  year. 

When  Britain’s  “ May  is  in  the  sere,” 

Thou  hear’st  of  one,  whose  deepening  crimes 
Suit  with  the  sablest  of  the  times  ; 

Of  one,  whom  love  nor  pity  sways, 

Nor  hope  of  fame,  nor  good  men’s  praise; 

One,  who  in  stern  ambition’s  pride, 

Perchance  not  blood  shall  turn  aside ; 

One  rank’d  in  some  recording  page 
With  the  worst  anarchs  of  the  age  ; 

Him  wilt  thou  know — and  knowing  pause, 

Nor  with  the  effect  forget  the  cause.4 

Newstead  Abbey,  Oct.  11,  1811  5 
[First  published,  1830.] 


of  his  exaggeration  in  this  respect,  not  to  be  startled  at  any  lengths 
to  which  the  spirit  of  self-libeding  would  carry  him.  It  seemed  as 
if,  with  the  power  of  painting  fierce  and  gloomy  personages,  he  had 
also  the  ambition  to  be,  himself,  the  dark  ‘ sublime  he  drew,’  and 
that,  in  his  fondness  for  the  delineation  of  heroic  crime,  he  en- 
deavoured to  fancy,  where  he  could  not  find  in  his  own  character, 
fit  subjects  for  his  pencil. — Mooke.] 

(5)  [Two  days  after,  in  another  letter  to  Mr.  Hodgson,  Lord 
Byron  says,— “ I am  growing  nervous  (how  you  will  laugh  !) — but  it 
is  true, — really,  wretchedly,  ridiculously,  fine-ladically  nervous. 
Your  climate  kills  me  ; I can  neither  read,  write,  nor  amuse  myself, 
or  any  one  else.  My  days  are  listless,  and  my  nights  restless:  I 
have  seldom  any  society,  and,  when  I have,  I run  outof  it.  I don’t 
know  that  I sha’n’t  end  with  insanity;  for  1 find  a want  of  method 
in  arranging  my  thoughts  that  perplexes  me  strangely. 


550 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


1811, 


TO  THYRZA. 

Without  a stone  to  mark  the  spot, 

And  say,  what  Truth  might  well  have  said, 

By  all,  save  one,  perchance  forgot, 

Ah  ! wherefore  art  thou  lowly  laid  ? 

By  many  a shore  and  many  a sea 
Divided,  yet  beloved  in  vain ; 

The  past,  the  future  fled  to  thee, 

To  bid  us  meet — no — ne’er  again  ! 

Could  this  have  been — a word,  a look, 

That  softly  said,  “ We  part  in  peace,” 

Had  taught  my  bosom  how  to  brook, 

With  fainter  sighs,  thy  soul’s  release. 

And  didst  thou  not,  since  Death  for  thee 
Prepared  a light  and  pangless  dart, 

Once  long  for  him  thou  ne’er  shalt  see. 

Who  held,  and  holds  thee  in  his  heart  ? 

Oh  ! who  like  him  had  watch’d  thee  here  ? 

Or  sadly  mark’d  thy  glazing  eye, 

In  that  dread  hour  ere  death  appear, 

When  silent  sorrow  fears  to  sigh, 

Till  all  was  past ! But  when  no  more 
’Twas  thine  to  reck  of  human  woe, 

Affection’s  heart-drops,  gushing  o’er, 

Had  flow’d  as  fast— as  now  they  flow. 

Shall  they  not  flow,  when  many  a day 
In  these,  to  me,  deserted  towers, 

Ere  call’d  but  for  a time  away, 

Affection’s  mingling  tears  were  ours  ? 

Ours  too  the  glance  none  saw  beside ; 

The  smile  none  else  might  understand  ; 

The  whisper’d  thought  of  hearts  allied, 

The  pressure  of  the  thrilling  hand  ; 

The  kiss,  so  guiltless  and  refined. 

That  Love  each  warmer  wish  forbore ; 

Those  eyes  proclaim’d  so  pure  a mind, 

Even  passion  blush’d  to  plead  for  more. 

The  tone,  that  taught  me  to  rejoice, 

When  prone,  unlike  thee  to  repine ; 

The  song,  celestial  from  thy  voice. 

But  sweet  to  me  from  none  but  thine ; 

The  pledge  we  wore — I wear  it  still, 

But  where  is  thine  F — Ah  ! where  art  thou  ? 

Oft  have  I borne  the  weight  of  ill, 

But  never  bent  beneath  till  now  ! 


(1)  [Mr.  Moore  considers  “ Thyrza”  as  if  she  were  a mere  crea- 
ture of  the  Poet’s  brain.  “It  was,”  he  says,  “about  the  time 
when  he  was  thus  bitterly  feeling,  and  expressing,  the  blight  which 
his  heart  had  suffered  from  a real  object  of  affection,  that  his 
poems  on  the  death  of  an  imaginary  one  were  written ; — nor  is  it 
any  wonder,  when  we  consider  the  peculiar  circumstances  under 
which  these  beautiful  effusions  flowed  from  his  fancy,  that,  of  all 
his  strains  of  pathos,  they  should  be  the  most  touching  and  most 
pure.  They  were,  indeed,  the  essence,  the  abstract  spirit,  as  it 
were,  of  many  griefs  ; — a confluence  of  sad  thoughts  from  many 
sources  of  sorrow,  refined  and  warmed  in  their  passage  through  his 
fancy,  and  forming  thus  one  deep  reservoir  of  mournful  feeling.” 
It  is  a pity  to  disturb  a sentiment  thus  beautifully  expressed;  but 
Lord  Byron,  in  a letter  to  Mr.  Dallas,  bearing  the  exact  date  of  these 
lines,  viz.  Oct.  11th,  1811,  writes  as  follows: — “I  have  been  again 
■hocked  vyith  a death,  and  have  lost  one  very  dear  to  me  in  happier 


Well  hast  thou  left  in  life’s  best  bloom 
The  cup  ot‘  woe  for  me  to  drain. 

If  rest  alone  be  in  the  tomb, 

I would  not  wish  thee  here  again ; 

But  if  in  worlds  more  blest  than  this 
Thy  virtues  seek  a fitter  sphere, 

Impart  some  portion  of  thy  bliss, 

To  wean  me  from  mine  anguish  here. 

Teach  me  — too  early  taught  by  thee  ! 

To  bear,  forgiving  and  forgiven  : 

On  earth  thy  love  was  such  to  me : 

It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven ! 

October  11,  1811.’ 


AWAY,  AWAY,  YE  NOTES  OF  WOE. 

Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  woe  ! 

Be  silent,  thou  once  soothing  strain, 

Or  I must  flee  from  hence — for,  oh  ! 

I dare  not  trust  those  sounds  again. 

To  me  they  speak  of  brighter  days — 

But  lull  the  chords,  for  now,  alas  ! 

I must  not  think,  I may  not  gaze, 

On  what  I am — on  what  I was. 

The  voice  that  made  those  sounds  more  sweet 
Is  hush’d,  and  all  their  charms  are  fled  ; 

And  now  their  softest  notes  repeat 
A dirge,  an  anthem  o’er  the  dead  ! 

Yes,  Thyrza ! yes,  they  breathe  of  thee, 
Beloved  dust ! since  dust  thou  art ; 

And  all  that  once  was  harmony 
Is  worse  than  discord  to  my  heart ! 

’Tis  silent  all ! — but  on  my  ear 
The  well  remember’d  echoes  thrill ; 

I hear  a voice  I would  not  hear, 

A voice  that  now  might  well  be  still : 

Yet  oft  my  doubting  soul  ’twill  shake ; 

Even  slumber  owns  its  gentle  tone 

Till  consciousness  will  vainly  wake 
To  listen,  though  the  dream  be  flown. 

Sweet  Thyrza  ! waking  as  in  sleep, 

Thou  art  but  now  a lovely  dream ; 

A star  that  trembled  o’er  the  deep, 

Then  turn’d  from  earth  its  tender  beam. 

But  he  who  through  life’s  dreary  way 

Must  pass,  when  heaven  is  veil’d  in  wrath, 

Will  long  lament  the  vanish’d  ray 
That  scatter’d  gladness  o’er  his  path. 

December  6,  1811  * 


times  : but  ‘ I have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  grief,’  and  ‘ supped 
full  of  horrors,’  till  I have  become  callous  ; nor  have  I a tear  left 
for  an  event  which,  five  years  ago,  would  have  bowed  my  head  to 
the  earth.”  In  his  reply  to  this  letter,  Mr.  Dallas  says* — “ I thank 
you  for  your  confidential  communication.  How  truly  d®  I wish 
that  that  being  had  lived,  and  lived  yours  ! What  your  obligations 
to  her  would  have  been  in  that  case  is  inconceivable.”  Several 
years  after  the  series  of  poems  on  Thyrza  were  written,  Lord  Byron, 
on  being  asked  to  whom  they  referred,  by  a person  in  whose  tender- 
ness he  never  ceased  to  confide,  refused  to  answer,  with  marka 
of  painful  agitation,  such  as  rendered  any  farther  recurrence 
to  the  subject  impossible.  The  reader  must  be  left  to  form  his 
own  conclusion.  The  five  following  pieces  are  all  devoted  to 
Thyrza.] 

(2)  [“  I wrote  this  a day  or  two  ago,  on  hearing  a song  of  formar 
days.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Hodgson,  December  8,  1811.] 


L812. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


551 


ONE  STRUGGLE  MORE,  AND  I AM  FREE. 

One  struggle  more,  and  I am  free 

Erom  pangs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain ; 

One  last  long  sigh  to  love  and  thee, 

Then  back  to  busy  life  again.  * 

It  suits  me  well  to  mingle  now 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before : 
Though  every  joy  is  fled  below, 

What  future  grief  can  touch  me  more  ? 

Then  bring  me  wine,  the  banquet  bring ; 

Man  was  not  form’d  to  live  alone : 

I’ll  be  that  light,  unmeaning  thing, 

That  smiles  with  all,  and  weeps  with  none. 

It  was  not  thus  in  days  more  dear, 

It  never  would  have  been,  but  thou 
Hast  fled,  and  left  me  lonely  here  ; 

Thou’rt  nothing, — all  are  nothing  now. 

In  vain  my  lyre  would  lightly  breathe  ! 

The  smile  that  sorrow  fain  would  wear 
But  mocks  the  woe  that  lurks  beneath, 

Like  roses  o’er  a sepulchre. 

Though  gay  companions  o’er  the  bowl 
Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill ; 

Though  pleasure  fires  the  maddening  soul 
The  heart — the  heart  is  lonely  still ! 

On  many  a lone  and  lovely  night 
It  soothed  to  gaze  upon  the  sky ; 

For  then  I deem’d  the  heavenly  light 
Shone  sweetly  on  thy  pensive  eye  : 

And  oft  I thought  at  Cynthia’s  noon. 

When  sailing  o’er  the  iEgean  wave, 

“Now  Thyrza  gazes  on  that  moon — ” 

Alas,  it  gleam’d  upon  her  grave  ! 

When  stretch’d  on  fever’s  sleepless  bed, 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 

“ ’Tis  comfort  still,”  I faintly  said, 

“ That  Thyrza  cannot  know  my  pains 
Like  freedom  to  the  time-worn  slave, 

A boon  ’tis  idle  then  to  give, 

Relenting  Nature  vainly  gave 

My  life,  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live  ! 

My  Thyrza’s  pledge  in  better  days, 

When  love  and  life  alike  were  new  ! 

How  different  now  thou  meet’st  my  gaze  ! 

How  tinged  by  time  with  sorrow’s  hue  1 
The  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 
Is  silent — ah,  were  mine  as  still ! 

Though  cold  as  e’en  the  dead  can  be, 

It  feels,  it  sick  ens  with  the  chill. 

Thou  bitter  pledge  ! thou  mournful  token ! 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast ! 

Still,  still,  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  to  which  thou’rt  press’d ! 
Time  tempers  love,  but  not  removes, 

More  hallow’d  when  its  hope  is  fled  • 

Oh ! what  are  thousand  living  loves 
To  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead  ? 


EUTHANASIA. 

WfHEN  Time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dtaa, 

Oblivion  ! may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o’er  my  dying  bed  ! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 

To  weep  or  wish  the  coming  blow: 

No  maiden,  with  dishevell’d  hair, 

To  feel,  or  feign,  decorous  woe. 

But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth, 

With  no  officious  mourners  near ; 

I would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth, 

Nor  Startle  friendship  with  a tear. 

Yet  Love,  if  Love  in  such  an  hour 
Could  nobly  check  its  useless  sighs. 

Might  then  exert  its  latest  power 
In  her  who  lives  and  him  who  dies. 

’Twere  sweet,  my  Psyche  ! to  the  last 
Thy  features  still  serene  to  see  : 

Forgetful  of  its  struggles  past, 

E’en  Pain  itself  should  smile  on  thee. 

But  vain  the  wish — for  Beauty  still 

Will  shrink,  as  shrinks  the  ebbing  breath  ; 

And  woman’s  tears,  produced  at  will. 

Deceive  in  life,  unman  in  death. 

Then  lonely  be  my  latest  hour, 

Without  regret,  without  a groan ; 

For  thousands  Death  hath  ceased  to  lower, 
And  pain  been  transient  or  unknown. 

“ Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go,”  alas  ! 

Where  all  have  gone,  and  all  must  go ! 

To  be  the  nothing  that  I was 
Ere  born  to  life  and  living  woe ! 

Count  o’er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen. 
Count  o’er  thy  days  from  anguish  free, 

And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 

’Tis  something  better  not  to  be. 


AND  THOU  ART  DEAD,  AS  YOUNG  AS  FAIR. 

“ Heu,  quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari  quam  tui 
meminisse  1 ” 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair, 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth  ; 

And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare. 

Too  soon  return’d  to  Earth ! 

Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed. 

And  o’er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 
In  carelessness  or  mirth. 

There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I will  not  ask  where  thou  lies  I;  low, 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 

There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow. 

So  I behold  them  not : 


552 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


1812, 


It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 

That  what  I loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Juke  common  earth  can  rot  ; 

To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 

*Tis  Nothing  that  I loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I love  thee  to  the  last 
As  fervently  as  thou, 

Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past 
And  canst  not  alter  now. 

The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal, 

Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow : 

And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours  ; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine  : 

The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lowers 
Shall  never  more  be  thine. 

The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I envy  now  too  much  to  weep  ; 

Nor  need  I to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass’d  away  ; 

I might  have  watch’d  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen’d  bloom  unmatch’d 
Must  fall  the  earliest  prey  ; 

Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch’d, 

The  leases  must  drop  away : 

And  yet  it  were  a greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck’d  to-day  ; 

Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

1 know  not  if  I could  have  borne 
To  see  thy  beauties  fade  ; 

The  night  that  follow’d  such  a morn 
Had  worn  a deeper  shade  : 

Thy  day  without  a cloud  hath  pass’d, 

And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last ; 

Extinguish’d,  not  decay’d ; 

As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I wept,  if  I could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 

To  think  I was  not  near  to  keep 
One  vigil  o’er  thy  bed  ; 

To  gaze,  how  fondly  ! on  thy  face, 

To  fold  thee  in  a faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head  ; 

And  show  that  love,  however  vain 
Nor  thou  nor  I can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gam, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 

The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee  ! 

The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 
Returns  again  to  me, 

And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  living  years. 

February,  'SW. 


IE  SOMETIMES  IN  THE  HAUNTS  OE 

If  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men 
Thine  image  from  my  breast  may  fade, 

The  lonely  hour  presents  again 

The  semblance  of  thy  gentle  shade  : 

And  now  that  sad  and  silent  hour 
Thus  much  of  thee  can  still  restore, 

And  sorrow  unobserved  may  pour 
The  plaint  she  dare  not  speak  before. . 

Oh,  pardon  that  in  crowds  awhile 
I waste  one  thought  I owe  to  thee, 

And,  self-condemn’d,  appear  to  smile. 
Unfaithful  to  thy  memory  1 
Nor  deem  that  memory  less  dear, 

That  then  I seem  not  to  repine  ; 

I would  not  fools  should  overhear 
One  sigh  that  should  be  wholly  thine. 

If  not  the  goblet  pass  unquaff’d, 

It  is  not  drain’d  to  banish  care; 

The  cup  must  hold  a deadlier  draught. 

That  brings  a Lethe  for  despair. 

And  could  Oblivion  set  my  soul 
Erom  all  her  troubled  visions  free, 

I’d  dash  to  earth  the  sweetest  bowl 
That  drown’d  a single  thought  cf  thet>. 

For  wert  thou  vanish’d  from  my  mind, 

Where  could  my  vacant  bosom  turn  ? 

And  who  would  then  remain  behind 
To  honour  thine  abandon’d  Urn  ? 

No,  no — it  is  my  sorrow’s  pride 
That  last  dear  duty  to  fulfil ; 

Though  all  the  world  forget  beside, 

’Tis  meet  that  I remember  still. 

For  well  I know,  that  such  had  been 
Thy  gentle  care  for  him,  who  now 
Unmourn’d  shall  quit  this  mortal  scene, 

Where  none  regarded  him,  but  thou : 

And,  oh ! I feel  in  that  was  given 
A blessing  never  meant  for  me  ; 

Thou  wert  too  like  a dream  of  Heaven, 

Eor  earthly  Love  to  merit  thee. 

March  14,  1318. 


ON  A CORNELIAN  EIEART  WHICH  WAS 
BROKEN.1 

Ill-fated  Heart ! and  can  it  be, 

That  thou  shouldst  thus  be  rent  in  twaL  ? 
Have  years  of  care  for  thine  and  thee 
Alike  been  all  employ’d  in  vain? 

Yet  precious  seems  each  shatter’d  part, 

And  every  fragment  dearer  grown, 

Since  he  who  wears  thee  feels  thou  art 
A fitter  emblem  of  his  own. 

March  16  1813. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

^Egle,  beauty  and  poet,  has  two  little  crimes  ] 

She  makes  her  own  face,  and  does  r\ot  mak?  hei 
rhymes. 


(1)  [We  know  not  whether  the  reader  should  understand  the 
cornelian  heart  of  these  lines  to  be  the  same  with  that  of  which 
some  notices  are  given  at  p.  398  1 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


!8j2 


553 


LINES  TO  A LADY  WEEPING.1 
Weep,  daughter  of  a royal  line, 

A Sire's  disgrace,  a realm’s  decay  ; 

All ! happy  if  each  tear  of  thine 
Could  wash  a father’s  fault  away  ! 

Weep — for  thy  tears  are  Virtue’s  tears — 
Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles  ; 

And  be  each  drop  in  future  years 
Repaid  thee  by  thy  people’s  smiles ! 2 

March,  1812. 


THE  CHAIN  I GAVE. 

From  the  Turkish. 

The  chain  I gave  was  fair  to  view, 

The  lute  I added  sweet  in  sound ; 

The  heart  that  offer’d  both  was  true, 

And  ill  deserved  the  fate  it  found. 

These  gifts  were  charm’d  by  secret  spell. 

Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine  ; 

And  they  have  done  their  duty  well, — 

Alas  ! they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 

That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link, 

But  not  to  bear  a stranger’s  touch  ; 

That  lute  was  sweet — till  thou  couldst  think: 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 

Let  him,  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 
The  chain  which  shiver’d  in  his  grasp, 

Who  saw  that  lute  refuse  to  sound, 

Restring  the  chords,  renew  the  clasp. 

When  thou  wert  changed,  they  alter’d  too  ; 
The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute. 

*Tis  past — to  them  and  thee  adieu — • 

False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  silent  lute. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A BLANK  LEAF  OF 
THE  “ PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY.” 

Absent  or  present,  still  to  thee, 

My  friend,  what  magic  spells  belong  ! 

As  all  can  tell,  who  share,  like  me, 

In  turn  thy  converse,3 4  and  thy  song. 


(1)  [This  impromptu  owed  its  birth  to  an  on  dit,  that  the  late 
Princess  Charlotte  of  Wales  burst  into  tears  on  hearing  that  the 
Whigs  had  found  it  impossible  to  put  together  a cabinet,  at  the 
period  of  Mr.  Perceval’s  death.  They  were  appended  to  the  first 
edition  of  “The  Corsair,”  and  excited  a sensation , as  it  is  called, 
marvellously  disproportionate  to  their  length, — or,  we  may  add, 
their  merit.  The  ministerial  prints  raved  for  two  months  on  end, 
m the  most  foul-mouthed  vituperation  of  the  poet,  and  all  that 
belonged  to  him — the  Morning  Post  even  announced  a motion  in 
the  House  of  Lords — “and  all  this,”  Lord  Byron  writes  to  Mr. 
Moore,  “as  Bedreddin  in  the  Arabian  Nights  remarks,  for  making 
a cream  tart  with  pepper:  how  odd,  that  eight  lines  should  have 
given  birth,  I really  think,  to  eight  thousand!  ”] 

(2)  [“The  ‘Lines  to  a Lady  weeping’  must  go  with  ‘The  Cor- 
sair.’ I care  nothing  for  consequences  on  this  point.  My  politics 
3>e  to  me  like  a young  mistress  to  an  old  man;  the  worse  they 
glow,  the  fonder  I become  of  them.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray, 
Jan.  22,  1814.  “On  my  return,  I find  all  the  newspapers  in  hys- 
terics, and  town  in  an  uproar,  on  the  avowal  and  republication  of 
two  stanzas  on  Princess  Charlotte’s  weeping  at  Regency’s  speech  to 
Lauderdale  in  1812.  They  are  daily  at  it  still : — some  of  the  abuse 
good, — all  of  it  hearty.  They  talk  of  a motion  in  our  House  upon 
it — be  it  so.” — Byron  Diary,  1814.] 

(3)  [“  When  Rogers  does  talk,  he  talks  well ; and,  on  all  subjects 
of  taste,  his  delicacy  of  expression  is  pure  as  his  poetry.  If  you 
enter  his  house — his  drawing-room — his  library — you  of  yourself 
•ay,  This  is  not  the  dwelling  of  a common  mind.  There  is  not  a 


But  when  the  dreaded  hour  shall  come, 

By  Friendship  ever  deem’d  too  nigh, 

And  “ Memory”  o’er  her  Druid’s  tomb* 

Shall  weep  that  augnt  of  thee  can  die, 

How  fondly  will  she  then  repay 
Thy  homage  offer’d  at  her  shrine, 

And  blend,  while  ages  roll  away, 

Her  name  immortally  with  thine  ! 

April  19,  1S12, 


ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  DRURY-LANE  THEATRE, 
SATURDAY,  OCTOBER  10,  ]812.5 

Tn  one  dread  night  our  city  saw,  and  sigh’d, 

Bow’d  to  the  dust,  the  Drama’s  tower  of  pride  ; 

In  one  short  hour  beheld  the  blazing  fane, 

Anollo  sink,  and  Shakspeare  cease  to  reign. 

Ye  who  beheld,  (oh  ! sight  admired  and  mourn’d. 
Whose  radiance  mock’d  the  ruin  it  adorn’d  !) 

Through  clouds  of  fire  the  massy  fragments  riven, 
Like  Israel’s  pillar,  chase  the  night  from  heaven ; 

Saw  the  long  column  of  revolving  flames 
Shake  its  red  shadow  o’er  the  startled  Thames,6 
While  thousands,  throng’d  around  the  burning  dome, 
Shrank  back  appall’d,  and  trembled  for  their  home, 

As  glared  the  volumed  blaze,  and  ghastly  shone 
The  skies,  with  lightnings  awful  as  their  own, 

Till  blackening  ashes  and  the  lonely  wall 
Usurp’d  the  Muse’s  realm,  and  mark’d  her  fall; 

Say — shall  this  new,  nor  less  aspiring  pile, 

Rear’d  where  once  rose  the  mightiest  in  our  isle, 
Know  the  same  favour  which  the  former  knew, 

A shrine  for  Shakspeare — worthy  him  and  you  ? 

Yes — it  shall  be — the  magic  of  that  name 
Defies  the  scythe  of  time,  the  torch  of  flame  ; 

On  the  same  spot  still  consecrates  the  scene, 

And  bids  the  Drama  be  where  she  hath  been : 

Tin’s  fabric’s  birth  attests  the  potent  spell — 

Indulge  our  honest  pride,  and  say,  How  well ! 

As  soars  this  fane  to  emulate  the  last, 

Oh  ! might  we  draw  our  omens  from  the  past, 


gem,  a coin,  a book  thrown  aside  on  his  chimney-piece,  his  sofa, 

his  table,  that  does  not  bespeak  an  almost  fastidious  elegance  in 

the  possessor.” — Byron  Diary,  1813.] 

(4)  [The  reader  will  recall  Collins’s  exquisite  lines  on  the  tomb 
of  1 homson  : “ In  yonder  grave  a Druid  lies,”  &c.] 

(5)  [The  theatre  in  Drury  I^me,  which  was  opened,  in  1747,  with 
Dr.  Johnson’s  masterly  address,  beginning, — 

“ When  Learning’s  triumph  o’er  her  barbarous  foes 
First  rear’d  the  Stage,  immortal  Shakspeare  rose,” 

and  witnessed  the  last  glories  of  Garrick,  having  fallen  into  decay, 
was  rebuilt  in  1794.  The  new  building  perished  by  fire  in  1811: 
and  the  Managers,  in  their  anxiety  that  the  opening  of  the  present 
edifice  should  be  distinguished  by  some  composition  of  at  least 
equal  merit,  advertised  in  the  newspapers  for  a general  competi- 
tion. Scores  of  addresses,  not  one  tolerable,  showered  on  their 
desk,  and  they  were  in  sad  despair,  when  Lord  Holland  interfered, 
and,  not  without  difficulty,  prevailed  on  Lord  Byron  to  w'rite  these 
verses — “at  the  risk,”  as  he  said,  “of  offending  a hundred  scrib- 
blers and  a discerning  public.”  The  admirable  jeu  d' esprit  of  the 
Messrs.  Smith  will  long  preserve  the  memory  of  the  “ Rejected 
Addresses.” 

(6)  [“  By  the  bye,  the  best  view  of  the  said  fire  (which  I myself 
saw  from  a house-top  in  Covent  Garden)  was  at  Westmin  ter 
Bridge,  from  the  teflection  of  the  Thames.” — Lord  Byron  tc  Lord 
Holland.] 

* 4 B 


554 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS 


' -fSJfc 


Some  hour  propitious  to  our  prayers  may  boast 
Names  such  as  hallow  still  the  dome  we  lost. 

On  Drury  first  your  Siddons’  thrilling  art 
O’erwhelm’d  the  gentlest,  storm’d  the  sternest  heart. 
On  Drury,  Garrick’s  latest  laurels  grew ; 

Here  your  last  tears  retiring  llosems  drew, 

Sigh’d  his  last  thanks,  and  wept  his  last  adieu  : 

But  still  for  living  wit  the  wreaths  may  bloom* 

That  only  waste  their  odours  o’er  the  tomb. 

Such  Drury  claim’d  and  claims — nor  you  refuse 
One  tribute  to  revive  his  slumbering  muse ; 

With  garlands  deck  your  own  Menander’s  head  ! 

Nor  hoard  your  honours  idly  for  the  dead  ! 

Dear  are  the  days  which  made  our  annals  bright, 
Ere  Garrick  fled,  or  Brinsley 1 ceased  to  write. 

Heirs  to  their  labours,  like  all  high-born  heirs, 

Vain  of  our  ancestry  as  they  of  theirs  ; 

WTiile  thus  Remembrance  borrows  Banquo’ 

To  claim  the  sceptred  shadows  as  they  pass, 

And  we  the  mirror  hold,  where  imaged  shine 
Immortal  names,  emblazon’d  on  our  line, 

Pause — ere  their  feebler  offspring  you  condemn, 
Reflect  how  hard  the  task  to  rival  them  ! 

Friends  of  the  stage!  to  whom  both  Players  and  Plays 
Must  sue  alike  for  pardon  or  for  praise, 

Whose  judging  voice  and  eye  alone  direct 
The  boundless  power  to  cherish  or  reject ; 

If  e’er  frivolity  has  led  to  fame, 

And  made  us  blush  that  you  forbore  to  blame ; 

If  e’er  the  sinking  stage  could  condescend 
To  soothe  the  sickly  taste  it  dare  not  mend, 

All  past  reproach  may  present  scenes  refute, 

And  censure,  wisely  loud,  be  justly  mute  !2 
Oh  ! since  your  fiat  si  amps  the  Drama’s  laws, 

Forbear  to  mock  us  with  misplaced  applause  ; 

So  pride  shall  doubly  nerve  the  actor’s  powers, 

And  reason’s  voice  be  echo’d  back  by  ours  ! 

This  greeting  o’er,  the  ancient  rule  obey’d, 

The  Drama’s  homage  by  her  herald  paid, 

Receive  our  welcome  too,  whose  every  tone 
Springs  from  our  hearts,  and  fain  would  win  your  own. 
The  curtain  rises — may  our  stage  unfold 
Scenes  not  unworthy  Drury’s  days  of  old ! 

Britons  our  judges,  Nature  for  our  guide, 

Still  may  we  please — long,  long  may  you  preside  ! 3 


(1)  [Originally,  “ Ere  Garrick  died”  &c. — “ By  the  bye,  one  of 
my  corrections  in  the  copy  sent  yesterday  has  dived  into  the  bathos 
some  sixty  fathom — 

‘ When  Garrick  died,  and  Brinsley  ceased  to  write.’ 

Ceasing  to  live  is  a much  more  serious  concern,  and  ought  not  to 
be  first.  Second  thoughts  in  every  thing  are  best;  but,  in  rhyme, 
third  and  fourth  don’t  come  amiss.  I always  scrawl  in  this  way, 
and  smooth  as  fast  as  I can,  but  never  sufficiently  ; and,  latterly,  I 
can  weave  a nine-line  stanza  faster  than  a couplet,  for  which  mea- 
sure I have  not  the  cunning.  When  [ began  ‘ Childe  Harold,’  I 
had  never  tried  Spenser’s  measure,  and  now  I cannot  scribble  in 
any  other.” — Lord  Byron  to  Lord  Holland.'] 

(2)  [The  following  lines  were  omitted  by  the  Committee 

«*  Nay,  lower  still,  the  Drama  yet  deplores 
That  late  she  deign’d  (o  crawl  upon  all-fours. 

When  Richard  roars  in  Bosworth  for  a horse, 

If  you  command,  the  steed  must  come  in  course. 

If  you  decree,  the  stage  must  condescend 
To  soothe  the  sickly  taste  we  dare  not  mend 
Blame  not  our  judgment  should  we  acquiesce 
And  gratify  you  more  by  showing  less. 


PARENTHETICAL  ADDRESS4 

BY  DR.  I LAGIARY, 

Half  stolen,  with  rcknowledgme  its,  to  be  spoken  In  an  inarticr  -u 
voice  by  Master  P.  at  the  opening  of  the  next  new  the  « 
Stolen  parts  marked  with  the  inverted  commas  of  quotatir 
thus  “ ”. 

“ When  energising  objects  men  pursue,” 

Then  Lord  knows  what  is  writ  by  Lord  knows  win 
“ A modest  monologue  you  here  survey,” 

Hiss’d  from  the  theatre  the  “ oilier  day,” 

As  if  Sir  Fretful  wrote  “the  slumberous”  verse, 

And  gave  his  son  “ the  rubbish”  to  rehearse. 

“ Yet  at  the  thing  you’d  never  be  amazed,” 

Knew  you  the  rumpus  which  the  author  raised  ; 

“ Nor  even  here  your  smiles  would  be  represt,” 

Knew  you  these  lines — the  badness  of  the  best. 
“Flame!  fire!  and  flame!!”  (words  borrow’d  front 
Lucretius,) 

“ Dread  metaphors  which  open  wounds”  like  issues  ! 
“ And  sleeping  pangs  awake — and — but  away” 
(Confound  me  if  I know  what  next  to  say). 

“ Lo  Hope  reviving  re-expands  her  wings,” 

And  Master  G — recites  what  Doctor  Busby  sings!— 
“If  mighty  things  with  small  we  may  compare,” 
(Translated  from  the  grammar  for  the  fair  !) 

Dramatic  “ spirit  drives  a conquering  car,” 

And  burn’d  poor  Moscow  like  a tub  of  “ tar.” 

“ This  spirit  Wellington  has  shown  in  Spain,” 

To  furnish  melodrames  for  Drury  Lane. 

“ Another  Marlborough  points  to  Blenheim’s  story,” 
And  George  and  I will  dramatize  it  for  ye. 

“ In  arts  and  sciences  our  isle  hath  shone” 

(This  deep  discovery  is  mine  alone). 

“ 0 British  poesy,  whose  powers  inspire” 

My  verse — or  I’m  a fool — and  Fame’s  a liar, 

“ Thee  we  invoke,  your  sister  arts  implore” 

With  “ smiles,”  and  “ lyres,”  and  “ pencils,”  and  much 
more. 

These,  if  we  win  the  Graces,  too,  we  gain 
Disgraces , too  ! “ inseparable  train ! ” 

“ Three  who  have  stolen  their  witching  airs  from  Cupid” 
(You  all  know  what  I mean,  unless  you’re  stupid) : 

“ Harmonious  throng”  that  I have  kept  in  petto, 
Now  to  produce  in  a “ divine  sestetto”  ! ! . 

“ While  Poesy,”  with  these  delightful  doxies, 

“ Sustains  her  part”  in  all  the  “ upper”  boxes  ! 


The  past  reproach  let  present  scenes  refute, 

Nor  shift  from  man  to  babe,  from  babe  to  brute.” 

“ Is  Whitbread,”  said  Lord  Byron,  “ determined  to  castrate  all 
my  cavalry  lines?  I do  implore,  for  my  own  gratification,  one  lash 
on  those  accursed  quadrupeds — * a long  shot,  Sir  Lucius,  if  you 
love  me.’  ’’] 

(3)  [“Soon  after  the  ‘Rejected  Addresses’  scene  in  1812,  I met 

Sheridan.  In  the  course  of  dinner,  he  said,  ‘Lord  Byron,  did  you 
know  that  amongst  the  writers  of  addresses  was  Whitbread  him- 
self? ’ 1 answered  by  an  inquiry  of  what  sort  of  an  address  he  had 

made.  ‘ Of  that,’  replied  Sheridan,  ‘ I remember  little,  except  that 
there  was  a phoenix  in  it.’ — ‘ A phoenix!  ! Well,  how  did  he  de- 
scribe it?  ’ — ‘ Like  a poulterer ,’  answered  Sheridan  : ‘ it  was  green 
and  yellow,  and  red,  and  blue : he  did  not  let  us  off  for  a single 
feather.’  ” — Byron  Letters,  1821.] 

(4)  [Among  the  addresses  sent  in  to  the  Drury  Lane  Committee 
was  one  by  Dr.  Busby,  entitled  “ A Monologue,”  of  which  tfc* 
above  is  a parody.  It  began  as  follows 

“ When  energising  objects  men  pursue, 

What  are  the  prodigies  they  cannot  do  f 
A magic  edifice  you  here  survey, 

Shot  from  the  ruins  of  the  other  day,”  &c.] 


1812. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


555 


“ Thus  lifted  gloriously,  you’ll  soar  along,” 

Borne  in  the  vast  balloon  of  Busby’s  song  ; 

« Sliiti?  in  your  farce,  masque,  scenery,  and  play” 

(For  this  last  line  George  had  a holiday). 

“ Old  Drury  never,  never  soar’d  so  high,” 

So  say’s  the  manager,  and  so  say  I. 

“But  hold,  you  say,  this  self-complacent  boast ;” 

Is  this  the  poem  which  the  public  lost  ? [pride ;” 
“ True  — true  — that  lowers  at  once  our  mounting 
But  lo  ! — the  papers  print  what  you  deride. 

« ’Tis  ours  to  look  on  you — you  hold  the  prize,” 

’Tis  twenty  guineas , as  they  advertize  ! 

" A double  blessing  your  rewards  impart” — 

I wish  I had  them,  then,  with  all  my  heart 
“ Our  twofold  feeling  owns  its  twofold  cause,” 

Why  son  and  I both  beg  for  your  applause. 

“ When  in  your  fostering  beams  you  bid  us  live,” 

My  next  subscription  list  shall  say  how  much  you  give ! 

October,  1812. 


VEESES  FOUND  IN  A SUMMER  HOUSE  AT 
HALES-OWEN.1 

When  Dryden’s  fool,  “ unknowing  what  he  sought,” 
His  hours  in  whistling  spent,  “ for  want  of  thought,”2 
This  guiltless  oaf  his  vacancy  of  sense 
Supplied,  and  amply  too,  by  innocence ; 

Did  modern  swains,  possess’d  of  Cymon’s  powers, 

In  Cymon’s  manner  waste  their  leisure  hours, 

Th’  offended  guests  would'not,  with  blushing,  see 
These  fair  green  walks  disgraced  by  infamy. 

Severe  the  fate  of  modern  fools,  alas  ! 

When  vice  and  folly  mark  them  as  they  pass. 

Like  noxious  reptiles  o’er  the  whiten’d  wall, 

The  filth  they  leave  still  points  out  where  they  crawl. 


REMEMBER  THEE!  REMEMBER  THEE! 

Remember  thee ! remember  thee ! 

Till  Lethe  quench  life’s  burning  stream 
Remorse  and  shame  shall  cling  to  thee, 

And  haunt  thee  like  a feverish  dream ! 

Remember  thee  ! Ay,  doubt  it  not. 

Thy  husband  too  shall  think  of  thee : 

By  neither  shalt  thou  be  forgot, 

Thou  false  to  him,  thou  fiend  to  me  ! 3 


TO  TIME. 

Time  ! on  whose  arbitrary  wing 
The  varying  hours  must  flag  or  fly. 

Whose  tardy  winter,  fleeting  spring, 

But  drag  or  drive  us  on  to  die — 

Hail  thou  ! who  on  my  birth  bestow’d 
Those  boons  to  all  that  know  thee  known  ; 
Yet  better  I sustain  thy  load, 

For  now  I bear  the  weight  alone. 


(1)  [In  Warwickshire.] 

(2)  [See  Cymon  and  Iphigenia] 

(3)  (“  The  sequel  of  a temporary  liaison , formed  by  Lord  Byron 
during  his  gay  but  brief  career  in  London,  occasioned  the  compo- 
sition of  this  Impromptu.  On  the  cessation  of  the  connexion,  the 


I wouM  not  one  fond  heart  should  share 
The  bitter  moments  thou  hast  given ; 

And  pardon  thee,  since  thou  couldst  spare 
All  that  I loved,  to  peace  or  heaven. 

To  them  be  joy  or  rest,  on  me 

Thy  future  ills  shall  press  in  vain  : 

I nothing  owe  but  years  to  thee. 

A debt  already  paid  in  pain. 

Yet  even  that  pain  was  some  relief; 

It  felt,  but  still  forgot  thy  power : 

The  active  agony  of  grief 

Retards,  but  never  counts  the  hour. 

In  joy  I’ve  sigh’d  to  think  thy  flight 
Would  soon  subside  from  swift  to  slow; 

Thy  cloud  could  overcast  the  light. 

But  could  not  add  a night  to  woe ; 

For  then,  however  drear  and  dark. 

My  soul  was  suited  to  thy  sky  ; 

One  star  alone  shot  forth  a spark 
To  prove  thee — not  Eternity. 

That  beam  hath  sunk,  and  now  thou  art 
A blank ; a thing  to  count  and  curse, 

Through  each  dull  tedious  trifling  part, 
Which  all  regret,  yet  all  rehearse. 

One  scene  even  thou  canst  not  deform ; 
The  limit  of  thy  sloth  or  speed 

When  future  wanderers  bear  the  storm 
Which  we  shall  sleep  too  sound  to  heed : 

And  I can  smile  to  think  how  weak 
Thine  efforts  shortly  shall  be  shown, 

When  all  the  vengeance  thou  cansWreak 
Must  fall  upon — a nameless  stone. 


TRANSLATION  OF  A ROMAIC  LOVE  SONG. 

An  ! Love  was  never  yet  without 
The  pang,  the  agony,  the  doubt. 

Which  rends  my  heart  with  ceaseless  sigh, 

While  day  and  night  roil  darkling  by. 

Without  one  friend  to  hear  my  woe, 

I faint,  I die  beneath  the  blow. 

That  Love  had  arrows,  well  I knew ; 

Alas  ! I find  them  poison’d  too. 

Birds,  yet  in  freedom,  shun  the  net 
Which  Love  around  your  haunts  hath  set  • 

Or,  circled  by  his  fatal  fire, 

Your  hearts  shall  burn,  your  hopes  expire. 

A bird  of  free  and  careless  wing 
Was  I,  through  many  a smiling  spring ; 

But  caught  within  the  subtle  snare 
I burn,  and  feebly  flutter  there. 


fair  one,  actuated  by  jealousy,  called  one  morning  at  her  quondam 
lover’s  apartments.  His  Lordship  was  from  home;  but  finding 
‘ Valhck’  on  the  table,  the  lady  wrote  in  the  first  page  of  the  volume 
the  words  ‘ Remember  me  ! ’ Byron  immediately  wrote  undci  th* 
ominous  warning  these  two- stanzas.” — Medwin.J 


556 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Who  ne’er  have  loved,  and  loved  in  vain, 
Can  neither  feel  nor  pity  pain, 

The  cold  repulse,  the  look  askance, 

The  lightning  of  Love’s  angry  glance. 

In  flattering  dreams  I deem’d  thee  mine ; 
Now  hope,  and  he  who  hoped,  decline  ; 

Like  melting  wax,  or  witliering  flower, 

I feel  my  passion,  and  thy  power. 

My  light  of  life  ! ah,  tell  me  why 
That  pouting  lip,  and  alter’d  eye  ? 

My  bird  of  love  ! my  beauteous  mate ! 

And  art  thou  changed,  and  canst  thou  hate  ? 

Mine  eyes  like  wintry  streams  o’erflow  : 
What  wretch  with  me  would  barter  woe  ? 
My  bird  ! relent : one  note  could  give 
A charm,  to  bid  thy  lover  live. 

My  curdling  blood,  my  madd’ning  brain, 

In  silent  anguish  I sustain  ; 

And  still  thy  heart,  without  partaking 
One  pang,  exults — while  mine  is  breaking. 

Pour  me  the  poison  ; fear  not  thou  ! 

Thou  canst  not  murder  more  than  now  : 

I’ve  lived  to  curse  my  natal  day, 

And  Love,  that  thus  can  lingering  slay. 

My  wounded  soul,  my  bleeding  breast. 

Can  patience  preach  thee  into  rest  F 
Alas  ! too  late,  I dearly  know 
That  joy  is  harbinger  of  woe. 


THOU  ART  NOT  FALSE,  BUT  THOU  ART 
FICKLE. 

Thou  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  fickle, 

To  those  thyself  so  fondly  sought ; 

The  tears  that  thou  hast  forced  to  trickle 
Are  doubly  bitter  from  that  thought : 

’Tis  this  which  breaks  the  heart  thou  grievest, 

Too  well  thou  lov’st — too  soon  thou  leavest. 

The  wholly  false  the  heart  despises. 

And  spurns  deceiver  and  deceit ; 

But  she  who  not  a thought  disguises, 

Whose  love  is  as  sincere  as  sweet, — 

When  she  can  change  who  loved  so  truly. 

It  feels  what  mine  has  felt  so  newly. 

To  dream  of  joy  and  wake  to  sorrow 
Is  doom’d  to  all  who  love  or  live  ; 

And  if,  when  conscious  on  the  morrow, 

We  scarce  our  fancy  can  forgive, 

That  cheated  us  in  slumber  only, 

To  leave  the  waking  soul  more  lonely, 

What  must  they  feel  whom  no  false  vision, 

But  truest,  tenderest  passion  warm’d  ? 

Sincere,  but  swift  in  sad  transition ; 

As  if  a dream  alone  had  charm’d  ? 

Ah  ! sure  such  grief  is  fancy’s  scheming, 

And  all  thy  change  can  be  but  dreaming ! 


18!  2. 

ON  BEING  ASKED  WHAT  WAS  THE  “ORIGIN 
OF  LOVE.” 

The  “ Origin  of  Love  !” — Ah,  why 
That  cruel  question  ask  of  me, 

When  thou  may’st  read  in  many  an  eye 
He  starts  to  life  on  seeing  thee  ? 

' And  shouldst  thou  seek  his  end  to  know  : 

My  heart  forebodes,  my  fears  foresee, 

He’ll  linger  long  in  silent  woe; 

But  live — until  I cease  to  be. 


REMEMBER  HIM,  WHOM  PASSION’S  POWER 

Remember  him,  whom  passion’s  power 
Severely,  deeply,  vainly  proved : 

Remember  thou  that  dangerous  hour 

When  neither  fell,  though  both  were  loved. 

That  yielding  breast,  that  melting  eye, 

Too  much  invited  to  be  bless’d  ; 

That  gentle  prayer,  that  pleading  sigh, 

The  wilder  wish  reproved,  repress’d. 

Oh  ! let  me  feel  that  all  I lost 

But  saved  thee  all  that  conscience  fears  ; 

And  blush  for  every  pang  it  cost 
To  spare  the  vain  remorse  of  years. 

Yet  think  of  this  when  many  a tongue, 

Whose  busy  accents  whisper  blame, 

Would  do  the  heart  that  loved  thee  wrong, 

And  brand  a nearly  blighted  name. 

Think  that,  whate’er  to  others,  thou 

Hast  seen  each  selfish  thought  subdued  : 

I bless  thy  purer  soul  even  now, 

Even  now,  in  midnight  solitude. 

Oh,  God  ! that  we  had  met  in  time, 

Our  hearts  as  fond,  thy  hand  more  free; 

When  thou  hadst  loved  without  a crime. 

And  I been  less  unworthy  thee ! 

Far  may  thy  days,  as  heretofore, 

From  this  our  gaudy  world  be  past ! 

And  that  too  bitter  moment  o’er, 

Oh  ! may  such  trial  be  thy  last. 

This  Heart,  alas  ! perverted  long, 

Itself  destroy’d  might  thee  destroy  ; 

To  meet  thee  in  the  glittering  throng, 

Would  wake  Presumption’s  hope  of  joy. 

Then  to  the  things  whose  bliss  or  woe. 

Like  mine,  is  wild  and  worthless  all, 

That  world  resign — such  scenes  forego, 

Where  those  who  feel  must  surely  fall. 

Thy  youth,  thy  charms,  thy  tenderness. 

Thy  soul  from  long  seclusion  pure  ; 

From  what  even  here  hath  pass’d,  may  guess 
What  there  thy  bosom  must  erduie. 

Oh  ! pardon  that  imploring  tear, 

Since  not  by  Virtue  shed  in  vain, 

Mv  frenzy  drew  from  eyes  so  dear ; 

For  me  they  shall  not  weep  again. 


1813. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


557 


Though  long  and  mournful  must  it  be. 

The  thought  that  we  no  more  may  meet ; 

Yet  I deserve  the  stern  decree, 

And  almost  deem  the  sentence  sweet. 

Still,  had  1 loved  thee  less,  my  heart 
Had  then  less  sacrificed  to  thine 
It  felt  not  half  so  much  to  part, 

As  if  its  guilt  had  made  thee  mine. 

1813. 


ON  LORD  THURLOW’S  POEMS.1 

When  Thurlow  this  damn’d  nonsense  sent, 
(I  hope  I am  not  violent) 

Nor  men  nor  gods  knew  what  he  meant. 

And  since  not  ev’n  our  Rogers’  praise 
To  common  sense  his  thoughts  could  raise — 
Why  would  they  let  him  print  his  lays  ? 

***** 

***** 

To  me,  divine  Apollo,  grant — 0 ! 

Hermilda’s  first  and  second  canto, 

I’m  fitting  up  a new  portmanteau ; 

And  thus  to  furnish  decent  lining, 

My  own  and  others’  bays  I ’m  twining— 

So,  gentle  Thurlow,  throw  me  thine  in. 


TO  LORD  THURLOW. 

I lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down, 

Then  thus  to  form  Apollo's  crown 
Let  every  other  bring  his  uw  u” 

Lord  Thurlow' s lines  to  Mf.  Roger S- 

“I  lay  my  branch  of  laurel  down” 
Thou  “ lay  thv  branch  of  laurel  down  ! ” 

Why,  what  thou’st  stole  is  not  enow  ; 

And,  were  it  lawfully  thine  own, 

Does  Rogers  want  it  most,  or  thou  ? 

Keep  to  thyself  thy  wither’d  bough, 

Or  send  it  back  to  Doctor  Donne  : 

Were  justice  done  to  both,  I trow, 

He’d  have  but  little,  and  thou — none. 

“ Then  thus  to  form  Apollo's  crown” 

A crown  ! why,  twist  it  how  you  will, 

Thy  chaplet  must  be  foolscap  still. 


(1)  [“  Among  the  many  gay  hours  we  passed  together  in  the 
spring  of  1813,  I remember  particularly  the  wild  flow  of  his  spirits 
one  evening,  when  we  had  accompanied  Mr.  Rogers  home  from 
some  early  assembly.  It  happened  that  our  host  had  just  received 
a presentation  copy  of  a volume  of  poems,  written  professedly  in 
imitation  of  the  old  Englisn  writers,  and  containing,  like  many  of 
these  models,  a good  deal  that  was  striking  and  beautiful,  mixed 
up  with  much  that  was  trifling,  fantastic,  and  absurd.  In  vain 
did  Mr.  Rogers,  in  justice  to  the  author,  endeavour  to  direct  our 
attention  to  some  of  the  beauties  of  the  work.  In  this  sort  of  hunt 
through  the  volume,  we  at  length  lighted  on  the  discovery  that  our 
host,  in  addition  to  his  sincere  approbation  of  some  of  its  contents, 
had  also  the  motive  of  gratitude  for  standing  by  its  author,  as  one 
of  the  poems  was  a warm  and,  I need  not  add,  well-deserved  pane- 
gyric on  himself.  The  opening  line  of  the  poem  was,  as  well  as  I 
can  recollect,  * When  Rogers  o’er  this  labour  bent and  Lord 
Byron  undertook  to  read  it  aloud ; — but  he  found  it  impossible  to 
get  beyond  the  first  two  words.  Our  laughter  had  now  increased 
to  such  a pitch  that  nothing  could  restrain  it.  Two  or  three  times 
he  began ; but  no  sooner  had  the  words  ‘ When  Rogers’  passed  his 
lips,  than  our  fit  burst  forth  afresh, — till  even  Mr.  Rogers  himself, 
with  all  his  feeling  of  our  injustice,  found  it  impossible  not  to  join 
as.  A day  or  two  after,  Lord  Byron  sent  me  the  foliowing ; — “ My 


When  next  you  visit  Delphi’s  town, 

Inquire  amongst  your  fellow-lodgers; 

They’ll  tell  you  Phoebus  gave  his  crown. 

Some  years  before  your  birth,  to  Rogers. 

“ Let  every  other  bring  his  own” 

When  coals  to  Newcastle  are  carried, 

And  owls  sent  to  Athens,  as  wonders, 

From  his  spouse  when  the  Regent’s  unmarried, 
Or  Liverpool  weeps  o’er  his  blunders ; 

When  Tories  and  Whigs  cease  to  quarrel. 

When  Castlereagh’s  wife  has  an  heir. 

Then  Rogers  shall  ask  us  for  laurel, 

And  thou  shalt  have  plenty  to  spare. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

WRITTEN  THE  EVENING  BEFORE  HIS  VISIT  TO  MR.  LEIGH  HCtif 
IN  HORSEMONGER-LANE  GAOL,  MAY  19,  1813. 

On  you,  who  in  all  names  can  tickle  the  town, 
Anacreon,  Tom  Little,  Tom  Moore,  or  Tom  Brown, — ■ 
For  hang  me  if  I know  of  which  you  may  most  brag, 
Your  Quarto  two-pounds,  or  your  Two-penny  Post  Bag; 
***** 

But  now  to  my  letter — to  yours  ’tis  an  answer — 
To-morrow  be  with  me,  as  soon  as  you  can,  sir, 

All  ready  and  dress’d  for  proceeding  to  spange  on 
(According  to  compact)  the  wit  in  the  dungeon — 
Pray  Phoebus  at  length  our  political  malice 
May  not  get  us  lodgings  within  the  same  palace  ! 

I suppose  that  to-night  you’re  engaged  with  soma 
codgers, 

And  for  Sotheby’s  Blues  have  deserted  Sam  Rogers  ; 
And  I,  though  with  cold  I have  nearly  my  death  got., 
Must  put  on  my  breeches,  and  wait  011  the  Ileathcotc, 
But  to-morrow,  at  four,  we  will  both  play  the  Scurra , 
Aud  you’ll  be  Catullus,  the  Regent  Mamurra.2 

[First  published,  1830.] 


IMPROMPTU,  IN  REPLY  TO  A FRIEND. 
When,  from  the  heart  where  Sorrow  sits, 

Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high. 

And  o’er  the  changing  aspect  flits, 

And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eye  ; 

Heed  not  that  gloom,  which  soon  shall  sink  : 
My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well 
Back  to  my  breast  the  wanderers  shrink. 

And  droop  within  their  silent  cell.3 

September,  1813. 


dear  Moore,  ‘ When  Rogers’  must  not  see  the  enclosed,  which  I 
send  for  your  perusal.” — Moore.] 

(2)  [The  reader  who  wishes  to  understand  the  full  force  of  this 
scandalous  insinuation  is  referred  to  Muretus’s  notes  on  a cele- 
brated poem  of  Catullus,  entitled  In  Ccesarem;  but  consisting,  in 
fact,  of  savagely  scornful  abuse  of  the  favourite  Mamurra:— 

“ Quis  hoc  potest  videre  ? quis  potest  pati, 

Nisi  impudicus  et  vorax  et  helluo? 

Mamurram  habere  quod  comata  Gallia 
Habebat  unctum,  et  ultima  Britannia?”  &c. 

(3)  [These  verses  are  said  to  have  dropped  from  the  Poet’s  pen, 
to  excuse  a transient  expression  of  melancholy  which  overclouded 
the  general  gaiety.  It  was  impossible  to  observe  his  interesting 
countenance,  expressive  of  a dejection  belonging  neither  to  his 
rank,  his  age,  nor  his  success,  without  feeling  an  indefinable 
curiosity  to  ascertain  whether  it  had  a deeper  cruse  than  habit  oi 
constitutional  temperament.  It  was  obviously  of  a degree  inealeu 
lably  more  serious  than  that  alluded  to  by  Prince  Arthur — 

* I remember  when  I was  in  Prance 

Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night, 

Only  fqr  wantonness. ’ 


558 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


18U 


SONNET,  TO  GENEVRA. 

Thine  eyes’  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair, 

And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features — caught 
From  contemplation — where  serenely  wrought, 
Seems  Sorrow’s  softness  charm’d  from  its  despair — 
Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  air, 

That — but  I know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloy’d  and  stainless  thought — 

I should  have  deem’d  thee  doom’d  to  earthly  care. 
With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colours  blent, 

When  from  his  beauty-breathing  pencil  born, 
(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent) 

The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  morn — 

S icii  seem’st  thou — but  how  much  more  excellent ! 
With  nought  Remorse  can  claim — nor  Virtue  scorn. 

December  17,  1813.' 


SONNET,  TO  THE  SAME. 

Thy  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  woe, 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  Mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 
My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow : 

And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes — but,  oh  ! 

While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush, 
And  into  mine  my  mother’s  weakness  rush, 

Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven’s  airy  bow. 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending, 
The  soul  of  melancholy  Gentleness 
Gleams  like  a seraph  from  the  sky  descending, 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress ; 

At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 

I worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 

December  17,  1813. 


FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 

“ TU  MI  CIIAMAS.” 

In  moments  to  delight  devoted, 

“My  life  !”  with  tenderest  tone,  you  cry  ; 
Dear  words  ! on  which  my  heart  had  doted, 

If  youth  could  neither  fade  nor  die. 

To  death  even  hours  like  these  must  roll, 

Ah  ! then  repeat  those  accents  never  ; 

Or  change  “ my  life  !”  into  “ my  soul  !” 

Which,  like  my  love,  exists  for  ever. 

ANOTHER  VERSION. 

Yot  call  me  still  your  life. — Oh  ! change  the  word — 
Life  is  as  transient  as  the  inconstant  sigh : 

Say  rather  I’m  your  soul ; more  just  that  name, 

For,  like  the  soul,  my  love  can  never  die. 


But,  howsoever  derived,  this,  joined  to  Lord  Byron’s  air  of  mingling 
in  amusements  and  sports  as  if  he  contemned  them,  and  felt  that 
his  sphere  was  far  above  the  frivolous  crowd  which  surrounded 
him,  gave  a strong  effect  of  colouring  to  a character  whose  tints 
were  otherwise  romantic. — Sir  Walter  Scott.] 

(I ) [“  Redde  some  Italian,  and  wrote  two  sonnets.  I never  wrote 
but  one  sonnet  before,  and  that  was  notin  earnest,  and  many  years 
ago,  as  an  exercise — and  I will  never  write  another.  They  are  the 
most  puling,  petrifying,  stupidly  platonic  compositions.” — Byron 
Diury,  1813.] 


THE  DEVIL’S  DRIVE; 

AN  UNFINISHED  RHAPSODY.* 1 
The  Devil  return’d  to  hell  by  two, 

And  he  stay’d  at  home  till  five ; 

When  he  dined  on  some  homicides  done  in  ragout% 
And  a rebel  or  so  in  an  Irish  stew, 

And  sausages  made  of  a self-slain  Jew — 

And  bethought  himself  what  next  to  do, 

“And,”  quotli  he,  “ I’ll  take  a drive. 

I walk’d  in  the  morning,  I’ll  ride  to-night; 

In  darkness  my  children  take  most  delight, 

And  I’ll  see  how  my  favourites  thrive. 

“And  what  shall  I ride  in?”  quoth  Lucifer  then— 

“ If  I follow’d  my  taste,  indeed, 

I should  mount  in  a waggon  of  wounded  men, 

And  smile  to  see  them  bleed. 

But  these  will  be  furnish’d  again  and  again, 

And  at  present  my  purpose  is  speed ; 

To  see  my  manor  as  much  as  1 may, 

And  watch  that  no  souls  shall  be  poach’d  away. 

“ I have  a state-coach  at  Carlton  House, 

A chariot  in  Seymour  Place ; 

But  they’re  lent  to  two  friends,  who  make  me  amends 
By  driving  my  favourite  pace : 

And  they  handle  their  reins  with  such  a grace, 

I have  something  for  both  at  the  end  of  their  race. 

“ So  now  for  the  earth  to  take  my  chance.” 

Then  up  to  the  earth  sprung  he  ; 

And  making  a jump  from  Moscow  to  France, 

He  stepp’d  across  the  sea. 

And  rested  his  hoof  on  a turnpike  road. 

No  very  great  way  from  a bishop’s  abode. 

But  first  as  he  flew,  I forgot  to  say, 

That  lie  hover’d  a moment  upon  his  way 
To  look  upon  Lcipsic  plain ; 

And  so  sweet  to  his  eye  was  its  sulphury  glare, 

And  so  soft  to  his  ear  was  the  cry  of  despair. 

That  he  perch’d  on  a mountain  of  slain  ; 

And  he  gazed  with  delight  from  its  growing  height, 
Nor  often  on  earth  had  he  seen  such  a sight. 

Nor  his  work  done  half  as  well : 

For  the  field  ran  so  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead, 
That  it  blush’d  like  the  waves  of  hell  ! 

Then  loudly,  and  wildly,  and  long  laugh’d  he  : 

“ Methinks  they  have  here  little  need  of  me  /” 

* * * * * 

But  the  softest  note  that  soothed  his  ear 
Was  the  sound  of  a widow  sighing  : 

And  the  sweetest  sight  was  the  icy  tear, 

Which  horror  fioze  in  the  blue  eye  clear 
Of  a maid  by  her  lover  lying — 

As  round  her  fell  her  long  fair  hair ; 

And  she  look’d  to  heaven  with  that  frenzied  air, 
Which  seem’d  to  ask  if  a God  were  there  ! 


(2)  [“I  have  lately  written  a wild,  rambling,  unfinished  iJ.ap» 
sody,  called  ‘ The  Devil’s  Drive,’  the  notion  of  which  I took  from 
Porson’s  ‘ Devil’s  Walk.’  ” — Byron  Diary , 1812.  '‘Of  this, strange, 
wild  poem,”  says  Moore,  “the  only  copy  that  Lord  Byron,  I be- 
lieve,  ever  wrote,  he  presented  to  Lord  Holland.  Though  with  a 
good  deal  of  vigour  and  imagination,  it  is,  for  the  most  part,  ra- 
ther clumsily  executed,  wanting  the  point  and  condensation  of  thoss 
clever  verses  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  which  Lord  Byron,  adopting  a notiow 
long  prevalent,  has  attributed  to  Professor  Porson.” 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


559 


8i4. 


And.  st  etch’d  by  the  wall  of  a ruin’d  hut, 

With  its  hollow  cheek,  and  eyes  half  shut, 

A child  of  famine  dying : 

And  the  carnage  begun,  when  resistance  is  done. 

And  the  fall  of  the  vainly  flying ! 

* # * * * 

But  the  Devil  has  reach’d  our  cliffs  so  white. 

And  what  did  he  there,  1 pray  ? 

If  his  eyes  were  good,  he  but  saw  by  night 
What  we  see  every  day  : 

But  he  made  a tour,  and  kept  a journal 
Of  all  the  wondrous  sights  nocturnal, 

And  he  sold  it  in  shares  to  the  Men  of  the  Row. 

Who  bid  pretty  well — but  they  cheated  him,  though  ! 

Tiie  Devil  first  saw,  as  he  thought,  the  Mail, 

Its  coachman  and  his  coat ; 

So  instead  of  a pistol  he  cock’d  his  tail, 

And  seized  him  by  the  throat : 

“Aha!”  quoth  he,  “ what  have  we  here  ? 

’Tis  a new  barouche,  and  an  ancient  peer  !” 

So  he  sat  him  on  his  box  again, 

And  bade  him  have  no  fear, 

But  be  true  to  his  club,  and  stanch  to  his  rein, 

His  brothel,  and  his  beer ; 

“ Next  to  seeing  a lord  at  the  council  board, 

I would  rather  see  him  here.” 

* * * * * 

The  Devil  gat  next  to  Westminster, 

And  he  turn’d  to  “ the  room”  of  the  Commons ; 
But  he  heard,  as  he  purposed  to  enter  in  there, 

That  “ the  Lords”  had  received  a summons ; 

And  he  thought,  as  a “ quondam  aristocrat,”  . [flat ; 
He  might  peep  at  the  peers,  though  to  hear  them  were 
An'd  he  walk’d  up  the  house  so  like  one  of  our  own, 
That  they  say  that  he  stood  pretty  near  the  throne. 

He  saw  the  Lord  Liverpool  seemingly  wise, 

The  Lord  Westmoreland  certainly  silly, 

And  Johnny  of  Norfolk — a man  of  some  size — 

And  Chatham,  so  like  his  friend  Billy  ; 

And  he  saw  the  tears  in  Lord  Eldon’s  eyes. 

Because  the  Catholics  would  not  rise, 

In  spite  of  his  prayers  and  his  prophecies  ; 

And  lie  heard — which  set  Satan  himself  a staring — 

A certain  Chief  Justice  say  something  like  swearing. 
And  the  Devil  was  shock’d — and  quoth  he,  “I  must  go, 
I or  I find  we  have  much  better  manners  below : 

If  thus  he  harangues  when  he  passes  my  border, 

I shall  hint  to  friend  Moloch  to  call  him  to  order.” 


WINDSOR  POETICS. 

Lines  composed  on  the  occasion  of  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince 
Regent  being  seen  standing  between  the  coffins  of  Henry  VIII. 
and  Charles  I.,  in  the  royal  vault  at  Windsor. 

Famed  for  contemptuous  breacli  of  sacred  ties, 

By  headless  Charles  see  heartless  Henry  lies ; 

Between  them  stands  another  sceptred  thing — 

It  moves,  it  reigns— in  ail  but  name,  a king  : 


0)  [“  I cannot  conceive  how  the  Vault  has  got  about;  but  so  it 

i J1,  If  to°  farouche;  but  truth  to  say,  my  sallies  are  not  very 
p.aytul.  — Z,ord  Byron  to  Mr.  Moore,  March  12,  1814.] 

12)  [“  Thou  hast  asked  me  for  a song,  and  I enclose  you  an 


Charles  to  his  people,  Henry  to  his  wife, 

— In  him  the  double  tyrant  starts  to  life  : 

Justice  and  death  have  mix’d  their  dust  in  vain. 
Each  royal  vampire  wakes  to  life  again. 

Ah,  what  can  tombs  avail ! — since  these  disgorge 
The  blood  and  dust  of  both — to  mould  a George.* 1 


STANZAS  EOR  MUSIC.2 

I speak  not,  I trace  not,  I breathe  not  thy  name, 
There  is  grief  in  the  sound,  there  is  guilt  m the  fame : 
But  the  tear  which  now  burns  on  my  cheek  may  impart 
The  deep  thoughts  that  dwell  in  that  silence  of  heart. 

Too  brief  for  our  passion,  too  long  for  our  peace 
Were  those  hours — can  their  joy  or  their  bitterness 
cease  ? [chain, — 

We  repent — we  abjure — we  will  break  from  our 
We  will  part, — we  will  fly  to — unite  it  again  ! 

Oh  ! thine  be  the  gladness,  and  mine  be  the  guilt ! 
Eorgive  me,  adored  one  ! — forsake,  if  thou  wilt ; — 
But  the  heart  which  is  thine  shall  expire  undebased, 
And  man  shall  not  break  it — whatever  thou  may’st. 

And  stern  to  the  haughty,  but  humble  to  thee, 

This  soul,  in  its  bitterest  blackness,  shall  be ; 

And  our  days  seem  as  swift,  and  our  moments  more 
sweet, 

With  thee  by  my  side,  than  with  worlds  at  our  feet. 

One  sigh  of  thy  sorrow,  one  look  of  thy  love, 

Shall  turn  me  or  fix,  shall  reward  or  reprove  ; 

And  the  heartless  may  wonder  at  all  I resign — 

Thy  lip  shall  reply,  not  to  them,  but  to  mine. 

May  1814. 


ADDRESS  INTENDED  TO  BE  RECITED  AT 
THE  CALEDONIAN  MEETING. 

Who  hath  not  glow’d  above  the  page  where  fame 
Hath  fix’d  high  Caledon’s  unconquer’d  name  ; 

The  mountain-land  which  spurn’d  the  Roman  chain, 
And  baffled  back  the  fiery-crested  Dane, 

Whose  bright  claymore  and  hardihood  of  hand 
No  foe  could  tame — no  tyrant  could  command  ? 

That  race  is  gone— but  still  their  children  breathe, 
And  glory  crowns  them  with  redoubled  wreath  : 

O’er  Gael  and  Saxon  mingling  banners  shine, 

And,  England  ! add  their  stubborn  strength  to  thine. 
The  blood  which  flow’d  witli  Wallace  flows  as  free, 
But  now  ’tis  only  shed  for  fame  and  thee  ! 

Oh  ! pass  not  by  the  northern  veteran’s  claim, 

But  give  support — the  world  hath  given  him  fame  ! 

The  humbler  ranks,  the  lowly  brave,  who  bled 
While  cheerly  following  where  the  mighty  led — 
Who  sleep  beneath  the  undistinguish’d  sod 
Where  happier  comrades  in  their  triumph  trod, 


experiment,  which  has  cost  me  something  more  than  trouble,  and 
is,  therefore,  less  likely  to  he  worth  your  taking  any  in  your  pro 
posed  setting.  Now,  if  it  be  so,  throw  it  Into  the  fire  without 
phrase." —Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Moore,  May  10,  1814.] 


560 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


18 14. 


To  us  bequeath — ’tis  all  their  fate  allows — 

The  sireless  offspring  and  the  lonely  spouse : 

She  on  high  Albyn’s  dusky  hills  may  raise 
The  tearful  eye  in  melancholy  gaze, 

Or  view,  while  shadowy  auguries  disclose 
The  Highland  seer’s  anticipated  woes, 

The  bleeding  phantom  of  each  martial  form 
Dim  in  the  cloud,  or  darkling  in  the  storm; 

While  sad,  she  chants  the  solitary  song, 

The  soft  lament  for  him  who  tarries  long — 

Bor  him,  whose  distant  relics  vainly  crave 
The  Coronach’s  wild  requiem  to  the  brave ! 

’Tis  Heaven — not  man — must  charm  away  the  woe, 
Which  bursts  when  Nature’s  feelings  newly  flow; 

Yet  tenderness  and  time  may  rob  the  tear 
Of  half  its  bitterness  for  one  so  dear; 

A nation’s  gratitude  perchance  may  spread 
A thornless  pillow  for  the  widow’d  head ; 

May  lighten  well  her  heart’s  maternal  care, 

And  wean  from  penury  the  soldier’s  heir. 

May,  1814. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  EPISTLE  TO  THOMAS 
MOORE. 

“ What  say  //”’ — not  a syllable  further  in  prose  ; 

I’m  your  man  “ of  all  measures,”  dear  Tom, — so  here 
goes ! 

Here  goes,  for  a swim  on  the  stream  of  old  Time, 

On  those  buoyant  supporters,  the  bladders  of  rhyme. 
If  our  weight  breaks  them  down,  and  we  sink  in  the 
flood, 

We  are  smother’d,  at  least,  in  respectable  mud, 

Where  the  Divers  of  Bathos  lie  drown’d  in  a heap, 
And  Southey’s  last  Paean  has  pillow’d  his  sleep ; 

That  “ Felo  de  se”  who,  half  drunk  with  his  malmsey, 
Walk’d  out  of  his  depth,  and  was  lost  in  a calm  sea, 
Singing  “ Glory  to  God”  in  a spick  and  span  stanza, 
The  like  (since  Tom  Sternhold  was  choked)  never  man 
saw. 

The  papers  have  told  you,  no  doubt,  of  the  fusses. 
The -fetes  and  the  gapings  to  get  at  these  Russes,1 — 
Of  his  Majesty’s  suite,  up  from  coachman  to  Hetman, — 
And  what  dignity  decks  the  fiat  face  of  the  great  man. 
I saw  him,  last  week,  at  two  balls  and  a party, — 

For  a prince,  his  demeanour  was  rather  too  hearty. 
You  know,  we  are  used  to  quite  different  graces. 

* * * * * * 

The  Czar’s  look,  I own,  was  much  brighter  and  brisker, 
But  then  he  is  sadly  deficient  in  whisker; 

And  wore  but  a starless  blue  coat,  and  in  kersey- 
-mere  breeches  whisk’d  round,  in  a waltz  with  the 
Jersey, 

Who,  lovely  as  ever,  seem’d  just  as  delighted 
With  majesty’s  presence  as  those  she  invited. 

* * * * * * 

****** 

June,  1814. 


\1)  [“The  newspapers  will  tell  you  all  that  is  to  be  told  of 
emperors,  &c.  They  have  dined  and  supped,  and  shown  their  flat 
faces  in  all  thoroughfares  and  several  saloons.  Their  uniforms  are 
very  becoming,  but  rather  short  in  the  skirts  ; and  their  conversa- 
tion is  a catechism,  for  which,  and  the  answers,  1 refer  you  to  those 
who  have  heard  it  ."—Lord,  Byron  to  Mr.  Moore,  June  14,  1814.] 


CONDOLATORY  ADDRESS 

TO  SARAII  COUNTESS  OF  JERSEY,  ON  THE  PRINCE 
REGENT’S  RETURNING  HER  PICTURE  TO  MRS.  MEE.2 

When  the  vain  triumph  of  the  imperial  lord, 

Whom  servile  Rome  obey’d,  and  yet  abhorr’d. 

Gave  to  the  vulgar  gaze  each  glorious  bust. 

That  left  a likeness  of  the  brave,  or  just ; 

What  most  admired  each  scrutinising  eye 
Of  all  that  deck’d  that  passing  pageantry  P 
What  spread  from  face  to  face  that  wondering  air  t 
The  thought  of  Brutus — for  his  was  not  there  ! 

That  absence  proved  his  worth, — that  absence  fix’d 
His  memory  on  the  longing  mind,  unmix’d  ; 

And  more  decreed  his  glory  to  endure, 

Than  all  a gold  Colossus  could  secure. 

If  thus,  fair  J ersey,  our  desiring  gaze 
Search  for  thy  form,  in  vain  and  mute  amaze, 

Amidst  those  pictured  charms,  whose  loveliness, 
Bright  though  they  be,  thine  own  had  render’d  less ; 

1 f he,  that  vain  old  man,  whom  truth  admits 
Heir  of  his  father’s  crown,  and  of  his  wits. 

If  his  corrupted  eye,  and  wither’d  heart, 

Could  with  thy  gentle  image  bear  depart ; 

That  tasteless  shame  be  his,  and  ours  the  grief, 

To  gaze  on  Beauty’s  band  without  its  chief : 

Yet  comfort  still  one  selfish  thought  imparts, 

We  lose  the  portrait,  but  preserve  our  hearts. 

What  can  his  vaulted  gallery  now  disclose  ? 

A garden  with  all  flowers — except  the  rose ; — 

A fount  that  only  wants  its  living  stream ; 

A night,  with  every  star,  save  Dian’s  beam. 

Lost  to  our  eyes  the  present  forms  shall  be. 

That  turn  from  tracing  them  to  dream  of  thee ; 

And  more  on  that  recall’d  resemblance  pause, 

Than  all  he  shall  not  force  on  our  applause. 

Long  may  thy  yet  meridian  lustre  shine. 

With  all  that  Virtue  asks  of  Homage  thine  : 

The  symmetry  of  youth — the  grace  of  mien — 

The  eye  that  gladdens — and  the  brow  serene  ; 

The  glossy  darkness  of  that  clustering  hair, 

Which  shades,  yet  shows  that  forehead  more  than  fair ! 
Each  glance  that  wins  us,  and  the  life  that  throws 
A spell  which  will  not  let  our  looks  repose, 

But  turn  to  gaze  again,  and  find  anew 
Some  charm  that  well  rewards  another  view. 

These  are  not  lessen’d,  these  are  still  as  bright, 
x\lbeit  too  dazzling  for  a dotard’s  sight ; 

And  those  must  wait  till  ev’ry  charm  is  gone. 

To  please  the  paltry  heart  that  pleases  none  : — 

That  dull  cold  sensualist,  whose  sickly  eye 
In  envious  dimness  pass’d  thy  portrait  by ; 

Who  rack’d  his  little  spirit  to  combine 
Its  hate  of  Freedom  s loveliness,  and  thine. 

August,  1814. 


TO  BELSHAZZAR. 
Belshazzar  ! from  the  banquet  turn, 
Nor  in  thy  sensual  fulness  fall ; 
Behold  ! while  yet  before  thee  burn 
The  graven  words,  the  glowing  wall. 


(2)  [“  The  newspapers  have  got  hold  (I  know  not  how)  of  the 
Condolatory  Address  to  Lady  Jersey  on  the  picture-abduction  by 
our  Regent,  and  have  published  them— with  my  name,  too,  smack 
— without  even  asking  leave,  or  inquiring  whether  or  no!  D — n 
their  impudence,  and  d — n every  thing.  It  has  put  me  out  i»r 
patience,  and  so — I shall  say  no  nj^re  al)p«jt  it  ."—Byron  Letter! .] 


1815. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


561 


Many  a despot  men  miscall 

Crown’d  and  anointed  from  on  high  ; 
But  thou,  the  weakest,  worst  of  all — 
Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die  ? 


Where  shall  they  turn  to  mourn  thee  lets? 

When  cease  to  hear  thy  cherish’d  name  ? 
Time  cannot  teach  forgetfulness, 

While  Griefs  full  heart  is  fed  by  Eame. 


Go  ! dash  the  roses  from  thy  brow — 

Grey  hairs  but  poorly  wrreathe  with  them  ; 
Youth’s  garlands  misbecome  thee  now, 

More  than  thy  very  diadem, 

Where  thou  hast  tarnish’d  every  gem  : — 
Then  throw  the  worthless  bauble  by, 
Which,  worn  by  thee,  ev’n  slaves  contemn  ; 
And  learn  like  better  men  to  die ! 

Oh  ! early  in  the  balance  weigh’d, 

And  ever  light  of  word  and  worth, 

Whose  soul  expired  ere  youth  decay’d. 

And  left  thee  but  a mass  of  earth. 

To  see  thee  moves  the  scorner’s  mirth : 

But  tears  in  Hope’s  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth — 

Unfit  to  govern,  live,  or  die. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR 
PETEll  PARKER,  BART.1 

There  is  a tear  for  all  that  die, 

A mourner  o’er  the  humblest  grave ; 

But  nations  swell  the  funeral  cry, 

And  Triumph  weeps  above  the  brave. 

For  them  is  Sorrow’s  purest  sigh 
O’er  Ocean’s  heaving  bosom  sent : 

In  vain  their  bones  unburied  lie, 

All  earth  becomes  their  monument ! 

A tomb  is  theirs  on  every  page, 

An  epitaph  on  every  tongue  : 

The  present  hours,  the  future  age, 

For  them  bewail,  to  them  belong. 

For  them  the  voice  of  festal  mirth 
Grows  hush’d,  their  name  the  only  sound ; 

While  deep  Remembrance  pours  to  Worth 
The  goblet’s  tributary  round. 

A theme  to  crowds  that  knew  them  not, 
Lamented  by  admiring  foes, 

Who  would  not  share  their  glorious  lot ; 

Who  would  not  die  the  death  the';  chose  ? 


Alas  ! for  them,  though  not  for  thee. 

They  cannot  choose  but  weep  the  more  ; 
Deep  for  the  dead  the  grief  must  be, 

Who  ne’er  gave  cause  to  mourn  before. 

October,  1814 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC.2 

“ O Lachrymarum  foils,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo  : quater 
Felix ! in  imo  qui  scater.tem 

Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit.” 

Gray’s  Poemata. 

There’s  not  a joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it 
takes  away. 

When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling’s 
dull  decay ; 

’Tis  not  on  youth’s  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone, 
which  fades  so  fast, 

But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth 
itself  be  past. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the  wreck  of 
happiness 

Are  driven  o’er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of  excess  : 

The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in 
vain 

The  shore  to  which  their  shiver’d  sail  shall  never 
stretch  again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itseli 
comes  down; 

It  cannot  feel  for  others’  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its 
own ; 

That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o’er  the  fountain  of  our 
tears, 

And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  ’tis  where  the 
ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth 
distract  the  breast, 

Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their 
former  hope  of  rest ; 

’Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin’d  turret  wreath, 

All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn  and  grey 
beneath. 


And,  gallant  Parker  ! thus  enshrined 
Thy  life,  thy  fall,  thy  fame  shall  be ; 

And  early  valour,  glowing,  find 
A model  in  thy  memory. 

But  there  are  breasts  that  bleed  with  thee 
In  woe,  that  glory  cannot  quell ; 

And  shuddering  hear  of  victory, 

Where  one  so  dear,  so  dauntless,  fell. 


Oh  could  I feel  as  I have  felt, — or  be  what  I have 
been, 

Or  weep  as  I could  once  have  wept,  o’er  many  a 
vanish’d  scene ; 

As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish 
though  they  be, 

So  midst  the  wither’d  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would 
flow  to  me.3 

March,  1815. 


H)  [This  gallant  officer  fell  in  August,  1814,  in  his  twenty-ninth 
year,  whilst  commanding,  on  shore,  a party  belonging  to  his  ship, 
the  Menelaus,  and  animating  them,  in  storming  the  American 
camp  near  Baltimore.  He  was  Lord  Byron’s  first  cousin;  but  they 
had  never  met  since  boyhood.] 

(2)  [These  verses  were  given  by  Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Power,  of 
the  Strand,  who  has  published  them,  with  very  beautiful  music  by 
Sir  John  Stevenson. — “ I feel  merry  enough  to  send  you  a sad  song. 
An  event,  the  death  of  poor  Dorset,  (see  ante,  p 384,)  and  the  re- 
collection of  what  I once  felt,  and  ought  to  have  felt  now,  hut 
could  not — set  ine  pondering,  and  finally  into  the  train  of  thought 
which  yc  u have  in  your  hands.  I wrote  them  with  a view  to  your 


setting  them,  and  as  a present  to  Power,  if  he  would  accept  the 
words,  and  you  did  not  think  yourself  degraded,  for  once  in  a way, 
by  marrying  them  to  music.  I don’t  care  what  Power  says  to  secure 

the  property  of  the  song,  so  that  it  is  not  complimentary  to  me,  nor 
any  thing  about  ‘condescending’  or  ‘ noble  author’ — both  ‘vile 
phrases,’  as  Polonius  says.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Moore.] 

(3)  [“  Do  you  remember  the  lines  I sent  you  early  last  year?  I 
don’t  wish  (like  Mr.  Fitzgerald)  to  claim  the  character  of  ‘ Vates,’ 
in  all  its  translations, — but  were  they  not  a little  prophetic  ? • 1 
mean  those  beginning,  ‘There’s  not  a joy  the  world  can  give,’  &c. 
on  which  I pique  myself  as  being  the  truest , though  tho  most 
melancholy,  1 ever  wrote.” — Byron  Letters,  March,  1816.] 


562 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


181 


STANZAS  FUR  MUSIC. 

There  be  none  of  Beauty’s  daughters' 
With  a magic  like  thee  ; 

And  like  music  on  the  waters 
Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me : 

When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean’s  pausing, 

The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 

And  the  lull’d  winds  seem  dreaming. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o’er  the  deep ; 
Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 

As  an  infant’s  asleep  : 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee ; 

With  a full  but  soft  emotion, 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer’s  ocean. 


ON  NAPOLEON’S  ESCAPE  PROM  ELBA. 

Once  fairly  set  out  on  his  party  of  pleasure, 

Taking  towns  at  his  liking,  and  crowns  at  his  leisure, 
Prom  Elba  to  Lyons  and  Baris  he  goes, 

Making  balls  for  the  ladies,  and  bows  to  his  foes.1 

March  27,  1815. 


ODE  PROM  THE  PRENCH. 

i. 

We  do  not  curse  thee,  Waterloo  ! 

Though  Freedom’s  blood  thy  plain  bedew  ; 
There  ’twas  shed,  but  is  not  sunk — 

Rising  fr#m  each  gory  4:ank, 

Like  the  water-spout  from  ocean, 

With  a strong  and  growing  motion — 

It  soars,  and  mingles  in  the  air, 

With  that  of  lost  Labedoyere — ■ 

With  that  of  him  whose  honour’d  grave 
Contains  the  “ bravest  of  the  brave.” 

A crimson  cloud  it  spreads  and  glows, 

But  shall  return  to  whence  it  rose ; 

When  ’tis  full  ’twill  burst  asunder — 

Never  yet  was  heard  such  thunder. 

As  then  shall  shake  the  world  with  wonder — 
Never  yet  was  seen  such  lightning 
As  o’er  heaven  shall  then  be  bright’ning  ! 
Like  the  Wormwood  Star  foretold 
By  the  sainted  Seer  of  old, 

Show’ring  down  a fiery  flood, 

Turning  rivers  into  blood.2 * * 3 


(1)  [“I  can  forgive  the  rogue  for  utterly  falsifying  every  line  of 
mine  Ode— which  I take  to  be  the  last  and  uttermost  stretch  of 
human  magnanimity.  Do  you  remember  the  story  of  a certain 
abbe,  who  wrote  a treatise  on  the  Swedish  constitution,  and  proved 
it  indissoluble  and  eternal  ? Just  as  he  had  corrected  the  last 
sheet,  news  came  that  Gustavus  the  Third  had  destroyed  this  im- 
mortal government.  ‘ Sir,’  quoth  the  abbe,  ‘ the  King  of  Sweden 
may  overthrow  the  constitution,  but  not  my  book!!’  I think  of 
the  abbe,  but  not  with  him.  Making  every  allowance  for  talent 
and  most  consummate  daring,  there  is,  after  all,  a good  deal  in 
iuck  or  destiny.  He  might  have  be»..i  stopped  by  our  frigates,  or 
wrecked  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons,  which  is  particularly  tempestuous — 
or — a thousand  things.  Rut  he  is  certainly  fortune’s  favourite.” — 
Byron  Letters , March,  1815.] 

. (2)  See  Rev.  chap.  viii.  v.  7,  Sic.  “The  first  angel  sounded,  and 


n. 

The  chief  has  fallen,  but  not  by  you. 
Vanquishers  of  Waterloo  ! 

When  the  soldier  citizen 
Sway’d  not  o’er  his  fellow-men — 

Save  in  deeds  that  led  them  on 
Where  Glory  smiled  on  Freedom’s  son— 
Who,  of  all  the  despots  banded, 

With  that  youthful  chief  competed  P 
Who  could  boast  o’er  France  defeated, 

Till  lone  Tyranny  commanded  ? 

Till,  goaded  by  ambition’s  sting, 

The  Hero  sunk  into  the  King  F 
Then  he  fell : — so  perish  all, 

Who  would  men  by  man  enthral ! 

hi. 

And  thou,  too,  of  the  snow-white  plume!® 
Whose  realm  refused  thee  ev’n  a tomb  ;4 
Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leading 
Prance  o’er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding, 

Than  sold  thyself  to  death  and  shame 
For  a meanly  royal  name  : 

Such  as  he  of  Naples  wears, 

Who  thy  blood-bought  title  bears, 

Little  didst  thou  deem,  when  dashing 
On  thy  war-horse  through  the  ranks 
Like  a stream  which  burst  its  banks, 

While  helmets  cleft,  and  sabres  clashing. 
Shone  and  shiver’d  fast  around  thee — 

Of  the  fate  at  last  which  found  thee  : — 

Was  that  haughty  plume  laid  low 

By  a slave’s  dishonest  blow  F 

Once — as  the  moon  sways  o’er  the  tide, 

It  roll’d  in  air,  the  warrior’s  guide  ; 

Through  the  smoke-created  night 
Of  the  black  and  sulphurous  fight, 

The  soldier  raised  his  seeking  eye 
To  catch  that  crest’s  ascendancy — 

And  as  it  onward  rolling  rose. 

So  moved  his  heart  upon  our  foes. 

There,  where  death’s  brief  pang  was  quickest, 
And  the  battle’s  wreck  lay  thickest, 

Strew’d  beneath  the  advancing  banner 
Of  the  eagle’s  burning  crest- — 

(There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her. 

Who  could  then  her  wing  arrest — 

Victory  beaming  from  her  breast  F) 

While  the  broken  line  enlarging 
Pell,  or  fled  along  the  plain ; 

There  be  sure  was  Murat  charging  ! 

There  he  ne’er  shall  charge  again 

IV. 

O’er  glories  gone  the  invaders  march, 

Weeps  Triumph  o’er  each  levell’d  arch — 


there  followed  hail  and  fire  mingled  with  blood,”  &c.  V.  8.  “ And 

the  second  angel  sounded,  and  as  it  were  a great  mountain  burning 
with  fire  was  cast  into  the  sea ; and  the  third  part  of  the  sea  became 
blood,”  &c.  v.  10.  “ And  the  third  angel  sounded  and  there  fell 
a great  star  from  heaven,  burning  as  it  were  a lamp;  and  it  fell 
upon  the  third  part  of  the  rivers,  ana  upon  the  fountains  of  waters.’1 
v.  11.  “And  the  name  of  the  star  is  called  Wormwood:  and  the 
third  part  of  the  waters  became  wormwood ; and  many  men  died 
of  the  waters,  because  they  were  made  bitter.’’ 

(3)  f“  Poor  dear  Murat,  what  an  end  ! His  white  plume  used  to 
be  a rallying  point  in  battle,  like  Henry  the  Fourth’s.  H*  refused 
a confessor  and  a bandage ; so  would  neither  suffer  his  soul  no 
body  to  be  bandaged.” — Byron  Letters .] 

(4)  Murat’s  remains  are  said  to  have  been  torn  from  the  grave 
and  burnt. 


1815. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


563 


But  let  Freedom  rejoice, 

With  her  heart  in  her  voice ; 

But,  her  hand  on  her  sword, 

Doubly  shall  she  be  adored ; 

France  hath  twice  too  well  been  taught 
The  “ moral  lesson”  dearly  bought — 

Her  safety  sits  not  on  a throne. 

With  Capet  or  Napoleon  ! 

But  in  equal  rights  and  laws, 

Hearts  and  hands  in  one  great  cause — • 
Freedom,  such  as  God  hath  given 
Unto  all  beneath  his  heaven, 

With  their  breath,  and  from  their  birth, 
Though  Guilt  would  sweep  it  from  the  earth ; 
With  a fierce  and  lavish  hand 
Scattering  nations’  wealth  like  sand  ; 

Pouring  nations’  blood  like  water, 

In  imperial  seas  of  slaughter ! 

v. 

But  the  heart  and  the  mind. 

And  the  voice  of  mankind. 

Shall  arise  in  communion — 

And  who  shall  resist  that  proud  union  ? 

The  time  is  past  when  swords  subdued — 

Man  may  die  —the  soul ’s  renew’d  : 

Even  in  this  low  world  of  care 
Freedom  ne’er  shall  want  an  heir ; 

Millions  breathe  but  to  inherit 
Her  for  ever  bounding  spirit — 

When  once  more  her  hosts  assemble, 

Tyrants  shall  believe  and  tremble — • 

Smile  they  at  this  idle  threat  ? 

Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet.1 


FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

Must  thou  go,  my  glorious  Chief,2 
Sever’d  from  thy  faithful  few  ? 
Who  can  tell  thy  warrior’s  grief, 
Maddening  o’er  that  long  adieu  ? 
Woman’s  love,  and  friendship’s  zeal, 
Dear  as  both  have  been  to  me — 
What  are  they  to  all  I feel, 

With  a soldier’s  faith  for  thee  F 

Idol  of  the  soldier’s  soul ! 

First  in  fight,  but  mightiest  now  : 
Many  could  a world  control ; 

Thee  alone  no  doom  can  bow. 

By  thy  side  for  years  I dared 

Death  ; and  envied  those  who  fell, 
When  their  dying  shout  was  heard, 
Blessing  him  they  served  so  well.3 

Would  that  I were  cold  with  those, 
Since  this  hour  I live  to  see ; 


(1)  Talking  of  politics,  as  Caleb  Quotem  says,  pray  look  at  the 
conclusion  of  my  ‘Ode  on  Waterloo,' written  in  the  year  1815,  and, 
comparing  it  with  the  Duke  de  Berri’s  catastrophe  in  1820,  tell  me 
if  I have  not  as  good  a right  to  the  character  of  ‘ Vales,'  in  both 
senses  of  the  word,  as  Fitzgerald  and  Coleridge? — 

‘ Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet;’ 
and  have  tliey  not?  ’ — Byron  Letters,  1820.] 

(2)  “ All  wept,  but  particularly  Savary,  and  a Polish  officer  who 

bad  been  exalted  from  the  ranks  by  Buonaparte.  He  clung  to  his 


When  the  doubts  of  coward  foes 
Scarce  dare  trust  a man  with  the<% 
Dreading  each  should  set  thee  free  ! 

Oh  ! although  in  dungeons  pent, 

All  their  chains  were  light  to  me, 

Gazing  on  thy  soul  unbent. 

Would  the  sycophants  of  him 
Now  so  deaf  to  duty’s  prayer. 

Were  his  borrow’d  glories  dim, 

In  his  native  darkness  share  ? 

Were  that  world  this  hour  his  own. 

All  thou  calmly  dost  resign, 

Could  he  purchase  with  that  throne 
Hearts  like  those  which  still  are  thine  ? 

My  chief,  my  king,  my  friend,  adieu ! 

Never  did  I droop  before  ; 

Never  to  my  sovereign  sue, 

As  his  foes  I now  implore : 

All  I ask  is  to  divide 

Every  peril  he  must  brave 
Sharing  by  the  hero’s  side 

His  fall,  his  exile,  and  his  grave. 


ON  THE  STAR  OF  “THE  LEGION  OF 
HONOUR.” 

FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

Star  of  the  brave  ! — whose  beam  hath  shed 
Such  glory  o’er  the  quick  and  dead — ■ 

Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit ! 

Which  millions  rush’d  in  arms  to  greet, — 
Wild  meteor  of  immortal  birth  ! 

Why  rise  in  Heaven  to  set  on  Earth  ? 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  form’d  thy  rays  ; 
Eternity  flash’d  through  thy  blaze  ; 

The  music  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  high  and  honour  here  ; 

And  thy  light  broke  on  human  eyes, 

Like  a volcano  of  the  skies. 

Like  lava  roll’d  thy  stream  of  blood, 

And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood ; 
Earth  rock’d  beneath  thee  to  her  base, 

As  thou  didst  lighten  through  all  space  ; 

And  the  shorn  Sun  grew  dim  in  air, 

And  set  while  thou  wert  dwelling  there. 

Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 

A rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue 
Of  three  bright  colours,4  each  divine, 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign  ; 

For  Freedom’s  hand  had  blended  them, 

Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 


master’s  knees ; wrote  a letter  to  Lord  Keith,  entreating  permission 
to  accompany  him,  even  in  the  most  menial  capacity,  which  could 
not  be  admitted.” 

(3)  “ At  Waterloo,  one  man  was  seen,  whose  left  arm  was  shat- 
tered by  a cannon  ball,  to  wrench  it  off  with  th°  other,  and  throw- 
ing  it  up  in  the  air,  exclaimed  to  his  comrades,  Vive  l’Empereur, 
jusqu’d  la  mort!’  There  were  many  other  instances  of  the  like: 
this,  however,  you  may  depend  on  as  true.” — Private  Letter  from 
Brussels. 

(4>  The  tricolour. 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS 


1815. 


564 

One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam’s  dyes  ; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  Seraph’s  eyes  ; 
One,  the  pure  Spirit’s  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light : 

The  three  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a heavenly  dream. 

Star  of  the  brave  ! thy  ray  is  pale, 

And  darkness  must  again  prevail ! 

But,  oh  thou  Rainbow  of  the  free  ! 

Our  tears  and  blood  must  flpw  for  thee. 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away, 
Our  life  is  but  a load  of  clay. 

And  Freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead  ; 

For  beautiful  in  death  are  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  array  ; 

And  soon,  oh  Goddess  ! may  we  be 
For  evermore  with  them  or  thee  ! 


NAPOLEON’S  FAREWELL. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

Farewell  to  the  Land,  where  the  gloom  of  my  Glory 
Arose  and  o’ershadowed  the  earth  with  her  name — 
She  al  audons  me  now — but  the  page  of  her  story, 

The  bi  ightest  or  blackest,  is  fill’d  with  my  fame. 

I have  warr’d  with  a world  which  vanquish’d  me  only 
When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too  far ; 

I have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me  thus 
lonely, 

The  last  single  Captive  to  millions  in  war. 

Farewell  to  thee, France!  when  thy  diadem  crown’d  me, 
I made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth, — 

But  thy  weakness  decrees  I should  leave  as  I found  thee. 
Decay’d  in  thy  glory,  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 

Oh ! for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 
In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were  won — 
Then  the  Eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment  was  blasted, 
Had  still  soar’d  with  eyes  fix’d  on  victory’s  sun  ! 

Farewell  to  thee,  France  ! — but  when  Liberty  rallies 
Once  more  in  thy  regions,  remember  me  then — • 

The  violet  still  grows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys ; 
Though  wither’d,  thy  tear  will  unfold  it  again — 

Yet,  yet,  I may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround  us, 

And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap  awake  to  my  voice — 
There  are  links  which  must  break  in  the  chain  that 
has  bound  us, 

Then  turn  thee  and  call  on  the  Chief  of  thy  choice ! 


fl)  [In  the  original  MS. — “ A Dream.”] 

(2)  [In  this  poem  Lord  Byron  has  abandoned  the  art,  so  pecu- 
lurly  his  own,  of  showing  the  reader  where  his  purpose  tends,  and 
has  contented  himself  with  presenting  a mass  of  powerful  ideas 
unarranged,  and  the  meaning  of  which  it  is  not  easy  to  attain.  A 
succession  of  terrible  images  is  placed  before  us,  flitting  and  mix 
iwg,  and  disengaging  themselves,  as  in  the  dream  of  a feverish 
man,— chimeras  dire,  to  whose  existence  the  mind  refuses  credit, 
which  confound  and  weary  the  ordinary  reader,  and  baffle  the  com- 
prehension, even  of  those  more  accustomed  to  the  flights  of  a poetic 
muse.  The  subject  is  the  progress  of  utter  darkness,  until  it  be- 
comes, in  Shakspeare’s  phrase,  the  “ burier  of  the  dead  and  the 
assemblage  of  terrific  ideas  which  the  poet  has  placed  before  us 
only  fail  in  exciting  our  terror  from  the  extravagance  of  the  plan. 


| ENDORSEMENT  TO  THE  DEED  OF  SEPA- 
RATION, IN  THE  APRIL  OF  1810. 

A year  ago  you  swore,  fond  she ! 

“ To  love,  to  honour,”  and  so  forth 
Such  was  the  vow  you  pledged  to  me 
And  here’s  exactly  what  ’tis  worth. 


DARKNESS  1 

I had  a dream,  which  was  not  all  a dream.* 

The  bright  sun  was  extinguish’d,  and  the  stars 
Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space. 

Rayless,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air  : 
Morn  came  and  went — and  came,  and  brought  no  day, 
And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 
Of  this  their  desolation ; and  all  hearts 
Were  chill’d  into  a selfish  prayer  for  light : 

And  they  did  live  by  watchfires — and  the  thrones. 
The  palaces  of  crowned  kings — the  huts, 

The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 

Were  burnt  for  beacons  ; cities  were  consumed. 

And  men  were  gather’d  round  their  blazing  homes. 

To  look  once  more  into  each  other’s  face ; 

Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 
Of  the  volcanos,  and  their  mountain  torch : 

A fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contain’d ; 

Forests  were  set  on  fire — but  hour  by  hour 
They  fell  and  faded — and  the  crackling  trunks 
Extinguish’d  with  a crash — and  all  was  black. 

The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 
Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 
The  flashes  fell  upon  them  ; some  lay  down 
And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept ; and  some  did  rest 
Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled  ; 
And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 
Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look’d  up 
With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a past  world ; and  then  again 
W ith  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust, 

And  gnash’d  their  teeth  and  howl’d : the  wild  birds 
shriek’d. 

And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 

And  flap  their  useless  wings  ; the  wildest  brutes 
Came  tame  and  tremulous  ; and  vipers  crawl’d 
And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 

Hissing,  but  stingless — they  were  slain  for  food  : 

And  War,  which  for  a moment  was  no  more, 

Did  glut  himself  again ; — a meal  was  bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom  : no  love  was  left ; 

All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was  death, 
Immediate  and  inglorious ; and  the  pang 


To  speak  plainly,  the  framing  of  such  phantasms  is  a dangerous 
employment  for  the  exalted  and  teeming  imagination  of  such  a 
poet  as  Lord  Byron,  whose  Pegasus  ever  required  rather  a bridle 
than  a spur.  The  waste  of  boundless  space  into  which  they  lead 
the  poet,  the  neglect  of  precision  which  such  themes  may  render 
habitual,  make  them,  in  respect  to  poetry,  what  mysticism  is  to 
religion.  The  meaning  of  the  poet,  as  he  ascends  upon  cloudy 
wing,  becomes  the  shadow  only  of  a thought,  and  having  eluded 
the  comprehension  of  others,  necessarily  ends  by  escaping  from 
that  of  the  author  himself.  The  strength  of  poetics  conception, 
and  the  beauty  of  diction,  bestowed  upon  such  prolusions,  is  as 
much  thrown  away  as  the  colours  of  a painter,  could  he  take  a 
cloud  of  mist,  or  a wreath  of  smoke,  for  his  canvass.— Sik  Walteb 
Scott.] 


1816. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


5G5 


Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails— men 

Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh  ; 

The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devour’d, 

Even  dogs  assail’d  their  masters,  all  save  one. 

And  he  was  faithful  to  a corse,  and  kept 
The  birds  and  beasts  and  famish’d  men  at  bay, 

Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws ; himself  sought  out  no  lood, 
But  with  a piteous  and  perpetual  moan, 

And  a quick  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
Which  answer’d  not  with  a caress— he  died. 

The  crowd  was  famish’d  by  degrees;  but  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive. 

And  they  were  enemies  : they  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place 
Where  had  been  heap’d  a mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage  ; they  raked  up, 

And  shivering  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton  hands 

The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 

Blew  for  a little  life,  and  made  a flame 

Which  was  a mockery  ; then  they  lifted  up 

Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 

Each  other’s  aspects— saw,  and  shriek’d,  and  died— 

Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 

Unknow  ng  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 
Famine  had  written  Fiend.  The  world  was  void, 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a lump, 
Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless — 

A lump  of  death — a chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood  still, 

And  nothing  stirr’d  within  their  silent  depths; 

Ships  sailorless  lay  rotting  on  the  sea,  > 

And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal ; as  they  dropp  d 
They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a surge — 

The  waves  were  dead ; the  tides  were  in  their  grave, 
The  Moon,  their  mistress,  had  expired  before  ; 

The  winds  were  wither’d  in  the  stagnant  air, 

And  the  clouds  perish’d  ! Darkness  had  no  need 
Of  aid  from  them— She  was  the  Universe.1 

Diodati,  July,  1816. 


CHURCHILL’S  GRAVE.2 

1 stood  beside  the  grave  of  him  who  blazed 
The  comet  of  a season,  and  I saw 
The  humblest  of  all  sepulchres,  and  gazed 
With  not  the  less  of  sorrow  and  of  awe 
On  that  neglected  turf  and  quiet  stone, 

With  name  no  clearer  than  the  names  unknown, 
Which  lay  unread  around  it ; and  I ask’d 


(1)  [“  Datkness”  is  a grand  and  gloomy  sketch  of  the  supposed 
consequences  of  the  final  extinction  of  the  Sun  and  the  heavenly 
bodies  : executed,  undoubtedly,  with  great  and  fearful  force,  but 
with  something  of  German  exaggeration,  and  a fantastical  solution 
of  incidents.  The  very  conception  is  terrible  above  all  conception 
of  known  calamity,  and  is  too  oppressive  to  the  imagination  to  be 
contemplated  with  pleasure,  even  in  the  faint  reflection  of  poetry. 

(2) F[Oifthe  sheet  containing  the  original  dratight  of  these  lines, 
L' rd  Byron  has  written The  following  poem  (as  most  that  I 
have  fiKleirvpcTCti  t<?  write''  is  founded  on  a tact;  and  this  detail  is 
an  attempt  at  a serious  imitation  of  the  style  of  a great,  poet— its 
beauties  and  its  defects:  1 say  the  style;  fov  the  thoughts  I claim 
as  my  own.  In  this,  if  there  be  any  thing  ridiculous,  let  it  be 
attributed  to  me,  at  least  as  much  as  to  Mr.  Wordsworth  ; of  whom 
there  can  exist  few  greater  admirers  than  myself.  I have  blended 
what  I would  deem  to  be  the  beauties  as  were  as  defects  of  his 
stj  le ; and  it  ought  to  be  remembered,  that,  in  such  things,  whether 
there  be  praise  or  dispraise,  there  is  always  what  is  called  a com- 
pliment, however  unintentional.”] 

(3)  [“  The  Grave  of  Churchill  might  have  crlled  from  T.ord  Byron 
a deeper  commemoration ; for,  though  they  generally  differed  in 


The  Gardener  of  that  ground,  why  it  might  be 
That  for  this  plant  strangers  his  memory  task’ll 
Through  tne  thick  deaths  of  half  a century? 

And  thus  he  answer’d — ■“  Well,  1 do  not  know 
Why  frequent  travellers  turn  to  pilgrims  so  ; 

He  died  before  my  day  of  Sextonship, 

And  I had  not  the  digging  of  this  grave.” 

And  is  this  all  ? I thought, — and  do  we  rip 
The  veil  of  Immortality  ? and  crave 
I know  not  what  of  honour  and  of  light 
Through  unborn  ages,  to  endure  this  blight  ? 

So  soon,  and  so  successless  ? As  I said, 

The  Architect  of  all  on  which  we  tread, 

For  Earth  is  but  a tombstone,  did  essay 
To  extricate  remembrance  from  the  clay, 

Whose  minglings  might  confuse  a Newton’s  thought, 
Were  it  not  that  all  life  must  end  in  one, 

Of  which  we  are  but  dreamers ; — as  he  caught 
As  ’twere  the  twilight  of  a former  Sun, 

Thus  spoke  he, — “I  believe  the  man  of  whom 
You  wot,  who  lies  in  this  selected  tomb, 

Was  a most  famous  writer  in  his  day, 

And  therefore  travellers  step  from  out  their  way 
To  pay  him  honour, — and  myself  whate’er 

Your  honour  pleases,” — then  most  pleased  I shook 
From  out  my  pocket’s  avaricious  nook 
Some  certain  coins  of  silver,  which  as  ’twere 
Perforce  I gave  this  man,  though  I could  spare 
So  much  but  inconveniently  : — Ye  smile, 

I see  ye,  ye  profane  ones  ! all  the  while, 

Because  my  homely  phrase  the  trutn  would  tell. 

You  are  the  fools,— not  I— for  I did  dwell 
With  a deep  thought,  and  with  a soften  d eye. 

On  that  Old  Sexton’s  natural  homily, 

In  which  there  was  Obscurity  and  Fame, — 

The  Glory  and  the  Nothing  of  a Name.3 

Diodati,  IS  16 


PROMETHEUS. 

Titan  ! to  whose  immortal  eye? 

The  sufferings  of  mortality. 

Seen  in  their  sad  reality, 

Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise ; 
What  was  thy  pity’s  recompense  ? 

A silent  suffering,  and  intense ; 

The  rock,  the  vulture,  and  the  chain, 
All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain, 
The  agony  they  do  not  show 
The  suffocating  sense  of  woe, 

Which  speaks  but  in  its  loneliness, 


character  and  genius,  there  was  a resemblance  between  their  history 
and  character.  The  satire  of  Churchill  flowed  with  a more  profuse, 
though  not  a more  embittered,  stream;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  cannot  be  compared  to  Lord  Byron  in  point  ol  tenderness  or 
imagination.  But  both  these  poets  held  themselves  above  the 
opinion  of  the  world,  and  both  were  followed  by  the  fame  and 
popularity  which  they  seemed  to  despise.  The  writings  of  both 
exhibit  an  inborn,  though  sometimes  ill-regulated,  generosity  of 
mind  and  a spirit  of  proud  independence,  frequently  pushed  to 
extremes.  Both  carried  their  hatred  of  hypocrisy  beyond  the  verge 
of  prudence,  and  indulged  their  vein  of  satire  to  the  borders  of 
licentiousness.  Both  died  in  the  flower  of  their  age  in  a foreign 
land.”— Sir  Waltlr  Scott.— Churchill  died  at  Boulogne.  No 
vember  4,  17u'4,  iu  tlm  thirty  thirl  vear  of  his  age.—" Though  his 
associates  obtained  Christian  burial  for  hint,  by  Drmging  ine  oody 
to  Dover,  where  it  was  interred  in  the  old  cemetery  which  or.ee  be- 
longed to  the  collegiate  church  of  St.  Martin,  they  inscribed  upon 
his  tombstone,  instead  of  any  consolatory  or  monitory  text,  this 
tipieurean  line  from  one  of  his  own  poems — 

“ Life  to  the  last  enjoy’d,  here  Churchill  lies.” 

Soiilhey's  Cowper,  vol.  ii.  p.  159.] 


566 


LORD  BYRONS  WORKS. 


1816. 


And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 
Should  have  a listener,  nor  will  sigh 
Until  its  voice  is  echoiess. 

Titan ! to  thee  the  strife  was  given 
Between  the  suffering  and  the  will, 

Which  torture  where  they  cannot  kill ; 

And  the  inexorable  Heaven, 

And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  Fate, 

The  ruling  principle  of  Plate, 

Which  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate, 

Refused  thee  even  the  boon  to  die  : 

The  wretched  gift  eternity 

Was  thine — and  thou  hast  borne  it  well. 

All  that  the  Thunderer  wrung  from  thee 
Was  but  the  menace  which  flung  back 
On  him  the  torments  of  thy  rack  : 

The  fate  thou  didst  so  well  foresee, 

But  would  not  to  appease  him  tell ; 

And  in  thy  Silence  was  his  Sentence, 

And  in  his  Soul  a vain  repentance, 

And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissembled, 

That  in  his  hand  the  lightnings  trembled. 

Thy  Godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind, 

To  render  with  thy  precept  less 
The  sum  of  human  wretchedness, 

And  strengthen  Man  with  his  own  mind ; 

But  baffled  as  thou  wert  from  high, 

Still  in  thy  patient  energy, 

In  the  endurance,  and  repulse 
Of  thine  impenetrable  Spirit, 

Which  Earth  and  Heaven  could  not  convulse, 
A mighty  lesson  we  inherit : 

Thou  art  a symbol  and  a sign 

To  Mortals  of  their  fate  and  force ; 

Like  thee,  Man  is  in  part  divine, 

A troubled  stream  from  a pure  source ; 

And  Man  in  portions  can  foresee 
His  own  funereal  destiny  ; 

His  wretchedness,  and  his  resistance, 

And  his  sad  unallied  existence  : 

To  which  his  Spirit  may  oppose 
Itself — and  equal  to  all  woes, 

And  a firm  will,  and  a deep  sense, 

Which  even  in  torture  can  descry 
Its  own  concenter’d  recompense, 

Triumphant  where  it  dares  defy, 

And  making  Death  a Victory. 

Diodati,  July,  1816. 


A FRAGMENT. 

Cotji/d  I remount  the  river  of  my  years 
To  the  first  fountain  of  our  smiles  and  tears, 


I would  not  trace  again  the  stream  of  hours 
Between  their  outworn  banks  of  wither’d  flowers, 

But  bid  it  flow  as  now — until  it  glides 

Into  the  number  of  the  nameless  tides.  * * * « 

What  is  this  Death  ? — a quiet  of  the  heart  ? 

The  whole  of  that  of  which  we  are  a part  ? 

For  life  is  but  a vision — what  I see 
Of  all  which  lives  alone  is  life  to  me, 

And  being  so — the  absent  are  the  dead, 

Who  haunt  us  from  tranquillity,  and  spread 
A dreary  shroud  around  us,  and  invest 
With  sad  remembrancers  our  hours  of  rest. 

The  absent  are  the  dead — for  they  are  cold, 

And  ne’er  can  be  what  once  we  did  behold  ; 

And  they  are  changed,  and  cheerless, — or  if  yet 
The  unforgotten  do  not  all  forget, 

Since  thus  divided — equal  must  it  be 
If  the  deep  barrier  be  of  earth,  or  sea  ; 

It  may  be  both — but  one  day  end  it  must 
In  the  dark  union  of  insensate  dust. 

The  under-earth  inhabitants  — are  they 
But  mingled  millions  decomposed  to  clay  ? 

The  ashes  of  a thousand  ages  spread 
Wherever  man  has  trodden  or  shall  tread  ? 

Or  do  they  in  their  silent  cities  dwell 
Each  in  his  incommunicative  cell  ? 

Or  have  they  their  own  language  ? and  a sense 
Of  breathless  being  F — darken’d  and  intense 
As  midnight  in  her  solitude  ? — Oh  Earth  ! 

Where  are  the  past  ? — and  wherefore  had  they  birth  ? 
The  dead  are  thy  inheritors — and  we 
But  bubbles  on  thy  surface  ; and  the  key 
Of  thy  profundity  is  in  the  grave, 

The  ebon  portal  of  thy  peopled  cave, 

Where  I would  walk  in  spirit,  and  behold 
Our  elements  resolved  to  things  untold, 

And  fathom  hidden  wonders,  and  explore 

The  essence  of  great  bosoms  now  no  more.  * * * * 

Diodati,  July,  1856 


SONNET  TO  LAKE  LEMAN. 
Rousseau — Voltaire— our  Gibbon — and  De  Stael — 
Leman ! 1 these  names  are  worthy  of  thy  shore, 

Thy  shore  of  names  like  these  ! wert  thou  no  more, 
Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall : 

To  them  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all, 

But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for  the  lore 
Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core 
Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a wall  . 

Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondrous ; but  by  theey 
How  much  more,  Lake  of  Beauty  ! do  we  feel, 

In  sweetly  gliding  o’er  thy  crystal  sea, 

The  wild  glow  of  that  not  ungentle  zeal, 

Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 
Is  proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  real ! 

Diodati,  July,  1816. 


(1)  Geneva,  Ferney,  Copet,  Lausanne. — [See  ante,  p.  35.  — “I 
bare  traversed  ail  Rousseau’s  ground  with  the  Heloise  before  me, 
aud  am  strucK  t : a degree  drat  1 can net  express,  with  the  force  and 


accuracy  of  his  descriptions,  and  tne  boaafcy  of  their  reality.”— 
Byron  Letters,  13J6.J 


1816. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


567 


ROMANCE  MUY  DOLOROSO 


A VERY  MOURNFUL  BALLAD 


DEL  SOTO  T TOMA  DE  ALHAMA.1 

hi  aual  dezia  en  Aravigo  asst. 

Passeavase  el  Rev  Moro 
Por  la  ciudad  de  Granada, 

Desde  las  puertas  de  Elvira 
Hasta  las  de  Bivarambla. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Cartas  le  fueron  venidas 
Que  Alliama  era  ganada. 

Las  cartas  echo  cn  el  fuego, 

Y al  mensagero  matava. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Descavalga  de  una  mula, 

Y en  un  cavallo  cavalga. 

Por  el  Zacatin  arriba 
Subido  se  avia  al  Alhambra. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Como  en  el  Alhambra  estuvo, 

Al  mismo  punto  mandava 
Que  se  toquen  las  trompetas 
Con  afiafiles  de  plata. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

X que  atambores  de  guerra 
Apriessa  toquen  alarma; 

Por  que  lo  oygan  sus  Moros, 

Los  de  la  Vega  y Granada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Los  Moros  que  el  son  oyeron, 

Que  al  sangriento  Marte  llama, 

Uno  a uno,  y dos  a dos, 

Un  gran  esquadron  formavan. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

AJli  hablo  un  Moro  vieio ; 

Lesta  manera  hablava : — 

Para  que  nos  llamas,  lley  ? 

Para  que  es  este  llamada  ? 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Aveys  de  saber,  amigos, 

Una  nueva  desdichada : 

Que  Christ.ianos,  con  braveza, 

Ya  nos  ban  tornado  Alhama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Alii  hablo  un  viejo  Alfaqui, 

Le  barba  crecida  y cana : — 

Bien  se  te  emplea,  buen  Rey, 

Buen  Rey ; bien  se  te  empleava. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Mataste  los  Bencerrages, 

Que  era  la  flor  de  Granada  : 

Cogiste  los  tornadizos 
Le  Cordova  la  nombrada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Por  esso  mereces,  Rey, 

Una  pene  bien  doblada  ; 

Que  te  pierdas  tu  y el  reyno, 

Y que  se  pierda  Granada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 


ON  THE  SIEGE  AND  CONQUEST  OF  ALHAMA, 

Which , in  the  Arabic  language , is  to  the  following 
purport. 

The  Moorish  King  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada’s  royal  town  ; 

From  Elvira’s  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama’s  city  fell : 

In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 

And  the  messenger  lie  slew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course  *, 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"When  the  Alhambra  walls  he  gain’d, 

On  the  moment  he  ordain’d 

That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 

With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 

That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain, 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recall’d  them  there, 

One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 

To  a mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before, 

“ Wherefore  call  on  us.  oh  King  ? 

What  may  mean  this  gathering  ?” 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

“ Friends  ! ye  have,  alas  ! to  know 
Of  a most  disastrous  blow. 

That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold. 

Have  obtain’d  Alhama’s  hold.” 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 

With  his  beard  so  white  to  see, 

“ Good  King  ! thou  art  justly  served, 

Good  King ! this  thou  hast  deserved. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

“ By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 

The  Abencerrage,  Granada’s  flower  ; 

And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  Chivalry. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

" And  for  this,  oh  K ing  ! is  sent 
On  thee  a double  chastisement : 

Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 

One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


(1)  The  effect  of  the  original  ballad— whic)  existed  both  in  Spanish  and  Arabic— was  such  that  it  was  forbidden  to  be  sung  b? 
the  Moors,  or  pain  of  death,  within  Granada. 


608 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


1316. 


Si  no  se  respetan  leyes,  I 

Es  ley  que  t.odo  se  pierda.1 

Y que  se  pierda  Granada, 

Y que  te  pierdas  en  ella. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhnma 

Fuego  por  los  ojos  vierfc?, 

El  Bey  que  esto  oyera 

Y como  el  otro  de  leyes 
De  leyes  tambien  hablava. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alliama  ! 

Sabe  un  Rey  que  no  ay  leyes 
De  darle  a Reyes  disgusto — 

Esso  dize  el  Rey  Moro 
Relinchando  de  colera. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alliama ! 

Moro  Alfaqui,  Moro  Alfaqui, 

El  de  la  vellida  barba, 

El  Rey  te  manda  prender, 

Por  la  perdida  de  Alhama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Y cortarte  la  cabeza, 

Y ponerla  en  el  Alhambra, 

Por  que  a ti  castigo  sea, 

Y otros  tiemblen  en  miralla. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Cavalleros,  hombres  buenos, 

Dezid  de  mi  parte  al  Rey, 

A1  Rey  Moro  de  Granada, 

Como  no  le  devo  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

De  averse  Alhama  perdido 
A mi  me  pesa  en  el  alma. 

Que  si  el  Rey  perdio  su  tierra, 

Otro  muclio  mas  perdiera. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Perdieran  hijos  padres, 

Y casados  las  casadas  : 

Las  cosas  que  mas  amara 
Perdio  1’  un  y el  otro  fama. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama ! 

Perdi  una  hija  donzella 
Que  era  la  flor  d’  esta  tierra, 

Cien  doblas  dava  por  ella, 

No  me  las  estimo  en  nada. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Diziendo  assi  al  hacen  Alfaqui, 

Le  cortaron  la  cabepa, 

Y la  elevan  al  Alhambra, 

Assi  come  el  Rey  lo  manda. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Hombres,  nifios  y mugeres, 

Lloran  tan  grande  perdida. 

Lloravan  t.odas  las  damas 
Quantas  en  Granada  avia. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 

Por  las  calles  y ventanas 
Mucho  Into  parecia ; 

Llora  el  Rey  como  fembra, 

Qu’  es  muclio  lo  que  perdia. 

Ay  de  mi,  Alhama  ! 


“ He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe. 

He  must  perish  by  the  law ; 

And  Granada  must  be  won, 

And  thyself  with  her  undone.” 

Woe  is  me,  Alhamo  \ 

Fire  flash’d  from  out  the  old  Moe-’s  eyea. 
The  Monarch’s  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answer’d,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 

Woe  is  me,  Albania ! 

“ There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings  — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  King,  and  doom’d  him  dead. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

Moor  Alfaqui ! Moor  Alfaqui ! 

Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be, 

The  King  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized, 
For  Alhama’s  loss  displeased. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra’s  loftiest  stone ; 

That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law, 

And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“ Cavalier,  and  man  of  worth  ! 

Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth  ; 

Let  the  Moorish  Monarch  know, 

That  to  him  I nothing  owe. 

Wroe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

“ But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs, 

And  on  my  inmost  spirit  preys  ; 

And  if  the  King  his  land  hath  lost, 

Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“ Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives  ; 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost,  another  wealth,  or  fame. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

“ I lost  a damsel  in  that  hour, 

Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  flower  ; 
Doubloons  a hundred  I would  pay, 

And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day.” 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor  said, 
They  sever’d  from  the  trunk  his  head ; 
And  to  the  Alhambra’s  wall  with  speed 
’Twas  carried,  as  the  King  decreed. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

And  men  and  infants  therein  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep  : 
Granada’s  ladies,  all  she  rears 
Within  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

And  from  the  windows  o’er  the  walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls  ; 

The  King  weeps  as  a woman  o’er 
His  loss,  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 

Woe  is  me,  Alliama! 


1316. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


560 


SONETTO  DI  YITTORELLI. 

* PER  MONACA. 

Sor.etto  composto  in  nome  di  un  genitore,  a cui  era  morta  poco 
iananzi  una  figlia  appena  maritata;  e diretto  al  genitore  della 
sacra  sposa. 

Ill  due  vaghe  donzelle,  oneste,  accorte 
Lieti  e miseri  padri  il  ciel  lie  feo, 

II  ciel,  die  degne  di  piii  nobil  sorte 
L’  una  e Y altra  veggendo,  ambo  chiedeo. 

La  mia  £u  tolta  da  veloce  morte 
A le  fumanti  tede  d’  imeneo  : 

La  tua,  Erancesco,  in  sugellate  porte 
Eterna  prigioniera  or  si  rendeo. 

Ma  tu  almeno  potrai  de  la  gelosa 
Irremeabil  soglia,  ove  s’  asconde, 

La  sua  tenera  udir  voce  pietosa. 

Jo  verso  un  flume  d’  amarissim’  onde, 

Corro  a quel  marmo,  in  cui  la  figlia  or  posa, 
Batto,  e ribatto,  ma  nessun  risponde. 


TRANSLATION  EROM  YITTORELLI. 

ON  A NUN. 

Sonnet  composed  in  the  name  of  a father,  whose  daughter  had 
recently  died  shortly  after  her  marriage;  and  addressed  to  un- 
father  of  her  who  had  lately  taken  the  veil. 

Op  two  fair  virgins,  modest,  though  admired, 

Heaven  made  us  happy,  and  now,  wretched  sires  ; 
Heaven  for  a nobler  doom  their  worth  desires. 

And  gazing  upon  either , both  required. 

Mine,  while  the  torch  of  Hymen  newly  fired 

Becomes  extinguish’d,  soon — too  soon — expires ; 
But  thine,  within  the  closing  grate  retired, 

Eternal  captive,  to  her  God  aspires. 

But  thou  at  least  from  out  the  jealous  door, 

Which  shuts  between  your  never-meeting  eyes, 
May’st  hear  her  sweet  and  pious  voice  once  more : 
I to  the  marble,  whfire  my  daughter  lies. 

Rush,— the  swoln  flood  of  bitterness  I pour, 

And  knock,  and  knock,  and  knock — but  none 
replies. 


STANZAS  EOR  MUSIC. 

Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul ! 

No  lovelier  spirit  than  thine 
E’er  burst  from  its  mortal  control. 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 

On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine, 

As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be  ; 

And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine 

When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 

Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb  ! 

May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be  ! 

There" should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom, 

In  aught  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 

Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 
May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest : 

But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see  ; 

For  why  should  we  mourn  for  the  blest  ? 


STANZAS  EOR  MUSIC. 

They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness  ; 

But  genuine  Love  must  prize  the  past, 

And  Memory  wakes  the  thoughts  that  bless  ; 
They  rose  the  first — they  set  the  last ; 

'And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 
W as  once  our  only  Hope  to  be, 

And  all  that  Hope  adored  and  lost 
Hath  melted  into  Memory. 

Alas  ! it  is  delusion  all : 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afar, 

Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall, 

Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 


;i,  [“This  should  have  been  written  fifteen  moons  ago:  the 
first  stanza  was.  I am  just  come  out  from  an  hour’s  swim  in  the 
Sidriat'c  ” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Moore,  July  10,  1817. J 
U)  [-‘The  Helen  of  Canova  (a  bust  which  is  in  the  house  of 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 

But,  before  I go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here’s  a double  health  to  thee  ! 

Here’s  a sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 

And  a smile  to  those  who  hate ; 

And,  wha  ever  sky’s  above  me, 

Here’s  a heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 

Though  a desert  should  surround  me. 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were’t  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I gasp’d  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

’Tis  to  thee  that  I would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  1 would  pour 

Should  be — peace  with  thine  and  mine. 

And  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 

July,  1817. 


ON  THE  BUST  OE  HELEN  BY  CANOYA. 

In  this  beloved  marble  view, 

Above  the  works  and  thoughts  of  man, 
What  nature  could,  but  would  not,  do. 

And  beauty  and  Canova  can  ! 

Beyond  imagination’s  power, 

Beyond  the  Bard’s  defeated  art, 

With  immortality  her  dower 
Behold  the  Helen  of  the  heart  ! 

November,  18  ? t>. 


Madame  the  Countess  d’Albrizzi)  is,”  says  Lord  Byron,  “ withot 
exception,  to  my  mind,  the  most  perfectly  beautiful  of  humai. 
conceptions,  and  far  beyond  my  ideas  of  human  execution.” — Lord 
Byron  to  Mr.  Murray,  Nov.  25, 1816.] 

4-  i) 


570 


IjOKD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


IS16 


SONG  FOR  THE  LUDDITES. 

As  the  Liberty  lads  o’er  the  sea 
Bought  their  freedom,  and  cheaply,  with  blood, 
So  we,  boys,  we 
Will  die  fighting,  or  live  free, 

And  down  with  all  kings  but  King  Ludd  ! 

When  the  web  that  we  weave  is  complete, 

And  the  shuttle  exchanged  for  the  sword, 

We  will  fling  the  winding  sheet 
O’er  the  despot  at  our  feet, 

And  dye  it  deep  in  the  gore  he  has  pour’d. 

Though  black  as  his  heart  its  hue, 

Since  his  veins  are  corrupted  to  mud, 

Yet  this  is  the  dew 
Which  the  tree  shall  renew 
Of  Liberty,  planted  by  Ludd ! 1 2 

December,  1816. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

What  are  you  doing  now, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore  ? 

What  are  you  doing  now. 

Oil  Thomas  Moore  P 
Sighing  or  suing  now, 
Rhyming  or  wooing  now. 
Billing  or  cooing  now, 

Which,  Thomas  Moore? 

But  the  Carnival’s  coming. 

Oh  Thomas  Moore  ! 

The  Carnival’s  coming, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore ! 
Masking  and  humming, 

Fifing  and  drumming,3 
Guitarring  and  strumming, 

Oh  Thomas  Moore ! 


SO,  WE’LL  GO  NO  MORE  A ROVING. 

So,  we’ll  go  no  more  a roving 
So  late  into  the  night, 

Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving. 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 


Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 
And  the  day  returns  too  soon. 

Yet  we’ll  go  no  more  a roving 
By  the  lignt  of  the  moon. 


WM 


VERSICLES.4 

I HEAD  the  “ Christabel  j” 

Very  well : 

I read  the  “ Missionary 
Pretty — very : 

I tried  at  “ llderimV’ 

Ahem  ! 

I read  a sheet  of  “ Marg’ret  of  Anjou  s 
Cun  you  ? 

I turn’d  a page  of  Scott’s  “Waterloo 
Pooh ! pooh ! 

I look’d  at  Wordsworth’s  milk-white  “Rylstone  Doe.*1 
Ilillo  ! 

&c.  &c.  &c. 

March,  1817 


TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

To  hook  the  reader,  you,  John  Murray, 

Have  publish’d  “ Anjou’s  Margaret,” 

Which  won’t  be  sold  off  in  a hurry 
(At  least,  it  has  not  been  as  yet) ; 

And  then,  still  further  to  bewilder  ’em, 

Without  remorse  you  set  up  “Ilderim 
So  mind  you  don’t  get  into  debt, 

Because  as  how,  if  you  should  fail, 

These  books  would  be  but  baddish  bail. 

And  mind  you  do  not  let  escape 

These  rhymes  to  Morning  Post  or  Perry, 

Which  would  be  very  treacherous — very , 

And  get  me  into  such  a scrape  ! 

For,  firstly,  I should  have  to  sally, 

All  in  my  little  boat,  against  a Galley  ; 

And,  should  1 chance  to  slay  the  Assyrian  wight 
Have  next  to  combat  with  the  female  knight. 

March  2,r>,  1817. 


EPISTLE  FROM  MR.  MURRAY  TO 
DR.  POLIDORI.0 


For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath,3 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 
And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 


(1)  [“Are  you  not  near  the  Luddites?  By  the  Lord!  if  there’s 
a row,  but  I’ll  be  among  ye  ! How  go  on  the  weavers — the  breakers 
of  frames — the  Lutherans  of  politics— the  reformers?  ....  There’s 
an  amiable  chanson  for  you!  — all  impromptu.  I have  written  it 
principally  to  shock  your  neighbour  — , who  is  all  clergy  and 
loyalty — mirth  and  innocence— milk  and  water.” — Lord  Byron  to 
Mr , Moore,  Dec.  24,  1816.] 

(2)  [“  And  there  are  songs  and  quavers,  roaring,  humming, 

Guitars,  and  every  other  sort  of  strumming.” — Beppo. 

Bee  anti,  p.  145.] 

(3)  [“  I went  to  most  of  the  ridottos,  &c.,  and  though  I did  not 
dissipate  much  upon  the  whole,  yet  I found  the  sword  wearing  out 
the  scabbard,  though  I have  but  just  turned  the  corner  of  twenty- 
nine.” — Lord  Byrcn  to  Mr.  Moore,  Feb.  28,  1817.] 

(4)  [“I  have  been  .ill  with  a slow  fever,  which  at  last  took  to 
Hying,  and  became  as  quick  as  need  be.  But,  at  length,  after  a 


Dear  Doctor,  I liave  read  your  play. 
Which  is  a good  one  in  its  way, — 
Purges  the  eyes  and  moves  the  bowels, 
And  drenches  handkerchiefs  like  towels 


week  of  half  delirium,  burning  skin,  thirst,  hot  lieadach,  horribie 
pulsation,  and  no  sleep,  by  the  blessing  of  barley  water,  and  re- 
fusing to  see  my  physician,  I recovered.  It  is  an  epidemic  of  ths 
place.  Here  are  some  versicles,  which  I made  one  sleepless  night.” 
— Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Moore , March  25,  1817.] 

(5]  [The  “ Missionary”  was  written  by  Mr.  Bowles;  “Ilderim” 
by  Mr.  Gaily  Knight;  and  “ Margaret  of  Anjou”  by  Miss Holford.] 

(6)  [For  some  particulars  relating  to  Dr.  Polidori  see  Moore’s 
“Notices.”  “I  never,”  says  Lord  Byron,  “was  much  more  dis- 
gusted with  any  human  production  than  with  the  eternal  nonsense, 
and  tracasseries,  and  emptiness,  and  ill-humour,  and  vanity  of  this 
young  person ; but  he  has  some  talent,  and  is  a man  of  honour, 
and  has  disposition*  of  amendment.  Therefore  use  your  interest 
for  him,  for  tie  is  improved  and  improvable.  You  want  a civil 
and  delicate  declension’  for  the  medical  tragedy?  Take  it.” — Lord 
Byron  to  Mr.  Murray,  Aug.  21,  1817.] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


571 


1817. 

With  lears,  that,  in  a flux  of  grief, 

Afford  hysterical  relief 
To  shatter’d  nerves  and  quicken’d  pulses, 

Which  your  catastrophe  convulses. 

I like  your  moral  and  machinery  ; 

Your  plot,  too,  has  such  scope  for  scenery ; 

Your  dialogue  is  apt  and  smart ; 

The  play’s  concoction  full  of  art ; 

Your  hero  raves,  your  heroine  cries, 

All  stab,  and  every  body  dies. 

In  short,  your  tragedy  would  be 
The  very  thing  to  hear  and  see  : 

And  for  a piece  of  publication, 

If  I decline  on  this  occasion, 

It  is  not  that  I am  not  sensible 
To  merits  in  themselves  ostensible, 

But — and  I grieve  to  speak  it — plays 
Are  drugs — mere  drugs,  sir — now-a-days. 

I had  a heavy  loss  by  “ Manuel,” — 

Too  lucky  if  it  prove  not  annual, — 

And  Sotheby,  with  his  “ Orestes,” 

(Which,  by  the  by,  the  author’s  best  is,) 

Has  lain  so  very  long  on  hand, 

That  I despair  of  all  demand. 

I’ve  advertised,  but  see  my  books, 

Or  only  watch  my  shopman’s  looks ; 

Still  Ivan,  Ina,  and  such  lumber, 

My  back-shop  glut,  my  shelves  encumber. 

There’s  Byron  too,  who  once  did  better, 

Has  sent  me,  folded  in  a letter, 

A sort  of — it’s  no  more  a drama 
Than  Darnley,  Ivan,  or  Kehama;. 

So  alter’d  since  last  year  his  pen  is, 

I think  he’s  lost  his  wits  at  Venice. 

In  short,  sir,  what  with  one  and  t’other, 

1 dare  not  venture  on  another. 

1 write  in  haste  ; excuse  each  blunder  ; 

The  coaches  through  the  street  so  thunder ! 

My  room’s  so  full — we’ve  Gifford  here 
Beading  MS.,  with  Hookham  Frcrc, 
Pronouncing  on  the  nouns  and  particles 
Of  some  of  our  forthcoming  Articles. 

The  Quarterly — Ah,  sir,  if  you 
Had  but  the  genius  to  review  ! — 

A smart  critique  upon  St.  Helena, 

Or  if  you  only  would  but  1 ell  in  a 

Short  compass  what but,  to  resume: 

As  I was  saying,  sir,  the  room — 

The  room ’s  so  full  of  wits  and  bards, 

Crabbes,  Campbells,  Crokers,  Ereres,  and  Wards, 
And  others,  neither  bards  nor  wits : — 

My  humble  tenement  admits 
All  persons  in  the  dress  of  gent., 

From  Mr.  Hammond  to  Dog  Dent. 

A party  dines  with  me  to-day, 

All  clever  men,  who  make  their  way  ; 

Crabbe,  Malcolm,  Hamilton,  and  Chantrey, 

Are  all  partakers  of  my  pantry. 

They’re  at  this  moment  in  discussion 
On  poor  De  Stael’s  late  dissolution. 

Her  book,  they  say,  was  in  advance — 

Pray  Heaven,  she  tell  the  truth  of  France ! 


Thus  run  our  time  and  tongues  away.— 

But,  to  return,  sir,  to  your  play : 

Sorry,  sir,  but  I cannot  deal, 

Unless  ’twere  acted  by  O’Neill. 

My  hands  so  full,  my  head  so  busy, 

I’m  almost  dead,  and  always  dizzy  ; 

And  so,  with  endless  truth  and  hurry, 

Dear  Doctor,  I am  yours, 

John  Murray. 

Aug>. st, 


EPISTLE  TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

My  dear  Mr.  Murray, 

You’re  in  a damn’d  hurry 

To  set  up  this  ultimate  Canto 
But  (if  they  don’t  rob  us) 

You’ll  see  Mr.  Hobhouse 

Will  bring  it  safe  in  his  portmanteau. 

For  the  Journal  you  hint  of. 

As  ready  to  print  off, 

No  doubt  you  do  right  to  commend  it ; 

But  as  yet  I have  writ  off 
The  devil  a bit  of 

Our  “ Beppo  — when  copied,  I’ll  send  it. 

Then  you’ve  * * * * ’s  Tour,— 

No  great  things,  to  be  sure, — 

You  could  hardly  begin  with  a less  work  ; 

For  the  pompous  rascailion, 

Who  don’t  speak  Italian 

Nor  French,  must  have  scribbled  by  guesswork. 

You  can  make  any  loss  up 
With  “ Spence”  and  his  gossip, 

A work  which  must  surely  succeed ; 

Then  Queen  Mary’s  Epistle-craft, 

With  the  new  “Fytte”  of  “ Whistlecraft,” 

Must  make  people  purchase  and  read. 

Then  you’ve  General  Gordon, 

Who  girded  his  sword  on, 

To  serve  with  a Muscovite  master, 

And  help  him  to  polish 
A nation  so  owlish, 

They  thought  shaving  their  beards  a disaster. 

For  the  man,  “poor  and  shrewd,”2 
With  whom  you’d  conclude 
A compact  without  more  delay, 

Perhaps  some  such  pen  is 
Still  extant  in  V enice  ; 

But  please,  sir,  to  mention  your  pay. 

Venice,  January  8,  IRIS 


TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

Strati  an,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the  times* 
Patron  and  publisher  of  rhymes, 

For  thee  the  bard  up  Pindus  climbs, 
My  Murray. 


(1)  [The  fourth  canto  of  “ Childe  Harold.”] 


(2)  Vide  your  letter. 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


572 

To  thee,  with  hope  and  terror  dumb, 

The  unfledged  MS.  authors  come  ; 

Thou  printest  all — and  sellest  some  — 

My.  Murray. 

Upon  thy  table’s  baize  so  green 
Tne  last  new  Quarterly  is  seen, — • 

But  where  is  thv  new  Magazine, 

My  Murray? 

Along  thy  sprucest  bookshelves  shine 
The  works  thou  deemest  most  divine — 

The  “ Art  of  Cookery,”  and  mine. 

My  Murray. 

Tours,  Travels,  Essays,  too,  I wist, 

And  Sermons  to  thy  mill  bring  grist ; 

And  then  thou  hast  the  “ Navy  List,” 

My  Murray. 

And  Heaven  forbid  I should  conclude 
Without  “ the  Board  of  Longitude,” 

Although  this  narrow  paper  would, 

My  Murray  ! 

Venice,  March  25,  1818. 


(1)  [Oil  the  birth  of  this  clyld,  the  son  of  the  British  vice-consul 

at  Venice,  Lord  Byron  wrote  these  lines.  They  are  in  no  other 
respect  remarkable,  than  that  they  were  thought  worthy  of  being 
metrically  translated  into  no  less  than  ten  different  languages ; 
namely,  Greek,  Latin,  Italian  (also  in  the  Venetian  dialect),  Ger- 
man, French,  Spanish,  Illyrian,  Hebrew,  Armenian,  and  Sama- 
ritan. The  original  lines,  with  the  different  versions  above  men 
tioned,  were  printed,  in  a small  neat  volume,  in  the  seminary  of 

Padua ; from  which  we  take  the  following  : — 


181s.  | 

ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  JOHN  WILLIAM  RIZZO 
HOPPNER. 

His  father’s  sense,  his  mother’s  grace, 

In  him,  I hope,  will  always  fit  so 
With — still  to  keep  him  in  good  case — 

The  health  and  appetite  of  Rizzo.1 

February,  181*. 


STANZAS  TO  THE  PO.2 

River,  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  walls,3 

Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  she  • 
Walks  by  thy  brink,  and  there  perchance  recalls 
A faint,  and  fleeting  memory  of  me  ; 

What  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 
A mirror  of  my  heart,  where  she  may  read 
The  thousand  thoughts  I now  betray  to  thee, 

Wild  as  thy  wave,  and  headlong  as  thy  speed  ! 

What  do  I say — a mirror  of  my  heart  ? 

Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark,  and  strong  ? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art ; 

And  such  as  thou  art  were  my  passions  long. 


ILLYRIAN. 

Ako  ti  sjagnu — Ogdeve  kriposti 

Budesc  zadrusciti — majfinu  ghisdavost, 
Prisladki  ditichiu — , srichjansi  zadosti. 

Ako  pak  narav — ti  budesc  sliditi 
Rizza  privesela — , gnegovu  i nasladwt, 
Srichjnia  od  tebe — nechiesce  viditi. 


GREEK. 

► TrvKvrj  IlaTpor  Kcu  MriTepoy  ^Aaoi/  eidoi,,.^ 

’ \pTtTOKov  koctjuoi  vovv  re,  de/jc ir  re  fipetpov?' 
"Oippa  de  navri  (3i u>  tj  u\(3tos,  uiev  epavvov. 

7rcus  'Pi£ov  kuu  tide  (3ir\v. 

LATIN. 

Magnanimos  Patris  verset  sub  pectore  sensus, 
Maternus  roseo  fulgeat  ore  decor  ; 

Neu  quid  felici  desit,  quo  robore  Rizzus 
Festivo  pollet,  polleat  iste  puer. 

ITALIAN. 

Del  Padre  il  senno,  e il  bel  materno  aspetto 
Splendano  ognora  in  Te,  fanciul  diletto: 

Felice  appien  ! se  al  tuo  corporeo  velo 
Dona  il  heto  vigor  di  Rizzo  il  cielo. 

HE  VENETIAN  DIALECT. 

De  graziete  el  to  modelo 
Sia  la  Mama,  bel  Putelo. 

E ’1  talento  del  Paptl 
In  ti  cressa  co  1’  etA; 

E per  salsa,  o contentin 
Roba  a Rizzo  el  so  morbin. 

uERMAN. 

3lu$  be3  j?tnbc3  9luge  ftvaWet 
©etne3  S?ater3  ljct)er  ©inn, 
llnb  ber  SDfutter  @d)bnt)eit  matet 
©tcfy  tn  SBangc,  9Jtunb,  unb  JUnit. 

©tildttd)  Jtlctner  nrirft  bn  fetjn, 
jtannfl  bu  frozen  £Diutl;e3, 

©fines  fcttrigen  33IuteS, 

©einer  ©tdvfe  bid)  crfreu’n. 

FRENCH. 

Sois  en  tout  fortune,  semillant  Jouvenceau, 

Porte  dans  les  festins  la  valeur  de  Rizzo, 

Porte  au  barreau  l’esprit  que  fait  briller  ton  pbre, 

Et  pour  vaincre? — au  boudoir  sois  beau  comme  ta  mfere. 

SPANISH. 

Si  k la  gracia  materna  el  gusto  ayuntas 
Y cordura  del  Padre,  o hello  Infante. 

Seras  feliz,  y lo  serds  bastante ; 

Mas,  si  felicidad  guieres  completa, 

Se,  como  Rizo,  alegre,  se  un  atleta. 


HEBREW, 
rrrr  Tj'py  rmDn 
rein  Tjb  tjdk  ’pv 
S’lnn  Tjb  ten  3b  nw 
. rrnn  nn«  oibti)  \tt  Da 


(2)  [About  the  middle  of  April,  1819  Lord  Byron  travelled  from 
Venice  to  Ravenna,  at  which  last  city  he  expected  to  find  the 
Countess  Guiccioli.  The  above  stanzas,  which  have  been  as  much  ' 
admired  as  any  thing  of  the  kind  he  ever  wrote,  were  composed,  > 
according  to  Madame  Guiccioli’s  statement,  during  this  journey, 
and  while  Lord  Byron  was  actually  sailing  on  the  Po.  In  trans- 
mitting them  to  England,  in  May,  1820,  he  says, — “ They  must  not 
be  published  : pray  recollect  this,  as  they  are  mere  verses  of  society, 
and  written  upon  private  feelings  and  passions.”  They  were  first 
printed  in  1824.] 

(3)  [Ravenna — a city  to  which  Lord  Byron  afterwards  declared 
himself  more  attached  than  to  any  other  place,  except  Greece.  He 
resided  in  it  rather  more  than  two  years,  “and  quitted  it,”  says 
Madame  Guiccioli,  “ with  the  deepest  regret,  and  with  a present!-  ( 
ment  that  his  departure  would  be  the  forerunner  of  a thousand 
evils : he  was  continually  performing  generous  actions  : many 
families  owed  to  him  the  few  prosperous  days  they  ever  enjoyed ; 
his  arrival  was  spoken  of  as  a piece  of  public  good  fortune,  and  Ins 
departure  as  a public  calamity.”  In  the  third  canto  of  “ Don  J uan,” 
Lord  Byron  has  pictured  the  tranquil  life  which,  at  this  time,  k« 
was  leading: — 

“ Sweet  hour  of  twilight! — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which  bounds  Ravenna’s  immemorial  wood. 

Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flow’d  o’er, 

To  where  the  last  Caesarean  fortress  stood, 

Evergreen  forest!  which  Boccaccio’s  lore 
And  Dryden’s  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 

How  have  I loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee! 


“ The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 
Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed’s  and  mine, 

And  vesper  bells  that  rose  the  boughs  among  ; 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti’s  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  thr nag, 
Which  learn’d  from  this  example  not  to  fly 
From  a true  lover,  shadow’d  my  mind’s  eye.”] 


1819. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


573 


Time  may  have  somewhat  tamed  them, — not  for  ever ; 

Thou  overflow’st  thy  banks,  and  not  for  aye 
Thy  bosom  overboils,  congenial  river  ! 

Thy  floods  subside,  and  mine  have  sunk  away. 

But  left  long  wrecks  behind,  and  now  again, 

Borne  in  our  old  unchanged  career,  we  move ; 

Thou  tendest  wildly  onwards  to  the  main, 

And  I — to  loving  one  I should  not  love. 

The  current  I behold  will  sweep  beneath 
Her  native  walls,  and  murmur  at  her  feet ; 

Her  eyes  will  look  on  thee,  when  she  shall  breathe 
The  twilight  air,  unharm’d  by  summer’s  heat. 

She  will  look  on  thee, — I have  look’d  on  thee, 

Full  of  that  thought : and,  from  that  moment,  ne’er 
Thy  waters  could  I dream  of,  name,  or  see, 

Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  her ! 

Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream, — 

Yes ! they  will  meet  the  wave  I gaze  on  now  : 

Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a dream, 

That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow  ! 

The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more  : 

Will  she  return  by  whom  that  wave  shall  sweep  ? — 
Both  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore, 

I by  thy  source,  she  by  the  dark-blue  deep. 

But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 
Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth, 

But  the  distraction  of  a various  lot. 

As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

A stranger  loves  the  lady  of  the  laud, 

Born  far  beyond  the  mountains,  but  his  blood 
Is  all  meridian,  as  if  never  fann’d 
By  the  black  wind  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 

My  blood  is  all  meridian  ; were  it  not, 

I had  not  left  my  clime,  nor  should  I be, 

In  spite  of  tortures,  ne’er  to  be  forgot, 

A slave  again  of  love, — at  least  of  thee. 

*Tis  vain  to  struggle — let  me  perish  young — 

Live  as  1 lived,  and  love  as  I have  loved ; 

To  dust  if  I return,  from  dust  I sprung, 

And  then,  at  least,  my  heart  can  ne’er  be  moved. 

April,  1819. 


SONNET  TO  GEORGE  THE  FOURTH, 

ON  THE  REPEAL  OP  LORD  EDWARD  FITZGERALD’S  FORFEITURE. 

To  be  the  father  of  the  fatherless,  [raise 

To  stretch  the  hand  from  the  throne’s  height,  and 
His  offspring,  who  expired  in  other  days 
To  make  thy  sire’s  sway  by  a kingdom  less, — 


(1)  [“  So,  the  prince  has  been  repealing  Lord  Fitzgerald’s  for- 
ft»Lare?  Ecco  un’ sonetto  ! There,  you  dogs  ! there’s  a sonnet  for 
you:  you  won’t  have  such  as  that  in  a hurry  from  Fitzgerald.  You 
may  publish  it  with  my  name,  an’  ye  wool.  He  deserves  all  praise, 
bail  and  good : it  was  a very  noble  piece  of  principality.” — Lord 
Byron  to  Mr.  Murray .] 

(2)  [“  Would  you  like  an  epigram — a translation  ? It  was  written 
on  some  Frenchwoman,  by  Rulhieres,  I believe.” — Lord  Byrun  to 
Mr  Murray,  Aug.  12,  1819.] 


This  is  to  be  a monarch,  and  repress 
Envy  into  unutterable  praise. 

Dismiss  thy  guard,  and  trust  thee  to  such  traits, 
For  who  would  lift  a hand,  except  to  bless  ? 

Were  it  not  easy,  sir,  and  is’t  not  sweet 
To  make  thyself  beloved  ? and  to  be 
Omnipotent  by  mercy’s  means  ? for  thus 

Thy  sovereignty  would  grow  but  more  complete ; 
A despot  thou,  and  yet  thy  people  free, 

And  by  the  heart,  not  hand,  enslaving  us. 

Bologna,  Aug.  12,  1819.' 


EPIGRAM. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  RULHIERF 

If,  for  silver  or  for  gold, 

You  could  melt  ten  thousand  pimples 
Into  half  a dozen  dimples, 

Then  your  face  we  might  behold. 

Looking,  doubtless,  much  more  snugly ; 

Yet  even  then  ’twould  be  d d ugly. 

August  12,  ISIS. 


STANZAS.3 4 

Could  Love  for  ever 
Run  like  a river, 

And  Time’s  endeavour 
Be  tried  in  vain — 

. No  other  pleasure 
With  this  could  measure  ; 

And  like  a treasure 
We’d  hug  the  chain. 

But  since  our  sighing 
Ends  not  in  dying, 

And,  form’d  for  flying, 

Love  plumes  his  wing ; 

Then  for  this  reason 
Let’s  love  a season ; 

But  let  that  season  be  only  Spring. 

When  lovers  parted 
Feel  broken-hearted, 

And,  all  hopes  thwarted, 

Expect  to  die ; 

A few  years  older, 

Ah  ! how  much  colder 
They  might  behold  her 
For  whom  they  sigh ! 

When  link’d  together, 

In  every  weather. 

They  pluck  Love’s  feather 
From  out  his  wing — 

He  ’ll  stay  for  ever, 

But  sadly  shiver 

Without  his  plumage,  when  past  the  Spring.* 


(3)  [A  friend  of  Lord  Byron’s,  who  was  with  him  at  Ravenna 
when  he  wrote  these  Stanzas,  says, — ■“  They  were  composed,  like 
many  others,  with  no  view  of  publication,  but  merely  to  relieve 
himself  in  a moment  of  suffering.  He  had  been  painfully  excited 
by  some  circumstances  which  appeared  to  make  it  necessary  that, 
he  should  immediately  quit  Italy ; and  in  the  day  and  the  hour 
that  he  wrote  the  song  was  labouring  under  an  access  of  fevsnr. '] 

(4)  [V.  L. — “ That  sped  his  Spring.’’] 


674 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


1820, 


Like  Chiefs  of  Faction, 

His  life  is  action — * 

A formal  paction 
That  curbs  his  reicrn. 

Obscures  his  glory, 

Despot  no  more,  he 
Sucli  territory 

Quits  with  disdain. 

Still,  still  advancing, 

With  banners  glancing. 

His  power  enhancing. 

He  must  move  on — - 
Repose  but  cloys  him. 

Retreat  destroys  him, 

Love  brooks  not  a degraded  throne. 

Wait  not,  fond  lover ! 

Till  years  are  over, 

And  then  recover. 

As  from  a dream.  « 

While  each  bewailing 
The  other’s  failing, 

With  wrath  and  railing. 

All  hideous  seem — 

While  first  decreasing. 

Yet  not  quite  ceasing, 

Wait  not  till  teasing 
All  passion  blight : 

If  once  diminish’d 
Love’s  reign  is  finish’d — 

Then  part  in  friendship, — and  bid  good-night.1 

So  shall  Affection 
To  recollection 
The  dear  connexion 
Bring  back  with  joy  : 

You  had  not  waited 
Till,  tired  or  hated. 

Your  passions  sated 
Began  to  cloy. 

Your  last  embraces 
Leave  no  cold  traces — 

The  same  fond  faces 
As  through  the  past ; 

And  eyes,  the  mirrors 
Of  your  sweet  errors, 

.Reflect  but  rapture — not  least  though  last. 

True,  separations 
Ask  more  than  patience  ; 

What  desperations 
From  such  have  risen ! 

But  yet  remaining, 

What  is’t  but  chaining 
Hearts  which,  once  waning. 

Beat  ’gainst  their  prison  ? 

Time  can  but  cloy  love, 

And  use  destroy  love  : 

The  winged  boy,  Love, 

Is  but  for  boys — 

You’ll  find  it  torture 
Though  sharper,  shorter, 

To  wean,  and  not  wear  out  your  joys. 

1819. 


(1)  [V.  L. — “One  last  embrace,  then,  and  bid  good-night.”] 

(2)  [Or, 

“ You  come  to  him  on  earth  again, 

He'll  go  with  you  to  hell.”] 

(S)  [“  Pray  let  not  these  versiculi  go  forth  with  my  name,  except 


ON  MY  WEDDING-DAY. 

Here’s  a happy  new  year!  but  with  reason 
I beg  you’ll  permit  me  to  say — 

Wish  me  many  returns  of  the  season, 

But  as  few  as  you  please  of  the  day. 

January  2,  1820, 


EPITAPH  FOR  WILLIAM  PITT. 

With  death  doom’d  to  grapple, 

Beneath  this  cold  slab,  lie 
Who  lied  in  the  Chapel 
Now  lies  in  the  Abbey. 

January,  1820. 


EPIGRAM. 

In  digging  up  your  bones,  Tom  Paine, 

Will.  Cobbett  has  done  well : 

You  visit  him  on  earth  again. 

He’ll  visit  you  in  hell.2 

January,  1820.* 


STANZAS. 

When  a man  hath  no  freedom  to  fight  for  at  home, 
Let  him  combat  for  that  of  his  neighbours ; 

Let  him  think  of  the  glories  of  Greece  and  of  Rome, 
And  get  knock’d  on  the  head  for  his  labours. 

To  do  good  to  mankind  is  the  chivalrous  plan, 

And  is  always  as  nobly  requited  ; 

Then  battle  for  freedom  wherever  you  can, 

And,  if  not  shot  or  hang’d,  you’ll  get  knighted. 

November,  1820. 


EPIGRAM. 

The  world  is  a bundle  of  hay, 

Mankind  are  the  asses  who  pull ; 
Each  tugs  it  a different  way, 

And  the  greatest  of  all  is  John  Bull. 


THE  CHARITY  BALL. 

Wha.t  matter  the  pangs  of  a husband  and  father, 

If  his  sorrows  in  exile  be  great  or  be  small, 

So  the  Pharisee’s  glories  around  her  she  gather. 

And  the  saint  patronizes  her  “ charity  ball ! ” 

What  matters  — a heart  which,  though  faulty,  was 
feeling, 

Be  driven  to  excesses  which  once  could  appal — 
That  the  sinner  should  suffer  is  only  fair  dealing, 

As  the  saint  keeps  her  charity  back  for  “ the  ball ! ” ‘ 


among  the  initiated,  because  my  friend  Hobliouse  has  foamed  into 
a reformer,  and,  I greatly  fear,  will  subside  into  Newgate.” — Lorn 
Byron  to  Mr.  Moore.] 

(4)  These  lines  were  written  on  reading  in  the  newspapers,  that 
Lady  Byron  had  been  patroness  of  a ball  iD  aid  of  some  chanty  at 
Hinckley. 


i831. 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


575 


EPIGRAM  ON  MY  WEDDING-DAY. 

TO  PENELOTE. 

This  day,  of  all  our  days,  has  done 
The  worst  for  me  and  you  : — 

’Tis  just  Hr  years  since  we  were  one, 

And  Jive  since  we  were  two. 

January  2,  1821. 


ON  MY  THIRTY-THIRD  BIRTH-DAY. 
JANUARY  22,  1821.1 

Through  life’s  dull  road,  so  dim  and  dirty, 

I have  dragg-’d  to  three  and  thirty. 

What  have  these  years  left  to  me  ? 

Nothing — except  thirty -three. 


EPIGRAM, 

ON  THE  BRAZIERS’  COMPANY  HAVING  RESOLVED  TO 
PRESENT  AN  ADDRESS  TO  QUEEN  CAROLINE.2 

The  biaziers,  it  seems,  are  preparing  to  pass 
An  address,  and  present  it  themselves  all  in  brass  ; — 
A superfluous  pageant — for,  by  the  Lord  Harry  ! 
They’ll  lind  where  they’re  going  much  more  than  they 
carry.3 4 


MARTIAL,  Lib.  I.  Epig.  1. 

“ Hie  est,  quem  legis,  ille,  quem  requiris, 
Tota  notus  in  orbe  Martialis,”  &c. 

He  unto  whom  thou  art  so  partial, 

Oh,  reader ! is  the  well-known  Martial, 

The  Epigrammatist : while  living, 

Give  him  the  fame  thou  wouldst  be  giving ; 
So  shall  he  hear,  and  feel,  and  know  it — 
Post-obits  rarely  reach  a poet. 


BOWLES  AND  CAMPBELL. 

To  the  tune  of  “ Why,  how  now,  saucy  jade  ? ” 

W hy,  how  now,  saucy  Tom  ? 

If  you  thus  must  ramble, 

I will  publish  some 

Remarks  on  Mister  Campbell. 


ANSWER. 

Why,  how  now,  Billy  Bowles  ? 

Sure  the  priest  is  maudlin ! 

{To  the  public ) How  can  you,  d — n your  souls  ! 
Listen  to  his  twaddling? 

February  22,  1891.4 


EPIGRAMS. 

Oh,  Castlereagh  ! thou  art  a patriot  now ; 

Cato  died  for  his  country,  so  didst  thou : 

He  perish’d  rather  than  see  Rome  enslaved, 

Thou  cutt’st  thy  throat  that  Britain  may  be  saved 

So  Castlereagh  has  cut  his  throat ! — The  worst 
Of  this  is, — that  his  own  was  not  the  first. 

So  He  has  cut  his  throat  at  last !— He ! Who  ? 
The  man  who  cut  his  country’s  long  ago. 


EPITAPH. 

Posterity  will  ne’er  survey 
A nobler  grave  than  this  : 

Here  lie  the  bones  of  Castlereagh : 
Stop,  traveller 


JOHN  KEATS.5 

Who  kill’d  John  Keats  ? 

“ I,”  says  the  Quarterly, 

So  savage  and  Tartarlv  ; 

“ ’Twas  one  of  my  feats.'* 

Who  shot  the  arrow  ? 

“ The  poet-priest  Milman 
(So  ready  to  kill  n an). 

Or  Southey  or  Barrow.” 

July,  15*3. 


THE  CONQUEST. 

[This  fragment  was  found  amongst  Lord  Byron’s  papers,  after  his 
departure  from  Genoa  for  Greece.] 

March  8-9,  1823. 

The  Son  of  Love  and  Lord  of  War  I sing ; 

Him  who  bade  England  bow  to  Normandy, 

And  left  the  name  of  conqueror  more  than  king 
To  his  unconquerable  dynasty. 

Not  fann’d  alone  by  Victory’s  fleeting  wing, 

He  rear’d  his  bold  and  brilliant  throne  on  high : 
The  Bastard  kept,  like  lions,  his  prey  fast, 

And  Britain’s  bravest  victor  was  the  last. 


0)  [In  Lord  Byron’s  MS.  Diary  of  the  preceding  day,  we  find  the 
following  entry: — “ January  21,  1821.  Dined — visited — camehome 
— read.  Remarked  on  an  anecdote  in  Grimm’s  Correspondence,  | 
which  says,  that  ‘ Regnard  et  la  plupart  des  poetescomiques  etaient  j 
gens  bilieux  et  melancoliques  ; et  que  M.  de  Voltaire,  qui  est  tres-  j 
gai,  n’a  jamais  fait  que  des  tragedies — et  que  la  comedie  gaie  est  le 
seul  genre  ou  il  n’ait  point  reussL  C’est  que  celui  qui  rit  et  celui 
qui  fait  rire  sont  deux  hommes  fort  differens ! ’ At  this  moment  I 
feel  as  bilious  as  the  best  comic  writer  of  them  all  (even  as  Regnard 
himself,  the  next  to  Moliere,  who  has  written  some  of  the  best 
comedies  in  any  language,  and  who  is  supposed  to  have  committed 
suicide),  and  am  not  in  spirits  to  continue  my  proposed  tragedy. 
To-morrow  is  my  birthday — that  is  to  say,  at  twelve  o’  the  clock, 
midnight;  i.  e.,  in  twelve  minutes,  I shall  have  completed  thirty 
and  three  years  of  age  ! ! ! — and  I go  to  my  bed  with  a heaviness  of 
heart  at  having  lived  so  long,  and  to  so  little  purpose.  * * 

* * * It  is  ♦hree  minutes  past  twelve  — ‘ ’Tis  the  middle 

of  night  by  the  castle-clock,’  and  1 am  now  thirty-three  1 — 


‘ Elieu,  fugaces,  Posthume,  Posthume, 

Labuntur  anni;’ — 

but  I don’t  regret  them  so  much  for  what  I have  done,  as  for  what 
I might  have  done.”] 

(2)  [The  procession  of  the  Braziers  to  Brandenburgh  House  was 
one  of  the  most  absurd  fooleries  of  the  time  of  the  late  Queen’s 
trial.] 

(3)  [“There  is  an  epigram  for  you,  is  it  not? — worthy 

Of  Wordsworth,  the  grand  metaquizzical  poet, 

A man  of  vast  merit,  though  few  people  know  it; 

The  perusal  of  whom  (as  1 told  you  at  Mestri) 

I owe,  in  great  part,  to  my  passion  for  pastry.” 

Byron  Letters , January  22,  1821.] 

(4)  [“  Excuse  haste, — I write  with  my  spurs  putting  on.” — Lord 
Byron  to  Mr.  Moore , Feb.  22,  1821.] 

(5)  [“  Are  you  aware  that  Shelley  has  written  an  elegy  on  Keats, 
and  accuses  the  Quarterly  of  killing  him?” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr. 
Murray,  July  30,  1821.] 


676 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


TO  MR.  MURRAY. 

For  Orfcrd1  and  for  Waldegrave  2 
Y’ou  give  much  more  than  me  you  gave ; 
Whijcli  is  not  fairly  to  behave, 

My  Murray. 

Because  if  a live  dog,  ’tis  said, 

Be  worth  a lion  fairly  sped, 

A live  lord  must  be  worth  two  dead, 

My  Murray. 

And  if,  as  the  opinion  goes, 

Verse  hath  a better  sale  than  prose, — 
Certes,  I should  have  more  than  those, 
My  Murray. 

But  now  this  sheet  is  nearly  cramm’d. 
So,  if  you  will,  I shan’t  be  shamm’d, 
And  if  you  wortt,  you  may  be  damn’d, 
My  Murray.3 


THE  IRISH  AVATAR.4 

“ And  Ireland,  like  a bastinadoed  elephant,  kneeling  to  receive 
the  paltry  rider.” — Curran , 

Ere  the  daughter  of  Brunswick  is  cold  in  her  grave, 
And  her  ashes  still  float  to  their  home  o’er  the  tide, 
Lo  ! George  the  triumphant  speeds  over  the  wave, 

To  the  long-cherish’d  isle  which  he  loved  like  his — 
bride. 

True,  the  great  of  her  bright  and  brief  era  are  gone, 
The  rainbow-like  epoch  where  Freedom  could  pause 
For  the  few  little  years,  out  of  centuries  won, 

Which  betray’d  not,  or  crush’d  not,  or  wept  not  her 
cause. 

True,  the  chains  of  the  Catholic  clank  o’er  his  rags, 
The  castle  still  stands,  and  the  senate’s  no  more, 
And  the  famine  which  dwelt  on  her  freedomless  crags 
Is  extending  its  steps  to  her  desolate  shore. 

To  her  desolate  shore — where  the  emigrant  stands 
For  a moment  to  gaze  ere  he  flies  from  his  hearth  ; 
Tears  fall  on  his  chain,  though  it  drops  from  his  hands, 
For  the  dungeon  he  quits  is  the  place  of  his  birth. 

But  he  comes  ! the  Messiah  of  royalty  comes ! 

Like  a goodly  Leviathan  roll’d  from  the  waves  ! 
Then  receive  him  as  best  such  an  advent  becomes, 
With  a legion  of  cooks,  and  an  army  of  slaves  ! 

Fie  comts  in  the  promise  and  bloom  of  threescore, 

To  perform  in  the  pageant  the  sovereign’s  part — 
But  long  live  the  shamrock  which  shadows  him  o’er ! 
Could  the  green  in  his  hat  be  transferr’d  to  his  heart ! 


(1)  [Horace  Walpole’s  Memoirs  of  the  last  nine  years  of  the  Reign 
of  George  II.] 

(2)  [Memoirs  by  James  Earl  Waldegrave,  Governor  of  George 
III.  when  Prince  of  Wales.] 

(3)  [“  Can’t  accept  your  courteous  offer.  These  matters  must  be 
arranged  with  Mr.  Douglas  Kinnaird.  He  is  my  trustee,  and  a 
man  of  honour.  To  him  you  can  state  all  your  mercantile  reasons, 
which  you  might  not  like  to  state  to  me  personally,  such  as 

heavy  season’ — ‘flat  public’ — * don't  go  off’ — ‘lordship  writes  too 
much  ’ — ‘ won't  take  advice  ’ — ‘ declining  popularity  ’ — ‘ deduction 


1821, 

Co'dd  .1.3.  bng-wither’d  spot  but  be  verdant  again, 
And  a new  spring  of  noble  affections  arise — 

Then  might  freedom  forgive  thee  this  dance  in  thy 
chain,  t [skies. 

And  this  shout  of  thy  slavery  which  saddens  the 

Is  it  madness  or  meanness  which  clings  to  thee  now  ? 

Were  he  God — as  he  is  but  the  commonest  clay. 
With  scarce  fewer  wrinkles  than  sins  on  his  brow — 
Such  servile  devotion  might  shame  him  away. 

Ay,  roar  in  his  train ! let  thine  orators  lash 
Their  fanciful  spirits  to  pamper  his  pride — 

Not  thus  did  thy  Grattan  indignantly  flash 

His  soul  o’er  the  freedom  implored  and  denied.1 

Ever  glorious  Grattan  ! the  best  of  the  good  ! 

So  simple  in  heart,  so  sublime  in  the  rest ! 

With  all  which  Demosthenes  wanted  endued, 

And  his  rival  or  victor  in  all  he  possess’d. 

Ere  Tully  arose  in  the  zenith  of  Rome, 

Though  unequall’d,  preceded,  the  task  was  begun— 
But  Grattan  sprung  up  like  a god  from  the  tomb 
Of  ages,  the  first,  last,  the  saviour,  the  one  ! 

With  the  skill  of  an  Orpheus  to  soften  the  brute ; 

With  the  fire  of  Prometheus  to  kindle  mankind ; 
Even  Tyranny  listening  sate  melted  or  mute, 

And  Corruption  shrunk  scorch’d  from  the  glance  of 
his  mind. 

But  back  to  our  theme ! Back  to  despots  and  slaves  ! 

Feasts  furnish’d  by  Famine  ! rejoicings  by  Pain  ! 
True  freedom  but  welcomes,  while  slavery  still  raves . 
When  a week’s  saturnalia  hath  loosen’d  her  cnam. 

Let  the  poor  squalid  splendour  thy  wreck  can  afford 
(As  the  bankrupt’s  profusion  his  ruin  would  hide) 
Gild  over  the  palace,  Lo  ! Erin,  thy  lord ! 

Kiss  his  foot  with  thy  blessing,  his  blessings  denied  ! 

Or  ^freedom  past  hope  be  extorted  at  last, 

If  the  idol  of  brass  find  his  feet  are  of  clay, 

Must  what  terror  or  policy  wring  forth  be  class’d 
With  what  monarchs  ne’er  give,  but  as  wolves  yie^i 
their  prey  ? 

Each  brute  hath  its  nature,  a king’s  is  to  reign, — 

To  reign  ! in  that  word  see,  ye  ages,  comprised 
The  cause  of  the  curses  all  annals  contain, 

From  Caesar  the  dreaded  to  George  the  despised  ! 

Wear,  Fingal,  thy  trapping!  O’Connell,  proclaim 
His  accomplishments  ! His  ! ! ! and  thy  country 
convince 

Half  an  age’s  contempt  was  an  error  of  fame, 

And  that  “ Hal  is  the  rascaliest,  sweetest  yo'nny 
prince ! ” 


for  the  trade’ — ‘ >ncke  very  little’ — * generally  lose  by  him’ — * pirated 
edition’ — ‘ foreign  edition’ — ‘ severe  criticisms,’  &c.,  with  other  hints 
and  howls  for  an  oration,  which  I leave  Douglas,  who  is  an  orator, 
to  answer.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray,  Aug.  23,  1821.] 

(4)  [“  The  enclosed  lines,  as  you  will  directly  perceive,  are  writ- 
ten by  the  Rev.  W.  L.  R . Of  course  it  is  for  him  to  deny 

them,  if  they  are  not.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Moore,  Sept.  17,  1821.] 

(5)  [“  After  the  stanza  on  Grattan,  will  it  please  you  to  causa 
insert  the  following  addenda,  which  I dreamed  of  during  to  day’s 
siesta.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr,  Moore,  20,  1821] 


OCCASIONAL  PIECES. 


577 


1821. 


vVill  thy  yard  of  blue  riband,  poor  Fingal,  recall 
The  fetters  from  millions  of  Catholic  limbs  ? 

Or,  has  it  not  bound  thee  the  fastest  of  all 

The  slaves,  who  now  hail  their  betrayer  with  hymns  i 

by  ! “ Build  him  a dwelling  !”  let  each  give  his  mite ! 

Till,  like  Babel,  the  new  royal  dome  bath  arisen  ! 

Let  thy  beggars  and  helots  their  pittance  unite — 

And  a palace  bestow  for  a poor-house  and  prison ! 

Spread — spread,  for  Yitellius,  the  royal  repast, 

Till  tne  gluttonous  despot  be  stuff’d  to  the  gorge  . 
And  the  roar  of  his  drunkards  proclaim  him  at  last 
The  Fourth  of  the  fools  and  oppressors  call  d 
“ George  1” 

Let  the  tables  be  loaded  with  feasts  till  they  groan  ! 

Till  they  groan  like  thy  people,  through  ages  of  woe  ! 
Let  the  wine  flow  around  the  old  Bacchanal’s  throne, 
Like  their  blood  which  has  flow’d,  and  which  yet 
has  to  flow. 

But  let  not  his  name  be  thine  idol  alone — 

On  his  right  hand  behold  a Sejanus  appears ! 

Thine  own  Castlereagh  ! let  him  still  be  thine  own  . 

A wretch  never  named  but  with  curses  and  jeers !*  1 * 

Till  now,  when  the  isle  which  should  blush  for  his  birth, 

'■  Deep,  deep  as  the  gore  which  lie  shed  on  her  soil, 
Seems  proud  of  the  reptile  which  crawl’d  from  her 
earth, 

And  for  murder  repays  him  with  shouts  and  a smile. 

Without  one  single  ray  ol  her  genius,  without 
The  fancy,  the  manhood,  the  fire  of  her  race 
The  miscreant  who  well  might  plunge  Erin  in  doubt 
If  she  ever  gave  birth  to  a being  so  base. 

If  she  did — let  her  long-boasted  proverb  be  hush’d, 
Which  proclaims  that  from  Erin  no  reptile  can 
spring — 

See  the  cold-blooded  serpent,  with  venom  full  flush’d, 
Still  warming'  its  folds  in  the  breast  of  a king ! 

Shout,  drink,  feast,  and  flatter  ! Oh ! Erin,  how  low 
Wert  thou  sunk  by  misfortune  and  tyranny,  till 
Thy  welcome  of  tyrants  had  plunged  thee  below 
The  depth  of  thy  deep  in  a deeper  gulf  still. 

My  voice,  though  but  humble,  was  raised  for  thy  right, 
My  vote,  as  a freeman’s,  still  voted  thee  free, 

This  hand,  though  but  feeble,  would  arm  in  thy  fight, 
And  this  heart,  though  outworn,  had  a throb  still 
lor  thee  ! 


Yes,  I loved  thee  and  thine,  though  thou  art  no*  vay 
land,  Isons, 

I have  known  noble  hearts  and  great  souls  in  tuy 
And  I wept  with  the  world  o’er  the  patriot  band 
Who  are  gone,  but  I weep  them  no  longer  as  once 

For  happy  are  they  now  reposing  afar,— 

Thy  Grattan,  thy  Curran,  thy  Sheridan,  all 
Who,  for  years,  were  the  chiefs  in  the  eloquent  war, 
And  redeem’d,  if  they  have  not  retarded,  thy  fall. 

Yes,  happy  are  they  in  their  cold  English  graves  ! 

Their  shades  cannot  start  to  thy  shouts  of  to-day — 
Nor  the  steps  of  enslavers  and  cliain-ldssing  slaves 
Be  stamp’d  in  the  turf  o’er  their  fetterless  clay. 

Till  now  I had  envied  thy  sons  and  their  shore, 

Though  their  virtues  were  hunted,  their  liberties  fled ; 
There  was  something  so  warm  and  sublime  in  the  core 
Of  an  Irishman’s  heart,  that  I envy— thy  dead. 

Or,  if  aught  in  my  bosom  can  quench  for  an  hour 
My  contempt  for  a nation  so  servile,  though  sore, 
Which  though  trod  like  the  worm  will  not  turn  upon 
powef, 

’Tis  the  glory  of  Grattan,  and  genius  of  Moore  ! 

September,  1821. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  ROAD  RENCE  AND 

A ion.. 

Oh,  talk  not  to  me  of  a name  great  in  story ; 

The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory  ; 

And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is 
wrinkled  ? , , 

’Tis  but  as  a dead  flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled. 
Then  away  with  all  such  fr  om  the  head  that  is  hoary  . 
What  care  I for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  glory  t 

Oh  Fame  ! 3 4 — if  I e’er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
’Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high  sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

There  chiefly  I sought  thee,  there  only  I found  thee  ; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee 
When  it  sparkled  o’er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my 
story, 

I knew  it  was  love,  and  I felt  it  was  glory. 


(1)  [“The  last  line — ‘A  name  never  spoke  but  with  curses  or 
Jeers*  must  run,  either  ‘ A name  only  uttered  with  curses  or  jeers, 
or,  ‘ A wretch  never  named  but  with  curses  or  jeers,’  becase  as  how 
* spoke  is  not  grammar,  except  in  the  House  of  Commons.  So 
piay  pu\  your  poetical  pen  through  the  MS.,  and  take  the  least  baa 
c i the  emendations.  Also,  if  there  be  any  further  breaking  of 
Priscians  nead,  will  you  apply  a plaster?” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr. 
Moore,  Sept.  19.] 

(2)  [“I  composed  these  stanzas  (except  the  fourth,  anded  now) 
a few  days  ago,  on  the  road  from  Florence  to  Pisa  ."--Byron  Diary, 
Pisa,  6th  Nov.  1821.] 

(3)  [In  the  same  Diary,  we  find  the  following  painfully  interest- 
ing  passage : — “ As  far  as  Fame  goes  (that  is  to  say,  living  Fame), 
I have  had  my  share,  perhaps— indeed,  certainly— more  than  my 
deserts.  Some  odd  instances  have  occurred  to  my  own  experience 
o(  the  wold  and  stiange  places  to  which  a name  may  penetrate,  and 
where  it  may  impress.  Two  years  ago— (almost  three,  being  in 
August,  or  July,  1819) — I received  a letter  in  English  verse  from 
Drontheim  in  Norway,  written  by  a Norwegian,  and  full  of  the 
usual  compliments,  &c.  &c.  In  the  same  month  I received  an  in- 
vitation into  Holstein , from  a Mr.  Jacobson,  I think,  of  Hamburgh; 


0 (by  the  same  medium)  a translation  of  Medoras  song  in  the 
orsair,’  by  a Westphalian  baroness  (not  ‘ Thunderten-tronck  ),  with 
ne  original  verses  of  hers  (very  pretty  and  Klopstockish),  and  a 
)se  translation  annexed  to  them,  on  the  subject  of  my  wife.  As 
>y  concerned  her  more  than  me,  I sent  them  to  her  With  ilr 
cobson's  letter.  It  was  odd  enough  to  receive  an  invitation  to 
ss  the  summer  in  Holstein,  while  in  Italy,  from  people  1 never 
ew  The  letter  was  addressed  to  Venice.  Mr.  J.  talked  to  me 
the  ‘ wild  roses  grow'ng  in  the  Holstein  summer:  why,  then, 

1 the  Cimbri  and  the  Teutones  emigrate  ?— What  a strange  thing 

life  and  man  ! Were  I to  present  myself  at  the  door  of  the  house 

lere  my  daughter  now  is,  the  door  would  be  Shut  in  my  face,  un- 
is (as  is  not  impossible)  I knocked  down  the  porter ; and  if  I ^ .iad 
ne  in  that  year  (and  perhaps  now)  to  Drontheim  (the  furthest 
wn  in  Norway),  or  into  Holstein,  I should  have  been  received 
th  open  arms'  into  the  mansions  of  strangers  and  foreigners 
tached  to  me  by  no  tie  but  that  of  mind  and  rumour.  As  tar  aa 
xme  goes,  I have  had  my  share : it  has,  indeed,  been  leavened  by 
her  human  contingencies ; and  this  in  a greater  degree  than  has 
curred  to  most  literary  men  of  a decent  rank  in  life  ; but,  on  ttie 
;iole,  I take  it  that  such  equipoise  is  the  condition  of  humanity.  J 

4 E 


578 


18U 


LORD  BYR 

STANZAS 

TO  A HINDOO  AIR.1 

Oh  ! - my  lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow  ! 

Where  is  my  lover  ! where  is  my  lover  ? 

Is  it  his  bark  which  my  dreary  dreams  discover  ? 
Par— far  away  ! and  alone  along  the  billow  ? 

Oh  ! my  lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow  ! 

Why  must  my  head  ache'  where  his  gentle  brow  lay  ! 
How  the  long  night  flags  lovelessly  and  slowly, 

And  my  head  droops  over  thee  iike  the  willow  ! 

Oh ! thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  Pillow  ! 

Send  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from  breaking, 
In  return  for  the  tears  I shed  upon  thee  waking ; 

Let  me  not  die  till  he  comes  back  o’er  the  billow. 

Then  if  thou  wilt — no  more  my  lonely  Pillow, 

In  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold  him, 

And  then  expire  of  the  joy — but  to  behold  him  ! 

Oh  ! my  lone  bosom  j — oh  ! my  lonely  Pillow  ! 


IMPROMPTU.2 

Beneath  Blessington’s  eyes 
The  reclaim’d  Paradise 
Should  be  free  as  the  former  from  evil ; 

But,  if  the  new  Eve 
Eor  an  Apple  should  grieve, 

What  mortal  would  not  play  the  Devil  ?3 * 

1823. 


TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON. 

You  have  ask’d  for  a verse  : — the  request 
In  a rhymer  ’twere  strange  to  deny  ; 

But  my  Hippocrene  was  but  my  breast. 

And  my  feelings  (its  fountain)  are  dry. 

Were  I now  as  I was,  I had  sung 
What  Lawrence  has  painted  so  well ; 

But  the  strain  would  expire  on  my  tongue, 

And  the  theme  is  too  soft  for  my  shell. 

I am  ashes  where  once  I was  fire. 

And  the  bard  in  my  bosom  is  dead ; 

What  I loved  I now  merely  admire, 

And  my  heart  is  as  grey  as  my  head. 

My  life  is  not  dated  by  years — 

There  are  moments  which  act  as  a plough  ; 

And  there  is  not  a furrow  appears 
But  is  deep  in  my  soul  as  my  brow. 


(1)  [These  verses  were  written  by  Lord  Byron  a little  before  he 
left  Italy  for  Greece.  They  were  meant  to  suit  the  Hindostanee 
air  — “Alla  Malla  Punca,”  which  the  Countess  Guiccioli  was  fond 
of  singing.] 

(2)  [With  a view  of  inducing  Lord  and  Lady  Blessington  to  pro- 
long their  stay  at  Genoa,  Lord  Byron  suggested  their  taking  a pretty 
villa  called  “II  Paradiso,”  in  the  neighbourhood  of  his  own,  and 
accompanied  them  to  look  at  it.  Upon  that  occasion  it  was  that, 
on  the  lady  expressing  some  intentions  of  residing  there,  he  pro- 
duced this  impromptu. — Moore.] 

(3)  [The  Genoese  wits  had  already  applied  this  threadbare  jest 

to  himself,  'faking  it  into  their  heads  that  this  villa  (which  was 

also,  I believe,  a Casa  Saluzzo)  had  been  the  one  fixed  on  for  his 
own  residence,  they  said,  “ II  Diavolo  6 ancora  eutrato  in  Para- 
duo." — Moors  J 


'S  WORKS.  # 

Let  the  young  and  the  brilliant  aspire 
To  sing  what  I gaze  on  in  vain  ; 

Eor  sorrow  has  torn  from  my  lyre 
The  string  which  was  worthy  the  strain. 


ON  THIS  DAY  I COMPLETE  MY  THIRTY 
SIXTH  YEAR. 

^ _ Missolonghi,  Jan.  22,  1824. 

’Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move 

Yet,  though  I cannot  be  beloved. 

Still  let  me  love  ! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf ; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone ; 

The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 
Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle ; 

No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 

A funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 

And  power  of  love,  I cannot  share, 

But  wear  the  chain. 

But  ’tis  not  thus — and  ’tis  not  here — 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  uo^9t 

Where  glory  decks  the  hero’s  bier, 

Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 

Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see  ! 

The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield. 

Was  not  more  free. 

Awake  ! (not  Greece — she  is  awake  !) 

Awake,  my  spirit ! Think  through  whom 

Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 

And  then  strike  home  ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 

Unworthy  manhood  ! — unto  thee 

Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regret’ st  thy  youth,  why  live  ? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 

Is  here  : — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath. 

Seek  out— less  often  sought  than  found — 

A soldier’s  grave,  for. thee  the  best ; 

Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 

And  take  thy  rest.5 


(4)  [This  morning  Lord  Byron  came  from  his  bedroom  into  the 
apartment  where  Colonel  Stanhope  and  some  friends  were  assem- 
bled, and  said  with  a smile — “You  were  complaining,  the  other 
day,  that  I never  write  any  poetry  now.  This  is  my  birthday,  and 
I have  just  finished  something,  which,  I think,  is  better  than  what 
I usually  write.”  He  then  produced  these  noble  and  affecting 
verses. — Count  Gamba.] 

(5)  [Taking  into  consideration  every  thing  connected  with  these 
verses, — the  last  tender  aspirations  of  a loving  spirit  which  they 
breathe,  the  self  devotion  to  a noble  cause  which  they  so  nobly 
express,  and  that  consciousness  of  a near  grave  glimmering  sadly 
through  the  whole, — then;  is  perhaps  no  production  within  the 
range  of  mere  human  composition,  round  which  the  circumstance* 
and  feelings  under  which  it  was  written  cast  so  touching  an  interest 
— Moope.] 


®oit  f/ttam 


“ Difficile  est  proprid  communia  dicere.” — Hor. 

•*  Dc*t  thou  think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale? — Yes,  bj  Saint  Anne,  and  gingei  ahkJ  ba  bol 
!*  the  mouth,  too!” — Shakspeare  Twelfth  Night , or  What  You  Will. 


[EDITOR’S  PREFACE. 

The  reader  of  the  “ Notices  of  the  Life  of  Lord 
Byron”  is  already  in  possession  of  abundant  details, 
concerning  the  circumstances  under  which  the  suc- 
cessive cantos  of  Don  Juan  were  produced.  We 
think  it  right,  however,  to  repeat,  in  this  place,  some 
of  the  most  striking  passages  of  the  Poet’s  own  letters, 
with  reference  to  this  performance : — 

September  19,  1818. — “I  have  finished  the  First  Canto  (along 
one,  of  about  180  octaves)  of  a poem  in  the  style  and  manner  of 
Beppo,  encouraged  by  the  good  success  of  the  same  It  is  called 
Don  Juan,  and  is  meant  to  be  a little  quietly  facetious  upon  every 
thing.  But  I doubt  whether  it  is  not— at  least,  as  far  as  it  has  yet 
. gone — too  free  for  these  very  modest  days.  However,  I shall  try 
the  experiment  anonymously ; and  if  it  don’t  take,  it  will  be  dis- 
continued. It  is  dedicated  to  Southey,  in  good,  simple,  savage 
verse,  upon  the  Laureate’s  politics,  and  the  way  he  got  them.” 

January  25,  1819.—“  Print  it  entire,  omitting,  of  course,  the  lines 
on  Castlereagh,  as  I am  not  on  the  spot  to  meet  him.  I have 
acquiesced  in  the  request  and  representation : and  having  done 
so,  it  is  idle  to  detail  my  arguments  in  favour  of  my  own  self-love  ' 
and  ‘ poeshie ;’  but  I protest.  If  the  poem  has  poetry,  it  would 
stand;  if  not,  fall ; the  rest  is  ‘ leather  and  prunello,’  and  has  never 
yet  affected  any  human  production  ‘pro  or  con.’  Dullness  is  the 
only  annihilator  in  such  cases.  As  to  the  cant  of  the  day,  I despise 
it,  as  I have  ever  done  all  its  other  finical  fashions,  which  become 
you  as  paint  became  the  ancient  Britons.  If  you  admit  this  pru- 
dery, you  must  omit  half  Ariosto,  La  Fontaine,  Shakspeare,  Beau- 
mont, Fletcher,  Massinger,  Ford,  all  the  Charles  Second  writers ; 
in  short,  something  of  most  who  have  written  before  Pope  and  are 
worth  reading,  and  much  of  Pope  himself,  ltead,  him — most  of 
you  don't — but  do— and  I will  forgive  you  ; though  the  inevitable 
consequence  would  be,  that  you  would  burn  all  1 have  ever  written, 
and  all  your  other  wretched  Claudians  of  the  day  (except  Scott  and 
Crabbe)  into  the  bargain.” 

February  1,  1819. — “ I have  not  yet  begun  to  copy  out  the  Second 
Canto,  which  is  finished,  from  natural  laziness,  and  the  discourage- 
ment of  the  milk  and  water  they  have  thrown  upon  the  First.  I 
say  all  this  to  them  as  to  jou,  that  is,  for  you  to  say  to  them , for  I 
will  have  nothing  underhand.  If  they  had  told  me  the  poetry  was 
bad,  I would  have  acquiesced ; but  they  say  the  contrary,  and 
then  talk  to  me  about  morality — the  first  time  I ever  heard  the 
word  from  any  body  who  was  not  a rascal  that  used  it  for  a pur- 
pose. I maintain  that  it  is  the  most  moral  of  poems  ; but  if  people 
won’t  discover  the  moral,  that  is  their  fault,  not  mine.” 

April  6,  1819. — “ You  sha’n’t  make  canticles  of  my  cantos.  The 
poem  will  please,  if  it  is  lively ; if  it  is  stupid,  it  will  fail : but  I 
will  have  none  of  your  damned  cutting  and  slashing.  If  you  please, 
vou  may  publish  anonymously ; it  will  perhaps  be  better;  but  I 
will  battle  my  way  against  them  all,  like  a porcupine.” 

August  12,  1819.—“  You  are  right,  Gifford  is  right,  Crabbe  is 
•ight,  Hobhouse  is  right — you  are  all  right,  and  I am  all  wrong ; 

ut  do,  pray,  let  me  have  that  pleasure.  Cut  me  up  root  and 
branch;  quarter  me  in  the  Quarterly;  send  round  my  ‘disjecti 
membra  poeiae,’  like  those  of  the  Levite’s  concubine;  make  me,  if 
you  will,  a spectacje  to  men  and  angels;  but  don’t  ask  me  to  alter, 
for  I won’t ; — I am  obstinate  and  laz} — and  there’s  the  truth. — 
You  ask  me  for  the  plan  of  Donny  Johnny  : I have  no  plan  ; I had 
no  plan;  but  I had  or  have  materials;  though  if,  like  Tony  Lump- 
kin, ‘ 1 am  to  be  snubbed  so  when  I am  in  spirits,’  the  poem  will 
be  naught,  and  the  poet  turn  serious  again.  If  it  don’t  take,  1 will 
leave  it  off  where  it  is,  with  all  due  respect  to  the  public;  but  if 
continued,  it  must  be  in  my  own  way.  You  might  as  well  make 
Hamlet  (or  Diggory)  ‘act  mad’  in  a strait  waistcoat,  as  trammel 
my  buffoonery,  if  I am  to  be  a buffoon;  their  gestures  and  my 
thoughts  would  only  be  pitiably  absurd  and  ludicrously  con- 
strained. Why,  man,  the  soul  of  such  writing  is  its  licence ; at 
least  the  liberty  of  that  licence*  if  one  likes — not  that  one  should 
abuse  it.  It  is  like  Trial  by  Jury  and  Peerage,  and  the  Habeas 
Corpus— a very  fine  thing,  but  chiefly  in  the  reversion;  because  no 
one  wishes  to  be  tried  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  proving  his  posses- 


sion of  the  privilege.  But  a truce  with  these  reflections.  You  are 
too  earnest  and  eager  about  a work  never  intended  to  be  serious. 
Do  you  suppose  that  I could  have  any  intention  but  to  giggle  and 
make  giggle? — a playful  satire,  with  as  little  poetry  as  could  be 
helped,  was  what  I meant.  And  as  to  the  indecency,  do,  pray,  read 
in  Boswell  what  Johnson,  the  sullen  moralist,  says  of  Prior  and 
Paulo  Purgante.”! 

August  24,  1819. — “ Keep  the  anonymous:  it  helps  what  fun 
there  may  be.  But  if  the  matter  grows  serious  about  * Don  Juan,’ 
and  you  feel  yourself  in  a scrape,  or  me  either,  own  that  I am  the 
author.  I will  never  shrink ; and  if  you  do,  i can  always  answer 
you  in  the  question  of  Guatimozin  to  his  minister — each  being  on 
his  own  coals.2  I wish  that  I had  been  in  better  spirits  ; but  1 am 
out  of  sorts,  out  of  nerves,  and,  now  and  then  (I  begin  to  fear),  out 
of  my  senses  ” 

Such  additional  particulars,  respecting  the  produc- 
tion of  the  later  Cantos,  as  may  seem  to  deserve  pre- 
servation, shall  be  given  as  the  poem  proceeds.  In 
the  mean  time,  we  have  been  much  puzzled  how  to 
put  the  reader,  who  does  not  recollect  the  incidents 
of  1819,  in  possession  of  any  thin"  like  an  adequate 
view  of  the  nature  and  extent  of  the  animadversion 
called  forth  by  the  first  publication  of  Don  Juan. 

Cantos  I.  and  II.  appeared  in  London,  in  July, 
1819,  without  the  name  either  of  author  or  bookseller, 
in  a thin  quarto  ; and  the  periodical  press  immediately 
teemed  with  the  “ judicia  doctorum — necnon  aliorum .” 
It  has  occurred  to  us,  that  on  this  occasion  we  might 
do  worse  than  adopt  the  example  set  us  in  the  Preface 
to  the  first  complete  edition  of  the  Dunciad.  We 
there  read  as  follows  : — “ Before  we  present  thee, 
Reader,  with  our  exercitations  on  this  most  delectable 
Poem  (drawn  from  the  many  volumes  of  our  Adver- 
saria on  modern  Authors),  we  shall  here,  according 
to  the  laudable  usage  of  editors,  collect  the  various 
judgments  of  the  Learned  concerning  our  Poet : 
various,  indeed  ! — not  only  of  different  authors,  but 
of  the  same  author  at  different  seasons.  Nor  shall 
we  gather  only  the  Testimonies  of  such  eminent  Wits 
as  would  of  course  descend  to  posterity,  and  conse- 
quently be  read  without  our  collection ; but  we  shall 
likewise,  with  incredible  labour,  seek  out  for  divers 
others,  which,  but  for  this  our  diligence,  could  never, 
at  the  distance  of  a few  months,  appear  to  the  eye  of 
the  most  curious.  Hereby  thou  may’st  not  only 
receive  the  delectation  of  variety,  but  also  arrive  at 
a more  certain  judgment,  by  a grave  and  circumspect 
comparison  of  the  witnesses  with  each  other,  or  of 
each  with  himself.”  In  like  manner,  therefore,  let 
us  now  gratify  our  readers,  by  selecting,  in  reference 
to  Don  Juan,  a few  of  the  chief 

Ccstimonies  of  authors, 

beginning  with  the  most  courtly,  and  decorous,  and 
high-spirited  of  newspapers, 

I.  THE  MORNING  POST. 

“ The  greatest  anxiety  having  been  excited  with  respect  to 
the  appearance  of  this  Poem,  we  shall  lay  a few  stanzas  before 

(2)  [“  Am  I now  reposing  on  a bed  of  flowers  ?” — Robertsox  } 


(1)  [Boswell’s  Johnson,  vol.  vii.  p.  10,  edit.  1835.] 


580 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


our  readers,  merely  observing,  that,  whatever  its  character,  report 
has  been  completely  erroneous  respecting  it.  If  it  is  not — (and 
truth  compels  us  to  admit  it  is  not)  — the  most  moral  production  in 
the  world,  but  more  in  the  ‘ Beppo  ’ style,  yet  is  there  nothing  of 
the  sort  which  Scandal  with  her  hundred  tongues  whispered  abroad, 
and  Malignity  joyfully  believed  and  repeated,  contained  in  it.  ’Tis 
simply  a tale  and  righte  merrie  conceit,  flighty,  wild,  extravagant — 
immoral  too,  it  must  be  confessed ; but  no  arrows  are  levelled  at 
innocent  bosoms,  no  sacred  family  peace  invaded ; and  they  must 
have,  indeed,  a strange  self-consciousness,  who  can  discover  their 
own  portrait  in  any  part  of  it.  Thus  much,  though  we  cannot  ad- 
vocate the  book,  truth  and  justice  ordain  us  to  declare.”] 

Even  more  complimentary,  on  this  occasion,  was 
the  sober,  matter-of-fact  TAwailsism  of  the 

II.  MORNING  HERALD. 

“ It  is  hardly  safe  or  discreet  to  speak  of  Don  Juan,  that  truant 
offspring  of  Lord  Byron’s  muse.  It  may  be  said,  however,  that, 
with  all  its  sins,  the  copiousness  and  flexibility  of  the  English  lan- 
guage were  never  before  so  triumphantly  approved — that  the  same 
compass  of  talent — 1 the  grave,  the  gay,  the  great,  the  small.’  comic 
force,  humour,  metaphysics,  and  observation — boundless  fancy  and 
ethereal  beauty,  and  curious  knowledge,  curiously  applied,  have 
never  been  blended  with  the  same  felicity  in  any  other  poem.” 

Next  comes  a harsher  voice,  from — probably  Lees 
Giffard,  Esq.,  LL.D. — at  all  events,  from  that  staunch 
organ  of  high  Toryism,  the  “ St.  James’s  Chronicle,” 
still  flourishing,  but  now  better  known  to  London 
readers  by  its  "daily  title  of  “ The  Standard.” 

III.  ST.  JAMES’S  CHRONICLE. 

“ Of  indirect  te  timony  that  the  poem  comes  from  the  pen  of 
Lord  Byron,  there  is  enough  to  enforce  conviction.  The  same  full 
command  of  our  language,  the  same  thorough  knowledge  of  all 
that  is  evil  in  our  nature,  the  condensed  energy  of  sentiment,  and 
the  striking  boldness  of  imagery— all  the  characteristics  by  which 
Childe  Harold,  the  Giaour,  and  the  Corsair,  are  distinguished — shine 
with  kindred  splendour  in  Don  Juan.  Would  we  had  not  to  add 
another  point  of  resemblance,  in  the  utter  absence  of  moral  feeling, 
and  the  hostility  to  religion,  which  betray  themselves  in  almost 
every  passage  of  the  new  poem  ! But  Don  Juan  is,  alas!  the  most 
licentious  poem  which  has  for  many  years  issued  from  the  English 
press.” 

The  fourth  on  our  list  is  “The  New  Times,”  con- 
ducted in  those  days  by  the  worthy  and  learned  Sir 
J ohn  Stoddart,  LL.D.,  now  Chief  Justice  of  Malta. 

IV.  NEW  TIMES. 

" The  work  is  clever  and  pungent,  sometimes  reminding  us  of 
the  earlier  and  more  inspired  day  of  the  writer,  but  chiefly  charac- 
terised by  his  latter  style  of  scattered  versification  and  accidental 
poetry.  It  begins  with  a few  easy  prefatory  stanzas  relative  to  the 
choice  of  a hero ; and  then  details  the  learned  and  circumspect 
education  of  Don  Juan,  under  his  lady  mother’s  eye.  Lord  Byron 
knows  the  additional  vigour  to  be  found  in  drawing  from  the  life; 
and  his  portraiture  of  the  literary  matron,  who  is,  like  Michael 
Cassio,  a great  arithmetician,  some  touches  on  the  folly  of  female 
studies,  and  a lament  over  the  hen-pecked  husbands  who  are  linked 
to  ‘ ladies  intellectual,’  are  obviously  the  results  of  domestic  recol- 
lections.” 

Lord  Burleigh  himself  never  shook  his  head  more 
sagely  than 

V.  THE  STATESMAN. 

“ This  is  a very  large  book,  affecting  many  mysteries,  but  pos- 
sessing very  few;  assuming  much  originality,  though  it  hath  it  not. 
The  author  is  wrong  to  pursue  so  eccentric  a flight.  It  is  too 
artificial:  it  is  too  much  like  the  enterprise  of  Icarus;  and  his 
declination,  or,  at  any  rate,  that  of  his  book,  will  be  as  rapid,  if  not 
as  disastrous,  as  the  fabled  tumble  of  that  ill-starred  youth.” 

We  pass  to  “ The  Literary  Gazette,”  edited  then, 
as  now,  by  William  Jerdan,  Esq.  of  Grove  House, 
Brompton ; who  is  sure  of  being  remembered  here- 
after for  his  gallant  seizure  of  Bellingham,  the  assassin 
of  Perceval,  in  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
on  the  11th  of  May,  1812  ; and  the  establishment  of 
the  first  Weekly  Journal  of  Criticism  and  Belles  Let- 
tres  in  England. 

VI.  LITERARY  GAZETTE. 

“There  is  neither  author’s  nor  publisher’s  name  to  this  book; 
and  the  large  quarto  titlepage  looks  quite  pure,  with  only  seventeen 
words  scattered  over  its  surface  : perhaps  we  cannot  say  that  there 
is  equal  purity  throughout ; but  there  is  not  much  of  an  opposite 
kind,  to  offend  even  fastidious  criticism,  or  sour  morality.  That 


Lord  Byron  is  the  author  there  is  internal  proof.  The  public  mind, 
so  agitated  by  the  strange  announcement  of  this  stranger,  in  the 
newspaper  advertisements,  may  repose  in  quiet ; since  we  can 
assure  our  readers  that  the  avatar  so  dreaded,  neither  refers  to  the 
return  of  Buonaparte,  nor  to  the  coining  of  any  other  great  national 
calamity,  but  simply  to  the  publication  of  an  exceedingly  clever 
and  entertaining  poem.  Even  when  we  blame  the  too  great  laxitj 
of  the  poet,  we  cannot  but  feel  a high  admiration  of  his  talent. 
Far  superior  to  the  libertine  he  paints,  fancifulness  and  gaiety  gild 
his  worst  errors,  and  no  brute  force  is  employed  to  overthrow  inno- 
cence. Never  was  English  festooned  into  more  luxuriant  stanzas 
than  in  Don  Juan.  Like  the  dolphin  sporting  in  its  native  waves, 
at  every  turn,  however  grotesque,  displaying  a new  hue  and  a new 
beau'y,  the  noble  author  has  shown  an  absolute  control  over  his 
means;  and  at  every  cadence,  rhyme,  or  construction,  however 
whimsical,  delighted  us  with  novel  and  magical  associations.  The 
style  and  nature  of  this  poem  appear  to  us  to  be  a singular  mixture 
of  burlesque  and  pathos,  of  humorous  observation  and  the  higher 
elements  of  poetical  composition.  In  ribaldry  and  drollery,  the 
author  is  surpassed  by  many  writers  who  have  had  their  day  and 
sunk  into  oblivion  : but  in  highly  wrought  interest,  and  overwhelm- 
ing passion,  he  is  himself  alone.” 

As  the  Editor  of  the  J ournal  above  quoted  thought 
fit  to  insert,  soon  after,  certain  extracts  from  a work 
then — (and  probably  still) — in  MS.,  entitled  “ Lord 
Byron’s  Plagiarisms,”  he  (the  Editor)  will  not  think 
it  indecorous  in  us  here  to  append  a specimen  of  the 
said  work — which  is  known  to  have  proceeded  from 
no  less  a pen  than  that  of 

VII.  ALARIC  A.  WATTS,  ESQ. 

“A  great  deal  has  been  said  at  various  times  about  the  originality 
of  Lord  Byron’s  conception,  as  it  respects  the  characters  of  the 
heroes  and  heroines  of  his  poetry.  We  are,  however,  disposed  to 
believe,  that  his  dramatis  personce  are  mostly  the  property  of  other 
exhibitors  although  he  may  sometimes  furnish  them  with  new 
dresses  and  decorations, — with  ‘ sable  hair,’  ‘unearthly  scowls,’  ‘ a 
vital  scorn  ’ of  all  beside  themselves, — and  such  additional  improve- 
ments as  he  may  consider  necessary,  in  order  to  enable  them  to 
make  their  appearance  with  satisfaction  to  himself,  and  profit,  or 
at  least  amusement,  to  the  public.  Sooth  to  say,  there  are  few 
people  better  adapted  to  play  the  part  of  a Corsair  than  his  lord- 
ship;  for  he  is  positively  unequalled  by  any  marauder  we  ever  met 
with  or  heard  of,  in  the  extent  and  variety  of  his  literary  piracies, 
and  unacknowledged  obligations  to  various  great  men — ay,  and 
women  too — livjpg  as  well  as  deceased.” 

The  next  weekly  J ournalist  whom  we  hold  it  proper 
to  quote  is  “ The  Champion” — in  other  words,  Thomas 
Hill,  Esq.,  the  generous  original  patron  of  Kirke 
White  and  Robert  Bloomfield,  so  eloquently  lauded 
by  Southey  in  his  Life  of  the  former  of  these  poets — 
then  proprietor  of 

VIII.  THE  CHAMPION. 

“ Don  Juan  is  undoubtedly  from  the  pen  of  Lord  Byron;  and 
the  mystery  in  the  publication  seems  to  be  nothing  but  a book- 
seller s trick  to  excite  curiosity  and  enhance  the  sale  ; for  although 
the  book  is  infinitely  more  immoral  than  the  publications  against 
which  the  prosecutions  of  the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Vice 
.are  directed,  we  find  nothing  in  it  that  could  be  likely  to  be  re- 
garded as  actionable.  At  the  bar  of  moral  criticism,  indeed,  it  may 
and  must  be  arraigned;  and  against  the  process  and  decrees  of 
that  court,  the  subterfuges  appealed  to  will  be  no  protection. 
Other  writers,  in  their  attacks  upon  whatever  mankind  may  or 
ought  to  reverence,  make  their  advances  in  partial  detail ; Lord 
Byron  proceeds  by  general  assault.  Some,  while  they  war  against 
religion,  pay  homage  to  morality ; and  others,  while  they  subvert 
all  morals,  cant  about  religion;  Lord  B>ron  displays  at  once  all 
the  force  ancj  energy  of  his  faculties,  all  the  powers  of  poetry,  and 
the  missiles  of  wit  and  ridicule,  against  whatever  is  respectable  in 
either.  There  is,  of  course,  a good  deal  of  miscellaneous  matter 
dispersed  through  the  two  cantos  : and  though,  in  those  parts  which 
affect  to  be  critical,  the  wantonness  of  wit  is  sometimes  more  ap- 
parent than  the  sedateness  of  impartial  judgment;  and  though  the 
politics  occasionally  savour  more  of  caustic  misanthropy,  than  of 
that  ardent  patriotic  enthusiasm  which  constitutes  the  charm  of 
that  subject — upon  both  these  topics,  on  the  whole,  we  find  much 
more  to  commend  than  to  censure.” 

Among  the  Monthly  critics,  the  first  place  is  due  to 
the  venerable  Sylvanus  Urban. 

IX.  GENTLEMAN’S  MAGAZINE 

“ Don  Juan  is  obviously  intended  as  a satire  upon  some  of  the 
conspicuous  characters  of  the  ciay.  The  best  friends  of  the  poet 
must,  with  ourselves,  lament  to  observe  abilities  of  so  high  an 
order  rendered  subservient  to  the  spirit  of  infidelity  and  libertinism. 
The  noble  bard,  by  employing  his  genius  on  a worthy  subject, 
might  delight  and  instruct  mankind;  but  the  present  work,  though 


DON  JUAN. 


581 


written  with  ease  and  spirit,  and  containing  many  truly  poetical 
passages,  cannot  be  read  by  persons  of  moral  and  religious  feelings 
without  the  most  decided  reproba  ion.” 

We  next  have  the 

X.  MONTHLY  REVIEW. 

“ Don  Juan  is  a poem,  which,  if  originality  and  variety  be  the 
wrest  test  of  genius,  has  certainly  the  highest  title  to  it ; and  which, 
we  think,  would  have  puzzled  Aristotle,  with  all  his  strength  of 
poetics,  to  explain,  have  animated  Longinus  with  some  of  its  pas- 
sages, have  delighted  Ari.-tophanes,  and  have  choked  Anacreon 
with  joy  instead  of  with  a grape.  We  might  almost  imagine  that 
the  ambition  had  seized  the  author  to  please  and  to  displease  the 
world  at  the  same  time ; but  we  can  scarcely  think  that  he  deserves 
the  fate  of  the  old  man  and  his  son  and  the  ass,  in  the  fable, — or 
that  he  will  please  nobody, — how  strongly  soever  we  may  condemn 
the  more  than  poetic  licence  of  his  muse.  He  has  here  exhibited 
that  wonderful  versatility  of  style  and  thought,  which  appears 
almost  incompatible  within  the  scope  of  a single  subject ; and  the 
familiar  and  the  sentimental,  the  witty  and  the  sublime,  the  sar- 
castic and  the  pathetic,  the  gloomy  and  the  droll,  are  all  touched 
with  so  happy  an  art,  and  mingled  together  with  such  a power  of 
union,  yet  such  a discrimination  of  style,  that  a perusal  of  the  poem 
appears  more  like  a pleasing  and  ludicrous  dream,  than  the  sober 
feeling  of  reality.  It  is  certainly  one  of  the  strangest,  though  not 
the  best,  of  dreams  ; and  it  is  much  to  be  wished  that  the  author, 
before  he  lay  down  to  sleep,  had  invoked,  like  Shakspeare’s 
Lysandc-r,  some  good  angel  to  protect  him  against  the  wicked  spirit 
of  slumbers.  We  hope,  however,  that  his  readers  have  learned  to 
admire  his  genius  without  being  in  danger  from  its  influence;  and 
we  must  not  be  surprised  if  a poet  will  not  always  wiite  to  instruct 
as  well  as  to  please  us.” 

To  which  add  a miscellany  which,  in  spite  of  great 
occasional  merit,  is  now  defunct — the 

XI.  LONDON  MAGAZINE. 

“ Lord  Byron’s  poem  of  Don  Juan,  though  a wonderful  proof  of 
the  versatility  of  his  powers,  is  avowedly  licentious.  It  is  a satire 
on  decency,  on  fine  feeling,  on  the  rules  of  conduct  necessary  to  the 
conservation  of  society,  and  on  some  of  his  own  near  connexions. 
Vivacious  allusions  to  certain  practical  irregularities  are  things 
which  it  is  to  be  supposed  innocence  is  strong  enough  to  resist : 
but  the  quick  alternation  of  pathos  and  profaneness, — of  serious 
and  moving  sentiment  and  indecent  ribaldry, — of  afflicting,  soul- 
rending  pictures  of  human  distress,  rendered  keen  by  the  most 
pure  and  hallowed  sympathies  of  the  human  breast,  and  absolute 
seering  of  human  nature,  and  general  mockery  of  creation,  destiny, 
and  heaven  itself — this  is  a sort  of  violence,  the  effect  of  which  is 
either  to  sear  or  to  disgust  the  mind  of  the  reader,  and  which 
cannot  be  fairly  characterized  but  as  an  insult  and  outrage.” 

The  journal  next  to  be  cited  is  now  also  defunct ; 
but  the  title  lias  been  revived. 

XII.  BRITISH  MAGAZINE. 

“ Byron,  after  having  achieved  a rapid  and  glorious  fame,  has, 
by  the  publication  of  this  poem,  not  only  disgusted  every  well- 
regulated  mind,  and  afflicted  all  who  respected  him  for  his  extra- 
ordinary talents,  but  has  degraded  his  personal  character  lower 
than  even  his  enemies  (of  whom  he  has  many)  could  have  wished 
to  see  it  reduced.  So  gratuitous,  so  melancholy,  so  despicable  a 
prostitution  of  genius  was  never,  perhaps,  before  witnessed.  We 
wish  we  were  the  poet’s  next  of  kin : it  should  go  hard  but  that  a 
writ  de  lunatico  inquirendo  should  issue.” 

Another  sage  long  since  dead  and  forgotten,  was 
entitled  the 

XIII.  EDINBURGH  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 

“ Don  Juan  presents  to  us  the  melancholy  spectacle  of  the 
greatest  poet  of  the  age  lending  the  enchantment  of  his  genius  to 
themes  upon  which  we  trust  that,  for  the  benefit  of  mankind,  the 
charm  of  its  perverted  inspiration  will  for  ever  be  expended  in 
vain.  This  is  by  far  the  most  offensive  of  all  Lord  Byron’s  per- 
formances. We  have  here,  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  our 
literature,  a great  work,  of  which  the  very  basis  is  infidelity  and 
licentiousness,  and  the  most  obtrusive  ornaments  are  impure  ima- 
ginations and  blasphemous  sneers.  The  work  cannot  perish  ; for 
it  has  in  it,  full  and  overflowing,  the  elements  of  intellectual  vigour, 
ar.d  bean  upon  it  the  stamp  of  surpassing  power.  The  poet  is, 
indeed,  1 damned  to  everlasting  fame.’  ” 

The  monthly  organ  of  criticism  possessing  most 
sway  among  certain  strictly  religious  circles,  was,  in 
1819,  as  now,  the 

XIV.  ECLECTIC  REVIEW. 

“We  have  had  enough  of  that  with  which  Lord  Byron’s  poetry 
* replete — himself.  The  necessary  progress  of  character,  as  deve- 
loped in  his  last  reputed  production,  has  conducted  him  to  a point 
at  which  it  is  no  longer  safe  to  follow  him  even  in  thought,  for  fear 
we  should  be  beguiled  ol  any  portion  of  the  detestation  due  to  this 


bold  outrage.  Poetry  which  it  is  impossible  to  read  without 
admiration,  yet  which  it  is  equally  impossible  to  admire  without 
losing  some  degree  of  self-respect,  can  be  safely  deait  with  only  in 
one  way, — by  passing  it  over  in  silence.  There  are  cases  in  which 
it  is  equally  impossible  to  relax  into  laughter,  or  to  soften  info 
pity,  without  feeling  that  an  immoral  concession  is  made  to  vice 
The  autlior  of  the  following  stanza  might  seem  to  invite  our  com- 
passionate sympathy  : — 

‘ No  more— no  more— Oh  ! never  more,  my  heart, 

Canst  thou  be  my  sole  world,  my  universe  ! 

Once  all  in  all,  but  now  a thing  apart, 

Thou  canst  not  be  my  blessing  or  my  curse : 

The  illusion ’s  gone  for  ever,  and  thou  art 
Insensible,  1 trust,  but  none  the  worse, 

And  in  thy  stead  I ’ve  got  a deal  of  judgment. 

Though  heaven  knows  how  it  ever  found  a lodgement,’  &c. 
These  lines  are  exceedingly  touching,  and  they  have  that  character 
of  truth  which  distinguishes  Lord  Byron’s  poetry.  He  writes  like 
a man  who  has  that  clear  perception  of  the  truth  of  things,  whiek 
is  the  result  of  the  guilty  knowledge  of  good  and  evil ; and  who,  bj 
the  light  of  that  knowledge,  has  deliberately  preferred  the  evil 
with  a proud  malignity  of  purpose  which  would  seem  to  leave  little 
for  the  last  consummating  change  to  accomplish.  When  he  calcu- 
lates that  the  reader  is  on  the  verge  of  pitying  him,  he  takes  care 
to  throw  him  back  the  defiance  of  laughter,  as  if  to  let  him  know 
that  all  the  Poet’s  pathos  is  but  the  sentimentalism  of  the  drunkard 
between  his  cups,  or  the  relenting  softness  of  the  courtesan,  who 
the  next  moment  resumes  the  bad  boldness  of  her  degraded 
character  With  such  a man,  who  would  wish  to  laugh  or  to 
wet-p?  And  yet,  who  that  reads  him  can  refrain  alternately  from 
either?” 

Another  now  silent  oracle  was 

XV.  THE  BRITISH  6RITIC. 

“ A satire  was  announced,  in  terms  so  happily  mysterious,  as  to 
set  the  town  on  the  very  tiptoe  of  expectation.  A thousand  low 
and  portentous  murmurs  preceded  its  birth.  At  one  time  it  was 
declared  to  be  so  intolerably  severe,  that  an  alarming  increase  was 
to  be  apprehended  in  the  catalogue  of  our  national  suicides ; at 
another,  it  was  stated  to  be  of  a complexion  so  blasphemous,  as, 
even  in  these  days  of  liberality,  to  endanger  the  personal  security 
of  the  bookseller.  Fearful  indeed  was  the. prodigy — a book  without 
a bookseller ; au  advertisement  without  an  advertiser — ‘ a deed 
without  a name.’  After  all  this  portentous  parturition,  out  creeps 
Don  Juan, — and,  doubtless,  much  to  the  general  disappointment  of 
the  town,  as  innocent  of  satire  as  any  other  Don  in  the  Spanish 
dominions.  If,  then,  it  be  not  a satire -what  is  it?  A more  per- 
plexing question  could  not  be  put  to  the  critical  squad-  Of  the 
four  hundred  and  odd  stanzas  which  the  two  cantos  contain,  not  a 
tittle  could,  even  in  the  utmost  latitude  of  interpretation,  be  dig- 
nified by  the  name  of  poetry.  It  has  not  wit  enough  to  be  comic; 
it  has  not  spirit  enough  to  be  lyric;  nor  is  it  didactic  of  anything 
but  mischief.  The  versification  and  morality  are  about  upon  a 
par;  as  tar,  therefore,  as  we  are  enabled  to  give  it  any  character  at 
all,  we  should  pronounce  it  a narrative  of  degrading  debauchery  in 
doggrel  rhyme.  The  style  which  the  noble  Lord  has  adopted 
is  tedious  and  wearisome  to  a most  insufferable  degree.  Don  Juan 
is  no  burlesque,  nor  mock  heroic  : it  consists  of  the  common  ad- 
ventures of  a common  man,  ill  conceived,  tediously  told,  and  poorly 
illustrated.  In  the  present  thick  and  heavy  quarto,  containing 
upwards  of  four  hundred  doggrel  stanzas,  there  are  not  a dozen 
places  that,  even  in  the  merriest  mood,  could  raise  a smile.  It  is 
true  that  we  may  be  very  dull  dogs,  and  as  little  able  to  com 
prehend  the  wit  of  his  lordship,  as  to  construe  his  poetry.” 

We  now  arrive  at  two  authorities  to  which,  on  this 
occasion,  uncommon  attention  is  due,  inasmuch  as 
their  castigations  of  Don  Juan  were  considered  worthy 
of  very  elaborate  comment  and  reclamation  on  the 
part  of  Lord  Byron  himself.  Of  these,  the  first  is 
that  famous  Article  in  the  no  otherwise  famous  work, 
since  defunct,  styled  “ The  British  Review,”  or,  in 
the  phrase  of  Don  J uan — 

XVI.  “MY  GRANDMOTHER’S  REVIEW,  THE  BRITISH.’ 

“ Of  a poem  so  flagitious,  that  no  bookseller  has  been  willing  to 
take  upon  himself  the  publication,  though  most  of  them  disgrace 
themselves  by  selling  it,  what  can  the  critic  say?  His  praise  or 
censure  ought  to  found  itself  on  examples  produced  from  the  work 
itself.  For  praise,  as  far  as  regards  the  poetry,  many  passages 
might  be  exhibited ; for  condemnation,  as  far  as  regards  the 
morality,  all:  but  none  for  either  purpose  can  be  produced,  with- 
out insult  to  the  ear  of  decency,  and  vexation  to  the  neart  that 
feels  for  domestic  or  national  happiness.  This  poem  is  sold  in  the 
shops  as  the  work  of  Lord  Byron  ; but  the  name  of  neither  author 
nor  bookseller  is  on  the  title  page . we  are,  therefore,  at  liberty  to 
suppose  it  not  to  be  Lord  Byron’s  composition ; and  this  scepticism 
has  something  to  justify  it,  in  the  instance  which  has  lately  occurred 
of  the  name  of  that  nobleman  having  been  borrowed  for  a tale  of 
disgusting  horror,  published  under  the  title  of  1 The  Vampire.'  But 
the  strongest  argument  against  the  supposition  of  its  being  the  per- 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


582 

formance  of  Lord  Byron  is  this  ; — that  it  can  hardly  be  possible  for 
an  English  nobleman,  even  in  his  mirth,  to  send  forth  to  the  public 
the  direct  and  palpable  falsehood  contained  in  the  209th  and  210th 
stancas  of  the  First  Canto. 

* For  fear  some  prudish  readers  should  grow  skittish, 

I’ve  bribed  my  grandmother’s  review — the  British. 

'I  sent  it  in  a letter  to  the  editor, 

Who  thank’d  me  duly  by  return  of  post — 

I’m  for  a handsome  article  his  creditor; 

Yet,  if  my  gentle  Muse  he  please  to  roast, 

And  break  a promise  after  having  made  it  her, 

Denying  the  receipt  of  what  it  cost, 

And  smear  his  page  with  gall  instead  of  honey, 

All  I can  say  is — that  he  had  the  money.’ 

No  misdemeanor — not  even  that  of  sending  into  the  world  obscene 
and  blasphemous  poetry,  the  product  of  studious  lewdness  and 
laboured  impiety — appears  to  us  in  so  detestable  a light  as  the 
acceptance  of  a present  by  an  editor  of  a Review,  as  the  condition 
of  praising  an  author;  and  yet  the  miserable  man  (for  miserable  he 
is,  as  having  a soul  of  which  he  cannot  get  rid),  who  has  given  birth 
to  this  pestilent  poem,  has  not  scrupled  to  lay  this  to  the  charge 
of  ‘The  British  Review;’  and  that,  not  by  insinuation,  but  has 
actually  stated  himself  to  have  sent  money  in  a letter  to  the  Editor 
of  this  journal,  is  ho  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  the  same  by  a 
letter  in  return,  with  thanks.  No  peer  of  the  British  realm  can 
surely  be  capable  of  so  calumnious  a falsehood,  refuted,  we  trust, 
by  the  very  character  and  spirit  of  the  journal  so  defamed.  We 
are  compelled,  therefore,  to  conclude,  that  this  poem  cannot  he 
Lord  Byron’s  production : and  we,  of  course,  expect  that  Lord 
Byron  will,  with  all  gentlemanly  haste,  disclaim  a work  imputed  to 
him,  containing  a calumny  so  wholly  the  product  of  malignant 
invention.  • 

“If  somebody  personating  the  editor  of  the  British  Review  has 
received  money  from  Lord  Byron,  or  from  any  other  person,  by 
way  of  bribe  to  praise  his  compositions,  the  fraud  might  be  traced 
by  the  production  of  the  letter  which  the  author  states  himself  to 
have  received  in  return.  Surely,  then  if  the  author  of  this  poem  has 
any  such  letter,  he  will  produce  it  for  this  purpose.  But  lest  it 
should  be  said  that  we  have  notin  positive  terms  denied  the  charge, 
we  do  utterly  deny  that  there  is  one  word  of  truth,  or  the  semblance 
of  truth,  as  far  as  regards  this  Review  or  its  Editor,  in  the  asser- 
tions made  in  the  stanzas  above  referred  to.  We  really  feel  a sense 
of  degradation,  as  the  idea  of  this  odious  imputation  passes  through 
our  minds. 

“ We  have  heard,  that  the  author  of  the  poem  under  considera- 
tion designed  what  he  has  said  in  the  35th  stanza  as  a sketch  of  his 
own  character: — 

‘ Yet  Jose  was  an  honourable  man  ; 

That  I must  say,  who  knew  him  very  well.' 

If,  then,  he  is  this  honourable  man,  we  shall  not  call  in  vain  for 
an  act  of  justice  at  his  hands,  in  declaring  that  he  did  not  mean 
.his  word  to  be  taken,  when,  for  the  sake  of  a jest  (our  readers  will 
judge  how  far  such  a mode  of  jesting  is  defensible),  he  stated,  with 
the  particularity  which  belongs  to  fact,  the  forgery  of  a groundless 
fiction.”  [No.  xvni.  1819.] 

The  foregoing  vindication  of  the  Editor  of  the 
British  Review  (Mr.  Roberts)  called  forth  from  Lord 
Byron  that  “ Letter  to  the  Editor  of  my  Grand- 
mother’s Review,”  which  the  reader  will  find  in  the 
present  volume.1  We  next  solicit  attention  to  the 
following  passages  from  the  redoubted  organ  of 
Northern  Toryism, — 

XVII.  BLACKWOOD. 

14  In  the  composition  of  this  work  there  is  unquestionably  a more 
thorough  and  intense  infusion  of  genius  and  vice — power  and  pro- 
fligacy— than  in  any  poem  which  had  ever  before  been  written  in 
the  English  or,  indeed,  in  any  other  modern  language.  Had  the 
wickedness  been  less  inextricably  mingled  with  the  beauty,  and 
the  grace,  and  the  strength  of  a most  inimitable  and  incomprehen- 
sible muse,  our  t isk  would  have  been  easy.  Don  Juan  is  by  far 
the  most  admirable  specimen  of  the  mixture  of  ease,  strength, 
gaiety,  and  seriousness  extant  in  the  whole  body  of  English  poetry: 
the  author  has  devoted  his  powers  to  the  worst  of  purposes  and 
passions ; and  it  increases  hi6  guilt  and  our  sorrow,  that  he  has 
devoted  them  entire. 

“ The  moral  strain  of  the  whole  poem  is  pitched  in  the  lowest 
key.  Love — honour— patriotism — religion,  are  mentioned  only  to 
he  scoffed  at,  as  if  their  sole  resting-place  were,  or  ought  to  be,  in 
the  bosoms  of  fools.  It  appears,  in  short,  as  if  this  miserable  man, 
having  exhausted  every  species  of  sensual  gratification — having 
drained  the  cup  of  sin  even  to  its  bitterest  dregs — were  resolved  to 
show  us  that  he  is  no  longer  a human  being,  even  in  his  frailties; 
but  a cool  unconcerned  fiend,  laughing  with  a detestable  glee  over 
the  whole  of  the  better  and  worse  elements  of  which  human  life  is 
composed — treating  well  nigh  with  equal  derision  the  most  pure  of 
virtues,  and  the  most  odious  of  vices — dead  alike  to  the  beauty  of 


the  one,  and  the  def  rmity  of  the  other — a mere  heartless  deepiser 
of  that  frail  but  noble  humanity,  whose  type  was  never  exhibited 
in  a shape  of  more  deplorable  degradation  than  in  his  own  con- 
temptuously distinct  delineation  of  himself.  To  confess  to  his 
Maker,  and  weep  over  in  secret  agonies,  the  wildest  and  most  fan- 
tastic transgressions  of  heart  and  mind,  is  the  part  of  a conscious 
sinner,  in  whom  sin  has  not  become  the  sole  principle  of  life  and 
action.  But,  to  lay  bare  to  the  eye  of  man— and  of  woman — all  the 
hidden  convulsions  of  a wicked  spirit — and  to  do  all  this  without 
one  symptom  of  contrition,  remorse,  or  hesitation,  with  a calm, 
careless  ferociousness  of  contented  and  satisfied  depravity — this 
was  an  insult  which  no  man  of  genius  had  ever  before  dared  to  put 
upon  his  Creator  or  his  species.  Impiously  railing  against  his  God 
— madly  and  meanly  disloyal  to  his  Sovereign  and  his  countrv, — 
and  brutally  outraging  all  the  best  feelings  of  female  honour,  affec- 
tion, and  confidence, — how  small  a part  of  chivalry  is  that  which 
remains  to  the  descendant  of  the  Byrons— a gloomy  visor  and 
deadly  weapon ! 

“ Those  who  are  acquainted  (as  who  is  not?)  with  the  main  in- 
cidents in  the  private  life  of  Lord  Byron — and  who  have  not  seen 
this  production,  will  scarcely  believe*  that  malignity  should  have 
carried  him  so  far,  as  to  make  him  commence  a filthy  and  impious 
poem  with  an  elaborate  satire  on  the  character  and  manners  of  his 
wife — from  whom,  even  by  his  own  confession,  he  has  been  sepa- 
rated only  in  consequence  of  his  own  cruel  and  heartless  mis- 
conduct. It  is  in  vain  for  Lord  Byron  to  attempt  in  any  way  to 
justify  his  own  behaviour  in  that  affair;  and,  now  that  he  has  so 
openly  and  audaciously  invited  inquiry  and  reproach,  we  do  not 
see  any  good  reason  why  he  should  not  be  plainly  told  so  by  the 
general  voice  of  his  countrymen.  It  would  not  be  an  easy  matter 
to  persuade  any  Man,  who  has  any  knowledge  of  the  nature  of 
Woman,  that  a female  such  as  Lord  Byron  has  himself  described 
his  wife  to  be,  would  rashly,  or  hastily,  or  lightly,  separate  herself 
from  the  love  with  which  she  had  once  been  inspired  for  such  a 
man  as  he  is,  or  was.  Had  he  not  heaped  insult  upon  insult,  and 
scorn  upon  scorn — had  he  not  forced  the  iron  of  his  contempt  into 
her  very  soul — there  is  no  woman  of  delicacy  and  virtue,  as  he 
admitted  Lady  Byron  to  be,  who  would  not  have  hoped  all  things 
and  suffered  all  things  from  one,  her  love  of  w hom  must  have  been 
inwoven  with  so  many  exalting  elements  of  delicious  pride,  and 
more  delicious  humility.  To  offend  the  love  of  such  a woman  was 
wrong — but  it  might  be  forgiven ; to  desert  her  was  unmanly — but 
he  might  have  returned,  and  wiped  for  ever  from  her  eyes  the  tears 
of  her  desertion ; — but  to  injure,  and  to  desert,  and  then  to  turn 
back  and  wound  her  widowed  privacy  with  unhallowed  strains  of 
cold-blooded  mockery — was  brutally,  fiendishly,  inexpiahly  mean. 
For  impurities  there  might  be  some  possibility  of  pardon,  were 
they  supposed  to  spring  only  from  the  reckless  buoyancy  of  young 
blood  and  fiery  passions; — for  impiety  there  might  at  least  be  pity, 
were  it  visible  that  the  misery  of  the  impious  soul  equalled  its 
darkness ; — but  for  offences  such  as  this,  which  cannot  proceed 
either  from  the  madness  of  sudden  impulse,  or  the  bewildered 
agonies  of  doubt — but  which  speak  the  wilful  and  determined  spite 
of  an  unrepenting,  unsoftened,  smiling,  sarcastic,  joyous  sinner — 
there  can  be  neither  pity  nor  pardon.  Our  knowledge  that  it  is 
committed  by  one  of  the  most  powerful  intellects  our  island  ever 
has  produced,  lends  intensity  a thousand  fold  to  the  bitterness  of 
our  indignation.  Every  high  thought  that  was  ever  kindled  in  our 
breasts  by  the  muse  of  Byron — every  pure  and  lofty  feeling  that 
ever  responded  from  within  us  to  the  sweep  of  his  majestic  inspira- 
tions— every  remembered  moment  of  admiration  and  enthusiasm, 
is  up  in  arms  against  him.  We  look  back  with  a mixture  of  wrath 
and  scorn  to  the  delight  with  which  we  suffered  ourselves  to  be 
filled  by  one  who,  all  the  while  he  was  furnishing  us  with  delight, 
must,  we  cannot  doubt  it,  have  been  mocking  us  with  a cruel 
mockery — less  cruel  only,  because  less  peculiar,  than  that  with 
which  he  has  now  turned  him  from  the  lurking-place  of  his  selfish 
and  polluted  exile,  to  pour  the  pitiful  chalice  of  his  contumely  on 
the  surrendered  devotion  of  a virgin-bosom,  and  the  holy  hopes  of 
the  mother  of  his  child.  It  is  indeed  a sad  and  an  humiliating 
thing  to  know,  that  in  the  same  year  there  proceeded  from  the 
same  pen  two  productions,  in  all  things  so  different,  as  the  Fourth 
Canto  of  Cliilde  Harold  and  this  loathsome  Don  Juan. 

“ We  have  mentioned  one.  and,  all  will  admit,  the  worst  instance 
of  the  private  malignity  which  has  been  embodied  in  so  many  pas- 
sages of  Don  Juan:  and  we  are  quite  sure,  the  lofty-minded  and 
virtuous  men  whom  Lord  Byron  has  debased  himself  by  insulting, 
will  close  the  volume  which  contains  their  own  injuries,  with  no 
feelings  save  those  of  pity  for  Him  that  has  inflicted  them,  and  for 
Her  who  partakes  so  largely  in  the  same  injuries.”  LAug.  1819.] 

The  “ Remarks  upon  an  Article  in  Black- 
wood’s Magazine,” — which  Lord  Byron  wrote  on 
perusing  the  above-quoted  passages,  and  which  were  * 
printed  at  the  time,  but  on  consideration  suppressed, 
— are  now,  for  the  first  time,  published  in  the  present 
volume.2 

As  a pleasing  relief,  in  the  midst  of  these  prose 
criticisms,  we  present  an  extract  from  “ Common 
Sense,  a Poem,”  published  in  1819,  by  a gentleman. 


(1)  [See  Appendix  : Don  Juan  Note  A.] 


(2)  [See  Appendix  : Don  Juan,  Note  13.] 


DON  JUAN. 


583 


re  are  informed,  of  eminent  respectability,  the  Bev. 
Mr.  Terrot,  of  Cambridge. 

XVIII.  TERROT. 

“ Alas,  for  Byron  ! — Satire’s  self  must  own 
His  song  has  something  of  a lofty  tone : 

But  ’tis  an  empty  sound.  If  vice  be  low, 

Hateful  and  mean,  then  Byron’s  verse  is  so. 

Not  all  his  genius  saves  him  from  the  curse 
Of  plunging  deeper  still  from  bad  to  worse ; 

With  frantic  speed,  lie  runs  the  road  to  ruin, 

And  damns  his  name  for  ever  by  ‘ Don  Juan.’ 

He  wants  variety ; nor  does  his  plan 
Admit  the  idea  of  an  honest  man : 

One  character  alone  can  he  afford 
To  Harold,  Conrad,  Lara,  or  my  Lord; 

Each  half  a madman,  mischievous  and  sour, 

Supremely  wretched  each,  and  each  a Giaour. 

Some  fumigate  my  lord  with  praises  sweet, 

Some  lick  the  very  dust  beneath  his  feet. 

Jeffrey,  with  Christian  charity  so  meek, 

Kisses  the  hand  that  smote  him  on  the  cheek. 

Gifford’s  retainers,  Tory,  Pittite,  Rat, 

All  join  to  soothe  the  surly  Democrat. 

1,  too,  admire — but  not  through  thick  and  thin, 

Nor  think  him  such  a bard  as  ne’er  hath  been.” 


Let  us  indulge  our  readers,  before  we  return  to 
the  realms  of  prose,  with  another  wreath  from  the 
myrtles  of  Parnassus, — i.  e.  with  an  extract  from  an 
“ Expostulatory  Epistle  to  Lord  Byron” — 

“ By  Cottle — not  he  whom  the  Alfred  made  famous ; 

But  Joseph  of  Bristol,  the  brother  of  Amos.”i 


XIX.  COTTLE. 

Is  there  a man,  how  fallen  ! still  to  fall ! 

Who  bears  a dark  precedency  o’er  all, 

Rejected  by  the  land  which  gave  him  birth, 

And  wandering  now  an  outcast  o’er  the  earth, 

On  every  virtuous  door  engraven  ‘ hence  ! ’ 

Whose  very  breath  is  plague  and  pestilence; 

A son,  dismember’d,  and  to  aliens  thrown, 
Corrupting  other  climes— but  first  his  own  ? 

One  such  there  is ! whom  sires  unborn  will  curse, 
Hasting  with  giant  stride  from  bad  to  worse, 
Seeking  untired  to  gain  the  sensual’s  smile, 

A pander  for  the  profligate  and  vile ; 

His  head  rich  fraught  (like  some  bazaar’s  sly  stall) 
With  lecherous  lays,  that  come  at  every  call. 

There  is  a man,  usurping  lordly  sway, 

Aiming  alone  to  hold  a world  at  bay ; 

Who,  mean  as  daring,  arrogant  as  vain, 

Like  chaff  regards  opinion  with  disdain, 

As  if  the  privilege  with  him  were  found 
The  laws  to  spurn  by  which  mankind  are  bound, 
As  if  the  arm  whic^i  drags  a despot  down 
Must  paisied  fall  before  a Byron’s  frown  1 ” 


The  “ Testimonies”  hitherto  quoted  refer  to  the 
earlier— most  of  them  to  the  first  two— Cantos  of 
Don  Juan.  We  now  pass  to  critical  observations  on 
the  Poem  as  a whole ; some  introduced  in  periodical 
works  of  the  time,  others  from  separate  tracts.  Let 
us  begin  with  the  more  measured  language  of  Black- 
wood, in  1825 — when  Lord  Byron  was  no  more. 


XX.  BLACKWOOD, — iterum. 

" We  shall,  like  all  others  who  say  any  thing  about  Lord  Byron 
begin,  sans  apologie,  with  his  personal  character.  This  is  the  great 
object  of  attack,  the  constant  theme  of  open  vituperation  to  one 
set,  and  the  established  mark  for  all  the  petty  but  deadly  artillery 
of  sneers,  shrugs,  groans,  to  another.  Two  widely  different  matters 
however,  are  generally,  we  might  say  universally,  mixed  up  here— 
the  personal  character  of  the  man,  as  proved  by  his  course  of  life 
and  his  personal  character  as  revealed  in,  or  guessed  from  his 
bocks.  Nothing  can  be  more  unfair  than  the  style  in  which’ this 
mixture  is  made  use  of.  Is  there  a noble  sentiment,  a lofty  thought 
a sublime  conception,  in  the  book  ?— ‘ Ah,  yes,’  is  the  answer.  ‘But 
what  of  that?  It  is  only  the  roue  Byron  that  speaks  ! ’ Is  a kind 
k generous  action  of  the  man  mentioned?  ‘Yes,  yes,’  comments 
the  sage,  but  only  remember  the  atrocities  of  Don  Juan ; depend 
on  it,  this,  if  it  be  true,  must  have  been  a mere  freak  of  caprice,  or 
perhaps  a bit  of  vile  hypocrisy.’  Salvation  is  thus  shut  out  at  either 
entrance:  the  poet  damns  the  man,  and  the  man  the  poet 

ISobo^y  susPect  us  of  being  so  absurd,  as  to  suppose  that 
u possible  for  people  to  draw  no  inferences  as  to  the  character  of 
*?  author  from  his  book,  or  to  shut  entirely  out  of  view,  in  judging 
w a book,  that  which  they  may  happen  to  know  about  the  man 


who  writes  it.  The  cant  of  the  day  supposes  such  things  to  be 
practicable,  but  they  are  not.  But  what  we  complain  of,  and  scorn, 
is  the  extent  to  which  they  are  carried  in  the  case  of  this  particular 
individual,  as  compared  with  others ; the  impudence  with  which 
things  are  at  once  assumed  to  be  facts  in  regard  to  his  private  his- 
tory, and  the  absolute  unfairness  of  neyer  arguing  from  his  writings 
to  him — but  for  evil. 

“ Take  the  man,  in  the  first  place,  as  unconnected,  in  so  far  as 
we  can  thus  consider  him,  with  his  works ; — and  ask,  what,  aftei 
all,  are  the  bad  things  we  know  of  him?  Was  he  dishonest  or  dis- 
honourable ? — had  he  ever  done  anything  to  forfeit,  or  even  endanger, 
his  rank  as  a gentleman  ? Most  assuredly  no  such  accusations  have 
ever  been  maintained  against  Lord  Byron,  the  private  nobleman — 
although  something  of  the  sort  may  have  been  insinuated  against 
the  author.  ‘ But,  he  was  such  a profligate  in  his  morals,  that  his 
name  cannot  be  mentioned  with  any  thing  like  tolerance.’  Was  he 
so,  indeed  ? We  should  like  extremely  to  have  the  catechising 
of  the  individual  man  who  says  so.  That  he  indulged  in  sensual 
vices  to  some  extent  is  certain — and  to  be  regretted  and  con- 
demned. But,  was  he  worse,  as  to  such  matters,  than  the  enor- 
mous majority  of  those  who  join  in  the  cry  of  horror  upon  this 
occasion?  We  most  assuredly  believe  exactly  the  reverse;  and  we 
rest  our  belief  upon  very  plain  and  intelligible  grounds.  First,  we 
hold  it  impossible  that  the  majority  of  mankind,  or  that  any  thing 
beyond  a very  small  minority,  are  or  can  be  entitled  to  talk  of 
sensual  profligacy  as  having  formed  a part  of  the  life  and  character 
of  the  man  who,  dying  at  six-and-thirty,  bequeathed  a collection  of 
works  such  as  Byron’s  to  the  world.  Secondly,  we  hold  it  impossi- 
ble that,  laying  the  extent  of  his  intellectual  labours  out  of  tho 
question,  and  looking  only  to  the  nature  of  the  intellect  which 
generated,  and  delighted  in  generating,  such  beautiful  and  noble 
conceptions  as  are  to  be  found  in  almost  all  Lord  Byron’s  works — 
we  hold  it  impossible  that  very  many  men  can  be  at  once  capable 
of  comprehending  these  conceptions,  and  entitled  to  consider  sen- 
sual profligacy  as  having  formed  the  principal,  or  even  a principal, 
trait  in  Lord  Byron’s  character.  Thirdly,  and  lastly,  we  have  never 
been  able  to  hear  any  one  fact  established,  which  could  prove  Lord 
Byron  to  deserve  any  thing  like  the  degree  or  even  kind  of  odium 
which  has,  in  regard  to  matters  of  this  class,  been  heaped  upon  his 
name.  We  have  no  story  of  base  unmanly  seduction,  or  false  and 
villanous  intrigue,  against  him — none  whatever.  It  seems  to  us 
quite  clear,  that,  it  he  had  been  at  all  what  is  called  in  society  an 
unprincipled  sensualist,  there  must  have  been  many  such  stories — 
authentic  and  authenticated.  But  there  are  none  such— absolutely 
none.  His  name  has  been  coupled  with  the  names  of  three,  four, 
or  more  women  of  some  rank  : but  what  kind  of  women? — every 
one  of  them,  in  the  first  place,  about  as  old  as  himself  in  years,  and 
therefore  a great  deal  older  in  character — every  one  of  them  utterly 
battered  in  reputation  long  before  he  came  into  contact  with  them 
— licentious,  unprincipled,  characterless  women.  What  father  has 
ever  reproached  him  with  the  ruin  of  his  daughter  ? What  husband 
has  denounced  him  as  the  destroyer  of  his  peace  ? 

“ Let  us  not  be  mistaken.  We  are  not  defending  the  offences  of 
which  Lord  Byron  unquestionably  was  guilty : neither  are  we  find- 
ing fault  with  those  who,  alter  looking  honestly  within  and  around 
themselves,  condemn  those  offences — no  matter  how  severely.  But 
we  are  speaking  of  society  in  general,  as  it  now  exists ; and  we  say 
that  there  is  vile  hypocrisy  in  the  tone  in  which  Lord  Byron  is  talked 
of  there.  We  say  that,  although  all  offences  against  purity  of  life 
are  miserable  things  and  condemnable  things,  the  degrees  of  guilt 
attached  to  different  offences  of  this  class  are  as  widely  different  as 
are  the  degrees  of  guilt  between  an  assault  and  a murder;  and  we 
confess  our  belief,  that  no  man  of  Byron’s  station  and  age  could 
have  run  much  risk  of  gaining  a very  bad  name  in  society,  had  a 
course  of  life  similar  (in  so  far  as  we  know  any  thing  of  that)  to 
Lord  Byron’s  been  the  only  thing  chargeable  against  him. 

“ The  last  poem  he  wrote  (see  ante,  p.  578,)  was  produced  upon 
his  birth-day,  not  many  weeks  before  he  died.  We  consider  it  as 
one  of  the  finest  and  most  touching  effusions  of  his  noble  genius. 
We  think  he  who  reads  it,  and  can  ever  after  bring  himself  to  re- 
gard even  the  worst  transgressions  that  have  been  charged  against 
Lord  Byron  with  any  feelings  but  those  of  humble  sorrow  and 
manly  pity,  is  not  deserving  of  the  name  of  man.  The  deep  and 
passionate  struggles  with  the  inferior  elements  of  his  nature  (and 
ours)  which  it  records — the  lofty  thirsting  after  purity — the  heroic 
devotion  of  a soul  half  weary  of  life,  because  unable  to  believe  in 
its  own  powers  to  live  up  to  what  it  so  intensely  felt  to  be,  and  so 
reverentially  honoured  as,  the  right — the  whole  picture  of  this 
mighty  spirit,  often  darkened,  but  never  sunk,  often  erring,  but 
never  ceasing  to  see  and  to  worship  the  beauty  of  virtue — the  re- 
pentance of  it,  the  anguish,  the  aspiration,  almost  stifled  in  despair 
— the  whole  of  this  is  such  a whole,  that  we  are  sure  that  no  man 
can  read  these  solemn  verses  too  often,  and  we  recommend  them  for 
repetition,  as  the  best  and  most  conclusive  of  all  possible  answers, 
whenever  the  name  of  Byron  is  insulted  by  those  who  permit  them- 
selves to  forget  nothing,  either  in  his  life  or  his  writings,  but  the 
good.” 

The  present  Lord  Advocate  of  Scotland  thus  grate 
fully  admonishes  the  yet  living  author  of  Don  Juan 
in  the  LXXIId  Number  of  the  Edinburgh  Be  view. 

XXI.  JEFFREY. 

“ Lord  Byron  complains  bitterly  of  the  detraction  by  which  h« 
has  been  assailed — and  intimates  that  his  wrrks  have  been  receiwd 


(I)  [See  anti,  p.  427.] 


584 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


by  the  public  with  far  less  cordiality  and  favour  than  he  was  en- 
titled to  expect.  We  arc  constrained  to  say  that  this  appears  to  us 
a very  extraordinary  mistake.  In  the  whole  course  of  our  expe- 
rience, we  cannot  recollect  a single  author  who  has  had  so  little 
reason  to  complain  of  his  reception — to  whose  genius  the  public  has 
been  sv,  tarly  and  so  constantly  just — to  whose  faults  they  have  been 
so  long  and  so  signally  indulgent.  From  the  very  first  he  must  have 
been  aware  that  he  offended  the  principles  and  shocked  the  pre- 
judices of  the  majority  by  his  sentiments,  as  much  as  he  delighted 
them  by  his  talents.  Yet  there  never  was  an  author  so  universally 
and  warmly  applauded,  so  gently  admonished — so  kindly  entreated 
to  look  more  heedfully  to  his  opinions.  He  took  the  praise,  as 
usual,  and  rejected  the  advice.  As  he  grew  in  fame  and  authority, 
he  aggravated  all  his  offences — clung  more  fondly  to  all  he  had  been 
reproached  with — and  only  took  leave  of  Childe  Harold  to  ally 
himself  to  Don  Juan ! That  he  has  since  been  talked  of,  in  public 
and  in  private,  with  less  unminglad  admiration — that  his  name  is 
now  mentioned  as  ofttfh  for  censure  as  for  praise — and  that  the  ex- 
ultation with  which  his  countrymen  once  hailed  the  greatest  of  our 
living  poets,  is  now  alloyed  by  the  recollection  of  the  tendency  of 
his  writings — is  matter  of  notoriety  to  all  the  world  ; but  matter  of 
surprise,  we  should  imagine,  to  nobody  but  Lord  Byron  himself. 

“That  the  base  and  bigoted — those  whom  he  has  darkened  by 
his  glory,  spited  by  his  talent,  or  mortified  by  his  neglect — have 
taken  advantage  of  the  prevailing  disaffection,  to  vent  their  puny 
malice  in  silly  nicknames  and  vulgar  scurrility,  is  natural  and  true. 
But  Lord  Byron  may  depend  upon  it,  that  the  dissatisfaction  is 
not  confined  to  them, — and,  indeed,  that  they  would  never  have 
had  the  courage  to  assail  one  so  immeasurably  their  superior,  if  he 
had  not  at  once  made  himself  vulnerable  by  his  errors,  and  alien- 
ated his  natural  defenders  by  his  obstinate  adherence  to  them.  We 
are  not  bigots,  nor  rival  poets.  We  have  not  been  detractors  from 
Lord  Byron’s  fame,  nor  the  friends  of  his  detractors ; and  we  tell 
him — far  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger— that  we  verily  believe  the 
great  body  of  the  English  nation — the  religious,  the  moral,  and  the 
candid  part  of  it — consider  the  tendency  of  his  writings  to  be  im- 
moral and  pernicious — and  look  upon  his  perseverance  in  that 
strain  of  composition  with  regret  and  reprehension.  We  ourselves 
are  not  easily  startled,  either  by  levity  of  temper,  or  boldness,  or 
even  rashness  of  remark;  we  are,  moreover,  most  sincere  admirers 
of  Lord  Byron’s  genius,  and  have  always  felt  a pride  and  an  interest 
in  his  fame:  but  we  cannot  dissent  from  the  censure  to  which  we 
have  alluded ; and  shall  endeavour  to  explain,  in  as  few  and  as 
temperate  words  as  possible,  the  grounds  upon  which  we  rest  our 
concurrence. 

“ He  has  no  priestlike  cant  or  priestlike  reviling  to  apprehend 
trom  us.  We  do  not  charge  him  with  being  either  a disciple  or  an 
apostle  of  Satan ; nor  do  we  describe  his  poetry  as  a mere  com- 
pound of  blasphemy  and  obscenity.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  in- 
clined to  believe  that  he  wishes  well  to  the  happiness  of  mankind 
— and  are  glad  to  testily,  that  his  poems  abound  with  sentiments  of 
great  dignity  and  tenderness,  as  well  as  passages  of  infinite  sublimity 
and  beauty.  But  their  general  tendency  we  believe  to  be  in  the 
highest  degree  pernicious  ; and  we  even  think  that  it  is  chiefly  by 
means  of  the  fine  and  lofty  sentiments  they  contain,  that  they 
acquire  their  most  fatal  power  of  corruption.  Th  s may  sound  at 
first,  perhaps,  like  a paradox ; but  we  are  mistaken  if  we  shall  not 
make  it  intelligible  enough  in  the  end. 

“ We  think  there  are  indecencies  and  indelicacies,  seductive 
descriptions  and  profligate  representations,  which  are  extremely 
reprehensible ; and  also  audacious  speculations,  and  erroneous  and 
uncharitable  assertions,  equally  indefensible.  But  if  these  had 
stood  alone,  and  if  the  whole  body  of  his  works  had  been  made  up 
of  gaudy  ribaldry  and  flashy  scepticism,  the  mischief,  we  think, 
would  have  been  much  less  than  it  is.  He  is  not  more  obscene, 
perhaps,  than  Dryden  or  Prior,  and  other  classical  and  pardoned 
writers  ; nor  is  there  any  passage  in  the  history  even  of  Don  Juan 
so  degrading  as  Tom  Jones's  affair  with  Lady  Bellaston.  It  is  no 
doubt  a wretched  apology  for  the  indecencies  of  a man  of  ge’nius, 
that  equal  indecencies  have  been  forgiven  to  his  predecessors  : but 
the  precedent  of  lenity  might  have  been  followed  ; and  we  might 
have  passed  both  the  levity  and  the  voluptuousness — the  dangerous 
warmth  of  his  romantic  situations,  and  the  scandal  of  his  cold- 
blooded dissipation.  It  might  not  have  been  so  easy  to  get  over  his 
dogmatic  scepticism — his  hard-hearted  nraxims  of  misanthropy — 
his  cold-blooded  and  eager  expositions  of  the  non-existence  of 
virtue  and  honour.  Even  this,  however,  might  have  been  com- 
paratively harmless,  if  it  had  not  been  accompanied  by  that  which 
may  look,  at  first  sight,  as  a palliation — the  frequent  presentment 
of  the  most  touching  pictures  of  tenderness,  generosity,  and  faith. 

“ The  charge  we  bring  against  Lord  Byron  in  short  is,  that  his 
writings  have  a tendency  to  destroy  all  belief  in  the  reality  of  virtue 
— and  to  make  all  enthusiasm  and  constancy  of  affection  ridiculous ; 
*nd  that  this  is  effected,  not  merely  by  direct  maxims  and  ex- 
amples, of  an  imposing  or  seducing  kind,  but  by  the  constant  exhibi- 
tion of  the  most  profligate  hearilessness  in  the  persons  of  those  who 
had  been  transiently  represented  as  actuated  by  the  purest  and 
most  exalted  emotions— and  in  the  lessons  of  that  very  teacher  who 
nad  been,  but  a moment  before,  so  beautifully  pathetic  in  the 
expression  of  the  loftiest  conceptions. 

“ Thii  is  the  charge  which  we'  bring  against  Lord  Byron.  We 
say  that,  under  some  strange  misapprehension  as  to  the  truth,  and 
the  duty  of  proclaiming  it,  he  has  exerted  all  the  powers  of  his 
powerful  mind  to  convince  his  readers,  both  directly  and  indirectly, 
that  all  ennobling  pursuits,  and  disinterested  virtues,  are  mere 
deceits  or  illusions— hollow  and  despicable  mockeries  for  the  most 


part,  and,  at  best,  but  laborious  follies.  Love,  patriotism,  valour, 
devotion,  constancy,  ambition — all  are  to  be  laughed  at,  disbelieved 
in,  and  despised  !— and  nothing  is  really  good,  so  far  as  we  can 
gather,  but  a succession  of  dangers  to  stir  the  blood,  and  of  banquets 
and  intrigues  to  sootne  it  again  l If  this  doctrine  stood  alone,  with 
its  examples,  it  would  revolt,  we  believe,  more  than  it  would 
seduce  : but  the  author  of  it  has  the  unlucky  gift  of  personating  all 
those  sweet  and  lofty  illusions,  and  that  with  such  grace  and  force  i 
and  truth  to  nature,  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  suppose,  for  the 
time,  that  he  is  among  the  most  devoted  of  their  votaries — till  he 
casts  off  the  character  with  a jerk — and,  the  moment  after  lie  has 
moved  and  exalted  us  to  the  very  height  of  our  conception,  resumes  I 
his  mockery  at  all  things  serious  or  sublime — and  lets  us  down  at 
once  on  some  coarse  joke,  hard-hearted  sarcasm,  or  fierce  and  re-  [ 
lentless  personality,  as  if  on  purpose  to  show  — ‘Whoe’er  was  I 
edified,  himself  was  not’ — or  to  demonstrate  practically  as  it  were, 
and  by  exa  nple,  how  possible  it  is  to  have  all  fine  and  noble  feel- 
ings, or  their  appearance,  for  a moment,  and  yet  retain  no  particle 
of  respect  for  them — or  of  belief  in  their  intrinsic  worth  or  perma- 
nent reality.” 

The  next  Author  we  must  cite,  is  the  late  in- 
dustrious Dr.  John  Watkins,  well  known  for  his 
“ Biographical  Dictionary,”  his  “ Life  of  the  Right 
Honourable  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,”  &c. — styled 
iguorniniously  by  Lord  Byron  “ Old  Grobius.” 

XXTI.  WATKINS. 

“Of  this  Odyssey  of  immorality,  there  cannot  be  two  opinions; 
for,  let  the  religious  sentiments  of  the  reader  be  as  lax  as  possible, 
he  must  be  shocked  at  the  barefaced  licentiousness  of  the  poem. 
Marriage  is  of  course  reprobated,  and  all  the  laws  of  social  life  are 
set  at  open  defiance  as  violations  of  natural  liberty.  Lord  Byron  is 
the  very  Comus  of  poetry,  who,  by  the  bewitching  airiness  of  his 
numbers,  aims  to  turn  the  whole  moral  world  into  a herd  of  mon 
sters.  It  must,  however,  be  allowed  that  in  this  tale  he  has  not 
acted  the  wily  part,  of  concealing  the  poison  under  the  appearance 
of  virtue ; on  the  contrary,  he  makes  a frank  confession  of  his 
principles,  and  glories  in  vice  with  the  unblushing  temerity  of  a 
rampant  satyr,  who  acknowledges  no  rule  but  appetite.  The  mis- 
chief of  the  work  is  rendered  doubly  so  by  tho  attractive  gaiety  of 
the  language,  the  luxuriance  of  the  imagery,  and  the  humorous 
digressions  with  which  the  story  is  embellished  and  chequered.” 

Another  great  moralist — practically,  we  believe,  a 
most  eminent  one — is  the  next  on  our  catalogue; 
namely,  the  late  Rev.  Caleb  Colton,  the  author  of 
“ Lacon ; or,  Many  Things  in  Few  Words”  (or,  as 
Lord  Byron,  somewhere,  was  wicked  enough  to  mis- 
quote it — “ Few  Things  in  Many  Words”)  in  his 
“ Remarks  on  the  Tendencies  of  Don  Juan,”  pub- 
lished in  1822. 

XXIII.  COLTON. 

“The  impurity  of  Rochester  is  too  disgusting  to  do  harm;  the 
morality  of  Pope  is  too  neutral. zed  to  do  good : but  the  muse  of 
Byron  has  mixed  her  poison  with  the  hand  of  an  adept;  it  is  prof- 
fered in  a goblet  of  crystal  and  of  gold ; it  will  please  the  palate, 
remain  on  the  stomach,  and  circulate  through  the  veins.  There 
are  persons  who  think  that  some  of  the  objectionable  parts  of  Don 
Juan  are  reclaimed  by  others  that  are  both  beautiful  and  faultless. 
But,  alas!  the  poison  is  general,  the  antidote  particular;  the 
ribaldry  and  obscenity  will  be  understood  by  the  many ; the  pro- 
fundity and  the  sublimity  only  by  the  few.  We  live  in  an  age 
when  orators  are  trying  how  much  treason  they  may  talk  without 
being  hanged,  poets  how  much  nonsense  they  may  wife  without 
being  neglected,  and  libertines  how  much  licentiousness  they  may 
venture  upon  without  being  execrated  and  despised.  We  considei 
Don  Juan  to  be  a bold  experiment,  made  by  a daring  and  deter- 
mined hand,  on  the  moral  patience  of  the  public.  It  is  most 
melancholy  to  reflect  that  a man  of  Lord  Byron’s  stupendous 
powers  should  lend  himself  to  such  unworthy  purposes  as  these, 
led  thereto  by  the  grovelling  gratification  of  dazzling  the  fool,  or 
encouraging  the  knave ; of  supporting  the  weakest  sophistry  by  the 
strongest  genius,  and  the  darkest  wickedness  by  the  brightest  wit. 

He  applies,  alas,  the  beams  of  his  mighty  mind,  not  to  comfort,  but 
to  censure  us,  and,  like  Nero,  gives  us  nothing  but  a little  harmony 
to  console  us  for  the  conflagration  he  has  caused.  I shall  sum  up 
my  opinion  of  Don  Juan  in  the  words  of  Scaliger  on  a poem  of 
Cardinal  Bembus  : — ‘ Hoc  poema  vocare  possis  aut  cbivacnissimam 
eleganliam,  aut  eleejantissimam  obscoenitatem.’  ” 

We  now  introduce  the  Poet’s  ever  kind  and  grate- 
ful friend,  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  in  his  work  entitled 
“ Lord  Byron  and  some  of  his  Contemporaries,’’ 
concerning  which  consult  Thomas  Moore,  Esq.,  ajud 
The  Times — or  ante,  p.  525. 


DON  JUAN 


585 


XXIV.  HUNT. 

“ Speaking  of  Don  Juan,  I will  here  observe,  that  I.ord  Byron 
had  r>n  r>lan  with  regard  to  that  poem.  His  hero  in  this  work  was  a 
picture  of  the  better  part  of  his  own  nature.  When  the  author 
speaks  in  his  own  person,  he  is  endeavouring  to  bully  himself  into 
a satisfaction  with  the  worse,  and  courting  the  eulogies  of  the 
‘ knowing.’  His  jealousy  of  Wordsworth  and  others  who  were  not 
town  poets  was  not  more  creditable  to  him.  He  pretended  to  think 
worse  of  them  than  he  did.  He  had  the  modesty  one  day  to  bring 
me  a stanza,  intended  for  Don  Juan,  in  which  he  had  sneered  at 
them  all,  adding,  that  nobody  but  myself  thought  highly  of  them. 
He  fancied  I should  put  up  with  this,  for  the  sake  of  being  men- 
tioned in  the  poem ; an  absurdity  which  nothing  but  his  own  vanity 
had  suggested.  I told  him  I should  consider  the  introduction  of 
such  a stanza  an  affront,  and  that  he  had  better  not  put  it  in.  I am 
sorry  I did  not  let  it  go;  for  it  would  have  done  me  honour  with 
posterity.” 

Another  historical  evidence  is  that  of  Mr.  — or 
Captain — 

XXV.  MEDWIN. 

“ People  are  always  advising  me,”  said  Byron  (at  Pisa,  in  October, 
1821),  “ to  write  an  epic.  If  you  must  have  an  epic,  there’s  ‘ Don 
Juan’  for  you.  1 call  that  an  epic  ; it  is  an  epic  as  much  in  the 
spirit  of  our  day  as  the  Iliad  was  in  that  of  Homer.  Love,  religion, 
and  politics  form  the  argument,  and  are  as  much  the  cause  of 
quarrels  now  as  they  were  then.  There  is  no  want  of  Parises  and 
Menelauses,  nor  of  crim.  cons,  into  the  bargain.  In  the  very  first 
canto  you  have  a Helen.  Then,  I shall  make  my  hero  a perfect 
Achilles  for  fighting, — a man  who  can  snuff  a candlj  three  successive 
times  with  a pistol-ball : and,  depend  upon  it,  my  moral  will  be  a 
good  one:  not  even  Dr.  Johnson  should  be  able  to  find  a flaw  in  it. 

J will  make  him  neither  a dandy  in  town,  nor  a fox-hunter  in  the 
country.  He  shall  get  into  all  sorts  of  scrapes,  and  at  length  end 
his  career  in  France.  Poor  Juan  shall  be  guillotined  in  the  French 
Revolution!  What  do  you  think  of  my  plot?  It  shall  have 
twenty-four  books  too,  the  legitimate  number.  Episodes  it  has, 
and  will  have,,  out  of  number;  and  my  spirits  good  or  bad  must 
serve  for  the  machinery.  If  that  be  not  an  epic — if  it  be  not 
itrictly  according  to  Aristotle — I don’t  know  what  an  epic  poem 
means.” 

Returning  to  mere  criticism,  we  light  upon  the 
late  ingenious  but  eccentric  author  ot  “ Spirits  of 
the  Age” — 

XXVI.  MR.  WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 

“Don  Juan  has,  indeed,  great  power;  but  its  power  is  owing  to 
the  force  of  the  serious  writing,  and  to  the  oddity  of  the  contrast 
between  that  and  the  flashy  passages  with  which  it  is  interlarded. 
From  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  there  is  but  one  step.  You 
laugh  and  are  surprised  that  any  one  should  turn  round  and  tra- 
vestie  himself;  the  drollery  is  in  the  utter  discontinuity  of  ideas  and 
feelings.  He  makes  virtue  serve  as  a foil  to  vice;  dandyism  is  (for 
want  of  any  other)  a variety  of  genius.  A classical  intoxication  is 
followed  by  the  splashing  of  soda  water,  by  frothy  effusions  of 
ordinary  bile.  After  the  lightning  and  the  hurricane,  we  are  intro- 
duced to  the  interior  of  the  cabin,  and  the  contents  of  wash-hand 
basins.  The  solemn  hero  of  tragedy  plays  Scrub  in  the  farce.  This 
is  ‘ very  tolerable  and  not  to  be  endured.’  The  noble  lord  is  almost 
the  only  writer  who  has  prostituted  his  talents  in  this  way.  He 
hallows  in  order  to  desecrate;  takes  a pleasure  in  defacing  the 
images  of  beauty  his  hands  have  wrought;  and  raises  our  hopes  and 
our  belief  in  goodness  to  heaven,  only  to  dash  them  to  the  earth 
again,  and  break  them  in  pieces  the  more  effectually  from  the  very 
height  they  have  fallen.  Our  enthusiasm  for  genius  or  virtue  is  thus 
turned  into  a jest,  by  the  very  person  who  has  kindled  it,  and  who 
thus  fatally  quenches  the  sparks  of  both.  It  is  not  that  Lord  Byron 
is  sometimes  serious  and  sometimes  trifling,  sometimes  profligate 
and  sometimes  moral — but  when  he  is  most  serious  and  most  moral, 
he  is  only  preparing  to  mortify  the  unsuspecting  reader  by  putting 
a pitiful  hoax  upon  him.  This  is  a most  unaccountable  anomaly. 
Don  Juan  has  been  called  a Tristram  Snandy  in  rhyme : it  is  rather 
a poem  about  itself.” 

We  find  no  “ Sir  Cosmo  Gordon”  in  any  baronetage 
of  this  age,  or  even  in  any  list  of  K.B.’s  or  K.H.’s ; 
Dut  it  stands  on  the  titlepage  of  a book  published  in 
1825,  and  entitled,  “ The  Life  and  Genius  of  Lord 
Byron.”  Take,  then, 

XXVII.  SIR  COSMO  GORDON. 

“ At  Venice,  Lord  Byron  planned  that  which,  had  he  lived  to 
complete  it,  must,  have  been  considered  as  the  most  daring  and  the 
rue st  wonderful  of  all  his  works,  Don  Juan.  This  work  was  general 
in  Its  satire,  and  warm  and  glowing  in  its  colouring  ; and  though  it 
had  an  obvious  and  important  moral, — the  absurdity  of  giving  to  a 
young  man  a secluded  and  monkish  education,  in  the  hope  that  that 
^ ould  preserve  him  from  temptations, — it  excited  a great  deal  of 
clamour,  especially  among  those  upon  whom,  in  the  execution  of  it, 
the  hand  of  the  poet  had  been  heavy.  The  Don  was  the  most 


singular  and  the  most  original  poem  that  had  perhaps  ever  ap- 
peared. It  was  made  up  of  the  most  cutting  and  searching  satires, 
mixed  with  dissections  of  the  human  heart,  and  delineations  of 
human  passion  and  frailty,  which  were  drawn  both  to  and  with  the 
life,  and  therefore  threw  all  those  who  dreaded  exposure  into  the 
most  serious  alarm.  There  was  much  more  both  of  politics  and  of 
personality  in  this  poem  than  in  any  of  his  former  ones,  and  upon 
this  account,  the  outcry  against  it  was  hiore  loud  and  general.  The 
stuff  of  immortality  was,  however,  in  the  poem,  and  not  a few  of 
those  who  were  offended  at  its  appearance  will  probably  find  if 
indeed  they  shall  live  as  long)  their  only  memorials  in  it,  after  all 
which,  good  or  bad,  they  have  done  for  themselves  shall  be  for- 
gotten.” 

The  “West”  that  follows  is  not  Benjamin,  the 
President,  but  a young  American  brother  of  the  brash, 
who  visited  Lord  Byron  in  Italy,  anno  Domini  1822. 

XXVIII.  WEST. 

“ He  showed  me  two  of  the  Cantos  of  Don  Juan  in  manuscript. 
They  were  written  on  large  sheets  of  paper,  put  together  like  a 
schoolboy’s  copybook.  Here  and  there  1 observed  alterations  of 
words,  but  seldom  of  whole  lines;  and  just  so,  he  told  me,  it  was 
written  down  at  once.  It  was  all  gin,  he  said,  meaning  thereby 
that  he  drank  nothing  but  gin  when  he  wrote  it.  The  Guiccioli 
was  present,  and  said,  ‘ she  wished  my  lord  would  leave  off  writing 
that  ugly  Don  Juan.’  ‘ I cannot  give  up  my  Don  Juan,’  he  replied  ; 

‘ I do  not  know  what  I should  do  without  my  Don  Juan.’  ” 

Prom  “ Lord  Byron’s  W orks,  viewed  in  connection 
with  Christianity  and  the  Obligations  of  Social  Life,” 
— a sermon  preached  in  Holland  Chapel,  Kennington, 
by  the  Bev.  John  Styles,  D.D. — and  sold  by  the 
Doctor’s  pew-openers,  we  now  submit  a brief  extract. 
We  believe  Dr.  Styles  has  been  familiarised  to  every 
reader,  by  one  of  the  Bev.  Sidney  Smith’s  articles  hi 
the  Edinburgh  Review. 

XXIX.  STYLES. 

“ Be  assured,  my  Brethren,  it  is  with  sorrowful  reluctance  I feel 
myself  called  upon  to  denounce  the  greatest  genius  of  the  age  as 
the  greatest  enemy  of  his  species.  The  poem  is  one  in  which  the 
author  has  put  forth  all  the  energy  of  his  wonderful  faculties;  nor 
has  he  written  any  thing  more  decisively  and  triumphantly  expres- 
sive of  the  greatness  of  his  genius.  It  is  at  once  the  glory  and 
disgrace  of  our  literature;  and  will  remain  to  all  ages  a perpetual 
monument  of  the  exalted  genius  and  depraved  heart  of  the  writer. 
It  is  devoted  to  the  worst  of  purposes  and  passions;  and  flows  on 
in  one  continued  stream  of  pollution.  Its  great  design  seems  to  be, 
to  shame  the  good  out  of  their  virtues,  and  to  inspire  the  wicked 
with  the  pride  of  depravity.  If,  for  a moment,  the  author  appears 
to  forget  himself,  and  to  suffer  his  muse  to  breathe  of  purity  and 
tenderness — if  a touch  of  humanity,  a faint  gleam  of  goodness, 
awaken  our  sympathy,  he  turns  upon  us  with  a sneer  of  contempt, 
or  laughs  our  sensibility  to  scorn.  Indeed,  throughout,  we  discover 
the  heartless  despiser  of  human  nature; — a denaturalised  being, 
who,  having  exhausted  every  species  of  sensual  gratification,  and 
drained  the  cup  of  sin  to  its  bitterest  dregs,  is  resoived  to  show  that 
he  is  no  longer  human,  even  in  his  frailties,  but  a cool,  unconcerned 
fiend,  treating,  well-nigh  with  equal  derision,  the  most  pure  of 
virtues  and  the  most  odious  of  vices,  dead  alike  to  the  beauty  of 
the  one  and  the  deformity  of  the  other ; yet  possessing  a restless 
spirit  of  seduction,—  debasing  the  nobler  part  of  man,  that  he  may 
more  surely  bring  into  action  his  baser  appetites  and  passions.  To 
accomplish  this,  he  has  lavished  all  the  wiles  of  his  wit,  all  the 
enchantments  of  his  genius.  In  every  page,  the  poet  is  a libertine; 
and  the  most  unexceptionable  passages  are  mildewed  with  impu- 
rity. The  cloven-foot  of  the  libidinous  satyr  is  monstrously  asso- 
ciated with  the  angel-wing  of  genius. — * 

‘ I ’d  rather  be  the  wretch  that  scrawls 
His  idiot  nonsense  on  the  walls  ; 

Not  quite  a man,  not  quite  a brute, 

Than  I would  basely  prostitute 
My  powers  to  serve  the  cause  of  vice, 

To  build  some  jewell’d  edifice 
So  fair,  so  foul, — framed  with  such  art 
To  please  the  eye  and  soil  the  heart, 

That  he  who  has  not  power  to  shun, 

Comes,  looks,  and  feels  himself  undone.’ 

O my  Brethren ! how  I wish  that  the  style  of  this  discourse  could 
be  less  accusatory  and  severe ! ” 

The  “ Letter  of  Cato  to  Lord  Byron,”  next  to  be 
quoted,  attracted  considerable  notice;  and  was,  we 
know  not  whether  justly  or  unjustly,  ascribed  to  the 
pen  of  the  Bev.  George  Croly,  D.D.,  Rector  of  Rom- 
ford, in  Essex — author  of  “Pans  in  1815,”  a poem — 
“ Pride  shall  have  a Fall,  a Comedy,” — “ Catiline,  a 
Tragedy,” — “Snlathiel,  a Romance,” — “Life  of  George 
4* 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


586 


the  Fourth,” — “ Comment  on  the  Apocalypse,”  &c. 

Sr. C.  &C. 

XXX.  CATO. 

“ Whatever  your  principles,  no  page  of  any  of  your  writings  has 
contributed  to  the  security  or  the  adornment  of  virtue.  Have  you 
not  offended  against  decency  ? and  repudiated  shame  ? Have  you 
not  represented  almost  every  woman  as  a harlot?  How  your  fame 
will  stand  with  posterity,  it  would  be  idle  to  speculate  upon.  It  is 
not  improbable  that  something  like  the  doubt  which  crossed  the 
mind  of  the  senate,  whether  they  should  pronounce  their  deceased 
emperor  a tyrant  or  a god,  will  perplex  the  judgment  of  succeeding 
generations  as  to  the  credit  and  character  of  your  poetry.  They 
will  hardly  know  if  they  shall  deify  or  desecrate  a genius  so 
majestic,  degrading  itself  by  subjects  and  sentiments  so  repulsive. 
With  an  insane  partiality,  we  are  undervaluing  our  standard  writers, 
and  placing  licentious  drivellers  in  their  room.  The  Shakspeares 
and  Miltons  of  better  days  are  superseded  by  the  Byrons  and 
Shelleys,  the  Hunts  and  Moores  of  our  own:  but  let  us  hope  that 
the  garbage  which  the  present  generation  luxuriates  upon,  posterity 
will  nauseate  and  cast  upon  the  dunghill.  With  such  a teacher  as 
you  have  shown  yourself,  how  is  it  possible  for  the  disciples  of 
your  school  to  be  any  other  than  most  vicious  beings?  He  who 
brutalizes  every  feeling  that  gives  dignify  to  social,  every  principle 
that  i - i parts  comfort  to  domestic,  life — he  who  represents  all  chas- 
tity as  visionary,  and  all  virtue  as  vile,  is  not  entitled  to  be  consi- 
dered as  a man— he  is  a living  literary  monster 

The  ensuing  paragraphs  are  from  a writer  who 
affixes  to  his  lucubration  the  initials  W.  C — ; but 
with  whose  full  name  and  surname  we  have,  after 
much  diligence,  failed  to  make  ourselves  acquainted. 
XXXI.  ANON. 

“ It  is  to  Don  Juan,  the  last  of  Lord  Byron’s  productions,  that 
he  will  owe  his  immortality.  It  is  his  only  work  which  excels  by 
its  allurement  and  delight ; by  its  power  of  attracting  and  detaining 
attention.  It  keeps  the  mind  in  pleasing  captivity' ; it  is  perused 
with  eagerness,  and,  in  hopes  of  new  pleasure,  is  perused  again. 
The  wild  and  daring  sallies  of  sentiment  with  which  it  abounds, 
the  irregular  and  eccentric  violence  of  wit  which  pervades  every 
canto,  e.cite  at  once  astonishment  and  enthusiasm.  The  original 
humour,  the  peculiarity  of  expression,  the  incidents,  the  circum- 
stances. the  surprises,  the  jests  of  action  and  of  thought,  the  shades 
of  light  and  darkness  so  exquisitely  intermingled,  impart  a pecu- 
liarity of  character  to  the  work,  which  places  it  above  all  modern, 
above  all  ancient  fame.  Indeed,  if  we  except  the  sixteen  satires  of 
Juvenal,  there  is  nothing  in  antiquity  so  bitter  or  so  decisive  as  the 
sixteen  cantos  of  Don  Juan.  The  Roman  satirist  exhibits  a mix- 
ture of  dignity  and  aversion,  of  hatred  and  invective;  the  English 
censor  displays  a contempt  of  the  various  relations  of  society,  of 
the  hypocrisies,  the  tumults,  and  the  agitations  of  life.  Juvenal 
disdains  to  wield  the  feeble  weapon  of  ridicule — Byron  delights  to 
mix  seriousness  with  merriment,  and  thoughts  purely  jocular  with 
sentiments  of  exasperation  and  revenge.  Juvenal  is  never  pathetic 
— Byron,  when  he  arrives  at  this  species  of  excellence,  destroys  its 
effect  by  effusions  of  ridicule  or  insensibility.  Both  poets,  how- 
ever, exhibit  the  same  ebullitions  of  resentment  against  the  miser- 
able victims  which  they  sacrifice  to  their  fury — the  same  scorn  for 
mankind — and  the  same  vehemence  in  depicting  their  crimes, 
passions,  and  foilies.  Both  attack  existing  villanv,  strike  at  cor- 
ruption and  profligacy,  and  trample  upon  the  turpitude  and  base- 
ness of  high  life.  Both  are  grave,  intrepid,  and  implacable.  If  at 
any  time  they  relax  the  sternness  of  their  manner,  they  never  forget 
themselves.  They  sometimes  smile,  indeed,  but  their  STaile  is 
more  terrible  than  their  frown  : it  is  never  excited  but  when  their 
indignation  is  mingled  with  contempt. — Don  Juan  will  be  read  as 
long  as  satire,  wit,  mirth,  and  supreme  excellence  shall  be  esteemed 
among  men  : it  will  continue  to  enchain  every  affection  and  emotion 
of  the  mind  : and  every  reader,  when  he  arrives  at  its  conclusion, 
will  view*it  with  an  eye  of  sorrow,  such  as  the  traveller  casts  on 
departing  day.” 

Another  (or  the  same)  Mr.  Anon.,  in  a work,  in 
three  volumes  8vo,  London,  1825,  entitled  “The  Life, 
Writings,  Opinions,  and  Times  of  Lord  Byron,”  thus 
observes — 

XXXII.  ANON.  (Second.) 

“ All  at  once  the  accumulated  torrent  of  obloquy  is  poured  forth 
upon  the  devoted  head  of  Lord  Byron!  Well — he  despised  it,  and 
Justly  he  might  do  so : it  will  never  tarnish  a leaf  of  his  laurels. 
PI  very  man  who  has  once  read  Don  Juan,  if  he  ingenuously  con- 
fesses the  truth,  will  feel  inclined  to  peruse  it  again  and  again.  If 
Byron’s  works  be  proscribed  on  the  score  of  want  of  decency,  it 
will  be  necessary  to  sweep  off  one  half  of  English  literature  at  once, 
as  libri  expur gati.  But  Byron  was  a proscribed  poet  with  the 
puritanical  moralists,  or  exclusively  good  men  ! ” 

A third  “ Anon.”  meets  us  in  the  Author  of  “ Don 
John;  or,  Don  Juan  unmasked;  being  a Key  to  the 
mystery  attending  that  remarkable  publication.” 


XXXIII.  ANON.  (Third.) 

**  In  Don  Juan,  his  lordship’s  muse  displays  all  his  charact*r|^tl« 
beauties  and  blemishes  — soaring  to  the  vastest  heights,  or  cr?cping 
to  the  lowest  depths — glancing  with  an  eye  of  fantasy  at  things 
past,  at  things  present,  and  at  things  to  come.  The  poem  is  con- 
structed, like  the  image  of  Nebuchadnezzar’s  dream — of  fine  gold, 
silver,  and  clay.  It  abounds  in  sublime  thought  and  low  humour, 
in  dignified  feeling  and  malignant  passion,  in  elegant  wit  and 
obsolete  conceit.  It  alternately  presents  us  with  the  gaiety  of  the 
ball-room,  and  the  gloom  of  the  scaffold— leading  us  among  the 
airy  pleasantries  of  fashionable  assemblages,  and  suddenly  con- 
ducting us  to  haunts  of  depraved  and  disgusting  sensuality.  We 
have  scarcely  time  to  be  refreshed  and  soothed  by  the  odours  of 
flowers  and  bursting  blossoms,  the  pensive  silence  of  still. waters, 
and  the  contemplation  of  beautiful  forms,  before  we  are  terrified 
and  horror-stricken  by  the  ferocious  clamours  of  tumultuous  crowds, 
and  the  agonies  of  innocent  and  expiring  victims.  This  poem  turns 
decorum  into  jest,  and  bids  defiance  to  the  established  decencies  of 
life.  It  wars  with  virtue  as  resolutely  as  with  vice.” 

Our  next  author  is  a pseudonomous  one — the  writer 
of  a “Letter  to  Lord  Byron,  by  John  Bull,”  London, 
8vo,  1821.  This  production  much  excited  Lord 
Byron’s  curiosity.  In  one  of  hi*  letters  to  Mr.  Mur- 
ray he  asks,  “ Who  the  devil  can  have  done  this 
diabolically  well-written  letter?”  and  subsequently  he 
is  found  resting  his  suspicion  (unfoundedly,  no  doubt,) 
on  one  of  his  own  most  intimate  personal  friends.  We 
extract  a few  paragraphs. 

XXXIV.  JOHN  BULL. 

“ Stick  to  Don  Juan  ; it  is  the  only  sincere  thing  you  have  ever 
written;  and  it  will  live  many  years  after  all  your  Harolds  have 
ceased  to  be,  in  your  own  words, 

4 A school-girl’s  tale — t.he  wonder  of  an  hour.’ 

I consider  Don  Juan  as  out  of  all  sight  the  best  of  your  works  : it 
is  by  far  the  most  spirited,  the  most  straightforward,  the  most  in- 
teresting, and  the  most  poetical;  and  every  body  thinks  as  I do  of 
it,  although  they  have  not  the  heart  to  say  so.  Old  Gifford’s  brow 
relaxed  as  he  gloated  over  it ; Mr.  Croker  chuckled  ; Dr.  Whitaker 
smirked;  Mr.  Milman  sighed;  Mr.  Coleridge  took  it  to  his  bed 
with  him. 

“ 1 think  the  great  charm  of  its  style  is,  that  it  is  not  much  like 
the  style  of  any  other  poem  in  the  world.  It  is  utter  humbug  to 
say,  that  it  is  borrowed  from  the  style  of  the  Italian  weavers  of 
merry  otlava  rima : their  merriment  is  nothing,  because  they  have 
nothing  but  their  merriment;  yours  is  every  thing,  because  it  is 
delightfully  intermingled  with,  and  contrasted  by,  all  manner  of 
serious  things — murder  and  lust  included.  It  is  also  mere  humbug 
to  accuse  you  of  having  plagiarised  it  from  Mr.  Frere’s  pretty  and 
graceful  little  Whistlecrafts.  The  measure,  to  be  sure,  is  the  same ; 
but  then  the  measure  is  as  old  as  the  hills.  But  the  spirit  of  the 
two  poets  is  as  different  as  can  be.  Mr.  Frere  writes  elegantly, 
playfully,  very  like  a gentleman,  and  a scholar,  and  a respectable 
man  ; and  his  poems  never  sold,  nor  ever  will  sell.  Your  Don 
Juan,  again,  is  written  strongly,  lasciviously,  fiercely,  laughingly, — 
every  body  sees  in  a moment  that  nobody  could  have  written  it  but 
a man  of  the  first  order,  both  in  genius  and  in  dissipation— a real 
master  of  all  his  tools— a profligate,  pernicious,  irresistible,  charming 
devil ;— and  accordingly  the  Don  sells,  and  will  sell,  to  the  end  of 
time,  whether  our  good  friend,  Mr.  John  Murray,  honour  it  with 
his  imprimatur,  or  doth  not  so  honour  it.  1 will  mention  a book, 
however,  from  which  I do  think  you  have  taken  a great  many 
hints;  nay,  a great  many  pretty  lull  sketches,  for  your  Juan.  It  is 
one  which  (with  a few  mors)  one  never  sees  mentioned  in  reviews, 
because  it  is  a book  written  on  the  anti-humbug  principle.  It  is — 
you  know  it  exceedingly  well — it  is  no  other  than  4 Faublas,’  a book 
which  contains  as  much  good  fun  as  Gil  Bias,  or  Moliere;  as  much 
good  luscious  description  as  the  Heloise;  as  much  fancy  and  ima- 
gination as  all  the  comedies  in  the  English  language  put  together, 
and  less  humbug  than  any  one  given  romance  that  has  been  written 
since  Don  Quixote — a book  which  is  to  be  found  on  the  tables  of 
roues,  and  in  the  desks  of  divines,  and  under  the  pillows  of  spin- 
sters— a book,  in  a word,  which  is  read  universally — I wish  I could 
add— in  the  original. 

44  But  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  charming  style  of  Don 
Juan,  which  is  entirely  and  inimitably  your  own — the  sweet,  fiery, 
rapid,  easy — beautifully  easy, — anti-humbug  style  of  Don  Juan. 
Ten  stanzas  of  it  are  worth  all  your  Manfred— and  yet  your  Man- 
fred is  a noble  poem,  too,  in  its  way.  I had  really  no  idea  what  a 
very  clever  fellow  you  were  till  I read  Don  Juan.  In  my  humble 
opinion,  there  is  very  little  in  the  literature  of  the  present  day  that 
will  stand  the  test  of  half  a century,  except  the  Scotch  novels  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  and  Don  Juan.  They  will  do  so  because  they  are 
written  with  perfect  facility  and  nature — because  4ieir  materials 
are  all  drawn  from  life.” 

Coming  once  more  to  men  with  names,  we  present 
this  extract  from  a Life  of  Bvron,  by  the  well-known 
author  of  “ The  Annals  of  the  Parish,”  “ The  Pro- 


DON  JUAN 


587 


70st,”  “The  Entail,”  “ Sir  Andrew  Wylie,”  “Laurie 
Todd,”  and  “ The  Member.” 

XXXV.  GALT. 

;«  Strong  objections  have  been  made  to  the  moral  tendency  of 
Don  Juan;  but,  in  the  opinion  of  many,  it  is  Lord  Byron’s  master- 
piece ; and  undoubtedly  it  displays  all  the  varieties  of  his  powers, 
combined  with  a quaint  playfulness  not  found  to  an  equal  degree 
in  any  other  of  his  works.  The  serious  and  pathetic  portions  are 
exquisitely  beautiful;  the  descriptions  have  all  the  distinctness  of 
tbs  best  pictures  in  Childe  Harold,  and  are,  moreover,  generally 
drawn  from  nature ; while  the  satire  is  for  the  most  part  curiously 
associated  and  sparklingly  witty.  The  characters  are  sketched  with 
amaz'mg  firmness  and  freedom  ; and,  though  sometimes  grotesque, 
are  yet  not  often  overcharged.  It  is  professedly  an  epic  poem,  but 
it  may  be  more  properly  described  as  a poetical  novel.  Nor  can  it 
be  said  to  inculcate  any  particular  moral,  or  to  do  more  than  un- 
mantle the  decorum  of  society.  Bold  and  buoyant  throughout,  it 
exhibits  a free  irreverent  knowledge  of  the  world,  laughing  or 
mocking  as  the  thought  serves,  in  the  most  unexpected  antitheses 
to  the  proprieties  of  time,  place,  and  circumstance.  The  object  of 
the  poem  is  to  describe  the  progress  of  a libertine  through  life ; not 
an  unprincipled  prodigal,  whose  profligacy,  growing  with  his  growth 
and  strengthening  with  his  strength,  passes  from  voluptuous  indul- 
gence into  the  morbid  sensuality  of  systematic  debauchery ; but  a 
young  gentleman  who,  whirled  by  the  vigour  and  vivacity  of  his 
\nimal  spvfcs  into  a world  of  adventures,  in  which  his  stars  are 
chiefly  in  fault  for  his  liaisons,  settles  at  last  into  an  honourable 
lawgiver,  a moral  speaker  on  divorce  bills,  and  possibly  a subscriber 
to  the  Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Vice.” 

Next  to  Mr.  Galt  we  place  tlie  amiable  and  humane 
oir  Samuel  Egerton  Brydges,  Baronet,  of  Denton  and 
Lee  Priory,  Kent,  author  of  “Mary  Clifford,”  the 
“ Censura  Literaria,”  the  “ Autobiography  of  Claver- 
ing,” &c.  &c.  &c. 

XXXVI.  BRYDGES. 

“ Don  Juan  is,  no  doubt,  very  licentious  in  parts,  which  renders 
it  dangerous  to  praise  it  very  much ; and  makes  it  improper  lor 
those  who  have  not  a cool  and  correct  judgment,  and  cannot  sepa- 
rate the  objectionable  parts  from  the  numerous  beautiful  passages 
intermixed.  But  nowhere  is  the  poet’s  mind  more  elastic,  free, 
and  vigorous,  and  his  knowledge  of  human  nature  more  surpris- 
ing. 1 1 has  all  sorts  of  faults,  many  of  which  cannot  be  defended, 
and  some  of  which  are  disgusting;  but  it  has,  also,  almost  every 
sort  of  poetical  merit;  there  are  in  it  some  of  the  finest  passages 
which  Lord  Byron  ever  wrote;  there  is  amazing  knowledge  of 
human  nature  in  it;  there  is  exquisite  humour;  there  is  freedom, 
and  bound,  and  vigour  of  narrative,  imagery,  sentiment,  and  style, 
which  are  admirable;  there  is  a vast  fertility  of  deep,  extensive,  and 
original  thought,  and,  at  the  same  time,  there  is  the  profusion  of  a 
prompt  and  most  richly-stored  memory.  The  invention  is  lively  and 
poetical ; the  descriptions  are  brilliant  and  glowing,  yet  not  over- 
wrought, but  fresh  trom  nature,  and  faithful  to  her  colours ; and 
the  prevalent  character  of  the  whole  (bating  too  many  dark  spots) 
not  dispiriting,  though  gloomy;  not  misanthropic,  though  bitter; 
and  not  repulsive  to  the  visions  of  poetical  enthusiasm,  though 
indignant  and  resentful.  I know  not  how  to  wish  he  had  never 
written  this  poem,  in  spite  of  all  its  faults  and  intermingled  mis- 
chief! There  are  parts  of  it  which  are  among  the  most  brilliant 
proofs  of  his  genius ; and,  what  is  even  better,  there  are  parts  which 
throw  a blaze  of  light  upon  the  knowledge  of  human  life.” 

After  depicting  the  mode  of  life  pursued  by  Lord 
Byron  at  Venice,  in  1817-18,  his  biographer  thus 
notices  Don  J uan  : — 

XXXVII.  MOORE. 

“ It  was  at  this  time,  as  the  features  of  the  progeny  itself  would 
but  too  plainly  indicate,  that  Lord  Byron  conceived  and  wrote  part 
of  his  poem  of  Don  Juan; — and  never  did  pages  more  faithfully, 
and  in  many  respects  lamentably,  reflect  every  variety  of  feeling, 
and  whim,  and  passion  that,  like  the  rack  of  autumn,  swept  across 
the  author’s  mind  in  writing  them.  Nothing  less,  indeed,  than  that 
singular  combination  of  attributes,  which  existed  and  were  in  full 
activity  in  his  mind  at  this  moment,  could  have  suggested,  or  been 
capable  of,  the  execution  of  such  a work.  The  cool  shrewdness  of 
age,  with  the  vivacity  and  glowing  temperament  of  youth, — the  wit 
of  a Voltaire, with  the  sensibility  of  a Rousseau, — theminute  practical 
knowledge  of  the  man  of  society,  with  the  abstract  and  self-contem- 
plative spirit  of  the  poet, — a susceptibility  of  all  that  is  grandest 
and  most  affecting  in  human  virtue,  with  a deep,  withering  expe- 
rience of  all  that  is  most  fatal  to  it,— the  two  extremes,  in  snort,  of 
man’s  mixed  and  inconsistent  nature,  now  rankly  smelling  of 
earth,  now  breathing  of  heaven, — such  was  the  strange  assemblage 
of  contrary  elements,  all  meeting  together  in  the  same  mind,  and 
all  brought  to  bear,  in  turn,  upon  the  salhe  task,  from  which  alone 
could  have  sprung  this  extraordinary  poem — the  most  powerful  and, 
in  many  respects,  painful  display  of  the  versatility  of  genius  that 
has  ever  been  left  for  succeeding  ages  to  wonder  at  and  deplore.” 

Immediat  ely  on  receiving  the  news  of  Lord  Byron’s 
death,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  as  is  known  to  all,  sent  to  one 


ot  the  Edinburgh  newspapers  a touching  tribute  to  bia 
memory.  Perhaps  a more  fitting  place  might  have 
been  found  in  this  collection  for  parts  of  the  following 
extract ; — but  we  cannot  prevail  on  ourselves  to  pre- 
sent it  here  in  a mutilated  form. 

XXXVIII.  SCOTT. 

“ Amidst  the  general  calmness  of  the  political  atmosphere,  we 
have  been  stunned,  from  another  quarter,  by  one  of  those  death 
notes,  which  are  pealed  at  intervals,  as  from  an  archangel’s  trumpet, 
to  awaken  the  soul  of  a whole  people  at  once.  Lord  Byron,  who 
has  so  long  and  so  amply  filled  the  highest  place  in  the  public  eye, 
has  shared  the  lot  of  humanity.  That  mighty  genius,  which  walked 
amongst  men  as  something  superior  to  ordinary  mortality,  and 
whose  powers  were  beheld  with  wonder,  and  something  approach- 
ing to  terror,  as  if  we  knew  not  whether  they  were  of  good  or  of 
evil,  is  laid  as  soundly  to  rest  as  the  poor  peasant  whose  ideas  went 
not  beyond  his  daily  task.  The  voice  of  just  blame  and  of  malig- 
nant censure  are  at  once  silenced;  and  we  feel  almost  as  if  the 
great  luminary  of  heaven  had  suddenly  disappeared  from  the  sky, 
at  the  moment  when  every  telescope  was  levelled  for  the  examina- 
tion of  the  spots  which  dimmed  its  brightness.  It  is  not  now  the 
question,  what  were  Byron’s  faults,  what  his  mistakes  ; but.  how  is 
the  blank  which  he  has  left  in  British  literature  to  be  filled  up? 
Not,  we  fear,  in  one  generation,  which,  among  many  highly  gifted 
persons,  has  produced  none  which  approached  Lord  Byron,  in 
originality,  the  first  attribute  of  genius.  Only  thirty-six  years 
old — so  much  already  done  for  immortality — so  much  time  remain- 
ing, as  it  seemed  to  us  short-sighted  mortals,  to  maintain  and  to 
extend  his  fame,  and  to  atone  for  errors  in  conduct  and  levities  in 
composition, — who  will  not  grieve  that  such  a race  has  been  short- 
ened, though  not  always  keeping  the  straight  path  ; such  a light 
extinguished,  though  sometimes  flaming  to  dazzle  and  to  bewilder? 
One  word  on  this  ungrateful  subject,  ere  we  quit  it  for  ever. 

“ The  errors  of  Lord  Byron  arose  neither  from  depravity  of  heart,  _ 
— for  Nature  had  not  committed  the  anomaly  of  uniting  to  such 
extraordinary  talents  an  imperfect  moral  sense, — nor  from  feelings 
dead  to  the  admiration  of  virtiie.  No  man  had  ever  a kinder  heart 
for  sympathy',  or  a more  open  hand  for  the  relief  of  distress ; and  no 
mind  was  evermore  formed  for  the  enthusiastic  admiration  of  noble 
actions,  providing  he  was  convinced  that  the  actors  had  proceeded 
on  disinterested  principles.  Remonstrances  from  a friend,  of 
whose  intentions  and  kindness  he  was  secure,  had  often  great 
weight  with  him  ; but  there  were  few  who  would  venture  on  a task 
so  difficult.  Reproof  he  endured  with  impatience,  and  reproach 
hardened  him  in  his  error;  so  that  he  often  resembles  the  gallant 
war-steed,  who  rushes  forward  on  the  steel  that  wounds  him.  in 
the  most  painful  crisis  of  his  private  life,  he  evinced  this  irritability 
and  impatience  of  censure  in  such  a degree,  as  almost  to  resemble 
the  noble  victim  of  the  bull  fight,  which  is  more  maddened  by  the 
squibs,  darts,  and  petty  annoyances  of  the  unworthy  crowds  beyond 
the  lists,  than  by  the  lance  of  his  nobler,  and,  so  to  speak,  his  more 
legitimate  antagonist.  In  a word,  much  of  that  in  which  he  erred 
was  in  bravado  and  scorn  of  his  censors,  and  was  done  with  tli« 
motive  of  Drvden’s  despot,  ‘ to  show  his  arbitrary  power.’ 

“ As  various  in  composition  as  Shakspeare  himself  (this  will  be 
admitted  by  all  who  are  acquainted  with  his  ‘Don  Juan’),  he  has 
embraced  every  topic  of  human  life,  and  sounded  every  string  on 
the  divine  harp,  from  its  slightest  to  its  most  powerful  and  heart- 
astounding  tones.  There  is  scarce  a passion  or  a situation  which 
has  escaped  his  pen  ; and  he  might  be  drawn,  like  Garrick,  between 
the  weeping  and  the  laughing  Muse,  although  his  most  powerful 
efforts  have  certainly  been  devoted  to  Melpomene.  His  genius 
seemed  as  prolific  as  various.  The  most  prodigal  use  did  not 
exhaust  his  powers,  nay,  seemed  rather  to  increase  their  vigour. 
Neither  Childe  Harold  nor  any  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Byron’s 
earlier  tales,  contain  more  exquisite  morsels  of  poetry  than  are  to 
be  found  scattered  through  the  cantos  of  Don  Juan,  amidst  verse:; 
which  the  author  appears  to  have  thrown  off  with  an  effort  as  spon- 
taneous as  that  of  a tree  resigning  its  leaves  to  the  wind.  But  that 
noble  tree  will  never  more  bear  fruit  or  blossom ! It  has  been  cut 
down  in  its  strength,  and  the  past  is  all  that  remains  to  us  of 
Byron.  We  can  scarce  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  idea— scarce 
think  that  the  voice  is  silent  for  ever,  which,  bursting  so  often  or. 
our  ear,  was  often  heard  with  rapturous  admiration,  sometimes  with 
regret,  but  always  with  the  deepest  interest, 

‘ All  that’s  bright  must  fade, 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest!’ 

With  a strong  feeling  of  awful  sorrow,  we  take  leave  of  the  subject. 
Death  creeps  upon  our  moei  serious  as  well  as  upon  our  most  idle 
employments  , and  it  is  a reflection  solemn  and  gratifying,  that  he 
found  our  Byron  in  no  moment  of  levity,  but  contributing  his  for- 
tune, and  hazarding  his  life,  in  behalf  of  a people  only  endeared  to 
him  by  their  own  past  glories,  and  as  fellow-creatures  suffering 
under  the  yoke  of  a heathen  oppressor.  To  have  fallen  in  a crusads 
for  Freedom  and  Humanity,  as  in  olden  times  it  would  have  been 
an  atonement  for  the  blackest  crimes,  may  in  the  present  be  allowed 
to  expiate  greater  follies  than  even  exaggerating  calumny  has  pro- 
pagated against  Byron.” 

In  a little  journal  conducted  by  the  great  poet  of 
Germany,  Goethe,  and  entitled  “ Kunst  und  Altker- 
thurn,”  i.e.  “Art  and  Antiquity,”  (Part  III.  1821j) 


588 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


YARROW  UNVISITED  (1809). 

From  Stirlintr  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravell’d; 

Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  traveled  ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 
Then  said  my  “ winsome  Marrow 
‘ Whate’er  betide,  we’ll  turn  aside. 
And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.” 

••  I.et  Yarrow  Folk .flrae  Selkirk  Town, 
Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 

Go  back  to  Yarrow,  ’tis  their  own  ; 

Each  Maiden  to  hpr  Dwelling  ! 

On  Yarrow’s  banks  let  herons  feed, 
Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow  I 
But  we  will  downwards  with  the 
Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 


DON  JUAN  UNREAD  (1819). 

Of  Corinth  Castle  we  had  read 
The  amazing  Siege  unravell’d, 

And  swallow’d  Lara  and  the  Giaour, 
And  with  Childe  Harold  travell’d  ; 
And  so  we  follow’d  Cloven  loot, 

And  faithfully  as  any. 

Until  he  cried,  “ Come  turn  aside. 
And  read  of  Don  Giovanni.” 

“ Let  whiggish  folk,  frae  Holland 
House, 

Who  have  been  lying,  prating. 
Read  Don  Giovanni,  ’ti-.  their  own  ; 

A child  of  their  creating  ! 

On  jests  profane  they  love  to  feed. 
And  there  they  are — and  many  ! 
But  we,  who  link  not  with  the  crew, 
Regard  not  Don  Giovanni. 


“ There ’s  Gala  Water,  Leader 
Haughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us  ; 

And  Dryb  'ro ugh,  where  with  chiming 
Tweed 

The  Lintwhites  sing  in  chorus  ; 
There’s  pleasant  Tiviot  Dale,  a land 
Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow : 
Why  throw  away  a needful  day 
To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

“ What’s  Yarrow  but  a River  bare. 
That  glides  the  dark  hills  under  ? 
There  are  a thousand  such  elsewhere 
As  worthy  of  y "ur  wonder.” 

— Strange  words  they  seem’d  of  slight 
and  scorn  ; 

My  true-love  sigh’d  for  sorrow  ; 

And  look’d  me  in  the  face,  to  think 
I thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 

“ Oh  ! green,”  said  I,  “ are  Yarrow’s 
Holms, 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing  ! 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 

O’er  hilly  oath,  and  open  Strath, 

We  ’1 1 wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  Dale  of  Yarrow. 

“ Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine 
partake 

The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow  ; 
The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary’s  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 

We  will  not  see  them  ; will  not  go 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow  ; 

Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There’s  such  a place  as  Yarrow. 

“ Be  Yarrow  Stream  unseen,  un- 
known 1 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it ; 

We  have  a vision  of  our  own  ; 

Ah ! why  should  we  undo  it  ? [past. 
The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long 
We’ll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow! 
For  when  we’re  there,  although  ’tis 
’Twill  be  another  Yarrow.  [fair, 

“ If  care  with  freezing  years  should 
come. 

And  wandering  seem  but  #olly, — 
Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 
And  yet  be  melancholy  ; 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low  ; 

'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow. 

That  ea  th  has  something  yet  to  show. 
The  bonny  Holms  of  Yarrow  !” 


" There’s  Godwin’s  daughter,  Shel- 
ley’s wife, 

A writing  fearful  stories  ; 

There’s  Hazlitt,  who.  with  Hunt  and 
Keats, 

Brays  forth  in  Cockney  chorus  ; 
There’s  pleasant  Thomas  Moore,  a bid 
Who  sings  of  Rose  and  Fanny  : 

Why  throw  away  these  wits  so  gay 
To  take  up  Don  Giovanni  ? 

“ What’s  Juan  but  a shameless  tale 
That  bursts  all  rules  asunder: 

There  are  a thousand  such  elsewhere ' 
As  worthy  of  your  wonder.” 
—Strange  words  they  seem’d  of  sligh 
and  scorn  ; 

His  lordship  look’d  not  canny  ; 

And  took  a pinch  of  snuff,  to  think 
I flouted  Don  Giovanni  ! 

“Oh!  rich,”  said  I,  “are  Juan 
• rhymes, 

And  warm  its  verse  is  flowing  ! 

Fair  crops  of  blasphemy  it  bears, 

But  we  will  leave  then?  growing  ; • 

In  Pindar’s  strain,  in  prose  of  Paine. 

And  many  other  Zany, 

As  gross  we  read,  so  where’s  the  need 
To  wade  through  Don  Giovanni  ? I 

“ Let  Colburn’s  town-bred  cattle 
snuff 

The  sweets  of  Lady  Morgan; 

Let  Matuiin  to  amorous  themes 
Attune  his  barrel  organ  ! 

We  will  not  read  them,  will  not  heat 
The  parson  or  the  granny ; 

And,  I dare  say,  as  bad  as  they. 

Or  worse,  is  Do.i  Giovanni. 

“ Be  Juan  then  unseen,  unknown  ; I 
It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it ; 

We  m <y  have  virtue  of  our  own  ; 

Ah  ! whv  snould  we  undo  it  ? 

The  treasured  faith  of  days  long 
past, 

We  still  would  prize  o’er  any  ; 

And  grieve  to  hear  the  ribald  jeer 
Of  scamps  like  Don  Giovanni. 

“ When  Whigs  with  freezing  rule 
shall  come. 

And  piety  seem  folly ; [Brougham, 
When  Cam  and  Isis,  curb’d  by 
Shall  wander  melancholy  ; 
WhenCobbett,  Wooler,  Watson,  Hunt, 
And  all  the  swinish  many,  [State  ;; 
Shall  rough-shod  ride  o’er  Church  and 
Then  hey  '.  for  Don  Giovanni." 


there  appeared  a translation  into  German  of  pa  *t  of 
the  first  canto  of  Don  Juan,  with  some  remarks  on  the 
poem  by  the  venerable  Editor,  of  which  we  next 
submit  a specimen  : — 

XXXIX.  GOETHE. 

“ Don  Juan  is  a thoroughly  genial  work — misanthropical  to  the 
bitterest  savageness,  tender  to  the  most  exquisite  delicacy  of  sweet 
feelings  : and  when  we  once  understand  and  appreciate  the  author, 
and  make  up  our  minds  not  fretfully  and  vainly  to  wish  him  other 
than  he  is,  it  is  impossible  not  to  enjoy  what  he  chooses  to  pour  out 
before  us  with  such  unbounded  audacity — with  such  utter  reckless- 
ness. The  technical  execution  of  the  verse  is  in  every  respect 
answerable  to  the  strange,  wild  simplicity  of  the  conception  and 
plan  : the  poet  no  more  thinks  of  polishing  his  phrase,  than  he  does 
of  flattering  his  kind ; and  yet,  when  we  examine  the  piece  more 
narrowly,  we  feel  that  English  poetry  is  in  possession  of  what  the 

German  has  never  attained,  a classically  elegant  comic  style 

“If  I am  blamed  for  recommending  this  work  for  translation — 
for  throwing  out  hints  which  may  serve  to  introduce  so  immoral  a 
performance  among  a quiet  and  uncorrupted  nation — I answer,  that 
I really  do  not  perceive  any  likelihood  of  our  virtue’s  sustaining 
serious  damage  in  this  way : Poets  and  Romancers,  bad  as  they 
may  be,  have  not  yet  learned  to  be  more  pernicious  than  the  daily 
newspapers  which  lie  on  every  table.” 

After  Scott  and  Goethe  we  should  be  sorry  to 
quote  anybody  but  Lord  Byron  himself.  In  Mr. 
Kennedy’s  account  of  his  <?  Conversations”  with  the 
noble  poet  at  Cephalonia,  a few  weeks  before  his  death, 
we  find  the  following  passage,  with  which  let  these 
prolegomena  conclude. 

XL.  BYRON  ipse  ( apud  Kennedy), 

“I  cannot,”  said  Lord  Byron,  “conceive  why  people  will  always 
mix  up  my  own  character  and  opinions  with  those  of  the  imaginary 
beings  which,  as  a poet,  I have  the  right  and  liberty  to  draw.” 

“ They  certainly,”  said  I,  “ do  not  spare  your  Lordship  in  that 
respect,  and  in  Childe  Harold,  Lara,  the  Giaour,  and  Don  Juan, 
they  are  too  much  disposed  to  think  that  you  paint,  in  many  cos- 
tumes, yourself,  and  that  these  characters  are  only  the  vehicles  for 
the  expression  of  your  own  sentiments  and  feelings.” 

“ They  do  me  great  injustice,”  he  replied,  “ and  what  was  never 
before  done  to  any  poet.  Even  in  Don  Juan  I have  been  equally 
misunderstood.  I take  a vicious  and  unprincipled  character,  and 
lead  him  through  those  ranks  of  society,  whose  high  external 
accomplishments  cover  and  cloak  infernal  and  secret  vices,  and  I 
paint  the  natural  effects  of  such  characters;  and  certainly  they  are 
not  so  highly  coloured  as  we  find  them  in  real  life.” 

“ This  may  be  true  ; but  the  question  is,  what  are  your  motives 
and  object  for  painting  nothing  but  scenes  of  vice  and  folly?”— 
“To  remove  the  cloak,  which  the  manners  and  maxims  of  society,” 
said  his  Lordship,  “ throw  over  their  secret  sins,  and  show  them  to 
the  world  as  they  really  are.” 

postscript. 

We  had  intended  to  stop  with  the  above — but  after 
it  was  too  late  to  derange  the  order  of  our  earlier 
testimonies,  our  attention  was  solicited  to  a sportive 
effusion  by  the  learned  Dr.  William  Maginn,  of 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  which  appears  to  us  not  un- 
worthy of  being  transferred  to  this  Olla  podrida. 
Every  one  ought  to  have,  but  every  one  has  not,  by 
heart  Wordsworth’s  “ Yarrow  Unvisited;”  therefore 
we  shall  place  the  original  alongside  of  the  parody. 


“ Then  hey  ! for  Don  Giovanni!” — What  Tory  will 
not  pronounce  Dr.  Maginn’s  last  octave  a prophetic 
one,  when  he  compares  it  with  the  time  of  the  forth* 
coming  of  this,  the  first  complete  and  unmutilated 
edition  of  Don  Juan?” 

January  30,  1833.] 

♦ 

DEDICATION.1 


i. 

Bob  Southey  ! You’re  a poet— Poet-laureate, 

And  representative  of  all  the  race, 

Although  ’tis  true  that  you  turn’d  out  a Tory  at 
Last, — yours  has  lately  been  a common  case,— 

And  now,  my  Epic  Renegade  ! what  are  ye  at  ? 

With  all  the  Lakers,  in  and  out  of  place  ? 

A nest  of  tuneful  persons,  to  my  eye 
Like  “ four  and  twenty  Blackbirds  in  a pye  ; 

ii. 

“ Which  pye  being  open’d  they  began  to  sing” 

(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds  good), 

“ A dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  King,” 

Or  Regent,  who  admires  such  kind  of  food 
And  Coleridge,  too,  has  lately  taken  wing, 

But  like  a hawk  encumber’d  with  his  hood,— 
Explaining  metaphysics  to  the  nation — 

I wish  he  would  explain  his  Explanation.2 

years,  the  verses  have  been  selling  in  the  streets  as  a broadside. 
It  could,  therefore,  serve  no  purpose  to  exclude  them  on  th«  present 
occasion.] 

(2)  [Coleridge’s  “ Biographia  Literaria”  appeared  in  1817.] 


fl)  [This  “Dedication”  was  suppressed,  i.i  1819,  with  Lord 
Byron’s  reluctant  consent;  but,  shortly  after  his  death,  its  existence 
became  notorious,  in  consequence  of  an  article  in  the  Westminster 
Hftvtew,  generally  ascribed  to  Sir  John  Hobhouse;  and,  for  several 


DON  JUAN, 


589 


m. 

You,  Bob  ! are  rather  insolent,  you  know. 

At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 
To  supersede  all  warblers  here  below, 

And  be  the  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish ; 

And  then  you  overstrain  yourself,  or  so, 

And  tumble  downward  like  the  flying  fish 
Gasping  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too  high.  Bob, 
And  fall,  for  lack  of  moisture  quite  a-dry,  Bob  ! 

IV. 

And  Wordsworth,  in  a rather  long  “ Excursion’* 

(I  think  the  quarto  holds  five  hundred  pages). 

Has  given  a sample  from  the  vasty  version 
Of  his  new  system1  to  perplex  ihe  sages  ; 

*Tis  poetry — at  least  by  his  assertion, 

And  may  appear  so  when  the  dog-star  rages — 

And  he  wlio  understands  it  would  be  able 
To  add  a story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

v. 

You — Gentlemen  ! by  dint  of  long  seclusion 
From  better  company,  have  kept  your  own 
At  Keswick,2  and,  through  still  continued  fusion 
Of  one  another’s  minds,  at  last  have  grown 
To  deem  as  a most  logical  conclusion. 

That  Poesy  has  wreaths  for  you  alone  : 

There  is  a narrowness  in  such  a notion,  [ocean. 

Which  makes  me  wish  you’d  change  your  lakes  for 

VI. 

I would  not  imitate  the  petty  thought, 

Nor  coin  my  self-love  to  so  base  a vice, 

For  all  the  glory  your  conversion  brought, 

Since  gold  alone  should  not  have  been  its  price. 

You  have  your  salary  ; was’t  for  that  you  wrought  ? 

And  Wordsworth  has  his  place  in  the  Excise.3 
You’re  shabby  fellows — true — but  poets  still. 

And  duly  seated  on  the  immortal  hill. 

VII. 

Your  bays  may  hide  the  baldness  of  your  brows — • 
Perhaps  some  virtuous  blushes  ; — let  them  go — 

To  you  1 envy  neither  fruit  nor  boughs — 

And  for  the  fame  you  would  engross  below, 

The  field  is  universal,  and  allows 

Scope  to  all  such  as  feel  the  inherent  glow  : 

Scott,  Rogers,  Campbell,  Moore,  and  Crabbe,  will  try 
’Gainst  you  the  question  with  posterity. 


(1)  [“  When,  some  years  ago,  a gentleman,  the  chief  writer  and 
conductor  of  a celebrated  review,  distinguished  by  its  hostility  to 
Mr.  Southey,  spent  a day  or  two  at  Keswick,  he  was  circumstantially 
informed  by  what  series  of  accidents  it  had  happened,  that  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  Mr.  Southey,  and  I had  become  neighbours ; and  how 
utterly  groundless  was  the  supposition,  that  we  considered  ourselves 
as  belonging  to  any  common  school,  but  that  of  good  sense,  con- 
firmed by  the  long- established  models  of  the  best  times  of  Greece, 
Rome,  Italy,  and  England;  and  still  more  groundless  the  notion, 
that  Mr.  Southey  (for,  as  to  myself,  I have  published  so  little,  and 
that  little  of  so  little  importance,  as  to  make  it  almost  ludicrous 
to  mention  my  name  at  all)  could  have  been  concerned  in  the 
formation  of  a poetic  sect  with  Mr.  Wordsworth,  when  so  many  of 
his  works  had  been  published,  not  only  previously  to  any  acquaint- 
ance between  them,  but  before  Mr.  Wordsworth  himself  had  written 
any  thing  but  in  a diction  ornate,  and  uniformly  sustained;  when, 
too,  the  slightest  examination  will  make  it  evident,  that  between 
those  and  the  after-writings  of  Mr.  Southey  there  exists  no  other 
difference  than  that  of  a progressive  degree  of  excellence,  from  pro- 
gressive development  of  power,  and  progressive  facility  from  habit 
and  increase  of  experience.  Yet,  among  the  first  articles  which  this 
man  wrote  after  his  return  from  Keswick,  we  were  characterised  as 
‘ the  School  of  whining  and  hypochondriacal  poets  that  haunt  the 
Lakes.’  ” — Coleridge.] 

(2)  [Mr.  Southey  is  the  only  poet  of  the  day  that  ever  resided  at 
Keswick.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  who  lived  at  one  time  on  Grasmere, 
has  for  many  years  past  occupied  Mount  Rydal,  near  Ambieside : 
Professor  Wilson  possesses  an  elegant  villa  on  Windermere:  Cole- 
ridge, Lambe,  Lloyd,  and  others  classed  by  the  Edinburgh  Review 


VIII. 

For  me,  who,  wandering  with  pedestrian  Muses, 
Contend  not  with  you  on  the  winged  steed, 

I wish  your  fate  may  yield  ye,  when  she  chooses, 

The  fame  you  envy,  and  the  skill  you  need ; 

And  recollect  a poet  nothing  loses 

In  giving  to  his  brethren  their  full  meed 
Of  merit,  and  complaint  of  present  days 
Is  not  the  certain  path  to  future  praise. 

IX. 

He  that  reserves  his  laurels  for  posterity 

(Who  does  not  often  claim  the  bright  reversion) 
Has  generally  no  great  crop  to  spare  it,  he 
Being  only  injured  by  his  own  assertion ; 

And  although  here  and  there  some  glorious  rarity 
Arise  like  Titan  from  the  sea’s  immersion, 

The  major  part  of  such  appellants  go 
To — God  knows  where — for  no  one  else  can  know, 
x. 

If,  fallen  in  evil  days  on  evil  tongues, 

Milton  appeal’d  to  the  Avenger,  Time, 

If  Time,  the  Avenger,  execrates  his  wrongs, 

And  makes  the  word  “ Miltonic”  mean  “ sublime , ' 
He  deign’d  not  to  belie  his  soul  in  songs, 

Nor  turn  his  very  talent  to  a crime  ; 

He  did  not  loathe  the  Sire  to  laud  the  Son, 

But  closed  the  tyrant-hater  he  begun. 

XI. 

Think’st  thou,  could  he — the  blind  Old  Man — arise 
Like  Samuel  from  the  grave,  to  freeze  once  more 
The  blood  of  monarchs  with  his  prophecies, 

Or  be  alive  again — again  all  hoar 
With  time  and  trials,  and  those  helpless  eyes, 

And  heartless  daughters — worn — and  pale4 — and 
Would  he  adore  a sultan  ? he  obey  [poor  ; 

The  intellectual  eunuch  Castlereagh  F5 

XII. 

Cold-blooded,  smooth-faced,  placid  miscreant ! 

Dabbling  its  sleek  young  hands  in  Erin’s  gore, 

And  thus  for  wider  carnage  taught  to  pant, 
Transferr’d  to  gorge  upon  a sister  shore, 

The  vulgarest  tool  that  Tyranny  could  want, 

With  just  enough  of  talent,  and  no  more, 

To  lengthen  fetters  by  another  fix’d, 

And  offer  poison  long  already  mix’d. 


in  the  Lake  School,  never,  we  believe,  had  any  connexion  with  that 

part  of  the  country.] 

(3)  Wordsworth’s  place  may  be  in  the  Customs — it  is,  I think,  in 
that  or  the  Excise — besides  another  at  Lord  Lonsdale’s  table,  where 
this  poetical  charlatan  and  political  parasite  licks  up  the  crumbs 
with  a hardened  alacrity  , the  converted  Jacobin  having  long  sub- 
sided into  the  clownish  sycophant  of  the  worst  prejudices  of  the 
aristocracy. 

(4)  “ Pale,  but  not  cadaverous;” — Milton’s  two, elder  daughters 
are  said  co  have  robbed  him  of  his  books,  besides  cheating  and 
plaguing  him  in  the  economy  of  his  house,  &c.  &c.  His  feelings 
on  such  an  outrage,  both  as  a parent  and  a scholar,  must  have  been 
singularly  painful.  Hayley  compares  him  to  Lear.  See  part  third, 
Life  of  Milton,  by  W.  Hayley  (or  Hailey,  as  spelt  in  the  edition 
before  me). 

(5)  Or,— 

“ Would  he  subside  into  a hackney  Laureate — 

A scribbling,  self-sold,  soul-hired,  scorn’d  Iscariot?” 

I doubt  if  “Laureate”  and  “Iscariot”  be  good  rhymes,  but  must 
say,  as  Ben  Jonson  did  to  Sylvester,  who  challenged  him  to  rlivina 
with — 

“ I,  John  Sylvester, 

Lay  with  your  sister.” 

Jonson  answered,  “ I,  Ben  Jenson,  lay  with  your  wife.”  Sylvester 
answered,  “ That  is  not  rhyme  No,”  said  Ben  Jonson;  “but 
it  is  true-  ” 


590 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CA.NTO  I. 


XIII. 

An  orator  of  such  set  trash  of  phrase 
Ineffably — legitimately  vile, 

That  even  its  grossest  flatterers  dare  not  praise, 

Nor  foes — all  nations— condescend  to  smile, — • 

Nor  even  a sprightly  blunder’s  spark  can  blaze 
From  that  Ixion  grindstone’s  ceaseless  toil, 

Tnat  turns  and  turns  to  give  the  world  a notion 
Of  endless  torments  and  perpetual  motion. 

XIV. 

A bungler  even  in  its  disgusting  trade, 

And  botching,  patching,  leaving  still  behind 
Something  of  which  its  masters  are  afraid, 

States  to  be  curb’d,  and  thoughts  to  be  confined, 
Conspiracy  or  Congress  to  be  made — 

Cobbling  at  manacles  for  all  mankind — 

A tinkering  slave-maker,  who  mends  old  chains, 

With  God  and  man’s  abhorrence  for  its  gains. 

xv. 

If  we  may  judge  of  matter  by  the  mind, 

Emasculated  to  the  marrow  It 
Hath  but  two  objects,  how  to  serve,  and  bind, 
Deeming  the  chain  it  wears  even  men  may  fit, 
Eutropius  of  its  many  masters,1 — blind 
To  worth  as  freedom,  wisdom  as  to  wit, 

Fearless — because  no  feeling  dwells  in  ice, 

Its  very  courage  stagnates  to  a vice. 

XVI. 

Where  shall  I turn  me  not  to  view  its  bonds, 

For  1 will  never  feel  them  Italy  ! 

Thy  late  reviving  Roman  soul  desponds 

Beneath  the  lie  this  State-tiling  breathed  o’er  thee — 
Thy  clanking  chain,  and  Erin’s  yet  green  wounds. 
Have  voices — tongues  to  cry  aloud  for  me. 


(1)  For  the  character  of  Eutropius,  the  eunuch  and  minister  at 
the  court  of  Arcadius,  see  Gibbon.  [“  Eutropius,  one  of  the  prin- 
cipal eunuchs  of  the  palace  of  Constantinople,  succeeded  the 
haughty  minister  whose  ruin  he  had  accomplished,  and  whose 
vices  he  soon  imitated.  He  was  the  first  of  his  artificial  sex  who 
dared  to  assume  the  character  of  a Roman  magistrate  and  general. 
Sometimes,  in  the  presence  of  the  blushing  senate,  he  ascended  the 
tribunal  to  pronounce  judgment,  or  to  repeat  elaborate  harangues  ; 
ana  sometimes  appeared  on  horseback,  at  the  head  of  his  troops, 
in  the  dress  and  armour  of  a hero.  The  disregard  of  custom  and 
decency  always  betrays  a weak  and  ill-regulated  mind  : nor  does 
Eutropius  seem  to  have  compensated  for  the  folly  of  the  design  by 
any  superior  merit  or  ability  in  the  execution.  His  former  habits 
of  life  had  not  introduced  him  to  the  study  of  the  laws,  or  the 
exercises  of  the  field  ; his  awkward  and  unsuccessful  attempts  pro- 
voked the  secret  contempt  of  the  spectators ; the  Goths  expressed 
a wish  that  such  a general  migi  t always  command  the  armies  of 
Rome,  and  the  name  of  the  minister  was  branded  with  ridicule, 
more  pernicious,  perhaps,  than  hatred  to  a public  character.” — 
Gibbon.] 

(2)  [Mr.  Fox  and  the  Whig  Club  of  his  time  adopted  an  uniform 
of  blue  and  buff : hence  the  coverings  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  &c.] 

(3)  I allude  not  to  our  friend  Landor’s  hero,  the  traitor  Count 
Julian,  but  to  Gibbon’s  hero,  vulgarly  yclept  “ The  Apostate.’* 

(4)  [Begun  at  Venice,  September  6 ; finished  Nov.  1,  1818.] 

(5)  [We  find  the  following  Fragment  on  the  back  of  the  Poet’s 

MS.  of  Canto  I. 

“ I would  to  heaven  that  I were  so  much  clay, 

As  1 am  blood,  bone,  marrow,  passion,  feeling — 

Because  at  least  the  past  were  pass’d  away — 

And  for  the  future  — (but  I write  this  reeling, 

Having  got  drunk  exceedingly  to-day, 

So  that  I seem  to  stand  upon  the  ceiling) 

I say — the  future  is  a serious  matter — 

And  so — for  God's  sake — hock  and  soda-water  ! ”] 

(6)  [Remodelled  under  the  names  of  “ Don  Juan,”  “ The  Liber- 

tine,” &c.  &c.,  the  old  Spanish  spiritual  Dlay,  entitled  “ Atheista 

Fulminato,”  formerly  acted  in  the  churches  and  monasteries,  has 

had  its  day  of  favour  in  every  country  throughout  Europe.  It  was 

first  introduced  upon  the  regular  stage,  under  the  title  of  “ El  Bur- 

lador  de  Sevilla  y Combidado  de  Pierra,”  by  Gabriel  Tellez,  the 

cotemporary  of  Calderon.  It  was  soon  translated  into  Italian  by 

Cieogniui,  and  performed  with  so  much  success  in  this  language, 

ao*.  only  in  Italy  but  even  at  Paris,  that  Moli^re,  shortly  before  his 

ieath,  produced  a comedy  in  five  acts,  called  “ Don  Juan ; ou,  Le 


Europe  lias  slaves — allies — kings — armies  still, 

And  Southey  lives  to  sing  them  very  ill. 

XVII. 

Meantime-  Sir  Laureate— I proceed  to  dedicate, 

In  honest  simple  verse,  this  song  to  you. 

And,  if  in  flattering  strains  I do  not  predicate, 

’Tis  that  I still  retain  my  “ buff  and  blue  ;”1 2 
My  politics  as  yet  are  all  to  educate  : 

Apostasy’s  so  fashionable,  too, 

To  keep  one  creed’s  a task  grown  quite  Herculean ; 
Is  it  not  so,  my  Tory,  ultra- Julian? 3 

Venice,  Sept.  16,  1818 

♦ 

Don  3(uan.4 


CANTO  THE  FIRST.5 


I. 

I want  a hero  : an  uncommon  want, 

When  every  year  and  month  sends  forth  a new  one^ 
Till,  after  cloying  the  gazettes  with  cant, 

The  age  discovers  he  is  not  the  true  one ; 

Of  such  as  these  I should  not  care  to  vaunt,6 

I’ll  therefore  take  our  ancient  friend  Don  Juan— 
We  all  have  seen  him,  in  the  pantomime, 

Sent  to  the  devil  somewhat  ere  his  time. 

ii. 

Yernon,7  the  butcher  Cumberland,8  Wolfe,9 * *  Hawke,1® 
Prince  Ferdinand,11  Granby,12  Burgoyne,13  Keppel,14 
Howe,15 

Evil  and  good,  have  had  their  tithe  of  talk, 

And  fill’d  their  sign-posts  then,  like  Wellesley  now ; 


Festin  de  Pierre.”  This  piece  was,  in  1677,  put  into  verse  by 
T.  Corneille ; and  thus  it  has  been  performed  on  the  French  stage 
ever  since.  In  1676,  Shadweil,  the  successor  of  Dryden  in  the 
laureateship,  introduced  the  subject  into  this  country,  in  his  tra- 
gedy of  the  “Libertine;”  but  he  made  his  hero  so  unboundedly 
wicked,  as  to  exceed  the  limits  of  probability.  In  all  these  works, 
as  well  as  in  Mozart’s  celebrated  opera,  the  Don  is  uniformly 
represented  as  a travelling  rake,  who  practises  every  where  the 
arts  of  seduction,  and  who,  for  his  numerous  delinquencies,  is 
finally  consumed  by  flames  coram  populo,  or,  as  Lord  Byron  has 
it,  — “ Sent  to  the  devil  somewhat  ere  his  time.”] 

(7)  [Admiral  Vernon,  who  served  with  considerable  distinction 
in  the  navy,  particularly  in  the  capture  of  Porto  Bello,  died  in 
1757.] 

(8)  [Second  son  of  George  II.,  distinguished  himself  at  the 
battles  of  Dettingen  and  Fontenoy,  and  still  more  so  at  that  ot 
Culloden,  where  he  defeated  the  Chevalier,  in  1746.  The  Duke, 
however,  obscured  his  fame  by  the  cruel  abuse  which  he  made,  or 
suffered  his  soldiers  to  make,  of  the  victory.  He  died  in  1765.] 

(9)  [General  Wolfe,  the  brave  commander  of  the  expedition 
against  Quebec,  terminated  his  career  in  the  moment  of  victory, 
whilst  fighting  against  the  French  in  1759.] 

(10)  [In  1759,  Admiral  Lord  Hawke  totally  defeated  the  French 
fleet  equipped  at  Brest  for  the  invasion  of  England.  In  1765  he 
was  appointed  First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty ; and  died,  full  of 
honours,  in  1781.] 

(11)  [Ferdinand,  Duke  of  Brunswick,  who  gained  the  victory  of 
Minden.  In  1762,  he  drove  the  French  out  of  Hesse.  He  died  in 
1792.] 

(12)  [Son  of  the  third  Duke  of  Rutland — signalised  himself  in 
1745,  on  the  invasion  by  Prince  Charles;  and  was  constituted,  in 
1759,  commander  of  the  British  forces  in  Germany.  He  died 
in  1770.] 

(13)  [An  English  general  officer  and  dramatist,  who  distin- 
guished himself  in  the  defence  of  Portugal,  in  1762,  against  the 
Spaniards,  and  also  in  America  by  the  capture  of  Ticonderoga: 
but  was  at  last  obliged  to  surrender,  with  his  army,  to  General 
Gates.  Died  in  1792.] 

(14)  [Second  son  of  the  Earl  of  Albemarle.  Placed  at  the  head 
of  the  Channel  fleet,  he  partially  engaged,  in  1778,  the  French  fleet 
off  Ushant,  which  contrived  to  escape:  he  was,  in  consequence, 
tried  by  a court  martial,  and  honourably  acquitted.  He  died  in 
1786.] 

(15)  [Lord  Howe  distinguished  himself  on  many  occasions  during 
the  American  war.  On  the  breaking  out  of  the  French  wai,  b« 


CANTO 


DON  JUAN. 


591 


Each  in  tlieir  turn  like  Banquo’s  monarclis  stalk. 
Followers  of  fame,  “ nine  farrow”  of  that  sow : 
France,  too,  had  Buonaparte1  and  Dumourier 
Recorded  in  the  Moniteur  and  Courier. 

hi. 

Ikirnave,* 1 2  Brissot,3  Condorcet,,4  Mirabcau,5 
l'etion,6  Clootz,7  Danton,8  Marat,9  La  Fayette,10 * 
Were  French,  and  famous  people,  as  we  know ; 

And  there  were  others,  scarce  forgotten  yet, 
Joubert,11  Hoche,12  Marceau,13  Lannes,14  Desaix,1'5 
With  many  of  the  military  set,  [Moreau,16 

Exceedingly  remarkable  at  times, 

But  not  at  all  adapted  to  my  rhymes. 

IV. 

N elson  was  once  Britannia’s  god  of  war, 

And  still  should  be  so,  but  the  tide  is  turn’d ; 


took,  the  command  of  the  English  fleet,  and,  bringing  the  enemy 
to  an  action  on  the  1st  of  June,  1794,  obtained  a splendid  victory. 
He  died  in  1799.] 

(1)  [We  find  on  Lord  Byron’s  MS.  the  following  note  to  this 
stanza: — ‘‘In  the  eighth  and  Concluding  lecture  of  Mr.  Hazlitt’s 
canons  of  criticism,  delivered  at  the  Surrey  Institution,  I am 
accused  of  having  * lauded  Buonaparte  to  the  skies  in  the  hour  of 
nis  success,  and  then  peevishly  wreaking  my  disappointment  on 
the  god  of  my  idolatry.’  The  first  lines  1 ever  wrote  upon  Buona- 
parte were  the  ‘ Ode  to  Napoleon’  [see  ante , p.  459],  after  his  abdi- 
cation in  1814.  All  that  I have  ever  written  on  that  subject  has 
been  done  since  his  decline; — I never  ‘ met  him  in  the  hour  of  his 
success.’.  I have  considered  his  character  at  different  periods,  in 
:ts  strength  and  in  its  weakness : by  his  zealots  I am  accused  of 
injustice — by  his  enemies  as  his  warmest  partisan ; in  many  publi- 
cations, both  English  and  foreign. 

“ For  the  accuracy  of  my  delineation  I have  high  authority.  A 
year  and  some  months  ago,  1 had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  at  Venice 
my  friend  the  honourable  Douglas  Kinnaird.  In  his  way  through 
Germany,  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  honoured  with  a presenta- 
tion to,  and  some  interviews  with,  one  of  the  nearest  family  con- 
nexions of  Napoleon,  (Eugene  Beauharnais).  During  one  of  these, 
he  read  and  trans  ated  the  lines  alluding  to  Buonaparte,  in  the 
third  Canto  of  Childe  Harold  [ante,  p.  32],  He  informed  me,  that 
he  was  authorized  by  the  illustrious  personage — (still  recognised  as 
such  by  the  Legitimacy  in  Europe) — to  whom  they  were  read,  to 
say,  that  ‘ the  delineation  was  complete,’  or  words  to  this  effect.  It 
is  no  puerile  vanity  which  induces  me  to  publish  this  fact ; — but 
Mr.  Hazlitt  accuses  my  inconsistency,  and  infers  my  inaccuracy. 
Perhaps  he  will  admit  that,  with  regard  to  the  latter,  one  of  the 
most  intimate  family  connexions  of  the  Emperor  may  be  equally 
capable  of  deciding  on  the  subject.  I tell  Mr.  Hazlitt,  that  I never 
flattered  Napoleon  on  the  throne,  nor  maligned  him  since  his  fall. 
I wrote  what  I think  are  the  incredible  antitheses  of  his  character. 

“ Mr.  Hazlitt  accuses  me  further  of  delineating  myself  in  Childe 
Harold,  &e.  &c.  I have  denied  this  long  ago — but,  even  were  it 
true,  Locke  tells  us,  that  all  his  knowledge  of  human  understanding 
was  derived  from  studying  his  own  mind.  From  Mr.  Hazlitt’s 
opinion  of  my  poetry  I do  not  appeal ; but  1 request  that  gentleman 
not  to  insult  me  by  imputing  the  basest  of  crimes, — viz.  ‘praising 
publicly  the  same  man  whom  I wished  to  depreciate  in  his  adver- 
sity:’ — the  first  lines  I ever  wrote  on  Buonaparte  were  in  his  dis- 
praise, in  1814, — the  last,  though  not  at  all  in  his  favour,  were 
more  impartial  and  discriminative,  in  1818.  Has  he  become  more 
fortunate  since  1814? — Byron,  Venice,  1819.”] 

(2)  [Barnave,  one  of  the  most  active  promoters  of  the  French 
revolution,  was  in  1791  appointed  president  of  the  Constituent 
Assembly.  On  the  flight  of  the  royal  family,  he  was  sent  to  con- 
duct them  to  Paris.  He  was  guillotined,  Nov.  1793.] 

(31  [Brissot  de  W irville,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  published  several 
tracts,  for  one  of  which  he  was,  in  1784,  thrown  into  the  Bastile. 
He  was  one  of  the  principal  instigators  of  the  revolt  of  the  Champ 
de  Mars,  in  July,  1789.  He  was  led  to  the  guillotine,  Oct.  1793.] 

(4)  [Condorcet  was.  in  1792,  appointed  president  of  the  Legisla- 
tive Assembly.  Having,  in  1793,  attacked  the  new  Constitution,  he 
was  denounced.  Being  thrown  into  prison,  he  was  on  the  following 
morning  found  dead,  apparently  from  poison.  His  works  are  col- 
lected in  twenty-one  volumes.] 

(5)  [Mirabeau,  so  well  known  as  one  of  the  chief  promoters  of, 
and  actors  in,  the  French  revolution,  died  in  1791.] 

(6)  [Petion,  mayor  of  Paris  in  1791,  took  an  active  partin  the 

imprisonment  of  the  king.  Becoming,  in  1793,  an  object  of  suspicion 

to  Robespierre,  he  took  refuge  in  the  department  of  the  Calvados ; 

where  his  body  was  found  in  a field,  half-devoured  by  wolves.] 

(71  [John  Baptiste  (better  known  unler  the  appellation  of  Ana- 

charsis)  Clootz.  In  1790,  rt  the  bar  of  the  National  Convention, 

au  daseribed  himself  as  “ the  orator  of  the  human  race.”  Being 


There’s  no  more  to  be  said  of  Trafalgar, 

’Tis  with  our  hero  quietly  inurn’ d ; 

Because  the  army’s  grown  more  popular. 

At  which  the  naval  people  are  concern’d ; 

Besides,  the  Prince  is  all  for  the  land-service, 
Forgetting  Duncan,  Nelson,  Howe,  and  Jervis. 

v. 

Brave  men  were  living  before  Agamemnon,17 
And  since,  exceeding  valorous  and  sage, 

A good  deal  like  him  too,  though  quite  the  same  none; 

But  then  they  shone  not  on  the  poet’s  page, 

And  so  have  been  forgotten  : — I condemn  none. 

But  can’t  find  any  in  the  present  age 
Fit  for  my  poem  (that  is,  for  my  new  one) ; 

So,  as  I said,  I’ll  take  my  friend  Don  Juan.18 


suspected  by  Robespierre,  he  was,  in  1794,  condemned  to  death. 
On  the  scaffold  he  begged  to  be  decapitated  tlie  last,  as  he  wished 
to  make  some  observations  essential  to  the  establishment  of  certain 
principles,  while  the  heads  of  the  others  were  falling;  a request 
obligingly  complied  with.] 

(8)  [Danton  played  a very  important  part  during  the  first  years 
of  the  French  revolution.  After  the  fall  of  the  king  he  was  made 
Minister  of  Justice.  His  violent  measures  led  to  the  bloody  scents 
of  September,  1 792.  Being  denounced  to  the  Committee  of  Safety, 
he  ended  his  career  on  the  guillotine,  in  1794.] 

(9)  [This  wretch  figured  among  the  actors  of  the  10th  August, 
and  in  the  assassinations  of  September,  1792.  In  May,  1793,  he 
was  denounced,  and  delivered  over  to  the  revolutionary  tribunal, 
which  acquitted  him ; but  his  bloody  career  was  arrested  by  the 
knife  of  an  assassin,  in  the  person  of  Charlotte  Corde.] 

(10)  [Of  all  these  “ famous  people,”  the  General  was  the  last 
survivor.  He  died  in  1834.] 

(11)  [Joubert  distinguished  himself  at  the  engagements  of  Laono, 
Montenotte,  Millesimo,  Cava,  Montebello,  Rivoli,  and  especially  in 
the  Tyrol.  He  was  afterwards  opposed  to  Suwarrow,  and  was 
killed,  in  1799,  at  Novi.] 

(12,'  [In  1796,  Hoche  was  appointed  to  the  command  of  the  ex- 
pedition against  Ireland,  and  sailed  in  December  from  Brest;  but, 
a storm  dispersing  the  fleet,  the  plan  failed.  After  his  return,  ha 
received  the  command  of  the  army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse;  but 
died  suddenly,  in  September,  1797,  it  was  supposed  of  poison.] 

(13)  [General  Marceau  first  distinguished  himself  in  La  Vendee. 
He  was  killed  by  a rifle-ball  at  Alterkirchen.  See  ante,  p.  34.] 

(14)  [Lannes,  Duke  of  Montebello,  distinguished  himself  at  Mil- 
lesimo, Lodi,  Aboukir,  Acre,  Montebello,  Austerlitz,  Jena,  Pultusk, 
Preuss  Eylau,  Friedland,  Tudela,  Saragossa,  Echmuhl,  and,  lastly, 
at  Esling;  where,  in  May,  1809,  he  was  killed  by  a cannon-shot.] 

(15)  [At  the  taking  of  Malta,  and  at  the  battles  of  Chebreiss  and 
of  the  Pyramids,  Desaix  displayed  the  greatest  bravery.  He  was 
mortally  wounded  by  a cannon-ball  at  Marengo,  just  as  victory  de- 
clared for  the  French.] 

(16)  [One  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  republican  generals. 
In  1813,  on  hearing  of  the  reverses  of  Napoleon  in  Russia,  lie  joined 
the  allied  armies.  He  was  struck  by  a cannon-ball  at  the  battle  ol 
Dresden,  in  1813.] 

(17)  [“  Vixere  fortes  ante  Agamemnona,”  &c. — IIor. 

“ Before  great  Agamemnon  reign’d, 

Reign’d  kings  as  great  as  he,  and  brave, 

Whose  huge  ambition ’s  now  contain’d 
In  the  small  compass  of  a grave  ; 

In  endless  night  they  sleep,  unwept,  unknown. 

No  bard  had  h*ey  to  make  all  time  their  own.” 

Francis,  p.  223. J 

(18)  [Mr.  Coleridge,  speaking  of  the  original  Atheista  Fulvni- 
nato,”  says— “ Rank,  fortune,  wit,  talent,  acquired  knowledge,  and 
liberal  accomplishments,  with  beauty  of  person,  vigorous  health, 
and  constitutional  hardihood — all  these  advantages,  elevated  by 
the  habits  and  sympathies  of  noble  birth  and  national  character, 
are  supposed  to  have  combined  in  ‘ Don  Juan,’  so  as  to  give  him 
the  means  of  carrying  into  all  its  practical  consequences  the  doc- 
trine of  a godless  nature,  as  the  sole  ground  and  efficient  cause  not 
only  of  all  things,  events,  and  appearances,  but  likewise  of  all  our 
thoughts,  sensations,  impulses,  and  actions.  Obedience  to  nature 
is  the  only  virtue : the  gratification  of  the  passions  and  appetite* 
her  only  dictate  : each  individual’s  self-will  the  sole  organ  through 
which  nature  utters  her  commands,  and 

“ Self-contradiction  is  the  only  wrong  ’ 

For,  by  the  laws  of  spirit,  in  the  right 

Is  every  individual’s  character 

That  acts  in  strict  consistence  with  itself. 

See  Schiller’s  Wallensiein.\ 


592 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


CAJiTO  I 


VI 

Most  epic  poets  plunge  “ in  meJias  res  ” 

(Horace  makes  this  the  heroic  turnpike  road),1 
And  then  your  hero  tells,  whene’er  you  please, 

What  went  before— by  way  of  episode, 

While  seated  after  dinner  at  his  ease, 

Beside  his  mistress  in  some  soft  abode, 

Palace,  or  garden,  paradise,  or  cavern, 

Which  serves  the  happy  couple  for  a tavern. 

VII. 

That  is  the  usual  method,  but  not  mine — 

My  way  is  to  begin  with  the  beginning; 

The  regularity  of  my  design. 

Porbids  all  wandering  as  the  worst  of  sinning, 

Ynd  therefore  I shall  open  with  a line 
(Although  it  cost  me  half  an  hour  in  spinning) 
Narrating  somewhat  of  Don  Juan’s  father, 

And  also  of  his  mother,  if  you’d  rather. 

VIII. 

In  Seville  was  he  born,  a pleasant  city, 

Patnous  for  oranges  and  women2 — he 
Who  has  not  seen  it  will  be  much  to  pity, 

So  says  the  proverb3 4 5 6 — and  I quite  agree; 

Of  all  the  Spanish  towns  is  none  more  pretty, 

Cadiz  perhaps — but  that  you  soon  may  see ; — 

Don  J nan’s  parents  lived  beside  the  river, 

A noble  stream,  and  call’d  the  Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

His  father’s  name  was  Jose — Don,  of  course, 

A true  Hidalgo,  free  from  every  stain 
Of  Moor  or  Hebrew  blood,  he  traced  his  source 
Through  .the  most  Gothic  gentlemen  of  Spain ; 

A better  cavalier  ne’er  mounted  horse, 

Or,  being  mounted,  e’er  got  down  again, 

Than  Jose,  who  begot  our  hero,  who 

Begot — but  that’s  to  come Well,  to  renew: 

x. 

His  mother  was  a learned  lady,  famed 

Por  every  branch  of  every  science  known — 

In  every  Christian  language  ever  named, 

"With  virtues  equall’d  by  her  wit  alone 
She  made  the  cleverest  people  quite  ashamed, 

And  even  the  good  with  inward  envy  groan, 
Finding  themselves  so  very  much  exceeded 
In  their  own  way  by  all  the  things  that  she  did. 

XI. 

Her  memory  was  a mine  : she  knew  by  heart 
All  Calderon  and  greater  part  of  Lope, 

(1)  [“  Semper  ad  eventum  festinat,  et  in  medias  res, 

Non  seeus  ac  notas,  auditorem  rapit.” 

“ But  to  the  grand  event  he  speeds  his  course, 

And  bears  his  readers,  with  impetuous  force, 

Into  the  midst  of  things,  while  every  line 

Opens,  by  just  degrees,  his  whole  design.” — Francis. 

(2)  [“The  women  of  Seville  are,  in  general,  very  handsome,  with 
large  black  eyes,  and  forms  more  graceful  in  motion  than  can  be 
'•onceived  by  an  Englishman — added  to  the  most  becoming  dress, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  the  most  decent  in  the  world.  Certainly, 
they  are  fascinating,  but  their  minds  have  only  one  idea,  and  the 
business  of  their  lives  is  intrigue.” — Byron  Letters,  1809.] 

(3)  [“Quien  no  ha  visto  Sevilla,  no  ha  visto  maravilla.”] 

(4)  [Professor  Feinagle,  of  Baden,  who,  in  1812,  under  the  espe- 
cial patronage  of  the  “ Blues,"  delivered  a course  of  lectures  at  the 
Royal  Institution,  on  Mnemonics.] 

(5)  [“  Lady  Byron  had  good  ideas,  but  could  never  express  them: 
wrote  poetry  also,  but  it  was  only  good  by  accident.  Her  letters 
were  always  enigmatical,  often  unintelligible.  She  was  governed 
by  what  she  called  fixed  rules  and  principles  squared  mathema- 
tically.”— Byron  Letters. 

(6)  [“  Little  she  spoke — but  what  si  ^ spoke  was  Attic  all, 

With  words  and  deeds  in  peritct  unanimity.” — MS.] 

(7)  [Sir  Samuel  RomiJly  lost  his  lady  on  the  29th  of  October,  and 
commit  tea  suicide  on  the  2d  of  November,  1818. — “ But  there  will 


So  that  if  any  actor  miss’d  his  part 

She  could  have  served  him  for  the  prompter’s  copy 
Por  her  Peinagle’s  were  an  useless  art,  ’ 

And  he  himself  obliged  to  shut  up  shop — he 
Could  never  make  a memory  so  line  as 
That  which  adorn’d  the  brain  of  Donna  Inez.* 

XII. 

Her  favourite  science  was  the  mathematical, 

Her  noblest  virtue  was  her  magnanimity, 

Her  wit  (she  sometimes  tried  at  wit)  was  Attic  all, 
Her  serious  sayings  darken’d  to  sublimity;0 
In  short,  in  all  tilings  she  was  fairly  what  1 call 
A prodigy — her  morning  dress  was  dimity, 

Her  evening  silk,  or,  in  the  summer,  muslin, 

And  other  stuffs,  with  which  I won’t  stay  puzzling. 

XIII. 

She  knew  the  Latin — that  is,  “ the  Lord’s  prayer,” 
And  Greek — the  alphabet — I’m  nearly  sure  ; 

She  read  some  Prencli  romances  here  and  there, 
Although  her  mode  of  speaking  was  not  pure ; 

Por  native  Spanish  she  had*io  great  care, 

At  least  her  conversation  was  obscure  ; 

Her  thoughts  were  theorems,  her  words  a problem, 

As  if  she  deem’d  that  mystery  would  ennoble  ’em. 

XIV. 

She  liked  the  English  and  the  Hebrew  tongue, 

And  said  there  was  analogy  between  ’em ; 

She  proved  it  somehow  out  of  sacred  song,  [’em, 
But  1 must  leave  the  proofs  to  those  wlio’ve  seen 
But  this  1 heard  her  say,  and  can’t  be  wrong, 

Ail'd  all  may  think  which  way  their  judgments  lean 
’em,  [am,’ 

“ ’Tis  strange — the  Hebrew  noun  which  means  ‘ I 
The  English  always  use  to  govern  d — n.” 

xv. 

Some  women  use  their  tongues — she  look’d  a lecture. 
Each  eye  a sermon,  and  her  brow  a homily, 

An  all-in-all  sufficient  self-director, 

Like  the  lamented  late  Sir  Samuel  Romilly,7 
The  Law’s  expounder,  and  the  State’s  corrector. 
Whose  suicide  was  almost  an  anomaly — 

One  sad  example  more,  that  “ All  is  vanity,” — 

(The  jury  brought  their  verdict  in  “ Insanity.”) 

XVI. 

In  short,  she  was  a walking  calculation. 

Miss  Edgeworth’s  novels  stepping  from  their  covers, * 

come  a day  of  reckoning,  even  if  I should  not  live  to  see  it.  I have 
at  least  seen  Romilly  shivered,  who  was  one  of  my  assassins.  When 
that  man  was  doing  his  worst  to  uproot  my  whole  family,  tree, 
branch,  and  blossoms — when,  after  taking  my  retainer,  he  went 
over  to  them — when  he  was  bringing  desolation  on  my  household 
gods — did  he  think  that,  in  less  than  three  years,  a natural  event — 
a severe,  domestic,  but  an  expected  and  common  calamity — would 
lay  his  carcass  in  a cross-road,  or  stamp  his  name  in  a verdict  oi 
lunacy!  Did  he  (who  in  his  sexagenary  * * *)  reflect  or  con- 

sider what  my  feelings  must  have  been,  when  wife,  and  child,  and 
sister,  and  name,  and  fame,  and  country,  were  to  be  my  sacrifice 
on  his  legal  altar, — and  this  at  a moment  when  my  health  was  de- 
clining, my  fortune  embarrassed,  and  my  mind  had  been  shaken 
by  many  kinds  of  disappointment — while  I was  yet  young,  and 
might  have  reformed  what  might  he  wrong  in  my  conduct,  and 
retrieved  what  was  perplexing  in  my  affairs!  But  he  is  in  his 
grave,”  &c. — Byron  Letters,  June,  18J9.] 

(8)  [Maria  Edgeworth,  author  of  “Treatise  on  Practical  Educa 
tion,”  “ Castle  Ilackrent,”  &c.  &c.  &e. — “In  1813,”  says  Lord  Byton. 
“I  recollect  to  have  met  Miss  Edgeworth  in  the  fashionable  world 
of  London.  She  was  a nice  little  unassuming  ‘Jeannie  D^ans- 
looking  body,’  as  we  Scotch  say ; and  if  riot  handsome,  certainl) 
not  ill-looking.  Her  conversation  was  as  quiet  as  herself.  Give 
would  never  have  guessed  she  could  write  her  name;  whereas  her 
father  talked,  not  as  if  he  could  write  nothing  else,  but  as  if  noli»in| 
else  was  worth  writing.” — Byron  Diary . 182L] 


canto  i. 


DON  JDAN. 


593 


Or  Mrs.  Trimmer’s  books  on  education,1 
Or  “ Coelebs’  Wife”2  set  out  in  quest  of  lovers, 
Morality’s  prim  personification, 

In  which  not  envy’s  self  a flaAV  discovers  ; 

To  others’  share  let  “female  errors  fall,” 

For  she  had  not  even  one — the  worst  of  all. 

XVII. 

Oh  ! she  was  perfect  past  all  parallel — 

Of  any  modern  female  saint’s  comparison ; 

So  far  above  the  cunning  powers  of  hell, 

Her  guardian  angel  had  given  up  his  garrison ; 

Even  her  minutest  motions  went  as  well 
As  those  of  the  best  time-piece  made  by  Harrison : 
In  virtues  nothing  earthly  could  surpass  her, 

Save  thine  “ incomparable  oil,”  Macassar  !3 

XVIII. 

Perfect  she  was,  but  as  perfection  is 
Insipid  in  this  naughty  world  of  ours, 

Where  our  first  parents  never  learn’ d to  kiss 
Till  they  were  exiled  from  their  earlier  bowers. 
Where  all  was  peace,  and  innocence,  and  bliss,4 
(I  wonder  how  they  got  through  the  twelve  hours), 
Don  Jose,  like  a lineal  son  of  Eve, 

Went  plucking  various  fruit  without  her  leave. 

XIX. 

He  was  a mortal  of  the  careless  kind, 

With  no  great  love  for  learning,  or  the  learn’d, 

Who  chose  to  go  where’er  he  had  a mind, 

And  never  dream’ d his  lady  was  concern’d ; 

The  world,  as  usual,  wickedly  inclined 
To  see  a kingdom  or  a house  o’erturn’d, 

Whisper’d  he  had  a mistress,  some  said  two. 

But  for  domestic  quarrels  one  will  do. 

xx. 

Now  Donna  Inez  had,  with  all  her  merit,  _ 

A great  opinion  of  her  own  good  qualities  ; 

Neglect,  indeed,  requires  a saint  to  bear  it, 

And  such,  indeed,  she  was  in  her  moralities  ;5 
But  then  she  had  a devil  of  a spirit, 

And  sometimes  mix’d  up  fancies  with  realities, 

And  let  few  opportunities  escape 
Of  getting  her  liege  lord  into  a scrape. 

XXI. 

This  was  an  easy  matter  with  a man 

Oft  in  the  wrong,  and  never  on  his  guard  ; 

And  even  the  wisest,  do  the  best  they  can, 

Have  moments,  hours,  and  days,  so  unprepared,  ^ 
That  you  might  “ brain  them  with  their  lady’s  fan  ;”6 
And  sometimes  ladies  hit  exceeding  hard, 


(1)  [“  Comparative  View  of  the  New  Plan  of  Education,” 

“ Teacher’s  Assistant,"  & c.  &c.]  , 

(2)  [Hannah  More’s  “Coelebs  in  Search  of  a Wife,  &c. ; a 
sermon-like  novel,  which  had  great  success  at  the  time,  and  is  now 
forgotten  ] 

(3)  “ Description  des  v&rtus  incomparables  de  1 Huile  de  Macas- 
sar.” See  the  Advertisement. 

(4)  [“  Where  all  was  innocence  and  quiet  bliss.  rMS.J 

(5)  [“  And  so  she  seem’d,  in  all  outside  formalities.”—  MS.j 

(6)  [“  By  this  hand,  if  I were  now  by  this  rascal,  I could  brain 

him  with  his  lady’s  fan.” — Sir akspeare.]  (j 

(7)  [“  Wishing  each  other  damn’d,  divorced,  or  oead.  — MS.J 

(8)  [Lady  Byron  had  left  London  at  the  latter  end  of  January,  on 
a visit  to  her  lather's  house  in  Leicestershire,  and  Lord  Byron  was, 
in  a short  time  after,  to  follow  her  They  had  parted  in  the  utmost 
kindness,— she  wrote  him  a letter,  full  of  playfulness  and  affection, 
on  the  road,  and,  immediately  on  her  arrival  at  Kirkby  Mallory, 
her  father  wrote  to  acquaint  Lord  Byron  that  she  would  return  to 
him  no  more.  At  the  time  when  lie  had  to  stand  this  unexpected 
shock.  Ins  pecuniary  embarrassments,  which  had  been  fast  gather- 
ing around  him,  during  the  whole  of  the  past  year,  had  arrived  at 
heir  utmost.  — Moore.  “The  facts  are:  — I left  London  for 


And  fans  turn  into  falcnions  in  fair  hands, 

And  why  and  wherefore  no  one  understands. 

XXII. 

’Tis  pity  learned  virgins  ever  wed 
With  persons  of  no  sort  of  education, 

Or  gentlemen,  who,  though  well  born  and  bred. 

Grow  tired  of  scientific  conversation  : 

I don’t  choose  to  say  much  upon  this  head, 

I’m  a plain  man,  and  in  a single  station, 

But — Oh  ! ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual, 

Inform  us  truly,  have  they  not  hen-peck’d  you  all  ? 

XXIII. 

Don  Jose  and  his  lady  quarrell’d — why , 

Not  any  of  the  many  could  divine, 

Though  several  thousand  people  chose  to  try, 

’Twas  surely  no  concern  of  theirs  nor  mine  ; 

I loathe  that  iow  vice  curiosity  ; 

But  if  there’s  any  thing  in  which  I shine, 

’Tis  in  arranging  all  my  friends’  affairs. 

Not  having,  of  my  own,  domestic  cares. 

XXIV. 

And  so  I interfer’d,  and  with  the  best 

Intentions,  but  their  treatment  was  not  kind  ; 

I think  the  foolish  people  were  possess’d, 

For  neither  of  them  could  I ever  find,  ^ 

Although  their  porter  afterwards  confess’d— 

But  that’s  no  matter,  and  the  worst’s  behind. 

For  little  Juan  o’er  me  threw,  down  stairs, 

A pail  of  housemaid’s  water  unawares. 

XXV. 

A little  curly-headed,  good-for-nothing, . 

And  mischief-making  monkey  from  his  biith ; 

His  parents  ne’er  agreed  except  in  doting 
Upon  the  most  unquiet  imp  on  earth ; 

Instead  of  quarrelling,  had  they  been  but  both  in 
Their  senses,  they’d  have  sent  young  master  forth 
To  school,  or  had  him  soundly  whipp’d  at  home. 

To  teach  him  manners  for  the  time  to  come. 

XXVI. 

Don  Jose  and  the  Donna  Inez  led 

For  some  time  an  unhappy  sort  of  life, 

Wishing  each  other,  not  divorced,  but  dead;7 

They  lived  respectably  as  man  and  wife. 

Their  conduct  was  exceedingly  well-bred. 

And  gave  no  outward  signs  of  inward  strife, 

Until  at  length  the  smother’d  fire  broke  out, 

And  put  the  business  past  all  kind  of  doubt.8 


Kirkby  Mallory,  the  residence  of  my  father  and  mother,  on  the 
15th  of  January,  1816.  Lord  Byron  had  signified  to  me  ill  writing 
(Jan.  6th)  his  abso-.ute  desire  that  I should  leave  London  on  the 
earliest  day  that  J could  conveniently  fix-  It  was  not  safe  for  me 
to  undertake  the  fatigue  of  a journey  sooner  than  the  15th.  Pre- 
viously to  my  departure,  it  had  been  strongly  impressed  on  my 
mind,  that  Lord  Byron  was  under  the  influence  of  insanity.  This 
opinion  was  derived  in  a great  measure  from  the  communicr.tions 
made  to  me  by  his  nearest  relatives  and  personal  attendant  who 
had  more  opportunities  than  myself  of  observing  him  during  the 
latter  part  of  my  stay  in  town.  It  was  even  represented  to  mo  that 
he  was  in  danger  of  destroying  himself.  With  the  concurrence  oj 
his  family,  I had  consulted  Dr.  Baillie  as  a friend  (Jan.  8th)  respect- 
ing this  supposed  malady.  On  acquainting  him  with  the  state  of 
the  case,  and  with  Lord  Byron’s  desire  that  1 should  leave  London, 
Dr.  Baillie  thought  that  my  absence  might  be  advisable  as  an  ex- 
periment, assuming  the  fact  of  mental  derangement;  for  Dr.  Baillie, 
not  having  had  access  to  Lord  Byron,  could  not  pronounce  a posi- 
tive opinion  on  that  point.  He  enjoined  that  in  correspondence 
with  Lord  Byron  I should  avoid  all  but  light  and  soothing  topics. 
Under  these  impressions,  I left  London,  determined  to  follow  the 
advice  given  by  Dr.  Baillie.” — Lady  Byron. 


59i 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO t 


XXVII. 

For  Inez  call’d  some  druggists,  and  physicians, 

And  tried  to  prove  tier  loving  lord  was  mad,1 
But  as  he  had  some  lucid  intermissions, 

She  next  decided  he  was  only  bad ; 

Yet  when  they  ask’d  her  for  her  depositions. 

No  sort  of  explanation  could  be  had. 

Save  that  her  duty  both  to  man  and  God 
Required  this  conduct — which  seem’d  very  odd. 

XXVIII. 

She  kept  a journal,  where  his  faults  were  noted, 

And  open’d  certain  trunks  of  books  and  letters, 

All  which  might,  if  occasion  served,  be  quoted ; 

And  then  she  had  all  Seville  for  abettors, 

Resides  her  good  old  grandmother  (who  doted) ; 

The  hearers  of  her  case  became  repeaters, 

Then  advocates,  inquisitors,  and  judges, 

Some  for  amusement,  others  for  old  grudges. 

XXIX. 

And  then  this  best  and. meekest  woman  bore 
With  such  serenity  her  husband’s  woes, 

Just  as  the  Spartan  ladies  did  of  yore, 

Who  saw  their  spouses  kill’d,  and  nobly  chose 
Never  to  say  a word  about  them  more — ■ 

Calmly  she  heard  each  calumny  that  rose, 

And  saw  his  agonies  with  such  sublimity, 

That  all  the  world  exclaim’d,  “ What  magnanimity  !” 

XXX. 

No  doubt  this  patience,  when  the  world  is  damning  us. 
Is  philosophic  in  our  former  friends ; 

*Tis  also  pleasant  to  be  deem’d  magnanimous, 

The  more  so  in  obtaining  our  own  ends ; 

And  what  the  lawyers  call  a “ malus  animus ” 

Conduct  like  this  by  no  means  comprehends : 
Revenge  in  person’s  certainly  no  virtue, 

But  then  ’tis  not  my  fault,  if  others  hurt  you. 

XXXI. 

Ana  if  our  quarrels  should  rip  up  old  stories, 

And  help  them  with  a lie  or  two  additional, 

/’m  not  to  blame,  as  you  well  know — no  more  is 
Any  one  else— they  were  become  traditional ; 

(1)  [“I- was  surprised  one  day  by  a Doctor  (Dr.  Baillie)  and  a 
Lawyer  (Dr.  Lushington)  almost  forcing  themselves  at  the  same 
time  into  my  room.  I did  not  know  till  afterwards  the  real  object 
of  their  visit.  I thought  their  questions  singular,  frivolous,  and 
somewhat  importunate,  if  not  impertinent : but  what  should  I have 
thought,  if  I had  known  that  they  were  sent  to  provide  proofs  of  my 
insanity.  I have  no  doubt  that  my  answers  to  these  emissaries  were 
not  very  rational  or  consistent,  for  my  imagination  was  heated  with 
other  things.  But  Dr.  Baillie  could  not  conscientiously  make  me 
out  a certificate  for  Bedlam ; and  perhaps  the  Lawyer  gave  a more 
favourable  report  to  his  employers.  I do  not,  however,  tax  Lady 
Byron  with  this  transaction  ; probably  she  was  not  privy  to  it.  She 
was  the  tool  of  others.  Her  mother  always  detested  me,  and  had 
not  even  the  decency  to  conceal  it  in  her  house.” — Lord  Byron. 
“ My  mother  always  treated  Lord  B.  with  an  affectionate  considera- 
tion and  indulgence,  which  extended  to  every  little  peculiarity  of 
Li*  feelings.  Never  did  an  irritating  word  escape  her  lips  in  her 
whole  intercourse  with  him.  —Lady  Byron.] 

(2)  [Mr.  Rogers,  Mr.  Ilobhouse,  &c.  &c.] 

(3)  [“  First  their  friends  tried  at  reconciliation.” — MS.] 

(4i  [The  Right  Honourable  R.  Wilmot  Horton,  &c.  The  follow- 
ing is  from  a fragment  of  a novel  written  by  Lord  Byron  in  1817  : — 
“A  few  hours  afterwards  we  were  very  good  friends;  and  a few 
days  after  she  set  out  for  Aragon,  with  my  son,  on  a visit  to  her 
father  and  mother.  I did  not  accompany  her  immediately,  having 
been  in  Aragon  before,  but  was  to  join  the  family  in  their  Moorish 
chateau  within  a few  weeks.  During  her  journey,  I received  a very 
affectionate  letter  from  Donna  Josepha,  apprising  me  of  the  welfare 
of  herself  and  my  son.  On  her  arrival  at  the  chateau,  I received 

another,  still  more  affectionate,  pressing  me,  .n  very  fond,  and 
rather  foolish  terms,  to  join  her  immediately.  As  1 was  preparing 
to  set  out  from  Seville,  1 received  a third — this  was  from  her  father, 

Don  Jose  di  Cardozo,  who  requested  me,  in  the  politest  manner,  to 
dissolve  my  marriage.  I answered  him  with  equal  politeness,  that 

I would  do  no  such  thing.  A fourth  letter  arrived— it  was  from 


Besides,  their  resurrection  aids  our  glories 
By  contrast,  which  is  what  we  just  were  wisjing  ail’ 
And  science  profits  by  this  resurrection — 

Dead  scandals  form  good  subjects  for  dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their  friends2  Lad  tried  at  reconciliation,3 

Then  their  relations,4  who  made  matters  w rse. 
(’Twere  hard  to  tell  upon  a like  occasion 
To  whom  it  may  be  best  to  have  recourse — 

I can’t  say  much  for  friend  or  yet  relation) : 

The  lawyers  did  their  utmost  for  divorce,5 
But  scarce  a fee  was  paid  on  either  side 
Before,  unluckily,  Don  Jose  died. 

XXXIII. 

He  died  : and  most  unluckily,  because. 

According  to  all  hints  I could  collect 
From  counsel  learned  in  those  kinds  of  laws, 
(Although  their  talk’s  obscure  and  circumspect) 

His  death  contrived  to  spoil  a charming  cause ; 

A thousand  pities  also  with  respect 
To  public  feeling,  which  on  this  occasion 
Was  manifested  in  a great  sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But  ah  ! he  died ; and  buried  witli  him  lay 
The  public  feeling  and  the  lawyers’  fees  : 

His  house  was  sold,  his  servants  sent  away, 

A Jew  took  one  of  his  two  mistresses, 

A priest  the  other — at  least  so  they  say  : 

. I ask’d  the  doctors  after  his  disease — 

He  died  of  the  slow  fever  call’d  the  tertian. 

And  left  his  widow  to  her  own  aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet  Jose  was  an  honourable  man,  " 

That  I must  say,  who  knew  him  very  well ; 
Therefore  his  frailties  I’ll  no  further  scan, 

Indeed  there  were  not  many  more  to  tell : 

And  if  his  passions  now  and  then  outran 
Discretion,  and  were  not  so  peaceable 
As  Numa’s  (who  was  also  named  Pompilius),6 
He  had  been  ill  brought  up,  and  was  born  bilious.7 

Donna  Josepha,  in  which  she  informed  me  that  her  father’s  lettat 
was  written  by  her  particular  desire.  I requested  the  reason  by 
return  of  post : she  replied,  by  express,  that  as  reason  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  matter,  it  was  unnecessary  to  give  any — but  that  she 
was  an  injured  and  excellent  woman.  I then  inquired  why  she  had 
written  to  me  the  two  preceding  affectionate  letters,  requesting  me 
to  come  to  Aragon.  She  answered,  that  was  because  she  believed 
me  out  of  my  senses — that,  being  unfit  to  take  care  of  myself,  1 had 
only  to  set  out  on  this  journey  alone,  and,  making  my  way  without 
difficulty  to  Don  Jose  di  Cardozo’s,  I should  there  have  found  ti>« 
tenderest  of  wives  and  — a strait  waistcoat.  I had  nothing  to 
reply  to  this  piece  of  affection,  but  a reiteration  of  my  request  for 
some  lights  upon  the  subject.  I was  answered,  that  they  would 
only  be  related  to  the  Inquisition.  In  the  mean  time,  our  domestic 
discrepancy  had  become  a public  topic  of  discussion;  and  tue 
world,  which  always  decides  justly,  not  only  in  Aragon  but  m 
Andalusia,  determined  that  I was  not  only  to  blame,  but  that  all 
Spain  could  produce  nobody  so  blameable.  My  case  was  supposed 
to  comprise  all  the  crimes  which  could,  and  several  which  could 
not,  be  committed  ; and  little  less  than  an  auto-da-fe  was  anticipated 
as  the  result.  But  let  no  man  say  that  we  are  abandoned  by  out 
friends  in  adversity — itw'as  just  the  reverse.  Mine  thronged  around 
me  to  condemn  advise,  and  console  me  with  their  disapprobation 
They  told  me  all  that  was,  would,  or  could  be  said  on  the  subject. 
They  shook  their  heads — they  exhorted  me — deplored  me,  witJi 
tears  in  their  eyes,  and — went  to  dinner.”] 

(5)  [“  The  lawyers  recommended  a divorce.” — MS.] 

(6)  “ primus  qui  legibus  urbem 

Fundabit,  Curibus  parvis  et  paupere  terra 
Missus  in  imperium  magnum.” — Virg. 

(7)  [“  He  had  been  ill  brought  up,{  ™a*lg}  bilious  » 

Or, 

“The  reason  was,  perhaps,  that  was  bilious.*— MS. 


canto  i 


DON  JUAN. 


595 


xxxvi. 

Whate’er  night  be  his  worthlessness  or  worth, 

Poor  fellow  ! he  had  many  things  to  wound  him. 
Let’s  own — since  it  can  do  no  good  on  earth1 — 

It  was  a trying  moment  that  which  found  him 
Standing  alone  beside  his  desolate  hearth,  [him.2 

Where  all  his  household  gods  lay  shiver’d  round 
No  choice  was  left  his  feelings  or  his  pride, 

Save  death  or  Doctors’  Commons— so  he  died.3 

XXXVII. 

Dying  intestate,  J uan  was  sole  heir 

To  a chancery  suit,  and  messuages,  and  lands. 
Which,  witli  a long  minority  and  care, 

Promised  to  turn  out  well  in  proper  hands  : 

Inez  became  sole  guardian,  which  was  fair, 

And  answer’d  but  to  nature’s  ju^  demands  ; 

An  only  son  left  with  an  only  mother4 
Is  brought  up  much  more  wisely  than  another. 

xxxvur. 

Sagest  of  women,  even  of  widows,  she 
Resolved  that  Juan  should  be  quite  a paragon, 

And  worthy  of  the  noblest  pedigree  : 

► (His  sire  was  of  Castile,  his  dam  from  Aragon.) 
Then  for  accomplishments  of  chivalry, 

In  case  our  lord  the  king  should  go  to  war  again. 
He  learn’d  the  arts  of  riding,  fencing,  gunnery. 

And  how  to  scale  a fortress — or  a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But  that  which  Donna  Inez  most  desired, 

And  saw  into  herself  each  day  before  all 
The  learned  tutors  whom  for  him  she  hired, 

Was,  that  his  breeding  should  be  strictly  moral : 
Much  into  all  his  studies  she  inquired, 

And  so  they  were  submitted  first  to  her,  all, 

Arts,  sciences,  no  branch  was  made*a  mystery 
To  Juan’s  eyes,  excepting  natural  history. 

XL. 

The  languages,  especially  the  dead, 

The  sciences,  and  most  of  all  the  abstruse. 

The  arts,  at  least  all  such  as  could  be  said 
To  be  the  most  remote  from  common  use, 


(1)  [“  Ana  we  may  own — since  he  i^Ut}earth-” — MS.] 

(2)  [“  I could  have  forgiven  the  dagger  or  the  bowl,  any  thing 
but  the  deliberate  desolation  piled  upon  me,  when  I stood  alone 
upon  my  hearth,  with  my  household  gods  shivered  around  me.  Do 
you  suppose  l have  forgotten  or  forgiven  it?  It  has,  comparatively, 
shallowed  up  in  me  every  other  feeling,  and  I am  only  a spectator 
«pon  earth  till  a tenfold  opportunity  offers.”  — Byron  Letters, 
Sept.  10,  1818. 

“ I had  one  only  fount  of  quiet  left, 

And  that  they  poison’d ! My  pure  household  gods 
Were  shiver’d  on  my  hearth,  and  o’er  their  shrine 
Sate  grinning  ribaldry  and  sneering  scorn.” 

Marino  Faliero .] 

(3)  [“Save  death  or{^nga^ne7t_)so  he  died.”-MS.] 

(4)  [“  I have  been  thinking  of  an  odd  circumstance. — My  daugh- 
ter, my  wife,  my  half-sister,  my  mother,  my  sister’s  mother,  my 
natural  daughter,  and  myself,  are,  or  were,  all  only  children.  My 
sister’s  motner  had  only  one  half-sister  by  that  second  marriage 
(herself,  too,  an  only  child),  and  my  father  had  only  me  (an  only 
child)  by  his  second  marriage  with  my  mother.  Such  a complica- 
tion of  only  children,  all  tending  to  one  family,  is  singular,  and 
looks  like  fatality  almost.  But  the  fiercest  animals  have  the  rarest 
number  in  their  litters,— as  lions,  tigers,  and  even  elephants,  which 
are  mild  in  comparison.” — Byron  Diary , 1821] 

(5)  [“  Defending  still  their  Iliads  and  Odysseys.” — MS.] 

(6)  See  Longinus,  Section  10.  ‘iva  ui]  ev  n wept  avryv  n aOo* 

<paivt)Tai,  naOuiv  <3e  avvodos." — [The  Ode  alluded  to  is  the  famous 

C>ati/«Tcu  not  Kricor  <<ror  tieoio.,  K.  T.  X. 


In  all  these  he  was  much  and  deeply  read 
But  not  a page  of  any  thing  that’s  loose. 

Or  hints  continuation  of  the  species, 

Was  ever  suffer’d,  lest  he  sliotdd  grow  vicious. 

XLl. 

His  classic  studies  made  a little  puzzle, 

Because  of  filthy  loves  of  gods  and  goddesses, 

Who  in  the  earlier  ages  raised  a bustle, 

But  never  put  on  pantaloons  or  bodices ; 

His  reverend  tutors  had  at  times  a tussle, 

And  for  their  iEneids,  Iliads,  and  Odysseys,5 
Were  forced  to  make  an  odd  sort  of  apology, 

For  Donna  Inez  dreaded  the  Mythology. 

XLII. 

Ovid’s  a rake,  as  half  his  verses  show  him, 

Anacreon’s  morals  are  a still  worse  sample, 

Catullus  scarcely  has  a decent  poem, 

I don’t  think  Sappho’s  Ode  a good  example, 
Although  Longinus6  tells  us  there  is  no  hymn 

Where  the  sublime  soars  forth  on  wings  more  ample; 
But  Virgil’s  songs  are  pure,  except  that  horrid  one 
Beginning  with  “Formosum  Pastor  Corydon.” 

XLIII. 

Lucretius’  irreligion  is  too  strong 

For  early  stomachs,  to  prove  wholesome  food ; 

I can’t  help  thinking  Juvenal  was  wrong, 

Although  no  doubt  his  real  intent  was  good. 

For  speaking  out  so  plainly  in  his  song, 

So  much  indeed  as  to  be  downright  rude  ;7 * 
And  then  what  proper  person  can  be  partial 
To  all  those  nauseous  epigrams  of  Martial  ? 

XLIV. 

Juan  was  taught  from  out  the  best  edition, 
Expurgated  by  learned  men,  who  place, 

Judiciously,  from  out  the  schoolboy’s  vision, 

The  grosser  parts ; but,  fearful  to  deface 
Too  much  their  modest  bard  by  this  omission,' 

And  pitying  sore  his  mutilated  case, 

They  only  add  them  all  in  an  appendix,9  ' . 
Which  saves,  in  fact,  the  trouble  of  an  index ; 


“ Blest  as  th’  immortal  gods  is  he, 

The  youth  that  fondly  sits  by  thee, 

And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile,”  &c.] 

(7)  [“To  hear  the  clamour  raised  against  Juvenal,  it  might  ba 
supposed,  by  one  unacquainted  with  the  times,  that  he  was  the 
only  indelicate  writer  of  his  age  and  country.  Yet  Horace  and 
Persius  wrote  with  equal  grossness  ; yet  the  rigid  stoicism  of 
Seneca  did  not  deter  him  from  the  use  of  expressions  which 
Juvenal,  perhaps,  would  have  rejected  ; yet  the  courtly  Pliny 
poured  out  gratuitous  indecencies  in  his  frigid  hendecasyllables, 
which  he  attempts  to  justify  by  the  example  of  a writer  to  whose 
freedom  the  licentiousness  of  Juvenal  is  purity!  It  seems  as  if 
there  was  something  of  pique  in  the  singular  severity  with  which 
he  is  censured.  His  pure  and  sublime  morality  operates  as  a tacit 
reproach  on  the  generality  of  mankind,  who  seek  to  indemnify 
themselves  by  questioning  the  sanctity  which  they  cannot  but  re- 
spect; and  find  a secret  pleasure  in  persuading  one  another  that 
“ this  dreaded  satirist”  was,  at  heart,  no  inveterate  enemy  to  the 
licentiousness  which  he  so  vehemently  reprehends.  When  I find 
that  his  views  are  to  render  depravity  loathsome,  that  every  thing 
which  can  alarm  and  disgust  is  directed  at  her  in  his  terrible  page, 
I forget  the  grossness  of  the  execution  in  the  excellence  of  the 
design.” — Gifford.] 

(antique  ) (elision  ” 

(8)  [“Too  much  their] modest  [bard  by  tbe]0mission.”-MS  , 

(downright)  1 

(9)  Fact ! There  is,  or  was,  such  an  edition,  with  a>)  tae 
obnoxious  epigrams  of  Martial  placed  by  themselves  at  the  end. 


596 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CAJiTO  |. 


XLV. 

For  there  wo  have  them  all  “ at  one  fell  swoop,” 
Instead  of  being  scatter’d  through  the  pages  ; 
They  stand  forth  marshall’ d in  a handsome  troop. 

To  meet  the  ingenuous  youth  of  future  ages, 

121  some  less  rigid  editor  shall  stoop 

To  call  them  back  into  their  separate  cages, 
Instead  of  standing  staring  all  together. 

Like  garden  gods — and  not  so  decent  either. 

XLV  i. 

The  Missal  too  (it  was  the  family  Missal) 

Was  ornamented  in  a sort  of  way 
Which  ancient  mass-books  often  are,  and  this  all 
Kinds  of  grotesques  illumined  ; and  how  they, 
Who  saw  those  figures  on  the  margin  kiss  all, 

Could  turn  their  optics  to  the  text  and  pray, 

Is  more  than  I know — But  Don  Juan’s  mother 
Kept  this  herself,  and  gave  her  son  another. 

XLVII. 

Sermons  he  read,  and  lectures  he  endured, 

And  homilies,  and  lives  of  all  the  saints  ; 

To  Jerome  and  to  Chrysostom  inured, 

He  did  not  take  such  studies  for  restraints; 

But  how  faith  is  acquired,  and  then  ensured, 

So  well  not  one  of  the  aforesaid  paints 
As  Saint  Augustine  in  his  fine  Confessions, 

Which  make  the  reader  envy  his  transgressions.1 
XLVIII. 

This,  too,  was  a seal’d  book  to  little  Juan — • 

I can’t  but  say  that  his  mamma  was  right, 

If  such  an  education  was  the  true  one. 

She  scarcely  trusted  him  from  out  her  sight ; 

Her  maids  were  old,  and  if  she  took  a new  one; 

You  might  be  sure  she  was  a perfect  fright. 

She  did  this  during  even  her  husband's  life — 

I recommend  as  much  to  every  wife. 

XLIX. 

Young  Juan  wax’d  in  goodliness  and  grace  ; 

At  six  a charming  child,  and  at  eleven 
With  all  the  promise  of  as  fine  a face 

As  e’er  to  man’s  maturer  growth  was  given  : 

He  studied  steadily,  and  grew  apace, 

And  seem’d,  at  least,  in  the  right  road  to  heaven, 
For  half  his  days  were  pass’d  at  church,  the  other 
Between  his  tutors,  confessor,  and  mother. 

L. 

At  six,  I said,  he  was  a charming  child, 

At  twelve  lie  was  a fine,  but  quiet  boy ; 

Although  in  infancy  a little  wild, 

They  tamed  him  down  amongst  them  : to  destroy 
His  natural  spirit  not  in  vain  they  toil’d. 

At  least  it  seem’d  so  ; and  his  mother’s  joy 
Was  to  declare  how  sage,  and  still,  and  steady. 

Her  young  philosopher  was  grown  already. 


(1)  See  his  Confessions,  1.  i.  c.  ix.  By  the  representation  which 
Saint  Augustine  gives  of  himself  in  his  youth,  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
h<*  was  what  we  should  call  a rake.  He  avoided  the  school  as  the 
plague;  he  ioved  nothing  but  gaming  and  public  shows  ; he  robbed 
his  father  of  every  thing  he  could  tind  ; lie  invented  a thousand  lies 
to  escape  the  rod,  which  they  were  obliged  to  make  use  of  to  punish 
his  irregularities. 

(2)  [Foreigners  often  ask,  “by  what  means  an  uninterrupted 
succession  of  men,  qualified  more  or  less  eminently  for  the  per- 
formance of  united  parliamentary  and  official  duties,  is  secured  ?” 
First,  I answer  (with  the  prejudices,  perhaps,  of  Eton  and  Oxford), 
that  we  owe  it  to  our  system  of  public  schools  and  universities. 
From  these  institutions  is  derived  (in  the  language  of  the  prayer  of 

»ur  collegiate  churches)  “ a due  supply  of  men  fitted  to  serve  their 


LI. 

1 had  my  doubts,  perhaps  I have  them  t till. 

But  what  I say  is  neither  here  nor  there : 

I knew  his  father  well,  and  have  some  skill 
In  character — but  it  would  not  be  fair 
From  sire  to  son  to  augur  good  or  ill: 

He  and  bis  wife  were  an  ill-sorted  pair- — 

But  scandal’s  my  aversion — I protest 
Against  all  evil  speaking,  even  in  jest. 

L1I. 

For  my  part  I say  nothing — nothing— but 
This  1 will  say — my  reasons  are  my  own — 

That  if  1 had  an  only  sen  to  put 

To  school  (as  God  be  praised  that  I have  none), 
’Tis  not  with  Donna  Inez  I would  shut 
Him  up  to  learikhis  catechism  alone, 

No — no — I’d  sen* him  out  betimes  to  college, 

For  there  it  was  I pick’d  up  my  own  knowledge.2 

LIII. 

For  there  one  learns — ’tis  not  for  me  to  boast, 
Though  1 acquired — but  I pass  over  that, 

As  well  as  all  the  Greek  I since  have  lost ; 

I say  that  there’s  the  place — but  “ Verb  uni  sat> ” 

I think  1 pick’d  up  too,  as  well  as  most, 

Knowledge  of  matters — but  no  matter  what — 

1 never  married — but,  1 think,  I know 
That  sons  should  not  be  educated  so. 

L1V. 

Young  Juan  now  was  sixteen  years  of  age, 

Tall,  handsome,  slender,  but  well  knit : lie  seem’d 
Active,  though  not  so  sprightly,  as  a page ; 

And  every  body  but  his  mother  deem’d 
Him  almost  man ; but  she  flew  in  a rage 

And  bit  her  lips  (for  else  she  might  have  sei earn’d) 
If  any  said  so,  for  to  be  precocious 
Was  in  her  eyes  a thing  the  most  atrocious. 

LV. 

Amongst  her  numerous  acquaintance,  all 
Selected  for  discretion  and  devotion, 

There  was  the  Donna  Julia,  whom  to  call 
Pretty  were  but  to  give  a feeble  notion 
Of  many  charms  in  her  as  natural 

As  sweetness  to  the  flower,  or  salt  to  ocean. 

Her  zone  to  Venus,  or  bis  bow  to  Cupid, 

(But  this  last  simile  is  trite  and  stupid.) 

LVI. 

The  darkness  of  her  Oriental  eye 
Accorded  with  her  Moorish  origin  ; 

(Her  blood  was  not  all  Spanish,  by  the  by ; 

In  Spain,  you  know,  this  is  a sort  of  sin.) 

When  proud  Granada  fell,  and,  forced  to  fly, 

Boabdil  wept.,3  of  Donna  Julia’s  kin 
Some  went  to  Africa,  some  stay’d  in  Spain,  . 

Her  great  great  grandmamma  chose  to  remain. 


country  both  in  church  and  state.”  It  is  in  her  public  schools  and 
universities  that  the  youth  of  England  are,  by  a discipline  which 
shallow  judgments  have  sometimes  attempted  to  undervalue,  pre- 
pared for  the  juries  of  public  life.  There  are  rare  and  splendid 
exceptions,  to  be  sure;  but  in  my  conscience  1 believe,  that  Eng- 
land would  not  be  what  she  is,  without  her  system  of.  publk 
education  ; and  that  no  other  country  can  become  what  England 
is,  without  the  advantages  of  such  a system. — Canning. — I shall 
always  be  ready  to  join  in  the  public  opinion,  that  our  public 
schools,  which  hav°  produced  so  many  eminent  characters,  are  the 
best  adapted  to  th«  genius  and  constitution  of  the  English  people. 
— Gibbon] 

(3)  [“  Having  surrendered  the  last  symbol  of  power,  the  unfor- 
tunate Boabdil  continued  on  towards  the  Alpuxarras,  that  he  might 


CANTO  I. 


DON  JUAN. 


59? 


LVII. 

Sne  married  (L  forget  the  pedigree) 

With  an  Hi  lali  o,  who  transmitted  down 
His  blood  less  nol  le  than  such  blood  should  be ; 

At  such  ailian  es  his  sires  would  frown, 

In  that  point  so  precise  in  each  degree 
That  they  bred  in  and  in,  as  might  be  shown, 
Marrying  their  cousins — nay,  their  aunts,  and  nieces, 
Which  always  spoils  the  breed,  if  it  increases. 

LYIIl. 

This  heathenish  cross  restored  the  breed  again, 
Ruin’d  its  blood,  but  much  improved  its  flesh ; 

For  from  a root  the  ugliest  in  Old  Spain 
Sprung  up  a branch  as  beautiful  as  fresh ; 

The  sons  no  more  were  short,  the  daughters  plain  : 
But  there’s  a rumour  which  I fain  would  hush,* 1 
’Tis  said  that  Donna  Julia’s  grandmamma 
Produced  her  Don  more  heirs  at  love  than  law. 


Lxin. 

’Tis  a sad  thing,  I cannot  choose  but  say, 

And  all  the  fault  of  that  indecent  sun, 

Who  cannot  leave  alone  our  helpless  clay, 

But  will  keep  baking,  broiling,  burning  on. 

That  howsoever  people  fast  and  pray. 

The  flesh  is  frail,  and  so  the  soul  undone ; 

What  men  call  gallantry,  and  gods  adultery. 

Is  much  more  common  where  the  climate’s  sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy  the  nations  of  the  moral  North ! 

Where  all  is  virtue,  and  the  winter  season 
Sends  sin,  without  a rag  on,  shivering  forth 

(’Twas  snow  that  brought  St.  Anthony3  to  reason) , 
Where  juries  cast  up  what  a wife  is  worth, 

By  laying  whate’er  sum,  in  mulct,  they  please  on 
The  lover,  who  must  pay  a handsome  price, 

Because  it  is  a marketable  vice. 


Lix. 

However  this  might  be,  the  race  went  on 
Improving  still  through  every  generation, 

Until  it  centred  in  an  only  son, 

Who  left  an  only  daughter  ; my  narration 
May  have  suggested  that  this  single  one 
Could  be  but  Julia  (whom  on  this  occasion 
[ shall  have  much  to  speak  about),  and  she 
Was  married,  charming,  chaste,  and  twenty-three. 

LX. 

Her  eye  (I’m  very  fond  of  handsome  eyes) 

Was  large  and  dark,  suppressing  half  its  fire 
Until  she.  spoke,  then  through  its  soft  disguise 
Flash’d  an  expression  more  of  pride  than  ire, 

And  love  than  either ; and  there  would  arise 
A something  in  them  which  was  not  desire, 

But  would  have  been,  perhaps,  but  for  the  soul 
Which  struggled  through  and  chasten’d  down  the 
whole. 

LXT. 

Her  glossy  hair  was  cluster’d  o’er  a brow 
Bright  with  intelligence,  and  fair,  and  smooth ; 

Her  eyebrow’s  shape  was  like  the  aerial  bow, 

Her  cheek  all  purple  witli  the  beam  of  youth, 
Mounting,  at  times,  to  a transparent  glow, 

As  if  her  veins  ran  lightning ; she,  in  sooth, 
Possess’d  an  air  and  grace  by  no  means  common : 

Her  stature  tall — I hate  a dumpy  woman. 


LXV. 

Alfonso  was  the  name  of  Julia’s  lord, 

A man  well  looking  for  his  years,  and  who 
Was  neither  much  beloved  nor  yet  abhorr’d : 

They  lived  together  as  most  people  do, 

Suffering  each  other’s  foibles  by  accord. 

And  not  exactly  either  one  or  two  ; 

Yet  he  was  jealous,  though  he  did  not  show  it. 

For  jealousy  dislikes  the  world  to  know  it. 

LXVI. 

Julia  was — yet  I never  could  see  why — 

With  Donna  Inez  quite  a favourite  friend  ; 
Between  their  tastes  there  was  small  sympathy. 

For  not  a line  had  Julia  ever  penn’d  : 

Some  people  whisper  (but,  no  doubt,  they  lie, 

For  malice  still  imputes  some  private  end) 

That  Inez  had,  ere  Don  Alfonso’s  marriage, 

Forgot  with  him  her  very  prudent  carriage; 

LXVII. 

And  that  still  keeping  up  the  old  connexion, 

Which  time  had  lately  render’d  much  more  chaste, 
She  took  his  lady  also  in  affection, 

And  certainly  this  course  was  much  the  best : 

She  flatter’d  Julia  with  her  sage  protection, 

And  complimented  Don  Alfonso’s  taste  ; 

And  if  she  could  not  (who  can  ?)  silence  scandal, 

At  least  she  left  it  a more  slender  handle. 


LXII. 


LX  VIII. 


Wedded  she  was  some  years,  and  to  a man 
Of  fifty,  and  such  husbands  are  in  plenty ; 

And  yet,  I think,  instead  of  such  a one 
’Twere  better  to  have  two  of  five-and-twenty. 
Especially  in  countries  near  the  sun  : 

And  now  I think  on’t,  “mi  vien  in  mente,” 
Ladies  even  of  the  most  uneasy  virtue 
Prefer  a spouse  whose  age  is  short  of  thirty.2 


not  behold  the  entrance  of  the  Christians  into  his  capital.  His 
devoted  band  of  cavaliers  followed  him  in  gloomy  silence.  Having 
ascended  an  eminence  commanding  the  last  view  of  Granada,  they 
caused  involuntarily  to  take  a farewell  gaze  at  their  beloved  city, 
which  a few  steps  more  would  shut  from  their  sight  for  ever.  While 
they  yet  looked,  a light  cloud  of  smoke  broke  forth  from  the  citadel ; 
and  presently  a peal  of  artillery,  faintly  heard,  told  that  the  **ity 
was  taken  possession  of,  and  the  throne  of  the  Moslem  kings  was 
lost  for  ever.  The  heart  of  Boabdil,  softened  by  misfortunes,  and 
overcharged  with  grief,  could  no  longer  contain  itself.  * Allah  aoh- 


I can’t  tell  whether  Julia  saw  the  affair 
With  other  people’s  eyes,  or  if  her  own 
Discoveries  made,  but  none  could  be  aware 
Of  this,  at  least  no  symptom  e’er  was  shown ; 
Perhaps  she  did  not  know,  or  did  not  care, 
Indifferent  from  the  first,  or  callous  grown : 
I’m  really  puzzled  what  to  think  or  say, 

She  kept  her  counsel  in  so  close  a way. 


bar ! God  is  great ! ’ said  he ; but  the  words  of  resignation  died  upcc 
his  lips,  and  he  burst  into  a flood  of  tears.” — Washington  Irving.] 


(1)  [“  I ’ll  tell  you  too  a secret — j 


'silence!  hush! 

[which  you’ll  hush.” — MS.] 


(2)  [“  Spouses  from  twenty  years  of  age  to  thirty 

Are  most  admired  by  women  of  strict  virtue.” — MS.] 


(&7  i?or  the  particulars  of  St.  Anthony’s  recipe  for  hot  blood  ia 
cold  weather,  see  Mr.  Alban  Butler’s  “ Lives  of  the  Saints.” 


598 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  L 


LXIX. 

Juan  she  saw,  and,  as  a pretty  child, 

Caress’d  him  often — sucli  a thing  might  be 
Quite  innocently  done,  and  harmless  styled, 

When  she  had  twenty  years,  and  thirteen  lie  ; 

But  I am  not  so  sure  I should  have  smiled 
When  he  was  sixteen,  Julia  twenty-three ; 

These  few  short  years  make  wondrous  alterations, 
Particularly  amongst  sun-burnt  nations. 

LXX. 

Whate’er  the  cause  might  be,  1 hey  had  become 

Changed  ; for  the  dame  grew  distant, the  youth  shy, 
Their  looks  cast  down,  their  greetings  almost  dumb, 
And  much  embarrassment  m either  eye ; 

There  surely  will  be  little  doubt  with  some 
That  Donna  Julia  knew  the  reason  why, 

But  as  for  Juan,  he  had  no  more  notion 
Than  he  who  never  saw  the  sea  of  ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet  Julia’s  very  coldness  still  was  kind, 

And  tremulously  gentle  her  small  hand 
Withdrew  itself  from  his,  but  left  behind 
A little  pressure,  thrilling,  and  so  bland 
And  slight,  so  very  slight,  that  to  the  mind 
*Twas  but  a doubt ; but  ne’er  magician’s  wand 
Wrought  change  with  all  Armida’s  fairy  art 
Like  what  this  light  touch  left  on  Juan’s  heart. 

LXXII. 

And  if  she  met  him,  though  she  smiled  no  more. 

She  looked  a sadness  sweeter  than  her  smile, 

As  if  her  heart  had  deeper  thoughts  in  store 

She  must  not  own,  but  cherish’d  more  the  while 
For  that  compression  in  its  burning  core  ; 

Even  innocence  itself  has  many  a wile, 

And  will  not  dare  to  trust  itself  with  truth, 

And  love  is  taught  hypocrisy  from  youth. 

LXXIII. 

But  passion  most  dissembles,  yet  betrays 
Even  by  its  darkness  ; as  the  blackest  sky 
Foretells  the  heaviest  tempest,  it  displays 
Its  workings  through  the  vaiin,  guarded  eye, 

And  in  whatever  aspect  it  arrays 
Itself,  ’tis  still  the  same  hypocrisy  ; 

Coldness  or  anger,  even  disdain  or  hate, 

Are  masks  it  often  wears,  and  still  too  late. 

LXXIV. 

Then  there  were  sighs,  the  deeper  for  suppression, 
And  stolen  glances,  sweeter  for  the  theft, 

And  burning  blushes,  though  for  no  transgress1  on, 
Tremblings  when  met,  and  restlessness  when  left ; 
All  these  are  little  preludes  to  possession, 

Of  which  young  passion  cannot  be  bereft, 

And  merely  tend  to  show  how  greatly  love  is 
Embarrass’d  at  first  starting  with  a novice. 

LXXV. 

Poor  Julia’s  heart  was  in  an  awkward  state  ; 

She  felt  it  going,  and  resolved  to  make 
The  noblest  efforts  for  herself  and  mate, 

For  honour’s,  pride’s,  religion’s,  virtue’s  sake 
Her  resolutions  were  most  truly  great, 

And  almost  might  have  made  a Taiquin  quake : 

She  pray’d  the  Virgin  Mary  for  her  grace, 

As  being  the  best  judge  of  a lady’s  case. 


(1)  [ . , . “ Questo  giorno 

Non  piu  legemmo  avnnti.” — Dante.] 


LXXVI. 

She  vow’d  she  never  would  see  Juan  more. 

And  next  day  paid  a visit  to  his  mother, 

And  look’d  extremely  at  the  opening  door, 

Which,  by  the  Virgin’s  grace,  let  in  another; 
Grateful  she  was,  and  yet  a little  sore — 

Again  it  opens,  it  can  be  no  oilier, 

’Tis  surely  Juan  now — No  ! I’m  afraid 
That  night  the  Virgin  was  no  further  pray’d.1 

LXXVII. 

She  now  determined  that  a virtuous  woman 
Should  rather  face  and  overcome  temptation; 

That  flight  was  base  and  dastardly,  and  no  man 
Should  ever  give  her  heart  the  least  sensation ; 

That  is  to  say,  a thought  beyondjlie  common 
Preference,  that  we  must  feel  upon  occasion, 

For  people  who  are  pleasanter  than  others, 

But  then  they  only  seem  so  many  brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And  even  if  by  chance — and  who  can  tell  ? 

The  devil’s  so  very  sly — she  should  discover 
That  all  within  was  not  so  very  well, 

And,  if  still  free,  that  such  or  sucli  a lover 
Might  please  perhaps,  a virtuous  wife  can  quell 
Such  thoughts,  and  be  the  better  when  they’re  o?er; 
And  if  the  man  should  ask,  ’tis  but  denial : 

I recommend  young  ladies  to  make  trial. 

LXXIX. 

And  then  there  are  such  things  as  love  divine, 

Bright  and  immaculate,  untnix’d  and  pure, 

Such  as  the  angels  think  so  very  fine, 

And  matrons,  who  would  be  no  less  secure, 
Platonic,  perfect,  “just  such  love  as  mine 
Thus  Julia  said — and  thought  so,  to  be  sure  ; 

And  so  I’d  have  her  think,  were  I the  man 
On  whom  her  reveries  celestial  ran. 

LXXX. 

Such  love  is  innocent,  and  may  exist 

Between  young  persons  without  any  danger. 

A hand  may  first,  and  then  a lip  be  kist ; 

For  my  part,  to  such  doings  I’m  a stranger, 

But  hear  these  freedoms  form  the  utmost  list 
Of  all  o’er  which  such  love  may  be  a ranger  : 

If  people  go  beyond  ’tis  quite  a crime, 

But  not  my  fault  - 1 tell  them  all  in  time. 

LXXXI. 

Love,  then,,  but  love  within  its  proper  limits, 

Was  Julia’s  innocent  determination 
In  young  Don  Juan’s  favour,  and  to  him  its 
Exertion  might  be  useful  on  occasion ; 

And,  lighted  at  too  pure  a shrine  to  dim  its 
Ethereal  lustre,  with  what  sweet  persuasion 
He  might  be  taught,  by  love  and  her  together — 

1 really  don’t  know  what,  nor  Julia  either. 

LXXXII. 

Fraught  with  this  fine  intention,  and  well  f meed 
In  mail  of  proof — her  purity  of  soul,2 
She,  for  the  future  of  her  strength  convinced, 

And  that  her  honour  was  a rock,  or  mole. 
Exceeding  sagely  from  that  hour  dispensed 
With  any  kina  of  troublesome  control ; 

But  whether  Julia  to  the  task  was  equal 
Is  that  which  must  be  mention’d  in  the  sequel. 

(2)  [ “ Conscienza  1'  assieura, 

La  buona  compagna  che  1’  uom  francheggia 
Sotto  1’  usbergo  del  esser  puro.” — Dants.] 


CA2TT0  T. 


DON  JUAN. 


599 


lxxxiii. 

Her  plan  she  deem’d  both  innocent  and  feasible, 

And,  surely,  with  a stripling  of  sixteen 
Not  scandal’s  fangs  could  fix  on  much  that’s  seizable, 
Or  if  they  did  so,  satisfied  to  mean  [able — 

Nothing  but  what  was  good,  her  breast  was  peace- 
A quiet  conscience  makes  one  so  serene  ! 

Christians  have  burnt  each  other,  quite  persuaded 
That  all  the  Apostles  would  have  done  as  they  did. 

LXXXIV. 

And  if  ic.  the  mean  time  her  husband  died, 

But  Heaven  forbid  that  such  a thought  should  cross 
Her  brain,  though  in  a dream  ! (and  then  she  sigh’d) 
Never  could  she  survive  that  common  loss  ; 

But  just  suppose  that  moment  should  betide, 

I only  say  suppose  it —inter  nos. 

(This  should  be  entre  nous,  for  J ulia  thought 
In  French,  but  then  the  rhyme  would  go  for  nought.) 

LXXXV. 

I only  say,  suppose  this  supposition : 

Juan  being  then  grown  up  to  man’s  estate 
Would  fully  suit  a widow  of  condition, 

Even  seven  years  hence  it  would  not  be  too  late ; 
And  in  the  interim  (to  pursue  this  vision) 

The  mischief,  after  all,  could  not  be  great. 

For  he  would  learn  the  rudiments  of  love, 

I mean  the  seraph  way  of  those  above. 

LXXXVI. 

So  much  for  Julia.  Now  we’ll  turn  to  Juan. 

Poor  little  fellow  ! he  had  no  idea 
Of  his  own  case,  and  never  hit  the  true  one  ; 

In  feelings  quick  as  Ovid’s  Miss  Medea,1 
He  puzzled  over  what  he  found  a new  one. 

But  not  as  yet  imagined  it  could  be  a 
Thing  quite  in  course,  and  not  at  all  alarming, 

Which,  with  a little  patience,  might  grow  charming. 

LXXXVIJ. 

Silent  and  pensive,  idle,  restless,  slow, 

His  home  deserted  for  the  lonely  wood, 

Tormented  with  a wound  he  could  not  know, 

His,  like  all  deep  grief,  plunged  in  solitude : 

I’m  fond  myself  of  solitude  or  so, 

But  tken,  I beg  it  may  be  understood, 

By  solitude  I mean  a sultan’s,  not 
A hermit’s,  with  a liaram  for  a grot. 

LXXXVIII. 

“ Oh  Love  ! in  such  a wilderness  as  this, 

Where  transport  and  security  entwine. 

Here  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss, 

And  here  thou  art  a god  indeed  divine.” 

The  bard  I quote  from  does  not  sing  amiss,2 
With  the  exception  of  the  second  line. 

For  that  same  twining  “ transport  and  security” 

Are  twisted  to  a phrase  of  seme  obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The  poet  meant,  no  doubt,  and  thus  appeals 
To  the.  good  sense  and  senses  of  mankind, 

(1)  See  Ovid,  de  Art.  Atnand.  1.  ii. 

(2)  Campbell’s  Gertrude  of  Wyoming— {I  think) — the  opening  of 
Canto  Second — but  quote  from  memory. 

(3)  [“  I say  this  by  the  way — so  don’t  look  stern, 

But  if  you’re  angry,  reader,  pass  it  by.” — MS.] 

■ (4)  [Juan  Boscan  Almogava,  of  Barcelona,  died  about  the  year 


1 The  very  thing  which  every  body  feels, 

As  all  have  found  on  trial,  or  may  find, 

That  no  one  likes  to  be  disturb’d  at  meals 
Or  love. — T won’t  say  more  about  “ entwined 
Or  “ transport,”  as  we  knew  all  that  before, 

But  beg  “ Security”  will  bolt  the  door. 

xc.  . 

Young  Juan  wander’d  by  the  glassy  brooks, 

Thinking  unutterable  things  ; he  threw 
Himself  at  length  within  the  leafy  nooJ<s 

Where  the  wild  branch  of  the  cork  forest  gre  w ; 
There  poets  find  materials  for  their  books, 

And  every  now  and  then  we  read  them  through, 

So  that  their  plan  and  prosody  are  eligible, 

Unless,  like  Wordsworth,  they  prove  unintelligible. 

xci. 

He,  Juan,  (and  not  Wordsworth)  so  pursued 
His  self-communion  with  his  own  high  soul, 

Until  his  mighty  heart,  in  its  great  mood, 

Had  mitigated  part,  though  not  the  whole 
Of  its  disease  ; he  did  the  best  he  could 
With  things  not  very  subject  to  control, 

And  turn’d,  without  perceiving  his  condition, 

Like  Coleridge,  into  a metaphysician. 

xcn. 

He  thought  about  himself,  and  the  whole  earth, 

Of  man  the  wonderful,  and  of  the  stars. 

And  how  the  deuce  they  ever  could  have  birth  ; 

And  then  he  thought  of  earthquakes,  and  of  wars* 
How  many  miles  the  moon  might  have  in  girth, 

Of  air-balloons,  and  of  the  many  bars 
To  perfect  knowledge  of  the  boundless  skies  ; — 

And  then  he  thought  of  Donna  J ulia’s  eyes. 

xciii. 

In  thoughts  like  these  true  wisdom  may  discern 
Longings  sublime,  and  aspirations  high, 

Which  some  are  born  with,  but  the  most  part  learn 
To  plague  themselves  withal,  they  know  not  why  : 
’Twas  strange  that  one  so  young  should  thus  concern 
His  brain  about  the  action  of  the  sky  ;3 
If  you  think  ’twas  philosophy  that  this  did, 

I can’t  help  thinking  puberty  assisted. 

xciv. 

He  pored  upon  the  leaves,  and  on  the  flowers, 

And  heard  a voice  in  all  the  winds  ; and  then 
He  thought  of  wood-nymphs  and  immortal  bowers, 
And  how  the  goddesses  came  down  to  men  : 

He  missed  the  pathway,  he  forgot  the  hours, 

And  when  he  look’d  upon  his  watch  again, 

He  found  how  much  old  Time  had  been  a winner — 
He  also  found  that  he  had  lost  his  dinner. 

xcv. 

Sometimes  he  turn’d  to  gaze  upon  his  book, 

Boscan,4  or  Garcilasso ; 5 — by  the  wind 
Even  as  the  page  is  rustled  while  we  look, 

So  by  the  poesy  of  his  own  mind 


1543.  In  concert  with  his  friend  Garcilasso,  he  introduced  this 
Italian  stvie  into  Castilian  poetry,  and  tomxr.enced  his  labours  b) 
writing  sonnets  in  the  manner  of  Petrarch.] 

(5)  [Garcilasso  de  la  Vega,  of  a noble  family  at  Toledo,  was  j 
warrior  as  well  as  a poet.  After  serving  with  distinction  in  Ger 
many,  Africa,  and  Provence,  he  was  killed,  If.  536,  by  a stone 
thrown  from  a tower,  which  fell  upon  his  head  as  he  was  leading 
on  his  battalion.] 


600 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


caxio  } 


Over  the  mystij  leaf  his  soul  was  shook, 

As  if  ’twere  one  whereon  magicians  bind 
Their  spells,  and  give  them  to  the  passing  gale, 
According  to  some  good  old  woman’s  tale. 

xcvi. 

Thus  would  he  wile  his  lonely  hours  away 
Dissatisfied,  nor  knowing  what  he  wanted  _ 

Nor  glowing  reverie,  nor  poet’s  lay, 

Could  yield  his  spirit  that  for  winch  it  panted, 

A bosom  whereon  he  his  head  might  lay, 

And  hear  the  heart  beat  with  the  love  it  granted, 

With several  other  things,  which  I forget, 

Or  which,  at  least,  1 need  not  mention  yet. 

xcvn. 

Those  lonely  walks,  and  lengthening  reveries, 

Could  not  escape  the  gentle  Julia’s  eyes  ; 

She  saw  that  Juan  was  not  at  his  ease  ; 

But  that  which  chiefly  may,  and  must  surprise, 

Is,  that  the  Donna  Inez  did  not  tease 
Her  only  son  with  question  or  surmise  ; 

Whether  it  was  she  did  not  see,  or  would  not. 

Or,  like  all  very  clever  people,  could  not. 

XCVIII. 

This  may  seem  strange,  but  yet  ’tis  very  common ; 

For  instance — gentlemen,  whose  ladies  take 
Leave  to  o’erstep  the  written  rights  of  woman, 

And  break  the Which  commandment  is’t  they 

(I  have  forgot  the  number,  and  think  no  man  [break  ? 

Should  rashly  quote,  for  fear  of  a mistake.) 

I say,  when  these  same  gentlemen  are  jealous, 

They  make  some  blunder,  which  their  ladies  tell  us. 

XCIX. 

^ —“d  h'lp.baad  always  is  suspicious, 

But  still  no  less  suspects  in  the  w'rong  place,* 1 * 
Jealous  of  some  one  who  had  no  such  wishes, 

Or  pandering  blindly  to  his  own  disgrace, 

By  harbouring  some  dear  friend  extremely  vicious ; 

The  last  indeed ’s  infallibly  the  case  : 

And  when  the  spouse  and  friend  are  gone  off  wholly, 
He  wonders  at  their  vice,  and  not  his  folly. 

c. 

Thus  parents  also  are  at  times  short-sighted : 

Though  watchful  as  the  lynx,  they  ne’er  discover, 
The  while  the  wicked  world  beholds  delighted. 

Young  Hopeful’s  mistress,  or  Miss  Fanny’s  lover, 
Till  some  confounded  escapade  has  blighted 
The  plan  of  twenty  years,  and  all  is  over  ; 

And  then  the  mother  cries,  the  father  swears, 

And  wonders  why  the  devil  he  got  heirs. 

ci. 

But  Inez  was  so  anxious,  and  so  clear 

Of  sight,  that  l must  think,  on  this  occasion, 

She  had  some  other  motive  much  more  near 
For  leaving  Juan  to  this  new  temptation, 

But  what  that  motive  was,  I sha’n’t  say  here ; 

Perhaps  to  finish  Juan’s  education, 

Perhaps  to  open  Don  Alfonso’s  eyes, 

In  case  he  thought  his  wife  too  great  a prize. 


(1)  [“A  real  wittol  always  is  suspicious, 

But  always  also  hunts  in  the  wrong  place." — MS.] 

(1)  [“  Change  horses  every  hour  from  night  till  noon.” — MS.] 

(ft)  [M  Except  the  promises  of  true  theology.”— -MS.] 


CII. 

It  was  upon  a day,  a summer’s  day  ; — 

Summer’s  indeed  a very  dangerous  season, 

And  so  is  spring  about  the  end  of  May  ; 

The  sun,  no  doubt,  is  the  prevailing  reason ; 

But  whatsoe’er  the  cause  is,  or.e  may  say, 

And  stand  convicted  of  more  truth  than  treason, 
That  there  are  months  which  nature  grows  monf 
merry  in, — 

March  has  its  hares,  and  May  must  have  its  heroint 
cm. 

’Twas  on  a summer’s  day — the  sixth  of  June  . 

I like  to  be  particular  in  dates, 

Not  only  of  the  age,  and  year, "but  moon  ; 

They  are  a sort  of  post-house,  where  the  Fates 
Change  horses,  making  history  change  its  tune,* 

Then  spur  away  o’er  empires  and  o’er  states, 
Leaving  at  last  not  much  besides  chronology, 
Excepting  the  post-obits  of  theology.3 

CIV. 

’Twas  on  the  sixth  of  June,  about  the  houi 
Of  half-past  six — perhaps  still  nearer  seven — 
When  J ulia  sate  within  as  pretty  a bower 
As  e’er  held  houri  in  that  heathenish  heaven 
Described  by  Mahomet,  and  Anacreon  Moore,4 
To  whom  the  lyre  and  laurels  have  been  given. 
With  all  the  trophies  of  triumphant  song — 
lie  won  them  well,  and  may  he  wear  them  long  ! 

cv. 

She  sate,  but  not  alone  ; I know  not  well 
How  this  same  interview  had  taken  place,  . 

And  even  if  I knew,  I should  not  tell — 

People  should  hold  their  tongues  in  any  case ; 

No  matter  how  or  why  the  thing  befell, 

But  there  were  she  and  Juan,  face  to  face — 

When  two  such  faces  are  so,  ’t  won  Id  be  wise. 

But  very  difficult,  to  shut  their  eyes. 

cvi. 

How  beautiful  she  look’d  ! her  conscious  heart 
Glow’d  in  her  cheek,  and  yet  she  felt  no  wrong. 

Oh  Love  ! how  perfect  is  thy  mystic  art, 

Strengthening  the  weak,  and  trampling  on  the  strong  ; 
How  self-deceitful  is  the  sagest  part 

Of  mortals  whom  thy  lure  hath  led  along — 

The  precipice  she  stood  on  was  immense, 

So  was  her  creed  in  her  own  innocence.5 

cvn. 

She  thought  of  her  own  strength,  and  Juan’s  youth,  ' 
And  of  the  folly  of  all  prudish  fears, 

Victorious  virtue,  and  domestic  truth, 

And  then  of  Don  Alfonso’s  fifty  years : 

I wish  these  last  had  not  occurred,  in  sooth, 

Because  that  number  rarely  much  endears, 

And  through  all  climes,  the  snowy  and  the  sunny, 
Sounds  ill  in  love,  whate’er  ii  may  in  money, 
cvm. 

When  people  say,  “ I’ve  told  you  fifty  times,” 

They  mean  to  scold,  and  very  often  do ; 

When  poets  say,  “ I’ve  written  fifty  rhymes,” 

They  make  you  dread  that  they’ll  recite  them  too  J 


(4)  [“  Oh,  Susan  ! I’ve  said,  in  the  moments  of  mirth, 
What’s  devotion  to  thee  or  to  me? 

I devoutly  believe  there’s  a heaven  on  earth, 

And  believe  that  that  heaven’s  in  thee.” — Moo  Ft  t ] 
(6)  [“  She  stood  on  guilt’s  steep  brink,  in  all  the  sense 
And  full  security  of  innocence.’  — MS.] 


CANTO  T. 


DON  JUAN. 


In  gnnszs  of  fifty , thieves  commit  their  crimes, 

At  fifty  love  for  love  is  rare,  ’tis  true, 

But  then,  no  doubt,  it  equally  as  true  is, 

A good  deal  may  be  bought  for  fifty  Louis. 

cix. 

Julia  had  honour,  virtue,  truth,  and  love 
For  Don  Alfonso ; and  she  inly  swore, 

Bv  all  the  vows  below  to  powers  above, 

'She  never  would  disgrace  the  ring  she  wore, 

Nor  leave  a wish  which  wisdom  m\ght  reprove  ; 

And  while  she  ponder’d  this,  besides  much  more, 
One  hand  on  Juan’s  carelessly  was  thrown, 

Quite  by  mistake — she  thought  it  was  her  own  ; 
cx. 

Unconsciously  she  lean’d  upon  the  other, 

Which  play’d  within  the  tangles  of  her  hair  ; 

And  to  contend  with  thoughts  she  could  not  smother 
She  seem’d,  by  the  distraction  of  her  air. 

TVas  surely  very  wrong  in  Juan’s  mother 
To  leave  together  this  imprudent  pair,1 
She  who  for  many  years  had  watch’d  her  son  so — 

I’in  very  certain  mine  would  not  have  done  so. 

cxi. 

The  hand  which  still  held  Juan’s,  by  degrees 
Gently,  but  palpably  confirm’d  its  grasp, 

As  if  it  "said,  “ Detain  me,  if  you  please 
Yet  there’s  no  doubt  she  only  meant  to  clasp 
His  fingers  with  a pure  Platonic  squeeze  ; 

She  would  have  shrunk  as  from  a toad,  or  asp. 

Had  she  imagined  such  a thing  could  rouse 
A feeliug  dangerous  to  a prudent  spouse. 

cxi  i. 

I cannot  know  what  Juan  thought  of  this, 

But  what  he  did,  is  mucli  what  you  would  do ; 

His  young  lip  thank’d  it  with  a grateful  kiss, 

And  then,  abash’d  at  its  own  joy,  withdrew 
In  deep  despaD,  lest  he  had  done  amiss, — 

Love  is  so  very  vimid  when  ’tis  new : 

She  blush’d,  and  frown  i not,  but  she  strove  to  speak, 
And  held  her  tongue,  her  voice  was  grown  so  weak. 
CXIII. 

The  sun  set,  and  up  rose  the  yellow  moon : 

The  devil’s  in  the  moon  for  mischief ; they 
Who  call’d  her  chaste,  methinks,  began  too  soon 
Their  nomenclature  ; there  is  not  a day, 

The  longest,  not  the  twenty-first  of  June, 

Sees  half  the  business  in  a wicked  way, 

On  which  three  single  hours  of  moonshine  smile — 
.And  then  she  looks  so  modest  all  the  while  ! 
cxiv. 

There  is  a dangerous  silence  in  that  hour, 

A stillness,  which  leaves  room  for  the  full  soul 
To  open  all  itself,  without  the- power 
Of  calling  wholly  back  its  self-control ; 

The  silver  light  which,  hallowing  tree  and  tower, 
Sheds  beauty  and  deep  softness  o’er  the  whole, 
Breathes  also  to  the  heart,  and  o’er  it  throws 
A loving  languor,  which  is  not  repose.2 

cxv. 

And  Julia  sate  with  Juan,  half  embraced 
And  half  retiring  from  the  glowing  arm, 


(1)  ['-  To  leave  tftese  tw>  young  people  then  and  there.” — MS  ] 

(2)  [“  I am  always  most  religious  upon  a sunshiny  day ; as  if 
there  was  some  association  between  an  internal  approach  to  greater 
Ujjht  and  purity,  and  the  kindler  of  this  dark  lantern  of  our 


601 

Which  trembled  like  the  bosom  where  ’f  ivas  placed  ; 

Yet  still  she  must  have  thought  there  was  no  harm, 
Or  else  ’twere  easy  to  withdraw  her  waist  • 

But  then  the  situation  had  its  charm, 

And  then God  knows  what  next — I can’t  go 

I’m  almost  sorry  that  I e’er  begun. 

cxvi.  * 

Oh  Plato ! Plato ! you  have  paved  the  way, 

With  your  confounded  fantasies,  to  more 
Immoral  conduct  by  the  fancied  sway 

Your  system  feigns  o’er  the  controulless  core 
Of  human  hearts,  than  all  the  long  array 
Of  poets  and  romancers  : — You’re  a bore, 

A charlatan,  a coxcomb — and  have  been, 

At  best,  no  better  than  a go-between. 

cxvi  i. 

And  Julia’s  voice  was  lost,  except  in  sighs, 

Until  too  late  for  useful  conversation  : 

The  tears  were  gushing  from  her  gentle  eves, 

I wish,  indeed,  they  had  not  had  occasion  ; 

But  who,  alas ! can  love,  and  then  be  wise  ? 

Not  that  remorse  did  not  oppose  temptation ; 

A little  still  she  strove,  and  much  repented, 

And  whispering  “ I will  ne’er  consent” — consented, 

exvm. 

’Tis  said  that  Xerxes  offer’d  a reward 

To  those  who  could  invent  him  a new  pleasure 
Methinks,  the  requisition’s  rather  hard, 

And  must  have  cost  his  majesty  a treasure : 

For  my  part,  I’m  a moderate-minded  bard, 

Fond  of  a little  love  (which  I call  leisure) ; 

I care  not  for  new  pleasures,  as  the  old 
Are  quite  enough  for  me,  so  they  but  hold. 

cxix. 

Oh  Pleasure  ! you  are  indeed  a pleasant  thing, 
Although  one  must  be  damn’d  for  you,  no  doubt : 

I make  a resolution  every  spring 

Of  reformation,  ere  the  year  run  out, 

But  somehow,  this  my  vestal  vow  takes  wing, 

Yet  still,  I trust,  it  may  be  kept  throughout : 

I’m  very  sorry,  very  much  asnamed, 

And  mean,  next  winter,  to  be  quite  reclaim’d. 

cxx. 

Here  my  chaste  Muse  a liberty  must  take — 

Start  not ! still  chaster  reader — she’ll  be  nice  hence 
Forward,  and  there  is  no  great  cause  to  quake ; 

This  liberty  is  a poetic  licence. 

Which  some  irregularity  may  make 

In  the  design,  and  as  I have  a high  sense 
Of  Aristotle  and  the  Buies,  ’tis  fit 
To  beg  his  pardon  when  I err  a bit. 

CXXI. 

This  licence  is  to  hope  the  reader  will 

Suppose  from  June  the  sixth  (the  fatal  day, 
Without  whose  epoch  my  poetic  skill 

For  want  of  facts  would  all  be  thrown  away). 

But  keeping  Julia  and  Don  Juan  still 

In  sight,  that  several  months  have  pass’d;  we’ll  say 
*Twas  in  November,  but  I’m  not  so  sure 
About  the  day — the  era’s  more  obscure. 


external  existence.  The  night  is  also  a religious  concern;  and 
even  more  so  — when  1 viewed  the  rnoon  and^  stars  through 
Herschel’s  telescope,  and  saw  that  they  were  worlds.”— Byron  Dicry, 
1821.] 

1 U 


602 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


can  rc  L 


CXXII. 

Vfe’ll  talk  of  that  anon. — ’Tis  street  to  hear 
At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep 
The  song  and  oar  of  Adria’s  gondolier, 

By  distance  mellow’d,  o’er  the  waters  sweep ; 

’Tis  sweet  to  see  the  evening  star  appear ; 

’ f '.s  sweet  to  listen  as  the  night-winds  creep 
Fnm  leaf  to  leaf ; ’tis  sweet  to  view  on  high 
The  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky. 

CXXIII. 

’Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog’s  honest,  bark 
Bay  deep-mouth’d  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home ; 
’Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come 
’Tis  sweet  to  oe  awaken’d  by  the  lark, 

Or  lull’d  by  falling  waters  ; sweet  the  hum 
Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds, 

The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

cxxiv. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  the  showering  grapes 
In  Bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth, 

Purple  and  gushing  : sweet  are  our  escapes 
Prom  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth  ; 

Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps, 

Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-born’s  birth, 

Sweet  is  revenge — especially  to  women, 

Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

cxxv. 

Sweet  is  a legacy,  and  passing  sweet1 2 
The  unexpected  death  of  some  old  lady, 

Or  gentleman  of  seventy  years  complete, 

Who’ve  made  “us  youth”  wait  too — too  long 
already, 

For  an  estate,  or  cash,  or  country  seat, 

Still  breaking,  but  with  stamina  so  steady, 

That  all  the  Israelites  are  fit  to  mob  its 
Next  owner  for  their  double-damn’d  post-obits.3 

CXXVT. 

‘Tis  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,  one’s  laurels, 

By  blood  or  ink ; ’tis  sweet  to  put  an  end 
To  strife  ; ’tis  sometimes  sweet  to  have  our  quarrels, 
Particularly  with  a tiresome  friend  : 

Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  barrels  ; 

Dear  is  the  helpless  creature  we  defend 
Against  the  world ; and  dear  the  schoolboy  spot 
We  ne’er  forget,  though  there  we  are  forgot. 

CXXVII. 

But  sweeter  still  than  this,  than  these,  than  all. 

Is  first  and  passionate  love — it  stands  alone, 

Like  Adam’s  recollection  of  his  fall ; 

The  tree  of  knowledge  has  been  pluck’d  — all’s 
known — 

And  life  yields  nothing  further  to  recall 
Worthy  of  this  ambrosial  sin,  so  shown, 

No  doubt  in  fable,  as  the  unforgiven 

Fire  which  Prometheus  filch’d  for  us  from  heaven. 


(1)  [“Our  coming,  nor  look  brightly  tin  we  come.” — MS.] 

(2)  [“Sweet  is  a lawsuit  to  the  attorney —sweet,”  &c. — MS.] 

(3)  [“  Who’ve  made  us  wait — God  knows  how  long  already, 

For  ari  entail'd  estate,  or  country-seat, 

Wishing  them  not  exactly  damn’d,  but  dead — he 
Knows  nought  of  grief,  who  has  not  so  been  worried — 

'Tis  strange  old  people  don’t  like  to  be  buried.”— MS.] 

'4)  [The  “ Safety  Lamp,”  after  long  researches  and  innumerable 


CXXVIII. 

Man’s  a strange  animal,  and  makes  strange  use 
Of  his  own  nature,  and  the  various  arts, 

And  likes  particularly  to  produce 

Some  new  experiment  to  show  his  parts  ; 

This  is  the  age  of  oddities  let  loose, 

Where  different  talents  find  their  different  marls  ; H 
You’d  best  begin  with  truth,  and  when  you’ve  lost  I 
your 

Labour,  there’s  a sure  market  for  imposture, 
cxxix. 

What  opposite  discoveries  we  have  seen  ! 

(Signs  of  true  genius,  and  of  empty  pockets.) 

One  makes  new  noses,  one  a guillotine,  [sockets ; 

One  breaks  your  bones,  one  sets  them"  in  then ! 
But  vaccination  certainly  has  been 

A kind  antithesis  to  Congreve’s  rockets, 

With  which  the  Doctor  paid  off  an  old  pox, 

By  borrowing  a new  one  from  an  ox. 

cxxx. 

Bread  has  been  made  (indifferent)  from  potatoes ; 

And  galvanism  has  set  some  corpses  grinning. 

But  has  not  answer’d  like  the  apparatus 
Of  the  Humane  Society’s  beginning, 

By  which  men  are  unsuffocated  gratis  : [ning< 

What  wondrous  new  machines  have  late  been  spin 
I said  the  small-pox  has  gone  out  of  late; 

Perhaps  it  may  be  follow’d  by  the  great. 

CXXXI. 

’Tis  said  the  great  came  from  America ; 

Perhaps  it  may  set  out  on  its  return, — 

The  population  there  so  spreads,  they  say 
’Tis  grown  high  time  to  thin  it  in  its  turn, 

With  war,  or  plague,  or  famine,  any  way. 

So  that  civilisation  they  may  learn  ; 

And  which  in  ravage  the  more  loathsome  evfl  la 
Their  real  lues,  or  our  pseudo-syphilis  ? 

CXXXII. 

This  is  the  patent  age  of  new  inventions 
For  killing  bodies,  and  for  saving  souls. 

All  propagated  with  the  best  intentions  ; 

Sir  Humphry  Davy’s  lantern,4  by  which  coals 
Are  safely  mined  for  in  the  mode  he  mentions ; 

Tombuctoo  travels,  voyages  to  the  Poles5 
Are  ways  to  benefit  mankind,  as  true, 

Perhaps,  as  shooting  them  at  Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

Man’s  a phenomenon,  one  knows  not  what, 

And  wonderful  beyond  all  wondrous  measure ; 

’Tis  pity  though,  in  this  sublime  world,  that 

Pleasure’s  a sin,  and  sometimes  sin’s  a pleasure  , 

Pew  mortals  know  what  end  they  would  be  at, 

But  whether  glory,  power,  or  love,  or  treasure. 

The  path  is  through  perplexing  ways,  and  when 
The  goal  is  gain’d,  we  die,  you  know — and  then 


experiments,  was  at  length  invented  by  the  late  Sir  Humphn  j 
Davy,  P.R.S.,  in  1815,  and  has,  no  doubt,  already  preserved  thou 
sands  of  miners  from  the  dangers  of  the  fire-damp.] 

(5)  [Jackson’s  Account  of  Tomimctoo,  the  great  Emporium  of  j 
Central  Africa. — Narrative  of  Robert  Adams,  a Sailor. — Dr.  Ley 
den’s  Discoveries  in  Africa,  &c.  &c.— Sir  Edward  Parry’s  thre* 
expeditions.— Captain  Ross’s  Voyage  of  Discovery,  &c.  &c.] 

(6)  [“Not  only  pleasure’s  sin,  but  sin’s  a pleasure.” — MS.] 


CANTC  I. 


DON  JUAN. 


603 


CXXXIV. 

What  then  ? — I do  not  know,  no  more  do  you — 

And  so  good  night. — Return  we  to  our  story : 

’Twas  in  November,  when  fine  days  are  few, 

And  the  far  mountains  wax  a little  hoary, 

And  clap  a white  cape  on  their  mantles  blue  :1 
And  the  sea  dashes  round  the  promontory, 

And  the  loud  breaker  boils  against  the  rock, 

And  sober  suns  must  set  at  five  o’clock. 

cxxxv. 

’Twas,  as  the  watchmen  say,  a cloudy  night  ;2 

No  moon,  no  stars,  the  wind  was  low  or  loud 
Bv  gusts,  and  many  a sparkling  hearth  was  bright 
"With  the  piled  wood,  round  which  the  family  crowd ; 
There’s  something  cheerful  in  that  sort  of  light, 

Even  as  a summer  sky’s  without  a cloud  : 

I’m  fond  of  fire,  and  crickets,  and  all  that,3 
A lobster  salad,  and  champagne,  and  chat.4 

CXXXVI. 

’Twas  midnight — Donna  Julia  was  in  bed, 

Sleeping,  most  probably, — when  at  her  door 
Arose  a clatter  might  awake  the  dead, 

If  they  had  never  been  awoke  before, 

And  that  they  have  been  so  we  all  have  read, 

And  are  to  be  so,  at  the  least,  once  more  ; — 

The  door  was  fasten’d,  but  with  voice  and  fist  [hist ! 
First  knocks  were  heard,  then  “ Madam — Madam — 

CXXXVII. 

“For  God’s  sake,  Madam  - Madam — here’s  my  master,5 
With  more  than  half  the  city  at  his  back — 

Was  ever  heard  of  such  a curst  disaster ! 

’Tis  not  my  fault — I kept  good  watch — Alack  ! 

Do  pray  undo  the  bolt  a little  faster — 

They’re  on  the  stair  just  now,  and  in  a crack 
Will  all  be  here  ; perhaps  he  yet  may  fly — 

Surely  the  window’s  not  so  very  high !” 

cxxxvm. 

By  this  time  Don  Alfonso  was  arrived, 

* With  torches,  friends,  and  servants  in  great  number ; 
The  major  part  of  them  had  long  been  wived, 

And  therefore  paused  not  to  disturb  the  slumber 
Of  any  wicked  woman,  who  contrived 
By  stealth  her  husband’s  temples  to  encumber : 
Examples  of  this  kind  are  so  contagious, 

Were  one  not  punish’d,  all  would  be  outrageous. 

cxxxix. 

I can’t  tell  how,  or  why,  or  what  suspicion 
Could  enter  into  Don  Alfonso’s  head  ; 

But  for  a cavalier  of  his  condition 
It  surely  was  exceedingly  ill-bred, 

Without  a word  of  previous  admonition, 

To  hold  a levee  round  his  lady’s  bed, 

And  summon  lackeys,  arm’d  with  fire  and  sword. 

To  prove  himself  the  thing  he  most  abhorr’d. 


(1)  [“  And  lose  in  shining  snow  their  summits  blue.” — MS.] 

(2)  [“’Twas  midnight -dark  and  sombre  was  the  night,”  &c. 

—MS.] 

(3)  [“And  supper,  punch,  ghost-stories,  and  such  chat.” — MS.] 

(4)  [“Lady  .Mary  W.  Montague  was  an  extraordinary  woman : 
she  could  translate  Epictetus,  and  yet  write  a song  worthy  of 
Aristippus — the  lines, 

* And  when  the  long  hours  of  the  public  are  past, 

And  we  meet,  with  champagne  and  a chicken,  at  last, 

May  every  fond  pleasure  that  moment  endear! 

Be  banish’d  afar  both  discretion  and  fear ! ’ &c.  &c. 

There,  Mr.  Bowles ! — what  say  you  to  such  a supper  with  such  a 


CXL. 

Poor  Donna  Julia  ! starting  as  from  sleep, 

(Mind — that  1 do  not  say — she  had  not  slep*) 

Began  at  once  to  scream,  and  yawn,  and  weep  , 

Her  maid  Antonia,  who  was  an  adept, 

Contrived  to  fling  the  bed-clothes  in  a heap, 

As  if  she  had  just  now  from  out  them  crept : 

I can’t  tell  why  she  should  take  all  this  trouble 
To  prove  her  mistress  had  been  sleeping  double. 

CXLl. 

But  Julia  mistress,  and  Antonia  maid, 

Appear’d  like  two  poor  harmless  women,  who 
Of  goblins,  but  still  more  of  men  afraid. 

Had  thought  one  man  might  be  deterr’d  by  two, 
And  therefore  side  by  side  were  gently  laid, 

Until  the  hours  of  absence  should  run  through, 

And  truant  husband  should  return,  and  say, 

“ My  dear,  1 was  the  first  who  came  away.” 

CXLII. 

Now  Julia  found  at  length  a voice,  and  cried, 

“ In  heaven’s  name,  Don  Alfonso,  what  d’ye  mean  ? 
Has  madness  seized  you  ? would  that  I had  died 
Ere  such  a monster’s  victim  I had  been!6 
What  may  this  midnight  violence  betide, 

A sudden  fit  of  drunkenness  or  spleen  ? 

Dare  you  suspect  me,  whom  the  thought  would  kill  ? 
Search,  then,  the  room!” — Alfonso  said,  “I  will.” 

CXLIII. 

He  search’d,  they  search’d,  and  rummaged  everywhere, 
Closet  and  clothes  press,  chest  and  window-seat, 
And  found  much  linen,  lace,  and  several  pair 

Of  stockings,  slippers,  brushes,  combs,  complete, 
With  other  articles  of  ladies  fair, 

To  keep  them  beautiful,  or  leave  them  neat : 

Arras  they  prick’d  and  curtains  with  their  swords, 
And  wounded  several  shutters,  and  some  boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under  the  bed  they  search’d,  and  there  they  found — 
No  matter  what — it  was  not  that  they  sought ; 
They  open’d  windows,  gazing  if  the  ground 

Had  signs  or  footmarks,  but  the  earth  said  nought ; 
And  then  they  stared  each  others’  faces  round  : 

’Tis  odd,  not  one  of  all  these  seekers  thought, 

And  seems  to  me  almost  a sort  of  blunder, 

Of  looking  in  the  bed  as  well  as  under. 

CXLV. 

During  this  inquisition,  Julia’s  ton^ie7 

W as  not  asleep — “Yes,  search  ana  search,”  she  cried, 
“ Insult  on  insult  heap,  and  wrong  on  wrong ! 

It  was  for  this  that  I became  a bride  ! 

For  this  in  silence  I have  suffer’d  long 
A husband  like  Alfonso  at  my  side  ; 

But  now  I’ll  bear  no  more,  nor  here  remain, 

If  there  be  law  or  lawyers,  in  all  Spain. 


woman?  and  her  own  description  too?  It  appears  to  me  that  this 
stanza  contains  the  jiurei-  of  the  whole  philosophy  of  Epicurus. ’’ 
Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Bowles .] 

(5)  [“To-night,  as  Countess  Guiccioli  observed  me  poring  over 
Don  Juan,  she  stumbled  by  mere  chance  on  the  137th  stanza  of  the 
First  Canto,  and  asked  me  what  it  meant.  I told  her,  ‘Nothing, 
but  your  husband  is  coming.’  As  I said  this  in  Italian  with  some 
emphasis,  she  started  up  in  a fright,  and  said,  ‘ Oh,  my  God,  is  he 
coming  ?’  thinking  it  was  her  own.  You  may  suppose  we  laughed 
when  she  found  out  the  mistake.  You  will  be  amused,  as  I was; 
— it  happened  not  three  hours  ago.” — Byron  Letters,  Nov.  8, 1819.1 

(6)  [“  Ere  I the  wife  of  such  a man  had  been  1 ” — MS.] 

(7)  [“  But  while  this  search  wa#  naking  'ulia’s  tongue.” — MS.J 


604 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTG 


CXIiVI. 

“ Yes,  Don  Alfonso  ! husband  now  no  more, 

If  ever  you  indeed  deserved  the  name, 

1s  t worthy  of  your  years  ? — you  have  threescore — 
Fifty,  or  sixty,  it  is  all  the  same — 

Is’t  wise  or  fitting,  causeless  to  explore 
For  facts  against  a virtuous  woman’s  fame? 
Ungrateful,  perjured,  barbarous  Don  Alfonso, 

How  dare  you  think  your  lady  would  go  on  so  ? 
cxlvii. 

“ Is  it  for  this  I have  disdain’d  to  hold 
The  common  privileges  of  my  sex? 

That  I have  chosen  a confessor  so  old 
And  deaf,  that  any  other  it  would  vex, 

And  never  once  he  has  had  cause  to  scold, 

But  found  my  very  innocence  perplex 
So  much,  he  always  doubted  I was  married — 

How  sorry  you  will  be  when  I’ve  miscarried  ! 

CXLVIII. 

“Was  it  for  this  that  no  Cortejo1  e’er 
I yet  have  chosen  from  out  the  youth  of  Seville? 

Is  it  for  this  I scarce  went  any  where, 

Except  to  bull-fights,  mass,  play,  rout,  and  revel  ? 
Is  it  for  this,  whate’er  my  suitors  were, 

I favour’d  none — nay,  was  almost  uncivil  ? 

Is  it  for  this  that  General  Count  O’Reilly, 

Who  took  Algiers,2  declares  I used  him  vilely  ? 
C'XLIX. 

“ Did  not  the  Italian  Musico  Cazzani 

Sing  at  my  heart  six  months  at  least  in  vain  ? 

Did  not  his  countryman,  Count  Corniani, 

Call  me  the  only  virtuous  wife  in  Spain? 

Were  there  not  also  Russians,  English,  many  ? 

The  Count  Strongstroganoff  I put  in  pain, 

And  Lord  Mount  Coffeehouse,  the  Irish  peer, 

Who  kill’d  himself  for  love  (with  wine)  last  year. 

CL. 

“ Have  I not  had  two  bishops  at  my  feet  ? 

The  Duke  of  Ichar,  and  Don  Fernan  Nunez ; 

And  is  it  thus  a faithful  wife  you  treat  ? 

I wonder  in  what  quarter  now  the  moon  is  : 

I praise  your  vast  forbearance  not  to  beat 
Me  also,  since  the  time  so  opportune  is — 

Oh,  valiant  man  ! with  sword  drawn  and  cock’d  trigger, 
Now,  tell  me,  don’t  you  cut  a pretty  figure  ? 

CLI. 

* Was  it  for  this  you  took  your  sudden  journey, 
Under  pretencmof  business  indispensable 
With  that  sublime  of  rascals  vour  attorney, 

Whom  I see  standing*  there,  and  looking  sensible 
Of  having  play’d  the  fool  ? though  both  I spurn,  lie 
Deserves  the  worst,  his  conduct’s  less  defensible, 
Because,  no  doubt,  ’twas  for  his  dirty  fee. 

And  not  from  any  love  to  you  nor  me. 

CLII. 

“If  lie  comes  here  to  take  a deposition, 

By  all  means  let  the  gentleman  proceed ; 

You’ve  made  the  apartment  in  a fit  condition : — 
There’s  pen  and  ink  for  you,  sir,  when  you  need — 
Let  every  thing  be  noted  with  precision, 

I would  not  you  for  nothing  should  be  fee’d — 

But,  as  my  maid’s  undrest,  pray  turn  your  spies  out.” 
“ Oh !”  sobb’d  Antonia,  “ I could  tear  their  eyes  out.” 

(1)  The  Spanish  “Cortejo”  is  much  the  same  as  the  Italian 
“ Cavalier  Servente.” 

(2)  Donna  Julia  here  made  a mistake.  Count  O’Reilly  did  not 
take  Algiers — but  Algiers  very  nearly  took  him  : he  and  cis  army 


CLIIT. 

“ There  is  the  closet,  there  the  toilet,  there 
The  antechamber— search  them  under,  over; 

There  is  the  sofa,  there  the  great  arm-cJmir, 

The  chimney — which  would  really  hold  a lover.* 

I wish  to  sleep,  and  beg  you  will  take  care 
And  make  no  further  noise,  till  you  discover 
The  secret  cavern  of  this  lurking  treasure — 

And  when  ’tis  found,  let  me,  too,  have  that  pleas  ir? 

CLI  v. 

“ And  now,  Hidalgo  ! now  that  you  have  thrown 
Doubt  upon  me,  confusion  over  all, 

Pray  have  the  courtesy  to  make  it  known 

Who  is  the  man  you  search  for  ? how  d’ye  call 
Him  ? what’s  his  lineage  ? let  him  but  be  shown — 

I hope  lie’s  young  and  handsome — is  he  tall  ? 

Tell  me — and  be  assured,  that  since  you  stain 
My  honour  thus,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain. 

CLV. 

“At  least,  perhaps,  he  has  not  sixty  years, 

At  that  age  he  would  be  too  old  for  slaughter. 

Or  for  so  young  a husband’s  jealous  fears — 

(Antonia  ! let  me  have  a glass  of  water.) 

I am  ashamed  of  having  shed  these  tears, 

They  are  unworthy  of  my  father’s  daughter ; 

My  mother  dream’d  not  in  my  natal  hour, 

That  I should  fall  into  a monster’s  power. 

CLVI. 

“ Perhaps  ’tis  of  Antonia  you  are  jealous, 

You  saw  that  she  was  sleeping  by  my  side, 

When  you  broke  in  upon  us  with  your  fellows  : 

Look  where  you  please — we’ve  nothing,  sir,  to  hide 
Only  another  time,  I trust,  you’ll  tell  us, 

Or  for  the  sake  of  decency  abide 
A moment  at  the  door,  that  we  may  be 
Drest  to  receive  so  much  good  company. 

CLV  II. 

“ And  now,  sir,  I have  done,  and  say  no  more ; 

The  little  I have  said  may  serve  to  show 
The  guileless  heart  in  silence  may  grieve  o’er 
The  wrongs  to  whose  exposure  it  is  slow : — ■ 

I leave  you  to  your  conscience  as  before, 

’Twill  one  day  ask  you  why  you  used  me  so  ? 

God  grant  you  feel  not  then  the  bitterest  grief ! — • 
Antonia  ! where’s  my  pocket-handkerchief  ?” 

CLVIIT.  j 

She  ceased,  and  turn’d  upon  her  pillow  ; pale 

She  lay,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  through  their  tears; 
Like  skies  that  rain  and  lighten ; as  a veil, 

"Waved  and  o’ershading  her  wan  cheek,  appears  j 
Her  streaming  hair  ; the  black  curls  strive,  but  fail, 
To  hide  the  glossy  shoulder,  which  uprears 
Its  snow  through  all;— her  soft  lips  lie  apart, 

And  louder  than  her  breathing  beats  her  heart. 

CLIX. 

The  Senhor  Don  Alfonso  stood  confused ; 

Antonia  bustled  round  the  ransack’d  room, 

And,  turning  up  her  nose,  with  looks  abused 
Her  master,  and  his  myrmidons,  of  whom 
Not  one,  except  the  attorney,  was  amused  : 
lie,  like  Achates,  faithful  to  the  tomb, 

So  there  were  quarrels,  cared  not  for  the  cause, 
Knowing  they  must  be  settled  by  the  laws. 

and  fleet  retreated  with  great  loss,  and  not  much  credit,  from  be»D7i 
that  city,  in  the  year  1775. 

(3)  [“  The  chimney — fit  retreat  for  any  lover  P — MS.] 


canto  i. 


DON  JUAN. 


605 


CLX. 

With  prying-  snub-nose,  and  small  eyes,  he  stood, 
Following  Antonia’s  motions  here  and  there, 

With  much  suspicion  in  his  attitude  ; 

For  reputations  he  had  little  care ; 

So  that  a suit  or  action  were  made  good, 

Small  pity  had  he  for  the  young  and  fair. 

And  ne’er  believed  in  negatives,  till  these 
Were  proved  by  competent  false  witnesses. 

CLXI. 

But  Don  Alfonso  stood  with  downcast  looks, 

And,  truth  to  say,  he  made  a foolish  figure ; 

When,  after  searching  in  five  hundred  nooks. 

And  treating  a young  wife  with  so  much  rigour, 

He  gain’d  no  point,  except  some  self-rebukes, 

Added  to  those  his  lady  with  such  vigour 
Had  pour’d  upon  him  for  the  last  half-hour, 

Quick,  thick,  and  heavy — as  a thunder-shower. 

CLXII. 

At  first  he  tried  to  hammer  an  excuse, 

To  which  the  sole  reply  were  tears,  and  sobs, 

And  indications  of  hysterics,  whose 
Prologue  is  always  certain  throes,  and  throbs, 

(rasps,  and  whatever  else  the  owners  choose  : 

Alfonso  saw  his  wife,  and  thought  of  Job’s; 

He  saw  too,  in  perspective,  her  relations. 

And  then  he  tried  to  muster  all  his  patience. 

CLXIII. 

He  stood  in  act  to  speak,  or  rather  stammer, 

But  sage  Antonia  cut  him  short  before 
The  anvil  of  his  speech  received  the  hammer, 

With  “ Pray,  sir,  leave  the  room,  and  say  no  more, 
Or  madam  dies.” — Alfonso  mutter’d,  “D — n her,” 
But  nothing  else ; the  time  of  words  was  o’er ; 

He  cast  a rueful  look  or  two,  and  did, 

He  knew  not  wherefore,  that  which  he  was  bid. 

CLXIV. 

With  him  retired  his  “ posse  comitatus ,’* 

The  attorney  last,  who  linger’d  near  the  door 
Reluctantly,  still  tarrying  there  as  late  as 
Antonia  let  him — not  a little  sore 
At  this  most  strange  and  unexplain’d  “ hiatus ” 

In  Don  Alfonso’s  facts,  which  just  now  wore 
An  awkward  look  ; as  he  revolved  the  case, 

The  door  was  fasten’d  in  his  legal  face. 

CLXV. 

No  sooner  was  it  bolted,  than — Oh  shame  ! 

Oh  sin ! Oh  sorrow ! and  Oh  womankind ! 

How  can  you  do  such  things  and  keep  your  fame, 
Unless  this  world,  and  t’  other  too,  be  blind  ? 
Nothing  so  dear  as  an  unfilch’d  good  name  ! 

But  to  proceed — for  there  is  more  behind  : 

With  much  heartfelt  reluctance  be  it  said, 

Young  Juan  slipp’d,  half-smother’ d,  from  the  bed. 

CLXVI. 

He  had  been  hid — I don’t  pretend  to  say 
How,  nor  can  I indeed  describe  the  where — 
Young,  slender,  and  pack’d  easily,  he  lay. 

No  doubt,  in  little  compass,  round  or  square; 

But  pity  him  I neither  must  nor  may 
Ilis  suffocation  by  that  pretty  pair ; 

’Twere  better,  sure,  to  die  so  than  be  shut 
With  maudlin  Clarence  in  his  Malmsey  butt.1 

i (1)  [ “ than  be  put 

To  drown  with  Clarence  in  his  Malmsey  butt.” — MS.] 


CLXVI  I . 

And,  secondly,  I pity  not,  because 
He  had  no  business  to  commit  a sin, 

Forbid  by  heavenly,  fined  by  human  laws, 

At  least  ’twas  rather  early  to  begin  ; 

But  at  sixteen  the  conscience  rarely  gnaws 
So  much  as  when  we  call  our  old  debts  in 
At  sixty  years,  and  draw  the  accompts  of  evil. 

And  find  a deuced  balance  with  the  devil.2  * 

CLXVI  II. 

Of  his  position  I can  give  no  notion : 

’Tis  written  in  the  Hebrew  Chronicle, 

Plow  the  physicians,  leaving  pill  and  potion, 
Prescribed,  by  way  of  blister,  a young  belle, 

When  old  King  David’s  blood  grew  dull  in  motion, 
And  that  the  medicine  answer’d  very  well; 

Perhaps  ’twas  in  a different  way  applied. 

For  David  lived,  but  J uan  nearly  died. 

CLXIX. 

What’s  to  be  done  ? Alfonso  will  be  back 
The  moment  he  lias  sent  his  fools  away. 

Antonia’s  skill  was  put  upon  the  rack, 

But  no  device  could  be  brought  into  play — 

And  how  to  parry  the  renew’d  attack  ? 

Besides,  it  wanted  but  few  hours  of  day : 

Antonia  puzzled  ; Julia  did  not  speak. 

But  press’d  her  bloodless  lip  to  «J  uau’s  cheek. 

CLXX. 

He  turn’d  his  lip  to  hers,  and  with  his  hand 
Call’d  back  the  tangles  of  her  wandering  hair ; 
Even  then  their  love  they  could  not  all  command. 
And  half  forgot  their  danger  and  despair: 
Antonia’s  patience  now  was  at  a stand — 

“ Come,  come,  ’tis  no  time  now  for  fooling  there,* 
She  whisper’d,  in  great  wrath — “ I must  deposit 
This  pretty  gentleman  within  the  closet : 

CLXXI. 

“ Pray,  keep  your  nonsense  for  some  luckier  night — 
Who  can  have  put  my  master  in  this  mood  ? 

What  will  become  on’t — I’m  in  such  a fright, 

The  devil’s  in  the  urchin,  and  no  o-0od : 

Is  this  a time  for  giggling-  P this  a plight  ? 

Why,  don’t  you  know  that  it  may  end  in  blood  P 
You’ll  lose  your  life,  and  I shall  lose  my  place, 

My  mistress  all,  for  that  half-girlish  face. 

CLXXII. 

“ Had  it  but  been  for  a stout  cavalier 

Of  twenty-five  or  thirty — (cpme,  make  haste) 

But  for  a child,  what  piece  of  work  is  here ! 

I really,  madam,  wonder  at  your  taste — 

(Come,  sir,  get  in)— my  master  must  be  near : 

There,  for  the  present,  at  the  least,  he’s  fast, 

And  if  we  can  but  till  the  morning  keep 

Our  counsel — (Juan,  mind,  you  must  not  sleep.)” 

CLXXIII. 

Now,  Don  Alfonso  entering,  but  alone. 

Closed  the  oration  of  the  trusty  maid  : 

She  loiter’d,  and  he  told  her  to  be  gone. 

An  order  somewhat  sullenly  obey’d ; 

However,  present  remedy  was  none. 

And  no  great  good  seem’d  answer’d  if  she  staid  : 
Begarding  both  with  slow  and  sidelong  view, 

She  snuff’d  the  candle,  curtsied,  and  withdrew. 


(2)  [“  And  reckon  up  our  balance  with  the  devil." — M8  ] 


606 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  l 


CLXXIV. 

Alfonso  paused  a minute — then  begun 

Some  strange  excuses  for  his  late  proceeding ; 

He  would  not  justify  what  he  had  done, 

To  say  the  best,  it  Avas  extreme  ill-breeding ; 

But  there  were  ample  reasons  for  it,  none 
Of  which  he  specified  in  this  his  pleading  : 

His  speech  was  a fine  sample,  on  the  whole, 

Of  rhetoric,  which  the  learn’ d call  “ rigmarole .” 

CLXXV. 

Julia  said  nought;  though  all  the  while  there  rose 
A ready  answer,  which  at  once  enables 
A matron,  who  her  husband’s  foible  knows, 

By  a few  timely  words  to  turn  the  tables, 

Which,  if  it  does  not  silence,  still  must  pose, — 

Even  if  it  should  comprise  a pack  of  fables ; 

’Tis  to  retort  with  firmness,  and  when  he 
Suspects  with  one , do  you  reproach  with  three . 

CLXXYI. 

Julia,  in  fact,  had  tolerable  grounds, — 

Alfonso’s  loves  with  Inez  were  well  known  ; 

But  whether  ’twas  that  one’s  own  guilt  confounds — 
But  that  can’t  be,  as  has  been  often  shown, 

A lady  Avith  apologies  abounds  ; — 

It  might  be  that  her  silence  sprung  alone 
Erom  delicacy  to  Don  Juan’s  ear, 

To  whom  she  knew  his  mother’s  fame  was  dear. 

CLXXVII. 

There  might  be  one  more  motive,  which  makes  two ; 

Alfonso  ne’er  to  Juan  had  alluded, — 

Mention’d  his  jealousy,  but  never  who 
Had  been  the  happy  lover,  he  concluded. 

Conceal’d  amongst  his  premises ; ’tis  true, 

His  mind  the  more  o’er  this  its  mystery  brooded : 
To  speak  of  Inez  now  were,  one  may  say. 

Like  throwing  Juan  in  Alfonso’s  way, 

CLXXVIII. 

A hint,  in  tender  cases,  is  enough ; 

Silence  is  best,  besides  there  is  a tact — 

(That  modern  phrase  appears  to  me  sad  stuff, 

But  it  will  serve  to  keep  my  verse  compact) — 
Which  keeps,  when  push’d  by  questions  rather  rough, 
A lady  always  distant  from  the  fact : 

The  charming  creatures  lie  with  such  a grace. 

There’s  nothing  so  becoming  to  the  face. 

CLXXIX. 

They  blush,  and  we  believe  them ; at  least  I 
Have  always  done  so  ; ’tis  of  no  great  use. 

In  any  case,  attempting  a reply, 

Eor  then  their  eloquence  grows  quite  profuse ; 

And  when  at  length  they’re  out  of  breath,  they  sigh, 
And  cast  their  languid  eyes  down,  and  let  loose 
A tear  or  two,  and  then  Ave  make  it  up  ; 

And  then — and  then — and  then — sit  down  and  sup. 

CLXXX. 

A.fonso  closed  his  speech,  and  begg’d  her  pardon, 
Which  Julia  half  withheld,  and  then  half  granted, 
And  laid  conditions  he  thought  very  hard  on, 

Denying  several  little  things  he  wanted : 


1)  [“  With  base  suspicion  now  no  longer  haunted.” — MS.] 

(2)  [For  the  incident  of  the  shoes,  Lord  Byron  was  probably  in- 
debted to  the  Scottish  ballad, — 

•'  Our  goodman  came  hame  at  e’en,  and  hame  came  he, 

He  spy’d  a pair  of  jack-boots  where  nae  boots  should  be, 


He  stood  like  Adam  lingering  near  his  garden, 

With  useless  penitence  perplexed  and  haunted,1 
Beseeching  she  no  further  would  refuse, 

When,  lo  ! he  stumbled  o’er  a pair  of  shoes. 

CLXXXI. 

A pair  of  shoes  !2 — what  then  ? not  much,  if  they 
Are  such  as  fit  with  ladies’  feet,  but  these 
(No  one  can  tell  how  much  I grieve  to  say) 

Were  masculine  ; to  see  them,  and  to  seize, 

Wras  but  a moment’s  act. — Ah  ! well-a-day ! 

My  teeth  begin  to  chatter,  my  veins  freeze  ! 

Alfonso  first  examined  Avell  their  fashion, 

And  then  flew  out  into  another  passion. 

CLXXXII. 

He  left  the  room  for  his  relinquish’d  sword. 

And  Julia  instant  to  the  closet  flew. 

“Ely,  Juan,  fly  ! for  heaven’s  sake— not  a word — 

The  door  is  open — you  may  yet  slip  through 
The  passage  you  so  often  have  explored — 

Here  is  the  garden-key — Ely— fly — Adieu! 

Haste — haste  ! I hear  Alfonso’s  hurrying  feet — 

Day  has  not  broke — there’s  no  one  in  the  street.” 

CLXXXIII. 

None  can  say  that  this  was  not  good  advice, 

The  only  mischief  was,  it  came  too  late  ; 

Of  all  experience  ’tis  the  usual  price, 

A sort  of  income-tax  laid  on  by  fate  : 

Juan  had  reach’d  the  room-door  in  a trice, 

And  might  have  done  so  by  the  garden-gate, 

But  met  Alfonso  in  Tiis  dressing-gown, 

Who  threaten’d  death — so  Juan  knock’d  him  down. 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire  was  the  scuffle,  and  out  Avent  the  light ; 

Antonia  cried  out  “ Rape  !”  and  Julia  “ Eire  !” 
But  not  a servant  stirr’d  to  aid  the  fight. 

Alfonso,  pommell’d  to  his  heart’s  desire. 

Swore  lustily  he’d  be  revenged  this  night ; 

And  Juan,  too,  blasphemed  an  octave  higher,  1 
His  blood  Avas  up  : though  young,  lie  was  a Tartar,  1 
And  not  at  all  disposed  to  prove  a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso’s  SAvord  had  dropp’d  ere  he  could  draw  it,  J 
And  they  continued  battling  hand  to  hand, 

Eor  Juan  very  luckily  ne’er  saAV  it ; 

His  temper  not  being  under  great  command, 

If  at  that  moment  he  had  chanced  to  claw  it,  I 

Alfonso’s  days  had  not  been  in  the  land 
Much  longer.— Think  of  husbands’,  lovers’  lives  ! 

And  how  ye  may  be  doubly  widows — wives  ! 

CLXXXVI. 

Alfonso  grappled  to  detain  the  foe, 

And  J uan  throttled  him  to  get  away, 

And  blood  (’twas  from  the  nose)  began  to  flow ; 

At  last,  as  they  more  faintly  wrestling  lay, 

J uan  contrived  to  give  an  aAvkward  blow, 

And  then  his  only  garment  quite  gave  way ; 

He  fled,  like  Joseph,  leaving  it ; but  there, 

I doubt,  all  likeness  ends  between  the  pair. 

What’s  this  now,  goodwife?  What's  this  I see? 

How  came  these  boots  there,  without  the  leave  o’  me  1 
Boots  ! quo’  she  • 

Ay,  boots,  quo’  he. 

Shame  fa’  your  cuckold  face,  and  ill  mat  ye  see, 

It  V but  a pair  of  water  stoups  the  cooper  sent  to  me,’’  &2.  | 
— See  Johnson’s  Musical  Museum,  vol.  r.  p q6&p 


CANTC  I. 


DON  JUAN, 


607 


CLXXXVII. 

Lights  came  at  length,  and  men,  and  maids,  who  found 
An  awkward  spectacle  their  eyes  before  ; 

Antonia  in  hysterics,  Julia  swoon’d, 

Alfonso  leaning,  breathless,  by  the  door ; 

Some  half-torn  drapery  scatter’d  on  the  ground, 

Some  blood,  and  several  footsteps,  but  no  more : 

Juan  the  gate  gain’d,  turn’d  the  key  about, 

And  liking  not  the  inside,  lock’d  the  out. 

CLXXXVIII. 

Here  ends  this  canto— Need  I sing,  or  say, 

How  Juan,  naked,  favour’d  by  the  night. 

Who  favours  what  she  should  not,  found  his  way,1 
And  reach’d  ins  home  in  an  unseemly  plight  ? 

The  pleasant  scandal  which  arose  next  day, 

The  nine  days’  wonder  which  was  brought  to  light, 
And  how  Alfonso  sued  lor  a divorce, 

Were  in  the  English  newspapers,  of  course. 

CLXXXIX. 

H you  would  like  to  see  the  whole  proceedings, 

The  depositions,  and  the  cause  at  full, 

The  names  of  all  the  witnesses,  the  pleadings 
Of  counsel  to  nonsuit,  or  to  annul, 

There’s  more  than  one  edition,  and  the  readings 
Are  various,  but  they  none  of  them  are  dull : 

The  best  is  that  in  short-hand  ta’en  by  Gurney,2 
Who  to  Madrid  on  purpose  made  a journey. 

cxc. 

But  Donna  Inez,  to  divert  the  train 
Of  one  of  the  most  circulating  scandals 
That  had  for  centuries  been  known  in  Spain, 

At  least  since  the  retirement  of  the  Vandals,3 
First  vow’d  (and  never  had  she  vow’d  in  vain) 

To  Virgin  Mary  several  pounds  of  caudles  : 

And  then,  by  the  advice  of  some  old  ladies,  _ 

She  sent  her  son  to  be  shipp’d  off  from  Cadiz. 

cxci. 

She  had  resolved  that  he  should  travel  through 
All  European  climes,  by  land  or  sea, 

To  mend  his  former  morals,  and  get  new. 

Especially  in  Erance  and  Italy, 

(At  least  tliis  is  the  thing  most  people  do.) 

Julia  was  sent  into  a convent : she 
Grieved,  but,  perhaps,  her  feelings  may  be  better 
Shown  in  the  following  copy  of  her  letter : 

cxcu. 

“ They  tell  me  ’tis  decided  : you  depart : 

’Tis  wise — ’tis  well,  but  not  the  less  a pain; 

I have  no  further  claim  on  your  young  heart, 

Mine  is  the  victim,  and  would  be  again  ; 

(1)  f“  Found— heaven  knows  how— his  solitary  way,”  &c.— M'S.] 

(2)  [William  Brodie  Gurney,  Esq.,  the  eminent  short-hand  writer 
to  the  houses  of  parliament.] 

(31  [“  Since  Roderick’s  Goths,  or  older  Genseric’s  Vandals.” 
MS.] 

(4)  f“  Que  les  liommes  sont  heureux  d’aller  £ la  guerre,  d’exposer 
leur  Ue,  de  se  livrer  k l’enthousiasme  de  l’honneur  et  du  danger! 
Mais  1 n’y  a rien  au-dehors  qui  soulage  les  femmes.”— Corinne.] 

(5>  [«  ‘To  mourn  alone  the  love  which  has  undone.’ 

Or, 

‘ To  lift  our  fatal  love  to  God  from  man.’ 

Take  that  which,  of  these  three,  seems  the  best  prescription . ” — B . ] 

(«]  [We  have  an  indelicate,  hut  very  clever  scene,  of  the  young 
Juaa’s  concealment  in  the  bed  of  an  amorous  matron,  and  of  the 


To  love  too  much  has  been  the  only  art 
I used  ; — I write  in  haste,  and  if  a stain 
Be  on  this  sheet,  ’tis  not  what  it  appears ; 

My  eyeballs  burn  and  throb,  but  have  no  tears. 

cxciii. 

“ I loved,  I love  you,  for  this  love  have  lost 

State,  station,  heaven,  mankind’s,  my  own  esteem, 
And  yet  can  not  regret  what  it  hath  cost, 

So  dear  is  still  the  memory  of  that  dream ; 

Yet,  if  I name  my  guilt,  ’tis  not  to  boast, 

None  can  deem  harshlier  of  me  than  I deem : 

I trace  this  scrawl  because  I cannot  rest — 

I’ve  nothing  to  reproach,  or  to  request. 

cxciv. 

“ Man’s  love  is  of  man’s  life  a thing  apart, 

’Tis  woman’s  whole  existence ; man  may  range 
The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel,  and  the  mart. 
Sword,  gown,  gain,  glory,  offer  in  exchange 
Pride,  fame,*  ambition,  to  fill  up  his  heart, 

And  few  there  are  whom  these  can  not  estrange  ; 
Men  have  all  these  resources,  we  but  one,4 
To  love  again,5  and  be  again  undone.6 

cxcv. 

“ You  will  proceed  in  pleasure,  and  in  pride. 

Beloved  and  loving  many ; all  is  o’er 
For  me  on  earth,  except  some  years  to  hide 
My  shame  and  sorrow  deep  in  my  heart’s  core  . 
These  I could  bear,  but  cannot  cast  aside 
The  passion  which  still  rages  as  before, 

And  so  farewell — forgive  me,  love  me — No, 

That  word  is  idle  now — but  let  it  go.7 

cxcvi. 

“ My  breast  has  been  all  weakness,  is  so  yet ; 

But  still  I think  I can  collect  my  mind;8 
My  blood  still  rushes  where  my  spirit’s  set, 

As  roll  the  waves  before  the  settled  wind ; 

My  heart  is  feminine,  nor  can  forget— 

To  all,  except  one  image,  madly  blind : 

So  shakes  the  needle,  and  so  stands  the  pole, 

As  vibrates  my  fond  heart  to  my  fix’d  soul.9 

cxcvn. 

“ I have  no  more  to  say,  but  linger  still. 

And  dare  not  set  my  seal  upon  this  sheet, 

And  yet  I may  as  well  the  task  fulfil, 

My  misery  can  scarce  be  more  complete ; 

I had  not  lived  till  now  could  sorrow  kfil ; j meet. 
Death  shuns  the  wretch  who  fain  the  blow  would 
And  I must  even  survive  this  last  adieu,  „ 

And  bear  with  life,  to  love  and  pray  for  you ! 


torrent  of  rattling  and  audacious  eloquence  with  which  she  repels 
the  too  just  suspicions  of  her  jealous  lord.  All  this  is  merely  comic, 
and  a little  coarse  but  then  the  poet  chooses  to  make  this  shame 
less  and  abandoned  woman  address  to  her  young  gallant  an  ep.stie 
breathing  the  very  spirit  of  warm,  devoted,  pure,  and  unalterable 
love— thus  profaning  the  holiest  language  ol  the  heart,  and  indi- 
rectly associating  it  with  the  most  hateful  and  degrading  sensuaiism- 
Thus  are  our  notions  of  right  and  wrong  at  once  confounded— our 
confidence  in  virtue  shaken  to  the  foundation— and  our  reliance  oa 
truth  and  fidelity  at  an  end  for  ever.  Of  this  it  is  that  we  coai 
plain.— Jeffrey.] 

j fatal  now 

That  word  is  < lost  for  me 
I deadly  now 


(7)  [Or, 

i ueacuy  now  ; 

(8)  [“  I struggle,  but  can  not  collect  my  mind.’— MS. 


—but  let  it  go.”— MS.] 


(9)  [“  As  turns  the  needle  trembling  to  the  pole  ^ 

It  ne’er  can  reach — so  turns  to  you  my  soul  — Mo.j 


608 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CAntn  l 


CXCVXII. 

This  note  was  written  upon  gilt-edged  paper 
With  a neat  little  crow-quill,  slight  and  new ; 1 
Her  small  white  hand  could  hardly  reach  the  taper. 
It  trembled  as  magnetic  needles  do, 

And  yet  she  did  not  let  one  tear  escape  her ; 

The  seal  a sun-flower ; “ Elle  vous  suit  par  tout” 2 
The  motto  cut  upon  a white  cornelian ; 

The  wax  was  superfine,  its  hue  vermilion. 

cxcix. 

This  was  Don  Juan’s  earliest  scrape  ; but  whether 
I shall  proceed  with  his  adventures  is 
Dependent  on  the  public  altogether ; 

We’ll  see,  however,  what  they  say  to  this, 

Their  favour  in  an  author’s  cap’s  a feather. 

And  no  great  mischief’s  done  by  their  caprice; 
And  if  their  approbation  we  experience, 

Perhaps  they’ll  have  some  more  about  a year  hence. 

cc. 

Mv  poem’s  epic,  and  is  meant  to  be 

Divided  in  twelve  oooks ; each  book  containing, 
With  love,  and  war,  a neavy  gale  at  sea,3 

A list  of  ships,  and  captains,  and  kings  reigning. 
New  characters  ; the  episodes  are  three  :4 
A panoramic  view  of  hell’s  in  training. 

After  the  style  of  Yirgil  and  of  Homer, 

So  that  my  name  of  Epic’s  no  misnomer.5 

cci. 

All  these  things  will  be  specified  in  time, 

With  strict  regard  to  Aristotle’s  rules, 

The  Vade  Mecum  of  the  true  sublime. 

Which  makes  so  many  poets,  and  some  fools : 
Prose  poets  like  blank-verse,  I’m  fond  of  rhyme. 
Good  workmen  never  quarrel  with  their  tools ; 
I’ve  got  new  mythological  machinery, 

And  very  handsome  supernatural  scenery.6 


(1)  [“  With  a neat  crow-quill,  rather  hard,  but  new.” — MS.] 

(2)  [Lord  Byron  had  himself  a seal  bearing  this  motto.] 

(3)  [“  For  your  tempest,  take  Eurus,  Zephyr,  Auster,  and  Boreas, 
and  cast  them  together  in  one  verse : add  to  these,  of  rain,  lightning 
and  thunder  (the  loudest  you  can),  quantum  sufficit  Mix  your 
clouds  and  billows  well  together  till  they  foam,  and  thicken  your 
description  here  and  there  with  a quicksand.  Brew  your  tempest 
well  in  your  head,  before  you  set  it  a blowing.  For  a battle  : pick 
a large  quantity  of  images  and  descriptions  from  Homer’s  Iliad, 
with  a spice  or  two  of  Virgil,  and  if  there  remain  any  overplus,  you 
may  lay  them  by  for  a skirmish.  Season  it  well  with  similes,  and 
i*  will  make  an  excellent  battle.” — Swift  : Recipe  for  an  Epic.] 

(4)  [“  And  there  are  other  incidents  remaining 

Which  shall  be  specified  in  fitting  time, 

With  good  discretion,  and  in  current  rhyme.” — MS.] 

(5)  [Lord  Byron  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  written  an  epic 
poem,  if  the  definition  of  the  Dictionnaire  de  Trevoux  be  right : — 

“ Epique,  qui  appartient  a la  poesie  heroique,  ou  poeme  qui  d6crit 
quelque  action,  signalee  d’un  heros.  Le  poeme  epique  est  un  dis- 
eours  invente  avec  art  pour  former  les  mceurs  par  des  instructions 
deguisees  sous  les  allegories  d’une  action  importante,  racontee 
d une  maniere  vraisemblable  et  merveilleuse.  La  difference  qu’il 
v a entre  le  po&me  epique  et  la  tragedie,  c’est  que  dans  le  poeme 
6pique  les  personnes  n’y  sont  point  introduites  aux  yeux  des  spec- 
taieurs  agissant  par  elles-memes,  comme  dans  la  tragedie ; mais 
faction  est  racontfce  par  le  pofete.” — Brydges.] 

,6)  [“  For  your  machinery,  take  of  deities,  male  and  female,  as 
many  as  you  can  use ; separate  them  into  two  equal  parts,  and  keep 
Jupiter  in  the  middle , let  Juno  put.  him  in  a ferment,  and  Venus 
mollify  him.  Remember  on  all  occasions  to  make  use  of  volatile 

M?rcury.  If  you  have  need  of  devils,  draw  them  out  of  Milton’s 
Paradise,  and  extract  your  spirits  from  Tasso.  The  use  of  these 
machines  is  evident;  and,  since  no  epic  poem  can  subsist  without 
them,  the  wisest  way  is  to  reserve  them  for  your  greatest  neces- 
sities.”— Swift.] 


CCII. 

There’s  only  one  slight  difference  between 
Me  and  my  epic  brethren  gone  before. 

And  here  the  advantage  is  my  own,  1 ween ; 

(Not  that  I have  not  several  merits  more. 

But  this  will  more  peculiarly  be  seen) ; 

They  so  embellish,  that  ’tis  quite  a bore 
Their  labyrinth  of  fables  to  thread  through. 

Whereas  this  story’s  actually  true. 

CCIII. 

If  any  person  doubt  it,  I appeal 
To  history,  tradition,  and  to  facts, 

To  newspapers,  whose  truth  all  know  and  feel. 

To  plays  in  five,  and  operas  in  Three  acts;7 
All  these  confirm  my  statement  a good  deal, 

But  that  which  more  completely  faith  exacts 
Is,  that  myself,  and  several  now  in  Seville, 

Saw  J uan’s  last  elopement  with  the  devil. 

CCIV. 

If  ever  I should  condescend  to  prose. 

I’ll  write  poetical  commandments,  which 
Shall  supersede  beyond  all  doubt  all  those 
That  went  before  ; in  these  I shall  enrich 
My  text  with  many  things  that  no  one  knows, 

And  carry  precept  to  the  highest  pitch  : 

I’ll  call  the  work  “ Longinus  o’er  a Bottle,8 
Or,  Every  Poet  his  own  Aristotle.” 

ccv. 

Thou  shalt  believe  in  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope ; 

Thou  shalt  not  set  up  Wordsworth,  Coleridge, 
Southey ; 

Because  the  first  is  crazed  beyond  all  hope, 

The  second  drunk,  the  third  so  quaint  and  mouthy  ;* 
With  Crabbe  it  may  be  difficult  to  cope, 

And  Campbells  Hippocrene  is  somewhat  drouth; : j 
Thou  shalt  not  steal  from  Samuel  Rogers,  nor 
Commit — flirtation  with  the  muse  of  Moore. 


(T)  [“  To  newspapers,  to  sermons,  which  the  zeal 

Of  pious  men  have  published  on  his  acts.” — MS.] 

?8)  [“  I ’ll  cal)  the  work  * Reflections  o’er  a Bottle.’  ” — MS.]  | 

(9)  [“There  are  the  Lakers,  my  lord:  ay,  the  whole  school  of  [ 
Glaramara  and  Skiddaw  and  Dunmailraise,  who  have  the  vanity  to  j 
be  in  the  habit  of  undervaluing  your  poetical  talents.  Mr.  Southey  I 
thinks  you  would  never  have  thought  of  going  over  the  sea  had  it  J 
not  been  for  hisThalaba;  Mr.  Wordsworth  is  humbly  of  opinion  . 
that  no  man  jn  the  world  ever  thought  a tree  beautiful,  or  a moun-  J 
tain  grand,  till  he  announced  his  own  wonderful  perceptions.  Mr.  ; 
Charles  Lambe  thinks  you  would  never  have  written  Beppo  had  he  'I 
not  joked,  nor  Lara  had  he  not  sighed.  Mr.  Lloyd  half  suspects  '1 
your  lordship  has  read  his  Nugae  Canons : now  all  these  fancies  : ' 
are  alike  ridiculous,  and  you  are  well  entitled  to  laugh  as  much  as  | 
you  please  at  them.  But  there  is  one  Laker  who  praises  your  lord-  | 
sh’p, — and  vhy?  Because  your  lordship  praised  him.  This  is  | 
Coleridge  »r,o,  on  the  strength  of  a little  compliment  in  one  ot  i 
your  notes,  [see  ante,  p.  126,]  ventured  at  last  to  open  to  the  gaze  h 
of  the  day  the  long-secluded  loveliness  of  Christabel, — and  with  | 
what  effect  his  bookseller  doth  know.  Poor  Coleridge,  however,  | 
although  his  pamphlet  would  not  sell,  still  gloated  over  the  puff;  | 
and  he  gave  your  lordship,  in  return,  a great  many  reasonable  good  I 
puffs  in  prose.  You  may  do  very  well  to  quiz  Wordsworth  for  his  9 
vanity,  and  Southey  for  his  pompousness;  but  what  right  have  you  1 
to  say  anything  about  Mr.  Coleridge’s  drinking?  Really,  my  lord,  | 
I have  no  scruple  in  saying,  that  1 look  upon  that  line  of  your., — | 

‘Coleridge  is  drunk,’ &c.  as  quite  personal — shamefully  personal,  i 
As  Coleridge  never  saw  Don  Juan,  or,  if  he  did,  forgot  the  whole  i 
affair  next  morning,  it  is  nothing’as  regards  him  ; but  what  can  be  | 
expected  from  his  friends?  Has  not  any  one  of  them  (if  he  ha?  j 
any)  a perfect  right,  after  reading  that  )ine,  to  print  and  publish,  if  | 
he  pleases,  all  that  all  the  world  has  teard  about  your  lordship’s 
own  life  and  conversation?  And  if  any  one  of  them  should  do  j 
so,  what  would  you,  my  Lord  By  . on,  thinx  of  it?” — Johm 
Bull.] 


CANTO  I. 


DON  JUAN. 


COS 


CCVI. 

Thou  shalt  not  ccvet  Mu.  Sotheby’s  Muse, 

His  Pegasus,  nor  any  tiling  that’s  his ; 

Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness  like  “ the  Blues” — 
(There’s  one,  at  least,  is  very  fond  of  this)  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  write,  in  short,  but  what  I choose : 
This  is  true  criticism,  and  you  may  kiss  — 

Exactly  as  you  please,  or  not, — the  rod  ; 

But  if  you  don’t.  I’ll  lay  it  on,  by  G — d ! 

CCY1I. 

If  any  person  should  presume  to  assert 
This  story  is  not  moral,  first,  I pray 
That  they  will  not  cry  out  before  they’re  hurt, 

Then  that  they’ll  read  it  o’er  again,  and  say, 

(But,  doubtless,  nobody  will  be  so  pert,) 

That  this  is  not  a. moral  tale,  though  gay : 

Besides,  in  Canto  Twelfth,  I mean  to  show 
The  very  place  where  wicked  people  go. 

ccvm. 

If,  after  all,  there  should  be  some  so  blind 
To  their  own  good  this  warning  to  despise, 

Led  by  some  tortuosity  of  mind, 

Not  to  believe  my  verse  and  their  own  eyes. 

And  cry  that  they  “ the  moral  cannot  find,” 

I tell  him,  if  a clergyman,  he  lies  ; 

Should  captains  the  remark,  or  critics,  make, 

They  also  lie  too — under  a mistake. 

ccix. 

The  public  approbation  I expect, 

And  beg  they’ll  take  my  word  about  the  moral. 
Which  I with  their  amusement  will  Conner  *■ 

(So  children  cutting  teeth  receive  a coral) ; 
Meantime  they  ’ll  doubtless  please  to  recollect 
My  epical  pretensions  to  the  laurel : 

For  fear  some -prudish  readers  should  grow  skittish, 
I’ve  bribed  my  grandmother’s  review — the  British.1 

ccx. 

I sent  it  in  a letter  to  the  Editor, 

Who  thank’d  me  duly  by  return  of  post — 

I ’m  for  a handsome  article  his  creditor ; 

Yet,  if  my  gentle  muse  he  please  to  roast, 

And  break  a promise  after  having  made  it  her, 
Denying  the  receipt  of  what  it  cost, 

And  smear  his  page  with  gall  instead  of  honey. 

All  I can  say  is  —that  he  had  the  money. 

ccxi. 

I think  that  with  this  holy  new  alliance 
I may  ensure  the  public,  and  defy 
All  other  magazines  of  art  or  science, 

Daily,  or  monthly,  or  three  monthly  ; I 


(1)  [For  the  strictures  of  “The  British,”  on  this  and  the  following 
stanza,  see  “Testimonies,”  No.  XIV.,  ante , p.  581 ; and  compare 
Lord  Byron’s  “ Letter  to  the  Editor  of  My  Grandmother’s  Review," 
[post,  Appendix.) — “ I wrote  to  you  by  last  post.”  says  Lord  B., 
Bologna,  Aug.  24,  1819,  “ enclosing  a buffooning  letter  for  publica- 
tion, addressed  to  the  buffoon  Roberts,  who  has  thought  proper  to 
tie  a canister  to  his  own  tail.  It  was  written  off-hand,  and  in  the 
midst  of  circumstances  not  very  favourable  to  facetiousness,  so 
that  there  may,  perhaps,  be  more  bitterness  than  enough  for  that 
sort  of  small  acid  punch.] 

(2)  [“  Suck  treatment  Horace  would  not  bear, 

When  warm  with  youth — when  Tullus  fill’d  the  chair.” 

Francis.] 

13)  I thought  of  dyeing  it  the  other  day.” — MS.] 

(4)  “ Me  nec  femina,  nec  puer 

Jam,  nec  spes  animi  credula  mutui, 

Nec  certare  juvat  mero  ; 

Ntc  vincire  novis  tempora  fioribus.” — Hor. 

[“  For 


Have  not  essay’d  to  multiply  their  clien'.s, 

Because  they  tell  me  ’twere  in  vain  to  try, 

And  that  the  Edinburgh  Review  and  Quarterly 
Treat  a dissenting  author  very  martyriy.  ^ 

ccxii. 

“ Non  ego  hoc  ferrem  calida  juventd 
Consuls  Planc.o ,”2  Horace  said,  and  so 
Say  I : by  which  quotation  there  is  meant  a 
Hint  that  some  six  or  seven  good  years  ago 
(Long  ere  I dreamt  of  dating  from  the  Brenta) 

I was  most  ready  to  return  a blow, 

And  would  not  brook  at  all  this  sort  of  thing 
In  my  hot  youth — when  George  the  Third  was  King 

CCXIII. 

But  now  at  thirty  years  my  hair  is  grey — 

(I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like  at  forty  ? 

I thought  of  a peruke  the  other  day3 — ) 

My  heart  is  not  much  greener ; and,  in  short,  I 
Have  squander’d  my  whole  summer  while  ’twas  May 
And  feel  no  more  the  spirit  to  retort : I 
Have  spent  my  life,  both  interest  and  principal, 

And  deem  not,  what  I deem’d,  my  soul  invincible. 

ccxiv. 

No  more— no  more — Oh  ! never  more  on  me 
The  freshness  of  the  heart  can  fall  like  dew, 

Which  out  of  all  the  lovely  things  we  see 
Extracts  emotions  beautiful  and  new, 

Hived  in  our  bosoms  like  the  bag  o’  the  bee, 

Think’ st  thou  the  honey  with  those  objects  grew 
Alas  ! ’twas  not  in  them,  but  in  thy  power 
To  double  even  the  sweetness  of  a flower. 

eexv. 

No  more — no  more — Oh  ! never  more,  my  heart, 
Canst  thou  be  my  sole  world,  my  universe  ! 

Once  all  in  all,  but  now  a thing  apart, 

Thou  canst  not  be  my  blessing  or  my  curse  : 

The  illusion’s  gone  for  ever,  and  thou  art 
Insensible,  I trust,  but  none  the  worse, 

And  in  thy  stead  I’ve  got  a deal  of  judgment, 

Though  heaven  knows  how  it  ever  found  a lodgment. 

eexvi. 

My  days  of  love  are  over  ; me  no  more4 

The  charms  of  maid,  wife,  and  still  less  of  widow 
Can  make  the  fool  of  which  they  made  before, — 

In  short,  I must  not  lead  the  life  I did  do  ; 

The  credulous  hope  of  mutual  minds  is  o’er, 

The  copious  use  of  claret  is  forbid  too. 

So  for  a good  old-gentlemanly  vice, 

1 think  I must  take  up  with  avarice.5 


[“  For  me,  alas ! these  joys  are  o’er ; 

For  me  the  vernal  garland  blooms  no  more  ; 

No  more  the  feats  of  wine  I prove, 

Nor  the  delusive  hopes  of  mutual  love.” — Francis.] 

(5)  [His  constant  recurrence  to  the  praise  of  avarice  in  Don 
Juan,  and  the  humorous  zest  with  which  he  delights  to  dwell  on  it, 
show  how  newfangled,  as  well  as  how  far  from  serious,  was  his 
adoption  of  the  “good  old-gentlemanly  vice.”  That  his  parsimony, 
however,  was  very  far  from  being  of  that  kind  which  Bacon  con- 
demns as  “withholding  men  from  works  of  liberality,”  is  apparent 
from  all  that  is  known  of  his  munificence  at  this  very  period. — 
Moore. 

“ Charity — purchased  a shilling’s  worth  of  salvation.  If  that  was 
to  be  bought,  1 have  given  more  to  my  fellow-creatures  in  this  life 
— sometimes  for  vice,  but,  if  not  more  often , at  least  more  consi- 
derably, for  virtue — than  I now  possess.  I never  in  my  life  gave  a 
mistress  so  much  as  1 have  sometimes  given  a poor  man  in  honest 
distress.  But,  no  matter ! The  scoundrels  who  have  all  along 
persecuted  me  will  triumph — and  when  justice  is  done  to  me,  it 
will  be  when  this  hand  that  writes  is  as  cold  as  the  hearts  whick 
have  stung  it.” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

4 I 


610 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ua?  •>  n 


CCXVII. 

Ambition  was  my  idol,  which  was  broken 

Before  the  shrines  of  Sorrow,  and  of  Pleasure ; 

And  the  two  last  have  left  me  many  a token, 

O’er  vftiich  reflection  may  be  made  at  leisure  : 

Now,  like  Briar  Bacon’s  brazen  head,  I’ve  spoken, 

“ Time  is,  Time  was.  Time ’s  past 1 — a chymic 
treasure 

Is  flittering  youth,  which  I have  spent  betimes — 

My  heart  in  passion,  and  my  head  on  rhymes. 

ccxvm. 

What  is  the  end  of  Fame  ?2  ’tis  but  to  fill 
A certain  portion  of  uncertain  paper  : 

Some  liken  it  to  climbing  up  a hill, 

Whose  summit,  like  all  hills,  is  lost  in  vapour  ;3 
Bor  this  men  write,  speak,  preach,  and  heroes  kill, 
And  bards  burn  what  they  call  their  “ midnight 
To  have,  when  the  original  is  dust,  [taper,” 

A name,  a wretched  picture.,4  and  worse  bust.5 

CCXIX. 

What  are  the  hopes  of  man  ? Old  Egypt’s  King 
Cheops  erected  the  first  pyramid 
And  largest,  thinking  it  was  just  the  thing 
To  keep  his  memory  whole,  and  mummy  hid ; 

But  somebody  or  other  rummaging 
Burglariously  broke  his  coffin’s  lid  : 

Let  not  a monument  give  you  or  me  hopes, 

Since  not  a pinch  of  dust  remains  of  Cheops.6 
ccxx. 

But  I being  fond  of  true  philosophy. 

Say  very  often  to  myself,  “ Alas  ! 

All  tilings  that  have  been  born  were  born  to  die, 

And  flesh  (which  Death  mows  down  to  hay)  is  grass ; 
You’ve  pass’d  your  youth  not  so  unpleasantly. 

And  if  you  had  it  o’er  again — ’twould  pass — 

So  thsak  your  stars  that  matters  are  no  worse, 

And  read  your  Bible,  sir,  and  mind  your  purse.” 
CCXXI. 

But  for  the  present,  gentle  reader  ! and 

Still  gentler  purchaser!  the  bard — that’s  I — ■ 

Must,  with  permission,  shake  you  by  the  hand,7 8 
And  so  your  humble  servant,  and  good-b’ye  ! 

We  meet  again,  if  we  should  understand 
Each  other ; and  if  not,  I shall  not  try 
Your  patience  further  than  by  this  short  sample — 
’Twere  well  if  others  follow’d  my  example. 


(1)  [The  old  legend  of  Friar  Bacon  says,  that  the  brazen  head 
which  he  formed  capable  of  speech,  after  uttering  successively, 
u Time  is”— “ Time  was” — and  “ Time  is  past,”  the  opportunity  of 
catechising  it  having  been  neglected,  tumbled  itself  from  the  stand, 
and  was  shattered  into  a thousand  pieces.] 

(2)  [‘‘Out  of  spirits— read  the  papers— thought  what  Fame  was, 
on  reading,  in  a case  of  murder,  that  ‘ Mr.  Wych,  grocer,  at  Tun- 
bridge, sold  some  -bacon,  flour,  cheese,  and,  it  is  believed,  some 
plums,  to  some  gipsy  woman  accused.  He  had  on  his  counter  (I 
quote  faithfully),  a book,  the  Life  of  Pamela,  which  he  was  tearing 
for  wattle  paper,  &c.  &c.  In  the  cheese  was  found,  & c.,  and  a leaf 
of  Pamela  wrapt  round  the  bacon  !’  What  would  Richardson,  the 
vainest  and  luckiest  of  living  authors  (i.  e.  while  alive) — he  who, 
with  Aaron  Hill,  used  to  prophesy  and  chuckle  over  the  presumed 
fall  of  Fielding  (the  prose  Homer  of  human  nature),  and  of  Pope 
(the  most  beautiful  of  poets) — what  would  he  have  said,  could  he 
have  traced  his  pages  from  their  place  on  the  French  princes’ 
toilets  (see  Boswell’s  Johnson),  to  the  grocer’s  counter,  and  the 
gipsy-murderer’s  bacon! !!” — Byron  Diary , 1821.] 

(3)  [“  Ah  ! who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  steep  where  Fame’s  proud  temple  shines  afar,”  &c. 

Beattie.] 

(4)  [“  It  is  impossible  not  to  regret  that  Lord  Byron,  being  the 
contemporary  of  Lawrence  and  Chantrey,  never  sat  to  either  of 
ibOse  unrivalled  artists,  whose  canvass  and  marble  have  fixed,  with 
such  magical  felicity,  the  very  air  and  gestures  of  the  other  illus- 


CCXXII. 

“ Go,  little  book,  from  this  my  solitude 
I cast  thee  on  the  waters — go  thy  ways ! 

And  if,  as  I believe,  thy  vein  be  good,] 

The  world  will  find  thee  after  many  days.” 

When  Southey’s  read,  and  Wordsworth  undersl  id, 
I can’t  help  putting  in  my  claim  to  praise — 

The  four  first  rhymes  are  Southey’s  every  line  : 

Bor  God’s  sake,  reader  ! take  them  not  for  mine. 

— ♦ 

Bon  3)uan. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND.9 


I. 

Oh  ye  ! who  teach  the  ingenuous  youth  of  nations, 
Holland,  France,  England,  Germany,  or  Spain, 

I pray  ye  flog  them  upon  all  occasions, 

It  mends  their  morals,  never  mind  the  pain: 

The  best  of  mothers  and  of  educations 
In  Juan’s  case  were  but* employ’d  in  vain, 

Since,  in  a way  that’s  rather  of  the  oddest,  he 
Became  divested  of  his  native  modesty.10 

IT. 

Had  he  but  been  placed  at  a public  school, 

In  the  third  form,  or  even  in  the  fourth, 

His  daily  task  had  kept  his  fancy  cool, 

At  least,  had  he  been  nurtured  in  the  north  ; 
Spain  may  prove  an  exception  to  the  rule, 

But  then  exceptions  always  prove  its  worth— 

A lad  of  sixteen  causing  a divorce 
Puzzled  his  tutors  very  much,  of  course. 

ill. 

I can’t  say  that  it  puzzles  me  at  all, 

If  all  things  be  consider’d  : first,  there  was 
His  lady-mother,  mathematical, 

A never  mind  ; — his  tutor,  an  old  ass  ; 

A pretty  woman — (that’s  quite  natural, 

Or  else  the  thing  had  hardly  come  to  pass) 

A husband  rather  old,  not  much  in  unity 
With  his  young  wife — a time,  and  opportunity. 


trious  men  of  this  age — our  Wellingtons,  our  Cannings,  our  Scotls, 

and  Southeys.” — Quart.  Rev.  vol.  xliv.  p.  221.] 

(5)  [“  A book — a damn’d  bad  picture — and  worse  bust.” — MS.] 

(6)  [This  stanza  appears  to  have  been  suggested  by  the  following 
passage  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  vol.  xix.  p.  203: — “It  was  the 
opinion  of  the  Egyptians,  that  the  soul  never  deserted  the  body 
while  the  latter  continued  in  a perfect  state.  To  secure^  this 
opinion,  King  Cheops  is  said,  by  Herodotus,  to  have  employed 
three  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  of  his  subjects  for  twenty  years 
in  raising  over  the  ‘ angusta  domus’  destined  to  hold  his  remains, 
a pile  of  stone  equal  in  weight  to  six  millions  of  tons,  which  is  just 
three  times  that  of  the  vast  Breakwater  thrown  across  Plymouth 
Sound  ; and,  to  render  this  precious  dust  still  more  secure,  the 
narrow  chamber  was  made  accessible  only  by  small,  intricate  pas- 
sages, obstructed  by  stones  of  enormous  weight,  and  so  carefully 
closed  externally  as  not  to  be  perceptible.  Yet,  how  vain  are  all 
the  precautions  of  man  ! Not  a bone  was  left  of  Cheops,  either  in 
the  stone  coffin,  or  in  the  vault,  when  Shaw  entered  the  gloomy 
chamber.”] 

(7)  [“  Must  bid  you  both  farewell  in  accents  bland.” — MS.] 

(8)  [See  Southey’s  Pilgrimage  to  Waterloo,  sub  fine.'] 

(9)  [“  Begun  at  Venice,  December  13, 1818,— finished  January  20, 
1819. — Byron.’’] 

10  [“Lost  that  most  precious  stone  of  stones— his  modesty.”— 
MS.] 


CANTO  II. 


DON  JUAN. 


611 


IV. 

Wqil — well,  the  world  must  turn  upon  its  axis, 

And  all  mankind  turn  with  it,  heads  or  tails, 

And  live  and  die,  make  love  and  pay  our  taxes, 

And  as  the  veering  wind  shifts,  shift  our  sails ; 

The  king  commands  us,  and  the  doctor  quacks  us, 
The  priest  instructs,  and  so  our  life  exhales, 

A little  breath,  love,  wine,  ambition,  fame. 

Fighting,  devotion,  dust, — perhaps  a name. 

v. 

I said,  that  Juan  had  been  sent  to  Cadiz— 

A pretty  town,  I recollect  it  well — 

’Tis  there  the  mart  of  the  colonial  trade  is, 

(Or  was,  before  Peru  learn’d  to  rebel,) 

And  such  sweet  girls — I mean,  such  graceful  ladies, 
Their  very  walk  would  make  your  bosom  swell ; 

I can’t  describe  it,  though  so  much  it  strike, 

Nor  liken  it — I never  saw  the  like  :l 

VI. 

An  Arab  horse,  a stately  sthg,  a barb 
New  broke,  a camelopard,  a gazelle, 

No— none  of  these  will  do  ; — and  then  their  garb  ! 

Their  veil  and  petticoat — Alas  ! to  dwell 
Upon  such  things  would  very  near  absorb 
A canto — then  their  feet  and  ankles, — well, 

Thank  Heaven  I’ve  got  no  metaphor  quite  ready, 
(And  so,  my  sober  Muse — come,  let ’s  be  steady — 

VII, 

Chaste  Muse ! — well,  if  you  must,  you  must) — the  veil 
Thrown  back  a moment  with  the  glancing  hand. 
While  the  o’erpowering  eye,  that  turns  you  pale, 
Flashes  into  the  heart  -.—All  sunny  land 
Of  love  ! when  I forget  you,  may  I fail 

To say  my  prayers — but  never  was  there  plann’d 

A dress  through  which  the  eyes  give  such  a volley, 
Excepting  the  Venetian  Fazzioli.2 

VIII. 

But  to  our  tale  : the  Donna  Inez  sent 
Her  son  to  Cadiz  only  to  embark ; 

To  stay  there  had  not  answer’d  her  intent, 

But  why  ? — we  leave  the  reader  in  the  dark — 
'Twas  for  a voyage  that  the  young  man  was  meant, 

As  if  a Spanish  ship  were  Noah’s  ark, 

To  wean  him  from  the  wickedness  of  earth, 

And  send  him  like  a dove  of  promise  forth. 

IX. 

Don  Juan  bade  his  valet  pack  his  things 
According  to  direction,  then  received 
A lecture  and  some  money  : for  four  springs 
He  was  to  travel ; and  though  Inez  grieved 
(As  every  kind  of  parting  has  its  stings), 

She  hoped  he  would  improve— perhaps  believed  : 

A letter,  too,  she  gave  (he  never  read  it) 

Of  good  advice — and  two  or  three  of  credit. 


(1)  [“But  d n me  if  I ever  saw  the  like.” — MS.] 

(2)  Fazzioli — literally,  little  handkerchiefs — the  veils  most  avail- 
ing of  St.  Mark. 

(3)  [“Their  manners  mending,  and  their  morals  curing, 

She  taught  them  to  suppress  their  vice — and  urine.” — MS.] 

(4)  [“  Hogg  writes  me,  that  Scott  is  gone  to  the  Orkneys  in  a 
gale  of  wind  ; — during  which  wind  he  affirms  the  said  Scott  ‘ he  is 
sure  is  not  at  his  ease,  to  say  the  best  of  it.’  Lord,  Lord  ! if  these 

home-keeping  minstrels  had  tasted  a little  open  boating  in  a white 


X. 

In  the  mean  time,  to  pass  her  hours  away, 

Brave  Inez  now  set  up  a Sunday  school 
For  naughty  children,  who  would  rather  play 
(Like  truant  rogues)  the  devil,  or  the  fool ; 

Infants  of  three  years  old  were  taught  that  day. 
Dunces  were  whipt,  or  set  .upon  a stool : 

The  great  success  of  Juan’s  education, 

Spurr’d  her  to  teach  another  generation.3 4 

XI. 

Juan  embark’d — the  ship  got  under  way, 

The  wind  was  fair,  the  water  passing  rough ; 

A devil  of  a sea  rolls  in  that  bay,3 

As  I,  wlio’ve  cross’d  it  oft,  know  well  enough; 
And  standing  upon  the  deck,  the  dashing  spray 
Flies  in  one’s  face,  and  makes  it  weather-tough  t 
And  there  he  stood  to  take,  and  take  again, 

His  first — perhaps  his  last — farewell  of  Spain. 

XU. 

I can’t  but  say  it  is  an  awkward  sight 
To  see  one’s  native  land  receding  through 
The  growing  waters ; it  unmans  one  quite, 

Especially  when  life  is  rather  new : 

I recollect  Great  Britain’s  coast  looks  white. 

But  almost  every  other  country ’s  blue, 

When  gazing  on  them,  mystified  by  distance. 

We  enter  on  our  nautical  existence. 

XIII. 

So  Juan  stood,  bewilder’d  on  the  deck : 

The  wind  sung,  cordage  strain’d,  and  sailors  swore, 
And  the  ship  creak’d,  the  town  became  a speck, 

From  which  away  so  fair  and  fast  they  bore, 

The  best  of  remedies  is  a beef-steak 
Against  sea-sickness  :5  try  it,  sir,  before 
You  sneer,  and  I assure  you  this  is  true, 

For  I have  found  it  answer — so  may  you. 

XIV. 

Don  Juan  stood,  and,  gazing  from  the  stern, 

Beheld  his  native  Spain  receding  far  : 

First  partings  form  a lesson  hard  to  learn, 

Even  nations  feel  this  when  they  go  to  war ; 

There  is  a sort  of  unexprest  concern, 

A kind  of  shock  that  sets  one’s  heart  ajar  : 

At  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasant  people 
And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple. 

xv. 

But  Juan  had  got  many  things  to  leave. 

His  mother,  and  a mistress,  and  no  wife, 

So  that  he  had  much  better  cause  to  grieve, 

Than  many  persons  more  advanced  in  life  : 

And  if  we  now  and  then  a sigh  must  heave 
At  quitting  even  those  we  quit  in  strife, 

No  doubt  we  weep  for  those  the  heart  endears — 
That  is,  till  deeper  griefs  congeal  our  tears. 


squall — or  a gale  in  * the  Gat’ — how  it  would  enliven  and  introduce 
them  to  a few  of  tl:e  sensations.” — Byron  Letters,  1814  ] 

(5)  [My  friend,  Dr.  Granville,  in  his  Travels  to  St.  Petersburgh, 
1829,  says  that  “sea-sickness  consists  of  vomiting — or  something 
like  it,”  and  that  the  true  way  to  escape  the  malady,  is  to  take  *5 
drops  of  laudanum  at  starting,  and  as  often  afterwards  as  uneasi- 
ness recurs.  Dr.  Kitchener  observes,  that  the  beef-steak,  recom- 
mended by  Lord  Byron,  can  suit  only  a very  young  and  vigorous 
stomach  on  such  occasions,  and  advises  his  pupil  to  adhere  to  salted 
fish  and  devils,  with  quant,  suff.  of  hock  or  brandy  in  soda-water  — 
Hill.] 


612 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


CANTO  IL 


XIV. 

So  Juan  wept,  as  wept  the  captive  Jews 
By  Babel’s  waters,  still  remembering  Sion  : 

I’d  weep — but  mine  is  not  a weeping  Muse, 

And  such  light  griefs  are  not  a thing  to  die  on ; 
Young  men  should  travel,  if  but  to  amuse 
Themselves;  and  the  next  time  their  servants  tie  on 
Behind  their  carriages  their  new  portmanteau, 
Perhaps  it  may  be  lined  with  this  my  canto.  . 

XVII. 

And  Juan  wept,  and  much  he  sigh’d  and  thought, 
While  his  salt  tears  dropp’d  into  the  salt  sea, 

“ Sweets  to  the  sweet (1  like  so  much  to  quote  ; 

You  must  excuse  this  extract, — ’tis  where  she, 

The  Queen  of  Denmark,  for  Ophelia  brought 
Flowers  to  the  grave ;)  and,  sobbing  often,  he 
Reflected  on  his  present  situation, 

And  seriously  resolved  on  reformation. 

XVIII. 

‘‘  Farewell,  my  Spain ! a long  farewell !”  he  cried, 

“ Perhaps  I may  revisit  thee  no  more, 

But  die,  as  many  an  exiled  heart  hath  died, 

Of  its  own  thirst  to  see  again  thy  shore  : 

Farewell,  where  Guadalquivir’s  waters  glide ! 

Farewell,  my  mother  ! and,  since  all  is  o’er, 
Farewell,  too,  dearest  Julia! — (here  he  drew 
Her  letter  out  again,  and  read  it  through.) 

XIX. 

**  And  oh  ! if  e’er  I should  forget,  I swear — 

But  that’s  impossible,  and  cannot  be — 

Sooner  shall  this  blue  ocean  melt  to  air, 

Sooner  shall  earth  resolve  itself  to  sea, 

Than  I resign  thine  image,  oh,  my  fair  ! 

Or  chink  of  any  thing  excepting  thee  ; 

A mind  diseased  no  remedy  can  physic — 

(Here  the  ship  gave. a lurch,  and  he  grew  sea-sick.) 

xx. 

" Sooner  shall  heaven  kiss  earth — (here  he  fell  sicker) 
Oh,  Julia!  what  is  every  other  woe? — 

(For  God’s  sake  let  me  have  a glass  of  liquor; 

Pedro,  Battista,  help  me  down  below.) 


Cl)  [“  In  1799,  while  Lord  Byron  was  the  pupil  of  Dr.  Glennie,  at 
Dulwich,  among  the  books  that  lay  accessible  to  the  boys  was  a 
pamphlet,  entitled  “ Narrative  of  the  Shipwreck  of  the  Juno  on 
the  Coast  of  Arracan,  in  the  Year  1795.”  The  pamphlet  attracted 
but  little  public  attention  ; but,  among  the  young  students  of  Dul- 
wich Grove  it  was  a favourite  study;  and  the  impression  which  it 
left  on  the  retentive  mind  of  Byron  may  have  had  some  share, 
perhaps,  in  suggesting  that  curious  research  through  all  the  various 
accounts  of  Shipwrecks  upon  record,  by  which  he  prepared  himself 
to  depict,  with  such  power,  a scene  of  the  same  description  in  Don 

Juan As  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism  brought  against  him 

by  some  scribblers  of  the  day,  for  so  doing, — with  as  much  justice 
might  the  Italian  author,  who  wrote  a Discourse  on  the  Military 
Science  displayed  by  Tasso  in  his  battles,  have  reproached  that 
poet  with  the  sources  from  which  he  drew  his  knowledge; — with  as 
much  justice  might  Puysegur  and  Segrais,  who  have  pointed  out 
the  same  merit  in  Homer  and  Virgil,  have  withheld  their  praise, 
because  the  science  on  which  this  merit  was  founded,  must  have 
been  derived  by  the  skill  and  industry  of  these  poets  from  others. 
So  little  was  Tasso  ashamed  of  those  casual  imitations  of  other 
poets  which  are  so  often  branded  as  plagiarisms,  that,  in  his  Com- 
mentary on  his  Rime,  he  tikes  pains  to  point  out  whatever  coinci- 
dences of  this  kind  occur  in  his  own  verses.” — Moore. 

“With  regard  to  the  charges  about  the  Shipwreck,  I think  that  I 
told  you  and  Mr.  Ilobhouse,  years  ago,  that  there  was  not  a circum- 
stance of  it  not  taken  from  fact;  not,  indeed,  from  any  single  ship- 
wreck, but  all  from  actual  facts  of  different  wrecks.” — Lord  Byron 
to  Mr.  Murray. 

“ Of  late,  some  persons  have  been  nibbling  at  the  reputation  of 
Lord  Byron,  by  charging  him  with  plagiarism.  There  is  a curious 
charge  of  this  kind  lately  published,  which  redounds,  in  reality,  to 


Julia,  my  love  ! — (you  rascal,  Pedro,  quicker) — 

Oh  Julia! — (this  curst  vessel  pitches  so) — 
Beloved  Julia,  hear  me  still  beseeching  !’* 

(Here  he  grew  inarticulate  with  retching.) 

XXI. 

He  felt  that  chilling  heaviness  of  heart, 

Or  rather  stomach,  which,  alas  ! attends, 

Beyond  the  best  apothecary’s  art, 

The  loss  of  love,  the  treachery  of  friends, 

Or  death  of  those  we  dote  on,  when  a part 
Of  us  dies  with  them  as  each  fond  hope  ends : 

No  doubt  he  would  have  been  much  more  pathetic, 
But  the  sea  acted  as  a strong  emetic. 

XXII. 

Love’s  a capricious  power  : I’ve  known  it  hold 
Out  through  a fever  caused  by  its  own  heat, 

But  be  much  puzzled  by  a cough  and  cold, 

And  find  a quinsy  very  hard  to  treat ; 

Against  all  noble  maladies  he’s  bold, 

But  vulgar  illnesses  don’t  like  to  meet, 

Nor  that  a sneeze  should  interrupt  his  sigh. 

Nor  inflammations  redden  his  blind  eye. 

XXIII. 

But  worst  of  all  is  nausea,  or  a pain 
About  the  lower  region  of  the  bowels ; 

Love,  who  heroically  breathes  a vein, 

Shrinks  from  the  application  of  hot  towels, 

And  purgatives  are  dangerous  to  his  reign, 

Sea-sickness  death  : his  love  was  perfect,  how  else 
Could  Juan’s  passion,  while  the  billows  roar 
Resist  his  stomach,  ne’er  at  sea  before  ? 

XXIV. 

The  ship,  call’d  the  most  holy  “ Trinidada,” 1 
Was  steering  duly  for  the  port  Leghorn ; 

For  there  the  Spanish  family  Moncada 

Were  settled  long  ere  Juan’s  sire  was  born  : 

They  were  relations,  and  for  them  he  had  a 
Letter  of  introduction,  which  the  morn 
Of  his  departure  had  been  sent  him  by 
His  Spanish  friends  for  those  in  Italy. 


the  noble  author’s  credit.  Every  one  who  has  looked  into  the 
sources  from  which  Shakspeare  took  the  stories  of  his  plays,  must 
know  that  in  ‘ Julius  Caesar’  and  ‘ Coriolanus,’  he  has  taken  whole 
dialogues,  with  remarkable  exactness,  from  North’s  translation  of 
Plutarch.  Now,  it  is  that  very  circumstance  which  impresses  those 
plays  with  the  stamp  of  antique  reality,  which  the  general  know- 
ledge of  the  poet  could  not  have  enabled  him  to  communicate  to 
them.”— Times. 

Plutarch. — “I  am  Caius  Martius,  who  hath  done  to  thyselfe 
particularly,  and  to  all  the  Volsces  generally,  great  hurt  and  mis 
chiefe,  which  I cannot  denie  for  my  surname,  of  Coriolanus  that  I 
beare.  For  l never  had  other  benefit  nor  recompense  of  the  true 
and  painefull  service  I have  done,  and  the  extreme  dangers  I have 
bene  in,  but  this  onely  surname ; a good  memorie  and  wilnesse  oj 
the  malice  and  displeasure  thou  shouldest  bear  me.  Indeed,  the 
name  only  remainelh  with  me:  for  the  rest,  the  envie  and  crueltie 
of  the  people  of  Rome  have  taken  from  me,  by  the  sufferance  of  the 
dastardly  nobilitie  and  magistrates,  who  have  forsaken  me,  and  let 
me  be  banished  by  the  people.  That  extremitie  hath  now  driven 
me  to  come  as  a poor  suter,  to  take  thy  cbimnie  liarth,  not  of  any 
hope  I have  to  save  my  life  thereby.  For  if  I had  feared  death,  I 
would  not  come  hither  to  put  myself  in  hazard.” 

Shakspeare. — 

“My  name  is  Caius  Martius,  who  hath  done 
To  thee  particularly,  and  to  all  the  Volsces. 

Great  hurt  am I mischief ; thereto  witness  may 
My  surname,  Coriolanus : The  painful  service 
The  extreme  dangers,  and  the  drops  of  blood 
Shed  for  my  thankless  country,  are  requited 
But  with  that  surname:  a good  memory, 


CANTO  ir. 


DON  JUAN. 


613 


xxv. 

His  suite  consisted  of  three  servants  and 
A tutor,  the  licentiate  Pedrillo, 

Who  several  languages  did  understand, 

But  now  lay  sick  and  speechless  on  his  pillow, 

And,  rocking  in  his  hammock,  long’d  for  hind, 

IUs  headach  being  increased  by  every  billow  ; 

.And  the  waves  oozing  through  the  port-hole  made 
His  berth  a little  damp,  and  him  afraid. 

XXVI. 

’Twas  not  without  some  reason,  for  the  wind 
Increased  at  night,  until  it  blew  a gale  ; 

And  though  ’twas  not  much  to  a naval  mind, 

Some  landsmen  would  have  look’d  a little  pale, 

For  sailors  are,  in  fact,  a different  kind  : 

At  sunset  they  began  to  take  in  sail. 

For  the  sky  show’d  it  would  come  on  to  blow, 

And  carry  away,  perhaps,  a mast  or  so. 

XXVII. 

At  one  o’clock  the  wind  with  sudden  shift 
Threw  the  ship  right  into  the  trough  of  the  sea, 
Which  struck  her  aft,  and  made  an  awkward  rift, 
Started  the  stern-post,  also  shatter’d  the 
Whole  of  her  stern-frame,  and,  ere  she  could  lift 
Herself  from  out  her  present  jeopardy, 

The  rudder  tore  away:  ’twas  time  to  sound 
The  pumps,  and  there  were  four  feet  water  found.1 

XXVIII. 

One  gang  of  people  instantly  was  put 
Upon  the  pumps,  and  the  remainder  set 
To  get  up  part  of  the  cargo,  and  what  not ; 

But  they  could  not  come  at  the  leak  as  yet ; 

At  last  they  did  get  at  it  realty,  but 
Still  their  salvation  was  an  even  bet : 

The  water  rush’d  through  in  a way  quite  puzzling, 
While  they  thrust  sheets,  shirts,  jackets,  bales  of 
muslin,2 

XXIX. 

Into  the  opening  ; but  all  such  ingredients  [down, 
Would  have  been  vain,  and  they  must  have  gone 
Despite  of  all  their  efforts  and  expedients, 

But  for  the  pumps ; I’m  glad  to  make  them  known 
To  all  me  brother  tars  who  may  have  need  hence, 

For  fifty  tons  of  water  were  upthrown 
By  them  per  hour,  and  they  had  all  been  undone, 

But  for  the  maker,  Mr.  Mann,  of  London.3 


And  witness  of  the  malice  and  displeasure 

Which  thou  shouldst  bear  me:  only  that  name  remains ; 

The  cruelty  and  envy  of  the  people , 

Permitted  by  our  dastard  nobles , who 
Have  all  forsook  me,  hath  devour’d  the  rest ; 

And  suffer’d  me  by  the  voice  of  slaves  to  be 
Whoop’d  out  of  R.ome.  Now,  this  extremity 
Hath  brought  me  to  thy  hearth  ; Not  out  of  hope, 

Mistake  me  not,  to  save  my  life ; for  if 
I had  fear'd  death,  of  all  men  i’  the  world 
I would  have  ’voided  thee.” 

Coriolanus,  Act  4th,  Scene  5th.] 

(1)  [“  Night  came  on  worse  than  the  day  had  been  ; and  a sudden 
shift  of  wind,  about  midnight,  threw  the  ship  into  the  trough  of  the 
sea,  which  struck  her  aft,  tore  away  the  rudder,  started  the  stern- 
/■ost,  and  shattered  the  whole  of  her  stern  frame.  The  pumps  were 
immediately  sounded,  and  in  the  course  of  a few  minutes  the  water 
had  increased  to  four  feet.” — Loss  of  the  Hercules.] 

(2)  [“  One  gang  was  instantly  put  on  them,  and  the  remainder 
of  the  people  employed  in  getting  up  rice  from  the  run  of  the  ship, 
and  heaving  it  over,  to  come  at  the  leak,  if  possible.  After  three 
or  four  hundred  bags  were  thrown  into  the  sea,  we  did  get  at  it, 
and  found  the  water  rushino  into  the  ship  with  astonishing  rapidity ; 


XXX. 

As  day  advanced  the  weather  seem’d  to  abate, 

And  then  the  leak  they  reckon’d  to  reduce. 

And  keep  the  ship  afloat,  though  three  feet  yet 
Kept  two  hand  and  one  chain-pump  still  in  use. 

The  wind  blew  fresh  again  : as  it  grew  late 

A squall  came  on,  and  while  some  guns  broke  loose, 
A gust — which  all  descriptive  power  transcends — 
Laid  with  one  blast  the  ship  on  her  beam  ends.4 

XXXI. 

There  she  lay,  motionless,  and  reem’d  upset ; 

The  water  left  the  hold,  and  wash’d  the  decks,5 
And  made  a scene  men  do  not  soon  forget ; 

For  they  remember  battles,  fires,  and  wreck? 

Or  any  other  thing  that  brings  regret, 

Or  breaks  their  hopes,  or  hearts,  or  heads,  or  u^ks  : 
Thus  drownings  are  much  talk’d  of  by  the  divert 
And  swimmers,  who  may  chance  to  be  survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately  the  masts  were  cut  away, 

Both  main  and  mizen ; first  the  mizen  went, 

The  main-mast  follow’d  : but  the  ship  still  lay 
Like  a mere  log,  and  baffled  our  intent. 

Foremast  and  bowsprit  were  cut  down,  and  the) 

Eased  her  at  last  (although  we  never  meant 
To  part  with  all  till  every  hope  was  blighted), 

And  then  with  violence  the  old  ship  righted.6 

XXXIII. 

It  may  be  easily  supposed,  while  this 

Was  going  on,  some  people  were  unquiet, 

That  passengers  would  find  it  much  amiss 
To  lose  their  lives,  as  well  as  spoil  their  diet ; 

That  even  the  able  seaman,  deeming  his 
Days  nearly  o’er,  might  be  disposed  to  riot. 

As  upon  such  occasions  tars  will  ask 

For  grog,  and  sometimes  drink  rum  from  the  cask. 

xxxiv. 

There’s  nought,  no  doubt,  so  much  the  spirit  calms 
As  rum  and  true  religion : thus  it  was, 

Some  plunder’d,  some  drank  spirits,  some  sung  psalms, 
The  high  wind  made  the  treble,  and  as  bass 
The  hoarse  harsh  waves  kept  time ; fright  cured  the 
qualms 

Of  all  the  luckless  landsmen’s  sea-sick  maws  : 
Strange  sounds  of  wailing,  blasphemy,  devotion, 
Clamour’d  in  chorus  to  the  roariug  ocean. 


therefore  we  thrust  sheets,  shirts,  jackets,  bales  of  muslin,  and  every 

thing  of  the  like  description  that  could  be  got,  into  the  opening.” — 
Loss  rJ  the  Hercules.] 

(3)  [_•*  Notwithstanding  the  pumps  discharged  fifty  tons  of  water 
an  hour,  the  ship  certainly  must  have  gone  down,  had  not  our  ex- 
pedients been  attended  with  some  success.  The  pumps,  to  the 
excellent  construction  of  which  I owe  the  preservation  of  my  life, 
were  made  by  Mr.  Mann  of  London.” — Ibid.] 

(4) ^  [“  As  the  next  day  advanced,  the  weather  appeared  to  moderate, 
the  men  continued  incessantly  at  the  pumps,  and  every  exertion 
was  made  to  keep  the  snip  afloat.  Scarce  was  this  done,  when  a 
gust,  exceeding  in  violence  every  thing  of  the  kind  I had  ever  seen,  or 
could  conceive,  luia  the  ship  on  her  beam,  ends.” — Loss  of  the 
Centaur.] 

(5)  [“  The  ship  lay  motionless,  and  to  all  appearance,  irrevocably 
overset.  The  water  forsook  the  hold,  and  appeared  between  decks.” 
— Ibid.] 

(6)  [“  Immediate  directions  were  given  to  cut  away  the  main  and 
mizen  masts,  trusting,  when  the  ship  righted,  to  be  able  to  wea" 
her.  On  cutting  one  or  two  lanyards,  the  mizen-mast  went  first 
over,  but  without  producing  the  smallest  effect  on  the  ship,  and, 
on  cutting  the  lanyard  of  one  shroud,  the  main-mast  followed.  I 
had  the  mortification  to  see  the  foremast  and  bowsprit  also  go  over 
On  this,  the  ship  immediately  righted  with  great  violence.”— -Ibid.] 


614 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  II 


XXXV. 

Perhaps  more  mischief  had  been  done,  but  for1 
Our  J uan,  who,  with  sense  beyond  his  years, 

Got  to  the  spirit-room,  and  stood  before 
It  with  a pair  of  pistols  ; and  their  fears, 

As  if  Death  were  more  dreadful  by  his  door 
Of  fire  than  water,  spite  of  oaths  and  tears, 

Kept  still  aloof  the  crew,  who,  ere  they  sunk, 

Thought  it  would  be  becoming  to  die  drunk.1 2 

XXX  YI. 

“ Give  us  more  grog,”  they  cried,  “ for  it  will  be 
All  one  an  hour  hence.”  Juan  answer’d.  “ No  ! 
’Tis  true  that  death  awaits  both  you  and  me, 

But  let  us  die  like  men,  not  sink  below 
Like  brutes  — and  thus  his  dangerous  post  kept  lie,3 
And  none  liked  to  anticipate  the  blow  ; 

And  even  Pedrillo,  his  most  reverend  tutor, 

Was  for  some  rum  a disappointed  suitor. 

XXXVII. 

The  good  old  gentleman  was  quite  aghast, 

And  made  a loud  and  pious  lamentation ; 

Repented  all  his  sins,  and  made  a last 
Irrevocable  vow  of  reformation ; 

Nothing  should  tempt  him  more  (this  peril  past) 

To  quit  his  academic  occupation, 

In  cloisters  of  the  classic  Salamanca, 

To  follow  Juan’s  wake,  like  Sanclio  Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But  now  there  came  a flash  of  hope  once  more ; 

Day  broke,  and  the  wind  lull’d:  the  masts  were  gone, 
The  leak  increased ; shoals  round  her,  but  no  shore, 
The  vessel  swam,  yet  still  she  held  her  own. 

They  tried  the  pumps  again,  and  though  before 
Their  desperate  efforts  seem’d  all  useless  grown, 

A glimpse fof  sunshine  set  some  hands  to  bale — 

The  stronger  pump’d,  the  weaker  thrumm’d  a sail.4 

XXXIX. 

Under  the  vessel’s  keel  the  sail  was  past, 

And  for  the  moment  it  had  some  effect  ;5 6 
But  with  a leak,  and  not  a stick  of  mast, 

Nor  rag  of  canvass,  what  could  they  expect  ? 

But  still  ’tis  best  to  struggle  to  the  last, 

’Tis  never  too  late  to  be  wholly  wreck’d  : 


(1)  [“  Perhaps  the  whole  would  have  got  drunk,  but  for.” — MS.] 

(2)  [“  A midshipman  was  appointed  to  guard  the  spirit-room,  to 
Repress  that  unhappy  desire  of  a devoted  crew  to  die  in  a state  of 
intoxication.  The  sailors,  though  in  other  respects  orderly  in 
conduct,  here  pressed  eagerly  upon  him.”  — Loss  of  the  Aberga- 
venny.] 

(3)  [“  ‘ Give  us  some  grog!'  they  exclaimed,  ‘ it  will  be  all  one  an 
hour  hence.’ — ‘I  know  we  most  die,’  replied  the  gallant  officer, 
coolly,  ‘ but  let  us  die  like  men  !'— armed  with  a brace  of  pistols , he 
kept  his  post,  even  while  the  ship  was  sinking.” — Ib’d. ] 

(4)  [“  However,  by  great  exertion  of  the  chain-pump,  we  hbld  our 
own  All  who  were  not  seamen  by  profession,  had  been  employed 
in  thrumming  a sail." — Ibid.] 

(5)  [ “ which  waj  passed  under  the  ship’s  bottom,  and  I thought 

hud  some  effect.” — Ibid.] 

(6)  [“  ’Tis  ugly  dying  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons.” — MS.] 

(7)  [“  The  ship  laboured  so  much,  that  I could  scarce  hope  she 
would  swim  till  morning:  our  sufferings  were  very  great  for  want 
of  water.’’— Loss  of  the  Abergavenny.] 

(8)  [*'  The  weather  again  threatened,  and  by  noon  it  blew  a storm. 
The  ship  laboured  greatly  ; the  tea  ter  appeared  in  the  fore  and  after 
hold.  The  leathers  were  nearly  consumed,  and  the  chains  of  the 
pumps , by  constant  exertion,  and  friction  of  the  coils,  were  ren- 
dered almost  useless.”— Ibid.] 

(9)  [ ‘ At  length,  the  carpenter  came  up  from  below,  and  told  the 

crew,  who  were  working  at  the  pumps,  he  could  do  no  more  for 


And  tbougli  tis  true  tliut  man  can  only  die  once 
’Tis  not  so  pleasant  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons.0 

XL. 

There  winds  and  waves  had  hurl’d  them,  and  fror* 
thence, 

Without  their  will,  they  carried  them  away ; 

For  they  were  forced  with  steering  to  dispense, 

And  never  had  as  yet  a quiet  day 
On  which  they  might  repose,  or  even  commence 
^ A jury  mast  or  rudder,  or  could  say 
The  ship  would  swim  an  hour,  which,  by  good  luck 
Still  swam— though  not  exactly  like  a duck. 

XLI. 

The  wind,  in  fact,  perhaps,  was  rather  less, 

But  the  ship  labour’d  so,  they  scarce  could  hope 
To  weather  out  much  longer ; the  distress 
Was  also  great  with  which  they  had  to  cope 
For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid  mess7 
Was- scant  enough  : in  vain  the  telescope 
Was  used — nor  sail  nor  shore  appear’d  in  sight, 

Nought  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming  night. 

XLII. 

Again  the  weather  threaten’d, — again  blew8 
A gale,  and  in  the  fore  and  after  hold 
Water  appear’d ; yet,  though  the  people  knew 
All  this,  the  most  were  patient,  and  some  bold, 

Until  the  chains  and  leathers  were  worn  through 
Of  all  our  pumps  : — a wreck  complete  she  roll’d, 

At  mercy  of  the  waves,  whose  mercies  are 
Like  human  beings  during  civil  war. 

XLIII.  ,1 

Then  came  the  carpenter,  at  last,  with  tears 
In  his  rough  eyes,  and  told  the  captain,  he 
Could  do  no  more  : he  was  a man  in  years, 

And  long  had  voyaged  through  many  a stormy  sea,  : 
And  if  he  wept  at  length,9  they  were  not  fears 
That  made  his  eyelids  as  a woman’s  be, 

But  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a wife  and  children, — 

Two  things  for  dying  people  quite  bewildering.  4 

XLIV. 

The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now  10 

Fast  by  the  head ; and,  all  distinction  gone. 

Some  went  to  prayers  again,  and  made  a vow 
Of  candles  to  their  saints11 — but  there  were  none  { 


them.  Seeing  their  efforts  useless,  many  of  them  burst  into,  tear*,  > 
and  wept  like  children.” — Loss  of  the  Abergavenny  ] 

(10)  [“  l perceived  the  ship  settling  by  the  head." — Ibid.] 

(11)  [The  following  extract  is  taken  from  Lord  Byron’s  own  j 
copy  of  Erasmus’s  Dialogues.  The  delightful  colloquy  entitled  « 
“ Naufragium”  must,  as  it  is  obvious  from  his  lordship’s  pencil-  i 
marks,  have  been  much  in  his  hands  “ Aderat  Anglus  quidam, 
qui  promittebat  monies  aureos  Virgini  Walsamgamicae,  si  vivus 
attigisset  terrain  : alii  multa  promittebant  ligno  crucis,  quod  esset 

in  tali  loco.  Unum  audivi,  non  sine  risu,  qui  clara  voce,  ne  non 
exaudiretur,  polliceretur  Christophoro,  qui  est  Lutetiae  in  summo 
templo,  mons  verius  quam  statua,  cereum  tanturn  quantus  esset 
ipse.  Ilaec  cum  vociferans  quantum  poterat  identidem  inculcaret, 
qui  forte  proximus  assistebat  illi  notus,  cubito  ilium  tetigit,  a(  1 
submonuit:  Vide  quid  pollicearis:  etiamsi  rerum  omnium  tuarum 
auctionem  facias,  non  fueris  solvendo.  Turn  ille,  voce  jam  pres 
siore,  ne  videlicet  exaudiret  Cliristophorus : Tace,  inquit,  fatue' 

An  credis  me  ex  animo  loqui?  Si  seme!  contigero  terram,  non 
daturus  sum  illi  candelam  sebaceam!”  “ There  was  there  a cer- 
tain Englishman,  who  promised  golden  mountains  to  Our  Lady  ot 
Walsingham,  if  he  touched  land  again.  Others  promised  many 
things  to  the  Wood  of  the  Cross,  which  was  in  such  a place.  I heard 
one,  not  without  laughter,  who,  with  a clear  voice,  lest  he  should 
not  be  heard,  promised  Christopher,  who  is  at  Palis,  on  the  top  ol 
a church, — a mountain  more  truly  than  a statue, — a wax  candle  as  | 
big  as  he  was  himself.  When,  bawling  out  as  hard  as  he  could,  the 


CANTO  A. 


DON  JUAN 


To  pay  them  with  ; and  some  look’d  o’er  the  bow  , 
Some  hoisted  out  the  boats  ; and  there  was  one 
That  b*gg’d  Pedrillo  for  an  absolution, 

Who  t-.ld  him  to  be  damn’d — in  his  confusion.1 

XLV. 

Some  lash’d  them  in  their  hammocks  ; some  put  on 
Their  best  clothes,  as  if  going  to  a fair ; 

Some  cursed  the  day  on  which  they  saw  the  sun, 

And  gnash’d  their  teeth,  and,  howling,  tore  their 
And  others  went  on  as  they  had  begun,  [hair ; 

Getting  the  boats  out,  being  well  aware, 

That  a tight  boat  will  live  in  a rough  sea, 

Unless  with  breakers  close  beneath  her  lee.* 1 2 

XLVI. 

The  worst  of  all  was,  that  in  their  condition, 

Having  been  several  days  in  great  distress, 

’Twas  difficult  to  get  out  such  provision 

As  now  might  render  their  long  suffering  less  : 

Men,  even  when  dying,  dislike  inanition  ;3 

Their  stock  was  damaged  by  the  weather’s  stress  : 
Two  casks  of  biscuit,  and  a keg  of  butter. 

Were  all  that  could  be  thrown  into  the  cutter. 

XLVII. 

But  in  the  long-boat  they  contrived  to  stow 

Some  pounds  of  bread,  though  injured  by  the  wet ; 
"Water,  a twenty-gallon  cask  or  so  ; 

Six  flasks  of  wine ; and  they  contrived  to  get 
A portion  of  their  beef  up  from  below,4 
And  with  a piece  of  pork,  moreover,  met 
But  scarce  enough  to  serve  them  for  a luncheon — 
Then  there  was  rum,  eight  gallons  in  a puncheon. 

XLVIII. 

The  other  boats,  the  yawl  and  pinnacle,  had 
Been  stove  in  the  beginning  of  the  gale  ;5 
And  the  long-boat’s  condition  was  but  bad. 

As  there  were  but  two  blankets  for  a sail,6 
And  one  oar  for  a mast,  which  a young  lad 
Threw  in  by  good  luck  over  the  ship’s  rail ; 

And  two  boats  could  not  hold,  far  less  be  stored, 

To  save  one  half  the  people  then  on  board. 

XLIX. 

’Twas  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 
Over  the  waste  of  waters  ; like  a veil, 


man  reiterated  this  offer,  an  acquaintance  that  by  chance  stood 
next,  known  to  him,  touched  him  with  his  elbow,  and  said — ‘ Have 
a care  what  you  promise ; though  you  make  an  auction  of  all  your 
goods,  you’ll  not  be  able  to  pay.’  Then  he  says,  with  a voice  now 
lower,  to  wit,  lest  Christopher  should  hear, — ' Hold  your  tongue, 
you  fool;  do  you  think  I speak  from  my  heart?  If  once  I touch 
land,  I ’ll  not  give  him  a tallow  candle.’  ” — Clarke’s  Translation .] 

(1)  [“You  cannot  imagine,”  says  Cardinal  de  Retz,  (who  nar- 
rowly escaped  shipwreck  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons) — “ the  horror  of  a 
great  storm : you  can  as  little  imagine  the  ridicule  of  it.  .Every 
body  were  at  their  prayers,  or  were  confessing  themselves.  The 
private  captain  of  the  ga  ’ey  caused,  in  the  greatest  height  of  the 
danger,  his  embroidered  c -a  t and  his  red  scarf  to  be  brought  to  him, 
saying,  that  a true  Spaniard  ought  to  die  bearing  his  king’s  marks  of 
distinction.  He  sat  himself  down  in  his  great  elbow  chair,  and  with 
his  foot  struck  a poor  Neapolitan  in  the  chops,  who,  not  being  able 
to  stand,  was  crawling  along,  crying  out  aloud,  * Senhor  Don  Fer- 
nando, por  l’amor  de  Dios,  confession.’  The  captain,  when  he 
struck  him,  said  to  him,  ‘ Inimigo  de  Dios  piedes confession!’  and 
on  my  representing  to  him,  that  his  interference  was  not  right,  he 
said  that  that  old  man  gave  offence  to  the  whole  galley.  A Sicilian 
Observantine  monk  was  preaching  at  the  foot  of  the  great  mast,  that 
St.  Francis  had  appeared  to  him,  and  had  assured  him  that  we 
should  not  perish.  I should  never  have  done,  were  I to  describe 
all  the  ridiculous  sights  that  are  seen  on  these  occasions.”] 

(2)  (“Some  appeared  perfectly  resigned,  went  to  their  hammocks, 

and  desired  their  messmates  to  lash  them  in;  others  were  for  secur- 

ing themselves  to  gratings  and  small  rafts;  but  the  most  predomi 


615 

Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  the  frown 
Of  one  whose  hate  is  mask’d  but  to  assail.7 
Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown, 

And  grimly  darkled  o’er  the  faces  pale, 

And  the  dim  desolate  deep : twelve  days  had  Bear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

L. 

Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a raft, 

With  little  hope  in  such  a rolling  sea, 

A sort  of  thing  at  which  one  would  have  laugh’d.8 

If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be, 

Unless  with  people  who  too  much  have  quaff’d. 

And  have  a kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee, 

Half  epileptical,  and  half  hysterical : — • 

Their  preservation  would  have  been  a miracle. 

LI. 

At  half-past  eight  o’clock,  booms,  hencoops,  spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a chance,  had  been  cast  loose. 
That  still  could  keep  afloat  the  struggling  tars,9 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great  use  : 
There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a few  stars, 

The  boats  put  off  o’ercrowded  with  their  crews  ; 
She  gave  a heel,  and  then  a lurch  to  port, 

And,  going  down  head  foremost — sunk,  in  short.19 

LII. 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell — 

Then  shriek’d  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave,— 
Then  some  leap’d  overboard  with  dreadful  yell,11 
As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave  ; 

And  the  sea  yawn’d  around  her  like  a hell, 

And  down  she  suck’d  with  her  the  whirling  wave, 
Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy, 

And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

LOT. 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rush’d, 

Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a crash 
Of  echoing  thunder ; and  then  all  was  hush’d, 

Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 
Of  billows  ; but  at  intervals  there  gush’d, 
Accompanied  with  a convulsive  splash, 

A solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 
Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony.12 


nant  idea  was  that  of  putting  on  their  best  and  cleanest  clothes 
Tlie  boats  were  got  over  the  side.” — Abergavenny. j 

(3)  [“  Men  will  prove  hungry,  even  when  next  perdition.” — MS.] 

(4)  [“  Eight  bags  of  rice,  six  flasks  of  wine,  and  a small  quantity 
of  salted  beef  and  pork,  were  put  into  the  long-boat,  as  provisions 
for  the  whole." — Wreck  of  the  Sydney .] 

(5)  [“  The  yawl  was  stove  alongside  and  sunk.” — Centaur. ] 

(6)  [One  oar  was  erected  for  a main-mast , and  the  other  bent  to 
the  breadth  of  the  blankets  for  a sail."  — Loss  of  the  Wellington 
Transport.] 

(7)  [“  Which  being  withdrawn,  discloses  but  the  frown 

Of  one  who  hates  us,  so  the  night  was  shown,”  &c. — MS.] 

(8)  [“  As  rafts  had  been  mentioned  by  the  carpenter,  I thought 
it  right  to  make  the  attempt.  It  was  impossible  for  any  man  to 
deceive  himself  with  the  hopes  of  being  saved  on  a raft  in  such  a 
sea  as  this.” — Centaur.] 

(9)  ["Spars,  booms,  hencoops,  and  every  thing  buoyant,  were 
therefore  cast  loose,  that  the  men  might  have  some  chance  to  save 
themselves.” — Loss  of  the  Pandora.] 

(10)  [*•  We  had  scarcely  quitted  the  ship,  when  she  gave  a heavy 
lurch  to  port,  and  then  went  down,  head- foremost." — Lady  Hobart.] 

(11)  [“  At  this  instant,  one  of  the  officers  told  the  captain  she 
was  going  down,  and  bidding  him  farewell,  leapt  overboard  : the 
crew  had  just  time  to  leap  overboard,  which  they  did,  uttering  a 
most  dreadful  yell." — Pandora.] 

(12)  [“How  accurately  has  Byron  described  the  whole  progress 
of  a shipwreck,  to  the  final  catastrophe /” — Sir  John  Barrow 
History  of  the  Bounty.] 


616 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Cl  WTO  J1 


LTV. 

The  boats,  as  stated,  had  got  off  before, 

And  ill  tliem  crowded  several  of  the  crew  ; 

And  yet  their  present  hope  was  hardly  more 
Than  what  it  had  been,  for  so  strong  it  blew, 
There  was  slight  chance  of  reaching  any  shore  ; 

And  then  they  were  too  many,  though  so  few  — 
Nine  in  the  cutter,  thirty  in  the  boat, 

Were  counted  in  them  when  they  got  afloat. 

LV. 

All  the  rest  perish’d ; near  two  hundred  souls 
Had  left  their  bodies ; and  what’s  worse,  alas  ! 
When  over  Catholics  the  ocean  rolls, 

They  must  wait  several  weeks  before  a mass 
Takes  off  one  peck  of  purgatorial  coals, 

Because,  till  people  know  what’s  come  to  pass, 
Tlfey  won’t  lay  out  their  money  on  the  dead — 

It  costs  three  francs  for  every  mass  that’s  said. 

LVI. 

' Juan  got  into  the  long-boat,  and  there 
Contrived  to  help  Pedrillo  to  a place ; 

It  seem’d  as  if  they  had  exchanged  their  care, 

Bor  Juan  wore  the  magisterial  face 
Which  courage  gives,  while  poor  Pedrillo’s  pail 
Of  eyes  were  crying  for  their  owner’s  case  : 
Battista,  though,  (a  name  call’d  shortly  Tita) 

Was  lost  by  getting  at  some  aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro,  his  valet,  too,  he  tried  to  save, 

But  the  same  cause,  conducive  to  his  loss, 

Left  nim  so  drunk,  he  jump’d  into  the  wave, 

As  o’er  the  cutter’s  edge  he  tried  to  cross, 

And  so  he  found  a wine-and-watery  grave  ; 

They  could  not  rescue  him  although  so  close. 
Because  the  sea  ran  higher  every  minute, 

And  for  the  boat — the  crew  kept  crowding  in  it. 

LVIII. 

A small  old  spaniel, — which  had  been  Don  Jose’s, 
His  father’s,  whom  he  loved,  as  ye  may  think, 
For  on  such  things  the  memory  reposes 

With  tenderness — stood  howling  on  the  brink, 
Knowing,  (dogs  have  such  intellectual  noses  !) 

No  doubt,  the  vessel  was  about  to  sink  ; 

And  Juan  caught  him  up,  and  ere  he  stepp’d 
Off,  threw  him  in,  then  after  him  he  leap’d.1 

LIX. 

He  also  stuff’d  his  money  where  he  could 
About  his  person,  and  Pedriilo’s  too, 

WTho  let  him  do,  in  fact,  whate’er  he  would, 

Not  knowing  what  himself  to  say,  or  do, 

As  every  rising  wave  his  dread  renew’d ; 

But  Juan,  trusting  they  might  still  get  through, 
And  deeming  there  were  remedies  for  any  ill, 

Thus  re-embark’d  his  tutor  and  his  spaniel. 


(1)  [“The  boat,  being  fastened  to  the  tigging,  was  no  sooner 
cleared  of  the  greatest  part  of  the  water,  vhan  a dog  of  mine  came 
to  me  running  along  the  gunwale.  I took  him  in.” — Shipwreck  of 
the  Betsey .] 

(2)  [“  It  blew  a violent  storm,  so  that  between  the  seas  the  sail 
was  becalmed  ; and  when  on  the  top  of  the  wave,  it  was  too  much  to 
he  set,  but  we  could  not  venture  to  take  it  in,  for  we  were  in  very 
imminent  danger  and  distress ; the  sea  curling  over  the  stern  of  the 
boat,  which  obliged  us  to  bale  with  all  our  might.” — Bligh's  Open 
Boot  Navigation.  See  Barrow’s  Eventful  History,  p.  99.] 

(3)  [’•  Before  it  was  dark,  a blanket  was  discovered  in  the  boat. 

This  was  immediately  bent  to  one  of  the  stretchers,  and  under  it, 


LX. 

’Twas  a rough  night,  and  blew  so  stiffly  yet, 

That  the  sail  was  becalm’d,  between  the  seas, 

Though  on  the  wave’s  high  top  too  much  to  set, 

They  dared  not  take  it  in  for  all  the  breeze  : 

Each  sea  curl’d  o’er  the  stern,  and  kept  them  wet, 

And  made  them  bale  without  a moment’s  ease,2 
So  that  themselves  as  well  as  hopes  were  damp’d, 

And  the  poor  little  cutter  quickly  swamp’d. 

LXI. 

Nine  souls  more  went  in  her:  the  long-boat  still 
Kept  above  water,  with  an  oar  for  mast, 

Two  blankets  stitch’d  together,  answering  ill 
Instead  of  sail,  were  to  the  oar  made  fast ; 

Though  every  wave  roll’d  menacing  to  fill, 

And  present  peril  all  before  surpass’d,3 
They  grieved  for  those  who  perish’d  with  the  cutter, 
And  also  for  the  biscuit-casks  and  butter. 

Lxir. 

The  sun  rose  red  and  fiery,  a sure  sign 
Of  the  continuance  of  the  gale  : to  run 
Before  the  sea  until  it  should  grow  fine, 

Was  all  that  for  the  present  could  be  done : 

A few  tea-spoonfuls  of  their  rum  and  wine 
Were  served  out  to  the  people,  who  begun4 
To  faint,  and  damaged  bread  wet  through  the  bags, 
And  most  of  them  had  little  clothes  but  rags. 

LXIII. 

They  counted  thirty,  crowded  in  a space 

Which  left  scarce  room  for  motion  or  exertion , 

They  did  their  best  to  modify  their  case, 

One  half  sate  up,  though  numb’d  with  the  immersion, 
Wrhile  t’other  half  were  laid  down  in  their  place, 

At  watch  and  watch  ; thus,  shivering  like  the  tertian 
Ague  in  its  cold  fit,  they  fill’d  their  boat, 

With  nothing  but  the  skv  for  a great  coat.5 

LXIV. 

’Tis  very  certain  the  desire  of  life 

Prolongs  it : this  is  obvious  to  physicians, 

When  patients,  neither  plagued  with  friends  nor  wilt?, 
Survive  through  very  desperate  conditions, 

Because  they  still  can  hope,  nor  shines  the  knife 
Nor  shears  of  Atropos  before  their  visions  : 

Despair  of  all  recovery  spoils  longevity, 

And  makes  men’s  miseries  of  alarming  brevity. 

LXV. 

’Tis  said  that  persons  living  on  annuities 
Are  longer  lived  than  others, — God  knows  why,  \ 
Unless  to  plague  the  grantors, — yet  so  true  it  is, 

That  some,  I really  think,  do  never  die  : 

Of  any  creditors  the  worst  a Jew  it  is, 

And  that’s  their  mode  of  furnishing  supply  : 

In  my  young  days  they  lent  me  cash  that  way, 

Wrhich  I found  very  troublesome  to  pay. 


as  a sail,  we  scudded  all  night,  in  expectation  of  being  swallowed 
by  every  wave.” — Centaur .] 

(4)  [“  The  sun  rose  red  and  fiery,  a sure  indication  <f  a sn  ert 
gale  of  wind. — We  could  do  nothing  more  than  run  before  the  sea.  I 
— I served  a tea-spoonful  of  rum  to  every  person.  The  bread  we  j 
found  was  damaged  and  rotten.” — Bligh.J 

(5)  [“  As  our  lodging  was  very  wretched  and  confined  for  want  I 
of  room,  I endeavoured  to  remedy  this  defect,  by  putting  ourselves 
at  watch  and  watch;  so  that  one  half  always  sat  up,  while  theothei  | 
half  lay  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  beat,  with  nothing  to  cover  us 
but  the  heavens.” — Ibid.] 


;aNTO  II. 


DON  JUAN. 


617 


LX  VI. 

’Tis  thus  with  people  in  an  open  boat, 

They  live  upon  the  love  of  life,  and  bear 
More  than  can  be  believed,  or  even  thought, 

And  stand  like  rocks  the  tempest’s  wear  and  tear ; 
And  hardship  still  has  been  the  sailor’s  lot, 

Since  Noah’s  ark  went  cruising  here  and  there ; 

She  had  a curious  crew  as  well  as  cargo, 

Like  the  first  old  Greek  privateer,  the  Argo. 

LX  VII. 

But  man  is  a carnivorous  production, 

And  must  have  meals,  at  least  one  meal  a day ; 

He  cannot  live,  like  woodcocks,  upon  suction, 

But,  like  the  shark  and  tiger,  must  have  prey  ; 
Although  his  anatomical  construction 
Bears  vegetables,  in  a grumbling  way, 

Your  labouring  people  think  beyond  all  question, 

Beef,  veal,  and  mutton,  better  for  digestion. 

LXVIII. 

And  thus  it  was  with  this  our  hapless  crew  ; 

For  on  the  third  day  there  came  on  a calm, 

And  though  at  first  their  strength  it  might  renew, 
And  lying  on  their  weariness  like  balm, 

Lull’d  them  like  turtles  sleeping  on  the  blue 
Of  ocean,  when  they  woke  they  felt  a qualm. 

And  fell  all  ravenously  on  their  provision, 

Instead  of  hoarding  it  with  due  precision. 

LXIX. 

The  consequence  was  easily  foreseen — 

They  ate  up  all  they  had,  and  drank  their  wine, 

In  spite  of  all  remonstrances,  and  then 
On  what,  in  fact,  next  day  were  they  to  dine  ? 

They  hoped  the  wind  would  rise,  these  foolish  men  ! 

And  carry  them  to  shore ; these  hopes  were  fine, 
But  as  they  had  but  one  oar,  ana  that  brittle. 

It  would  have  been  more  wise  to  save  their  victual. 

LXX. 

The  fourth  day  came,  but  not  a breath  of  air,1 
And  Ocean  slumber’d  like  an  unwean’d  child  : 

The  fifth  day,  and  their  boat  lay  floating  there, 

The  sea  and  sky  were  blue,  and  clear,  and  mild — 
With  their  one  oar  (I  wish  they  had  had  a pair) 

What  could  they  do  ? and  hunger’s  rage  grew  wild : 
So  J uan’s  spaniel,  spite  of  his  entreating, 

Was  kill’d,  and  portion’d  out  for  present  eating.2 

LXXI. 

On  the  sixth  day  they  fed  upon  his  hide, 

And  Juan,  who  had  still  refused,  because 


(1)  [“  The  fourth  day  came,  and  not  a breath  of  air,  &c.” — 
Bligh.] 

(2)  [“  The  fourth  day  we  began  to  suffer  exceedingly  from  hunger 
and  thirst.  I then  seized  my  dog,  and  plunged  my  knife  into  its 
throat.  We  caught  his  blood  in  the  hat,  receiving  in  our  hands 
and  drinking  what  ran  over ; we  afterwards  drank  in  turn  out  of 
the  hat,  and  felt  ourselves  refreshed.”— Shipwreck  of  the  Betsey .] 

(3)  [“  Now,  however,  when  Mr.  Byron  was  at  home  with  his  dog, 
a party  came  to  tell  him  their  necessities  were  such,  that  they  must 
eat  the  dog,  or  starve.  In  spite  of  Mr.  B.’s  desire  to  preserve  the 
faithful  animal,  they  took  him' by  force  and  killed  him.  Thinking 
he  was  entitled  to  a share,  he  partook  of  their  repast.  Three  weeks 
afterwards,  recollecting  the  spot  where  the  dog  was  killed,  he  went 
to  it,  and  was  glad  to  make  a meal  of  the  paws  and  skin.” — Com- 
modore Byron’s  Narrative .] 

(4)  [The  fact  of  men,  in  extreme  cases,  destroying  each  other 

for  the  sake  of  appeasing  hunger,  is  but  too  well  established— and 

to  a great  extent,  on  the  raft  of  the  French  frigate  Meduse,  when 

wrecked  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  and  also  on  the  rock  in  the 


The  creature  was  his  father’s  dog  that  died, 

Now  feeling  all  the  vulture  in  his  jaws, 

With  some  remorse  received  (though  first  denied) 

As  a great  favour  one  of  the  fore-paws,3 
Which  he  divided  with  Pedrillo,  who 
Devour’d  it,  longing  for  the  other  too. 

LXXII. 

The  seventh  day,  and  no  wind — the  burning  sun 
Blister’d  and  scorch’d,  and,  stagnant  on  the  sea, 
They  lay  like  carcasses  ; and  hope  was  none, 

Save  in  the  breeze  that  came  not ; savagely 
They  glared  upon  each  other — all  was  done, 

Water,  and  wine,  and  food,— and  you  might  see 
The  longings  of  the  cannibal  arise 
(Although  "they  spoke  not)  in  their  wolfish  eyes. 

LXXII  i. 

At  length  one  whisper’d  his  companion,  who 
Whisper’d  another,  and  thus  it  went  round, 

And  then  into  a hoarser  murmur  grew, 

An  ominous,  and  wild,  and  desperate  sound  ; 

And  when  his  comrade’s  thought  each  sufferer  knew, 
’Twas  but  his  own,  suppress’d  till  now,  he  found  : 
And  out  they  spoke  of  lots  for  flesh  and  blood, 

And  who  should  die  to  be  his  fellow’s  food.4 

LXXIV. 

But  ere  they  came  to  this,  they  that  day  shared 
Some  leathern  caps,  and  what  remain’d  of  shoes ; 
And  then  they  look’d  around  them,  and  despair’d. 

And  none  to  be  the  sacrifice  would  choose  ; 

At  length  the  lots  were  torn  up,5  and  prepared, 

But  of  materials  that  much  shock  the  Muse — ■ 
Having  no  paper,  for  the  want  of  better, 

They  took  by  force  from  Juan  Julia’s  letter. 

LXXV. 

The  lots  were  made,  and  mark’d,  and  mix’d,  and 
handed 

In  silent  horror,6  and  their  distribution 
Lull’d  even  the  savage  hunger  which  demanded, 

Like  the  Promethean  vulture,  this  pollution ; 

None  in  particular  had  sought  or  plann’d  it, 

’Twas  nature  gnaw’d  them  to  this  resolution, 

By  which  none  were  permitted  to  be  neuter — 

And  the  lot  fell  on  Juan’s  luckless  tutor. 

LXXVI. 

He  but  requested  to  be  bled  to  death : 

The  surgeon  had  his  instruments,  and  bled7 

Mediterranean,  when  the  Nautilus  frigate  was  lost. — Sir  John 
Barrow.] 

(5)  [“  Being  driven  to  distress  for  want  of  food,  they  soaked  their 
shoes,  and  two  hairy  caps  which  were  among  them,  in  the  water; 
which  being  rendered  soft,  each  partook  of  them.  But  day  atter 
day  having  passed,  and  the  cravings  of  hunger  pressing  hard  upon 
them,  they  fell  upon  the  horrible  and  dreadful  expedient  of  eating 
each  other;  and  in  order  to  prevent  any  contention  about  who 
should  become  the  food  of  the  others,  they  cast  lots  to  determine 
the  sufferer.”— Suffc  ings  of  the  Crew  of  the  Thomas.] 

(6)  [“  The  lots  were  drawn:  the  captain,  summoning  all  his 
strength,  wrote  upon  slips  of  paper  the  name  of  each  man,  folded 
them  up,  put  them  into  a hat,  and  shook  them  together.  The 
crew,  meanwhile,  preserved  an  awful  silence ; each  eye  was  fixed 
and  each  mouth  open,  while  terror  was  strongly  impressed  upon 
every  countenance.  The  unhappy  person,  with  manly  fortitude, 
resigned  himself  to  his  miserable  associates.” — Famine  in  th* 
American  Ship  Peggy.] 

(7)  [“  He  requested  to  he  bled  to  death,  the  surgeon  being  wf«fc 

4 K 


618 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  II* 


Pedrillo,  and  so  gently  ebb’d  his  breath, 

You  hardly  could  perceive  when  he  was  dead. 

He  died  as  born,  a Catholic  in  faith, 

Like  most  in  the  belief  in  which  they’re  bred, 

And  first  a little  crucifix  he  kiss’d, 

And  then  held  out  his  jugular  and  wrist. 

LXXVII. 

The  surgeon,  as  there  was  no  other  fee. 

Had  his  first  choice  of  morsels  for  his  pains ; 

But  being  thirstiest  at  the  moment,  he 
Preferr’d  a draught  from  the  fast-flowing  veins  A 
Part  was  divided,  part  thrown  in  the  sea, 

And  such  things  as  the  entrails  and  the  brains 
Regaled  two  sharks,  who  follow’d  o’er  the  billow — 
The  sailors  ate  the  rest  of  poor  Pedrillo. 

LXXVTII. 

The  sailors  ate  him,  all  save  three  or  four, 

Who  were  not  quite  so  fond  of  animal  food  ; 

To  these  was  added  Juan,  who,  before 
Refusing  his  own  spaniel,  hardly  could 
Peel  now  his  appetite  increased  much  more ; 

’Twas  not  to  be  expected  that  he  should, 

Even  in  extremity  of  their  disaster, 

Dine  with  them  on  his  pastor  and  his  master. 

LXXIX. 

’Twas  better  that  he  did  not ; for,  in  fact, 

The  consequence  was  awful  in  the  extreme ; 

Por  they,  who  were  most  ravenous  in  the  act, 

Went  raging  mad2 3 — Lord  ! how  they  did  blaspheme! 
And  foam  and  roll,  with  strange  convulsions  rack’d, 
Drinking  salt-water  like  a mountain-stream, 
Tearing,  and  grinning,  howling,  screeching,  swearing. 
And,  with  hysena-laughter,  died  despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their  numbers  were  much  thinn’d  by  this  infliction, 
And  all  the  rest  were  thin  enough,  Heaven  knows  ; 
And  some  of  them  had  lost  their  recollection. 

Happier  than  they  who  still  perceived  their  woes  ; 
But  others  ponder’d  on  a new  dissection, 

As  if  not  warn’d  sufficiently  by  those 
Who  had  already  perish’d,  suffering  madly, 

For  having  used  their  appetites  so  sadly. 

lxxxi. 

And  next  they  thought  upon  the  master’s  mate, 

As  fattest ; but  he  saved  himself,  because. 


them,  and  having  his  case  of  instruments  in  his  pocket  when  he 
quitted  the  ship.” — Thomas .] 

(1)  [“  No  sooner  had  the  fatal  instrument  touched  the  vein,  than 
the  operator  applied  his  parched  lips,  and  drank  the  blood  as  it 
flowed , while  the  rest  anxiously  watched  the  victim’s  departing 
breath,  that  they  might  proceed  to  satisfy  the  hunger  which  preyed 
upon  them  to  so  frightful  a degree.” — Ibid.] 

(2)  [“  Those  who  glutted  themselves  with  human  flesh  and  gore, 
and  whose  stomachs  retained  the  unnatural  food,  soon  perished 
with  raging  insanity ,”  &c. — Ibid.] 

(3)  “ Another  expedient  we  had  frequent  recourse  to,  finding  it 
supplied  our  mouths  with  temporary  moisture,  was  chewing  any 
substance  we  could  find,  generally  a bit  of  canvas^,  or  even  lead.” 
— Juno.] 

(4)  [“  On  the  25th,  at  noon,  we  caught  a noddy.  I divided  it 
into  eighteen  portions.  In  the  evening  we  caught  two  boobies.” — 

Bligh.] 

| (5)  [“Quandb  ebbe  detto  cib,  con  gli  ocelli  torti 

Hiprese  il  teschio  misero  co’  denti, 

Che  furo  all’  osso,  come  d’un  can  forti." 

Tne  passage  is  thus  powerfully  rendered  by  Dante’s  last  trans- 
actor, Mr.  Ichabod  Wright — 


Besides  being  much  averse  from  sucb  a fate, 

There  were  some  other  reasons  : the  first  was, 

He  had  been  rather  indisposed  of  late  ; 

And  that  which  chiefly  proved  his  saving  clause, 
Was  a small  present  made  to  him  at  Cadiz, 

By  general  subscription  of  the  ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of  poor  Pedrillo  something  still  remain’d, 

But  was  used  sparingly, — some  were  afraid, 

And  others  still  their  appetites  constrain’d, 

Or  but  at /times  a little  supper  made; 

All  except  Juan,  who  throughout  abstain’d, 

Chewing  a piece  of  bamboo,  and  some  lead  :;i 
At  length  they  caught  two  boobies,  and  a noddy,4 
And  then  they  left  off  eating  the  dead  body. 

LXXXIII. 

And  if  Pedrillo’s  fate  should  shocking  be, 

Remember  Ugolino5  condescends 
To  eat  the  head  of  his  arch-enemy 
The  moment  after  he  politely  ends 
His  tale  : if  foes  be  food  in  hell,  at  sea 
’Tis  surely  fair  to  dine  upon  our  friends, 

When  shipwreck’s  short  allowance  grows  too  scanty, 
Without  being  much  more  horrible  than  Dante. 

LXXXIV. 

And  the  same  night  there  fell  a shower  of  rain, 

For  which  their  mouths  gaped,  like  the  cracks  of 
earth 

When  dried  to  summer  dust ; till  taught  by  pain, 
Men  really  know  not  what  good  water’s  worth  ; 

If  you  had  been  in  Turkey  or  in  Spain, 

Or  with  a famish’d  boat's-crew  had  your  berth, 

Or  in  the  desert  heard  the  camel’s  bell*, 

You’d  wish  yourself  where  Truth  is — in  a well. 

LXXXV. 

It  pour’d  down  torrents,  but  they  were  no  richer 
Until  they  found  a ragged  piece  of  sheet, 

Which  served  them  as  a sort  of  spongy  pitcher, 

And  when  they  deem’d  its  moisture  was  complete, 
They  wrung  it  out,  and  though  a thirsty  ditcher6 
Might  not  have  thought  the  scanty  draught  so  sweet 
As  a full  pot  of  porter,  to  their  thinking 
They  ne’er  till  now  had  known  the  joys  of  drinking. 


“ Then  both  my  hands  through  anguish  I did  bite ; 

And  they,  supposing  that  from  want  of  food 
I did  so,  sudden  raised  themselves  upright, 

And  said —*  1 O father,  less  will  be  our  pain, 

If  thou  wilt  feed  on  us  : thou  didst  bestow 
This  wretched  flesh — ’tis  thine  to  take  again 
Then  was  l calm,  lest  they  the  more  should  grieve. 

Two  days  all  silent  we  remain’d.  O tftou 

Hard  Earth?  Why  didst  thou  not  beneath  us  cleave! 

Four  days  our  agonies  had  been  delay’d 
When  Gaddo  at  my  feet  his  body  threw, 

Exclaiming,  ‘ Father,  why  not  give  us  aid  1 ’ 

He  died— and  as  distinct  as  here  I stand 

I saw  the  three  fall  one  by  one,  before 

The  sixth  day  closed : then,  groping  with  my  hand, 

I felt  each  wretched  corpse,  for  sight  had  fail’d : 

Two  days  I call’d  on  those  who  were  no  more — 

Then  hunger,  stronger  even  than  grief,  prevail’d.’ 

This  said — aside  his  vengeful  eyes  were  thrown, 

And  with  his  teeth  again  the  skull  he  tore , 

Fierce  as  a dog  to  gnaw  the  very  bone. 

Inferno,  c.  xxx.  v.  60. J 

(6)  [“  In  the  evening  there  came  on  a squall,  which  brought  thi 
most  seasonable  relief,  as  it  was  accompanied  with  heavy  rain  : wti 
had  no  means  of  catching  it,  but  by  spreading  out  our  clothes-, 
catching  the  drops  as  they  fell,  or  squeezing  them  out  of  out 
clothes.” — Centaur.] 


canto  II. 


DON  JUAN. 


LXXXVT. 

And  their  halted  lips,  with  many  a bloody  crack, 
Suck’d  in  the  moisture,  which  like  nectar  stream’d  ; 
Their  throats  were  ovens,  their  swoln  tongues  were 
black,  # | 

As  the  rich  man’s  in  hell,  who  vainly  scream’d 
To  beg  the  beggar,  who  could  not  rain  back 
A drop  of  dew,  when  every  drop  had  seem’d 
To  taste  of  heaven — If  this  be  true,  indeed, 

Some  Christians  have  a comfortable  creed. 

LXXXVII. 

There  were  two  fathers  in  this  ghastly  crew, 

And  with  them  their  two  sons,  of  whom  the  one 
Was  more  robust  and  hardy  to  the  view, 

But  he  died  early  ; and  when  he  was  gone, 

His  nearest  messmate  told  his  sire,  who  threw 

One  glance  at  him,  and  said,  “ Heaven’s  will  be 
1 can  do  nothing,”  and  he  saw  him  thrown  [done  ! 
Into  the  deep  without  a tear  or  groan.1 

LXXXVIII. 

The  other  father  had  a weaklier  child, 

Of  a soft  cheek,  and  aspect  delicate  ;2 
But  the  boy  bore  up  long,  and  with  a mild 
And  patient  spirit  held  aloof  his  fate  ; 

Little  he  said,  and  now  and  then  he  smiled. 

As  if  to  win  a part  from  off  the  weight 
He  saw  increasing  on  his  father’s  heart, 

With  the  deep  deadly  thought,  that  they  must  part. 

LXXXIX. 

And  o’er  him  bent  his  sire,  and  never  raised 
His  eyes  from  off  his  face,  but  wiped  the  foam 
From  his  pale  lips,  and  ever  on  him  gazed, 

And  when  the  wish’d-for  shower  at  length  was  come, 
And  the  boy’s  eyes,  which  the  dull  film  half  glazed, 
Brighten’d,  and  for  a moment  seem’d  to  roam, 

He  squeezed  from  out  a rag  some  drops  of  rain 
Into  his  dying  child’s  mouth — but  in  vain.3 4 5 

xc.. 

The  boy  expired — the  father  held  the  clay, 

And  look’d  upon  it  long,  and  when  at  last 
Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  dead  burthen  lay 
Stiff  on  his  heart,  and  pulse  and  hope  were  past, 


(1)  [“  Mr.  Wade’s  boy,  a stout  healthy  lad.  died  early , and  almost 
without  a groan;  while  another,  of  the  same  age,  but  of  a less  pro- 
mising appearance,  held  out  much  longer.  Their  fathers  were 
both  in  the  fore-top,  when  the  boys  were  taken  ill.  Wade,  hearing 
of  his  son’s  illness,  answered,  with  indifference,  that  he  could  do 
nothing  for  him , and  left  him  to  his  fate.” — Juno.] 

(2)  [“  The  other  father  hurried  down.  By  that  time  only  three  i 
er  four  planks  of  the  quarter-deck  remained,  just  over  the  weather- 
quarter  gallery'.  To  this  spot  the  unhappy  man  led  his  son,  making  j 
him  fast  to  the  rail.fto  prevent  his  being  washed  away.” — Ibid.] 

(3)  [“  Whenever  the  boy  was  seized  with  a fit  of  retching,  the  father 
lifted  him  up  and  wiped  away  the  foam  from  his  lips;  and  if  a 
shower  came,  he  made  him  open  his  mouth  to  receive  the  drops,  or 
gently  squeezed  them  into  it  from  a rag.” — Ibid.] 

(4)  [“  In  this  affecting  situation  both  remained  four  or  five  days, 
till  the  boy  expired.  The  unfortunate  parent,  as  if  unwilling  to 
believe  the  fact,  raised  the  body,  looked  wistfully  at  it,  and  when 
he  could  no  longer  entertain  any  doubt , watched  it  in  silence  until 
it  was  carried  off  by  sea  ; then  wrapping  himself  in  a piece  of  can- 
vass, sunk  down,  and  rose  no  more;  though  he  must  have  lived  two 
days  longer,  as  we  judged  from  the  quivering  of  his  limbs,  when  a 
wave  broke  over  him.” — Ibid.] 

(5)  [“  This  sublime  and  terrific  description  of  a shipwreck  is 
strangely  and  disgustingly  broken  by  traits  of  low  humour  and 

buffoonery  ; — and  we  pass  immediately  from  the  moans  of  an 
agonising  father  fainting  over  his  famished  son,  to  facetious  stories 
of  Juan’s  begging  the  paw  of  his  father’s  dog,  and  refusing  a slice 
of  his  tutor ! — as  if  it  were  a fine  thing  to  be  hard-hearted,  and  pity 

and  compassion  were  fit  only  to  be  laughed  at.” — Jeffrey.] 

“ I will 


019 

He  watch’d  it  wistfully,  until  away 

’Twas  borne  by  the  rude  wave  wherein  ’twas  cast. 
Then  he  himself  sunk  down  all  dumb  and  shivering, 
And  gave  no  sign  of  life,  save  his  limbs  quivering.3 

xci. 

Now  overhead  a rainbow,  bursting  through 

The  scattering  clouds,  shone,  spanning  the  dark  sea 
Hesting  its  bright  base  on  the  quivering  blue ; 

And  all  within  its  arch  appear’d  to  be 
Clearer  than  that  without,  and  its  wide  hue 
Wax’d  broad  and  waving,  like  a banner  free, 

Then  changed  like  to  a bow  that’s  bent,  and  then 
Forsook  the  dim  eyes  of  these  shipwreck’d  men. 

xcn. 

It  changed,  of  course  ; a heavenly  cameleon, 

The  airy  child  of  vapour  and  the  sun, 

Brought  forth  in  purple,  cradled  in  vermilion, 
Baptized  in  molten  gold,  and  swathed  in  dun, 
Glittering  like  crescents  o’er  a Turk’s  pavilion. 

And  blending  every  colour  into  one,6 
Just  like  a black  eye  in  a recent  scuffle 
(For  sometimes  we  must  box  without  the  muffle). 

XCIII. 

Our  shipwreck’d  seamen  thought  it  a good  omen — 

It  is  as  well  to  think  so,  now  and  then  ; 

’Twas  an  old  custom  of  the  Greek  and  Roman, 

And  may  become  of  great  advantage  when 
Folks  are  discouraged  ; and  most  surely  no  men 
Had  greater  need  to  nerve  themselves  again 
Than  these,  and  so  this  rainbow  look’d  like  hope — 
Quite  a celestial  kaleidoscope.7 

xciv. 

About  this  time  a beautiful  white  bird, 

Webfooted,  not  unlike  a dove  in  size 
And  plumage  (probably  it  might  have  err’d 
Upon  its  course),  pass’d  oft  before  their  eyes. 

And  tried  to  perch,  although  it  saw  and  heard 
The  men  within  the  boat,  and  in  this  guise 
It  came  and  went,  and  flutter’d  round  them  till 
Night  fell : — this  seem’d  a better  omen  still.8 


“ I will  answer  your  friend,  who  objects  to  the  quick  succession 
of  fun  and  gravity,  as  if  in  that  case  the  gravity  did  not  (in  intention, 
at  least,]  heighten  the  fun.  His  metaphor  is,  that  ‘ we  are  never 
scorched  and  drenched  at  the  same  time.’  Blessings  on  his  ex- 
perience ! Ask  him  these  questions  about 1 scorching  and  drench- 
ing.’ Did  he  never  play  at  cricket,  or  walk  a mile  in  hot  weather? 
Did  he  never  spill  a dish  of  tea  over  himself  in  handing  the  cup  to 
his  charmer,  to  the  great  shame  of  his  nankeen  breeches  ? Did  he 
never  swim  in  the  sea  at  noonday  with  the  sun  in  his  eyes  and  on 
his  head,  which  all  the  foam  of  ocean  could  not  cool?  Did  lie 
never  draw  his  foot  out  of  too  hot  water,  d — ning  his  eyes  and  his 
valet’s?  Did  he  never  tumble  into  a river  or  lake,  fishing,  and  sit 
in  his  wet  clothes  in  the  boat,  or  on  the  bank,  afterwards,  ‘ scorched 
and  drenched,’  like  a true  sportsman  ? ‘ Oh  for  breath  to  utter ! ’ — 

but  make  him  my  compliments  ; he  is  a clever  fellow  for  all  that — 
a very  clever  fellow.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray,  Aug.  12,  1819.] 

(6)  [“Look  upon  the  rainbow,  and  praise  Him  that  made  it; 
very  beautiful  it  is  in  its  brightness;  it  encompasses  the  heavens 
with  a glorious  circle,  and  the  hands  of  the  Most  High  have  bentlfc* 
it.” — Son  of  Sirach.] 

(7)  [An  instrument,  invented  by  Sir  David  Brewster,  which 
pleases  the  eye  bv  an  ever-varying  succession  of  splendid  tints  and 
symmetrical  forms,  and  has  been  of  great  service  in  suggesting  pat 
terns  to  our  manufacturers.] 

(8)  ["About  this  time  a beautiful  white  bird,  web-footed,  and  not 
unlike  a dove  in  size  and  plumage,  hovered  over  the  mast-head  of 
the  cutter,  and,  notwithstanding  the  pitching  of  the  boat,  frequently 
attempted  to  perch  on  it,  and  continued  to  flutter  then  till  dark 

Trifling 


620 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  IL 


XCV. 

But,  in  this  case  I also  must  remark, 

’Twas  well  tins  bird  of  promise  did  not  perch, 
Because  the  tackle  of  our  shatter’d  bark 
Was  not  so  safe  for  roosting  as  a church  ; 

And  had  it  been  the  dove  from  Noah’s  ark, 
lieturning  there  from  her  successful  search, 

Which  in  their  way  that  moment  chanced  to  fall, 
l’hey  would  have  eat  her,  olive-branch  and  all. 

XCVI. 

With  twilight  it  again  came  on  to  blow, 

But  not  with  violence  ; the  stars  shone  out, 

The  boat  made  way  ; yet  now  they  were  so  low, 

They  knew  not  where  nor  what  they  were  about ; 
Some  fancied  they  saw  land,  and  some  said  “ No  !” 
The  frequent  fog-banks  gave  them  cause  to  doubt — 
Some  swore  that  they  heard  breakers,  others  guns,1 
And  all  mistook  about  the  latter  once. 

XCVII. 

As  morning  broke,  the  light  wind  died  away, 

When  he  who  had  the  watch  sung  out  and  swore, 

If  ’twas  not  land  that  rose  with  the  sun’s  ray, 

He  wish’d  that  land  he  never  might  see  more.2 
And  the  rest  rubb’d  their  eyes  and  saw  a bay, 

Or  thought  they  saw,  and  shaped  their  course  for 
For  shore  it  was,  and  gradually  grew  [shore ; 

Distinct,  and  high,  and  palpable  to  view. 

XCVIII. 

And  then  of  these  some  part  burst  into  tears, 

And  others,  looking  with  a stupid  stare,3 
Could  not  yet  separate  their  hopes  from  fears, 

And  seem’d  as  if  they  had  no  further  care ; 

While  a few  pray’d — (the  first  time  for  some  years) — 
And  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  three  were 
Asleep  : they  shook  them  by  the  hand  and  head, 

And  tried  to  awaken  them,  but  found  them  dead. 

xeix. 

The  day  before,  fast  sleeping  on  the  water. 

They  found  a turtle  of  the  hawk’s-bill  kind. 

And  by  good  fortune,  gliding  softly,  caught  her,4 
Which  yielded  a day’s  life,  and  to  their  mind 
Proved  even  still  a more  nutritious  matter, 

Because  it  left  encouragement  behind  : 

They  thought  that  in  such  perils,  more  than  chance 
Had  sent  them  this  for  their  deliverance. 

c. 

The  land  appear’d  a high  and  rocky  coast, 

And  higher  grew  the  mountains  as  they  drew, 

Set  by  a current,  toward  it : they  were  lost 
In  various  conjectures,  for  none  knew 


Trifling  as  this  circumstance  may  appear,  it  was  considered  by  us 
all  as  a propitious  omen." — Loss  of  the  Lady  Hobart. \ 

(!)  f!<  I found  it  necessary  to  caution  the  people  against  being 
deceived  by  the  appearance  of  land , or  calling  out  till  they  were 
convinced  of  the  reality,  more  especially  as  fog-banks  are  often 
mistaken  for  land : several  of  the  poor  fellows  nevertheless  re-- 
peatedly  exclaimed  they  heard  breakers,  and  some  the  firing  of 
guns." — Ibid.} 

(2)  [“At  length  one  of  them  broke  into  a most  immoderate  swear- 
ing fit  of  joy,  which  I could  not  restrain,  and  declared,  that  he  had 
never  seen  land  in  his  life,  if  what  he  now  saw  was  not  land." — 
Centaur.} 

(3)  [“  The  joy  at  a speedy  relief  affected  us  alhrn  a most  remark- 
able way.  Many  burst  into  tears  ; some  looked  at  each  other  wilh  a 
stupid  stare,  as  if  doubtful  of  the  reality  of  what  they  saw;  while 
several  were  in  such  a lethargic  condition,  that  no  animating  words 
eould  rouse  them  to  exertion.  At  this  affecting  period,  I proposed 


To  wlmt  part  of  the  earth  they  had  been  tost, 

So  changeable  had  been  the  winds  that  blew ; 

Some  thought  it  was  Mount  iEtna,  some  the  highlands 
Of  Candia,  Cyprus.  Rhodes,  or  other  islands. 

CT. 

Meantime  the  current,  with  a rising  gale, 

Still  set  them  onwards  to  the  welcome  shore, 

Like  Charon’s  bark  of  spectres,  dull  and  pale  : 

Their  living  freight  was  now  reduced  to  four, 

And  three  dead,  whom  their  strength  could  not  avail 
To  heave  into  the  deep  with  those  before, 

Though  the  two  sharks  still  follow’d  them,  and  dash’s 
The  spray  into  their  faces  as  they  splash’d. 

cn. 

Famine,  despair,  cold,  thirst,  and  heat,  had  done 
Their  work  on  them  by  turns,  and  thinn’d  them  to 
Such  things  a mother  had  not  known  her  son 
Amidst  the  skeletons  of  that  gaunt  crew ; 5 
By  night  chill’d,  by  day  scorch’d,  thus  one  by  one 
They  perish’d,  until  wither’d  to  these  fewj 
But  chiefly  by  a species  of  self-slaughter, 

In  washing  down  Pedrillo  with  salt  watei. 

cm. 

As  they  drew  nigh  the  land,  which  now  was  seen 
Unequal  in  its  aspect  here  and  there, 

They  felt  the  freshness  of  its  growing  green, 

That  waved  in  forest-tops,  and  smooth’d  the  air, 
And  fell  upon  their  glazed  eves  like  a screen 

From  glistening  waves,  and  skies  so  hot  and  bare— 
Lovely  seem’d  any  object  that  should  sweep 
Away  the  vast,  salt,  dread,  eternal  deep. 

civ. 

The  shore  look’d  wild,  without  a trace  of  man. 

And  girt  by  formidable  waves ; but  they 
Were  mad  for  land,  and  thus  their  course  they  ran, 
Though  right  ahead  the  roaring  breakers  lay : 

A reef  between  them  also  now  began 

To  show  its  boiling  surf  and  bounding  spray, 

But  finding  no  place  for  their  landing  better, 

They  ran  the  boat  for  shore, — and  overset  her.6 

cv. 

But  in  his  native  stream,  the  Guadalquivir, 

Juan  to  lave  his  youthful  limbs  was  wont ; 

And  having  learnt  to  swim  in  that  sweet  river. 

Had  often  turn’d  the  art  to  some  account : 

A better  swimmer  you  could  scarce  see  ever, 
tie  could,  perhaps,  have  pass’d  the  Hellespont, 

As  once  (a  feat  on  which  ourselves  we  prided) 
Leander,  Mr.  Ekenhead,  and  I did.7  • 


offering  up  our  solemn  thanks  to  Heaven  for  the  miraculous  deli- 

verance.”— Lady  Hobart.} 

(4)  [“  After  having  suffered  the  horrors  of  hunger  and  thirst  for 
many  days,  they  providentially  took  a small  turtle  whilst  floating 
asleep  on  the  surface  of  the  water." — Thomas.} 

(5)  [“  Our  bodies  were  nothing  but  skin  and  bones,  our  limbs 
were  full  of  sores,  and  we  were  clothed  in  rags.  An  indifferent 
spectator  would  have  been  at  a loss  which  most  to  admire,  the  eyes 
of  famine  sparkling  at  immediate  relief,  or  the  horror  of  their  pre- 
servers at  the  sight  of  so  many  spectres,  whose  ghastly  counte- 
nances, if  the  cause  had  been  unknown,  would  rather  have  excited 
terror  than  pity.” — Bligii.] 

(fi)  [“  They  discovered  land  right  ahead,  and  steered  for  it.  There 
being  a very  heavy  surf,  they  endeavoured  to  turn  the  boat’s  head 
to  it,  which,  from  weakness,  they  were  unable  to  complete,  and 
soon  afterwards  the  boat  upset." — Escape  of  Deserters  from  St 
Helena.} 

(7)  [See  ante,  p.  545.] 


CAKTO  II. 


DON  JUAN. 


621 


CVI. 

So  here,  though  faint,  emaciated,  and  stark, 

He  buoy’d  his  boyish  limbs,  and  strove  to  ply 
With  the  quick  wave,  and  gain,  ere  it  was  dark. 

The  beach  which  lay  before  him,  high  and  dry : 

The  greatest  danger  here  was  from  a shark, 

That  carried  off  his  neighbour  by  the  thigh ; 

As  for  the  other  two,  they  could  not  swim, 

So  nobody  arrived  on  shore  but  him.  * 

evil. 

Nor  yet  had  he  arrived  but  for  the  oar, 

Which,  providentially  for  him,  was  wash’d 
Just  as  his  feeble  arms  could  strike  no  more, 

And  the  hard  wave  o’erwhelmed  him  as  ’twas  dash’d 
Within  his  grasp : he  clung  to  it,  and  sore 
The  waters  beat  while  he  thereto  was  lash’d ; 

At  last,  with  swimming,  wading,  scrambling,  he 
Roll’d  on  the  beach,  half-senseless,  from  the  sea  : 

CVIII. 

There,  breathless,  with  his  digging  nails  he  clung 
East  to  the  sand,  lest  the  returning  wave, 

From  whose  reluctant  roar  his  life  he  wrung, 

Should  suck  him  back  to  her  insatiate  grave : 

And  there  he  lay,  full  length,  where  he  was  flung, 
Before  the  entrance  of  a cliff-worn  cave. 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  feel  its  pain, 

And  deem  that  it  was  saved,  perhaps,  in  vain, 

cix. 

With  slow  and  staggering  effort  he  arose, 

But  sunk  again  upon  his  bleeding  knee 
And  quivering  hand ; and  then  he  look’d  for  those 
Who  long  had  been  his  mates  upon  the  sea ; 

But  none  of  them  appear’d  to  share  his  woes, 

Save  one,  a corpse,  from  out  the  famish’d  three, 
Who  died  two  days  before,  and  now  had  found 
An  unknown  barren  beach  for  burial  ground. 

cx. 

Aad  as  he  gazed,  his  dizzy  brain  spun  fast, 

And  down  he  sunk ; and  as  he  sunk,  the  sand 
Swam  round  and  round,  and  all  his  senses  pass’d : 
lie  fell  upon  his  side,  and  his  stretch’d  hand 
Droop’d  dripping  on  the  oar  (their  jury-mast), 

And,  like  a wither’d  lily,  on  the  land 
His  slender  frame  and  pallid  aspect  lay 
As  fail  a thing  as  e’er  was  form’d  of  clay. 

CXI. 

How  long  in  his  damp  trance  young  Juan  lay 
He  knew  not,  for  the  earth  was  gone  for  him, 

And  Time  had  nothing  more  of  night  nor  day 
For  his  congealing  blood,  and  senses  dim  ; 

And  how  this  heavy  faintness  pass’d  away 
He  knew  not,  till  each  painful  pulse  and  limb, 

And  tingling  vein,  seem’d  throbbing  back  to  life, 

For  Death,  though  vanquish’d,  sti/1  retired  with  strife. 

cxn. 

His  eyes  he  open’d,  shut,  again  unclosed, 

For  all  was  doubt  and  dizziness  ; he  thought 
He  still  was  in  the  boat,  and  had  but  dozed, 

And  felt  again  with  his  despair  o’erwrought, 

And  wish’d  it  death  in  which  he  had  reposed, 

And  then  once  more  his  feelings  back  were  brought. 
And  slowly  by  his  swimming  eyes  was  seen 
A lovely  female  face  of  seventeen. 


CXIII. 

’Twas  bending  close  o’er  his,  and  the  small  mouth 
Seem’d  almost  prying  into  his  for  breath  ; 

And  chafing  him,  1 he  soft  warm  hand  of  youth 
Recall’d  his  answering  spirits  back  from  death ; 
And,  bathing  his  chill  temples,  tried  to  soothe 
Each  pulse  to  animation,  till  beneath 
Its  gentle  touch  and  trembling  care,  a sigh 
To  these  kind  efforts  made  a low  reply. 

cxiv. 

Then  was  the  cordial  pour’d,  and  mantle  flung 
Around  his  scarce-clad  limbs ; and  the  fair  arm 
Raised  higher  the  faint  head  which  o’er  it  hung  ; 

And  her  transparent  cheek,  all  pure  and  warm, 
Pillow’d  his  death-like  forehead ; then  she  wrung 
His  dewy  curls,  long  drench’d  by  every  storm ; 

And  watch’d  with  eagerness  each  throb  that  drew 
A sigh  from  liis  heaved  bosom — and  hers,  too. 

cxv. 

And  lifting  him  with  care  into  the  cave. 

The  gentle  girl,  and  her  attendant, — one 
Young,  yet  her  elder,  and  of  brow  less  grave, 

And  more  robust  of  figure, — then  begun 
To -kindle  fire,  and  as  the  new  flames  gave 

Light  to  the  rocks  that  roof’d  them,  which  the  sub 
Had  never  seen,  the  maid,  or  whatsoe’er 
She  was,  appear’d  distinct,  and  tall,  and  fair. 

CXVI. 

Her  brow  was  overhung  with  coins  of  gold, 

That  sparkled  o’er  the  auburn  of  her  hair, 

Her  clustering  hair,  whose  longer  locks  were  roll’d 
In  braids  behind  ; and  though  her  stature  were 
Even  of  the  highest  for  a female  mould, 

They  nearly  reach’d  her  heel ; and  in  her  air 
There  was  a something  which  bespoke  command, 

As  one  who  was  a lady  in  the  land. 

CXVII. 

Her  hair,  I said,  was  auburn  ; but  her  eyes 
Were  black  as  death,  their  lashes  the  same  hue, 

Of  downcast  length,  in  whose  silk  shadow  lies 
Deepest  attraction  ; for  when  to  the  view 
Forth  from  its  raven  fringe  the  full  glance  flies. 

Ne’er  with  such  force  the  swiftest  arrow  flew ; 

’Tis  as  the  snake  late  coil’d,  who  pours  his  length, 
And  hurls  at  once  his  venom  and  his  strength, 
exvm. 

Her  brow  was  white  and  low,  her  cheek’s  pure  dye 
Like  twilight  rosy  still  with  the  set  sun ; 

Short  upper  lip — sweet  lips  ! that  make  us  sigh 
Ever  to  have  seen  such : for  she  was  one 
Fit  for  the  model  of  a statuary, 

(A  race  of  mere  impostors,  when  all’s  done — 

I’ve  seen  much  finer  women,  ripe  and  real,  . 

Than  all  the  nonsense  of  their  stone  ideal).1 

cxix. 

I’ll  tell  you  why  I say  so,  for  ’tis  just 

One  should  not  rail  without  a decent  cause  : 

There  was  an  Irish  lady,  to  whose  bust 
I ne’er  saw  justice  done,  and  yet  she  was 
A frequent  model ; and  if  e’er  she  must 

Yield  to  stern  Time  and  Nature’s  wrinkling  laws, 
They  will  destroy  a face  which  mortal  thought 
Ne’er  compass’d,  nor  less  mortal  chisel  wrought. 

(1)  [“A  set  of  humbug  rascals,  when  all’s  done — 

I ’ve  seen  much  finer  ivomen,  ripe  and  real, 

Than  all  the  nonsense  af  their  d d ideal.” — MS.] 


622 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CAN  TO  IL 


CXX. 

And  such  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  cave  : 

Her  dress  was  very  different  from  the  Spanish, 
Simpler,  and  yet  of  colours  not  so  grave  ; 

For,  as  you  know,  the  Spanish  women  banish 
Bright  hues  when  out  of  doors,  and  yet,  while  wave 
Around  them  (what  I hope  will  never  vanish) 

'Hie  basquixa  and  the  mantilla,  they 
Seem  at  the  same  time  mystical  and  gay. 

cxxi. 

But  with  our  damsel  this  was  not  the  case  : 

Her  dress  was  many-colour’ d,  finely  spun  ; 

Her  locks  curl’d  negligently  round  her  face, 

But  through  them  gold  and  gems  profusely  shone  : 
Her  girdle  sparkled,  and  the  richest  lace 

Flow’d  in  her  veil,  and  many  a precious  stone 
Flash’d  on  her  little  hand  ; but,  what  was  shocking, 
Her  small  snow  feet  had  slippers,  but  no  stocking. 

cxxn. 

The  other  female’s  dress  was  not  unlike, 

But  of  inferior  materials  : she 
Had  not  so  many  ornaments  to  strike, 

Her  hair  had  silver  only,  bound  to  be 
Her  dowry  ; and  her  veil,  in  form  alike, 

Was  coarser ; and  her  air,  though  firm,  less  free; 
Her  hair  was  thicker,  but  less  long ; her  eyes 
As  black,  but  quicker,  and  of  smaller  size. 

cxxi  1 1. 

And  these  two  tended  him,  and  cheer’d  him  both 
With  food  and  raiment,  and  those  soft  attentions, 
Which  are — (as  I must  own) — of  female  growth, 

And  have  ten  thousand  delicate  inventions  : 

They  made  a most  superior  mess  of  broth, 

A thing  which  poesy  but  seldom  mentions, 

But  the  best  dish  that  e’er  was  cook’d  since  Homer’s 
Achilles  ordered  dinner  for  new  comers. 

cxxiv. 

I’ll  tell  you  who  they  were,  this  female  pair, 

Lest  they  should  seem  princesses  in  disguise  ; 
Besides,  I hate  all  mystery,  and  that  air 
Of  clap-trap,  which  your  recent  poets  prize  ; 

And  so,  in  short,  the  girls  they  really  were 
They  shall  appear  before  your  curious  eyes, 
Mistress  and  maid ; the  first  was  only  daughter 
Of  an  old  man,  who  lived  upon  the  water. 

cxxv. 

A fisherman  he  had  been  in  his  youth. 

And  still  a sort  of  fisherman  was  he ; 

But  other  speculations  were,  in  sooth, 

Added  to  his  connexion  with  the  sea, 

Perhaps'not  so  respectable,  in  truth  : 

A little  smuggling,  and  some  piracy, 

Left  him,  at  last,  the  sole  of  many  masters 
Of  an  ill-gotten  million  of  piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A fisher,  therefore,  was  he,— though  of  men, 

Like  Peter  the  Apostle, — and  he  fish’d 
For  wandering  merchant-vessels,  now  and  then, 

And  sometimes  caught  as  many  as  he  wish’d ; 

The  cargoes  lie  confiscated,  and  gain 

He  sought  in  the  slave-market  too,  and  dish’d 
Full  many  a morsel  for  that  Turkish  trade. 

By  which,  no  doubt,  a good  deal  may  be  made. 


CXXVII. 

He  was  a Greek,  and  on  his  isle  had  built 
(One  of  the  wild  and  smaller  Cyclades) 

A very  handsome  house  from  out  his  guilt, 

And  there  he  lived  exceedingly  at  ease ; 

Heaven  knows  what  cash  he  got  or  blood  he  spilt, 

A sad  old  fellow  was  he,  if  you  please  ; 

But  this  I know,  it  was  a spacious  building, 

Full  of  bc^baric  carving,  paint,  and  gilding. 

CXXV1II. 

He  had  an  only  daughter,  call’d  Haidee, 

The  greatest  heiress  of  the  Eastern  Isles ; 

Besides,  so  very  beautiful  wa^  she, 

Her  dowry  was  as  nothing  to  her  smiles : 

Still  in  her  teens,  and  like  a lovely  tree, 

She  grew  to  womanhood,  and  between  whiles 
Rejected  several  suitors,  just  to  learn 
How  to  accept  a better  in  his  turn. 

CXXIX. 

And  walking  out  upon  the  beach,  below 

The  cliff,  towards  sunset,  on  that  day  she  found, 
Insensible, — not  dead,  but  nearly  so, — 

Don  Juan,  almost  famish’d,  and  half  drown’d  ; 

But  being  naked,  she  was  shock’d,  you  know 
Yet  deem’d  herself  in  common  pity  bound, 

As  far  as  in  her  lay,  “ to  take  him  in, 

A stranger”  dying,  with  so  white  a skin, 

CXXX. 

But  taking  him  into  her  father’s  house 
Was  not  exactly  the  best  way  to  save, 

But  like  conveying  to  the  cat  the  mouse. 

Or  people  in  a trance  into  their  grave  ; 

Because  the  good  old  man  had  so  much  “ vovs ,” 
Unlike  the  honest  Arab  thieves  so  brave, 

He  would  have  hospitably  cured  the  stranger, 

And  sold  him  instantly  when  out  of  danger. 

CXXXI. 

And  therefore,  with  her  maid,  she  thought  it  besi 
(A  virgin  always  on  her  maid  relies) 

To  place  him  in  the  cave  for  present  rest : 

And  when,  at  last,  he  open’d  his  black  eyes, 

Their  charity  increased  about  their  guest ; 

And  their  compassion  grew  to  such  a size, 

It  open’d  half  the  turnpike-gates  to  heaven — • 

(St.  Paul  says,  ’tis  the  toll  which  must  be  given.) 

CXXXII. 

They  made  a fire, — but  such  a fire  as  they 
Upon  the  moment  could  contrive  with  such 
Materials  as  were  cast  up  round  the  bay, — 

Some  broken  planks,  and  oars,  that  to  the  touch 
Were  nearly  tinder,  since  so  long  they  lay 
A mast  was  almost  crumbled  to  a crutch  ; 

But,  by  God’s  grace,  here  wrecks  were  in  such  plenty, 
That  there  was  fuel  to  have  furnish’d  twenty. 

CXXXIII. 

He  had  a bed  of  furs,  and  a pelisse, 

For  Haidee  stripp’d  her  sables  off  to  make 
His  couch ; and,  that  he  might  be  more  at  ease, 

And  warm,  in  case  by  chance  he  should  awake. 
They  also  gave  a petticoat  apiece,1 

She  and  her  maid, — and  promised  oy  daybreak 
To  pay  him  a fresh  visit,  with  a dish 
For  breakfast,  of  eggs,  coffee,  bread,  and  fish. 

(1)  [“And  such  a bed  of  furs,  and  a pelisse.”— MS.] 


RAN  TO  II. 


DON  JUAN. 


62^ 


CXXX1V. 

A.nd  thus  they  left  him  to  his  lone  repose : 

Juan  slept  like  a top,  or  like  the  dead, 

Who  sleep  at  last,  perhaps  (God  only  knows), 

Just  for  the  present ; and  in  his  lull’d  head 
Not  even  a vision  of  his  former  woes  [spread1 

Throbb’d  in  accursed  dreams,  which  sometimes 
Unwelcome  visions  of  our  former  years, 

Till  the  eye,  cheated,  opens  thick  with  tears. 

cxxxv. 

Young  Juan  slept  all  dreamless  : — but  the  maid. 

Who  smooth’d  his  pillow,  as  she  lett  the  den 
Look’d  back  upon  him,  and  a moment  stay’d, 

And  turn’d,  believing  that  he  call’d  again. 

He  slumber’d ; yet  she  thought,  at  least  she  said 
(The  heart  will  slip,  even  as  the  tongue  and  pen), 
lie  had  pronounced  her  name — but  she  forgot 
That  at  this  moment  Juan  knew  it  not. 

cxxxv  i. 

And  pensive  to  her  father’s  house  she  went, 

Enjoying  silence  strict  to  Zoe,  who 
Better  than  her  knew  what,  in  fact,  she  meant. 

She  being  wiser  by  a year  or  two  : 

A year  or  two’s  an  age  when  rightly  spent, 

And  Zoe  spent  hers,  as  most  women  do, 

In  gaining  all  that  useful  sort  ol  knowledge 
Which  is  acquired  in  Nature’s  good  old  college. 

CXXXVII. 

The  morn  broke,  and  found  Juan  slumbering  still 
East  in  his  cave,  and  nothing  clash’d  upon 
His  rest ; the  rushing  of  the  neighbouring  rill, 

And  the  young  beams  of  the  excluded  sun, 

Troubled  him  not,  and  he  might  sleep  his  fill; 

And  need  he  had  of  slumber  yet,  for  none 
Had  suffer’d  more— his  hardships  were  comparative2 3 
To  those  related  in  my  grand-dad’s  “Narrative. 

CXXXVIII. 

Not  so  Haidee  : she  sadly  toss  d and  tumbled, 

And  started  from  her  sleep,  and,  turning  o er, 
Drcam’d  of  a thousand  wrecks,  o’er  which  she  stumbled, 
And  handsome  corpses  strew’d  upon  the  shore  ; 
And  woke  her  maid  so  early  that  she  grumbled, 

And  call’d  her  father’s  old  slaves  up,  who  swore 
In  several  oaths — Armenian,  Turk,  and  Greek 
They  knew  not  what  to  think  of  such  a freak. 

CXXXIX. 

But  up  she  got,  and  up  she  made  them  get, 

With  some  pretence  about  the  sun,  that  makes 
Sweet  skies  just  when  he  rises,  or  is  set ; 

And  ’tis,  no  doubt,  a sight  to  see  when  breaks 


(1)  [ “ which  often  spread, 

And  come  like  opening  hell  upon  the  mind, 

No  ‘baseless  fabric,’  but  ‘a  wreck  behind.’  ” — MS.] 

(t)  [“  Had  e’er  escaped  more  dangers  on  the  deep ; — 

And  those  who  are  not  drown’d,  at  least  may  sleep.” — M 8.J 

(3)  [Entitled  “ A Narrative  of  the  Honourable  John  Byron, 
(Commodore  in  a late  expedition  round  the  world),  containing  an 
account  of  the  great  distresses  suffered  by"  himself  and  his  com- 
panions on  the  coast  of  Patagonia,  from  the  year  1740,  till  their 
arrival  in  England,  1746;  written  by  Himself.”  This  narrative, 
one  of  the  most  interesting  that  ever  appeared,  was  published  in 

(4)  \“  Wore  for  a husband — or  some  such  like  brute.” — MS.] 

(5)  [ “ although  of  late 

I’ve  changed,  for  some  few  years,  the  day  to  night.  —MS.] 

(6)  [“  In  the  year  1784,  Dr.  Franklin  published  a most  ingenious 

essay  oil  the  advantages  of  early  rising,  as  a mere  piece  of  economy. 


Bright  Phoebus,  while  the  mountains  still  are  wet 
With  mist,  and  every  bird  with  him  awakes, 

And  night  is  flung  off  like  a mourning  suit 
Worn  for  a husband, — or  some  other  brute.4 

CXL. 

I say,  the  sun  is  a most  glorious  sight, 

I’ve  seen  him  rise  full  oft,  indeed  of  late 
I have  sat  up  on  purpose  all  the  night,5 

Which  hastens,  as  physicians  say,  one’s  fate  ; 

And  so  all  ye,  who  would  be  in  the  right 
In  health  and  purse,6  begin  your  day  to  date 
Erom  daybreak,  and  when  coffin’d  at  fourscore, 
Engrave  upon  the  plate,  you  rose  at  four.7 

CXLI. 

And  Haidee  met  the  morning  face  to  face ; 

Her  own  was  freshest,  though  a feverish  flush 
Had  dyed  it  with  the  headlong  blood,  whose  race 
Erom  heart  to  cheek  is  curb’d  into  a blush, 

Like  to  a torrent  which  a mountain’s  base, 

That  overpowers  some  Alpine  river’s  rush, 

Checks  to  a lake,  whose  waves  in  circles  spread  ; 

Or  the  Red  Sea — but  the  sea  is  not  red.8 

CXLII. 

And  down  the  cliff  the  island  virgin  came, 

And  near  the  cave  her  quick  light  footsteps  drew, 
While  the  sun  smiled  on  her  with  his  first  flame, 

And  young  Aurora  kiss’d  her  lips  with  dew. 

Taking  her  for  a sister  ; just  the  same 

Mistake  you  would  have  made  on  seeing  the  two. 
Although  the  mortal,  quite  as  fresh  and  fair, 

Had  all  the  advantage,  too,  of  not  being  air.9 

CXLIII. 

And  when  into  the  cavern  Haidee  stepp’d 
All  timidly,  yet  rapidly,  she  saw 
That  like  an  infant  J uan  sweetly  slept ; 

And  then  she  stopp’d,  and  stood  as  if  in  awe 
(Eor  sleep  is  awful),  and  on  tiptoe  crept 
And  wrapt  him  closer,  lest  the  air,  too  raw. 

Should  reach  his  blood,  then  o’er  him  still  as  death 
Bent,  with  hush’d  lips,  that  drank  his  scarce-drawn 
breath. 

CXLIV. 

And  thus  like  to  an  angel  o’er  the  dying 

Who  die  in  righteousness,  she  lean’d ; and  there 
All  tranquilly  the  shipwreck’d  boy  was  lying, 

As  o’er  him  lay  the  calm  and  stirless  air : 

But  Zoe  the  meantime  some  eggs  was  frying, 

Since,  after  all,  no  doubt  the  youthful  pair 
Must  breakfast,  and  betimes — lest  they  should  ask  it, 
She  drew  out  her  provision  from  the  basket. 


He  estimates  the  saving  that  might  be  made  m Paris  alone,  by 
using  sunshine  instead  of  candles,  at  ninety-six  millions  ot  .trench 
livres,  or  four  millions  sterling  per  annum."—  H i ll.] 

(7)  [“The  plan  of  going  to  bed  early,  and  rising  betimes,  lias 
been  called  the  golden  rule  for  the  attainment  of  health  and  long 
life.  It  is  sanctioned  by  various  proverbial  expressions;  and  when 
old  people  have  been  examined,  regarding  the  causes  of  their  „ong 
life,  they  uniformly  agreed  in  one  particular,— that  they  went  to 
bed  early,  and  rose  early.” — Sir  John  Sinclair.] 

(8)  [“  My  opinion  is,  that  it  is  from  the  large  trees  or  plants  ot 
coral,  spread  everywhere  over  the  bottom  of  the  Red  Sea,  peuectly 
in  imitation  of  plants  on  land,  that  it  has  obtained  this  name.  — 
Brice.] 

(9)  [ “just  the  same 

As  at  this  moment  1 should  like  to  do  ;— 

But  I have  done  with  kisses— -having  kiss'd 

All  those  that  would — regretting  those  I miss’d.  MS.J 


G24 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CAKVO  Tl. 


CXLV. 

She  knew  tnat  the  best  feelings  must  have  victual, 
And  that  a shipwreck’d  youth  would  hungry  be  ; 
Besides,  being  less  in  love,  she  yawn’d  a little, 

And  felt  her  veins  chill’d  by  the  neighbouring  sea; 
And  so,  she  cook’d  their  breakfast  to  a tittle ; 

I can’t  say  that  she  gave  them  any  tea, 

But  there  were  eggs,  fruit,  coffee,  bread,  fish,  honey, 
With  Scio  wine, — and  all  for  love,  not  money. 

CXLVI. 

And  Zoe,  when  the  eggs  were  ready,  and 

The  coffee  made,  would  fain  have  waken’d  Juan ; 
But  Haidee  stopp’d  her  with  her  quick  small  hand, 
And  without  word,  a sign  her  finger  drew  on 
Her  lip,  which  Zoe  needs  must  understand ; 

And,  the  first  breakfast  spoilt,  prepared  a new  one, 
Because  her  mistress  would  not  let  her  break 
That  sleep  which  seem’d  as  it  would  ne’er  awake. 

CXLVII. 

For  still  he  lay,  and  on  his  thin  worn  cheek 
A purple  hectic  play’d  like  dying  day 
On  the  snow-tops  of  distant  hills  ; the  streak 

Of  sufferance  yet  upon  his  forehead  lay,  [weak  ; 
Where  the  blue  veins  look’d  shadowy,  shrunk,  and 
And  his  black  curls  were  dewy  with  the  spray. 
Which  weigh’d  upon  them  yet,  all  damp  and  salt. 
Mix’d  with  the  stony  vapours  of  the  vault. 

CXLVIII. 

And  she  bent  o’er  him,  and  he  lay  beneath, 

Hush’d  as  the  babe  upon  its  mother’s  breast, 
Droop’d  as  the  willow  when  no  winds  can  breathe, 
Lull’d  like  the  depth  of  ocean  when  at  rest. 

Fair  as  the  crowning  rose  of  the  whole  wreath, 

Soft  as  the  callow  cygnet  in  its  nest 
In  short,  he  was  a very  pretty  fellow, 

Although  his  woes  had  turn’d  him  rather  yellow. 

CXLIX. 

He  woke  and  gazed,  and  would  have  slept  again. 

But  the  fair  face  which  met  his  eyes  forbade 
Those  eyes  to  close,  though  weariness  and  pain 
Had  further  sleep  a further  pleasure  made ; 

For  woman’s  face  was  never  form’d  in  vain 
For  J uan,  so  that  even  when  he  pray’d 
He  turn’d  from  grisly  saints,  and  martyrs  hairy, 

To  the  sweet  portraits  of  the  Virgin  Mary. 

CL. 

And  thus  upon  his  elbow  he  arose, 

And  look’d  upon  the  lady,  in  whose  cheek 
The  pale  contended  with  the  purple  rose, 

As  with  an  effort  she  began  to  speak  ; 

Her  eyes  were  eloquent,  her  words  would  pose, 
Although  she  told  him,  in  good  modern  Greek, 
With  an  Ionian  accent,  low  and  sweet, 

That,  he  was  faint,  and  must  not  talk,  but  eat. 

CLI. 

Now  Juan  could  not  understand  a word, 

Being  no  Grecian  ; but  he  had  an  ear, 

And  her  voice  was  the  warble  of  a bird, 

So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  delicately  clear, 

That  finer,  simpler  music  ne’er  was  heard  ;2 

The  sort  of  sound  we  echo  with  a tear, 

Without  knowing  why — an  overpowering  tone, 
Whence  Melody  descends  as  from  a throne. 


(1)  [“  Fair  as  the  rose  just  pluck’d  to  crown  the  wreath, 
Soft  as  the  unfledged  birdling  when  at  rest.” — MS.] 


cm. 

And  Juan  gazed  as  one  who  is  awoke 
By  a distant  organ,  doubting  if  he  be 
Not  yet  a dreamer,  till  the  spell  is  broke 
By  the  watchman,  or  some  such  reality. 

Or  by  one’s  early  valet’s  cursed  knock  ; 

At  least  it  is  a heavy  sound  to  me, 

Who  like  a morning  slumber — for  the  night 
Shows  stars  and  women  in  a better  light. 

CLIII. 

And  Juan,  too,  was  help’d  out  from  his  dream. 

Or  sleep,  or  whatsoe’er  it  was,  by  feeling 
A most  prodigious  appetite  : the  steam 
Of  Zoe’s  cookery  no  doubt  was  stealing 
Upon  his  senses,  and  the  kindling  beam 

Of  the  new  fire,  which  Zoe  kept  up,  kneeling. 

To  stir  her  viands,  made  him  quite  awake 
And  long  for  food,  but  chiefly  a beef-steak. 

CLIV. 

But  beef  is  rare  within  these  oxless  isles ; 

Goat’s  flesh  there  is,  no  doubt,  and  kid,  and  mutton 
And,  when  a holiday  upon  them  smiles, 

A joint  upon  their  barbarous  spits  they  put  on  : 
But  this  occurs  but  seldom,  between  whiles. 

For  some  of  these  are  rocks  with  scarce  a hut  on, 
Others  are  fair  and  fertile,  among  which 
This,  though  not  large,  was  one  of  the  most  rich. 

CLV. 

I say  that  beef  is  rare,  and  can’t  help  thinking 
That  the  old  fable  of  the  Minotaur — 

From  which  our  modern  morals,  rightly  shrinking. 
Condemn  the  royal  lady’s  taste  who  wore 
A cow’s  shape  for  a mask — was  only  (sinking 
The  allegory)  a mere  type,  no  more, 

That  Pasiphae  promoted  breeding  cattle, 

To  make  the  Cretans  bloodier  in  battle. 

CLVI. 

For  we  all  know  that  English  people  are 
Fed  upon  beef — I won’t  say  much  of  beer, 
Because  ’tis  liquor  only,  and  being  far 

From  this  my  subject,  has  no  business  here ; 

We  know,  too,  they  are  very  fond  of  war, 

A pleasure — like  all  pleasures — rather  dear ; 

So  were  the  Cretans — from  which  I infer, 

That  beef  and  battles  both  were  owing  to  her. 

CLVII. 

But  to  resume.  The  languid  Juan  raised 
His  head  upon  his  elbow,  and  he  saw 
A sight  on  which  he  had  not  lately  gazed. 

As  all  his  latter  meals  had  been  quite  raw, 

Three  or  four  things,  for  which  the  Lord  he  praised. 
And,  feeling  still  the  famish’d  vulture  gnaw, 

He  fell  upon  whate’er  was  offer’d,  like 
A priest,  a shark,  an  alderman,  or  pike. 

CLVIII. 

He  ate,  and  he  was  well  supplied : and  she, 

Who  watch’d  him  like  a mother,  would  have  fed 
Him  past  all  bounds,  because  she  smiled  to  see 
Such  appetite  in  one  she  had  deem’d  dead : 

But  Zoe,  being  older  than  Haidee, 

Knew  (by  tradition,  for  she  ne’er  had  read) 

That  famish’d  people  must  be  slowly  nurst, 

And  fed  by  spoonfuls,  else  they  always  burst. 

(2)  [“  That  finer  melody  was  never  heard, 

The  kind  of  sound  whose  echo  is  a tear, 
ose  accents  are  the  steps  of  Music’s  throne.” — MS.] 


CA.NTO  II. 


DON  JUAN. 


025 


CLIX. 

And  so  she  took  the  liberty  to  state, 

Rather  by  deeds  than  words,  because  the  case 
Was  urgent,  that  the  gentleman,  whose  fate 
Had  made  her  mistress  quit  her  bed  to  trace 
The  sea-shore  at  this  hour,  must  leave  his  plate. 
Unless  he  wish’d  to  die  upon  the  place — 

She  snatch’d  it,  and  refused  another  morsel, 

Saying,  he  had  gorged  enough  to  make  a horse  ill. 

CLX. 

Next  they — he  being  naked,  save  a tatter’d 
Pair  of  scarce  decent  trousers— went  to  work, 
And  in  the  fire  his  recent  rags  they  scatter’d, 

And  dress’d  him,  for  the  present,  like  a Turk, 

Or  Greek — that  is,  although  it  not  much  matter’d, 
Omitting  turban,  slippers,  pistols,  dirk, — 

They  furnish’d  him,  entire,  except  some  stitches, 
With  a clean  shirt,  and  very  spacious  breeches. 

CLXI. 

And  then  fair  Haidee  tried  her  tongue  at  speaking, 
But  not  a word  could  J nan  comprehend, 
Although  he  listen’d  so  that  the  young  Greek  in 
Her  earnestness  would  ne’er  have  made  an  end; 
And,  as  he  interrupted  not,  went  eking 
Her  speech  out  to  her  protege  and  friend. 

Till  pausing  at  the  last  her  breath  to  take. 

She  saw  he  did  not  understand  Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And  then  she  had  recourse  to  nods,  and  signs, 

. And  smiles,  and  sparkles  of  the  speaking  eye, 
And  read  (the  only  book  she  could)  the  lines 
Of  his  fair  face,  and  found,  by  sympathy, 

The  answer  eloquent,  where  the  soul  shines 
And  darts  in  one  quick  glance  a long  reply ; 

And  thus  in  every  look  she  saw  exprest 
A world  of  words,  and  things  at  which  she  guess’d. 

CLXIII. 

And  now,  by  dint  of  fingers  and  of  eyes. 

And  words  repeated  after  her,  he  took 
A lesson  in  her  tongue  ; but  by  surmise, 

No  doubt,  less  of  her  language  than  her  look  : 

As  he  who  studies  fervently  the  skies 

Turns  oftener  to  the  stars  than  to  his  book, 

Thus  Juan  learn’ d his  alpha  beta  better 
Prom  Haidee’s  glance  than  any  graven  letter. 

CLXIV. 

’Tis  pleasing  to  be  school’d  in  a strange  tongue 
By  female  lips  and  eyes — that  is,  I mean, 

When  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught  are  young, 
As  was  the  case,  at  least,  where  1 have  been ; 1 


(1)  [When  at  Seville  in  1809,  T.ord  Byron  lodged  in  the  house  of 
two  unmarried  ladies ; and  in  h;s  di  ry  he  describes  himself  as 
having  made  earnest  love  to  the  younger  of  them,  with  the  help  of 
a dictionary.  “ For  some  time,”  he  says,  “ I went  on  prosperously, 
both  as  a linguist  and  a lover,  till,  at  length,  the  lady  took  a fancy 
to  a ring  which  I wore,  and  set  her  heart  on  my  giving  it  to  her,  as 
•t  pledge  of  my  sincerity.  This,  however,  could  not  be ; — any  thing 
but  the  ring,  I declared,  was  at  her  service,  and  much  more  than 
its  value, — but  the  ring  itself  I had  made  a vow  never  to  give 
away.”] 

(2)  [“  In  1813,  I formed,  in  the  fashionable  world  of  London,  an 
item,  a fraction,  the  segment  of  a circle,  the  unit  of  a million,  the 
nothing  of  something.  I had  been  the  lion  of  1812.” — Byron 
Diary,  1821.] 

i (3)  [“  Foes,  friends,  sex,  kind,  are  nothing  more  to  me 

Thau  a mere  dream  of  something  o’er  the  sea.” — MS.] 


They  smile  so  when  one’s  rig  it,  and  when  one’s  wrong 
They  smile  still  more,  ana  then  there  intervene 
Pressure  of  hands,  perhaps  even  a chaste  kiss ; — 

I learn’ d the  little  that  I know  by  this : 

CLXV. 

That  is,  some  words  of  Spanish,  Turk,  and  Green 
Italian  not  at  all,  having  no  teachers  ; 

Much  English  I cannot  pretend  to  speak, 

Learning  that  language  chiefly  from  its  preachers. 
Burrow,  South,  Tillotson,  whom  every  week 
I study,  also  Blair,  the  highest  reachers 
Of  eloquence  in  piety  and  prose — 

I hate  your  poets,  so  read  none  of  those. 

CLXVI. 

As  for  the  ladies,  I have  nought  to  say, 

A wanderer  from  the  British  world  of  fashion,3 
Where  I,  like  other  “ dogs,  have  had  my  day,” 

Like  other  men,  too,  may  have  had  my  passion — 
But  that,  like  other  things,  has  pass’d  away, 

And  all  her  fools  whom  I could  lay  the  lash  on : 
Poes,  friends,  men,  women,  now  are  nought  to  me. 
But  dreams  of  what  has  been,  no  more  to  be.3 

CLXVII. 

Return  we  to  Don  Juan.  He  begun 

To  hear  new  words,  and  to  repeat  them  ; but 
Some  feelings,  universal  as  the  sun. 

Were  such  as  could  not  in  his  breast  be  shut 
More  than  within  the  bosom  of  a nun  : 

He  was  in  love, — as  you  would  be,  no  doubt. 

With  a young  benefactress, — so  was  she, 

Just  in  the  way  we  very  often  see. 

CLXVIII. 

And  every  day  by  daybreak — rather  early 
Por  Juan,  who  was  somewhat  fond  of  rest — 

She  came  into  the  cave,  but  it  was  merely 
To  see  her  bird  reposing  in  his  nest ; 

And  she  would  softly  stir  his  locks  so  curiy, 

Without  disturbing  her  yet  slumbering  guest, 
Breathing  all  gently  o’er  his  cheek  and  mouth,4 
As  o’er  a bed  of  roses  the  sweet  south. 

CLXIX. 

And  every  morn  his  colour  freshlier  came, 

And  every  day  help’d  on  his  convalescence  ; 

’Twas  well,  because  health  in  the  human  frame 
Is  pleasant,  besides  being  true  love’s  essence, 

Por  health  and  idleness  to  passion’s  flame 

Are  oil  and  gunpowder  ; and  some  good  lessons 
Are  also  learnt  from  Ceres  and  from  Bacchus, 
Without  whom  Yenus  will  not  long  attack  us.5 


(4)  [“  Holding  her  sweet  breath  o’er  his  cheek  and  mouth, 

As  o’er  a bed  of  roses,”  &c. — MS.] 

(5)  [Doctors  are  not  unanimous  as  to  this  conclusion.  Ovid,  in- 
deed,  who  is  good  authority  here,  has  said — 

“ Et  Venus  in  vinis,  ignis  in  igne  fuit;” 
but  he  qualifies  this  presumption  in  another  place,  by  recommend- 
ing moderation  in  our  cups;  for  wine,  saith  he,  is  to  iove,  what 
wind  is  to  flame; 

“ Nascitur  in  vento.  vento  restringuitur  ignis, 

Lenis  alit  flammam,  grandior  aura  necat:” 
but  Aristophanes  also,  before  Ovid,  had  christened  wine,  “ the 
milk  of  Venus.”  But  Athenaeus  ascribes  the  chastity  of  Alexander 
to  his  excessive  compotations ; and  Montaigne  supports  the  argu- 
ment of  Athenaeus,  by  the  converse  of  the  same  proposition,  when 
he  attributes  the  successful  gallantries  of  his  cotemporaries  to^heic 
temperance  in  the  use  of  wine. — Rev.  C.  Colton.] 

4 L 


(i26 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XI. 


CLXX. 

W.'iile  Yenus  fills  the  heart,  (without  heart  reallv 
Love,  though  good  always,  is  not  quite  so  good,) 
Ceres  presents  a plate  of  vermicelli, — 

For  love  must  be  sustain’d  like  flesh  and  blood, — 
While  Bacchus  pours  out  wine,  or  hands  a jelly : 
Eggs,  oysters,  too,  are  amatory  food  : 1 
But  who  is  their  purveyor  from  above 
Heaven  knows, — it  may  be  Neptune,  Pan,  or  Jove. 

CLXXI. 

When  Juan  woke  he  found  some  good  things  ready, 
A bath,  a breakfast,  and  the  finest  eyes 
That  ever  made  a youthful  heart  less  steady, 

Besides  her  maid’s,  as  pretty  for  their  size  ; 

But  I have  spoken  of  all  this  already — 

And  repetition’s  tiresome  and  unwise, — 

Well — Juan,  after  bathing  in  the  sea, 

Came  always  back  to  coffee  and  Haidee. 

CLXXII. 

Both  were  so  young,  and  one  so  innocent, 

That  bathing  pass’d  for  nothing  ; Juan  seem’d 
To  her,  as  ’twere,  the  kind  of  being  sent, 

Of  whom  these  two  years  she  had  nightly  dream’d, 
A something  to  be  loved,  a creature  meant 
To  be  her  happiness,  and  whom  she  deem’d 
To  render  happy  ; ail  who  joy  would  win 
Must  share  it, — Happiness  was  born  a twin.2 

CLXX1II. 

It  was  such  pleasure  to  behold  him,  such 
Enlargement  of  existence  to  partake 
Nature  with  him,  to  thrill  beneath  his  touch, 

To  watch  him  slumbering,  and  to  see  him  wake ; 
To  live  with  him  for  ever  were  too  much ; 

But  then  the  thought  of  parting  made  her  quake  : 
He  was  her  own,  her  ocean-treasure,  cast 
Like  a rich  wreck — her  first  love,  and  her  last.3 

CLXXIV. 

And  thus  a moon  roll’d  on,  and  fair  Haidee 
Paid  daily  visits  to  her  boy,  and  took 
Such  plentiful  precautions,  that  still  he 
Remain’d  unknown  within  his  craggy  nook ; 

At  last  her  father’s  prows  put  out  to  sea, 

For  certain  merchantmen  upon  the  look. 

Not  as  of  yore  to  carry  off  an  Io, 

But  three  Ragusan  vessels,  bound  for  Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then  came  her  freedom,  for  she  had  no  mother. 

So  that,  her  father  being  at  sea,  she  was 
Free  as  a married  woman,  or  such  other 
Female,  as  where  she  likes  may  freely  pass, 
Without  even  the  incumbrance  of  a brother, 

The  freest  she  that  ever  gazed  on  glass  ; 

I speak  of  Christian  lands  in  this  comparison, 

Where  wives,  at  least,  are  seldom  kept  in  garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now  she  prolong’d  her  visits  and  her  talk 

(For  they  must  talk),  and  he  had  learnt  to  say 
So  much  as  to  propose  to  take  a walk, — 

For  little  had  he  wander’d  since  the  day 


(1)  [“  For  without  heart  love  is  not  quite  so  good ; 

Ceres  is  commissary  to  our  bellies, 

And  love,  which  also  much  depends  on  food, 

While  Bacchus  will  provide  with  wine  and  jellies, 

Oysters  and  eggs  are  also  living  food.” — MS.] 
i;  f * Lord  Byron  appears  to  have  worked  up  no  part  of  his 
poem  with  so  much  beauty  and  life  of  description,  as  that  which 
narrates  the  loves  of  Juau  and  Haidee.  Whether  it  be  an  episode, 


On  which,  like  a young  flower  snapp’d  from  the  stalk 
Drooping  and  dewy  on  the  beach  he  lay, — 

And  thus  they  walk’d  out  in  the  afternoon, 

And  saw  the  sun  set  opposite  the  moon. 

CLXXVII. 

It  was  a wild  and  breaker-beaten  coast, 

With  cliffs  above,  and  a broad  sandy  shore, 
Guarded  by  shoals  and  rocks  as  by  an  host, 

With  here  and  there  a creek,  whose  aspect  wore 
A better  welcome  to  the  tempest-tost ; 

And  rarely  ceased  the  haughty  billow’s  roar, 

Save  on  the  dead  long  summer  days,  which  make 
The  outstretch’d  ocean  glitter  like  a lake. 

CLXXVIII. 

And  the  small  ripple  spilt  upon  the  beach 

Scarcely  o’erpass’d  the  cream  of  your  champagne, 
When  o’er  the  brim  the  sparkling  bumpers  reach, 
That  spring-dew  of  the  spirit ! the  heart’s  rain ! 
Few  things  surpass  old  wine ; and  they  may  preacli 
Who  please, — the  more  because  they  preach  in 
vain, — 

Let  ns  have  wine  and  women,  mirth  and  laughter. 
Sermons  and  soda-water  the  day  after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man,  being  reasonable,  must  get  drunk ; 

The  best  of  life  is  but  intoxication  : 

Glory,  the  grape,  love,  gold,  in  these  are  sunk 
The  hopes  of  all  men,  and  of  every  nation  ; 

Without  their  sap,  how  branchless  were  the  trunK 
Of  life’s  strange  tree,  so  fruitful  on  occasion : 

But  to  return, — Get  very  drunk  ; and  when 
You  wake  with  headach,  you  shall  see  what  then. 

CLXXX. 

Ring  for  your  valet — bid  him  quickly  bring 
Some  hock  and  soda-water,  then  you’ll  know 
A pleasure  worthy  Xerxes  the  great  king  ; 

For  not  the  blest  sherbet,  sublimed  with  snow. 

Nor  the  first  sparkle  of  the  desert-spring, 

Nor  Burgundy  in  all  its  sunset  glow,4 
After  long  travel,  ennui,  love,  or  slaughter, 

Yie  with  that  draught  of  hock  and  soda-water. 

CLXXXI. 

The  coast — I think  it  was  the  coast  that  I 
Was  just  describing — Yes,  it  was  the  coast — 

Lay  at  this  period  quiet  as  the  sky, 

The  sands  untumbled,  the  blue  waves  untost. 

And  all  was  stillness,  save  the  sea-bird’s  cry, 

And  dolphin’s  leap,  and  little  billow  crost 
By  some  low  rock  or  shelve,  that  made  it  fret 
Against  the  boundary  it  scarcely  wet. 

CLXXXI  I. 

And  forth  they  wander’d,  her  sire  being  gone. 

As  I have  said,  upon  an  expedition ; 

I And  mother,  brother,  guardian,  she  had  none, 

Save  Zoe,  who,  although  with  due  precision 
She  waited  on  her  lady  with  the  sun, 

Thought  daily  service  was  her  only  mission, 
Bringing  warm  water,  wreathing  her  long  tresses. 

And  asking  now  and  then  for  cast-off  dresses. 


or  an  integral  part  of  his  epic,  it  is  well  worth  all  the  rest.'  — 

Brydges] 

(3)  [“  He  was  her  own,  her  ocean-lover,  cast 

To  be  her  soul’s  first  idol,  and  its  last.” — MS.] 

(4)  [“  A pleasure  nought  but  drunkenness  can  bring? 

For  not  the  blest  sherbet  all  chill’d  with  snow, 

Nor  the  full  sparkle  of  the  desert-spring, 

Nor  wine  in  all  the  purple  of  its  gliw.” — MS.] 


canto  ri. 


DON  JUAN. 


G 2 7 


CLXXXIII. 

It  was  ihe  cooling  hour,  just  when  the  i ounded 
liect  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  azure  lull, 

Which  then  seems  as  if  the  whole  earth  it  bounded. 
Circling  all  nature,  hush’d,  and  dim,  and  still, 

With  the  far  mountain-crescent  half  surrounded 
On  one  side,  and  the  deep  sea  calm  and  chill 
Upon  the  other,  and  the  rosy  sky. 

With  one  star  sparkling  through  it  like  an  eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  thus  they  wander’d  lortli,  and  hand  in  hand, 

Over  the  shining  pebbles  apd  the  shells. 

Glided  along  the  smooth  and  harden’d  sand, 

And  in  the  worn  and  wild  receptacles 
Work’d  by  the  storms,  yet  work’d  as  it  w-ere  plann  d, 

In  hollow  halls,  with  sparry  roofs  and  cells, 

They  turn’d  to  rest ; and,  each  clasp’d  by  an  arm, 
Yielded  to  the  deep  twilight’s  purple  charm. 

CLXXXV . 

Thev  look’d  up  to  the  sky,  whose  floating  glow 
Spread  like  a rosy  ocean,  vast  and  bright ; 

They  gazed  upon  the  glittering  sea  below, 

Whence  the  broad  moon  rose  circling  into  sight ; 
Tliev  heard  the  waves’  splash,  and  the  wind  so  low, 
And  saw  each  other’s  dark  eyes  darting  light 
Into  each  other— and,  beholding  this, 

Their  lips  drew  near,  and  clung  into  a kiss  ; 

CLXXXVI. 

A Ions*,  long  kiss,  a kiss  of  youth,  and  love, 

And  beauty,  all  concentrating  like  rays 
Into  one  focus,  kindled  from  above  ; 

Such  kisses  as  belong  to  early  days, 

Where  heart,  and  soul,  and  sense,  in  concert  move, 
And  the  blood’s  lava,  and  the  pulse  a blaze,. 

Each  kiss  a heart-quake, — for  a kiss’s  strength, 
l think,  it  must  be  reckon’d  by  its  length. 

CLXXXVII. 

By  length  I mean  duration ; theirs  endured 

Heaven  knows  how  long — no  doubt  they  never 
reckon’d ; 

And  if  they  had,  they  could  not  have  secured 
The  sum  of  their  sensations  to  a second  : 

They  had  not  spoken;  but  they  felt  allured, 

As  if  their  souls  and  lips  each  other  beckon’d, 
Which,  being  join’d,  like  swarming  bees  they  clung— 
Their  hearts  the  flowers  from  whence  the  honey  sprung.1 

CLXXXVIII. 

They  were  alone,  but  not  alone  as  they 
Who  shut  in  chambers  think  it  loneliness  ; 

The  silent  ocean,  and  the  starlight  bay, 

The  twilight  glow,  which  momently  grew  less, 

The  voiceless  sands  and  dropping  caves,  that  lay 
Around  them,  made  them  to  each  other  press, 

As  if  there  were  no  life  beneath  the  sky 
Save  theirs,  and  that  their  life  could  never  die. 

CLXXXIX. 

They  fear’d  no  eyes  nor  ears  on  that  lone  beach, 

They  felt  no  terrors  from  the  night,  they  were 
All  in  all  to  each  other  : though  their  speech 

Was  broken  words,  they  thought  a language  there,— 


(|)  [ “I’m  sure  they  never  reckon’d ; 

And  being  join’d — like  swarming  bees  they  clung, 
And  mix’d  uut‘1  the  very  pleasure  stung.”— Or, 


And  all  the  burning  tongues  the  passions  teach 
Pound  in  one  sigh  the  best  interpreter 
Of  nature’s  oracle — first  love, — that  all 
Which  Eve  has  left  her  daughters  since  her  fall. 

cxc. 

Haidee  spoke  not  of  scruples,  ask’d  no  vows, 

Nor  offer’d  any ; she  had  never  heard 
Of  plight  and  promises  to  be  a spouse, 

Or  perils  by  a loving  maid  incurr’d  ; 

She  was  all  which  pure  ignorance  allows. 

And  flew  to  her  young  mate  like  a young  bird  ; 

And,  never  having  dreamt  of  falsehood,  she 
Had  not  one  word  to  say  of  constancy. 

cxci. 

She  loved,  and  was  beloved — she  adored, 

And  she  was  worshiped  ; after  nature’s  fashion. 
Their  intense  souls,  into  each  other  pour’d, 

If  souls  could  die,  had  perish’d  in  that  passion, 

But  by  degrees  their  senses  were  restor’d, 

Again  to  be  o’ercome,  again  to  dash  on; 

And,  beating  ’gainst  his  bosom,  Haidee’s  heart 
Eelt  as  if  never  more  to  beat  apart. 

CXCII. 

Alas  ! they  were  so  young,  so  beautiful. 

So  lonely,  loving,  helpless,  and  the  hour 
Wras  that  in  which  the  heart  is  always  full, 

And,  having  o’er  itself  no  further  power, 

Prompts  deeds  eternity  can  not  annul, 

But  pays  off  moments  in  an  endless  shower 
Of  hell-fire — all  prepared  for  people  giving 
Pleasure  or  pain  to  one  another  living. 

CXCIII. 

Alas  ! for  Juan  and  Haidee ! they  were 
So  loving  and  so  lovely — till  then  never. 

Excepting  our  first  parents,  such  a pair 
Had  run  the  risk  of  being  damn’d  for  ever : 

And  Haidee,  being  devout  as  well  as  fair. 

Had,  doubtless,  heard  about  the  Stygian  river. 

And  hell  and  purgatory  - but  forgot 
Just  in  the  very  crisis  she  should  not. 

cxciv. 

They  look  upon  each  other,  and  their  eyes 

Gleam  in  the  moonlight ; and  her  white  arm  ciaspa 
Round  Juan’s  head,  and  his  around  her  lies 
Half  buried  in  the  tresses  which  it  grasps ; 

She.  sits  upon  his  knee,  and  drinks  his  sighs, 

He  hers,  until  they  end  in  broken  gasps ; 

And  thus  they  form  a group  that’s  quite  antique* 
Half  naked,  loving,  natural,  and  Greek. 

cxcv. 

And  when  those  deep  and  burning  moments  pass’d, 
And  Juan  sunk  to  sleep  within  her  arms, 

She  slept  not,  but  all  tenderly,  though  fast, 

Sustain’d  his  head  upon  her  bosom’s  charms  ; 

And  now  and  then  her  eye  to  heaven  is  cast. 

And  then  on  the  pale  cheek  her  breast  now  warms. 
Pillow’d  on  her  overflowing  heart,  which  pants 
With  all  it  granted,  and  with  all  it  grants.2 


“ And  one  was  innocent,  but  both  too  young, 

Their  heart  the  flowers,”  8rc. — MS.] 

(2)  [“  Pillow’d  upon  her  beating  heart— which  panted 

With  the  sweet  memory  of  all  it  granted.” — MS.1 


628 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CAttTO  U. 


CXCVI. 

A.n  infant  when  it  gazes  on  a light, 

A child  the  moment  when  it  drains  the  breast, 

A devotee  when  soars  the  Host  in  sight, 

An  Arab  with  a stranger  for  a guest, 

A sailor  when  the  prize  has  struck  in  fight, 

A miser  filling  his  most  hoarded  chest, 

F eel  rapture ; but  not  such  true  joy  are  reaping 
As  they  who  watch  o’er  what  they  love  while  sleeping. 

ex'1  VII. 

For  there  it  lies  so  tranquil,  so  beloved, 

All  that  it  hath  of  life  with  us  is  living  ; 

So  gentle,  stirless,  helpless,  and  unmoved, 

And  all  unconscious  of  the  joy  ’tis  giving ; 

All  it  hath  felt,  inflicted,  pass’d,  and  proved. 

Hush’d  into  depths  beyond  the  watcher’s  diving ; 
There  lies  the  thing  we  love  with  all  its  errors 
And  all  its  charms,  like  death  without  its  terrors. 

CXCVIII. 

The  lady  watch’d  her  lover — and  that  hour 
Of  Love’s,  and  Night’s,  and  Ocean’s  solitude, 
O’erflow’d  her  soul  with  their  united  power ; 

Amidst  the  barren  sand  and  rocks  so  rude 
She  and  her  wave-woru  love  had  made  their  bowser, 
Where  nought  upon  their  passion  could  intrude. 
And  all  the  stars  that  crowded  the  blue  space 
Saw  nothing  happier  than  her  glowing  face. 

exeix. 

Alas  ! the  love  of  women ! it  is  knowm 
To  be  a lovely  and  a fearful  thing ; 

For  all  of  theirs  upon  that  die  is  thrown, 

And  if  ’tis  lost,  life  hath  no  more  to  bring 
To  them  but  mockeries  of  the  past  alone, 

And  their  revenge  is  as  the  tiger’s  spring. 

Deadly,  and  quick,  and  crushing ; yet,  as  real 
fort ure  is  theirs-  what  they  iufkct’they  feel, 

cc. 

They  are  right ; for  man,  to  man  so  oft  unjust. 

Is  always  so  to  women ; one  sole  bond 
Awaits  them,  treachery  is  all  their  trust ; 

Taught  to  conceal,  their  bursting  hearts  despond 
Over  their  idol,  till  some  wealthier  lust 
Buys  them  in  marriage — and  what  rests  beyond  ? 

A thankless  husband,  next  a faithless  lover, 

Then  dressing,  nursing,  praying,  and  all’s  over. 

cci. 

Some  take  a lover,  some  take  drams  or  prayers, 

Some  mind  their  household,  others  dissipation. 

Some  run  away,  and  but  exchange  their  cares, 

Losing  the  advantage  of  a virtuous  station  ; 

Few  changes  e’er  can  better  their  affairs, 

Theirs  being  an  unnatural  situation, 

From  the  dull  palace  to  the  dirty  hovel:1 
Some  play  the  devil,  and  then  write  a novel.2 


(1)  [“  Perhaps  there  are  not  a few  women  who  may  profit  from 
seeing  in  what  a style  of  contemptuous  coldness  the  sufferings  to 
which  licentious  love  exposes  them  are  talked  of  by  such  people  as 
the  author  of  Don  Juan.  The  many  fine  eyes  that  have  wept  dan- 
gerous tears  over  the  descriptions  of  the  Gulnares  and  Medoras, 
cannot  be  the  worse  for  seeing  the  true  side  of  his  picture.” — 
Blackwood.] 

(2)  [Lady  Caroline  Lamb  was  supposed  by  Lord  Byron  to  have 
alluded  to  him  in  her  novel  of  “ Glenarvon,”  published  in  1816. — 
“ Madame  de  Stael  once  asked  me,”  said  Lord  Byron,  “ if  my  real 
character  was  well  drawn  in  that  novel.  She  was  only  singular  in 
putting  the  question  in  the  dry  way  she  did.  There  are  many  who 
pin  their  faith  on  that  insincere  production.  I am  made  out  a very 
amiable  person  in  that  work!  The  omy  thing  belonging  to  me  in 
it  is  na.i  of  Jette”.” — Mrawiv  1 


ecu. 

Haidee  was  Nature’s  briile,  and  knew  not  this: 
Iiaidee  was  Passion’s  rtiild,  born  where  the  sun 
Showers  triple  light,  and  scorches  even  the  kiss 
Of  his  gazelle-eyed  daughters ; she  was  one 
Made  but  to  love,  to  feel  that  she  was  his 
Who  was  her  chosen ; what  was  said  or  done 
Elsewhere  was  nothing. — She  had  nought  to  fear, 
Hope,  care,  nor  love,  beyond,  her  heart  beat  here. 

ccm. 

And  oh  ! that  quickening  of  the  heart,  that  beat ! 

How  much  it  costs  us ! yet  each  rising  throb 
Is  in  its  cause  as  its  effect  so  sweet, 

That  Wisdom,  ever  on  the  watch  to  rob 
Joy  of  its  alchemy,  and  to  repeats 

Fine  truths  ; even  Conscience,  too,  has  a tough  job 
To  make  us  understand  each  good  old  maxim, 

So  good — I wonder  Castlereagh  don’t  tax  ’em. 

cciv. 

And  now  ’twas  done— on  the  lone  shore  were  plighted 
Their  hearts ; the  stars,  their  nuptial  torches,  shed 
Beauty  upon  the  beautiful  they  lighted  : 

Ocean  their  witness,  and  the  cave  their  bed, 

By  their  own  feelings  hallow’d  and  united, 

Their  priest  was  solitude,  and  they  were  wed  :3 
And  they  were  happy,  for  to  their  young  eyes 
Each  was  an  angel,  and  earth  paradise.4 

ccv. 

Oh,  Love  ! of  whom  great  Caesar  was  the  suitor, 
Titus  the  master,  Antony  the  slave, 

Horace,  Catullus,  scholars,  Ovid  tutor, 

Sappho  the  sage  blue-stocking,  in  whose  grave 
All  those  may  leap  who  rather  would  be  neuter — 
(Leucadia’s  rock  still  overlooks  the  wave)— 

Oh,  Love ! thou  art  the  very  god  of  evil, 

For,  after  all,  we  cannot  call  thee  devil. 

ccvi. 

Thou  mak’st  the  chaste  connubial  state  precarious, 
And  jestest  with  the  brows  of  mightiest  men : 
Caesar  and  Pompey,  Mahomet,  Belisarius, 

Have  much  employ’d  the  muse  of  history’s  pen : 
Their  lives  and  fortunes  were  extremely  various, 

Such  worthies  Time  will  never  see  again ; 

Yet  to  these  four  in  three  things  the  same  luck  holds, 
They  all  were  heroes,  conquerors,  and  cuckolds. 


CCVII. 

Thou  mak’st  philosophers;  there’s  Epicurus 
And  Aristippus,  a material  crew  ! 

Who  to  immoral  courses  would  allure  us 
By  theories  quite  practicable  too ; 

If  only  from  the  devil  they  would  insure  us, 


How  pleasant  were  the  maxim  (not  quite  new), 

“ Edt,  drink,  and  love,  what  can  the  rest  avail  us?” 
So  said  the  royal  sage  Sardanapalus.5 


(3)  [“  In  their  sweet  feelings  holily  united, 

By  Solitude  (soft  parson)  they  were  wed.” — MS.] 

(4)  [“  Don  Juan  is  dashed  on  the  shore  of  the  Cyclades,  where  he 
is  found  by  a beautiful  and  innocent  girl,  the  daughter  of  an  old 
Greek  pirate, — with  whom,  as  might  be  supposed,  the  same  game 
of  guilt  and  abandonment  is  played  over  again  There,  is,  however, 
a very  superior  kind  of  poetry  in  the  conception  of  this  amour;  — 
the  desolate  isle — the  utter  loneliness  of  the  maiden,  who  is  as  igno- 
rant as  she  is  innocent — the  helpless  condition  of  the  youth — every 
thing  conspires  to  render  it  a true  romance.  How  easy  for  Lord 
Byron  to  have  kept  it  free  from  any  stain  of  pollution  ! What  crue 
barbarity,  in  creating  so  much  of  beauty  only  to  mar  and  ruin  it 
This  is  really  the  very  suicide  of  genius.” — Blackwood.] 

'5)  [See  anti  . 249-i 


CANTO  iil 


DON  JUAN. 


029 


CCVIIT. 

But  Juan!  had  he  quite  forgotten  Julia? 

And  should  he  have  forgotten  her  so  soon  ? 

I can’t  but  say  it  seems  to  me  most  truly  a 
Perplexing  question ; but,  no  doubt,  the  moon 
Does  these  things  for  us,  and  whenever  newly  a 
Palpitation  rises,  ’tis  her  boon. 

Else  how  the  devil  is  it  that  fresh  features 
Have  such  a charm  for  us  poor  human  creatures  ? 
ccix. 

1 hate  inconstancy — I loathe,  detest, 

Abhor,  condemn,  abjure  the  mortal  made 
Of  such  quicksilver  clay  that  in  his  breast 
No  permanent  foundation  can  be  laid ; 

Dove,  constant  love,  has  been  my  constant  guest, 

And  yet  last  night,  being  at  a. masquerade, 

L saw  the  prettiest  creature,  fresh  from  Milan, 

Which  gave  me  some  sensations  like  a villain. 

I • ccx. 

But  soon  Philosophy  came  to  my  aid, 

And  whisper’d,  “ Think  of  every  sacred  tie !” 

“I  will,  my  dear  Philosophy  !”  I said, 

“ But  then  her  teeth,  and  then,  oh,  Heaven!  her  eye ! 
I’ll  just  inquire  if  she  be  wife  or  maid, 

Or  neither— out  of  curiosity.” 

« Stop  ! ” cried  Philosophy,  with  air  so  Grecian, 
(Though  she  was  masqued  then  as  a fair  Venetian ;) 
ccxi. 

« Stop  !”  so  I stopp’d— But  to  return  : that  which 
Men  call  inconstancy  is  nothing  more 
Than  admiration  due  where  nature’s  rich 
Profusion  with  young  beauty  covers  o’er 
Some  favour’d  object ; and  as  in  the  niche 
A lovely  statue  we  almost  adore, 

This  sort  of  adoration  of  the  real 
Is  but  a heightening  of  the  “ beau  ideal.” 
ccxn. 

*Tis  the  perception  of  the  beautiful, 

A fine  extension  of  the  faculties, 

Platonic,  universal,  wonderful, 

Drawn  from  the  stars,  and  filter’d  through  the  skies, 
Without  which  life  would  be  extremely  dull ; 

In  short,  it  is  the  use  of  our  own  eyes, 

With  one  or  two  small  senses  added,  just 
To  hint  that  flesh  is  form’d  of  fiery  dust. 

CCXIII. 

Yet  ’tis  a painful  feeling,  and  unwilling, 

For  surely  if  we  always  could  perceive 
In  the  same  object  graces  quite  as  killing 
As  when  she  rose  upon  us  like  an  Eve, 

’Twould  save  us  many  a heartach,  many  a shilling, 
(For  we  must  get  them  anyhow,  or  grieve,) 
Whereas  if  one  sole  lady  pleased  for  ever, 

How  pleasant  for  the  heart,  as  well  as  liver ! 


(1)  [“You  say  that  one-half  is  very  good:  you  are  wrong;  for, 
If  it  were,  it  would  be  the  finest  poem  in  existence.  Where  is  the 
poetry  of  which  one-half  is  good?  Is  it  the  ./Eneid?  is  it  Milton  s. 
is  it  Dryden's?  is  it  any  one’s  except  Pope’s  and  Goldsmiths,  of 
which  all  is  good  ? and  yet  these  two  last  are  the  poets  your  pond 
poets  would  explode.  But  if  one-half  of  these  two  Cantos  be  good 
in  your  opinion,  what  the  devil  would  you  have  more?  No  no; 
no  poetry  is  generally  good — only  by  fits  and  starts  and  you  are 
lucky  to  get  a sparkle  here  and  there.  You  might  as  well  want  at 
midnight  all  stars,  as  rhyme  all  perfect.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr. 

(2) ™ Lord  Byron  began  to  compose  Canto  III.  in  October,  1819  ; 
but  the  outcry  raised  by  the  publication  of  Cantos  1.  and  II.  an- 
noyed him  so  much,  that  he  for  a time  laid  the  work  aside,  and 
afterwards  proceeded  in  it  only  by  fits  and  starts.  Mr.  Moore, 

who  visited  him  while  Canto  III.  was  in  progress,  says  “ So  sensi- 


CCXIV. 

The  heart  is  like  the  sky,  a part  of  heaven, 

But  changes  night  and  day,  too,  like  the  sky ; 

Now  o’er  it  clouds  and  thunder  must  be  driven, 

And  darkness  and  destruction  as  on  high ; 

But  when  it  hath  been  scorch’d,  and  pierced,  and  riven, 
Its  storms  expire  in  water-drops  ; the  eye 
Pours  forth  at  last  the  heart’s  blood  turn’d  to  tears, 
Which  make  the  English  climate  of  our  years, 
eexv. 

The  liver  is  the  lazaret  of  bile, 

But  very  rarely  executes  its  function, 

For  the  first  passion  stays  there  such  a while. 

That  all  the  rest  creep  in  and  form  a junction, 

Like  knots  of  vipers  on  a dunghill’s  soil, 

Page,  fear,  hate,  jealousy,  revenge,  compunction, 

So  that  all  mischiefs  spring  up  from  this  entrail, 

Like  earthquakes  from  the  hidden  fire  call’d  “ central 

CCXVI. 

In  the  mean  time,  without  proceeding  more 
In  this  anatomy,  I’ve  finish’d  now 
Two  hundred  and  odd  stanzas  as  before, 

That  being  about  the  number  I’ll  allow 
Each  canto  of  the  twelve,  or  twenty-four  ; 

And,  laying  down  my  pen,  I make  my  bow, 
Leaving  Don  Juan  and  Haidee  to  plead 
For  them  and  theirs  with  all  who  deign  to  read.1 


Don  gjttnn. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD.2 


I. 

Hail,  Muse  ! et  cetera. — We  left  Juan  sleeping. 

Pillow’d  upon  a fair  and  happy  breast, 

And  watch’d  by  eyes  that  never  yet  knew  weeping, 
And  loved  by  a young  heart,  too  deeply  blest 
To  feel  the  poison  through  her  spirit  creeping, 

Or  know  who  rested  there,  a foe  to  rest. 

Had  soil’d  the  current  of  her  sinless  years, 

And  turn’d  her  pure  heart’s  purest  blood  to  tears .! 
ii. 

Oh,  Love  ! what  is  it  in  this  world  of  ours 
Which  makes  it  fatal  to  be  loved  ? Ah  why 
With  cypress  branches  hast  thou  wreathed  t'hy  bowers, 
And  made  thy  best  interpreter  a sigh  ? 

As  those  who  dote  on  odours  pluck  the  flowers, 

And  place  them  on  their  breast — but  place  to  die — 
Thus  the  frail  beings  we  would  fondly  cherish 
Are  laid  within  our  bosoms  but  to  perish.3 


tive,  indeed, — in  addition  to  his  usual  abundance  of  this  quality, 
did  he,  at  length,  grow  on  the  subject,  that  when  Mr.  W.  Bankes, 
who  succeeded  me  as  his  visitor,  happened  to  tell  him,  one  day, 
that  he  had  heard  a Mr.  Saunders  (or  some  such  name),  then  resi- 
dent at  Venice,  declare  that,  in  his  opinion,  ‘Don  Juan  was  all 
Grub-street,’  such  an  effect  had  this  disparaging  speech  upon  his 
mind  (though  coming  from  a person  who,  as  he  himself  would 
have  it,  was  ‘nothing  but  a d — d salt-fish  seller’),  that,  for  some 
time  after,  by  his  own  confession  to  Mr.  Bankes,  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  write  another  line  of  the  Poem  ; and  one  morning,  open- 
ing a drawer  where  the  neglected  manuscript  lay,  he  said  to  his 
friend,  ‘Look  here  — this  is  all  Mr.  Saunders’s  Grub-street.’” 
Cantos  III.  IV.  and  V.  were  published  together  in  August,  1821, — ■ 
still  without  the  name  either  of  author  or  booksel’er.] 

(3)  [“This,  we  must  allow,  is  pretty  enough,  and  not  at  all  ob- 
jectionable in  a moral  ooint  of  view.  We  fear  however,  that  wa 


630 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


ciNio  m. 


in. 

In  her  first  passion  woman  loves  her  lover, 

In  all  the  others  all  she  loves  is  love, 

Which  grows  a habit  she  can  ne’er  get  over, 

And  fits  her  loosely — like  an  easy  glove, 

As  you  may  find,  whene’er  you  like  to  prove  her  : 

One  man  alone  at  first  her  heart  can  move ; 

She  then  prefers  him  in  the  plural  number, 

Not  finding  that  the  additions  much  encumber. 

IV. 

I know  not  if  the  fault  be  men’s  or  theirs  ; 

But  one  thing’s  pretty  sure  ; a woman  planted 
(Unless  at  once  she  plunge  for  life  in  prayers) — 

After  a decent  time  must  be  gallanted; 

Although,  no  doubt,  her  first  of  love  affairs 
Is  that  to  which  her  heart  is  wholly  granted ; 

Yet  there  are  some,  they  say,  who  have  had  none, 
ut  those  who  have  ne’er  end  with  only  one } 

v. 

’Tis  melancholy,  and  a fearful  sign 
Of  human  frailty,  folly,  also  crime. 

That  love  and  marriage  rarely  can  combine. 

Although  they  both  are  born  in  the  same  clime ; 
Marriage  from  love,  like  vinegar  from  wine — 

A sad,  sour,  sober  beverage — by  time 
Is  sharpen’d  from  its  high  celestial  flavour 
Down  to  a very  homely  household  savour. 

VI. 

There’s  something  of  antipathy,  as  ’twere, 

Between  their  present  and  their  future  state  ; 

A kind  of  flattery  that’s  hardly  fair 

Is  used  until  the  truth  arrives  too  late — 

Yet  what  can  people  do,  except  despair  ? 

The  same  things  change  their  names  at  such  a rate  ; 
For' instance — passion  in  a lover’s  glorious, 

But  in  a husband  is  pronounced  uxorious. 

VII. 

Men  grow  ashamed  of  being  so  very  fond  ; 

They  sometimes  also  get  a little  tired 
(But  that,  of  course,  is  rare),  and  then  despond : 

The  same  things  cannot  always  be  admired, 

Yet  ’tis  “so  nominated  in  the  bond,” 

That  both  are  tied  till  one  shall  have  expired. 

Sad  thought ! to  lose  the  spouse  that  was  adorning 
Our  days,  and  put  one’s  servants  into  mourning. 

VIII. 

There’s  doubtless  something  in  domestic  doings 
Which  forms,  in  fact,  true  love’s  antithesis ; 
Romances  paint  at  full  length  people’s  wooings, 

But  only  give  a bust  of  marriages  ; 

For  no  one  cares  for  matrimonial  cooings, 

There’s  nothing  wrong  in  a connubial  kiss : 

Think  you,  if  Laura  had  been  Petrarch’s  wife, 

He  would  have  written  sonnets  all  his  life  ? 2 


cannot  say  as  much  for  wliat  follows : marrying  is  no  joke,  and 
therefore  not  a fit  subject  to  joke  about ; besides,  for  a married 
man  to  be  merry  on  that  score,  is  very  like  trying  to  overcome  the 
toothach  by  a laugh.” — Hogg.] 

(1)  [These  two  lines  are  a versification  of  a saying  of  Montaigne.] 

(2)  [“  Had  Petrarch’s  passion  led  to  Petrarch’s  wedding, 

How  many  sonnets  had  ensued  the  bedding?” — MS.] 

(3)  [The  old  ballad  of  “Death  and  the  Lady”  is  alluded  to  in 
Shakspeare.] 

(4)  Dante  calls  his  wife,  in  the  Inferno,  “la  fiera  moglie.”  [See 

mntc,  p.499.] 


IX. 

All  tragedies  are  finish’d  by  a death, 

All  comedies  are  ended  by  a marriage  ; 

The  future  states  of  both  are  left  to  faith, 

For  authors  fear  description  might  disparage 
The  worlds  to  come  of  both,  or  fall  beneath,  [riage ; 

And  then  both  worlds  would  punish  their  miscar- 
So  leaving  each  their  priest  and  prayer-book  ready, 
They  say  no  more  of  Death  or  of  the  Lady.3 

x. 

The  only  two  that  in  my  recollection 

Have  sung  of  heaven  and  hell,  or  marriage,  are 
Dante4  and  Milton,5  and  of  both  the  affection 
Was  hapless  in  their  nuptials,  for  some  bar 
Of  fault  or  temper  ruin’d  the  connexion 

(Such  things,  in  fact,  it  don’t  ask  much  to  mar ); 
But  Dante’s  Beatrice  and  Milton’s  Eve  “ 

Were  not  drawn  from  their  spouses,  you  conceive.6 

XI. 

Some  persons  say  that  Dante  meant  theology 
By  Beatrice,  and  not  a mistress — I, 

Although  my  opinion  may  require  apology. 

Deem  this  a commentator’s  phantasy, 

Unless  indeed  it  was  from  his  own  knowledge  he 
Decided  thus,  and  show’d  good  reason  why ; 

I think  that  Dante’s  more  abstruse  ecstatics 
Meant  to  personify  the  mathematics.7 

XII. 

Haidee  and  Juan  were  not  married,  but 
The  fault  was  theirs,  not  mine  : it  is  not  fair, 
Chaste  reader,  then,  in  any  way  to  put 

The  blame  on  me,  unless  you  wish  they  v’ere  ; 

Then  if  you’d  have  them  wedded,  please  to  shut 
The  book  which  treats  of  this  erroneous  pair, 

Before  the  consequences  grow  too  awful ; 

’Tis  dangerous  to  read  of  loves  unlawful. 

XIII. 

Yet  they  were  happy, — happy  in  the  illicit 
Indulgence  of  their  innocent  desires  ; . 

But  more  imprudent  grown  with  every  visit, 

Haidee  forgot  the  island  was  her  sire’s ; . 

When  we  have  what  we  like  ’tis  hard  to  miss  it. 

At  least  in  the  beginning,  ere  one  tires  ; 

Thus  she  came  often,  not  a moment  losing, 

Whilst  her  piratical  papa  was  cruising. 

xiv.  < 

Let  not  his  mode  of  raising  cash  seem  strange,  j 
Although  he  fleeced  the  flags  of  every  nation, 

For  into  a prime  minister  but  change 
His  title,  and  ’tis  nothing  but  taxation ; 

But  he,  more  modest,  took  an  humbler  range 
Of  life,  and  in  an  honester  vocation  _ 

Pursued  o’er  the  high  seas  his  watery  journey,’ 

And  merely  practised  as  a sea-attorney. 


(5)  Milton’s  first  wife  ran  away  from  him  within  the  first  me  nth  l 
If  she  had  not,  what  would  John  Milton  have  done? 

(6)  [“  From  whatever  causes  it  may  have  arisen,  the  coincidences 
is  no  less  striking  than  saddening,  that,  on  the  list  of  married  | 
poets,  who  have  been  unhappy  in  their  homes,  there  should  already| 
be  found  four  such  illustrious  names  as  Dante,  Milton,  Shakspeare,) 
and  Dryden ; and  that  we  should  now  have  to  add,  as  a partner  in,, 
their  destiny,  a name  worthy  of  being  placed  beside  the  greatest  of  ■ 
them.” — Moore.] 

(7)  [“  Lady  B.  would  have  made  an  excellent  wrangler  at  Cam  j 
bridge.” — Byron  Diary.] 

(8)  [“  Display’d  much  more  of  nerve,  perhaps,  of  wit, 

Than  any  of  the  parodies  of  Pitt.* 1' — MS.] 


CANTO  IK. 


DON  JUAN. 


631 


xv. 

Tbe  good  old  gentleman  had.  been  detain’d 
By  winds  and  waves,  and  some  important  captures ; 
And,  in  the  hope  of  more,  at  sea  remain’d. 

Although  a squall  or  two  had  damp’d  his  raptures, 
By  swamping  one  of  the  prizes  ; he  had  chain’d 
His  prisoners,  dividing  them  like  chapters, 

In  number’d  lots ; they  all  had  cuffs  and  collars. 

And  averaged  each  from  ten  to  a hundred  dollars. 

XVI. 

fcome  he  disposed  of  off  Cape  Matapan, 

Among  his  friends  the  Mainots  ; some  he  sold 
To  his  Tunis  correspondents,  save  one  man 
Toss’d  overboard  unsaleable  (being  old) ; 

The  rest — save  here  and  there  some  richer  one, 
Reserved  for  future  ransom  in  the  hold, 

Were  link’d  alike,  as  for  the  common  people  he 
Had  a large  order  from  the  Dey  of  Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The  merchandise  was  served  in  the  same  way, 

Pieced  out  for  different  marts  in  the  Levant, 
Except  some  certain  portions  of  the  prey. 

Light  classic  articles  of  female  want, 

French,  stuffs,  lace,  tweezers,  toothpicks,  teapot,  tray, 
Guitars  and  castanets  from  Alicant, 

All  which  selected  from  the  spoil  he  gathers, 

Robb’d  for  his  daughter  by  the  best  of  fathers. 

XVIII. 

A monkey,  a Dutch  mastiff,  a mackaw, 

Two  parrots,  with  a Persian  cat  and  kittens, 

He  chose  from  several  animals  he  saw — 

A terrier,  too,  which  once  had  been  a Briton’s, 

Who  dying  on  the  coast  of  Ithaca, 

The  peasants  gave  the  poor  dumb  thing  a pittance. 
These  to  secure  in  this  strong  blowing  weather, 

He  caged  in  one  huge  hamper  altogether. 

XIX. 

Then  having  settled  his  marine  affairs, 

Despatching  single  cruisers  here  and  there. 

His  vessel  having  need  of  some  repairs, 

He  shaped  his  course  to  where  his  daughter  fair 
Continued  still  her  hospitable  cares  ; 

But  that  part  of  the  coast  being  shoal  and  bare, 
And  rough  with  reefs  which  ran  out  many  a mile, 

His  port  lay  on  the  other  side  o’  the  isle. 

xx. 

And  there  he  went  ashore  without  delay, 

Having  no  custom-house  nor  quarantine 
To  ask  him  awkward  questions  on  the  way, 

About  the  time  and  place  where  he  had  been : 

He  left  his  ship  to  be  hove  down  next  day, 

With  orders  to  the  people  to  careen ; 

So  that  all  hands  were  busy  beyond  measure, 

In  getting  out  goods,  ballast,  guns,  and  treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving  at  the  summit  of  a hill 
Which  overlook’d  the  white  walls  of  his  home. 

He  stopp’d. — What  singular  emotions  fill 
Their  bosoms  who  have  been  induced  to  roam  ! 


1)  [“  Thus  near  the  gates,  conferring  as  they  drew, 

Argus,  the  dog,  his  ancient  master  knew ; 

He,  not  unconscious  of  the  voice  and  tread, 

Lifts  to  the  sound  his  ear,  and  rears  his  head. 

He  knew  his  lord ; he  knew,  and  strove  to  meet, 
In  vain  he  strove,  to  crawl  and  kiss  his  feet; 


With  fluttering  doubts  if  all  be  well  or  ill — 

With  love  for  many,  and  with  fears  for  some ; 

All  feelings  which  o’erleap  the  years  long  lost, 

And  bring  our  hearts  back  to  their  starting-post. 

XXII. 

The  approach  of  home  to  husbands  and  to  sires. 

After  long  travelling  by  land  or  water. 

Most  naturally  some  small  doubt  inspires — 

A female  family’s  a serious  matter; 

(None  trusts  the  sex  more,  or  so  much  admires — 

But  they  hate  flattery,  so  I never  flatter ;) 

Wives  in  their  husbands’  absences  grow  subtler, 

And  daughters  sometimes  run  off  with  the  butler. 

XXIII. 

An  honest  gentleman  at  his  return 

May  not  have  the  good  fortune  of  Ulysses  ; 

Not  all  lone  matrons  for  their  husbands  mourn, 

Or  show  the  same  dislike  to  suitors’  kisses; 

The  odds  are  that  he  finds  a handsome  urn 

To  his  memory — and  two  or  three  young  misses 
Born  to  some  friend,  who  holds  his  wife  and  riches— 
And  that  his  Argus 1 2 bites  him  by — the  breeches. 

XXIV. 

If  single,  probably  his  plighted  fair 

Has  in  his  absence  wedded  some  rich  miser; 

But  all  the  better,  for  the  happy  pair 

May  quarrel,  and  the  lady  growing  wiser, 

He  may  resume  his  amatory  care 
As  cavalier  servente,  or  despise  her ; 

And  that  his  sorrow  may  not  be  a dumb  one. 

Write  odes  on  the  Inconstancy  of  Woman. 

xxv. 

And  oh  ! ye  gentlemen  who  have  already 
Some  chaste  liaison  of  the  kind — I mean 
An  honest  friendship  with  a married  lady — 

The  only  thing  of  this  sort  ever  seen 
To  last — of  all  connexions  the  most  steady, 

And  the  true  Hymen  (the  first’s  but  a screen)— 
Yet  for  all  that  keep  not  too  long  away, 

I’ve  known  the  absent  wrong’d  four  times  a day.3 

XXVI. 

Lambro,  our  sea-solicitor,  who  had 

Much  less  experience  of  dry  land  than  ocean, 

On  seeing  his  own  chimney-smoke,  felt  glad ; 

But  not  knowing  metaphysics,  had  no  notion 
Of  the  true  reason  of  his  not  being  sad, 

Or  that  of  any  other  strong  emotioji ; 

He  loved  his  child,  and  would  have  wept  the  loss  of  her, 
But  knew  the  cause  no  more  than  a philosopher. 

XXVII. 

He  saw  his  white  walls  shining  in  the  sun, 

His  garden  trees  all  shadowy  and  green  ; 

He  heard  his  rivulet’s  light  bubbling  run, 

The  distant  dog-bark  ; and  perceived  between 
The  umbrage  of  the  wood  so  cool  and  dun 
The  moving  figures,  and  the  sparkling  sheen 
Of  arms  (in  the  East  all  arm) — and  various  dyes 
Of  colour’d  garbs,  as  bright  as  butterflies. 


Yet  (all  he  could)  his  tail,  his  ears,  his  eyes 
Salute  his  master,  and  confess  his  joys,”  &c. 

Pope,  Odyssey,  b.  xvii.] 

(2)  [“  Yet  for  all  that  don’t  stay  away  too  long. 

A sofa,  like  a bed,  -nay  come  by  wrong.”—  M3.] 


632 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  m 


XXVIII. 

And  as  tlis  spot  where  they  appear  he  nears, 

Surprised  at  these  unwonted  signs  of  idling, 

He  hears — alas  ! no  music  of  the  spheres, 

But  an  unhallow’d,  earthly  sound  of  fiddling ! 

A melody  which  made  him  doubt  his  ears, 

The  cause  being  past  his  guessing  or  unriddling ; 

A pipe,  too,  and  a drum,  and  shortly  after, 

A most  unoriental  roar  of  laughter. 

XXIX. 

And  still  more  nearly  to  the  place  advancing, 
Descending  rather  quickly  the  declivity. 

Through  the  waved  branches,  o’er  the  greensward 
’Midst  other  indications  of  festivity,  [glancing, 
Seeing  a troop  of  his  domestics  dancing 
Like  dervises,  who  turn  as  on  a pivot,  he 
Perceived  it  was  the  Pyrrhic  dance 1 so  martial, 

To  which  the  Levantines  are  very  partial. 

xxx. 

And  further  on  a troop  of  Grecian  girls,2 

The  first  and  tallest  her  white  kerchief  waving, 
Were  strung  together  like  a row  of  pearls, 

Link’d  hand  in  hand,  and  dancing  ; each  too  having 
Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn  curls — 
(The  least  of  which  would  set  ten  poets  raving)  ;3 
Their  leader  sang — and  bounded  to  her  song, 

With  choral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin  throng. 

XXXI. 

And  here,  assembled  cross-xegg’d  round  their  trays, 
Small  social  parties  just  begun  to  dine  ; 

Pilaus  and  meats  of  all  sorts  met  the  gaze, 

And  flasks  of  Samian  and  of  Chian  wine, 

And  sherbet  cooling  in  the  porous  vase  ; 

Above  them  their  dessert  grew  on  its  vine  ; 

The  orange  and  pomegranate  nodding  o’er 
Dropp’d  in  their  laps,  scarce  pluck’d,  their  mellow  store. 

XXXII. 

A band  of  children,  round  a snow-white  ram. 

There  wreathe  his  venerable  horns  with  flowers  ; 
While  peaceful  as  if  still  an  unwean’d  lamb, 

The  patriarch  of  the  flock  all  gently  cowers 
His  sober  head,  majestically  tame, 

Or  eats  from  out  the  palm,  or  playful  lowers 
. His  brow,  as  if  in  act  to  butt,  and  then 
Yielding  to  their  small  hands,  draws  back  again. 

XXXIII. 

Their  classical  profiles,  and  glittering  dresses, 

Their  large  black  eyes,  and  soft  seraphic  cheeks, 
Crimson  as  cleft  pomegranates,  their  long  tresses, 

The  gesture  which  enchants,  the  eye  that  speaks, 
The  innocence  which  happy  childhood  blesses. 

Made  quite  a picture  of  these  little  Greeks  ; 

So  that  the  philosophical  beholder  [older. 

Sigh’d  for  their  sakes — that  they  should  e’er  grow 


m [“This  dance  is  still  performed  by  young  men  armed  cap-a- 
pie,  who  execute,  to  the  sound  of  instruments,  all  the  proper  move- 
ments of  attack  and  defence.” — Dr.  E.  Clarke.] 

(2)  [“Their  manner  of  dancing  is  certainly  the  same  that  Diana 
is  sung  to  have  danced  on  the  banks  of  Eurotas.  The  great  lady 
still  leads  the  dance,  and  is  followed  by  a troop  of  young  girls,  who 
imitate  her  steps,  and  if  she  sings,  make  up  the  chorus.  The  tunes 
are  extremely  gay  and  lively,  yet  with  something  in  them  wonder- 
fully soft.  The  steps  are  varied  according  to  the  pleasure  of  her 
that  leads  the  dance,  but  always  in  exact  time,  and  infinitely  more 
agreeable  than  any  of  our  dances.” — Lady  M.  W.  Montagu.] 

(3)  [“  That  would  have  set  Tom  Moore,  though  married,  raving.” 
— MS  ] 


XXXIV. 

Afar,  a dwarf  buffoon  stood  telling  tales 
To  a sedate  grey  circle  of  old  smokers 
Of  secret  treasures  found  in  bidden  vales, 

Of  wonderful  replies  from  Arao  jokers, 

Of  charms  to  make  good  gold  and  cure  bad  ails, 

Of  rocks  bewitch’d  that  open  to  the  knockers, 

Of  magic  ladies  who,  by  one  sole  act, 

Transform  their  lords  to  beasts  (but  that’s  a fact). 

XXXV. 

Here  was  no  lack  of  innocent  diversion 
Bor  the  imagination  or  the  senses, 

Song,  dance,  wine,  music,  stories  from  the  Persian, 

All  pretty  pastimes  in  which  no  offence  is  ; 

But  Lambro  saw  all  these  things'with  aversion. 
Perceiving  in  his  absence  such  expenses. 

Dreading  that  climax  of  all  human  ills, 

The  inflammation  of  Ins- weekly  'bills.4 

XXXVI. 

Ah  ! what  is  man  ? what  perils  still  environ 
The  happiest  mortals  even  after  dinner — 

A day  of  gold  from  out  an  age  of  iron 
Is  all  that  life  allows  the  luckiest  sinner ; 

Pleasure  (whene’er  she  sings,  at  least)  ’s  a siren, 

That  lures,  to  flay  alive,  the  young  beginner ; 
Lambro’s  reception  at  his  people’s  banquet 
Was  such  as  fire  accords  to  a wet  blanket, 

XXXVII. 

He' — being  a man  who  seldom  used  a word 
Too  much,  and  wishing  gladly  to  surprise 
(In  general  he  surprised  men  with  the  sword) 

Ilis  daughter — had  not  sent  before  to  advise 
Of  his  arrival,  so  that  no  one  stirr’d  ; 

And  long  he  paused  to  re-assure  his  eyes. 

In  fact  much  more  astonish’d  than  delighted, 

To  find  so  much  good  company  invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He  did  not  know  (alas  ! how  men  will  lie) 

That  a report  (especially  the  Greeks) 

Avouch’d  his  death  (such  people  never  die), 

And  put  his  house  in  mourning  several  weeks, — 
But  now  their  eyes  and  also  lips  weve  dry; 

The  bloom,  too,  had  return’d  to  Haidee’s  cheeks. 
Her  tears,  too,  being  return’d  into  their  fount. 

She  now  kept  house  upon  her  own  account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence  all  this  rice,  meat,  dancing,  wine,  and  fiddling, 
Which  turn’d  the  isle  into  a place  of  pleasure  ; 

The  servants  all  were  getting  drunk  or  idling., 

A life  which  made  them  happy  beyond  measure. 
Her  father’s  hospitality  seem’d  middling, 

Compared  with  what  Haidee  did  with  his  treasure 
’Twas  wonderful  how  things  went  on  improving, 
While  she  had  not  one  hour  to  spare  from  loving.5 


(4)  [“  The  piratical  father  of  Haidee  having  remained  long  at  sea, 
it  was  supposed  he  had  perished,  and  she,  in  consequence,  took 
possession  of  all  his  treasures,  and  surrendered  herself  to  the  lull 
enioyment  of  her  lover.  The  old  gentleman,  however,  returns, 
and,  landing  on  a distant  part  of  the  island,  walks  leisurely  towards 
his  home,  while  Juan  and  his  daughter  are  giving  a public  break- 
fast  to  their  friends  and  acquaintances.  The  description  of  the  fete 
is  executed  with  equal  felicity  and  spirit ; we  think  it  would  be 
difficult  to  match  the  life  and  gaiety  of  the  picture  by  any  thing  of 
the  kind  in  English— perhaps  in  any  other  poetry.  —Blackwood.] 

(5)  [“  All  had  been  open  heart,  and  open  house, 

Ever  since  Juan  served  her  for  a spoure.  ’ — MS  J 


CANTO  ITT. 


DON  JUAN. 


63a 


XL. 

Perhaps  you  think  in  stumbling  on  this  feast 
He  flew  into  a passion,  and  in  fact 
There  was  no  mighty  reason  to  be  pleased ; 

Perhaps  you  prophesy  some  sudden  act, 

The  whip,  the  rack,  or  dungeon  at  the  least, 

To  teach  his  people  to  be  more  exact, 

And  that,  proceeding  at  a very  high  rate, 

He  showed  the  royal  penchants  of  a pirate. 

XLI. 

You’re  wrong. — He  was  the  mildest  manner’d  man  . 

That  ever  scuttled  ship  or  cut  a throat ; 

With  such  true  breeding  of  a gentleman. 

You  never  could  divine  his  real  thought ; 

No  courtier  could,  and  scarcely  woman  can 
Gird  more  deceit  within  a petticoat ; 

Pity  he  loved  adventurous  life’s  variety, 

He  was  so  great  a loss  to  good  society.1 

XLII. 

Advancing  to  the  nearest  dinner  tray, 

Tapping  the  shoulder  of  the  nighest  guest, 

With  a peculiar  smile,  which,  by  the  way, 

Boded  no  good,  whatever  it  express’d, 

He  ask’d  the  meaning  of  this  holiday  ; 

The  vinous  Greek  to  whom  he  had  address’d 
His  question,  much  too  merry  to  divine 
The  questioner,  fill’d  up  a glass  of  wine, 

XL1II. 

And  without  turning  his  facetious  head, 

Over  his  shoulder,  with  a Bacchant  air, 

Presented  the  o’erflowing  cup,  and  said, 

“ Talking’s  dry  work,  I have  no  time  to  spare.” 

A second  hiccup’d,  “ Our  old  master’s  dead, 

You’d  better  ask  our  mistress  who’s  his  heir.” 
"Our  mistress!”  quoth  a third : “Our  mistress!  — 
pooh  ! — 

You  mean  our  master — not  the  old,  but  new.” 

XLIY. 

These  rascals,  being  new  comers,  knew  not  whom 
They  thus  address’d — and  Lambro’s  visage  fell — 
And  o’er  his  eye  a momentary  gloom 
Pass’d,  but  he  strove  quite  courteously  to  quell 
The  expression,  and  endeavouring  to  resume 
His  smile,  requested  one  of  them  to  tell 
The  name  and  quality  of  his  new  patron, 

Who  seem’d  to  have  turn’d  Haidee  into  a matron. 

XLV. 

“ I know  not,”  quoth  the  fellow,  “ who  or  what 
He  is,  nor  whence  he  came — and  little  care ; 

But  this  I know,  that  this  roast  capon’s  fat, 

And  that  good  wine  ne’er  wash’d  down  better  fare  ; 
And  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  that, 

Direct  your  questions  to  my  neighbour  there  ; 

He’ll  answer  all  for  better  or  for  worse, 

For  none  likes  more  to  hear  himself  converse.”2 


(1)  [“  The  portrait  of  this  man  is  one  of  the  best,  if  not  the  very 
best,  of  all- Lord  Byron’s  gloomy  portraits.  It  may  be  the  Corsair 
grown  into  an  elderly  character  and  a father;  but  it  is  equal  to  the 
finest  heads  that  ever  Michael  Angelo  or  Caravaggio  painted  with 
black  and  umber.” — Blackwood.] 

(2)  “ Rispone  allor’  Margutte,  a dir  tel  tosto, 

Io  non  credo  piu  al  nero  ch’  all'  azzurro ; 

Ma  nel  cappone,  o lesso,  o vuogli  arrosto, 

£ credo  alcuna  volta  anco  ncl  burro ; 


XLVI. 

I said  that  Lambro  was  a man  of  patience, 

And  certainly  he  show’d  the  best  of  breeding, 
Which  scarce  even  Prance,  the  paragon  of  nations, 
E’er  saw  her  most  polite  of  sons  exceeding ; 

He  bore  these  sneers  against  his  near  relations. 

His  own  anxiety,  his  heart,  too,  bleeding, 

The  insults,  too,  of  every  servile  glutton, 

Who  all  the  time  was  eating  up  his  mutton. 

XLVII. 

! Now  in  a person  used  to  much  command — 

To  bid  men  come,  and  go,  and  come  again — 

To  see  his  orders  done,  too,  out  of  hand — 

Whether  the  word  was  death,  or  but  the  chain- 
It  may  seem  strange  to  find  his  manners  bland ; 

Yet  such  things  are,  which  I cannot  explain, 
Though  doubtless  he  who  can  command  himsqlf 
Is  good  to  govern — almost  as  a Guelf. 

XLVIII. 

Not  that  he  was  not  sometimes  rash  or  so, 

But  never  in  his  real  and  serious  mood ; 

Then  calm,  concentrated,  and  still,  and  slow, 

He  lay  coil’d  like  the  boa  in  the  wood  ; 

With  him  it  never  was  a word  and  blow, 

His  angry  word  once  o’er,  he  shed  no  blood, 

But  in  his  silence  there  was  much  to  rue, 

And  his  one  blow  left  little  work  for  two. 

XL1X. 

He  ask’d  no  further  questions,  and  proceeded 
On  to  the  house,  but  by  a private  way,3 
So  that  the  few  who  met  him  hardly  heeded, 

So  little  they  expected  him  that  day ; 

If  love  paternal  in  his  bosom  pleaded 

Eor  Haidee’s  sake,  is  more  than  I can  say, 

But  certainly  to  one  deem’d  dead  returning, 

This  revel  seem’d  a curious  mode  of  mourning. 

L. 

If  all  the  dead  could  now  return  to  life, 

(Which  God  forbid  !)  or  some,  or  a great  many, 
For  instance,  if  a husband  or  his  wife 
(Nuptial  examples  are  as  good  as  any), 

No  doubt  whate’er  might  be  their  former  strife, 

The  present  weather  would  be  much  more  rainy-  - 
Tears  shed  into  the  grave  of  the  connection 
Would  share  most  probably  its  resurrection. 

LI. 

He  enter’d  in  the  house  no  more  his  home, 

A thing  to  human  feelings  the  most  trying, 

And  harder  for  the  heart  to  overcome, 

Perhaps,  than  even  the  mental  pangs  of  dying ; 

To  find  our  hearthstone  turn’d  into  a tomb, 

And  round  its  once  warm  precincts  palely  lying 
The  ashes  of  our  hopes,  is  a deep  grief. 

Beyond  a single  gentleman’s  belief. 


Nclla  cervigia,  e quando  io  n’  ho  nel  mosto, 

E molto  piu  nell’  espro  che  il  mangurro  ; 

Ma  sopra  tutto  nel  buon  vino  o fede, 

E credo  che  sia  salvo  chi  gli  crede.” 

Pulci,  Morgante  Magyiore,  ca.  18.  st.  151. 

(3)  [“  The  account  of  Lambro  proceeding  to  the  house  is  poetically 
imagined;  and  in  his  character  may  be  traced  a vivid  likeness  of 
Ali  Pacha,  and  happy  illustrative  allusions  to  the  adventures  of  that 
chief.”— Galt.] 

4 M 


634 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  in. 


Ln. 

He  enter’d  in  the  house— his  home  no  more, 

Bor  without  hearts  there  is  no  home ; —and  felt 
The  solitude  of  passing  his  own  door 

Without  a welcome : there  he  long  had  dwelt, 

There  his  few  peaceful  days  Time  had  swept  o’er, 
There  his  worn  bosom  and  keen  eye  would  melt 
Over  the  innocence  of  that  sweet  child, 

His  only  shrine  of  feelings  undefiled. 

Lin. 

He  was  a man  of  a strange  temperament, 

Of  mild  demeanour  though  of  savage  mood, 
Moderate  in  all  his  habits,  and  content 
With  temperance  in  pleasure,  as  in  food, 

Quick  to  perceive,  and  strong  to  bear,  and  meant 
Bor  something  better,  if  not  wholly  good; 

His  country’s  wrongs  and  his  despair  to  save  her 
Had  stung  him  from  a slave  to  an  enslaver. 

LIV. 

The  love  of  power,  and  rapid  gain  of  gold, 

The  hardness  by  long  habitude  produced, 

The  dangerous  life  in  which  he  had  grown  old, 
The'mercy  he  had  granted  oft  abused, 

The  sights  lie  was  accustom’d  to  behold, 

The  wild  seas,  and  wild  men  with  whom  he  cruised, 
Had  cost  his  enemies  a long  repentance, 

And  made  him  a good  friend,  but  bad  acquaintance. 

LY. 

But  something  of  the  spirit  of  old  Greece 
Plash’d  o’er  his  soul  a few  heroic  rays, 

Such  as  lit  onward  to  the  Golden  Bleece 
His  predecessors  in  the  Colchian  days ; 

’Tis  true  he  had  no  ardent  love  for  peace — 

Adas ! his  country  show’d  no  path  to  praise  : 

Hate  .to  the  world  and  war  with  every  nation 
He  waged,  in  vengeance  of  her  degradation. 

LVI. 

Still  o’er  ms  mind  the  influence  of  the  clime 
Shed  its  Ionian  elegance,  which  show’d 
Its  power  unconsciously  full  many  a time, — 

A taste  seen  in  the  choice  of  his  abode, 

A love  of  music  and  of  scenes  sublime, 

A pleasure  in  the  gentle  stream  that  flow’d 
Past  him  in  crystal,  and  a joy  in  flowers, 

Bedew’d  his  spirit  in  his  calmer  hours. 

LVII. 

But  whatsoe’er  he  had  of  love  reposed 
On  that  beloved  daughter  ; she  had  been 
The  only  thing  which  kept  his  heart  unclosed 
Amidst  the  savage  deeds  he  had  done  and  seen, 

A lonely  pure  affection  unopposed  : 

There  wanted  but  the  loss  of  this  to  wean 
His  feelings  from  all  milk  of  human  kindness, 

And  turn  him  like  the  Cyclops1 2 3  mad  with  blindness. 


(1)  [“  A’nd  make  him  Samson-like — more  fierce  with  blindness.” 
- -MS.] 

(2)  [“  Not  so  the  single,  deep,  and  wordless  ire, 

Of  a strong  human  heart,”  &c. — MS.] 

(3)  [“  I said,  I disliked  the  custom  which  some  people  had  of 
bringing  their  children  into  company,  because  it  in  a manner  forced 
us  to  pay  foolish  compliments  to  please  their  parents.” — Johnson. 
“ You  are  right,  sir;  we  maybe  excused  for  not  caring  much  about 
other  people’s  children,  for  there  are  many  who  care  very  little 
about  their  own  " —Boswell,  vol.  vi.  p.  47.  ed.  1835.] 

(4)  [“  Almost  all  Don  Juan  is  real  life,  either  my  own,  or  from 

people  I knew.  By  the  way,  much  of  the  description  of  tine  furni- 

ture, in  Cautc  Third,  is  taken  from  Tully's  Tripoli  (pray  note  this), 


LVII  I. 

The  cubless  tigress  in  her  jungle  raging 
Is  dreadful  to  the  shepherd  and  the  flock ; 

The  ocean  when  its  yeasty  war  is  waging 
Is  awful  to  the  vessel  near  the  rock  ; 

But  violent  things  will  sooner  bear  assuaging, 

Their  fury  being  spent  by  its  own  shock, 

Than  the  stern,  single,  deep,  and  wordless  ire* 

Of  a strong  human  heart,  and  in  a sire. 

LIX. 

It  is  a hard  although  a common  case 

To  find  our  children  running  restive — tney 
In  whom  our  brightest  days  we  would  retrace. 

Our  little  selves  re-form’d  in  finer  clay, 

Just  as  old  age  is  creeping  on  apace, 

And  clouds  come  o’er  the  sunset  of  our  day, 

They  kindly  leave  us,  though  not  quite  alone, 

But  in  good  company — the  gout  or  stone. 

LX. 

Yet  a fine  family  is  a fine  thing 

(Provided  they  don’t  come  in  after  dinner)  j8 
’Tis  beautiful  to  see  a matron  bring 

Her  children  up  (if  nursing  them  don’t  thin  her) ; 
Like  cherubs  round  an  altar-piece  they  clwig 
To  the  fire-side  (a  sight  to  touch  a sinner). 

A lady  with  her  daughters  or  her  nieces 
Shine  like  a guinea  and  seven-shilling  pieces. 

LXI. 

Old  Lambro  pass’d  unseen  a private  gate, 

And  stood  within  his  hall  at  eventide ; 

Meantime  the  lady  and  her  lover  sate 

At  wassail  in  their  beauty  and  their  pride  : 

An  ivory  inlaid  table  spread  with  state 

Before  them,  and  fair  slaves  on  every  side;4 
Gems,  gold,  and  silver,  form’d  the  service  mostly, 
Mother  of  pearl  and  coral  >he  less  costly.5 * 

LXII. 

The  dinner  made  about  a hundred  dishes  ; 

Lamb  and  pistachio  nuts—  in  short,  all  meat;S,  u 
And  saffron  soups,  and  sweetbreads  ; and  the  fishes  > 
Were  of  the  finest  that  e’er  flounced  in  nets, 

Drest  to  a Sybarite’s  most  pamper’d  wishes ; 

The  beverage  was  various  sherbets 
Of  raisin,  orange,  and  pomegranate  iuice, 

Squeezed  through  the  rind,  which  makes  it  best  for  use.1 

LXIII. 

These  were  ranged  round,  each  in  its  crystal  ewer,  J, 
And  fruits,  and  date-bread  loaves  closed  the  repast! 
And  Mocha’s  berry,  from  Arabia  jmre, 

In  small  fine  China  cups,  came  in  at  last ; 

Gold  cups  of  filigree  made  to  secure 

The  hand  from  burning  underneath  them  placed, 
Cloves,  cinnamon,  and  saffron  too  were  boil’d 
Up  with  the  coffee,  which  (I  think)  they  spoil’d.7 

and  the  rest  from  my  own  observation.  Remember,  I never  meam| 
to  conceal  this  at  all,  and  have  only  not  stated  it,  because  Don  I 
Juan  had  no  preface  nor  name  to  it.” — Lord  B.  to  Mr.  Murray, j 
Aug.  23,  1821  ] 

(51  [“  A small  table  is  brought  in,  when  refreshments  are  served 
it  is  of  ebony,  inlaid  with  mother-o’-pearl,  tortoise-shell,  ivory,  go'd, 
and  silver.” — Tully's  Tripoli,  4to,  1816,  p.  133.] 

(6)  [“  The  beverage  was  various  sherbets,  composed  of  the  juiccn 
of  boiled  raisins,  oranges,  and  pomegranates,  squeezed  through  the , 
rind.” — Ibid.  p.  137.] 

(7)  [“  Coffee  was  served  in  small  China  cups ; gold  filigree  cups  i 
were  put  under  them.  They  introduced  cloves,  cinnamon,  anejj 
saffron  into  the  coffee.” — Ibid.  p.  132.] 


CANTO  III. 

LXIV. 

The  bammurs  of  the  room  were  tapestry,  made 
Of  velvet  uanels,  each  of  different  hue. 

And  thick  with  damask  flowers  of  silk  imaid  : 
And  round  them  ran  a yellow  border  too ; 
The  upper  border,  richly  wrought,  display  d, 
Embroider’d  delicately  o’er  with  blue. 

Soft  Persian  sentences,  in  lilac  letters, 

Prom  poets,  or  the  moralists  their  betters. 


DON  JUAN. 


635 


Fretted  with  gold  or  silver : — oy  command, 
The  greater  part  of  these  were  ready  spread 
With  viands  and  sherbets  in  ice— and  wine— 
Kept  for  all  comers,  at  all  hours  to  dme. 


LX V . 


These  Oriental  writings  on  the  wall,  . 

Quite  common  in  those  countries,  are  a kind 
Of  monitors  adapted  to  recall,  . , 

Like  skulls  at  Memphian  banquets,  to  the  mind 
The  words  which  shook  Belshazzar  in  his  hall, 

And  took  his  kingdom  from  him  : You  will  find, 
hough  sages  may  pour  out  their  wisdom  s treasure, 
There5  is  no  sterner  moralist  than  Pleasure. 


LXVI. 


A beautv  at  the  season’s  close  grown  hectic, 

A genius  who  has  drunk  himself  to  death, 

A rake  turn’d  metliodistic,  or  Eclectic* 2 3 
(For  that’s  the  name  they  like  to  pray  beneath)' 
But  most,  an  alderman  struck  apopletic. 

Are  things  that  really  take  away  the  breath,— 
And  show  that  late  hours,  wine,  and  love  are  able 


Aim  suuw  1/uau  iwuv,  — 

To  do  not  much  less  damage  than  the  table. 


LXVII. 

Haidee  and  Juan  carpeted  their  feet 

On  crimson  satin,  border’d  with  pale  blue  ; 
Their  sofa  occupied  three  parts  complete 
Of  the  apartment — and  appear’d  quite  new ; 
The  velvet  cushions  (for  a throne  more  meet)— 
Were  scarlet,  from  whose  glowing  centre  grew 
A sun  emboss’d  in  gdd,4 5  whose  rays  of  tissue, 
Meridian-like,  were  seen  all  light  to  issue. 


LXX. 

Of  all  the  dresses  I select  Haidee’ s : 

She  wore  two  jelicks— one  was  of  pale  yellow  ; 

Of  azure,  pink,  and  white  was  her  chemise— 

’Neath  which  her  breast  heaved  like  a little  billow; 
With  buttons  form’d  of  pearls  as  large  as  peas, 

All  gold  and  crimson  shone  her  jebek’s  fellow, 

And  the  striped  white  gauze  baracan  that  bound  her. 
Like  fleecy  clouds  about  the  moon,  flow  d round  her. 


LXXI. 


One  large  gold  bracelet  clasp’d  each  lovely  arm, 
Lockless— so  pliable  from  the  pure  gold 
That  the  hand  stretch’d  and  shut  it  without  harm. 
The  limb  which  it  adorn’d  its  only  mould 
So  beautiful— its  very  shape  would  charm, 

And  clinging  as  if  loth  to  lose  its  hold, 

The  purest  ore  enclosed  the  whitest  skin 
That  e’er  by  precious  metal  was  held  in.7 * 


LXXII. 

Around,  as  princess  of  her  father  s land, 

A like  gold  bar  above  her  instep  roll  d, 

Announced  her  rank  ; twelve  rings  were  on  her  hana  ; 

Her  hair  was  starr’d  with  gems  ; her  veil  s fine  told 
Below  her  breast  was  fasten’d  with  a band 

Of  lavish  pearls,  whose  worth  could  scarce  be  told , 
Her  orange  silk  full  Turkish  trousers  furl’d 
Above  the  prettiest  ankle  in  the  world. 


LXVIII. 

Crystal  and  marble,  plate  and  porcelain. 

Had  done  their  work  of  splendour ; Indian  mats 
And  Persian  carpets,  which  the  heart  bled  to  stain, 
Over  the  floors  were  spread ; gazelles  and  cats,  _ 
And  dwarfs  and  blacks,  and  such  like  things,  that  gain 
Their  bread  as  ministers  and  favourites— (that  s 
To  say,  by  degradation)— mingled  there 
As  plentiful  as  in  a court,  or  fair. 


LXIX. 

There  was  no  want  of  lofty  mirrors,  and 
The  tables,  most  of  ebony  inlaid 
With  mother  of  pearl  or  ivory,  stood  at  hand, 
Or  were  of  tortoise-shell  or  rare  woods  made. 


/ 1 \ r«  The  hangings  of  the  room  were  of  tapestry,  made  in  panels 
of  different  coloured  velvets,  thickly  inlaid  with  flowers  of  silk 
damask  ; a yellow  border  finished  the  tapestry  at  top  and  bottom, 
the  upper  border  being  embroidered  with  Moorish  sentences  out  of 
the  Koran  in  lilac  letters.” — Tully,  p.  133.] 

(2)  [See  the  Eclectic  Review  among  the  •*  Testimonies  of 
Authors,”  ante,  p.  581.] 

(3)  [“  For  that’s  the  name  they  like  to  cant  beneath.”— MS.] 

(4)  [“  The  carpet  was  of  crimson  satin,  with  a deep  border  of  pale 
blue.  The  cushions  that  lay  around  were  of  crimson  velvet ; the 
centre  ones  were  embroidered  with  a sun  in  gold.  ] 

(5)  [“  The  upholsterer’s  ‘ fiat  lux’  had  bade  to  issue.” — MS.] 

(61  [“  Her  chemise  was  covered  with  gold  embroidery  at  the 
neck;  over  it  she  wore  a gold  and  silver  tissue  jelick, with  coral 
and  pearl  buttons,  set  quite  close  together  down  the  front,  llie 
baracan  she  wore  over  her  dress  was  of  the  finest  crimson  trans- 
parent gauzes,  between  rich  silk  stripes  of  the  same  colour.  — 
Tully,  p.  31.] 


LXXIII. 

Her  hair’s  long  auburn  waves  down  to  her  heel 
Flow’d  like  an  Alpine  torrent  which  the  sun 
Dyes  with  his  morning  light, — and  would  concea. 

Her  person9  if  allow’d  at  large  to  run, 

And  still  they  seem  resentfully  to  feel 

The  silken  fillet’s  curb,  and  sought  to  shun 
Their  bonds  whene’er  some  Zephyr  caught  began 
To  offer  his  young  pinion  as  her  fan. 


LXXIV. 

Round  her  she  made  an  atmosphere  of  life, 
The  very  air  seem’d  lighter  from  tier  eyes, 
They  were  so  soft  and  beautiful,  arm  rife 
With  all  we  can  imagine  of  the  skies, 

And  pure  as  Psyche  ere  she  grew  a wife — 
Too  pure  even  for  the  purest  human  ties ; 
Her  overpowering  presence  made  you  feel 
It  would  not  be  idolatry  to  kneel.10 


(7)  This  dress  is  Moorish,  and  the  bracelets  and  bar  are  worn  in 
the  manner  described.  The  reader  will  perceive  hereafter,  that  as 
the  mother  of  Haidee  was  of  Fez,  her  daughter  wore  the  garb  of 
the  country. 


C LUUU  J • 

(81  The  bar  of  gold  above  the  instep  is  a mark  of  sovereign  rank 
in  the  women  of  the  families  of  the  deys,  and  is  worn  as  such  bv 
their  female  relatives. 


(Ql  This  is  no  exaggeration : there  were  four  women  whom  I 
remember  to  have  seen,  who  possessed  their  hair  in  ^sproftaswn; 
of  these  three  were  English,  the  other  was  a Levantine,  lheir 
hair  was  of  that  length  and  quantity,  that,  when  let  down,  it 

almost  entirely  shaded  the  person,  so  as  nearly  to  render  dress  a 
superfluity.  Of  these,  only  one  had  dark  har. ; the  Oriental  s had, 
perhaps,  the  lightest  colour  of  the  four. 


(10) 


[ “ Rut  Psyche  owns  no  lord — 

She  walks  a goddess  from  above ; 

AH  saw,  all  praised  her,  all  adored,  _ . 

But  no  one  ever  dared  to  love.  — Cupid  and  Psyc  >?» 
frem  Apuleius,  by  Mr.  Hudson  Gurney,  1803.] 


680 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


c.vnto  nr 


LXXV. 

Her  eyelashes,  though  dark  as  night,  were  tinged 
(It  is  the  country’s  custom !),  but  in  vain  ; 

For  those  large  black  eyes  were  so  blackly  fringed, 
The  glossy  rebels  mock’d  the  jetty  stain, 

And  in  their  native  beauty  stood  avenged : 

Her  nails  were  touch’d  with  henna  ; but  again 
The  power  of  art  was  turn’d  to  nothing,  for 
They  could  not  look  more  rosy  than  before. 

LXXVI. 

The  henna  should  be  deeply  dyed  to  make 
The  skin  relieved  appear  more  fairly  fair ; 

She  had  no  need  of  this,  day  ne’er  will  break 

On  mountain  tops  more  heavenly  white  than  her; 
The  eye  might  doubt  if  it  were  well  awake, 

She  was  so  like  a vision  ; I might  err, 

But  Shakspeare  also  says,  ’tis  very  silly, 

“To  gild  refined  gold,  or  paint  the  lily.” 

LXXVIT. 

Juan  had  on  a shawl  of  black  and  gold, 

But  a white  baracan,  and  so  transparent 
The  sparkling  gems  beneath  you  might  behold, 

Like  small  stars  through  the  milky  way  apparent ; 
His  turban,  furl’d  in  many  a graceful  fold, 

An  emerald  aigrette  with  Haidee’s  hair  in’t 
Surmounted,  as  its  clasp,  a glowing  crescent, 

Whose  rays  shone  ever  trembling,  but  incessant. 

LXXVIII. 

And  now  they  were  diverted  by  their  suite, 

Dwarfs,  dancing  girls,  black  eunuchs,  and  a poet, 
Which  made  their  new  establishment  complete  ; 

The  last  was  of  great  fame,  and  liked  to  show  it : 
His  verses  rarely  wanted  their  due  feet — 

And  for  his  theme — he  seldom  sung  below  it, 

He  being  paid  to  satirise  or  flatter, 

As  the  psalm  says,  “ inditing  a good  matter.” 

LXXIX. 

He  praised  the  present,  and  abused  the  past, 
Reversing  the  good  custom  of  old  days, 

An  Eastern  anti-jacobin  at  last 
He  turn’d,  preferring  pudding  to  no  praise — ■ 

For  some  few  years  his  lot  had  been  o’ercast 
By  his  seeming  independent  in  his  lays, 

But  now  ne  sung  the  Sultan  and  Pacha 
With  truth  like  Southey,  and  with  verse  like  Crashaw.1 2 
LXXX. 

He  was  a man  who  had  seen  many  changes, 

And  always  changed  as  true  as  any  needle ; 

His  polar  star  being  one  which  rather  ranges. 

And  not  the  fix’d — he  knew  the  way  to  wheedle : 
So  vile  he  ’scaped  the  doom  which  oft  avenges  ; 

And  being  fluent  (save  indeed  when  fee’d  ill), 

He  lied  with  such  a fervour  of  intention — 

There  was  no  doubt  he  earn’d  his  laureate  pension. 

LXXXI. 

But  he  had  genius, — when  a turncoat  has  it, 

The  “Yates  irritabilis”  takes  care 
That  without  notice  few  full  moons  shall  pass  it ; 

Even  good  men  like  to  make  the  public  stare  : — 

(1)  [“It  was,  and  still  is,  the  custom  to  tinge  the  eyes  of  the 
women  with  an  impalpable  powder,  prepared  chiefly  from  crude 
antimony.  This  pigment,  when  applied  to  the  inner  surface  of 
the  lids,  communicates  to  the  eye  a tender  and  fascinating  lan- 
guor.”— II  ABE, SCI.] 

(2)  [“  Believed  like  Southey  — and  perused  like  Crashaw.” — 
MS. — “ Crashaw,  the  friend  of  Cowley,  was  honoured,”  says  War- 

con,  “with  the  praise  of  hope  ; who  both  read  his  poems  and  bor- 
rowed from  them.  Being  ejected  from  his  fellowship  at  Peterhouse 


But,  to  my  subject — let  me  sec — what  was  if  ? — 

Oh  ! — the  third  canto — and  the  pretty  pair — 

Their  loves,  and  feasts,  and  house,  and  dress,  ana  ivoq* 

Of  living  in  their  insular  abode. 

LXXXI  i. 

Their  poet,  a sad  trimmer,  but  no  less 
In  company  a very  pleasant  fellow, 

Had  been  the  favourite  of  full  many  a mess 

Of  men,  and  made  them  speeches  when  half  mellow  • 
And  though  his  meaning  they  could  rarely  guess, 

Yet.  still  they  deign’d  to  hiccup  or  to  bellow 
The  glorious  meed  of  popular  applause, 

Of  which  the  first  ne’er  knows  the  second  cause. 

LXXXIII. 

But  now  being  lifted  into  high  society, 

And  having  pick’d  up  several  odds  and  ends 
Of  free  thoughts  in  his  travels  for  variety, 

lie  deem’d,  being  in  a lone  isle,  among  friends, 

That  without  any  danger  of  a riot,  he 

Might  for  long  lying  make  himself  amends ; 

And  singing  as  lie  sung  in  his  warm  youth, 

Agree  to  a short  armistice  with  truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He  had  travell’d  ’mongst  the  Arabs,  Turks,  and  Franks, 
And  knew  the  self-loves  of  the  different  nations  ; 

And  having  lived  with  people  of  all  ranks, 

Had  something  ready  upon  most  occasions — 

Which  got  him  a few  presents  and  some  thanks. 

He  varied  with  some  skill  his  adulations; 

To  “ do  at  Rome  as  Romans  do,”  a piece 
Of  conduct  was  which  he  observed  in  Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus,  usually,  when  he  was  ask’d  to  sing, 

He  gave  the  different  nations  something  national ; 
’Twas  all  the  same  to  him — “ Gcd  save  the  king,” 

Or  “Ca  ira,”  according  to  the  fashion  all: 

His  muse  made  increment  of  any  thing, 

From  the  high  lyric  down  to  the  low  rational ; 

If  Pindar  sang  horse-races,  what  should  hinder 
Himself  from  being  as  pliable  as  Pindar  ? 

LXXXVI. 

In  France,  for  instance,  lie  would  write  a chanson ; 

In  England  a six  canto  quarto  tale  ; 

In  Spain,  he’d  make  a ballad  or  romance  on 
The  last  war — much  the  same  in  Portugal ; 

In  Germany,  the  Pegasus  he’d  prance  on 

Would  be  old  Goethe’s — (see  what  says  De  Stael);  ' 
In  Italy  he’d  ape  the  “ Trecentisti  ;”3 
In  Greece,  he’d  sing  some  sort  of  hymn  like  this  t’ye: 

1. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 

Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 

Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 

But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

for  denying  the  covenant,  he  turned  Roman  Catholic,  and  died  I 
canon  of  the  church  at  Loretto.”  The  following  are  from  Cowlev’*  I 
lines  on  his  death  - 

“ Angels  (they  say)  brought  the  famed  chapel  there; 

And  bore  the  sacred  load  in  triumph  through  the  air-  — 

’Tis  surer  much  they  brought  thee  there  ; and  thp'-. 

And  thou,  their  charge,  went  singing  all  the  wa.. 

(3)  [The  poets  of  the  fourteenth  century—Dante,  &c.] 


AMO  HI* 


DON  JUAN. 


637 


2. 


Xlic  Scian1  and  the  Teian  muse,2 * 
The  hero’s  harp,  the  lover’s  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse ; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires’  e<  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

3. 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon4 5— 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea  ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I dream’d  that  Greece  might  still  be  tree ; 
Tor  standing  on  the  Persians’  grave, 

I could  not  deem  myself  a slave. 

4. 

A king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o’er  sea-born  Salamis ; 

And  ships,  bv  thousands,  lay  below, 

And  men  m nations  ; — all  were  his  ! 

He  counted  them*  at  break  of  day— 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they  i 

5. 

And  where  are  they  ? and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ? On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  F 

6. 

’Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link’d  among  a fetter’d  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a patriot’s  shame, 

Even  as  I sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

Tor  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

Tor  Greeks  a blush— for'  Greece  a tear. 

7. 

Must  we  but  weep  o’er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?— Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth ! render  back  from  out  thy  breast 
A remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  1 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 

To  make  a new  Thermopylae  ! 

8. 

What,  silent  still  ? and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  ! no ; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a distant  torrent’s  fall, 

And  answer,  “ Let  one  living  head, 

But  one  arise,— we  come,  we  come !” 

’Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

9. 

In  vain— in  vain  ; strike  other  chords ; 

Till  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wane  1 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio’s  vine  ! 


1)  [Homer  ] (2)  [Anacreon.] 

3)  The  vncm  MaKaptov  of  the  Greek  poets  were  supposed  to  have 

•n  the  Cape  de  Verd  Islands  or  the  Canaries. 

4)  [“  Euboea  looks  on  Marathon, 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea,  &c.— Mb.l 

5)  “ Deep  were  the  groans  of  Xerxes,  when  he  saw 

This  havoc;  for  his  seat,  a lofty  mound 
Commanding  the  wide  sea,  o’erl-ook’d  the  hosts. 

With  rueful  cries  he  rent  his  royal  robes, 

And  through  his  troops  embattled  on  the  shore 
Gave  signal  of  retreat;  then  started  wild 
And  fled  disorder’d.”— ^Sschylus. 

[G)  [“  Which  Hercules  might  deem  his  own  ” — MS.] 

[7)  . . . “ Tevoifxav 

U,'  i\aev  eire crxt  irovrov 


Hark ! rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 

How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

10. 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a slave  ? 

11. 

Till  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We°will  not  think  of  themes  like  these ! 
It  made  Anacreon’s  song  divine : 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 

A tyrant ; but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen.  / 

12. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom’s  best  and  bravest  friend ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh  f that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

13. 

Till  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

On  Suli’s  rock,  and  Parga’s  shore, 

Exists  the  remnant  of  a line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 

And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own.6 

14. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Tranks 
They  have  a king  who  buys  and  sells  . 
In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

15. 

Till  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade  • 
I see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine  ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 

My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 

To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

16. 

Place  me  on  Sunium’s  marbled  steep. 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die : 
A land  of  slaves  shall  ne’er  be  mine— 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wme  ! 


vpo&Xtm  o.\ik\v<ttov,  aKpav 

lionXaica  Zoav.oe.  v.  t.  X.  Soph.  Ajax,  v.  1217. 

(8)  [“  This  glorious  Ode  on  the  aspirations  of  Greece  after  Liberty 
is  instantly  followed  up  by  a strain  of  cold-blooded  ribaldry  . and, 
in  this  way,  all  good  feelings  are  excited  only  to  accustom  us  to 
their  speedy  and  complete  extinction,  and  wc-  are  brought  back, 
from  thek  transient  and  theatrical  exhibition,  to  the  staple  and 
substantial  doctrine  of  the  work— the  non-existence  of  constancy  m 
women  or  honour  in  men,  and  the  folly  of  expecting  to  meet  with 
any  such  virtues,  or  of  cultivating  them  for  an  undeserving  world 
-and  all  this  mixed  up  with  so  much  wit  and  cleverness,  and 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  as  to  make  it  irresistibly  pleasant  and 
nlausible— while  there  is  not  only  no  antidote  supplied,  but  every 
fitat  might  have  operated  in  that  way hai .been  antogtoj, 
and  presented  already  in  as  strong  and  engaging  a form  as  possible 
— JSYVK£Y.] 


638 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  m 


LXXXVII. 

Thus  sung,  or  w mid,  or  could,  or  should  have  sung. 
The  modem  Greek,  iu  tolerable  verse ; 

If  not  like  Orpheus  quite,  when  Greece  was  young, 
Yet  in  these  times  he  might  have  done  much  worse  : 
His  strain  display’d  some  feeling— right  or  wrong; 

And  feeling,  in  a poet,  is  the  source 
Of  others’  feeling ; but  they  are  such  liars, 

And  take  all  colours — like  the  hands  of  dyers. 

LXXXVIII. 

But  words  are  things,  and  a small  drop  of  ink, 

Falling  like  dew,  upon  a thought,  produces 
That  which  makes  thousands,  perhaps  millions,  think; 

’Tis  strange,  the  shortest  letter  which  man  uses 
Instead  of  speech,  may  form  a lasting  link 
Of  ages ; to  what  straits  old  Time  reduces 
Frail  man,  when  paper — even  a rag  like  this, 

Survives  himself,  his  tomb,  and  all  that’s  his. 

LXXXIX. 

And  when  his  bones  are  dust,  his  grave  a blank, 

His  station,  generation,  even  his  nation, 

Become  a thing,  or  nothing,  save  to  rank 
In  chronological  commemoration. 

Some  dull  MS.  oblivion  long1  has  sank, 

Or  graven  stone  found  in  a barrack’s  station 
In  digging  the  foundation  of  a closet. 

May  turn  his  name  up,  as  a rare  deposit. 

xc. 

And  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile ; 

’Tis  something,  nothing,  words,  illusion,  wind — 
Depending  more  upon  the  historian’s  style 
Than  on  the  name  a person  leaves  behind : 

Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist  owes  to  Hoyle  : 

The  present  century  was  growing  blind 
To  the  great  Marlborough’s  skill  in  giving  knocks, 
Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

XCT. 

Milton’s  the  prince  of  poets— so  we  say; 

A little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine  : 

An  independent  being  in  his  day — 

Learn’ d,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and  wine  ; 

But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson’s  way, 

We’re  told  this  great  high  priest  of  all  the  Nine 
Was  whipt  at  college — a harsh  sire — odd  spouse, 

For  the  first  Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house.1 

xcn. 

All  these  are,  certes,  entertaining  facts, 

LikeShakspeare’s  stealing  deer,  Lord  Bacon’s  bribes; 
Like  Titus’  youth,  and  Caesar’s  earliest  acts ; 

Like  Burns  (whom  Doctor  Currie  well  describes) ; 
Like  Cromwell’s  pranks  ; — but  although  truth  exacts 
These  amiable  descriptions  from  the  scribes, 

As  most  essential  to  their  hero’s  story, 

They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 


(1)  See  Johnson’s  Life  of  Milton. 

(2)  [“  Confined  his  pedlar  poems  to  democracy.” — MS.] 

(3)  [See  Coleridge’s  Biographia  Literaria,  181".] 

(4)  [’*  Flourish’d  his  sophistry  for  aristocracy.” — MS.] 

v5)  [The  followers  of  this  fanatic  are  said  to  have  amounted,  at 
■me  time,  to  a hundred  thousand.  She  announced  herself  as  the 
mother  of  , a second  Shiloh,  whose  speedy  advent  she  confidently 
pred'^ed.  A cradle  of  expensive  materials  was  prepared  for  the 
expected  prodigy.  Dr.  Reece  and  another  medical  man  attested 
her  d'-cpsy;  and  many  were  her  dupes  down  to  the  moment  of  her 
dead.,  m .8i4.] 

(6)  [Here  follows  ir.  the  original  MS. — 

“ Time  has  approved  Ennui  to  be  the  best 

Of  friends,  and  opiate  draughts ; your  love  and  wine, 


XCIII. 

All  are  not  moralists,  like  Southey,  when 
He  prated  to  the  world  of  “ Pantisocras  i ; ' 

Or  Wordsworth  unexcised,  unhired,  who  then 
Season’d  his  pedlar  poems  with  democracy;2 
Or  Coleridge,3  long  before  his  flighty  pen 
Lent  to  the  Morning  Post  its  aristocracy  ;4 
When  lie  and  Southey,  following  the  same  path. 
Espoused  two  partners  (milliners  of  Bath). 

XCIV. 

Such  names  at  present  cut  a convict  figure, 

The  very  Botany  Bay  in  moral  geography  ; 

Their  loyal  treason,  renegado  rigour, 

Are  good  manure  for  their  more  bare  biography  ; 
Wordsworth’s  last  quarto,  by  tlie  way,  is  bigger 
Than  any  since  the  birthday  of  typography ; 

A drowsy  frowzy  poem,  call’d  the  “ Excursion,” 

Writ  in  a manner  which  is  my  aversion. 

xcv. 

He  there  builds  up  a formidable’  dyke 
Between  his  own  and  others’  intellect ; 

But  Wordsworth’s  poem,  and  his  followers,  like 
Joanna  Southcote’s  Shiloh,5 6  and  her  sect, 

Are  things  which  in  this  century  don’t  strike 
The  public  mind, — so  few  are  the  elect ; 

And  the  new  births  of  both  their  stale  virginities 
Have  proved  but  dropsies,  taken  for  divinities.  ' 
xcvi. 

But  let  me  to  my  story  : 1 must  own, 

If  I have  any  fault,  it.  is  digression — 

Leaving  my  people  to  proceed  alone, 

While  I soliloquize  beyond  expression  ; 

But  these  are  my  addresses  from  the  throne, 

Which  put  off  business  to  the  ensuing  session  : ‘ 
Forgetting  each  omission  is  a loss  to 
The  world,  not  quite  so  great  as  Ariosto. 

xcvn. 

I know  that  what  our  neighbours  call  “ longueurs ,’* 
(We’ve  not  so  good  a word,  but  have  the  thing , 

In  that  complete  perfection  which  ensures 
An  epic  from  Bob  Southey  every  spring — ) 

Form  not  the  true  temptation  which  allures 
The  reader ; but  ’twould  not  be  hard  to  bring 
Some  fine  examples  of  the  epopee. 

To  prove  its  grand  ingredient  is  ennui* 

XCVIII. 

We  learn  from  Florace,  “ Homer  sometimes  sleeps ;”  j 
We  feel  without  him,  Wordsworth,  sometimes  , 
Tq  show  with  what  complacency  he  creeps,  [wakes,— 
With  his  dear  “ Waggoners”  around  his  lakes.7 
He  wishes  for  “ a boat  ” to  sail  the  deeps — \ 

Of  ocean  ? — No,  of  air ; and  then  he  makes 
Another  outcry  for  “ a little  boat,” 

And  drivels  seas  to  set  it  well  afloat.8 


Which  shake  so  much  the  human  brain  and  breast, 

Must  end  in  languor; — men  must  sleep  like  swine: 

The  happy  lover  and  the  welcome  guest 
Both  sink  at  last  into  a swoon  divine; 

Full  of  deep  raptures  and  of  bumpers,  they 
Are  somewhat  sick  and  sorry  the  next  day.”] 

(7)  [Wordsworth’s  “ Benjamin  the  Waggoner,”  appeared  i| 
1819.] 

(8)  “ There ’s  something  in  a flying  horse, 

There’s  something  in  a huge  balloon ; 

But  through  the  clouds  I ’ll  never  float 
Until  1 have  a little  boat,”  &c. 

Wordsworth’s  Petti  Be*. 


cam  O III. 


DON  JUAN. 


039 


XCIX. 

If  he  must  fain  sweep  o’er  the  ethereal  plain, 

And  Pegasus  runs  restive  in  his  “ Waggon,” 

Could  lie  not  beg-  the  loan  of  Charles’s  W ain  F 
Or  pray  Medea  for  a single  dragon  F 
Or  if,  too  classic  for  his  vulgar  brain, 

He  fear’d  his  neck  to  venture  such  a nag  on, 

And  he  must  needs  mount  nearer  to  the  moon, 

Could  not  the  blockhead  ask  for  a balloon  ? 

c. 

“Pedlars,”  and  “Boats,”  and  “ Waggons  !”  Oh ! ye 
shades 

Of  Pope  and  Dryden,  are  we  come  to  this  ? 

That  trash  of  such  sort  not  alone  evades 
Contempt,  but  from  the  bathos’  vast  abyss 
Floats  scumlike  uppermost,  and  these  Jack  Cades 
Of  sense  and  song  above  your  graves  may  hiss — 
The  “little  boatmen”  and  his  “Peter  Bell” 

Can  sneer  at  him  who  drew  “ Achitophel  l”1 

ci. 

T’  our  tale. — The  feast  was  over,  the  slaves  gone, 

The  dwarfs  and  dancing  girls  had  all  retired ; 

The  Arab  lore  and  poet’s  song  were  done, 

And  every  sound  of  revelry  expired ; 

The  lady  and  her  lover,  left  alone, 

The  rosy  flood  of  twilight’s  sky  admired ; — 

Ave  Maria ! o’er  the  earth  and  sea, 

That  heavenliest  hour  of  Heaven  is  worthiest  thee  ! 

CII. 

Ave  Maria ! blessed  be  the  hour ! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I so  soft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 
Sink  o’er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft. 

While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower,2 
Or  the  faint  dying  day -hymn  stole  aloft, . 

And  not  a breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 

And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seem’d  stirr’d  with  prayer. 

cm. 

Ave  Maria  ! ’tis  the  hour  of  prayer  ! 

Ave  Maria ! ’tis  the  hour  of  love  ! 

Ave  Maria ! may  our  spirits  dare 
Look  up  to  thine  ana  to  thy  Son’s  above ! 

Ave  Maria  ! oh  that  face  so  fair ! 

Those  downcast  eyes  beneath  the  Almighty  dove — 
What  though  ’tis  but  a pictured  image  F — strike — 
That  painting  is  no  idol, — ’tis  too  like. 

civ. 

Some  kinder  casuists  are  pleased  to  say, 

In  nameless  print3 — that  I have  no  devotion; 


(1)  “ The  verses  of  Dryden,  once  highly  celebrated,  are  forgotten.” 
—Mr.  W.  Wordsworth’s  Preface. 

(2)  [“While  swung  the  signal  from  the  sacred  tower.” — MS.] 

(3)  [“  Are  not  these  pretty  stanzas  T— some  folks  say — 

Downright  in  print — ” — MS.] 

(4)  [“The  first  time  I had  a conversation  with  Lord  Byron  on 
the  subject  of  religion  was  at  Ravenna,  my  native  country,  in  1820, 
while  we  were  riding  on  horseback  in  an  extensive  solitary  wood 
of  pines.  The  scene  invited  to  religious  meditation.  It  was  a 
fine  day  in  spring.  ‘ How,'  he  said,  ‘ raising  our  eyes  to  heaven, 
or  directing  them  to  the  earth,  can  we  doubt  of  the  existence  of 

God  ?— or  how,  turning  them  to  what  is  within  us,  can  we  doubt 

that  there  is  something  more  noble  and  durable  than  the  clay  of 

which  we  are  formed  ? ’ -Count  Gamba.] , 


But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to  pray, 

And  you  shall  see  who  has  the  propeuest  notion 
Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way  ; 

My  altars  are  the  mountains  and  the  ocean. 

Earth,  air,  stars, — all  that  springs  from  the  great 
Whole, 

Who  hath  produced,  and  will  receive  the  soul 

cv. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight ! — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which  bounds  Ravenna’s  immemorial  wood, 

Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flow’d  o’er, 

To  where  the  last  Caesarean  fortress  stood, 

Evergreen  forest ! which  Boccaccio’s  lore 
And  Dryden’ s lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 

How  have  I loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee  !4 

cvi. 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 
Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed’s  and  mine, 

And  vesper  bell’s  that  rose  the  boughs  along ; 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti’s  line, 

His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng 
Which  learn’d  from  this  example  not  to  fly 
Erom  a true  lover,— shadow’d  my  mind’s  eye.5 

cvn. 

Oh,  Hesperus  ! thou  bring-est  all  good  tilings6 — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent’s  brooding  wings. 

The  welcome  stall  to  the  o’erlabour’d  steer  ; 
Whate’er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate’er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear. 

Are  gather’d  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring’ st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother’s  breast. 

cvm. 

Soft  hour  ! which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  hear! 

Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 
When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart ; 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day’s  decay ; 

Is  this  a fancy  which  our  reason  scorns  F 

Ah  ! surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns ! 7 

cm. 

When  Nero  perish’d  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroy’d. 

Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Rome, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  overjoy’d. 


(5)  [“  By  ber  example  warn’d,  the  rest,  beware; 

More  easy,  less  imperious,  were  the  fair  t 
And  that  one  hunting,  which  the  devil  design’d, 

For  one  fair  female,  lost  him  half  the  kind.” 

Dkyden’s  Theodore  and  Honoria.  J 

(6)  “ 'E<T7repe  ira* ra  ipepeit 

<bepe«s  oivov—ipepeit  aiya, 

<j>ePe<9  /xarept  vaida.’’— Fragment  of  Sappho. 

(7)  “ Era  gia  T ora  che  volge  ’1  disio, 

A’  naviganti,  e ’ntenerisce  il  cuore ; 

Lo  di  ch’  han  detto  a’  dolci  amici  a dio ; 

E che  lo  nuovo  peregrin’ d’  amore 
Punge,  se  ode  Squilla  di  lontano, 

Che  paia  ’1  giorno  pianger  che  si  muore. 

Dante’s  Purgatory,  canto  vii). 

This  last  line  is  the  first  of  Gray’s  Elegy,  taken  by  him  without 
acknow  ledgment. 


640 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Some  Lands  unseen  strew’d  flowers  upon  his  tomb  :l 
Perhaps  the%weakness  of  a heart  not  void 
Of  feeling  for  seme  kindness  done,  when  power 
Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 

cx. 

But  I’m  digressing;  what  on  earth  has  Nero, 

Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons,2 
To  do  with  the  transactions  of  my  hero, 

More  than  such  madmen’s  fellow  man— the  moon’s  ? 
Sure  my  invention  must  be  down  at  zero, 

And  I grown  one  of  many  “wooden  spoons” 

Of  verse  (the  name  with  which  we  Cantabs  please 
To  dub  the  last  of  honours  in  degrees). 

CXI. 

I feel  this  tediousness  will  never  do — 

’Tis  being  too  epic,  and  1 must  cut  down 
(In  copying)  this  long  canto  into  two  ; 

They’ll  never  find  it  out,  unless  I own 
The  tact,  excepting  some  experienced  few ; 

And  then  as  an  improvement  ’twill  be  shown : 

I’ll  prove  that  such  the  opinion  of  the  critic  is 
From  Aristotle  passim—  See  UoirjriK rjs. 


(1)  See  Suetonius  for  this  fact. — [“The  public  joy  was  so  great 
upon  the  occasion  of  his  death,  that  the  common  people  ran  up 
and  down  with  caps  upon  their  heads.  And  yet  there  were  some, 
who  for  a long  time  trimmed  up  his  tomb  with  spring  and  summer 
flowers,  and  one  while  placed  his  image  upon  his  rostra  dressed  up 
in  state  robes,  another  while  published  proclamations  in  his  name, 
as  if  he  was  yet  alive,  and  would  shortly  come  to  Rome  again  with 
a vengeance  to  all  his  enemies.”] 

(2)  [“But  I ’m  digressing— what  on  earth  have  Nero 

And  Wordsworth— both  poetical  buffoons,”  &c.— MS.] 

(3)  [Canto  III.  originally  included  almost  all  the  stanzas  which 
now  form  Canto  IV.  Cantos  III.,  IV.,  and  V.  were  published 
together,  inSvo,  in  August,  1821.  The  following  are  extracts  from 
Lord  Byron’s  letters  to  Mr.  Murray: — 

Ravenna.  December  4,  1819  — “The  third  Canto  of  Don  Juan 
is  completed  in  about  two  hundred  stanzas ; very  decent,  I believe, 
but  do  not  know,  and  it  is  useless  to  discuss.” 

December  10,  1819.—“!  have  finished  the  third  Canto,  but  the 
things  I have  read  and  heard  discourage  all  further  publication — at 
least  for  the  present.  The  cry  is  up,  and  cant  is  up.  I should  have 
no  objection  to  return  the  price  of  the  copyright.” 

February  7,  1820. — “ I have  cut  the  third  Canto  into  two,  because 
it  was  too  long ; and  I tell  you  this  beforehand,  because  in  case  of 
any  reckoning  between  you  and  me,  these  two  are  only  to  go  for  one, 
as  this  was  the  original  form,  and,  in  fact,  the  two  together  are  not 
longer  than  one  of  the  first : so  remember  that  I have  not  made  this 
division  to  double  upon  you.— I have  not  yet  sent  off  the  Cantos, 
and  have  some  doubt  whether  they  ought  to  be  published,  for  they 
have  not  the  spirit  of  the  first.  The  outcry  has  not  frightened  but 
it  has  hurt  me,  and  I have  not  written  con  amove  this  time.” 

October  12,  1820. — “ I don’t  feel  inclined  to  care  further  about 
Don  Juan.  What  do  you  think  a very  pretty  Italian  lady  said  to 
me  the  other  day  ? She  had  read  it  in  the  French,  and  paid  me 
some  compliments,  with  due  drawbacks,  upon  it.  I answered, 
that  what  she  said  was  true,  but  that  I suspected  it  would  live 
longer  than  Childe  Harold.—1  Ah,  but'  (said  she)  ‘ I would  rather 
have  the  fame  of  Childe  Harold  for  thr> eyears  than  an  immortality 
of  Don  Juan  !’  The  truth  is,  that  it  is  too  true,  and  the  women 
hate  many  things  which  strip  off  the  tinsel  of  sentiment;  and  they 
are  right,  as  it  would  rob  them  of  their  weapons.  1 never  knew  a 
woman  who  did  not  hate  De  Grammont’s  Memoirs  for  the  same 
reason.” 

We  subjoin  a single  specimen  of  the  contemporary  criticism  on 
~antos  HI.,  IV.,  and  V. 

“It  seems  to  have  become  almost  an  axiom  in  the  literary 
•vorld,  that  nothing  is  so  painful  to  the  sensibilities  of  an  author  as 
the  palpable  neglect  of  his  productions.  From  this  species  of  mor- 
tification, no  poet  has  ever,  perhaps,  been  more  fully  exempt  than 
Lord  Byron.  None  of  his  publications  have  failed'in  at  least  ex- 
iting a sufficient  portion  of  general  interest  and  attention ; and 
even  those  among  them  which  the  scrutinising  eye  of  criticism 
might  deem  somewhat  unworthy  of  his  powers,  have  never  com- 
pelled him,  like  many  of  his  political  brethren,  to  seek  refuge  from 
the  apathy  and  want  of  discernment  of  contemporaries,  in  the  con-., 
soling  anticipation  of  posthumous  honours  and  triumphs.  But,  if 
we  «re  to  infer,  from  the  axiom  already  alluded  to,  that  extensive 


Ston  gjunn. 


CANTO  T1IE  FOURTH.3 


I. 

Nothing  so  difficult  as  a beginning 
In  poesy,  unless  perhaps  the  end ; 

For  oftentimes  when  Pegasus  seems  winning 
The  race,  he  sprains  a wing,  and  down  we  tend, 
Like  Lucifer  when  hurl’d  from  heaven  for  sinning  j 
Our  sin  the  same,  and  hard  as  his  to  mend, 

Being  pride,4  which  leads  the  mind  to  soar  too  far, 
Till  our  own  weakness  shows  us  what  we  are.5 

II. 

But  Time,  which  brings  all  beings  to  their  level, 
And  sharp  Adversity,  will  teach  at  last 
Man,— and,  as  we  would  hope,— perhaps  the  devil, 
That  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast : 

While  youth’s  hot  wishes  in  our  red  veins  revel. 

We  know  not  this— the  blood  flows  on  too  fast, 
But  as  the  torrent  widens  towards  the  ocean, 

W e ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion.6 


I notoriety  must  be  pleasing  in  the  same  proportion  that  neglect  it 
distressing  to  an  author,  then  none  of  his  lordship’s  productions  can 
afford  him  so  ample  a field  for  self-congratulation  as  the  E m 
Juan.  Revilers  and  partisans  have  alike  contributed  to  the  popu- 
larity of  this  singular  work ; and  the  result  is,  that  scarcely  any 
poem  of  the  present  day  has  been  more  generally  lead,  or  its  con- 
tinuation more  eagerly  and  impatiently  awaited.  Its  poetical 
merits  have  been  extolled  to  the  skies  by  its  admirers;  and  the 
Priest  and  the  Levite,  though  they  have  joined  to  anathematise  it, 
have  not,  when  they  came  in  its  way,  ‘ passed  by  on  the  other 
side.’ 

“ But  little  progress  is  made  in  the  history  and  adventures  of  the 
hero  in  these  three  additional  cantos.  The  fact  is,  however,  that  I 
nothing  has  appeared,  from  the  beginning,  to  be  farther  from  the 
author’s  intention,  than  to  render  his  Don  Juan  any  thing  like  a , 
regular  narrative  On  the  contrary,  its  general  appearance  tends 
strongly  to  remind  us  of  the  learned  philosopher’s  treatise — ‘ De 
rebus  omnibus  et  quibusdam  aliis.’  And  here  we  cannot  avoid 
remarking,  what  an  admirable  method  those  persons  must  possess  I 
of  reconciling  contradictions,  who,  in  the  same  breath,  censure  the  '] 
poem  for  its  want  of  plan,  and  impeach  the  writer  of  a deliberate  •' 
design  against  the  religion  and  government  of  the  country.’  His 
lordship  has  himself  given  what  appears  to  us  a very  candid  exposi-  I 
tion  of  his  motives — 

‘ the  fact  is,  that  I have  nothing  plann’d, 

Unless  it  were  to  be  a moment  merry, 

A novel  word  in  my  vocabulary.* 

Indeed,  the  whole  poem  has  completely  the  appearance  of  being  • 
produced  in  those  intervals  in  which  an  active  and  powerful  mind,  . 
habitually  engaged  in  literary  occupation,  relaxes  from  its  more  jj 
serious  labours,  and  amuses  itself  with  comparative  trifling.  Hence  ,* 
the  narrative  is  interrupted  by  continual  digressions,  and  the  general  I 
character  of  the  language  is  that  of  irony  and  sarcastic  humour; — d 
an  apparent  levity,  which,  however,  often  serves  but  as  a veil  to  1 
deep  reflection.  Nor  can  the  talent  of  the  master-hand  be  always  : 
concealed : it  involuntarily  betrays  itself  in  the  touches  of  the  pa-  ] 
thetic  and  sublime  which  frequently  present  themselves  in  the 
course  of  the  poem  ; in  the  thoughts  ‘ too  big  for  utterance,  and  too 
deep  for  tears,’  which  are  interspersed  in  various  parts  of  it.”— 
Campbell.”] 

(4)  [ “ Pride  and  worse  Ambition  threw  me  down, 

Warring  in  heaven  against  heaven’s  matchless  King.” 

Paradise  Lost .] 

(5)  [ “ the  same  sin  that  overthrew  the  angels, 

And  of  all  sins  most  easily  besets 

Mortals  the  nearest  to  the  angelic  nature : 

The  vile  are  only  vain;  the  great  are  proud.” 

Marino  Faliero.  See  ante,  p.207.J 

(6)  [“  Time  hovers  o’er,  impatient  to  destroy, 

And  shuts  up  all  the  passages  of  joy  : 

In  vain  their  gifts  the  bounteous  seasons  pout, 

The  fruit  autumnal,  and  the  vernal  flow’r; 

With  listless  eyes  the  dotard  views  the  store, 

He  views,  and  wonders  that  they  please  no  umro. " 

Johnsok’s  V ’unit  y of  Hu  men  If  uhtv.] 


*ANTO  IV. 


DON  JUAN. 


641 


m. 

A.s  boy,  I thought  myself  a clever  fellow, 

Ani  wish’d  that  others  held  the  same  opinion ; 

They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more  mellow, 
And  other  minds  acknowledged  my  dominion : 

Now  mv  sere  fancy  “ falls  into  the  yellow 
Leaf,1”  and  Imagination  droops  her  pinion, 

And  the  sad  truth  which  hovers  o’er  my  desk 
Turns  what  was  once  romantic  to  burlesque. 

IV. 

And  if  I laugh  at  any  mortal  thing, 

’Tis  that  t may  not  weep  : and  if  I weep, 

’Tis  that  our  nature  cannot  always  bring 
Itself  to  apathy,  for  we  must  steep 
Our  hearts  first  in  the  depths  of  Lethe’s  spring. 

Ere  what  we  least  wish  to  behold  will  sleep : 

Thetis  baptized  her  mortal  son  in  Styx;2 
A mortal  mother  would  on  Lethe  fix.3 

v. 

Some  have  accused  me  of  a strange  design 
Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the  land,4 
And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line  : 

I don’t  pretend  that  I quite  understand 
My  own  meaning  when  I would  be  very  fine ; 

But  the  fact  is  that  I have  nothing  plann’d. 

Unless  it  were  to  be  a moment  merry, 

A novel  word  in  my  vocabulary. 

VI. 

To  the  kind  reader  of  our  sober  clime 
This  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic ; 

Pulci  was  sire  of  the  half-serious  rhyme,5 
Who  sang  when  chivalry  was  more  Quixotic, 

And  revell’d  in  the  fancies  of  the  time,  [despotic ; 

True  knights,  chaste  dames,  huge  giants,  kings 
But  all  these,  save  the  last,  being  obsolete, 

I chose  a modern  subject  as  more  meet. 

VII. 

How  I have  treated  it,  I do  not  know ; 

Perhaps  no  better  than  they  have  treated  me, 

Who  have  imputed  such  designs  as  show 
Not  what  they  saw,  but  what  they  wish’d  to  see : 
But  if  it  gives  them  pleasure,  be  it  so  ; 

This  is  a liberal  age,  and  thoughts  are  free  : 
Meantime  Apollo  plucks  me  by  the  ear, 

And  tells  me  to  resume  my  story  here.6 

viii. 

Young  Juan  and  his  lady-love  were  left 
To  their  own  hearts’  most  sw'eet  society ; 

Even  Time  the  pitiless  in  sorrow  cleft 
With  his  nide  scythe  such  gentle  bosoms ; he 

“ ’Tis  a grand  poem — and  so  true! — true  as  the  10th  of  Juvenal 
himself.  The  lapse  of  ages  changes  all  things — time — language — 
the  earth — the  bounds  of  the  sea — the  stars  of  the  sky,  and  every 
thing  ‘ about,  around,  and  underneath  ’ man,  except  man  himself, 
who  has  always  been,  and  always  will  be,  an  unlucky  rascal.  The 
infinite  variety  of  lives  conduct  but  to  death,  and  the  infinity  of 
wishes  lead  but  to  disappointment.” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 

(1)  [ “ my  May  of  life 

Is  fail’n  into  the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf.”—  Macbeth.] 

(2)  [Achilles  is  said  to  have  been  dipped  by  his  mother  in  the 
river  Styx,  to  render  him  invulnerable.] 

(3)  [“  Lethe,  the  river  of  oblivion,  rolls 

Her  watery  labyrinth,  whereof  who  drinks 
Forthwith  his  former  state  and  being  forgets, 

Forgets  both  joy  and  grief,  pleasure  and  pain.” 

\ Paradise  Lost,  b.  vi.] 

U)  [«•  9- — “ Lord  Byron  is  the  very  Comus  of  poetry,  who,  by  the 
bewitching  airiness  of  his  numbers,  aims  to  turn  the  moral  world 
into  a herd  of  monsters.” — Watkins. 

“ Deep  as  Byron  has  dipped  his  pen  in*o  vice,  he  has  dipped  it 
deeper  into  immorality.  Alas ! he  shines  only  to  mislead— he 
flashes  only  to  dest'oy.”— Bolton. 


Sigli’d  to  behold  them  of  their  hours  beieft, 

Though  foe  to  love  ; and  yet  they  could  not  be 
Meant  to  grow  old,  but  die  in  happy  spring, 

Before  one  charm  or  hope  had  taken  wing. 

IX. 

Their  faces  were  not  made  for  wrinkles,  their 
Pure  blood  to  stagnate,  their  great  hearts  to  fail  - 
The  blank  grey  was  not  made  to  blast  their  hair, 

But  like  the  climes  that  know  not  snow  nor  hail 
They  were  all  summer : lightning  might  assail 
And  shiver  them  to  ashes,  but  to  trail 
A long  and  snake-like  life  of  dull  decay 
Was  not  for  them — they  had  too  little  clay. 

X. 

They  were  alone  once  more ; for  them  to  be 
Thus  was  another  Eden ; they  were  never 
Weary,  unless  when  separate  : the  tree 
Cut  from  its  forest  root  of  years — the  river 
Damm’d  from  its  fountain — the  child  from  the  knee 
And  breast  maternal  wean’d  at  once  for  ever, — 
Would  wither  less  than  these  two  torn  apart;7 
Alas  ! there  is  no  instinct  like  the  heart — 

XI. 

The  heart — which  may  be  broken  : happy  they ! 

Thrice  fortunate  ! who  of  that  fragile  mould, 

The  precious  porcelain  of  human  clay, 

Break  with  the  first  fall : they  can  ne’er  behold 
The  long  year  link’d  with  heavy  day  on  day, 

And  all  which  must  be  borne,  and  never  told ; 
While  life’s  strange  principle  will  often  lie 
Deepest  in  those  who  long  the  most  to  die. 

XII. 

“ Whom  the  gods  love  die  young,”  was  said  of  yore,8 
And  many  deaths  do  they  escape  by  this  : 

The  death  of  friends,  and  that  which  slays  even  more— 
The  death  of  friendship,  love,  youth,  ail  that  is, 
Except  mere  breath  ; and  since  the  silent  shore 
Awaits  at  last  even  those  who  longest  miss 
The  old  archer’s  shafts,  perhaps  the  early  grave 
Wliicli  men  weep  over  may  be  meant  to  save.9 

XIII. 

Haidee  and  -Tuan  thought  not  of  the  dead.  [them  : 
The  heavens,  n earth,  and  air,  seem’d  made  for 
They  found  no  fault  with  Time,  save  that  he  fled ; 

They  saw  not  in  themselves  aught  to  condemn  : 
Each  was  the  other’s  mirror,  and  but  read 
Joy  sparkling  in  their  dark  eyes  like  a gem, 

And  knew  such  brightness  was  but  the  reflection 
Of  their  exchanging  glances  of  affection. 

“ In  Don  Juan  he  is  highly  profane;  but,  in  that  poem,  the  pro- 
faneness is  in  keeping  with  all  the  other  qualities,  and  religion 
comes  in  for  a sneer,  or  a burlesque,  only  in  common  with  everj 
thing  that  is  dear  and  valuable  to  us  as  moral  and  social  beings 
Eel.  Rev 

“ Dost  thou  aspire,  like  a Satanic  mind, 

With  vice  to  waste  and  desolate  mankind? 

Toward  every  rude  and  dark  and  dismal  deed 
To  see  them  hurrying  on  with  swifter  speed  ? 

To  make  them,  from  restraint  and  conscience  free, 

Bad  as  thyself,  or  worse — if  such  can  be?” — Cotti.e  ] 

(5)  [See  ante,  p.  481.] 

(6)  [“  Cum  canerem  reges  et  praelia,  Cynthius  aurem 

Vellit,  et  admonuit.” — Virg.  Eel.  vi.] 

(7)  [ “ from  its  mother’s  knee 

When  its  last  weaning  draught  is  drained  for  ever 
The  child  divided — it  were  less  to  see, 

Than  these  two  from  each  other  torn  apart.” — MS.J 

(8)  See  Herodotus. 

(9)  [“  The  less  of  this  cold  world,  the  more  of  Hea»e-»  ' 


642 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  IV, 


XIV. 

The  gentle  pressure  and  the  thrilling  touch, 

The  least  glance  better  understood  than  words, 
Which  still  said  all,  and  ne’er  could  say  too  much; 

A language,  too,  but  like  to  that  of  birds. 

Known  but  to  them,  at  least  appearing  such 
As  but  to  lovers  a true  sense  affords  ; 

Sweet  playful  phrases,  which  would  seem  absurd 
To  those  who  have  ceased  to  hear  such,  or  ne’er  heard: 

. xv. 

All  these  were  theirs,  for  they  were  children  still, 

And  children  still  they  should  have  ever  been ; 

They  were  not  made  in  the  real  world  to  fill 
A busy  character  in  the  dull  scene, 

But  like  two  beings  born  from  out  a rill, 

A nymph  and  her  beloved,  all  unseen 
To  pass  their  lives  in  fountains  and  on  flowers. 

And  never  know  the  weight  of  human  hours. 

XVI. 

Moons  changing  had  roll’d  on,  and  changeless  found 
Those  their  bright  rise  had  lighted  to  such  joys 
As  rarely  they  beheld  throughout  their  round ; 

And  these  were  not  of  the  vain  kind  which  cloys, 
For  theirs  were  buoyant  spirits,  never  bound 
By  the  mere  senses ; and  that  which  destroys1 
Most  love,  possession,  unto  them  appear’d 
A thing  which  each  endearment  more  endear’d. 

XVII. 

Oh  beautiful ! and  rare  as  beautiful ! 

But  theirs  was  love  in  which  the  mind  delights 
To  lose  itself,  when  the  old  world  grows  dull, 

And  we  are  sick  of  its  hack  sounds  and  sights. 
Intrigues,  adventures  of  the  common  school, 

Its  petty  passions,  marriages,  and  flights, 

Where  Hymen’s  torch  but  brands  one  strumpet  more, 
Whose  husband  only  knows  her  not  a wh— re. 

XVIII. 

Hard  words  ; harsh  truth ; a truth  which  many  know. 

Enough. — The  faithful  and  the  fairy  pair. 

Who  never  found  a single  hour  too  slow, 

What  was  it  made  them  thus  exempt  from  care  ? 
Young  innate  feelings  all  have  felt  below, 

Wh’cli  perish  in  the  rest,  but  in  them  were 
Inherent ; what  we  mortals  call  romantic, 

And  always  envy,  though  we  deem  it  frantic. 

XIX. 

This  is  in  others  a factitious  state. 

An  opium  dream2  of  too  much  youth  and  reading, 
But  was  in  them  their  nature  or  their  fate  : 

No  novels  e’er  had  set  their  young  hearts  bleeding, 
For.  Ilaidee’s  knowledge  was  by  no  means  great, 

And  Juan  was  a boy  of  saintly  breeding; 

So  that  tnere  was  no  reason  for  their  loves 
More  than  for  these  of  nightingales  or  doves. 

XX. 

They  gazed  upon  the  sunset ; ’tis  an  hour 
Dear  unto  all,  but  dearest  to  their  eyes, 

(1)  [“  For  theirs  were  buoyant  spirits,  which  would  bound 
'Gainst  common  failings,  ’ Ac. — MS.] 

(1)  “ Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater,”  by  De 

Ouincv  iaU  been  published  shortly  before  this  Canto  was  written  ] 

(3)  £**  Seldom  be  smiles ; and  smiles  in  such  a sort, 

*4*  i*  he  mov  k’d  himself,”  &c. — Shakspeake.] 


For  it.  had  made  them  wnat  they  were  : tne  power 
Of  love  had  first  o’erwhelmed  them  from  such  skies 
When  happiness  had  been  their  only  dower. 

And  twilight  saw  them  link’d  in  passion’s  ties ; 
Charm’d  with  each  other,  all  things  charm’d  that 
brought 

The  past  still  welcome  as  the  present  thought. 

XXI. 

I know  not  why,  but  in  that  hour  to-night, 

Even  as  they  gazed,  a sudden  tremor  came, 

And  swept,  as  ’twere  across  their  hearts’  delight, 

Like  the  wind  o’er  a harp-string,  or  a flame. 

When  one  is  shook  in  sound,  and  one  in  sight ; 

And  thus  some  boding  flash’d  through  either  frar  le, 
And  call’d  from  Juan’s  breast  a faint  low  sigh. 

While  one  new  tear  arose  in  Haidee’s  eye. 

XXII. 

That  large  black  prophet  eye  seem’d  to  dilate 
And  follow  far  the  disappearing  sun, 

As  if  their  last  day  of  a happy  date 

With  his  broad,  bright,  and  dropping  orb  were  gone. 
Juan  gazed  on  her  as  to  ask  his  fate — 

He  ielt  a grief,  but  knowing  cause  for  none, 

His  glance  inquired  of  hers  for  some  excuse 
For  feelings  causeless,  or  at  least  abstruse. 

XXIII. 

She  turn’d  to  him,  and  smiled,  but  in  that  sort 
Which  makes  not  others  smile  ;3  then  turn’d  aside : 
Whatever  feeling  shook  her,  it  seem’d  short, 

And  master’d  by  her  wisdom  or  her  pride ; 

When  Juan  spoke,  too — it  might  be  in  sport — • 

Of  this  their  mutual  feeling,  she  replied — 

“ If  it  should  be  so, — but — it  cannot  be — 

Or  I at  least  shall  not  survive  to  see.” 

XXIV. 

Juan  would  question  further,  but  she  press’d 
His  lip  to  hers,  and  silenced  him  with  this. 

And  then  dismiss’d  the  omen  from  her  breast. 
Defying  augury  with  that  fond  kiss ; 

And  no  doubt  of  all  methods  ’tis  the  best : 

Some  people  prefer  wine — ’tis  not  amiss ; 

I have  tried  both  ;4  so  those  who  would  a part  take, 
May  choose  between  the  headache  and  the  heart  ache 

XXV. 

One  of  the  two,  according  to  your  choice, 

Woman  or  wine,  you’ll  have  to  undergo ; 

Both  maladies  are  taxes  on  our  joys : 

But  which  to  choose,  I really  hardly  know ; 

And  if  I had  to  give  a casting  voice, 

For  both  sides  I could  many  reasons  show. 

And  then  decide,  without  great  wrong  to  either, 

It  were  much  better  to  have  both  than  neither. 

XXVI. 

Juan  and  Haidee  gazed  upon  each  other 

With  swimming  looks  of  speechless  tenderness, 
Which  mix’d  all  feelings,  friend,  child,  lover,  brotl.er, 
All  that  the  best  can  mingle  and  express 


(4)  [“  The  effect  of  all  wines  and  spirits  upon  me  is  strange.  It 
settles,  but  it  makes  me  gloomy — gloomy  at  the  very  moment  ot 
their  effect,  and  not  gay  hardly  ever.  But  it  composes  for  a time, 
though  sullenly.  Swimming  raises  my  spirits, — but  in  general  theT 
are  low,  and  get  daily  lower.  That  is  hopeless ; for  I do  not  think 
I am  so  much  ennuye  as  I was  at  nineteen,”— Byron  Diary, 
1821.] 


CANTO  IV. 


DON  JUAN. 


C43 


WTien  two  pure  hearts  are  pour’d  in  one  another. 

And  love  too  much,  and  yet  can  not  love  less ; 

But  almost  sanctify,  the  sweet  excess 
By  the  immortal  wish  and  power  to  bless.1 

XXVII. 

Mix’d  in  each  other’s  arms,  and  heart  in  heart,  [long 
Why  did  they  not  then  die  ?— they  had  lived  too 
Should  an  hour  come  to  bid  them  breathe  apart ; 

Years  could  but  bring  them  cruel  things  or  wrong ; 
The  world  was  not  for  them,  nor  the  world’s  art 
For  beings  passionate  as  Sappho’s  song ; 

Love  was  bom  with  thejo,  in  them,  so  intense, 

It  was  their  very  spirit — not  a sense. 

XXVIII. 

They  should  have  lived  together  deep  in  woods, 
Unseen  as  sings  the  nightingale  ;2  they  were 
Unfit  to  mix  in  these  thick  solitudes 
Call’d  social,  haunts  of  Hate,  and  Vice,  and  Care : 
Plow  lonely  every  freeborn  creature  broods  ! 

The  sweetest  song-birds  nestle  in  a pair ; 

The  eagle  soars  alone  ; the  gull  and  crow 
Flock  o’er  their  carrion,  just  like  men  below. 

XXIX. 

Now  pillow’d  cheek  to  cheek,  in  loving  sleep, 

Haidee  and  Juan  their  siesta  took, 

A gentle  slumber,  but  it  was  not  deep, 

For  ever  and  anon  a something  shook 
Juan,  and  shuddering  o’er  his  frame  would  creep  ; 

And  Haidee’s  sweet  lips  murmur’d  like  a brook 
A wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 
Stirr’d  with  her  dream,  as  rose-leaves  with  the  air;3 

XXX. 

Or  as  the  stirring  of  a deep  clear  stream. 

Within  an  Alpine  hollow,  when  the  wind 
Walks  o’er  it,  was  she  shaken  by  the  dream. 

The  mystical  usurper  of  the  mind4— 


(1)  [“  Learn  by  a mortal  yearning  to  ascend 

Towards  a higher  object.  Love  was  given, 

Encouraged,  sanction'd,  chiefly  for  that  end; 

For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven — 

That  self  might  be  annull’d— her  bondage  prove 
The  fetters  of  a dream,  opposed  to  love.” 

Wordsworth’s  Laodamia. ] 

(2)  [“  The  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 

I better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns : 

There  can  I sit  alone,  unseen  of  any, 

And  to  the  nightingale’s  complaining  notes 
Tune  my  distresses,  and  record  my  woes.” 

Shakspeare.] 

(3)  [In  one  of  Wilson’s  minor  poems,  “ On  the  Death  of  a Child  ” 
(1812),  occurs  this  beautiful  image  : — 

. . . “ All  her  innocent  thoughts, 

Like  rose-leaves  scatter’d.”] 

(4)  [“  We  are  somewhat  more  than  ourselves  in  our  sleeps,  and 
the  slumber  of  the  body  seems  to  be  but  the  waking  of  the  soul.  It 
is  the  ligation  of  sense,  but  the  liberty  of  reason ; and  our  waking 
conceptions  do  not  match  the  fancies  of  our  sleeps.  At  my  nativity 
;ny  ascendant  was  the  watery  sign  of  Seorpius ; I was  born  in  the 
planetary  hour  of  Saturn,  and  I think  I have  a piece  of  that  leaden 
planet  in  me.  I am  no  way  facetious,  nor  disposed  for  the  mirth 
and  galliardise  of  company ; yet  in  one  dream  I can  compose  a 
whole  comedy,  behold  the  action,  apprehend  the  jests,  and  laugh 
myself  awake  at  the  conceits  thereof.  Were  my  memory  as. faith- 
ful as  my  reason  is  then  fruitful,  I would  never  study  but  in  my 
dreams ; and  this  time  also  would  I choose  for  my  devotions ; but 
our  grosser  memories  have  then  so  little  hold  of  our  abstracted 
understandings,  that  they  forget  the  story,  and  can  only  relate  to 
our  awakened  souls  a confused  and  broken  tale  of  that  that  has 
passed.” — Sir  Thomas  Browne.] 

(5)  ^Strange  state  of  being! — for  'tis  still  to  be — 

And  who  can  know  all  false  what  then  we  see?”— MS.] 


O’erpowering  us  to  be  whate’er  may  seem 

Good  to  the  soul  which  we  no  more  can  bind ; 
Strange  state  of  being ! (for  ’tis  still  to  be) 

Senseless  to  feel,  and  with  seal’d  eyes  to  see.5 

XXXI. 

She  dream’d  of  being  alone  on  the  sea-shore,6 
Chain’d  to  a rock ; she  knew  not  how,  but  stir 
She  could  not  from  the  spot,  and  the  loud  roar 

Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threatening  her ; 
And  o’er  her  upper  lip  they  seem’d  to  pour, 

Until  she  sobb’d  for  breath,  and  soon  they  were 
Foaming  o’er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and  high — 

Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not  die. 

XXXII. 

Anon — she  was  released,  and  then  she  stray’d 
O’er  the  sharp  shiugles  with  her  bleeding  feet. 

And  stumbled  almost  every  step  she  made  ; 

And  something  roll’d  before  her  in  a sheet, 

Which  she  must  still  pursue  howe’er  afraid : 

’Twas  white  and  indistinct,  nor  stopp’d  to  meep  d. 
Her  glance  nor  grasp,  for  still  she  gazed  and  gras 
And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  clasp’d. 

XXXIII. 

The  dream  changed : — in  a cave  she  stood,  its  walls 
Were  hung  with  marble  icicles;  the  work 
Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls,  . [lurk ; 

Where  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might  breed  and 
Her  hair  was  dripping,  and  the  very  balls 

Of  her  black  eyes  seem’d  turn’d  to  tears,  and  mirk 
The  sharp  rocks  look’d  below  each  drop  they  caught. 
Which  froze  to  marble  as  it  fell, — she  thought. 

XXXIV. 

And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless  at  her  feet, 

Pale  as  the  foam  that  froth’d  on  his  dead  brow, 
Which  she  essay’d  in  vain  to  clear,  (how  sweet 
Were  once  her  cares,  how  idle  seem’d  they  now  !) 


(6)  [“  One  of  the  finest  moral  tales  I ever  read,  is  an  account  of 
a dream  in  the  Tatler,  which,  though  it  has  every  appearance  of  a 
real  dream,  comprehends  a moral  so  sublime  and  so  interesting, 
that  I question  whether  any  man  who  attends  to  it  can  over  forget 
it  • and.  if  he  remembers,  whether  he  can  ever  cease  to  be  the  better 
for  it.  ' Addison  is  the  author  of  the  paper,  and  I shall  give  the 
story  in  his  own  elegant  words : — * I was  once  in  agonies  of  grief 
that  are  unutterable,  and  in  so  great  a distraction  of  mind,  that  I 
thought  myself  even  out  of  the  possibility  of  receiving  comfort.  1 he 
occasion  was  as  follows : — When  I was  a youth,  in  a part  of  the 
army  which  was  then  quartered  at  Dover,  I fell  in  love  with  an 
agreeable  young  woman  of  a good  family  in  those  parts,  and  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  my  addresses  kindly  received,  which  occa- 
sioned the  perplexity  I am  going  to  relate.  We  were,  m a calm 
evening,  diverting  ourselves,  on  the  top  of  a cliff,  with  the  prospect 
of  the  sea;  and  trifling  away  the  time  in  such  little  fondnesses,  as 
arc  most  ridiculous  to  people  in  business,  and  most  agreeable  to 
those  in  love.  In  the  midst  of  these  our  innocent  endearments,  she 
snatched  a paper  of  verses  out  of  my  hand,  and  ran  away  with 
them.  I was  following  her;  when  on  a sudden  the  ground,  though 
at  a considerable  distance  from  the  verge  of  the  precipice,  sunk 
under  her,  and  threw  her  down  from  so  prodigious  a height,  upon 
such  a range  of  rocks,  as  would  have  dashed  her  Into  ten  thousand 
pieces  had  her  body  been  made  of  adamant.  It  is  much  easier  for 
my  reader  to  imagine  my  state  of  mind  upon  such  an  occasion  than 
for  me  to  express  it.  I said  to  myself,  it  is  not  in  the  power  of 
Heaven  to  relieve  me— when  I awaked,  equally  transported  and 
astonished,  to  see  myself  drawn  out  of  an  affliction,  which,  the  very 
moment  before,  appeared  to  be  altogether  inextricable.  —What 
fable  of  iEsop,  nnv  of  Homer,  or  of  Virgil,  conveys  so  fine  a moral  l 
Yet  most  people  have,  if  I mistake  not,  met  with  such  deliverances 
by  means  of  a dream.  Let  us  not  despise  instruction,  how  mean 
soever  the  vehicle  may  be  that  brings  it.  Even  if  it  be  a dream, 
let  us  learn  to  profit  by  it.  For,  whether  asleep  or  awake,  we  are 
equally  the  care  of  Providence;  and  neither  a dream,  nor  a waking 
thought,  can  occur  to  us  without  the  permission  of  Him  in  whoi* 
we  live,  and  move,  and  have  our  being.” — Dr.  Beattie.) 


644 


U)KD  BYROK’S  WORKS. 


CANU  IV 


Lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  renew  the  heat 
Of  his  quench’d  heart : and  the  sea  dirges  low 
Rang  in  her  sad  ears  like  a mermaid’s  song, 

And  that  brief  dream  appear’d  a life  too  long.* 1 

XXXV. 

And  gating  on  the  dead,  she  thought  his  face 
Faded,  or  alter’d  into  something  new — 

Like  to  her  father’s  features,  till  each  trace 
Mere  like  and  like  to  Lambro’s  aspect  grew — 
With  all  his  keen  worn  look  and  Grecian  grace ; 

And  starting  she  awoke,  and  what  to  view  ? 

Oh ! Powers  of  Heaven ! what  dark  eye  meets  she 
there  ? 

Tis — ’tis  her  father’s — fix’d  upon  the  pail  i 

XXXVI. 

Then  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking  fell, 

With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to  see 
Him  whom  she  deem’d  a habitant  where  dwell 
The  ocean-buried,  risen  from  death,  to  be 
Perchance  the  death  of  one  she  loved  too  well : 

Hear  a?  her  father  had  been  to  Haidee, 

It  was  a moment  of  that  awful  kind 

I have  seen  such — but  must  not  call  to  mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up  Juan  sprung  to  Haidee’s  bitter  shriek, 

And  caught  her  falling,  and  from  off  the  wall 
Snatch’d  down  his  sabre,  in  hot  haste  to  wreak 
Vengeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of  all: 

Then  Lambro,  who  till  now  forboie  to  speak, 

Smiled  scornfully,  and  said,  “ Witiiin  my  call 
A thousand  scimit,8ft*s  await  the  word; 

Put  up,  young  man,  put  up  your  silly  sword.” 

XXXVIII. 

And  Haidee  clung  around  him  ; “ Juan,  ’tis — 

’Tis  Lambro — ’tis  my  father ! Kneel  with  me — 
He  will  forgive  us — yes — it  must  be — yes. 

Oh  ! dearest  father,  in  this  agony 
Of  pleasure  and  of  pain — even  while  I kiss 
Thy  garment’s  hem  with  transport,  can  it  be 
That  doubt  should  mingle  with  my  filial  joy? 

Heal  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  spare  this  boy.” 

XXXIX. 

High  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood, 

Calm  in  his  voice,  and  calm  within  his  eye — • 

Not  always  signs  with  him  of  calmest  mood  : 

He  look’d  upon  her,  but  gave  no  reply ; 

Then  turn’d  to  Juan,  in  whose  cheek  the  blood 
Oft  came  and  went,  as  there  resolved  to  die ; 

In  arms,  at  least,  he  stood,  in  act  to  spring 
On  the  first  foe  whom  Lambro’s  call  might  bring. 

XL. 

“ Young  man,  your  sword  so  Lambro  once  more 
Juan  replied,  “ Not  while  this  arm  is  free.”  [said  : 


(1)  [“I  awoke  from  a dream  — well!  and  have  not  others 
dreamed  ? — Such  a dream  ! — but  she  did  not  overtake  me.  I wish 
the  dead  would  rest,  however.  Ugh ! how  my  blood  chilled — and 

I could  not  wake — and — heigho ! 

‘ Shadows  to-night 

Have  struck  more  terror  in  the  soul  of  Richard, 

Than  could  the  substance  of  ten  thousand, 

Arm  d all  in  proof,’  &c.  &c. 

« do  not  like  this  dream, — I hate  its  * foregone  conclusion.’  And 
tun  i to  be  shaken  by  shadows!  Ay,  when  they  remind  me  of — no 
■natter — but.  if  I dream  thus  again,  I will  try  whether  all  sleep  has 


The  old  man’s  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not  with  dread. 
And  drawing  from  his  belt  a pistol,  he 
Replied,  “ Your  blood  be  then  on  your  own  head.” 
Then  look’d  close  at  the  flint,  as  if  to  see 
’Twas  fresh — for  he  had  lately  used  the  lock — 

And  next  proceeded  quietly  to  cock. 

XLI. 

It  has  a strange  quick  jar  upon  the  ear, 

That  cocking  of  a pistol,  when  you  know 
A moment  more  will  bring  the  sight  to  bear 
Upon  your  person,  twelve  yards  off,  or  so ; 

A gentlemanly  distance,  not  too  near, 

If  you  have  got  a former  frfend  for  foe ; 

But  after  being  fired  at  once  or  twice. 

The  ear  becomes  moreHrish,  and  less  nice. 

XIII. 

Lambro  presented,  and  one  instant  more 

Had  stopp’d  this  Canto,  and  Don  Juan’s  breath, 
When  Haidee  threw  herself  her  boy  before  ; 

Stern  as  her  sire  : “ On  me,”  she  cried,  “ let  death 
Descend — the  fault  is  mine  ; this  fatal  shore 

He  found — but  sought  not.  I have  pledged  my 
faith ; 

I love  him — T will  die  with  him  : I knew 

Your  nature’s  firmness — know  your  daughter’s  too.” 

XLIII. 

A minute  past,  and  she  had  been  all  tears, 

And  tenderness,  and  infancy ; but  now 
She  stood  as  one  who  champion’d  human  fears — 
Pale,  statue-like,  and  stern,  she  woo’d  the  blow  ; 
And  tall  beyond  her  sex,  and  their  compeers, 

She  drew  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show 
A fairer  mark ; and  with  a fix’d  eye  scann’d 
Her  father’s  face — but  never  stopp’d  his  hand. 

XLIV. 

He  gazed  on  her,  and  she  on  him  ; ’twas  strau^e 
How  like  they  look’d  ! the  expression  wras  tne  same ; 
Serenely  savage,  with  a little  change 

In  the  large  dark  eye’s  mutual  darted  flame ; 

For  she,  too,  wras  as  one  who  could  avenge, 

If  cause  should  be — a lioness,  though  tame, 

Her  father’s  blood  before  her  father’s  face 
Boil’d  up,  and  prov’d  her  truly  of  his  race. 

XLV. 

I said  they  were  alike,  their  features  and 
Their  stature,  differing  but  in  sex  and  years ; 

Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their  hand2 

There  was  resemblance,  such  as  true  blood  wears  ; 
And  now  to  see  them,  thus  divided,  stand 
In  fix’d  ferocity,  when  joyous  tears, 

And  sweet  sensations  should  have  welcom’d  both. 
Show  what  the  passions  are  in  their  full  growth. 


the  like  visions.  Since  I rose,  I’ve  been  in  considerable  bodily 
pain  also ; but  it  is  gone  and  over,  and  now,  like  Lord  Ogleby,  I 
am  wound  up  for  the  day.” — Byron  Journal,  1813.] 

(2)  [The  reader  will  observe  .1  curious  mark  of  propinquity  which 
the  poet  notices,  with  respect  to  the  hands  of  the  father  and  daugh- 
ter. Lord  Hyron,  we  suspect,  is  indebted  for  the  first  hint  of  this 
to  Ali  Pacha,  who,  by  the  bye,  is  the  original  of  Lambro ; for,  when 
his  lordship  was  introduced,  with  his  friend  Hobhouse,  to  that 
agreeable-mannered  tyrant,  the  vizier  said  that  he  knew  he  was  the 
Megalos  Anthropos  (i.e  the  Great  Man),  by  the  sma’.ness  of  his 
ears  and  hands. — Galt.] 


CANTO  IY. 


DON  JUAN. 


645 


XLVI. 

The  father  paused  a moment,  then  withdrew 
N His  weapon,  and  replaced  it ; but  stood  still, 

And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look  her  through, 

“ Not  7,”  he  said,  “have  sought  this  stranger’s  ill; 
Not  I have  made  this  desolation : few 
Would  bear  such  outrage,  and  forbear  to  kill ; 

But  I must  do  my  duty — how  thou  hast 
Done  thine,  the  present  vouches  for  the  past.1 

XLVII. 

“Let  him  disarm ; or,  by  my  father’s  head. 

His  own  shall  roll  before  you  like  a ball !” 

He  raised  his  whistle,  as  the  word  he  said. 

And  blew,  another  answer’d  to  the  call. 

And  rushing  in  disorderly,  though  led, 

And  arm’d  from  boot  to  turban,  one  and  all, 

Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on  rank  ; 

He  gave  the  word, — “Arrest  or  slay  the  Frank.” 

XLVIII. 

Then,  with  a sudden  movement,  he  withdrew 
His  daughter  ; while  compress’d  within  his  clasp, 
’Twixt  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew; 

In  vain  she  struggled  in  her  father’s  grasp — 

His  arms  were  like  a serpent’s  coil : then  flew 
Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp, 

The  file  of  pirates ; save  the  foremost,  who 

Had  fallen,  with  his  right  shoulder  half  cut  through. 

XLIX. 

The  second  had  his  cheek  laid  open ; but 
The  third,  a wary,  cool  old  sworder,  took 
The  blows  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 
His  own  well  in  ; so  well,  ere  you  could  look 
His  man  was  floor’d,  and  helpless  at  his  foot, 

With  the  blood  running  like  a little  brook 
From  two  smart  sabre  gashes,  deep  and  red — • 

One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 

L. 

And  then  they  bound  him  where  he  fell,  and  bore 
Juan  from  the  apartment : with  a sign 
Old  Lambro  bade  them  take  him  to  the  shore, 

Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  to  sail  at  nine.2 
They  laid  him  in  a boat,  and  plied  the  oar 
Until  they  reach’d  some  galliots,  placed  in  line  ; 

On  board  of  one  of  these,  and  under  hatches. 

They  stow’d  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the  watches. 

LI. 

The  world  is  full  of  strange  vicissitudes. 

And  here  was  one  exceedingly  unpleasant : 

A gentleman  so  rich  in  the  world’s  goods, 

Handsome  and  young,  enjoying  all  the  present, 


(1)  [“  And  if  I did  my  duty  as  thou  hast, 

This  hour  were  thine,  and  thy  young  minion’s  last.” — MS.] 

(21  [“  Till  further  orders  should  his  doom  assign.” — MS.] 

(3)  [“  But  thou,  sweet  fury  of  the  fiery  rill, 

Makest  on  the  liver  a still  worse  attack  ; 

Besides,  thy  price  is  something  dearer  still.” — MS.] 

(4)  [“  I have  been  considering  what  can  be  the  reason  why  I 
always  wake  at  a certain  hour  in  the  morning,  and  always  in  very 

bad  spirits — I may  say,  in  actual  despair  and  despondency,  in  all 
respects,  even  of  that  which  pleased  me  over  night.  In  about  an 
hour  or  two  this  goes  oft',  and  I compose  either  to  sleep  again,  or,  at 
least,  to  quiet.  In  England,  five  years  ago,  I had  the  same  kind 
of  hypochondria,  but  accompanied  with  so  violent  a thirst,  that  I 
have  drunk  as  many  as  thirteen  bottles  of  soda-water  in  on,e  night, 

after  going  to  bed,  and  been  still  thirsty.  At  present  I have  not  the 
thirst,  but  the  depression  of  spirits  is  no  less  violent.  What  is  it? 
—liver?  I suppose  that  it  is  all  hypochondria.”  — Byron  Diary, 


Just  at  the  very  time  when  he  least  broods 
On  such  a thing  is  suddenly  to  sea  sent. 

Wounded  and  chain’d,  so  that  he  cannot  move, 

And  all  because  a lady  fell  in  love. 

HI. 

Here  I must  leave  him,  for  I grow  pathetic, 

Moved  by  the  Chinese  nymph  of  tears,  green  tea! 
Than  whom  Cassandra  was  not  more  prophetic  ; 

For  if  my  pure  libations  exceed  three, 

I feel  my  heart  become  so  sympathetic, 

That  I must  have  recourse  to  black  Bohea : 

’Tis  pity  wine  should  be  so  deleterious, 

For  tea  and  coffee  leave  us  much  more  serious 

Lin. 

Unless  when  qualified  with  thee,  Cogniac! 

Sweet  Naiad  of  the  Phlegethontic  rill ! 

All ! why  the  liver  wilt  thou  thus  attack,3 
And  make,  like  other  nymphs,  thy  lovers  ill?4 
I would  take  refuge  in  weak  punch,  but  rack 
(In  each  sense  of  the  word),  whene’er  I fill 
My  mild  and  midnight  beakers  to  the  brim, 

Wakes  me  next  morning  with  its  synonym. 

LIV. 

I leave  Don  Juan  for  the  present,  safe — 

Not  sound,  poor  fellow,  but  severely  wounded , 

Yet  could  his  corporal  pangs  amount  to  half 
Of  those  with  which  his  Haidee’s  bosom  bounded ! 
She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,  and  chafe, 

And  then  give  wav,  subdued  because  surrounded ; 
Her  mother  was  a Moorish  maid,  from  Fez, 

WThere  all  is  Eden,  or  a wilderness* 

LY. 

There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store 

In  marble  fonts ; there  grain,  and  flower,  and  fruit, 
Gush  from  the  earth  until  the  land  runs  o’er;5 

But  there,  too,  many  a poison-tree  has  root. 

And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion’s  roar, 

And  long,  long  deserts  scorch  the  camel’s  foot, 

Or  heaving  whelm  the  helpless  caravan  ; 

And  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man. 

LVI. 

Afric  is  all  the  sun’s,  and  as  her  earth 
Her  human  clay  is  kindled  ; full  of  power 
'For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth, 

The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet’s  hour. 

And  like  the  soil  beneath  it  will  bring  forth  : 

Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee’s  mother’s  dower ; 
But  her  large  dark  eye  sliow’d  deep  Passion’s  forca. 
Though  sleeping  like  a lion  near  a source.6 


(5)  [“  At  Fez,  the  houses  of  the  great  and  wealthy  have,  within- 
side,  spacious  courts,  adorned  with  sumptuous  galleues,  founts  oi 
the  finest  marble,  and  fish-ponds,  shaded  with  orange,  lemoi,  pome 
granate,  and  fig  trees,  abounding  with  fruit,  and  ornamented  with 
roses, ^hyacinths,  jasmine,  violets,  and  other  odoriferous  flowers, 
emitting  a delectable  fragrance;  so  that  it  is  justly  called  a para* 
dise.” — Jackson’s  Morocco .] 

(6)  [“  Beauty  and  passion  were  the  natural  dower 

Of  Haidee’s  mother,  but  her  climate's  force 
Lay  at  her  heart,  though  sleeping  at  the  scarce.” 

Ov. 

“ But  in  her  large  eye  lay  deep  passion’s  force, 

Like  to  a lion  sleeping  by  a source.” 

Or, 

“ But  in  her  large  eye  lay  deep  passion’s  force. 

As  sleeps  a lion  by  a river’s  source.”— MS.J 


646 


LORD  BORON’S  WORKS. 


c/jno  it 


Lvn. 

Her  daughter,  temper’d  with  a milder  ray. 

Like  summer  clouds  all  silvery,  smooth,  and  fair. 
Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder  they  display 
Terror  to  earth,  and  tempest  to  the  air, 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way ; 

But  overwrought  with  passion  and  despair, 

The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian  veins. 

Even  as  the  Simoom1  sweeps  the  blasted  plains. 

LVIII. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan’s  gore, 

And  he  himself  o’ermaster’d  and  cut  down  ; 

His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor 
Where  late  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her  own  ; 

Thus  much  she  view’d  an  instant'and  no  more, — 

Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convulsive  groan ; 
On  her  sire’s  arm,  which  until  now  scarce  held 
Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a cedar  fell’d. 

LIX. 

A vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips’  pure  dyes2 3 
Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which  ran  o’er  / 
And  her  head  droop’d  as  when  the  lily  lies  [bore 
O’ercharged  with  rain : her  summon’d  handmaids 
Their  lady  to  her  couch  with  gushing  eyes  ; 

Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced  their  store, 
But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  employ, 

Like  one  life  could  not  hold,  nor  death  destroy. 

LX. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state  unchanged,  though  chill — 
With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red ; 

She  had  no  pulse, *but  death  seem’d  absent  still ; 

No  hideous  sign  proclaim’d  her  surely  dead ; 
Corruption  came  not  in  each  mind  to  kill 
All  hope  ; to  look  upon  her  sweet  face  bred 
New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seem’d  full  of  soul — 

She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim  the  whole. 

LXI. 

The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 
When  exquisitely  chisell’d,  still  lay  there, 

But  fix’d  as  marble’s  unchanged  aspect  throws 
O’er  the  fair  Venus,  but  for  ever  fair;4 5 * 


(1)  [The  suffocating  blast  of  the  Desert.  See  anti,  p.  65.] 

(2)  [“  The  blood  gush’d  from  her  lips,  and  ears,  and  eyes  : 

Those  eyes,  so  beautiful — beheld  no  more.” — MS.] 

(3)  This  is  no  very  uncommon  effect  of  the  violence  of  conflicting 
and  different  passions.  The  Doge  Francis  Foscari,  on  his  deposi- 
tion in  1457,  hearing  the  bells  of  St.  Mark  announce  the  election  of 
his  successor,  “ mourut  subitement  d’une  hemorragie  causee  par 
un«  veine  qui  s’eclata  dans  sa  poitrine,”  (see  Sismondi  and  Daru, 
vols.  i.  and  ii. : see  also  anti , p.  298)  at  the  age  of  eighty  years, 
when  “ Who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  had  so  much  blood  in 
him?"  Before  I was  sixteen  years  of  age,  I was  witness  to  a me- 
lancholy instance  of  the  same  effect  of  mixed  passions  upon  a young 
person,  w ho,  however,  did  not  die  in  consequence,  at  that  time,  but 
fell  a victim  some  years  afterwards  to  a seizure  of  the  same  kind, 
arising  from  causes  intimately  connected  with  agitation  of  mind. 

(4)  [See  ant&,  p.  47.  The  view  of  the  Venus  of  Medicis  instantly 
•uggests  the  lines  in  the  “ Seasons,” — 

“With  v/ild  surprise, 

As  if  to  marble  struck,  devoid  of  sense, 

A stupid  moment  motionless  she  stood  : 

So  stands  the  statue  that  enchants  the  world.” 

Hobhouse.] 

(5)  [“The  sublime  mark  of  a great  soul  shines  forth,  in  all  its 
beauty,  through  those  affecting  expressions  of  pain  and  anguish 
that  appear  in  the  countenance  of  the  famous  Laocoon,  and  diffuse 
their  horrors  through  his  convulsed  members.  The  bitterness  of 

his  torment  seems  to  be  imprinted  on  each  muscle,  and  to  swell 

•very  nerve ; and  it  is  expressed  with  peculiar  energy,  by  the  con- 


O’er  the  Laocoon’s  all  eternal  throes,® 

And  ever- dying  Gladiator’s  air/ 

Their  energy  like  lil’e  forms  all  their  fame, 

Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the  same.7 — 

LXI  I. 

She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers  wake, 

Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seem’d  something  nevi, 

A strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 
Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 
Struck  not  her  memory,  though  a heavy  ache 
Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat  still  true 
Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the  cause. 

For,  for  a while,  the  furies  made  a pause. 

LXIII. 

She  look’d  on  many  a face  with  vacant  eye, 

On  many  a token  without  knowing  what ; 

She  saw  them  watch  her  without  asking  why ; 

And  reck’d  not  who  around  her  pillow  sat ; 

Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not ; not  a sigh  . 

Relieved  her  thoughts ; dull  silence  and  qu-.ck  cha. 
Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served;  she  gave 
No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the  grave. 

LXIV. 

Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded  not ; 

Her  father  watch’d,  she  turn’d  her  eyes  away; 

She  recognised  no  being,  and  no  spot, 

However  dear  or  cherish’d  in  their  day ; 

They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  ali  forgot. 
Gentle,  but  without  memory  she  lay ; 

At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would  fain  be  weaning  : 
Back  td  old  thoughts,  wax’d  full  of  fearful  meaning 

LXV. 

And  then  a slave  bethought  her  of  a harp  ; 

rlhe  harper  came,  and  tuned  his  instrument ; 

At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp, 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a moment  bent, 

Then  to  the  wall  she  turn’d  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrowthrough  her  heart  re-sent;  i 
And  he  begun  a long  low  island  song 
Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 


traction  of  the  abdomen  and  all  the  lower  parts  of  his  body:  this  , 
expression  is  so  lively,  that  the  attentive  spectator  partakes,  in  , 
some  measure,  of  the  anguish  it  represents.  The  sufferings  of  the  : 
body  and  the  elevation  of  the  soul  are  expressed  in  every  member 
with  equal  energy,  and  form  the  most  sublime  contrast  imaginable!  ' 
Laocoon  suffers  it,  but  he  suffers  like  the  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles ; 
his  lamentable  situation  pierces  the  heart,  but  fills  us,  at  the  same 
time,  with  an  ambitious  desire  of  being  able  to  imitate  his  con-  J 
stancy  and  magnanimity  in  the  pains  and  sufferings  that  may  fall  c 
to  our  lot.”— WlNKELMANN. 

“.In  the  group  of  the  Laocoon,  the  frigid  ecstasies  of  German 
criticism  have  discovered  pity  like  a vapour  swimming  on  the 
fathers  eyes;  lie  is  seen  to  suppress  in  the  groan  for  his  children  | 
the  shriek  for  himself — his  nostrils  are  drawn  upward,  to  express  | 
indignation  at  unworthy  sufferings,  whilst  he  is  said  at  the  same  1 
time  to  implore  celestial  help.  To  these  are  added  the  winged 
effects  of  the  serpent-poison,  the  writhings  of  the  body,  the  spasms  I 
of  the  extremities  : to  the  miraculous  organisation  of  such  expres-  I 
sion,  Agesander,  the  sculptor  of  the  Laocoon,  was  too  wise  to  lay  j 
claim.  His  figure  is  a class : it  characterises  every  beauty  of  virility 
verging  on  age;  the  prince,  the  priest,  the  father  are  visible,  but,  I 
absorbed  in  the  man,  serve  only  to  dignify  the  victim  of  one  great  I 
expression ; though  poised  by  the  artist  for  us,  to  apply  the  compass 
to  the  face  of  the  Laocoon  is  to  measure  the  way  fluctuating  in  the 
storm  : this  tempestuous  front,  this  contracted  nose,  the  immersion 
of  these  eyes,  and,  above  all,  that  long-drawn  mouth,  are,  separata  i 
and  united,  seats  of  convulsion,  features  of  nature,  struggling  within 
the  jaws  of  death.” — Fuseli.] 

(6)  [See  ante,  p.  52.] 

(7)  [“  Distinct  from  life,  as  being  ntill  the  same.”— MS.] 


CANTO  IV. 


DON  JUAN, 


647 


LX  VI. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall 
In  time  to  his  old  tune ; he  changed  the  theme, 
And  sung  of  love  ; the  fierce  name  struck  through  all 
Her  recollection ; on  her  flash’d  the  dream 
Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call 
To  be  so  being  ; in  a gushing  stream 
The  tears  rush’d  forth  from  her  o’erclouded  brain. 
Like  mountain  mists  at  length  dissolved  in  rain. 

LX  VII. 

Short  solace,  vain  relief ! — thought  came  too  quick, 
And  whirl’d  her  brain  to  madness ; she  arose 
As  one  who  ne’er  had  dwelt  among  the  sick. 

And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes  ; 

But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek, 

Although  her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its  close ; — 
Hers  was  a frenzy  which  disdain’d  to  rave. 

Even  when  they  smote  her,  in  the  hope  to  save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet  she  betray’d  at  times  a gleam  of  sense  ; 

Nothing  could  make  her  meet  her  father’s  face, 
Though  on  all  other  things  with  looks  intense 
She  gazed,  but  none  sne  ever  could  retrace ; 

Food  she  refused,  and  raiment ; no  pretence 
Avail’d  for  either ; neither  change  of  place, 

Nor  time,  nor  skill,  nor  remedy,  could  give  her 
Senses  to  sleep — the  power  seem’d  gone  for  ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  wither’d  thus  ; at  last. 
Without  a groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to  show 
A parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  past : 

And  they  who  watch’d  her  nearest  could  not  know 
The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 
Her  sweet  face  into  shadow,  dull  and  slow, 

Glazed  o’er  her  eyes — the  beautiful,  the  black — 

Oh  ! to  possess  such  lustre — and  then  lack ! 1 

LXX. 

She  died,  but  not  alone ; she  held  within 
A second  principle  of  life,  which  might 
Have  dawn’d  a fair  and  sinless  child  of  sin  ;2 

But  closed  its  little  being  without  light, 

And  went  down  to  the  grave  unborn,  wherein 
Blossom  and  bough  lie  wither’d  with  one  blight ; 

In  vain  the  dews  of  Heaven  descend  above 
The  bleeding  flower  and  blasted  fruit  of  love. 


(1)  [“  And  then  he  drew  a dial  from  his  poke, 

And  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye.” 

As  You  Like  It.] 

(2)  [“  Have  dawn’d  a child  of  beauty,  though  of  sin.” — MS.] 

(3)  [ “ Duncan  is  in  his  grave  : 

After  life’s  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well.” — Macbeth .] 

(4)  [We  think  that  few  will  withhold  their  sympathy  from  this 
affecting  catastrophe,  or  refuse  to  drop  a tear  over  the  fate  of  the 
lovely  and  unfortunate  Haidee,  and  to  bid  her 

“ sleep  well 

By  the  sea  shore,  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell.” 

Over  this  charming  creature  the  poet  has  thrown  a beauty  and  a 
fascination,  which  were  never,  we  think,  surpassed.  In  this,  as  in 
the  former  cantos,  he  pours  out  a singular  mixture  of  pathos,  dog- 
grel,  wit,  and  satire ; taking  a strange  and  almost  malignant  delight 
in  dashing  the  laughter  he  has  raised  with  tears,  and  crossing  his 
finest  and  most  affecting  passages  with  burlesque  ideas,  against 
which  no  gravity  is  proof. — Campbell.] 

(5)  [“  No  stone  is  there  to  read,  nor  tongue  to  say, 

No  dirge— save  when  arise  the  stormy  seas.” — MS.] 

(61  [It  will  be  advanced  that  her  amours  are  objectionable,  by 

some  fastidious  critic, 


LXXI. 

Thus  lived — thus  died  she  ; neve/  moie  on  tier 
Shall  sorrow  light,  or  shame.  She  was  not  made 
Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weight  to  bear. 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  are  laid 
By  age  in  earth  : her  days  and  pleasures  were 
Brief,  but  delightful — such  as  had  not  staid 
Long  with  her  destiny  ; but  she  sleeps  well3 
By  the  sea-shore,  whereon  she  loved  to  dwell.4 

LXXII. 

That  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 

Its  dwelliugs  down,  its  tenants  pass’d  away; 

None  but  her  own  and  father’s  grave  is  there. 

And  nothing  outward  tells  of  human  clay  ; 

Ye  could  not  know'  where  lies  a thing  so  fair, 

No  stone  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to  say 
What  was ; no  dirge,  except  the  hollow  sea’«  5 
Mourns  o’er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades 

LXXIII. 

But,  many  a Greek  'maid  in  a loving  song 
Sighs  o’er  her  name ; and  many  an  islander 
With  her  sire’s  story  makes  the  night  less  long ; 

Valour  was  his,  and  beauty  dwelt  with  her  : 

If  she  loved  rashly,  her  life  paid  for  wrong — 6 
A heavy  price  must  all  pay  who  thus  err, 

In  some  shape ; let  none  think  to  fly  the  danger. 

For  soon  or  late  Love  is  his  own  avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But  let  me  change  this  theme,  which  grows  too  sad, 
And  lay  this  sheet  of  sorrows  on  the  shelf ; 

I don’t  much  like  describing  people  mad. 

For  fear  of  seeming  rather  touch’d  myself  - 
Besides,  I’ve  no  more  on  this  head  to  add ; 

And  as  my  Muse  is  a capricious  elf, 

We’ll  put  about,  and  try  another  tack 
With  Juan,  left  half-kill’d  some  stanzas  back. 

lxxv. 

Wounded  and  fetter’d,  “cabin’d,  cribb’d,  confined  ”7 
Some  days  and  nights  elapsed  before  that  he 
Could  altogether  call  the  past  to  mind ; 

And  when  he  did,  he  found  himself  at  sea. 

Sailing  six  knots  an  hour  before  the  wind : 

The  shores  of  Uion  lay  beneath  their  lee — 
Another  time  he  might  have  liked  to  see  ’em, 

But  now  was  not  much  pleased  with  Cape  Sigseum.8 


“ Who  minces  virtue,  and  doth  shake  the  head 
To  hear  of  pleasure’s  name.” 

If  the  loves  of  Juan  and  HaidSe  are  not  pure  and  innocent,  and 
dictated  with  sufficient  delicacy  and  propriety,  the  tender  passion 
may  as  well  be  struck  at  once  out  of  the  list  of  the  poet’s  themes. 
We  must  shut  our  eyes  and  harden  our  hearts  against  the  master - 
passion  of  our  existence ; and,  becoming  mere  creatures  of  hypocrisy 
and  form,  charge  even  Milton  himself  with  folly. — Campbell  ] 

(7)  [“But  now  I’m  cabin’d,  cribb’d,”  &c. — Shakspeare.] 

(8)  [We  had  a full  view  of  Mount  Ida, 

“ Where  Juno  once  caress’d  her  amorous  Jove, 

And  the  world’s  master  lay  subdued  by  love.” 

We  anchored  at  Cape  Janissary,  the  famous  promontory  of  Sigaeum. 
My  curiosity  supplied  me  with  strength  to  climb  to  the  top  of  it,  to 
see  the  place  where  Achilles  was  buried,  and  where  Alexander  raa 
naked  round  his  tomb,  in  honour  of  him— which  no  doubt  was  a 
great  comfort  to  his  ghost.  Farther  downward  we  saw  the  pro- 
montory famed  for  the  sepulchre  of  Ajax.  While  I reviewed  these 
celebrated  fields  and  rivers,  I admired  the  exact  geography  ot 
Homer,  whom  I had  in  my  hand.  Almost  every  epithet  he  gives 
to  a mountain  or  plain  is  still  just  for  it;  and  I spent  several  hours 
her°  in  as  agreeable  cogitations  as  ever  Don  Quixote  had  on  Meun* 
Montesinos. — Lady  M.  W.  Montagu.] 


048 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


*NTO  it. 


LXXVI. 

There,  on  the  green  and  village-cotted  hill,  is 
(Flank’d  by  the  Hellespont,  and  by  the  sea) 
Entomb’d  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  Achilles  ; 

They  say  so — (Bryant  says  the  contrary) : 

And  further  downward,  tall  and  towering  still,  is1 
The  tumulus — of  whom  ? Heaven  knows ; ’t  may  be 
Patroclus,  Ajax,  or  Protesilaus  ;2 
All  heroes,  who  if  living  still  would  slay  us. 

LXXVII. 

High  barrows,  without  marble,  or  a name, 

A vast,  untill’d,  and  mountain-skirted  plain. 

And  Ida  in  the  distance,  still  the  same, 

And  old  Scamander,  (if  ’tis  he)  remain  ; 

The  situation  seems  still  form’d  for  fame — 

A hundred  thousand  men  might  fight  again 
With  ease ; but  where  I sought  for  Ilioii’s  walls, 

The  quiet  sheep  feeds,  and  the  tortoise  crawls  ; 

LXXVI  II. 

Troops  of  untended  horses  ; here  and  there 
Some  little  hamlets,  with  new  names  uncouth  ; 
Some  shepherds,  (unlike  Paris)  led  to  stare 
A moment  at  the  European  youth 
Whom  to  the  spot  their  school- boy  feelings  bear  ;3 

A Turk,  with  beads  in  hand,  and  pipe  in  mouth, 
Extremely  taken  with  his  own  religion, 

Are  what  I found  there— but  the  devil  a Phrygian. 

LXXIX. 

Don  Jnan,  here  permitted  to  emerge 

From  his  dull  cabin,  found  himself  a slave  ; 

Forlorn,  and  gazing  on  the  deep  blue  surge, 
O’ershadowed  there  by  many  a hero’s  grave ; 

Weak  still  with  loss  of  blood,  he  scarce  could  urge 
A few  brief  questions ; and  the  answers  gave 
No  very  satisfactory  information 
About  his  past  or  present  situation. 

LXXX. 

He  saw  some  fellow  captives,  who  appear’d 
To  be  Italians,  as  they  were  in  fact ; 

From  them,  at  least,  their  destiny  he  heard, 

Which  was  an  odd  one ; a troop  going  to  act 


(1)  [Proceeding  towards  the  east,  and  round  the  bay  distinctly 
pointed  out  by  Strabo,  as  the  harbour  in  which  the  Grecian  fleet 
was  stationed,  we  arrived  at  the  sepulchre  of  Ajax,  upon  the  ancient 
Ilhaetian  promontory.  In  all  that  remains  of  former  ages,  I know 
of  nothing  likely  to  affect  the  mind  by  emotions  of  local  enthusiasm 
more  powerfully  than  this  most  interesting  tomb.  It  is  impossible 
to  view  its  sublime  and  simple  form  without  calling  to  mind  the 
veneration  so  long  paid  to  it ; without  picturing  to  the  imagination 
a successive  series  of  mariners,  of  kings  and  heroes,  who,  from 
the  Hellespont,  or  by  the  shores  of  Troas  and  Chersonesus,  or  on 
the  sepulchre  itself,  poured  forth  the  tribute  of  their  homage;  and, 
finally,  without  representing  to  the  mind  the  feelings  of  a native,  or 
of  a traveller,  in  those  times,  who,  after  viewing  the  existing  monu- 
ment, and  witnessing  the  instances  of  public  and  of  private  regard 
so  constantly  bestowed  upon  it,  should  have  been  told  the  age  was 
to  arrive  when  the  existence  of  Troy,  and  of  the  mighty  dead  en- 
tombed upon  its  plain,  would  be  considered  as  having  no  foundation 
in  truth. — Dr.  E.  D.  Clarke.] 

(2)  [“  The  Troad  is  a fine  field  for  conjecture  and  snipe-shooting, 
and  a good  sportsman  and  an  ingenious  scholar  may  exercise  their 
feet  and  faculties  to  great  advantage  upon  the  spot; — or,  if  they 
prefer  riding,  lose  their  way,  as  I did,  in  a cursed  quagmire  of  the 
Scamander,  who  wriggles  about,  as  if  the  Dardan  virgins  still 
offered  their  wonted  tribute.  The  only  vestige  of  Troy,  or  her 
destroyers,  are  the  barrows  supposed  to  contain  the  carcases  of 
Achilles,  Antilochus,  Ajax,  &c.;  but  Mount  Ida  is  still  in  high 
feather,  though  the  shepherds  are  now-a-days  not  much  like  Gany- 
mede.”— Byron  Letters , 1810.] 

(3)  [Nothing  could  be  more  agreeable  than  oux  frequent  rambles. 


In  Sicily — all  singers,  duly  rear’d 
In  their  vocation ; had  not  been  attack’d 
In  sailing  from  Livorno  by  the  pirate, 

But  sold  by  the  impresario  at  no  high  rate.4 

LX  XXI. 

By  one  of  these,  the  buffo5  of  the  party, 

Juan  was  told  about  their  curious  case; 

For  although  destined  to  the  Turkish  mart,  he 
Still  kept  his  spirits  up — at  least  his  face ; 

The  little  fellow  really  look’d  quite  hearty, 

And  bore  him  with  some  gaiety  and  grace, 
Showing  a much  more  reconciled" demeanour, 

Than  did  the  prima  donna  and  the  tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In  a few  words  he  told  their  hapless  story, 

Saving,  “Our  Machiavelian  impresario, 

Making  a signal  off  some  promontory, 

Hail’d  a strange  brig ; Corpo  di  Caio  Mario  ! 

We  were  transferr’d  on  board  her  in  a hurry, 
Without  a single  scudo  of  salario  ; 

But  if  the  Sultan  has  a taste  for  song, 

We  will  revive  our  fortunes  before  long. 

LXXXIII. 

“ The  prima  donna,  though  a little  old, 

And  haggard  with  a dissipated  life, 

And  subject,  when  the  house  is  thin,  to  cold, 

Has  some  good  notes  ; and  then  the  tenor’s  wife, 
With  no  great  voice,  is  pleasing  to  behold ; 

Last  carnival  she  made  a deal  of  strife 
By  carrying  off  Count  Cesare  Cicogna 
From  ah  old  Roman  princess  at  Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 

“ And  then  there  are  the  dancers  ; there’s  the  Nini, 
With  more  than  one  profession  gains  by  all ; 

Then  there’s  that  laughing  slut  the  Pelegrini, 

She,  too,  was  fortunate  last  carnival, 

And  made  at  least  five  hundred  good  zecchini, 

But  spends  so  fast,  she  has  not  now  a paul ; 

And  then  there’s  the  Grotesca — such  a dancer ! 
Where  men  have  souls  or  bodies  she  must  answer. 


The  peasants  of  the  numerous  villages,  whom  we  frequently  en- 
countered ploughing  with  their  buffaloes,  or  driving  their  creaking 
wicker  cars,  laden  with  faggots  from  the  mountains,  whether 
Greeks  or  Turks,  showed  no  inclination  to  interrupt  our  pursuits. 
Parties  of  our  crew  might  be  seen  scattered  over  the  plain,  collect- 
ing the  tortoises  which  swarm  on  the  sides  of  the  rivulets,  and  are 
found  under  every  furze-bush. — Hobhouse.] 

(4)  This  is  a fact.  A few  years  ago  a man  engaged  a company 
for  some  foreign  theatre,  embarked  them  at  an  Italian  port,  and 
carrying  them  to  Algiers,  sold  them  all.  One  of  the  women,  re- 
turned from  her  captivity,  I heard  sing,  by  a strange  coincidence, 
in  Rossini’s  opera  of  “ L’ltaliana  in  Algieri,”  at  Venice,  in  the 
beginning  of  1817. — [We  have  reason  to  believe  that  the  following, 
which  we  take  from  the  MS.  journal  of  a highly  respectable  tra- 
veller, is  a more  correct  account In  1812,  a Signor  Guariglia 
induced  several  young  persons  of  both  sexes — none  of  them  exceed- 
ing fifteen  years  of  age — to  accompany  him  on  an  operatic  excursion ; 
part  to  form  the  opera,  and  part  the  ballet.  He  contrived  to  get 
them  on  board  a vessel,  which  took  them  to  Janina,  where  he  sold 
them  for  the  basest  purposes.  Some  died  from  the  effect  of  the 
climate,  and  some  from  suffering.  Among  the  few  who  returned 
were  a Signor  Molinari,  and  a female  dancer  named  Bonfiglia,  who 
afterwards  became  the  wife  of  Crespi,  the  tenor  singer.  The  wretch 
who  so  basely  sold  them  was,  when  Lord  Byron  resided  at  Venice, 
.employed  as  capo  de’  vestarj,  or  head  tailor,  at  the  Fenice.”— 
Graham.] 

(5)  [A  comic  singer  in  the  opera  buffa.  The  Italians,  however, 
distinguish  the  buffo  cantante,  which  requires  good  sing-'ng,  fi«>' 
the  buffo  comico,  in  which  there  is  more  acting.] 


CANTO  17. 


G49 


DON  JUAN. 


LXXXV. 

js  for  the  figurant i,1  they  are  like 
The  rest  of  all  that  tribe  ; with  here  and  there 
A pretty  person,  which  perhaps  may  strike, 

The  rest  are  hardly  fitted  for  a fair ; 

There’s  one  though  tall  and  stiffer  than  a pike, 

Yet  has  a sentimental  kind  of  air 
Which  might  go  far,  but  she  don’t  dance  with  vigou  , 
The  more’s  the  pity,  with  her  face  and  figure. 

LXXXVI. 

“ As  for  the  men,  they  are  a middling  set ; 

The  musico  is  but  a crack’d  old  basin, 

Bat  being  qualified  in  one  way  yet, 

May  the  seraglio  do  to  set  his  face  in,2 
And  as  a servant  some  preferment  get ; 

His  singing  I no  further  trust  can  place  in : 

From  all  the  Pope3  makes  yearly  ’t would  perplex 
To  find  three  perfect  DiDes  of  the  third  sex. 

LXXXVII. 

“ The  tenor’s  voice  is  spoilt  by  affectation, 

And  for  the  bass,  the  beast  can  only  bellow ; 

In  fact,  he  had  no  singing  education, 

An  ignorant,  noteless,  timeless,  tuneless  feWow, 

But  being  the  prima  donna’s  near  relation,  ^ 

Who  swore  his  voice  was  very  rich  and  mellow, 

They  hired  him,  though  to  hear  him  you’d  believe 
An  ass  was  practising  recitative. 

LXXXVIII. 

“ ’Twould  not  become  myself  to  dwell  upon 
My  own  merits,  and  though  young, — I see,  Sir — you 
Have  got  a travell’d  air,  which  speaks  you  one 
To  whom  the  opera  is  by  no  means  new : 

You’ve  heard  of  Raucocanti  ?4 — I’m  the  man ; 

The  time  may  come  when  you  may  hear  me  too ; 
You  was  not  last  year  at  the  fair  of  Lugo, 

But  next,  when  I’m  engaged  to  sing  there — do  go. 

LXXXIX. 

" Our  baritone5 4 5  I almost  had  forgot, 

A pretty  lad,  but  bursting  with  conceit 
With  graceful  action,  science  not  a jot,  % 

A voice  of  not  great  compass,  and  not  sweet. 

He  always  is  complaining  of  his  lot, 

Forsooth,  scarce  fit  for  ballads  in  the  street ; 

In  lovers’  parts  his  passion  more  to  breathe, 

Having  no  heart  to  show,  he  shows  his  teeth.” 

xc. 

Here  Raucocanti’s  eloquent  recital 
Was  interrupted  by  the  pirate  crew, 

Who  came  at  stated  moments  to  invite  all 
The  captives  back  to  their  sad  berths ; each  threw 
A rueful  glance  upon  the  waves,  (which  bright  all 
From  the  blue  skies  derived  a double  blue. 

Dancing  all  fret  and  happy  in  the  sun,) 

And  then  went  down  the  hatchway  one  by  one. 
xci. 

They  heard  next  day — that  in  the  Dardanelles, 
Waiting  for  his  Sublimity’s  firman, 


(1)  [The  figuranti  are  those  dancers  of  a ballet  who  do  not  dance 
lingiy,  hut  many  together,  and  serve  to  fill  up  the  background 
during  the  exhibition  of  individual  performers.  They  correspond 
to  the  chorus  in  the  opera. — Graham,] 

(2)  [“To  help  the  ladies  in  their  dress  and  lacing.” — MS.] 

(3)  It  is  strange  that  it  should  be  the  Pope  and  the  Sultan,  who 

are  the  chief  encouragers  of  this  branch  of  trade — women  being 

prohibited  a3  singers  at  St.  Peter’s,  and  not  deemed  trust- worthy  as 
guardians  of  the  harem. 


The  most  imperative  of  sovereign  spells, 

Which  every  body  does  without  who  can, 

More  to  secure  them  in  their  naval  cells, 

Lady  to  lady,  well  as  man  to  man, 

Were  to  be  chain’d  and  lotted  out  per  couple, 

For  the  slave  market  of  Constantinople. 

xcn. 

It  seems  when  this  allotment  was  made  out, 

There  chanced  to  be  an  odd  male,  and  odd  female, 
Who  (after  some  discussion  and  some  doubt, 

If  the  soprano  might  be  deem’d  to  be  male, 

They  placed  him  o’er  the  women  as  a scout) 

Were  link’d  together,  and  it  happen’d  the  male 
Was  Juan, — who,  an  awkward  tiling  at  his  age. 

Pair’d  off  with  a Bacchante  blooming  visage. 

XCIII. 

With  Raucocanti  lucklessly  was  chain’d 
The  tenor  ; these  two  hated  with  a hate 
Found  only  on  the  stage,  and  each  more  pain’d 
With  this  his  tuneful  neighbour  than  his  fate; 

Sad  strife  arose,  for  they  were  so  cross-grain’d. 

Instead  of  bearing  up  without  debate, 

That  each  pull’d  different  ways  with  many  an  oath, 

1 Arcades  ambo,”  id  blackguards  both.6 

xciv. 

Juan’s  companion  was  a Romagnole, 

But  bred  within  the  march  of  old  Ancona, 

With  eyes  that  look’d  into  the  very  soul 

(And  other  chief  points  of  a “ bella  donna”). 
Bright— and  as  black  and  burning  as  a coal ; 

And  through  her  clear  brunette  complexion  shone  a 
Great  wish  to  please — a most  attractive  dower. 
Especially  when  added  to  the  power. 

xcv. 

But  all  that  power  was  wasted  upon  him, 

For  sorrow  o’er  each  sense  held  stern  command ; 
Her  eye  might  flash  on  his,  but  found  it  dim ; 

And  though  thus  chain’d,  as  natural  her  hand 
Touch’d  his,  nor  that — nor  any  handsome  limb 
(And  she  had  some  not  easy  to  withstand)  _ 

Could  stir  his  pulse,  or  make  his  faith  feel  brittle. 
Perhaps  his  recent  wounds  might  help  a little. 

xcvi. 

i No  matter ; we  should  ne’er  too  much  inquire. 

But  facts  are  facts : no  knight  could  be  more  true, 
And  firmer  faith  no  ladye-love  desire ; 

We  will  omit  the  proofs,  save  one  or  two  : 

’Tis  said  no  one  in  hand  “ can  hold  a fire 
By  thought  of  frosty  Caucasus;”7  but  few, 

I really  think;  yet  Juan’s  then  ordeal 
Was  more  triumphant,  and  not  much  less  real. 

xcvn. 

Here  I might  enter  on  a chaste  description, 

Having  withstood  temptation  in  my  youth,8 
But  hear  that  several  people  take  exception 
At  the  first  two  books  having  too  much  truth  ; 


(4)  [Rauco-canti— may  be  rendered  by  Hoarse-song.] 

(5)  [A  male  voice,  the  compass  of  which  partakes  of  those  of  the 
common  bass  and  the  tenor,  but  does  not  extend  so  far  downwards 
as  the  one,  nor  to  an  equal  height  with  the  other. — Graham.] 

(6)  [“  That  each  pull’d  different  ways — and  waxing  rough, 

Had  cuff’d  each  other,  only  for  the  cuff." — MS.] 

(7)  [“  Oh,  who  can  hold  a fire  in  his  hand, 

By  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus?”— Shakspeare.S 

(8)  [“  Having  had  some  experience  in  my  youth.”— MS.] 

4 O 


650 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


6AK1T  tt 


Therefore  I’ll  make  Don  Juan  leave  the  ship  soon, 
Because  the  publisher  declares,  in  sooth, 

Through  needles’  eyes  it  easier  for  the  camel  is 
To  pass,  than  those  two  cantos  into  families. 

XCVIII. 

’Tis  all  the  same  to  me  ; I’m  fond  of  yielding, 

And  therefore  leave  them  to  the  purer  page 
Of  Smollett,  Prior,  Ariosto,  Pielding, 

Who  say  strange  things  for  so  correct  an  age ; 

I once  had  great  alacrity  in  wielding 
My  pen,  and  liked  poetic  war  to  wage, 

And  recollect  the  time  when  all  this  cant 

Would  have  provoked  remarks  which  now  it  shan’t.1 

xcix. 

As  boys  love  rows,  my  boyhood  liked  a squabble ; 

But  at  this  hour  I wisli  to  part  in  peace. 

Leaving  such  to  the  literary  rabble, 

Whether  my  verse’s  fame  be  doom’d  to  cease, 
While  the  right  hand  which  wrote  it  still  is  able, 

Or  of  some  centuries  to  take  a lease ; 

The  grass  upon  my  grave  will  grow  as  long. 

And  sigh  to  midnight  winds,  but  not  to  song. 

c. 

Of  poets  who  come  down  to  us  through  distance 
Of  time  and  tongues,  the  foster-babes  of  Fame, 
Life  seems  the  smallest  portion  of  existence  ; 

Where  twenty  ages  gather  o’er  a name, 

’Tis  as  a snowball  which  derives  assistance 
Prom  every  flake,  and  yet  rolls  on  the  same, 

Even  till  an  iceberg  it  may  chance  to  grow ; 

But,  after  all,  ’tis  nothing  but  cold  snow. 

ci. 

And  so  great  names  are  nothing  more  than  nominal. 
And  love  of  glory’s  but  an  airy  lust. 


(1)  [“  Don  Juan  will  be  known,  by  and  by,  for  what  it  is  intended 
—a  satire  on  abuses  in  the  present  states  of  society,  and  not  an 
eulbgy  of  vice.  It  may  be  now  and  then  voluptuous  : — I can’t  help 
that.  Ariosto  is  worse.  Smollett  (see  Lord  Strutwell  in  Roderick 
Random)  ten  times  worse : and  Fielding  no  better.  No  girl  will 
ever  be  seduce i by  reading  Don  Juan: — No,  no;  she  will  go  to 
Little' s Poems,  and  Rousseau's  Romans  for  that,  or  even  to  the 
immaculate  De  Stael.  They  will  encourage  her,  and  not  the  Don, 
who  laughs  at  that,  and — and — most  other  things.  But  never  mind 
— Ca  ira  /” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray,  1822.] 

(2)  [“  I stood  upon  the  plain  of  Troy  daily,  for  more  than  a 
month,  in  1810;  and  if  any  thing  diminished  my  pleasure,  it  was 
that  the  blackguard  Bryant  had  impugned  its  veracity.” — Byron 
Diary,  1821.] 

(3)  [It  seems  hardly  to  admit  of  doubt,  that  the  plain  of  Anatolia, 
watered  by  the  Mender,  and  backed  by  a mountainous  ridge,  of 
which  Kazdaghy  is  the  summit,  offers  the  precise  territory  alluded 
to  by  Homer.  The  long  controversy,  excited  by  Mr.  Bryant’s  pub- 
lication, and  since  so  vehemently  agitated,  would  probably  never 
have  existed,  had  it  not  been  for  the  erroneous  maps  of  the  country 
which,  even  to  this  hour,  disgrace  our  geographical  knowledge  of 
that  part  of  Asia. — Dr.  E.  D.  Clarke. 

“ Although  a real  poet  is  naturally  anxious  to  avail  himself  of 
interesting  and  well-known  scenery,  and  a story  hallowed  by  tradi- 
tion, yet  it  is  only  so  far  as  they  suit  his  purpose,  that  either 
tradition  or  topography  will  be  adhered  to:  and  it  is  surely  pre- 
posterous to  expect  that  in  a poem,  so  long,  so  varied,  and  so  busy 
as  that  of  Homer,  he  should  exactly  conform  to  the  sober  rules  of 
the  annalist,  or  the  land-surveyor.  It  was  the  general  opinion  of 
antiquity,  that  Homer  had,  in  many  respects,  departed  from  the 
truth  of  history  in  the  action  of  his  poem.  Nor  can  any  reason  be 
assigned  why  he  should  not,  by  an  equal  privilege,  have  omitted  or 
softened,  or  altered,  such  features  of  the  scenery  as  interfered,  in 
his  opinion,  with  the  effect  or  coherence  of  his  narration.  But, 
while  a poet  himself  is  seldom  thus  particular,  it  is  the  privilege  of 
poetry  to  bestow,  even  on  imaginary  scenery,  the  minuteness  and 
liveliness  which  convey  the  idea  of  accuracy, — and  if  only  the 
general  features  of  his  picture  are  correct,  the  zeal  of  his  admirers 
in  after-ages  will  not  fail  to  assign  a local  habitation  to  even  the 
wildest  of  his  features.  The  sexton  of  Melrose  has  already  begun 


Too  often  in  its  fury  overcoming  all 

Who  would  as ’t  were  identify  their  dust 
From  out  the  wide  destruction,  which,  entombing  alii 
Leaves  nothing  till  “the  coming  of  the  just” — 
Save  change  : I’ve  stood  upon  Achilles’  tomb,2 
And  heard  Troy  doubted  ;3  time  will  doubt  of  Rome 

CII. 

The  very  generations  of  the  dead 

Are  swept  away,  and  tomb  inherits  tomb, 

Until  the  memory  of  age  is  fled, 

And,  buried,  sinks  beneath  its  offspring’s  doom : j 
Where  are  the  epitaphs  our  fathers  read  ? 

Save  a few  glean’d  from  the  sepulchral  gloom 
Which  once-named  myriads  nameless  lie  beneath, 
And  lose  their  own  in  universal  death.4 

cm. 

I canter  by  the  spot  each  afternoon 

Where  perish’d  in  his  fame  the  hero-boy, 

Who  lived  too  long  for  men,  but  died  too  soon 
For  human  vanity,  the  young  De  Foix  ! 

A broken  pillar,  not  uncouthly  hewn, 

4 1 But  which  neglect  is  hastening  to  destroy, 
Records  Ravenna’s  carnage  on  its  face, 

While  weeds  and  ordure  rankle  round  the  base.5 

civ. 

I pass  each  day  where  Dante’s  bones  are  laid : 

A little  cupola,  more  neat  than  solemn, 

Protects  his  dust,  but  reverence  here  is  paid6 
To  the  bard’s  tomb,7  and  not  the  warrior’s  colurmi 
The  time  must  come,  when  both  alike  decay’d. 

The  chieftain’s  trophy,  and  the  poet’s  volume 
Will  sink  where  lie  the  songs  and  wars  of  earthy  L 
Before  Pelides’  death,  or  Homer’s  birth. 


to  point  out  the  tomb  of  Michael  Scott,  as  described  in  the  La| 

the  Last  Minstrel;  and  though  the  main  outlines  of  Homer'ip 
ture  are  perfectly  copied  from  nature,  yet  we  doubt  not  that  m & 
of  those  objects  to  which  Strabo  refers,  instead  of  affording  subjft 
for  the  bard  to  describe,  derived,  in  after-days,  their  name  c 

designation  from  his  description.” — Bishop  Heber.] 

(4)  [“  Look  back  who  list  unto  the  former  ages, 

And  call  to  count  what  is  of  them  become ; 

Where  be  those  learned  wits  and  antique  sages 

Which  of  all  wisdom  knew  the  perfect  sum? 

Where  those  great  warriors  which  did  overcome  j 
The  world  with  conquest  of  their  might  and  main, 

And  made  one  mear  of  the  earth  and  of  their  reign.”  j 

Spense; 

(5)  The  pillar  which  records  the  battle  of  Ravenna  is  about  t 
miles  from  the  city,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  to  the  re 
towards  Forli.  Gaston  de  Foix,  who  gained  the  battle,  was  kill 
in  it : there  fell  on  both  sides  twenty  thousand  men.  The  pres# 
state  of  the  pillar  and  its  site  is  described  in  the  text. — [De  Fc 
was  Duke  of  Nemours,  and  nephew  to  Louis  XII.,  who  gave  h; 
the  government  of  Milan,  and  made  him  general  of  his  armyj 
Italy.  The  young  hero  signalised  his  valour  and  abilities  in  varioji 
actions,  which  terminated  in  the  battle  of  Ravenna,  fought  j 
Easter-day,  1512.  After  he  had  obtained  the  victory,  he  could  r 
be  dissuaded  from  pursuing  a body  of  Spanish  infantry,  whi 
retreated  in  good  order.  Making  a furious  charge  on  this  bra 
troop,  he  was  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  despatched  by  a thru 
of  a pike.  He  perished  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  and  the  kin 
affliction  for  his  death  embittered  all  the  joy  arising  from  hi*  *t 
cess. — Moreri.] 

(6)  [“  Protects  his  tomb,  but  greater  care  is  paid.” — MS.] 

(7)  [Dante  was  buried  (“in  sacra  minorum  aede”)  at  Raven: 
in  a handsome  tomb,  which  was  erected  by  his  protector,  Gui! 
da  Polenta,  restored  by  Bernardo  Bembo  in  1483,  again  restor 
by  Cardinal  Corsi  in  i692,  and  replaced  by  a more  magnifies 
sepulchre  in  1780,  at  the  expense  of  the  Cardinal  Luigi  VaU 
Gonzaga.  The  Florentines  having  in  vain  and  frequently  attempt 
to  recover  his  body,  crowned  his  image  in  a church,  and  his  pictt 
is  still  one  of  the  idols  of  their  cathedral. — Hobiiouse.] 


CANTO  IV. 


DON  JUAN. 


651 


cv. 

With  human  blood  that  column  was  cemented, 

With  human  filth  that  column  is  defiled, 

* * 'S  the  peasant’s  coarse  contempt  were  vented 
\'o  show  his  loathing  of  the  spot  he  soil’d : 1 
Thus  is'  the  trophy  used,  and  thus  lamented 

Should  ever  be  those  blood-hounds,  from  whose  wild 
Instinct  of  gore  and  glory  earth  has  known 
?liose  sufferings  Dante  saw  in  hell  alone.2 

CVI. 

y»t  there  will  still  be  bards  : though  fame  is  smoke, 
x„s  fumes  are  frankincense  to  human  thought ; 

And  the  unquiet  feelings,  which  first  woke 

Song  in  the  world,  will  seek  what  then  they  sought;3 
As  on  the  beach  the  waves  at  last  are  broke. 

Thus  to  their  extreme  verge  the  passions  brought 
Dash  into  poetry,4  which  is  but  passion, 

Or  at  least  was  so  ere  it  grew  a fashion. 

cvn. 

If  in  the  course  of  such  a life  as  was 
At  once  adventurous  and  contemplative, 

Men  who  partake  all  passions  as  they  pass, 

Acquire  the  deep  and  bitter  power  to  give5 
Their  images  again  as  in  a glass, 

And  in  such  colours  that  they  seem  to  live ; 

You  may  do  right  forbidding  them  to  show  ’em, 

"But  spoil  (I  think)  a very  pretty  poem. 

cvm. 

Oh  ! ye,  who  make  the  fortunes  of  all  books  ! 

Benign  Ceruleans  of  the  second  sex  ! 

VT,ic  advertise  new  poems  by  your  looks, 

Your  “imprimatur”  will  ye  not  annex? 

What ! must  I go  to  the  oblivious  cooks  ?6 

Those  Cornish  plunderers  of  Parnassian  wrecks  ? 

A h ! must  I then  the  only  minstrel  be, 
f'-oscribed  from  tasting  your  Castalian  tea  !7 8 


fl)  [“  With  human  ordure  is  it  now  defiled, 

As  if  the  peasant’s  scorn  this  mode  invented 

To  show  his  loathing  of  the  thing  he  soil’d.”— MS.] 

(2)  [“Those  sufferings  once  reserved  for  Hell  alone.” — MS.] 

(3)  [“  Its  fumes  are  frankincense  ; and  were  there  nought 
Even  of  this  vapour,  still  the  chilling  yoke 

Of  silence  would  not  long  be  borne  by  Thought.”— MS.] 

(4)  [“  The  Bride  of  Abydos”  was  written  in  four  nights,  to  dis- 
tract my  dreams  from  ....  Were  it  not  thus,  it  had  never  been 
composed;  and  had  I not  done  something  at  that  time,  I must 
have  gone  mad,  by  eating  my  own  heart — bitter  diet ! ” — Bijron 
Diary,  1813.] 

(5)  [“  I have  drunk  deep  of  passions  as  they  pass, 

And  dearly  bought  the  bitter  power  to  give.” — MS.] 

(6)  [“  To  pastry-cooks  and  moths,  ‘ and  there  an  end.’” — Gif- 
ford.] 

7)  [“What!  must  I go  with  Wordy  to  the  cooks? 

Read — were  it  but  your  Grandmother’s  to  vex — 

And  let  me  not  the  only  minstrel  be 

Cut  off  from  tasting  your  Castalian  tea.” — MS.] 

(8)  [“  Away,  then,  with  the  senseless  iteration  of  the  word  popu- 
larity l In  every  thing  which  is  to  send  the  soul  into  herself,  to 
he  admonished  of  her  wsakness,  or  to  be  made  conscious  of  her 
strength;  wherever  life  and  nature  are  described  av  pp^rated  upon 
ny  the  creative  or  abstracting  virtue  of  the  imagination  ; wherever 
the  instinctive  wisdom  of  antiquity,  and  her  heroic  passions, 
uniting,  in  the  heart  of  the  Poet,  with  the  meditative  wisdom  of 
later  ages,  have  produced  that  accord  of  sublimated  humanity, 
which  is  jit  cnce  a history  of  the  remote  past,  and  a prophetic 

■nnouncement  of  tb?  remotest  future — there,  the  Poet  must  recon 


crx. 

What ! can  I prove  “ a lion”  then  no  more  ? 

A ball-room  bard,  a foolscap,  hot-press  darlAe1  ? 

To  bear  the  compliments  of  many  a bore, 

And  sigh,  “ I can’t  get  out,”  like  Yorick’s  starling; 
Why  then  I’ll  swear,  as  poet  Wordy  swore, 

(Because  the  world  won’t  read  him,  always  snarling) 
That  taste  is  gone,  that  fame  is  but  a lottery, 

Drawn  by  the  blue-coat  misses  of  a coterie.3 

cx. 

Oh  ! “ darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue,” 

As  some  one  somewhere  sings  about  the  sky, 

And  I,  ye  learned  ladies,  say  of  you  ; 

They  say  your  stockings  are  so— (Heaven  knows 
why, 

I have  examined  few  pair  of  that  hue) ; 

Blue  as  the  garters  which  serenely  lie 
Round  the  Patrician  left-legs,  which  adorn 
The  festal  midnight,  and  the  levee  morn.9 

CXI. 

Yet  some  of  you  are  most  seraphic  creatures — 

But  times  are  alter’d  since,  a rhyming  lover. 

You  read  my  stanzas,  and  I read  your  features  : 

And — but  no  matter,  all  those  things  are  over : 
Still  I have  no  dislike  to  learned  natures. 

For  sometimes  such  a world  of  virtues  cover  ; 

I knew  one  woman  of  that  purple  school, 

The  loveliest,  chastest,  best,  but — quite  a fool. 

CXII. 

Humboldt,  “ the  first  of  travellers,”  but  not 
The  last,  if  late  accounts  be  accurate, 

Invented,  by  some  name  I have  forgot, 

As  well  as  the  sublime  discovery’s  date, 

An  airy  instrument,  with  which  he  sought 
To  ascertain  the  atmospheric  state, 

By  measuring  “the  intensity  of  blue:”™ 

Oh,  Lady  Dapline  ! let  me  measure  you  !n 


cile  himself  for  a season  to  few  and  scattered  hearers.” — Words 
worth’s  Second  Preface .] 

(9)  [“  Not  having  look’d  at  many  of  that  hue, 

Nor  garters — save  those  of  the  ‘ honi  soit’ — which  lie 
Round  the  Patrician  legs  which  walk  about, 

The  ornaments  of  levee  and  of  rout.” — MS.]  - 

(10)  [The  cyanometer — an  instrument  invented  for  ascertaining 
the  intensity  of  the  blue  colour  of  the  sky.  On  the  summit  of  high 
mountains,  elevated  above  the  grosser  portions  of  the  atmosphere, 
it  might  be  curious  to  compare  experiments  with  those  made  with 
the  same  kind  of  instrument  by  M.  Saussure  on  the  Alps;  but  it 
is  mere  ostentation  to  talk,  as  M.  de  Humboldt  does,  of  such  ex- 
periments made  at  sea  with  a view  of  being  useful  to  navigation. 
We  prefer,  as  more  simple  and  more  correct,  that  natural  diapha- 
nometer,  which  for  ages  has  regulated  the  prognostics  of  mariners 
— “ a great  paleness  of  the  setting  sun.  a wan  colour,  an  extraortp- 
nary  disfiguration  of  its  disc;”  though  we  should  be  cautious  in 
admitting  that  these  meteorological  phenomena  are  the  unequivocal 
signs  of  a tempest.  The  marine  barometer  is  far  more  important 
to  the  mariner  than  hygrometers  or  cyanometers.  By  this  instru- 
ment a change  of  weather  never  fails  to  be  indicated  by  the  least 
rising  or  falling  of  the  mercury  in  the  tube;  the  descent,  in  tropical 
latitudes,  of  an  eighth  of  an  inch,  when  at  a distance  from  the  land, 
is  the  unequivocal  indication  of  an  approaching  storm.  Many  a 
ship  has  been  saved  from  destruction  by  the  timely  notice  given  by 
this  instrument  to  prepare  for  a storm ; and  no  ship  should  be  per 
mitted  to  go  to  sea  without  one. — Barrow.] 

(11)  [“  I’ll  back  a London  ‘ Bas  against  Peru." 

Or, 

“ I’ll  bet  some  pair  of  stockings  beat  Peru.” 

Or, 

“ And  so,  old  Sotheby,  we’ll  measure  you.”— MS.] 


652 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


CANTO  V. 


CXIII. 

But  to  the  narrative : — The  vessel  bound 
With  slaves  to  sell  off  in  the  capital, 

After  the  usual  process,  might  be  found 
At  anchor  under  the  seraglio  wall ; 

Her  cargo,  from  the  plague  being  safe  and  sound, 
Were  landed  in  the  market,1  one  and  all, 

And  there  with  Georgians,  Russians,  and  Circassians, 
Bought  up  for  different  purposes  and  passions. 

cxiv. 

Some  went  off  dearly ; fifteen  hundred  dollars 
For  one  Circassian,  a sweet  girl,  were  given, 
Warranted  virgin  ; beauty’s  brightest  colours 
Had  deck’d  ner  out  in  all  the  hues  of  heaven  : 

Her  sale  sent  home  some  disappointed  bawlers, 

Who  bade  on  till  the  hundreds  reach’d  eleven  ;2 3 
But  when  the  offer  went  beyond,  they  knew 
’Twas  for  the  Sultan,  and  at  once  withdrew. 

cxv. 

Twelve  negresses  from  Nubia  brought  a price 

Which  the  West  Indian  market  scarce  could  bring; 
Though  Wilberforce,  at  last,  has  made  it  twice 
What  ’twas  ere  Abolition  ; and  the  thing 
Need  not  seem  very  wonderful,  for  vice 

Is  always  much  more  splendid  than  a king : 

The  virtues,  even  the  most  exalted,  Charity, 

Are  saving — vice  spares  nothing  for  a rarity. 

CXYI. 

But  for  the  destiny  of  this  young  troop, 

How  some  were  bought  by  pachas,  some  by  Jews, 
How  some  to  burdens  were  obliged  to  stoop, 

And  others  rose  to  the  command  of  crews 


(1)  [“  The  slave-market  is  a quadrangle,  surrounded  by  a covered 
gallery,  and  ranges  of  small  and  separate  apartments.  Here  the 
poor  wretches  sit  in  a melancholy  posture.  Such  of  them,  both 
men  and  women,  to  whom  dame  Nature  has  been  niggardly  of  her 
charms,  are  set  apart  for  the  vilest  purposes : but  such  g.s  'Is  as  have 
youth  and  beauty,  pass  their  time  well  enough.  The  retailers  of 
this  human  ware  are  the  Jews,  who  take  good  care  of  their  slaves’ 
education,  that  they  may  sell  the  better : their  choicest  they  keep 
at  home,  and  there  you  must  go,  if  you  would  have  better  than 
ordinary;  for  it  is  here,  as  in  markets  for  horses,  the  handsomest 
do  not  always  appear,  but  are  kept  within  doors.” — Tocksefort.] 

(2)  [The  manner  of  purchasing  slaves  is  thus  described  in  the 
plain  and  unaffected  narrative  of  a German  merchant,  “which,” 
says  Mr.  Thornton,  “ as  I have  been  able  to  ascertain  its  general 
authenticity,  maybe  relied  upon  as  correct.”  The  girls  were  intro- 
duced to  me  one  after  another.  A Circassian  maiden,  eighteen 
years  old,  was  the  first  who  presented  herself:  she  was  well-dressed, 
and  her  face  was  covered  with  a veil.  She  advanced  towards  me, 
bowed  down  and  kissed  my  hand : by  order  of  her  master  she 
walked  backwards  and  forwards,  to  show  her  shape  and  the  easi- 
ness of  her  gait  and  carriage.  When  she  took  oil"  her  veil,  she 
displayed  a bust  of  the  most  attractive  beauty : she  rubbed  her 
cheeks  with  a wet  napkin  to  prove  that  she  had  not  used  art  to 
heighten  her  complexion ; and  she  opened  her  inviting  lips,  to 
show  a regular  set  of  teeth  of  pearly  whiteness.  1 was  permitted 
to  feei  her  pulse,  that  I might  be  convinced  of  the  good  state  of 
her  health  and  constitution.  She  was  then  ordered  to  retire  while 
we  deliberated  upon  the  bargain.  The  price  of  this  beautiful  girl 
was  four  thousand  piastres.”— See  Voyage  de  N.  E.  Kleeman,  and 
also  Thornton’s  Turkey,  vol.  ii.  p.  289  ] 

(3)  [“  The  females  stood,  till  chosen  each  as  victim 

To  the  soft  oath  of  * Ana  seing  Siktum  ! ’ ” — MS.] 

(4)  [Canto  V.  was  begun  at  Ravenna,  October  the  16tw,  and 
finished  November  the  20th,  1820.  It  was  published  late  in  1821, 
along  with  Cantos  III.  and  TV. ; and  here  the  Poet  meant  to  stop — 
for  what  reason,  the  subjoined  extracts  from  his  letters  will  show : 

February  16,  1821.  “ The  fifth  is  so  far  from  being  the  last  of 

Don  Juan,  that  it  is  hardly  the  beginning.  I meant  to  take  him 
the  tour  of  Europe,  with  a proper  mixture  of  siege,  battle,  and 
adventure,  and  to  make  him  finish  as  Anacharsis  Cloots,  in  the 


As  renegadoes;  while  in  hapless  group, 

Hoping  no  very  old  vizier  might,  choose. 

The  females  stood,  as  one  by  one  they  pick’d 
To  make  a mistress,  or  fourth  wife,  or  victim  . 

CXVII. 

All  this  must  be  reserved  for  further  song ; 

Also  our  hero’s  lot,  howe’er  unpleasant 
(Because  this  Canto  has  become  too  long), 

Must  be  postponed  discreetly  for  the  present; 
I’m  sensible  redundancy  is  wrong, 

But  could  not  for  the  muse  of  me  put  le  n i : 
And  now  delay  the  progress  of  Don  Juan, 

Till  what  is  call’d  in  Ossian  the  fifth  Duan 


2D  3)uan. 


CANTO  THE  FIFTH.4 


T. 

When  amatory  poets  sing  their  loves 
In  liquid  lines  mellifluoiisly  bland, 

And  pair  their  rhymes  as  Venus  yokes  her  doves, 
They  little  think  what  mischief  is  in  hand; 

The  greater  their  success  the  worse  it  proves, 

As  Ovid’s  verse  may  give  to  understand  ; 

.Even  Petrarch’s  self,  if  judged  with  due  severiij. 
Is  the  Platonic  pimp  of  all  posterity.5 


French  Revolution.  To  how  many  cantos  this  may  extend.  f know  j 
not,  nor  whether  (even  if  I live)  I shall  complete  it ; but  this  is  my 
notion.  I meant  to  have  made  him  a Cavalier  Servente  in  t.ilv, 
and  a cause  for  a divorce  in  England,  and  a sentimental  ‘ Werther-  J 
faced  man’  in  Germany,  so  as  to  show  the  different  ridicules  of  the 
society  in  each  of  those  countries,  and  to  have  displayed  him  • 
gradually  gftte  and  blase  as  he  grew  older,  as  is  natural.  But  I 
had  not  quite  fixed  whether  to  make  him  end  in  hell,  or  in  an 
unhappy  marriage;  not  knowing  which  would  be  the  severest:! 
the  Spanish  tradition  says  hell : but  it  is  probably  only  an  allegory  j 
of  the  other  state.  You  are  now  in  possession  of  my  notions  on  j 
the  subject.” 


July  6th,  1821.  “At  the  particular  request  of  the  Countess. 
Guiccioli  I have  promised  not  to  continue  Don  Joan.  You  will* 
therefore  look  upon  these  three  Cantos  as  the  last  of  the  poem,  j 
She  had  read  the  two  first  in  the  French  translation,  and  never; 
ceased  beseeching  me  to  write  no  more  of  it.  The  reason  of  this  is' 
not  at  first  obvious  to  a superficial  observer  of  foreign  mariers^ 
but  it  arises  from  the  wish  of  all  women  to  exalt  the  sentimmt  of 
the  passions,  and  to  keep  up  the  illusion  which  is  their  empire. 
Now,  Don  Juan  strips  off  this  illusion,  and  laughs  at  that  and  most! 
other  things.  I never  knew  a woman  who  did  not  protect  Rousseau, 
nor  one  who  did  not  dislike  De  Grammont,  Gil  Bias,  and  all  the  [ 
comedy  of  the  passions,  when  brought  out  naturally.  But  ; king’s  j 
blood  must  keep  word,’  as  Sergeant  Bothwell  says.” 


September  4,  1821.  “ I read  over  the  Juans,  which  are  excellent. 
Your  squad  are  quite  wrong;  and  so  you’ll  find,  by  and  by.  Ij 
regret  that  1 do  not  go  on  with  it,  for  I had  all  the  plan  for  several 
cantos,  and  different  countries  and  climes.  You  say  nothing  of  | 
the  note  I enclosed  to  you,  which  will  explain  why  I agreed  to  dis-  j 
continue  it.”  IjHI 

In  Madame  Guiccioli’s  note,  here  referred  to,  she  had  said,  | 
“ RememLer,  my  Byron,  the  promise  you  have  made  me.  Never  . 
shall  I he  able  to  tell  you  the  satisfaction  I feel  from  it;  so  great  j 
are  the  sentiments  of  pleasure  and  confidence  with  which  the  j 
sacrifice  you  have  made  has  inspired  me.”  In  a postscript  to  the  | 
note  she  adds,  “Mi  reveresce  solo  che  Don  Giovanni  non  resti  all’ 
Inferno.”  “I  am  only  sorry  that  Don  Juan  was  not  left  in  the 
infernal  regions.”] 

(5)  [See  Appendix:  “ Hobhousc’s  Historical  Notes  to  the; 
Fourth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold.”] 


CANTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


653 


It. 

X therefore  do  denounce  all  amorous  writing, 

Excep . h.  such  a way  as  not  to  attract ; 

Plain — sin  pie — short,  and  by  no  means  inviting. 

But  with  a moral  to  each  error  tack’d, 

Form’d  rather  for  instructing  than  delighting, 

And  with  all  passions  in  their  turn  attack’d ; 
f Now,  if  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  shod  ill. 

This  poem  will  become  a moral  model. 

!iii. 

The  European  with  the  Asian  shore 
Sprinkled  with  palaces ; the  ocean  stream 1 
Here  and  there  studded  with  a seven ty -four ; 

Sophia’s  cupola  with  golden  gleam ; 2 
The  cypress  groves  ; Olympus  high  and  hoar  ; 

i1  The  twelve  isles,  and  the  more  than  I could  dream, 

Far  less  describe,  present  the  very  view 
Which  charm’d  the  charming  Mary  Montagu.3 

IV. 

I have  a passion  for  the  name  of  “ Mary,” 4 
For  once  it  was  a magic  sound  to  me ; 

And  st  ill  it  half  calls  up  the  realms  of  fairy. 

Where  I beheld  what  never  was  to  be ; 

All  feelings  changed,  but  this  was  last  to  vary, 

A spell  from  which  even  yet  I am  not  quite  free  : 
But  I grow  sad — and  let  a tale  grow  cold, 

Which  must  not  be  pathetically  told. 

Iv. 

The  wind  swept  down  the  Euxine,  and  the  wave 
Broke  foaming  o’er  the  blue  Symplegades  ; 

’Tis  a grand  .sight  from  off  “the  Giant’s  Grave”5 6 
j . To  watch  the  progress  of  those  rolling  seas 
Between  the  Bosphorus,  as  they  lash  and  lave 
Europe  and  Asia,  you  being  quite  at  ease  ; 

Tnere’s  not  a sea  the  passenger  e’er  pukes  in, 
lurns  up  more  dangerous  breakers  than  the  Euxine. 

VI. 

’Twas  a raw  day  of  Autumn’s  bleak  beginning, 

When  nights  are  equal,  but  not  so  the  days  ; 

The  Parcae  then  cut  short  the  further  spinning 
Of  seamen’s  fates,  and  the  loud  tempests  raise8 
The  waters,  and  repentance  for  past  sinning 
In  all,  who  o’er  the  great  deep  take  their  ways  : 
They  vow  to  amend  their  lives,  and  yet  they  don’t ; 
Because  if  drown’d,  they  can’t — if  spared,  they  won’t 


1(1)  'SlKeavoio  peeio.  This  expression  of  Homer  has  been  much 
criticised.  It  hardly  answers  to  our  Atlantic  ideas  of  the  ocean, 
but  is  sufficiently  applicable  to  the  Hellespont,  and  the  Bosphorus, 
tfith  the  Aegean  intersected  with  islands. 

(2)  [“  Lady  Mary  Wortley  errs  strangely  when  she  says,  * St. 

I Paul’s  would  cut  a strange  figure  by  St.  Sophia.’  I have  been  in 
Doth,  surveyed  them  inside  and  out  attentively.  St.  Sophia’s  is 
undoubtedly  the  most  interesting,  from  its  immense  antiquity,  and 
the  circumstance  of  all  the  Greek  emperors,  from  Justinian,  having 
been  crowned  there,  and  several  murdered  at  the  altar,  besides  the 
Turkish  sultans  who  attendod  it  regularly.  But  it  is  not  to  be  men- 
tioned in  the  same  page  with  St.  Paul’s  (I  speak  like  a Cockney).” 
— Byron  Letters,  1810.] 

(3)  [“  The  pleasure  of  going  in  a barge  to  Chelsea  is  not  com- 
parable to  that  of  rowing  upon  the  canal  of  the  sea  here,  where,  for 
; twenty  miles  together,  down  the  Bosphorus,  the  most  beautiful 
variety  of  prospects  present  themselves.  The  Asian  side  is  covered 
v'th  fruit-trees,  villages,  and  the  most  delightful  landscapes  in 
nature ; on  the  European  stands  Constantinople,  situated  on  seven 
I*  Us ; showing  an  agreeable  mixture  of  gardens,  pine  and  cypress 
trees,  palaces,  mosques,  and  public  buildings,  raised  one  above 
another,  with  as  much  beauty  and  appearance  of  symmetry  as  you 
ever  saw  in  a cabinet  adorned  by  the  most  skilful  hands,. where  jars 
show  themselves  above  jars,  mixed  with  canisters,  babies,  and  can- 


vn. 

A crowd  of  shivering  slaves  of  every  nation, 

And  age,  and  sex,  were  in  the  market  ranged ; 

Each  bevy  with  the  merchant  in  his  station : 

Poor  creatures ! their  good  looks  were  sadly  changed 
All  save  the  blacks  seem’d  jaded  with  vexation, 

From  friends,  and  home,  and  freedom  far  estranged 
The  negroes  more  philosophy  display’d. — 

Used  to  it,  no  doubt,  as  eels  are  to  be  flay’d. 

VIII. 

Juan  was  juvenile,  and  thus  was  full, 

As  most  at  his  age  are,  of  hope,  and  health , 

Yet  I must  own,  he  look’d  a little  dull, 

And  now  and  then  a tear  stole  down  by  stealth ; 
Perhaps  his  recent  loss  of  blood  might  pull 
His  spirit  down ; and  then  the  loss  of  wealth, 

A mistress,  and  such  comfortable  quarters. 

To  be  put  up  for  auction  amongst  Tartars, 

IX. 

Were  things  to  shake  a stoic  ; ne’ertheless, 

Upon  the  whole  his  carriage  was  serene : 

His  figure,  and  the  splendour  of  his  dress, 

Of  which  some  gilded  remnants  still  were  seen, 
Drew  all  eyes  on  him,  giving  them  to  guess 
He  was  above  the  vulgar  by  his  mien ; 

And  then,  though  pale,  he  was  so  very  handsome ; 
And  then — they  calculated  on  his  ransom.7 

x. 

Like  a backgammon  board  the  place  was  dotted 
With  whites  and  blacks,  in  groups  on  show  for  sale, 
Though  rather  more  irregularly  spotted : 

Some  bought  the  jet,  while  others  chose  the  pale. 
It  chanced  amongst  the  other  people  lotted, 

A man  of  thirty,  rather  stout  and  hale,8 
With  resolution  in  his  dark  grey  eye. 

Next  Juan  stood,  till  some  might  choose  to  buy. 

XI. 

He  had  an  English  look  : that  is,  was  square 
In  make,  of  a complexion  white  and  ruddy, 

Good  teeth,  with  curling  rather  dark  brown  hair, 

And,  it  might  be  from  thought,  or  toil,  or  study, 
An  open  brow  a little  mark’d  with  care  : 

One  arm  had  on  a bandage  rather  bloody ; 

And  there  he  stood  with  such  sang-froid , that  greater 
Could  scarce  be  shown  even  by  a mere  spectator. 


dlesticks.  This  is  a very  odd  comparison ; but  it  gives  me  an  exact 

idea  of  the  thing.” — Lady  M.  W.  Montagu.] 

(4)  [See  ante,  p.  384.] 

(5)  The  “ Giant’s  Grave”  is  a height  on  the  Asiatic  shore  of  the 
Bosphorus,  much  frequented  by  holiday  parties;  like  Harrow  and 
Highgate.  [In  less  than  an  hour,  we  were  on  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  repaired  to  the  Tekeh,  or  Dervishes’  chapel,  where  we 
were  shown,  in  the  adjoining  garden,  a flower-bed  more  than  fifty- 
feet  long,  rimmed  round  with  stone,  and  having  a sepulchral  turban 
at  each  end,  which  preserves  a superstition  attached  to  the  spot 
long  before  the  time  of  the  Turks,  or  of  the  Byzantine  Christians  , 
and  which,  alter  having  been  called  the  tomb  of  Amycus,  and  the 
bed  of  Hercules,  is  now  known  as  the  Giant’s  Grave. — Hobhouse.] 

(6)  [“  For  then  the  Pare®  are  most  busy  spinning 

The  fates  of  seamen,  and  the  loud  winds  raise.” — MS.] 

(7)  [“  That  he  a man  of  rank  and  birth  had  been, 

And  then  they  calculated  on  his  ransom, 

And  last  not  least — he  was  so  very  handsome.” — MS.] 

(8)  [”  It  chanced,  that  near  him,  separately  lotted, 

From  out  the  group  of  slaves  put  up  for  sale, 

A man  of  middle  age,  and,”  & c. — MS.] 


654 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  V. 


XII. 

But  seeing  at  bis  elbow  a mere  lad, 

Of  a high  spirit  evidently,  though 
At  present  weigh’d  down  by  a doom  which  had 
O’erthrown  even  men,  he  soon  began  to  show 
A kind  of  blunt  compassion  for  the  sad 
Lot  of  so  young  a partner  in  the  woe, 

Which  for  himself  he  seem’d  to  deem  no  worse 
Than  any  other  scrape,  a thing  of  course. 

XIII. 

“ My  boy  !” — said  he,  “ amidst  this  motley  crew 
Of  Georgians,  Russians,  Nubians,  and  what  not, 
All  ragamuffins  differing  but  in  hue, 

With  whom  it  is  our  luck  to  cast  our  lot, 

The  only  gentlemen  seem  I and  you ; 

So  let  us  be  acquainted,  as  we  ought : 

[f  I could  yield  you  any  consolation,  [nation  ?” 

Twould  give  me  pleasure.  — Pray,  what  is  your 

XIV. 

When  Juan  answer’d — “ Spanish  !”  he  replied, 

“ I thought,  in  fact,  you  could  not  be  a Greek ; 
Those  servile  dogs  are  not  so  proudly  eyed : 

Fortune  has  play’d  you  here  a pretty  freak, 

But  that’s  her  way  with  all  men,  till  they’re  tried ; 

But  never  mind, — she’ll  turn,  perhaps,  next  week; 
She  has  served  me  also  much  the  same  as  you, 

Except  that  I have  found  it  nothing  new.” 
xv. 

“ Pray,  sir,”  said  Juan,  “ if  I may  presume,  [rare — 
What  brought  you  here?” — “Oh!  nothing  very 

Six  Tartars  and  a drag-chain ” — “ To  this  doom 

But  what  conducted,  if  the  question’s  fair, 

Is  that  which  I would  learn.” — “ I served  for  some 
Months  with  the  Russian  army  here  and  there, 

And  taking  lately,  by  Suwarrovv’s  bidding, 

A town,  was  ta’en  myself  instead  of  Widdin.” 1 
xvi. 

“Have  you  no  friends?” — “1  had — but,  by  God’s 
blessing, 

Have  not  been  troubled  with  them  lately.  Now 
I have  answer’d  all  your  questions  without  pressing, 
And  you  an  equal  courtesy  should  show.” 

“Alas  !”  said  Juan,  “’twere  a tale  distressing, 

And  long  besides.” — “ Oh  ! if  ’tis  really  so, 

You’re  right  on  both  accounts  to  hold  your  tongue ; 

A sad  tale  saddens  doubly,  when  ’tis  long. 

XVII. 

“ But  droop  not : Fortune  at  your  time  of  life. 
Although  a female  moderately  fickle, 

Will  hardly  leave  you  (as  she’s  not  your  wife) 

For  any  length  of  days  in  such  a pickle. 

To  strive,  too,  with  our  fate  were  such  a strife 
As  if  the  corn-sheaf  should  oppose  the  sickle  : 

Men  are  the  sport  of  circumstances,  when 
The  circumstances  seem  the  sport  of  men.” 
xvi /I. 

“’Tis  not,”  said  Juan,  “for  my  present  doom 
I mourn,  but  for  the  past ; — I loved  a maid — 

He  paused,  and  his  dark  eye  grew  full  of  gloom  ; 

A single  tear  upon  his  eyelash  staid 
A moment,  and  then  dropp’d  ; “ but  to  resume, 

’Tis  not  my  present  lot,  as  I have  said. 

Which  I deplore  so  much  ; for  1 have  borne 
Hardships  which  have  the  hardiest  overworn, 

(1)  [A  considerable  town  in  Bulgaria,  on  the  right  hank  of  the 
Danube  ] 


XIX. 

“ On  the  rough  deep.  But  this  last  blow — ” and  here 
He  stopp’d  again,  and  turn’d  away  his  face. 

“ Ay,”  quoth  his  friend,  “ I thought  it  would  appear 
That  there  had  been  a lady  in  the  case ; 

And  these  are  things  which  ask  a tender  tear, 

Such  as  I,  too,  would  shed  if  in  your  place : 

I cried  upon  my  first  wife’s  dying  day, 

And  also  when  my  second  ran  away  : 

xx. 

“My  third ” — “ Your  third  !’*  quoth  Juan,  turn 

ing  round ; 

“You  scarcely  can  be  thirty  : have  you  three?” 

“ No — only  two  at  present  above  ground  : 

Surely  ’tis  nothing  wonderful  to  see 
One  person  thrice  in  holy  wedlock  bound  ! ” 

“ Well,  then,  your  third,”  said  Juan;  “ what  did  she  ? 
She  did  not  run  away,  too, — did  she,  sir?” 

“No,  faith.” — “What  then?” — “Iran  away  from  her.” 

XXI. 

“ You  take  things  coolly,  sir,”  said  Juan.  “ Why,” 
Replied  the  other,  “ what  can  a man  do  ? 

There  still  are  many  rainbows  in  your  sky, 

But  mine  have  vanish’d.  All,  when  life  is  new, 
Commence  with  feelings  warm,  and  prospects  nigh 
But  time  strips  our  illusions  of  their  hue, 

And  one  by  one  in  turn,  some  grand  mistake 
Casts  off  its  bright  skin  yearly  like  the  snake. 

XXII. 

“ ’Tis  true,  it  gets  another  bright  and  fresh, 

Or  fresher,  brighter ; but  the  year  gone  through 
This  skin  must  go  the  way,  too,  of  all  flesh. 

Or  sometimes  only  wear  a week  or  two ; — 

Love’s  the  first  net  which  spreads  its  deadlv  mesh , 
Ambition,  Avarice,  Vengeance,  Glory,  glue 
The  glittering  lime-twigs  of  our  latter  dhys,  | 

Where  still  we  flutter  on  for  pence  or  praise.” 

XXIII. 

“ All  tli  is  is  very  fine,  and  may  be  true,” 

Said  Juan  ; “ but  I really  don’t  see  how 
It  betters  present  times  with  me  or  you.” 

“ No  ?”  quoth  the  other ; “yet  you  will  allow 
By  setting  things  in  their  right  point  of  view, 

Knowledge,  at  least,  is  gain’d  ; for  instance,  now,  j 
We  know  what  slavery  is,  and  our  disasters 
May  teach  us  better  to  behave  when  masters.” 

XXIV.  |- 

“ Would  we  were  masters  now,  if  but  to  try 

Their  present  lessons  on  our  Pagan  friends  nere,”  J 
Said  Juan, — swallowing  a heart-burning  sigh  : 

“ Heaven  help  the  scholar  whom  his  fortune  sends 
here ! ” 

“ Perhaps  we  shall  be  one  day,  by  and  by,”  [here  ; 

Rejoin’d  the  other,  “ when  our  bad  luck  mends  I 
Meantime  (yon  old  black  eunuch  seems  to  eye  us) 

I wish  to  G — d that  somebody  would  buy  us. 

XXV. 

“ But  after  all,  what  is  our  present  state  ? 

’Tis  bad,  and  may  be  better — all  men’s  lot : 

Most  men  are  slaves,  none  more  so  than  the  grek:. 

To  their  own  whims  and  passions,  and  whai  c... 
Society  itself,  which  should  create 

Kindness,  destroys  what  little  we  had  got: 

To  feel  for  none  is  the  true  social  art 
Of  the  world’s  stoics — men  without  a heark” 


DON  JT  AN. 


655 


Casto  V. 


XXVI. 

Just  now  a black  old  neutral  personage 
Of  the  third  sex  slept  up,  and  peering  over 
Th«  captives,  seem’d  to  mark  their  looks  and  age, 

And  capabilities,  as  to  discover  j 

If  they  were  fitted  for  the  purposed  cage  : 

Noladv  e’er  is  ogled  by  a lover, 

Horse  by' a blackleg,  broadcloth  by  a tailor, 

Fee  by  a counsel,  felon  by  a jailor, 

XXVII. 

As  is  a slave  by  his  intended  bidder.1 

’Tis  pleasant  purchasing  our  fellow-creatures ; 

And  all  are  to  be  sold,  if  you  consider 
Their  passions,  and  are  dext’rous ; some  by  features 
Are  bought  up,  others  by  a warlike  leader, 

Some  by  a place — as  tend  their  years  or  natures ; 
The  most  by  ready  cash— but  all  have  prices,2 
From  crowns  to  kicks,  according  to  their  vices. 

XXVIII. 

The  eunuch  having  eyed  them  o’er  with  care, 

Turn’d  to  the  merchant,  and  begun  to  bid 
First  but  for  one,  and  after  for  the  pair ; 

They  haggled,  wrangled,  swore,  too — so  they  did ! 
As  though  they  were  in  a mere  Christian  fair 
Cheapening  an  ox,  an  ass,  a lamb,  or  kid ; 

So  that  their  bargain  sounded  like  a battle 

For  this  superior  yoke  of  human  cattle.  # 

XXIX. 

At  last  they  settled  into  simple  grumbling, 

And  pulling  out  reluctant  purses,  and 
Turning  each  piece  of  silver  o’er,  and  tumbling 
Some  down,  and  weighing  others  in  their  hand, 

And  by  mistake  sequins3  with  paras  jumbling. 

Until  the  sum  was  accurately  scalin’ d, 

And  then  the  merchant  giving  change,  and  signing 
Keceipts  in  full,  began  to  think  of  dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder  if  his  appetite  was  good  ? 

Or,  if  it  were,  if  also  his  digestion  ? 

Methinks  at  meals  some  odd  thoughts  might  intrude, 
And  conscience  ask  a curious  sort  of  question, 


About  the  right  divine  how  far  we  should 

Sell  flesh  and  blood.  When  dinner  has  opprest  cue. 

I think  it  is  perhaps  the  gloomiest  hour 
Which  turns  up  out  of  the  sad  twenty -four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire  says  “ No  he  tells  you  that  Candide 
Hound  life  most  tolerable  after  meals : 

He’s  wrong — unless  man  were  a pig,  indeed, 

Repletion  rather  adds  to  what  he  feels, 

Unless  lie’s  drunk,  and  then  no  doubt  lie’s  freed 
From  his  own  brain’s  oppression  while  it  reels. 

Of  food  I think  with  Philip’s  son,4  or  rather 
Ammon’s  (ill  pleased  with  one  world  and  one  father) ; 

XXXII. 

I think  with  Alexander,  that  the  act 
Of  eating,  with  another  act  or  two, 

Makes  us  feel  our  mortality  in  fact 

Redoubled ; when  a roast  and  a ragout, 

And  fish,  and  soup,  by  some  side  dishes  back’d, 

Can  give  us  either  pain  or  pleasure,  who 
Would  pique  himself  on  intellects,  whose  use 
Depends  so  much  upon  the  gastric  juice  ?6 

XXXIII. 

The  other  evening  (’twas  on  Friday  last) — 

This  is  a fact,  and  no  poetic  fable — 

Just  as  my  great  coat  was  about  me  cast, 

My  hat  and  gloves  still  lying  on  the  table, 

I heard  a shot — ’twas  eight  o’clock  scarce  past — 

And,  running  out  as  fast  as  I was  able,7 
I found  the  military  commandant 
Stretch’d  in  the  street,  and  able  scarce  to  pant. 

XXXIV. 

Poor  fellow ! for  some  reason,  surely  bad, 

They  had  slain  him  with  five  slugs ; and  left  him  there 
To  perish  on  the  pavement : so  I had 

Him  borne  into  the  house  and  up  the  stair, 

And  stripp’d,  and  look’d  to,8 But  why  should  I add 

More  circumstance  ? vain  "was  every  care  ; 

The  man  was  gone  : in  some  Italian  quarrel 
Kill’d  by  five  bullets  from  an  old  gun-burrel.9 


(1)  [“The  intended  bidders  minutely  examine  the  poor  creatures 
merely  to  ascertain  their  qualities  as  animals,  select  the  sleekest 
and  best-conditioned  from  the  different  groups ; and,  besides  hand- 

ing  and  examining  their  make  and  size,  subject  their  mouths, 
their  teeth,  and  whatever  chiefly  engages  attention,  to  a scrutiny  of 
Che  most  critical  description.” — De  PouauEviLLE.] 

(2)  [“  Sir  Robert  Walpole  is  justly  blamed  for  a want  of  political 
decorum,  and  for  deriding  public  spirit,  to  which  Pope  alludes : 

« Seen  him,  I have,  but  in  his  happier  hour 
Of  social  pleasure,  ill  exchanged  for  power ; 

Seen  him,  uncumber’d  with  the  venal  tribe, 

Smile  without  art,  and  win  without  a bribe. 

Would  he  oblige  me ! let  me  only  find 
He  does  not  think  me,  what  he  thinks  mankind. 

Although  u is  not  possible  to  justify  him,  yet  this  part  of  his  con- 
duct has  been  greatly  exaggerated.  The  political  axiom  generally 
attributed,  that  all  men  have  their  price,  was  perverted  by  leaving 
out  the  word  those.  Flowery  oratory  he  despised  ; he  ascribed  it  to 
the  interested  views  of  themselves  or  their  relatives,  the  declara- 
tions  of  pretended  patriots,  of  whom  he  said,  ‘All  those  men  have 
their  price.’  and  in  the  event  many  of  them  justified  his  observa- 
tion.”— Coxe.] 

(3)  [The  Turkish  zecchino  is  a gold  coin,  worth  about  seven  shil- 
lings and  sixpence.  The  para  is  not  quite  equal  to  an  English 

halfpenny.] 

(4)  See  Plutarch  in  Alex.,  Q.  Curt.  Hist.  Alexand.,  and  Sir 
Richard  Clayton’s  “ Critical  Inquiry  into  the  Life  of  Alexander 
tLc  vireat.” 

(S,  [“  But  for  mere  food,  I think  with  Philip’s  son, 

Or  Ammon’s — foi  two  fathers  claim’d  this  one.” — MS.] 


(6)  [“  Last  night  suffered  horribly  from  an  indigestion.  I re- 
marked in  my  illness  the  complete  inertion,  inaction,  and  destruc- 
tion of  my  chief  mental  faculties.  I tried  to  rouse  them,  and  yet 
could  not.  I should  believe  that  the  soul  was  married  to  the  body, 
if  they  did  not  sympathise  so  much  with  each  other.  If  the  one 
rose  when  the  other  fell,  it  would  be  a sign  that  they  longed  for 
the  natural  state  of  divorce.  But,  as  it  is,  they  seem  to  draw  toge- 
ther like  post-horses.” — Byron  Diary,  1821.] 


(7)  The  assassination  alluded  to  took  place  on  the  8th  of  Decem- 
ber 1820,  in  the  streets  of  Ravenna,  not  a hundred  paces  from  the 
residence  of  the  writer.  The  circumstances  were  as  described.— 
[“  December  0,  1820.  I open  my  letter  to  tell  you  a fact,  which 
will  show  the  state  of  this  country  bettor  than  I can.  The  com- 
mandant of  the  troops  is  now  lying  dead  in  my  house.  He  wa* 
shot  at  a little  past  eight  o’clock,  about  two  hundred  paces  from 
my  door.  I was  putting  on  my  great  coat  when  I heard  the  shot. 
On  coming  into  the  hall,  I found  all  my  servants  on  the  balcony, 
exclaiming  that  a man  was  murdered.  I immediately  ran  down, 
calling  on  Tita  (the  bravest  of  them)  to  follow  me.  The  rest  wanted 
to  hinder  us  from  going,  as  it  is  the  custom  for  every  body  here,  it 
seems,  to  run  away  from  the  stricken  deer.’ — Byron  Letters.] 


“ so  I had 

Him  borne,  as  soon’s  I could,  up  several  pair 

Of  stairs— and  look’d  to, But  why  should  I add 

More  circumstances,”  &c. — MS.] 


(9)  [“  We  found  him  lying  on  his  back,  almost,  if  not  quite,  dea<l 
with  five  wounds,  one  in  the  heart,  two  in  the  stomach,  one  m th* 
fintrer,  and  the  other  in  the  arm.  Some  soldiers  cocked  their  gur.s, 
and  wanted  to  hinder  me  from  passing.  However,  we  passed,  a«4 
I found  Diego,  the  adjutant,  crying  over  him  like  a child— a surgeon. 


656 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  V 


XXXV. 

I gazed  upon  aim,  for  I knew  him  well ; 

And  though  I have  seen  many  corpses,  never 
Saw  one,  whom  such  an  accident  befell,  [and  liver, 
So  calm ; though  pierced  through  stomach,  heart, 
He  seem’d  to  sleep, — for  you  could  scarcely  tell 
(As  he  bled  inwardly,  no  hideous  river 
Of  gore  divulged  the  cause)  that  he  was  dead : 

So  as  I gazed  on  him,  I thought  or  said — 

XXXVI. 

“ Can  this  be  death  ? then  what  is  life  or  death  ? 
Speak!”  but  he  spoke  not:  “wake!”  but  still  he 
slept : — 

“ But  yesterday,  and  who  had  mightier  breath  ? 

A thousand  warriors  by  his  word  were  kept 
In  awe  : he  said,  as  the  centurion  saith, 

‘ Go,’  and  he  goeth ; ‘ come,’  and  forth  he  stepp’d. 
The  trump  and  bugle  till  he  spake  were  dumb — 

And  now  nought  left  him  but  the  muffled  drum.” 1 

XXXVII. 

Aud  they  who  waited  once  and  worshipp’d — they 
With  their  rough  faces  throng’d  about  the  bed 
To  gaze  once  more  on  the  commanding  clay 

Which  for  the  last,  though  not  the  first,  time  bled : 
And  suoh  an  end ! that  he  who  many  a day 
Had  faced  Napoleon’s  foes  until  they  fled, — 

The  foremost  in  the  charge  or  in  the  sally, 

Should  now  be  butcher’d  in  a civic  alley. 

XXXVIII. 

The  scars  of  his  old  wounds  were  near  his  new. 

Those  honourable  scars  which  brought  him  fame ; 

And  horrid  was  the  contrast  to  the  view  2  3 

But  let  me  quit  the  theme ; as  such  things  claim 
Perhaps  even  more  attention  than  is  due 

Prom  me  : I gazed  (as  oft  I have  gazed  the  same) 
To  try  if  I could  wrench  aught  out  of  death 
Which  should  confirm,  or  shake,  or  make  a faith ; 

XXXIX.  ' 

But  it  was  all  a mystery.  Here  we  are, 

And  there  we  go  : — but  where  ? five  bits  of  lead, 
Or  three,  or  two,  or  one,  send  very  far ! 

And  is  this  blood,  then,  form’d  but  to  be  shed  F 
Can  every  element  our  elements  mar  ? 

And  air — earth — water — fire  live — and  we  dead  ? 
We,  whose  minds  comprehend  all  things  ? No  more  ; 
But  let  us  to  the  story  as  before. 

XL. 

The  purchaser  of  Juan  and  acquaintance 
Bore  off  his  bargains  to  a gilded  boat, 

Embark’d  himself  and  them,  and  off  they  went  thence 
As  fast  as  oars  could  pull  and  water  float ; 

They  look’d  like  persons  being  led  to  sentence, 

Wondering  what  next,  till  the  caique3  was  brought 
Up  in  a little  creek  below  a wall 
O’ertopp’d  with  cypresses,  dark-green  and  tall. 


who  said  nothing  of  his  profession — a priest,  sobbing  a frightened 
prayer — and  the  commandant,  all  this  time,  on  his  back,  on  the 
hard,  cold  pavement,  without  light  or  assistance,  or  any  thing 
around  him  but  confusion  and  dismay.  As  nobody  could,  or  would, 
do  any  thing  but  howl  and  pray,  and  as  no  one  would  stir  a finger 
to  move  him,  for  fear  of  consequences,  I lost  my  patience — made 
my  servant  and  a couple  of  the  mob  take  up  the  body — sent  off  two 
soldiers  to  the  guard— despatched  Diego  to  the  Cardinal  with  the 
news,  and  had  him  carried  up  stairs  into  my  own  quarters.  But  it 
was  too  late — he  was  gone.” — Byron  Letter i.] 

(1)  [“  And  now  as  silent  as  an  unstrung  drum.”— MS.] 


XLI. 

Here  their  conductor  tapping  at  the  wicket 
Of  a small  iron  door,  ’twas  open’d,  and 
He  led  them  onward,  first  through  a low  tlncxet 
Plank’d  by  large  groves,  which  tower’d  on  either  hand 
They  almost  lost  their  way,  and  had  to  pick  it — 

Por  night  was  closing  ere  they  came  to  land. 

The  eunucii  made  a sign  to  those  on  board, 

Who  row’d  off,  leaving  them  without  a word. 

XL1I. 

As  they  were  plodding  on  their  winding  wav 

Through  orange  bowers,  and  jasmine,  and  so  forth ; ! 
(Of  which  I might  have  a good  deal  to  say, 

There  being  no  such  profusion  in  the  North 
Of  oriental  plants,  “ et  cetera,” 

But  that  of  late  your  scribblers  think  it  worth 
Their  while  to  rear  whole  hotbeds  in  their  works, 
Because  one  poet  travell’d  ’mongst  the  Turks  :)4 5 

XLIII. 

As  they  were  threading  on  their  way,  there  caiuo 
Into  Don  J uan’s  head  a thought,  which  lie 
Whisper’d  to  his  companion : — ’twas  the  same 
Which  might  have  then  occurr’d  to  you  or  me. 

“ Methinks,” — said  he, — “ it  would  be  no  great  shame 
If  we  should  strike  a stroke  to  set  us  free ; 

Let’s  knock  that  old  black  fellow  on  the  head, 

4nd  march  away — ’twere  easier  done  than  said.” 

XLIV. 

“Yes,”  said  the  other,  “and  -when  done,  what  then? 

How  get  out  ? how  the  devil  got  we  in  ? 

And  when  we  once  were  fairly  out,  and  when 

Prom  Saint  Bartholomew  we  have  saved  our  skin,8 1 
To-morrow ’d  see  us  in  some  other  den, 

And  wrorse  off  than  we  hitherto  have  been ; 

Besides,  I’m  hungry,  and  just  now  would  takuy 
Like  Esau,  for  my  birthright  a beef-steak. 

XLV. 

“We  must  be  near  some  place  of  man’s  abode ; — 

Por  the  old  negro’s  confidence  in  creeping, 

With  his  two  captives,  by  so  queer  a road, 

Shows  that  he  thinks  his  friends  have  not  beeuj 
sleeping ; 

A single  cry  would  bring  them  all  abroad : 

’Tis  therefore  better  looking  before  leaping — 

And  there,  you  see,  this  turn  lias  brought  us  through. 
By  Jove,  a noble  palace ! — lighted  too.” 

XLVI.  i 

It  was  indeed  a wide  extensive  building 

Which  open’d  on  their  view,  and  o’er  the  front 
There  seem’d  to  be  besprent  a deal  of  gilding 
Aud  various  hues,  as  is  the  Turkish  wont, — 

A gaudy  taste ; for  they  are  little  skill’d  in 

The  arts  of  which  these  lands  were  once  the  font : j 
Each  villa  on  the  Bosphorus  looks  a screen 
New  painted,  or  a pretty  opera-scene. 


(2)  [“  I had  him  partly  stripped — made  the  surgeon  examine  him, I 

and  examined  him  myself.  He  had  been  shot  by  cut  balls  or  slugs.! 
I felt  one  of  the  slugs,  which  had  gone  through  him,  all  but  the 
skin.  He  only  said,  ‘ O Dio ! ’ and  ‘ Giesu ! ’ two  or  three  times,  andl 
appeared  to  have  suffered  little.  Poor  fellow ! he  was  a brave  officer  ;j 
but  had  made  himself  disliked  by  the  people.” — Byron  Letter* .]  | 

(3)  The  light  and  elegant  wherries  plying  about  the  quays  oi , 
Constantinople  are  so  called. 

(4)  [“  Eastern  Sketches,”  “ Parga,”  “ Phrosyne,”  *'  Hderas  | 
&c.  &c.] 

(5)  St.  Bartholomew  is  said  to  have  been  flayed  alire. 


CANTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


657 


XLVIT. 

And  nearer  as  they  came,  a genial  savour 
Of  certain  stews,  and  roast-meats,  and  pilaus, 

Things  which  in  hungry  mortals’  eyes  find  favour, 
Made  Juan  in  his  harsh  intentions  pause, 

And. put  himself  upon  his  good  behaviour: 

His  friend,  too,  adding  a new  saving  clause, 

Said,  “ In  Heaven’s  name  let’s  get  some  supper  now. 
And  then  I’m  with  you,  if  you’re  for  a row.” 

XLVIII. 

Some  talk  of  an  appeal  unto  some  passion, 

Some  to  men’s  feelings,  others  to  their  reason ; 

The  last  of  these  was  never  much  the  fashion, 

For  reason  thinks  all  reasoning  out  of  season. 

Some  speakers  whine,  and  others  lay  the  lash  on, 

But  more  or  less  continue  still  to  tease  on. 

With  arguments  according  to  their  “ forte 
But  no  one  ever  dreams  of  being  short. — 

XLIX. 

But  I digress : of  all  appeals, — although 
I grant  the  power  of  pathos,  and  of  gold. 

Of  beauty,  flattery,  threats,  a shilling, — no 
Method’s  more  sure  at  moments  to  take  hold1 
Of  the  best  feelings  of  mankind,  which  grow 
More  tender,  as  we  every  day  behold, 

Than  that  all-softening,  overpowering  knell. 

The  tocsin  of  the  soul — the  dinner-bell. 

L. 

Turkey  contains  no  bells,  and  yet  men  dine  ; 

And  Juan  and  his  friend,  albeit  they  heard 
No  Christian  knoll  to  table,  saw  no  line 
Of  lackeys  usher  to  the  feast  prepared, 

Yet  smelt  roast-meat,  beheld  a huge  fire  shine, 

And  cooks  in  motion  with  their  clean  arms  bared, 
And  gazed  around  them  to  the  left  and  right, 

With  the  prophetic  eye  of  appetite. 

LI. 

And  giving  up  all  notions  of  resistance, 

They  follow’d  close  behind  their  sable  guide, 

Who  little  thought  that  his  own  crack’d  existence 
Was  on  the  point  of  being  set  aside  : 

He  motion’d  them  to  stop  at  some  small  distance. 

And  knocking  at  the  gate,  ’twas  open’d  wide. 

And  a magnificent  large  hall  display’d 
The  Asian  pomp  of  Ottoman  parade. 

LI  I. 

I won’t  describe ; description  is  my  forte, 

But  every  fool  describes  in  these  bright  days 
His  wondrous  journey  to  some  foreign  court. 

And  spawns  his  quarto,  and  demands  your  praise — 
Death  to  his  publisher,  to  him  ’tis  sport ; 

While  Nature,  tortured  twenty  thousand  ways. 
Resigns  herself  with  exemplary  patience 
To  guide-books,  rhymes,  tours,  sketches,  illustrations.2 

(1)  [“  Of  speeches,  beauty,  flattery — there  is  no 

Method  more  sure/’  &c. — MS.] 

(2)  [“  Guide  des  Voyageurs,”  “ Directions  for  Travellers,”  &c. — 
“ Rhymes,  Incidental  and  Humorous,”  “ Rhyming  Reminiscences,” 
“Effusions  in  Rhyme,”  &c.  — “Lady  Morgan’s  Tour  in  Italy,” 
“Tour  through  Istria,”  &c.  &c. — “ Sketches  of  Italy,”  “Sketches 
tf  Modern  Greece,”  &c.  &c. — The  last  is  a playful  allusion  to  his 
friend  Mr.  Hobhouse’s  “ Illustrations  of  Childe  Harold.”] 

(3)  In  Turkey  nothing  is  more  common  than  for  the  Mussulmans 
to  take  several  glasses  of  strong  spirits  by  way  of  appetizer.  1 have 
seen  them  take  as  many  as  six  of  raki  before  dinner,  and  swear  that 
they  dined  the  better  for  it : I tried  the  experiment,  but  fared  like 
*h'i  Scotchman,  who  having  heard  that  the  birds  called  kittiwakes 

were  admirable  whets,  ate  six  of  them,  and  complained  that  “he 

was  uo  hungrier  than  when  he  began.” 

I*)  t"  Every  thing  is  so  still  in  the  court  jf  the  seraglio,  that  the 


LIII. 

Along  this  hall,  and  up  and  down,  some  squatted 
Upon  their  hams,  were  occupied  at  chess ; 

Others  in  monosyllable  talk  chatted, 

An#  some  seemed  much  in  love  with  their  own  dress. 
And  divers  smoked  superb  pipes  decorated 
With  amber  mouths  of  greater  price  or  less  ; 

And  several  strutted,  others  slept,  and  some 
Prepared  for  supper  with  a glass  of  rum.3 

LIV. 

As  the  black  eunuch  entered  with  his  brace 
Of  purchased  Infidels,  some  raised  their  eyes 
A moment  without  slackening  from  their  pace ; 

But  those  who  sate,  ne’er  stirr’d  in  any  wise  : 

One  or  two  stared  the  captives  in  the  face, 

Just  as  one  views  a horse  to  guess  his  price; 

Some  nodded  to  the  negro  from  their  station, 

But  no  one  troubled  him  with  conversation.4 

LV. 

lie  leads  them  through  the  hall,  and, without  stopping, 
On  through  a further  range  of  goodly  rooms, 
Splendid  but  silent,  save  in  one,  where,  dropping,5 
A marble  fountain  echoes  through  the  glooms 
Of  night,  which  robe  the  chamber,  or  where  popping 
Some  female  head  most  curiously  presumes 
To  thrust  its  black  eyes  through  the  door  or  lattice, 
As  wondering  what  the  devil  noise  that  is. 

LVI. 

Some  faint  lamps  gleaming  from  the  lofty  walls 
Gave  light  enough  to  hint  their  farther  way, 

But  not  enough  to  show  the  imperial  halls 
In  all  the  flashing  of  their  full  array  ; 

Perhaps  there’s  nothing — I'll  not  say  appals, 

But  saddens  more  by  night  as  well  as  day, 

Than  an  enormous  room  without  a soul 
To  break  the  lifeless  splendour  of  the  whole. 

LVII. 

Two  or  three  seem  so  little,  one  seems  nothing ; 

In  deserts,  forests,  crowds,  or  by  the  shore. 

There  solitude,  we  know,  has  her  full  growth  in 
The  spots  which  were  her  realms  for  evermore ; 

But  in  a mighty  hall  or  gallery,  both  in 

More  modern  buildings  and  those  built  of  yore, 

A kind  of  death  comes  o’er  us  all  alone, 

Seeing  what’s  meant  for  many  with  but  one. 

lviii. 

A neat,  snug  study  on  a winter’s  night,6 
A book,  friend,  single  lady,  or  a glass 
Of  claret,  sandwich,  and  an  appetite, 

Are  things  which  make  an  English  evening  pass  ; 
Though  certes  by  no  means  so  grand  a sight 
As  is  a theatre  lit  up  by  gas. 

I pass  my  evenings  in  long  galleries  solel 
And  that’s  the  reason  I’m  so  melancholy. 


motion  of  a fly  might,  in  a manner,  be  heard;  and  if  any  one 
should  presume  to  raise  his  voice  ever  so  little,  or  show  the  least 
want  of  respect  to  the  mansion- place  of  their  emperor,  he  would  in- 
stantly have  the  basti  by  the  oflicers  that  go  the  rounds.”— 
Toornefort.] 

(5)  A common  furnituie.  I recollect  being  received  by  A; 
Pacha,  in  a large  room,  paved  with  marble,  containing  a marbis 
basin,  and  a fountain  playing  in  the  centre,  &c.  & c.  [See  ante,  p.  S3. 

“ In  marble-paved  pavilion,  where  a spring 
Of  living  water  from  the  centre  rose, 

Whose  bubbling  did  a genial  freshness  fling, 

And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathe  repose, 

Ali  reclined,  a man  of  war  and  woes,”  &c.j 

(6)  [“  A small,  snug,  chamber  on  a winter’s  night, 

Well  furnish’d  with  a book,  friend,  girl,  or  glass, 
kc.— MS.] 

4 t 


658 


l-D  BYliON’S  WORKS. 


: AJTTC 


LIX. 

Alas  ! man  makes  that  great  which  makes  him  little  : 
I grant  you  in  a church  ’tis  very  well : 

What  speaks  of  Heaven  should  by  no  means  be  brittle. 
But  strong  and  lasting,  till  no  tongue  can  telH 
Their  names  who  rear’d  it ; but  huge  houses  fit  ill — 
And  huge  tombs  worse — mankind,  since  Adam  fell : 
Methinks  the  story  of  the  tower  of  Babel 
Might  teach  them  this  much  better  than  I’m  able. 

LX. 

Babel  was  Nimrod’s  hunting-box,  and  then 
A town  of  gardens,  walls,  and  wealth  amazing. 
Where  Nabuchadonosor,  king  of  men, 

Reign’d,  till  one  summer’s  day  he  took  to  grazing, 
And  Daniel  tamed  the  lions  in  their  den, 

The  people’s  awe  and  admiration  raising ; 

’Twas  famous,  too,  for  Thisbe  and  for  Pyramus,1 
And  the  calumniated  queen  Semiramis2 — 

LXI. 

That  injured  Queen,  by  chroniclers  so  coarse 
Has  oeen  accused  (I  doubt  not  by  conspiracy) 

Of  an  improper  friendship  for  her  horse, 

(Love,  like  religion,  sometimes  runs  to  heresy) : 
This  monstrous  tale  had  probably  its  source 
(For  such  exaggerations  here  and  there  I see) 

In  writing  “ Courser”  by  mistake  for  “ Courier 
I wish  the  case  could  come  before  a jury  here.3 

LXII. 

But  to  resume, — should  there  be  (what  may  not 
Be  in  these  days  ?)  some  infidels,  who  don’t, 
Because  they  can’t  find  out  the  very  spot4 
Of  that  same  Babel,  or  because  they  won’t 
(Though  Claudius  Rich,  Esquire,  some  bricks  has  got, 
And  written  lately  two  memoirs  upon’t,5) 

Believe  the  Jews,  those  unbelievers,  who 
Must  be  believed,  though  they  believe  not  you. 

LXIII. 

Yet  let  them  think  that  Horace  has  exprest 
Shortly  and  sweetly  the  masonic  folly 
Of  those,  forgetting  the  great  place  of  rest, 

Who  give  themselves  to  architecture  wholly  ; 

We  know  where  things  and  men  must  end  at  best : 

A moral  (like  all  morals)  melancholy. 

And  “Et  sepulchri  immemor  struis  domos”6 
Shows  that  we  build  when  we  should  but  entomb  us. 

LXIV. 

At  last  they  reach’d  a quarter  most  retired, 

Where  echo  woke  as  if  from  a long  slumber  ; 

Though  full  of  all  things  which  could  be  desired. 

One  wonder’d  what  to  do  with  such  a number 


(1)  [See  Ovid’s  Metamorphoses,  lib.  iv. 

“In  Babylon,  where  first  her  queen,  for  state, 
liaised  walls  of  brick  magnificently  great, 

Lived  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  lovely  pair ! 

He  found  no  Eastern  youth  his  equal  tlier«. 

And  she  beyond  the  fairest  nymph  was  fair.” — Ga*™  1 

(2)  Babylon  was  enlarged  by  Nimrod,  strengthened  r -..-..cd 

by  Nebuchadonosor,  anu  rebuilt  by  Semiramis. 

(3)  [At  the  time  when  Lord  Byron  was  writing  this  Canto,  the 
unfortunate  affair  of  Queen  Caroline,  charged,  among  other  offences, 
with  admitting  her  chamberlain,  Bergaini,  originally  a courier,  to 
her  bed,  was  occupying  much  attention  in  Italy,  as  in  England. 
The  allusions  to  the  domestic  troubles  of  George  IV.  in  the  text, 
are  frequent.] 

(4)  (“  Excepting  tne  ruins  of  some  large  and  loftv  turrets,  like  that 

of  Babel  or  Belus,  the  cities  of  Babylon  and  Nineveh  are  so  com- 

pletely crumbled  into  dust,  as  to  be  wholly  undistinguishable  but  by 
a few  inequalities  of  the  surface  on  which  they  once  stood.  The 


I Of  articles  which  nobody  required  ; 

Here  wealth  had  done  its  utmost  to  encumoer 
With  furniture  an  exquisite  apartment, 

Which  puzzled  Nature  much  to  know  what  Art  me&Lfc. 

LXV. 

It  seem’d,  however,  but  to  open  on 
A range  or  suite  of  further  chambers,  which 
Might  lead  to  heaven  knows  where ; but  in  this  on* 
The  moveables  were  prodigally  rich  : 

Sofas  ’twas  half  a sin  to  sit  upon, 

So  costly  were  they  ; carpets  every  stitch 
Of  workmanship  so  rare,  they  made  you  wish 
You  could  glide  o’er  them  like  a golden  fish. 

LXVI. 

The  black,  however,  without  hardly  deigning 

A glance  at  that  which  wrapt  the  slaves  in  wonder, 
Trampled  what  they  scarce  trod  for  fear  of  staining, 
As  if  the  milky  way  their  feet  was  under 
With  all  its  stars  ; and  with  a stretch  attaining 
A certain  press  or  cupboard  niched  in  yonder — 

In  that  remote  recess  which  you  may  see — 

Or  if  you  don’t  the  fault  is  not  in  me, — 

LXVII. 

I wish  to  be  perspicuous ; and  the  black, 

I say,  unlocking  the  recess,  pull’d  fortti 
A quantity  of  clothes  fit  for  the  back 
Of  any  Mussulman,  whate’er  his  worth  ; 

And  of  variety  there  was  no  lack — 

And  yet,  though  I have  said  there  was  no  dearth, — 
He  chose  himself  to  point  out  what  he  thought 
Most  proper  for  the  Christians  he  had  bought. 

LXVIII. 

The  suit  he  thought  most  suitable  to  each 
Was,  for  the  elder  and  the  stouter,  first 
A Candiote  cloak,  which  to  the  knee  might  reach, 

And  trousers  not  so  tight  that  they  would  burst, 
But  such  as  fit  an  Asiatic  breech; 

A shawl,  whose  folds  in  Cashmire  had  been  nurst, 
Slippers  of  saffron,  dagger  rich  and  handy  ; 

In  short,  all  things  which  form  a Turkish  Dandy. 

LXIX. 

While  he  was  dressing,  Baba,  their  black  friend, 
Hinted  the  vast  advantages  which  they 
Might  probably  attain  both  in  the  end, 

If  they  would  but  pursue  the  proper  way 
Which  fortune  plainly  seem’d  to  recommend ; 

And  then  he  added,  that  he  needs  must  say, 

“ ’Twould  greatly  tend  to  better  then-  condition. 

If  they  would  condescend  to  circumcision. 


humble  tent  of  the  Arab  now  occupies  the  spot  formerly  adorned 
with  the  palaces  of  kings,  and  his  flocks  procure  but  a scanty  pit- 
tance of  food,  amidst  the  fallen  fragments  of  ancient  magnificenoe. 
The  banks  of  the  Euphrates  and  Tigris,  once  so  prolific,  are  now, 
for  the  most  part,  covered  with  an  impenetrable  brushwood;  and 
the  interior  of  the  province,  which  was  traversed  and  fertilised  with 
innumerable  canals,  is  destitute  ol  either  inhabitants  or  vegetation. ** 
— Mohier.] 

(5)  [“  Two  Memoirs  on  the  Ruins  of  Babylon,  by  Claudius 
James  Rich,  Esq.,  Resident  for  the  East  India  Company  at  the 
Court  of  the  Pasha  of  Bagdat.”] 

(6)  [“  Day  presses  on  the  heels  of  day. 

And  moons  increase  to  their  deca#  • 

But  you,  with  thoughtless  pride  elate, 

Unconscious  of  impending  fate, 

Command  the  pillar’d  dome  to  rise, 

When,  lo  ] the  tomb  forgotten  lies.” 

Ehahcis's  Horace. J 


CANTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


059 


LXX. 

“ Tor  his  own  part,  he  really  should  rejoice 
To  see  them  true  believers,  but  no  less 
Would  leave  his  proposition  to  their  choice.” 

The  other,  thanking-  him  for  this  excess 
Of  goodness,  in  thus  leaving  them  a voice 
In  such  a trifle,  scarcely  could  express 
“ Sufficiently”  (he  said)  “ his  approbation 
Of  all  the  customs  of  this  polish’d  nation. 

LXXI. 

‘ Tor  his  own  share — he  saw  but  small  objection 
To  so  respectable  an  ancient  rite  ; 

And,  after  swallowing  down  a slight  refection. 

Tor  which  he  own’d  a present  appetite, 

He  doubted  not  a few  hours  of  reflection 
Would  reconcile  him  to  the  business  quite.” 

“ Will  it  ?”  said  Juan,  sharply : “ Strike  me  dead. 

But  they  as  soon  shall  circumcise  my  head  ! 1 

LXXII. 

“ Cut  off  a thousand  heads,  before ” — “ Now, 

Replied  the  other,  “ do  not  interrupt : [pray,” 

You  put  me  out  in  what  I had  to  say. 

Sir  ! — as  I said,  as  soon  as  I have  supt, 

I shall  perpend  if  your  proposal  may 
Be  such  as  I can  properly  accept ; . 

Provided  always  your  great  goodness  still 
Remits  the  matter  to  our  own  free-will.” 

LXXI  II. 

Baba  eyed  Juan,  and  said,  “ Be  so  good 
As  dress  yourself” — and  pointed  out  a suit 
In  which  a Princess  with  great  pleasure  would 
Array  her  limbs  ; but  Juan  standing  mute, 

As  not  being  in  a masquerading  mood, 

Gave  it  a slight  kick  with  his  Christian  foot ; 

And  when  the  old  negro  told  him  to  “ Get  ready,” 
Replied,  “ Old  gentleman,  I’m  not  a lady.” 

LXXIV. 

“ What  you  may  be,  I neither  know  nor  care,” 

Said  Baba ; “ but  pray  do  as  1 desire  ; 

I nave  no  more  time  nor  many  words  to  spare.” 

“ At  least,”  said  Juan,  “ sure  I may  inquire 
The  cause  of  this  odd  travesty?” — “Torbear,” 

Said  Baba,  “ to  be  curious ; ’twill  transpire, 

No  doubt,  in  proper  place,  and  time,  and  season  : 

1 have  no  authority  to  tell  the  reason.” 

LXXV. 

“ Then  if  I do,”  said  Juan,  “ I’ll  be ” — “ Hold ! ” 

Rejoin’d  the  negro,  “ pray  be  not  provoking ; 

This  spirit’s  well,  but  it  may  wax  too  bold. 

And  you  will  find  us  not  too  fond  of  joking.” 

“ What,  sir  !”  said  Juan,  “ shall  it  e’er  be  told 
That  I unsex’d  my  dress  ?”  But  Baba,  stroking 
The  things  down,  said,  “ Incense  me,  and  I call 
Those  who  will  leave  you  of  no  sex  at  all. 

LXXVI. 

“ 1 offer  you  a handsome  suit  of  clothes : 

A woman’s,  true  ; but  then  there  is  a cause 
Why  you  should  wear  them.” — “ What,  though  my 
soul  loathes 

The  effeminate  garb  ?” — thus,  after  a short  pause. 
Sigh’d  Juan,  muttering  also  some  slight  oaths, 

“ What  the  devn  shall  I do  with  ail  this  gauze  ? ” 
Thus  he  profanely  term’d  the  finest  lace 
Whicli  e’er  set  off  a marriage-morning  face. 


LXX  VII. 

And  then  he  swore ; and,  sighing,  on  he  slipp’d 
A pair  of  trousers  of  flesh-colour’d  silk  ; 

Next  with  a virgin  zone  he  was  equipp’d, 

Which  girt  a slight  chemise  as  white  as  milk ; 

But  tugging  on  his  petticoat,  he  tripp’d, 

Which— as  we  say — or,  as  the  Scotcli  say,  tcJnlkt 
(The  rhyme  obliges  me  to  this  ; sometimes 
Monarclis  are  less  imperative  than  rhymes)2 — - 

LXXVIII. 

Wliilk,  which  (or  what  you  please),  was  owing  to 
His  garment’s  novelty,  and  his  being  awkward  : 
And  vet  at  last  lie  managed  to  get  through 
Hi  jtoilet,  though  no  doubt  a little  backward: 

The  i.sgro  Baba  help’d  a little  too, 

When  some  untoward  part  of  raiment  stuck  hard ; 
And,  wrestling  both  his  arms  into  a "own, 

He  paused,  and  took  a survey  up  ana  down. 

LXXIX. 

One  difficulty  still  remain’d — his  hair 

Was  hardly  long  enough ; but  Baba  found 
So  many  false  long  tresses  alTvj  spare, 

That  soon  his  head  was  most  completely  crown’d, 
After  the  manner  then  in  fashion  there ; 

And  this  addition  with  such  gems  was  bound 
As  suited  the  ensemble  of  his  toilet, 

While  Baba  made  him  comb  his  head  and  oil  it. 

LXXX. 

And  now  being  femininely  all  array’d. 

With  somesmall  aid  from  scissors,  paint,  and  tweezers, 
He  look’d  in  almost  all  respects  a maid, 

And  Baba  smilingly  exclaim’d,  “ You  see,  sirs, 

A perfect  transformation  here  display’d ; 

And  now,  then,  you  must  come  along  with  me,  sirs, 
That  is — the  Lady  clapping  his  hands  twice. 

Tour  blanks  were  lit  his  elbow  in  a trice. 

LXXXI. 

“ You,  sir,”  said  Baba,  nodding  to  the  one, 

“ Will  please  to  accompany  those  gentlemen 
To  supper  ; but  you,  worthy  Christian  nun, 

Will  follow  me : no  trifling,  sir ; for  when 
I sav  a thing,  it  must  at  once  be  done. 

What  fear  you  ? think  you  this  a lion’s  den  ? 

Why,  ’tis  a palace ; where  the  truly  wise 
Anticipate  the  Prophet’s  paradise. 

LXXXI  I. 

“ You  fool ! I tell  you  no  one  means  you  harm.” 

“ So  much  the  better,”  Juan  said,  “ for  them ; 

Else  they  shall  feel  the  weight  of  this  my  arm. 

Which  is  not  quite  so  light  as  you  may  deem. 

I yield  thus  far ; but  soon  will  break  the  charm 
If  any  take  me  for  that  which  I seem  : 

So  that  I trust  for  every  body’s  sake, 

That  this  disguise  may  lead  to  no  mistake.” 

LXXXIII. 

“ Blockhead ! come  on,  and  see,”  quoth  Baba  ; while 
Don  Juan,  turning  to  his  comrade,  who 
Though  somewhat  grieved,  could  scarce  forbear  a smile 
Upon  the  metamorphosis  in  view, — 

“ Tarewell !”  they  mutually  exclaim’d : “this  soil 
Seems  fertile  in  adventures  strange  and  new ; 

One’s  turn'd  half  Mussulman,  and  one  a maid, 

By  this  old  black  enchanter’s  unsought  aid. 


(1)  p'  If  they  shall  not  as  soon  cut  off  my  head.” — MS.] 


(2)  [•*  Kings  are  not  more  imperative  than  rhymes.” — MS.] 


660 


LOUD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CAJiTO  V. 


LXXXIV. 

“ Farewell !”  said  Juan : “ should  we  meet  no  more, 

1 wish  you  a good  appetite” — “ Farewell !” 
Replied  the  other  ; “ tJiough  it  grieves  me  sore ; 

When  we  next  meet,  we’ll  have  a tale  to  tell : 

We  needs  must  follow  \yhen  Fate  puts  from  shore. 
Keep  your  good  name;  though  Eve  herself  once 
fell.”  [carry  me, 

“ Nay,”  quoth  the  maid,  “ the  Sultan’s  self  shan’t 
Unless  his  Highness  promises  to  marry  me.” 

LXXXV. 

And  thus  they  parted,  each  by  separate  doors  ; 

Baba  led  J uan  onward  room  by  room 
Through  "littering  galleries,  and  o’er  marble  floors. 
Till  a gigantic  portal  through  the  gloom. 

Haughty  and  huge,  along  the  distance  lowers  ; 

And  wafted  far  arose  a rich  perfume : 

It  seem’d  as  though  they  came  upon  a shrine. 

For  all  was  vast,  still,  fragrant,  and  divine. 

LXXXVI. 

The  giant  door  was  broad,  and  bright,  and  high. 

Of  gilded  bronze,  and  carved  in  curious  guise ; 
Warriors  thereon  were  battling  furiously; 

Here  stalks  the  victor,  there  the  vanquish’d  lies ; 
There  captives  led  in  triumph  droop  the  eye, 

And  in  perspective  many  a squadron  flies : 

It  seems  the  work  of  times  before  the  line 
Of  Rome  transplanted  fell  with  Constantine. 

LXXXVII. 

This  massy  portal  stood  at  the  wide  close 
Of  a huge  hall,  and  on  its  either  side 
Two  little  dwarfs,  the  least  you  could  suppose. 

Were  sate,  like  ugly  imps,  as  if  allied 
In  mockery  to  the  enormous  gate  which  rose 
O’er  them  in  almost  pyramidic  pride : 

The  gate  so  splendid  was  in  all  its  features? 

You  never  thought  about  those  little  creatures, 

LXXXVIII. 

Until  you  nearly  trod  on  them,  and  then 
You  started  back  in  horror  to  survey 
The  wondrous  hideousness  of  those  small  men. 

Whose  colour  was  not  black,  nor  white,  nor  grey, 
But  an  extraneous  mixture,  which  no  pen 
Can  trace,  although  perhaps  the  pencil  may ; 

They  were  mis-shapen  pigmies,  deaf  and  dumb 
Monsters,  who  cost  a no  less  monstrous  sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their  duty  was — for  they  were  strong,  and  though 
They  look’d  so  little,  did  strong  things  at  times — 
To  ope  this  door,  which  they  could  really  do, 

The  hinges  being  as  smooth  as  Rogers’  rhymes ; 
And  now  and  then,  with  tough  strings  of  the  bow. 

As  is  the  custom  of  those  Eastern  climes, 

To  give  some  rebel  Pacha  a cravat : 

F or  mutes  are  generally  used  for  that. 


(1)  Features  of  a gate -a  ministerial  metaphor:  “the  feature 
upon  which  this  question  hinges.”  See  the  “ Fudge  Family,”  or 
hear  Castlereagh. — [Phil.  Fudge,  in  his  letter  to  Lord  Castlereagh, 
says : 

“ As  thou  would’st  say,  my  guide  and  teacher 
In  these  gay  metaphoric  fringes, 

I now  embark  into  the  feature 

On  which  this  letter  chiefly  hinges.” 

The  ”ota  adds,  “ verbatim  from  one  of  the  noble  Viscount’s 


XC. 

They  spoke  by  signs — that  is,  not  spoke  at  all ; 

And  looking  like  two  incubi,  they  glared 
As  Baba  with  his  fingers  made  them  fall 
To  heaving  back  the  portal  folds  : it  scared 
Juan  a moment,  as  this  pair  so  small. 

With  shrinking  serpent  optics  on  him  stared  ; 

It  was  as  if  their  little  looks  could  poison 
Or  fascinate  whome’er  they  fix’d  their  eyes  on. 

xci. 

Before  they  enter’d,  Baba  paused  to  hint 
To  Juan  some  slight  lessons  as  his  guide : 

“ If  you  could  just  contrive,”  he  said,  “ to  stint 
That  somewhat  manly  majesty  of  stride,  [in’t) 
’Twould  be  as  well,  and,—  (though  there’s  not  much 
To  swing  a little  less  from  side  to  side. 

Which  has  at  times  an  aspect  of  the  oddest ; — 

And  also  could  you  look  a little  modest, 

xcn. 

“ ’Twould  be  convenient ; for  these  mutes  have  eyes 
Like  needles,  which  may  pierce  those  petticoats ; 
And  if  they  should  discover  your  disguise, 

You  know  how  near  us  the  deep  Bosphorus  floats  • 
And  you  and  I may  chance,  ere  morning  rise. 

To  find  our  wav  to  Marmora  without  boats, 
Stitch’d  up  in  sacks — a mode  of  navigation 
A good  deal  practised  here  upon  occasion.” *  2 

xcin. 

With  this  encouragement,  he  led  the  way 
Into  a room  still  nobler  flian  the  last ; 

A rich  confusion  form'd  a disarray 

In  such  sort,  that  the  eye  along  it  cast 
Could  hardly  carry  any  thing  away, 

Object  on  object  flash’d  so  bright  and  fast ; 

A dazzling  mass  of  gems,  and  gold,  and  glitter. 
Magnificently  mingled  in  a litter. 

XCIV. 

Wealth  had  done  wonders — taste  not  much ; such 
things 

Occur  in  Orient  palaces,  and  even 
In  the  more  chasten’d  domes  of  Western  kings 
(Of  which  I have  aiso  seen  some  six  or  seven) 
Where  I can’t  say  or  gold  or  diamond  flings 
Great  lustre,  there  is  much  to  be  forgiven  ; 

Groups  of  bad  statues,  tables,  chairs,  and  pictures, 

On  which  I cannot  pause  to  make  my  strictures. 

xcv. 

In  this  imperial  hall,  at  distance  lay 
Under  a canopy,  and  there  reclined 
Quite  in  a confidential  queenly  way, 

A lady ; Baba  stopp’d,  and  kneeling  sign’d 
To  Juan,  who  though  not  much  used  to  pray. 

Knelt  down  by  instinct,  wondering  in  his  mind 
What  all  this  meant : while  Baba  bow’d  and  bended 
His  head,  until  the  ceremony  ended. 


speeches  : ‘ And  now,  sir,  I mu.,t  embark  into  the  feature  on  tvhicn 
this  question  chiefly  hinges.’  ” — Fudge  Family,  p.  14.] 

(2)  A few  years  ago  the  wife  of  Muchtar  Pacha  complained  t* 
his  father  of  his  son’s  supposed  infidelity  : lie  asked  with  whom, 
and  she  had  the  barbarity  to  give  in  a list  of  the  twelve  handsomest 
women  in  Yanina.  They  were  seized,  fastened  up  in  sacks,  and 
drowned  in  he  lake  the  same  night.  One  of  the  guards  who  was 
present  informed  me,  that  not  one  of  the  victims  uttered  a cry,  or 
showed  a symptom  of  terror  at  so  sudden  a “ wrench  from  ail  ws 
know,  from  all  we  love.”  [See  ante,  pp.  G2,  76.] 


DON  JUAN. 


661 


SAJJTO  V. 


XCVI. 

flie  lady  rising  up  with  such  an  air 
As  Venus  rose  with  from  the  wave,  on  them 
Bent  like  an  antelope  a Paphian  pair1 
Of  eyes,  which  put  out  each  surrounding  gem ; 

And  raising  up  an  arm  as  moonlight  fair, 

She  sign’d  to  Baba,  who  first  kiss’d  the  hem 
Of  her  deep  purple  robe,  and  speaking  low, 

Pointed  to  Juan,  who  remain’d  below. 

XCVII. 

Her  presence  was  as  lofty  as  her  state  ; 

Her  beauty  of  that  overpowering  kind, 

Whose  force'description  only  would  abate  : 

I’d  rather  leave  it  much  to  vour  own  mind, 

Than  lesson  it  by  what  I could  relate 

Of  forms  and  features  ; it  would  strike  you  blind 
Could  I do  justice  to  the  full  detail ; 

So,  luckily  for  both,  my  phrases  fail. 

XCVIII. 

Thus  much  however  I may  add, — her  years 

Were  ripe,  they  might  make  six-and-twenty  springs, 
But  there  are  forms  which  Time  to  touch  forbears, 
And  turns  aside  his  scythe  to  vulgar  things,2 
Such  as  was  Mary’s  Queen  of  Scots  ;3  true— tears 
And  love  destroy ; and  sapping  sorrow  wrings 
Charms  from  the  charmer,  yet  some  never  grow 
Ugly  ; for  instance — Ninon  de  l’Enclos.4 

xcix. 

She  spake  some  words  to  her  attendants,  who 
Composed  a choir  of  girls,  ten  or  a dozen, 

And  were  all  clad  alike ; like  Juan,  too, 

Who  wore  their  uniform,  by  Baba  chosen  ; 

They  form’d  a very  nymph -like  looking  crew,5 6 

Which  might  have  "call’d  Diana’s  chorus  “ cousin,” 
As  far  as  outward  show  may  correspond ; 

I won’t  be  bail  for  any  thing  beyond. 

c. 

They  bow’d  obeisance  and  withdrew,  retiring, 

But  not  by  the  same  door  through  which  came  in 
Baba  and  J uan,  which  last  stood  admiring. 

At  some  small  distance,  all  he  saw  within 


(1)  [“  As  Venus  rose  from  ocean — bent  on  them 

With  a far-reaching  glance,  a Paphian  pair.” — MS.] 

(*)  [“  But  there  are  forms  which  Time  adorns,  not  wears, 

And  to  which  beauty  obstinately  clings.” — MS.] 

(3)  [“  With  regard  to  the  queen’s  person,  all  contemporary  au- 
thors agree  in  ascribing  to  Mary  the  utmost  beauty  of  countenance, 
and  elegance  of  shape,  of  which  the  human  form  is  capable.  Her 
hair  was  black ; her  eyes  were  a dark  grey ; her  complexion  was 
exquisitely  tine ; and  her  hands  and  arms  remarkably  delicate,  both 
as  to  shape  and  colour.  Her  stature  was  of  a height  that  rose  to 
the  majestic.  She  danced,  walked,  and  rode  with  equal  grace.  Her 
taste  for  music  was  just,  and  she  both  sang  and  played  upon  the 
lute  with  uncommon  skill.  No  man,  says  Brantome,  ever  beheld 
her  person  without  admiration  and  love,  or  will  read  her  history 
without  sorrow.” — Robertson.] 

(4)  [Mademoiselle  deJ&flclos,  celebrated  for  her  beauty,  her 
wit,  her  gallantry,  and,  Shove  all,  for  the  extraordinary  length  of 
time  during  which  she  preserved  her  attractions.  She  intrigued 
with  the  young  gentlemen  of  three  generations,  and  is  said  to  have 
had  a grandson  of  her  own  among  her  lovers.  See  the  works  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne,  Voltaire,  &c.  &c.  for  copious  particulars  of 
her  life.  The  Biographie  U niverselle  says — “ In  her  old  age,  her 
home  was  the  rendezvous  of  the  most  distinguished  persons.  Scar- 
ron  consulted  her  on  his  romances,  St.  Evremond  on  his  poems, 
Moliere  on  his  comedies,  Fontenelle  on  his  dialogues,  and  La 
Rochefoucault  on  his  maxims.  Coligny,  Sevigne,  &c.  were  her 
lovers  and  friends.  At  her  death,  in  1705,  and  in  her  ninetieth  year, 
she  bequeathed  to  Voltaire  a considerable  sum,  to  expend  in 
books.”] 


This  strange  saloon,  mucn  fitted  fur  inspiring 
Marvel  and  praise  ; for  both  or  none  tilings  win  ■, 
And  I must  say,  I ne’er  could  see  the  very 
Great  happiness  of  the  *‘Nil  Admirari.”0 

ci. 

“ Not  to  admire  is  all  the  art  I know 

(Plain  truth,  dear  Murray,7  needs  few  flowers  of 
speech) 

To  make  men  happy,  or  to  keep  them  so 
(So  take  it  in  the  very  words  of  Creech). 

Thus  Horace  wrote  we  all  know  long  ago  ; 

And  thus  Pope8 9  quotes  the  precept  to  re-teack[ 
From  his  translation ; but  had  none  admired , 

Would  Pope  have  sung,  or  Horace  been  inspired  ? 

CII. 

Baba,  when  all  the  damsels  were  withdrawn. 

Motion’d  to  Juan  to  approach,  and  then 
A second  time  desired  him  to  kneel  down, 

And  kiss  the  lady’s  foot ; which  maxim  when 
He  heard  repeated,  Juan  with  a frown  4 
Drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  a<zain, 

And  said,  “ It  grieved  him,  but  he  could  not  stoop 
To  any  shoe,  unless  it  shod  the  Pope.” 

cm. 

Baba,  indignant  at  this  ill-timed  pride, 

Made  fierce  remonstrances,  and  then  a threat 
He  mutter’d  (but  the  last  was  given  aside) 

About  a bow-string — quite  in  vain ; not  yet 
Would  Juan  bend,  though  ’twere  to  Mahomet’s  bride: 
There’s  nothing  in  the  world  like  etiquette 
In  kingly  chambers  or  imperial  halls, 

As  also  at  the  race  and  country  balls. 

civ. 

He  stood  like  Atlas,  with  a world  of  words 
About  his  ears,  and  nathless  would  not  bend ; 

The  blood  of  all  his  line’s  Castilian  lords 
Boil’d  in  his  veins,  and  rather  than  descend 
To  stain  his  pedigree  a thousand  swords 
A thousand  times  of  him  had  made  an  end  ; 

At  length  perceiving  the  “foot”  could  not  stand. 
Baba  proposed  that  he  should  kiss  the  hand. 


(5)  [Her  fair  maids  were  ranged  below  the  sofa,  and,  to  the  num- 
ber of  twenty,  were  all  dressed  in  fine  light  damasks,  brocaded  with 
silver.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  the  pictures  of  the  ancient  nymphs. 
I did  not  think  all  nature  could  have  furnished  such  a scene  of 
beauty,”  &c.— Lady  M.  W.  Montagu. 

(6)  [“  Nil  admirari,  prope  res  est  una,  Numici, 

Solaque  quae  possitfacereetservare  beatum.” — Hor.  lib.  i. 
epist.'vi.] 

(7)  [The  “ Murray”  of  Pope  was  the  great  Earl  Mansfield.] 

(8)  [“  Not  to  admire,  is  all  the  art  I know 

To  make  men  happy,  and  to  keep  them  so, 

(Plain  truth,  dear  Murray,  needs  no  flowers  of  speech. 

So  take  it  in  the  very  words  of  Creech.)”]. 

(9)  [“  I maintained  that  Horace  was  wrong  in  placing  happiness 
in  nil  admirari,  for  that  I thought  admiration  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  of  all  our  feelings ; and  I regretted  that  I had  lost  much 
of  my  disposition  to  admire,  which  people  generally  do  as  they  ad- 
vance in  life.  “ Sir,”  said  Johnson,  “as  a man  advances  in  life, 
he  gets  what  is  better  than  admiration — judgment,  to  estimate 
things  at  their  true  value.’  1 still  insisted  that  admiration  was 
more  pleasing  than  judgment,  as  love  is  more  pleasing  than  friend- 
ship. The  feeling  of  friendship  is  like  that  of  being  comfortably 
filled  with  roast  beef;  love,  like  being  enlivened  with  champagne. 
Johnson,  “ No,  Sir;  admiration  and  love  are  like  being  intoxicated 
with  champagne ; judgment  and  friendship  like  being  enlivened. 
Waller  has  hit  upon  the  same  thought  with  you;  but  I don’t  believe 
vou  have  borrowed  from  Waller.”  — Boswell,  rcl.  v.  p.  306. 
edit.  1835.] 


662 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  f, 


cv. 

Here  was  an  honourable  compromise, 

A.  half-way  house  of  diplomatic  rest, 

Where  they  might  meet  in  much  more  peaceful  guise 
And  Juan  now  his  willingness  exprest, 

To  use  all  fit  and  proper  courtesies, 

Adding,  that  this  was  commonest  and  best, 

For  through  the  South,  the  custom  still  commands 
The  gentleman  to  kiss  the  lady’s  hands. 

cvi. 

And  he  advanced,  though  with  but  a bad  grace, 
Though  on  more  thorough-bredx  or  fairer  fingers 
No  lips  e’er  left  their  transitory  trace : 

On  such  as  these  the  lip  too  fondly  lingers, 

And  for  one  kiss  would  fain  imprint  a brace, 

As  you  will  see,  if  she  you  love  shall  bring  hers 
In  contact ; and  sometimes  even  a fair  stranger’s 
An  almost  twelvemonth’s  constancy  endangers. 

cvn. 

The  lady  eyed  him  o’er  and  o’er,  and  bade 
Baba  retire,  which  he  obey’d  in  style, 

As  if  well  used  to  the  retreating  trade  ; 

And  taking  hints  in  good  part  all  the  while, 

He  whisper’d  Juan  not  to  be  afraid, 

And  looking  on  him  with  a sort  of  smile, 

Took  leave,  with  such  a face  of  satisfaction, 

As  good  men  wear  who  have  done  a virtuous  action. 

CVIII. 

When  he  was  gone,  there  was  a sudden  change : 

I know  not  what  might  be  the  lady’s  thought. 

But  o’er  her  bright  brow  flash’d  a tumult  strange, 
And  into  her  clear  cheek  the  blood  was  brought, 
Blood-red  as  sunset  summer  clouds  which  range 
The  verge  of  Heaven ; and  in  her  large  eyes  wrougln 
A mixture  of  sensations,  might  be  scann’d. 

Of  half  voluptuousness  and  half  command. 

cix. 

Her  form  had  all  the  softness  of  her  sex, 

Her  features  all  the  sweetness  of  the  devil. 

When  he  put  on  the  cherub  to  perplex 
Eve,  and  paved  (God  knows  how)  the  road  to  evil ; 
The  sun  himself  was  scarce  more  free  from  specks 
Than  she  from  aught  at  which  the  eye  could  cavil ; 
Yet,  somehow,  there  was  something  somewhere  want- 
As  if  she  rather  order'd  than  was  granting. — [ing, 

cx. 

Something  imperial,  or  imperious,  threw 
A chain  o’er  all  she  did  ; that  is,  a chain 
Was  thrown  as  ’twere  about  the  neck  of  you — 

Acd  rapture’s  self  will  seem  almost  a pain 
With  aught  which  looks  like  despotism  in  view  : 

Our  souls  at  least  are  free,  and  ’tis  in  vain 
We  would  against  them  make  the  flesh  obey — 

The  spirit  in  the  end  will  have  its  way. 

CXI. 

Her  very  smile  was  haughty,  though  so  sweet ; 

Her  very  nod  was  not  an  inclination ; 

There  was  a self-will  even  in  her  small  feet, 

As  though  they  were  quite  conscious  of  her  station — 
They  trod  as  upon  necks ; and  to  complete 
Her  state  (it  is  the  custom  of  her  nation), 

A poniard  deck’d  her  girdle,  as  the  sign 

She  was  a sultan’s  bride,  (thank  Heaven,  not  mine  !) 

(1)  There  h nothing,  perhaps,  more  distinctive  of  birth  than  the 

hand.  It  is  almost  the  only  sign  of  blood  which  aristocracy  can 

generate.  [See  anti,  p.  644.1 


CXI  . 

“ To  hear  and  to  obey  ” had  been  from  birth 
The  law  of  all  around  her  ; to  fulfil 
All  phantasies  which  yielded  joy  or  mirth, 

Had  been  her  slaves’  chief  pleasure,  as  her  will; 
Her  blood  was  high,  her  beauty  scarce  of  earth  : 
Judge,  then,  if  her  caprices  e’er  stood  still ; 

Had  she  but  been  a Christian,  I’ve  a notion 
We  should  have  found  out  the  “ perpetual  motion.” 
cxm. 

Whate’er  she  saw  and  coveted  was  brought ; 

Whate’er  she  did  not  see,  if  she  supposed 
It  mio-ht  be  seen,  with  diligence  was  sought,  [closed  : 
And  when  ’twas  found  straightway  the  bargain 
There  was  no  end  unto  the  things  she  bought, 

Nor  to  the  trouble  which  her  fancies  caused 
Yet  even  her  tyranny  had  such  a grace, 

The  women  pardon’d  all  except  her  face. 

CXIV. 

Juan,  the  latest  of  her  whims,  had  caught 
Her  eye  in  passing  on  his  way  to  sale ; 

She  order’d  him  directly  to  be  ’oouglit, 

And  Baba,  who  had  ne’er  been  known  to  fail 
In  any  kind  of  mischief  to  be  wrougnt. 

At  all  such  auctions  knew  how  to  prevail : 

She  had  no  prudence,  but  he  had  ; and  this 
Explains  the  garb  which  Juan  took  amiss., 

cxv. 

His  youtli  and  features  favour’d  the  disguise, 

And,  should  you  ask  how  she,  a sultan’s  bride. 
Could  risk  or  compass  such  strange  phantasies. 

This  I must  leave  sultanas  to  decide : 

Emperors  are  only  husbands  in  wives’  eyes, 

And  kings  and  consorts  oft  are  mystified,1 * 3 
As  we  may  ascertain  with  due  precision, 

Some  by  experience,  others  by  tradition. 

CXVI. 

But  to  the  main  point,  where  we  have  been  tending 
She  now  conceived  all  difficulties  past, 

And  deem’d  herself  extremely  condescending 
When,  being  made  her  property  at  last. 

Without  more  preface,  in  her  blue  eyes  blending 
Passion  and  power,  a glance  on  him  she  cast, 

And  merely  saying,  “ Christian,  canst  thou  love  ?” 
Conceived  that  pliraf  was  quite  enough  to  move. 

CXVII. 

And  so  it  was,  in  proper  time  and  place  ; 

But  Juan,  who  had  still  his  mind  o’erflowing 
With  Haidee’s  isle  and  soft  Ionian  face. 

Felt  the  warm  blood,  which  in  his  face  was  glowing, 
Rush  back  upon  his  heart,  which  fill’d  apace, 

And  left  his  cheeks  as  pale  as  snowdrops  blowing 
These  words  went  through  his  soul  like  Arab-speara, 
So  that  he  spoke  not,  but  burst  into  tears. 

CXVIII. 

She  was  a good  deal  shock’d;  not  shock’d  at  tears, 
For  women  shed  and  use  them  at  their  liking ; 

But  there  is  something  when  man’s  eye  appears 
Wet,  still  more  disagreeable  and  striking : 

A woman’s  tear-drop  melts,  a man’s  half  sears, 

Like  molten  lead,  as  if  you  thrust  a pike'  in 
His  heart  to  force  it  out,  for  (to  be  shorter) 

To  them  ’tis  a relief,  to  us  a torture. 


(2)  [“  And  husbands  now  and  then  are  mystified.” — M8.) 


CANTO  V. 


DON  JUAN. 


CXIX. 

And  she  would  have  consoled,  but  knew  not  now : 
Having  no  equals,  nothing  which  had  e’er 
infected  lier  with  sympathy  till  now, 

And  never  having  dreamt  what  *twas  to  bear 
Aught  of  a serious,  sorrowing  kind,  although 
There  might  arise  some  pouting  petty  care 
To  cross  her  brow,  she  wonder’d  how  so  near 
Her  eye  another’s  eyes  could  shed  a tear. 

cxx. 

But  nature  teaches  more  than  power  can  spoil,* 1 * 
And,  when  a strong  although  a strange  sensation 
Moves  -female  hearts  are  such  a genial  soil,* 

For  kinder  feelings,  whatsoe’er  their  nation, 

They  naturally  pour  the  “ wine  and  oil,’* 

Samaritans  in  every  situation ; 

And  thus  Gulbeyaz,  though  she  knew  no*  /ny. 

Felt  an  odd  glistening  moisture  in  lie'’  j e. 

CXXT. 

But  tears  must  stop  like  all  things  else  ; and  soon 
Juan,  who  for  an  instant  had  been  moved 
To  such  a sorrow  by  the  intrusive  tone 

Of  one  who  dared  to  ask  if  “ he  had  loved,” 

Call’d  back  the  stoic  to  his  eyes,  which  shone 
Bright  with  the  very  weakness  he  reproved ; 

And  although  sensitive  to  beauty,  he 
Felt  most  indignant  still  at  not  being  free. 

CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz,  for  the  first  time  in  her  days, 

Was  much  embarrass’d,  never  having  met 
In  all  her  life  with  aught  save  prayers  and  praise; 

And  as  she  also  risk’d  her  life  to  get 
Him  whom  she  meant  to  tutor  in  love’s  ways 
Into  a comfortable  tete-a-tete, 

To  lose  the  hour  would  make  lier  quite  a martyr, 
And  they  had  wasted  now  almost  a quarter. 

CXXIII. 

I also  would  suggest  the  fitting  time. 

To  gentlemen  in  any  such  like  case. 

That  is  to  say — in  a meridian  clime, 

With  us  there  is  more  law  given  to  the  chase. 

But  here  a small  delay  forms  a great  crime  : 

So  recollect  that  the  extremest  grace 
Is  just  two  minutes  for  your  declaration — 

A moment  more  would  hurt  your  reputation. 

exxiv. 

Juan’s  was  good ; and  might  have  been  still  better. 
But  he  had  got  Haidee  into  his  head  : 

However  strange,  he  could  not  yet  forget  her. 

Which  made  him  seem  exceedingly  ill-bred. 
Gulbeyaz,  who  look’d  on  him  as  her  debtor 
For  having  had  him  to  her  palace  led, 

Began  to  blush  up  to  the  eyes,  and  then 
Grow  deadly  pale,  and  then  blush  back  again. 

exxv. 

At  length,  in  an  imperial  way,  she  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  and  bending  on  him  eyes, 

Which  needed  not  an  empire  to  persuade, 

Look’d  into  his  for  love,  where  none  replies  : 


(!)  [“  But  nature  teaches  what  power  cannot  spoil, 

And,  though  it  was  a new  and  strange  sensation. 
Young  female  hearts  are  such  a genial  soil 
.¥<??  kinder  feelings,  she  forgot  her  station.” — MS.] 

(?)  [In  Fielding’s  novel  of  Joseph  Andrews.] 

(I)  [**  ‘ But  if  my  boy  with  virtue  be  endued, 

What  harm  will  beauty  do  him?  Nay,  what  good? 


6G3 

Her  brow  grew  black,  but  she  would  not  iporaid. 
That  being  the  last  Tiing  a proud  woman  tries  ; 

She  rose,  and  pausing  one  chaste  moment,  threw 
Herself  upon  his  breast,  and  there  she  grew 

CXXVI. 

This  was  an  awkward  test,  as  Juan  found, 

But  he  was  steel’d  by  sorrow,  wrath,  and  pride  : 
With  gentle  force  her  white  arms  he  unwound, 

And  seated  her  all  drooping  by  his  side, 

Then  rising  haughtily  he  glanced  around, 

And  looking  coldly  in  her  face,  he  cried, 

“ The  prison’d  eagle  will  not  pair,  nor  I 
Serve  a sultana’s  sensual  phantasy. 

CXXVII. 

“ Thou  ask’st,  if  I can  love  ? be  this  the  proof 
How  much  I have  loved — that  I love  not  thee  ! 

In  this  vile  garb,  the  distaff,  web,  and  woof, 

Were  fitter  for  me  : Love  is  for  the  free  ! 

I am  not  dazzled  by  this  splendid  roof ; 

Whate’er  thy  power,  and  great  it  seems  to  be ; 
Heads  bow,  knees  bend,  eyes  watch  around  a thror.e, 
And  hands  obey — our  hearts  are  still  our  own.” 

cxxvm. 

This  was  a truth  to  us  extremely  trite  ; 

Not  so  to  her,  who  ne’er  had  heard  such  things  : 
She  deem’d  her  least  command  must  yield  delight, 
Earth  being  only  made  for  queens  and  kings. 

If  hearts  lay  on  the  left  side  or  the  right 
She  hardly  knew,  to  such  perfection  brings 
Legitimacy  its  born  votaries,  when 
Aware  of  their  due  royal  rights  o’er  men. 

cxxix. 

Besides,  as  has  been  said,  she  was  so  fair 
As  even  in  a much  humbler  lot  had  made 
A kingdom  or  confusion  any  where, 

And  also,  as  may  be  presumed,  she  laid 
Some  stress  on  charms,  which  seldom  are,  if  e’er. 

By  their  possessors  thrown  into  the  shade : 

She  thought  hers  gave  a double  “ right  divine 
And  half  of  that  opinion’s  also  mine. 

exxx. 

Remember,  or  (if  you  can  not)  imagine, 

Ye  who  have  kept  your  chastity  when  young, 

While  some  more  desperate  dowager  has  been  waging 
Love  with  you,  and  been  in  the  dog-days  stung 
By  your  refusal,  recollect  her  raging  ! 

Or  recollect  all  that  was  said  or  sung 
On  sucli  a subject ; then  suppose  the  face 
Of  a young  downright  beauty  in  this  case. 

cxxxi. 

Suppose, — but  you  already  have  supposed, 

The  spouse  of  Potiphar,  the  Lady  Booby,1 
Phaedra,3  and  all  which  story  has  disclosed 
Of  good  examples  : pity  that  so  few  by 
Poets  and  private  tutors  are  exposed, 

To  educate — ye  youth  of  Europe — you  by  ! 

But  when  you  have  supposed  the  few  we  know, 

You  can’t  suppose  Gulbeyaz’  angry  brow. 


Say,  what  avail’d,  of  old,  to  Theseus’  son, 

The  stern  resolve?  what  to  Bellerophon? — 

O,  then  did  Phaedra  redden,  then  her  pride 
Took  fire  to  be  so  stedfastly  denied  ! 

Then,  too,  did  Sthenobaea  glow  with  shame, 

And  both  burst  forth  with  unextjnguish’d  flame !’— Jtrr.j 
The  adventures  of  Hippolitus,  the  son  of  Theseus,  and  Bellerophoi 
are  well  known.  They  were  accused  of  incontinence,  by  the  worn*.. 


664 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CVftTG  V4 


CXXXII. 

A tigress  robb’d  ot  young,  a lionc  ss. 

Or  any  interesting  beast  of  prey, 

Are  similes  at  hand  for  the  distress 

Of  ladies  who  cannot  have  their  own  wav ; 

But  though  my  turn  will  not  be  served  with  less. 
These  don’t  express  one  half  what  I should  say : 

For  what  is  stealing  young  ones,  few  or  many, 

To  cutting  short  their  hopes  of  having  any  ? 

CXXXIII. 

The  love  of  offspring’s  nature’s  general  law, 

From  tigresses  and  cubs  to  ducks  and  ducklings; 
There’s  nothing  whets  the  beak,  or  arms  the  claw 
Like  an  invasion  of  their  babes  and  sucklings  ; 

And  all  who  have  seen  a human  nursery,  saw  [lings  ; 

How  mothers  love  their  children’s  squalls  and  cliuck- 
This  strong  extreme  effect  (to  tire  no  longer 
Your  patience)  shows  the  cause  must  still  be  stronger. 

CXXXIV. 

if  I said  fire  flash’d  from  Gulbeyaz’  eyes, 

Twere  nothing — for  her  eyes  flash’d  always  fire  ; 

Or  said  her  cheeks  assumed  the  deepest  dyes, 

I should  but  bring  disgrace  upon  the  dyer, 

So  supernatural  was  her  passion’s  rise  ; 

For  ne’er  till  now  she  knew  a check’d  desire  : 

Even  ye  who  know  what  a check’d  woman  is 
(Enough,  God  knows  !)  would  much  fall  short  of  this. 

cxxxv. 

Her  rage  was  but  a minute’s,  and  ’twas  well — 

A moment’s  more  had  slain  her ; but  the  while 
It  lasted  ’twas  like  a short  glimpse  of  hell : 

Nought’s  more  sublime  than  energetic  bile, 

Though  horrible  to  see  yet  grand  to  tell, 

Like  ocean  warring  ’gainst  a rocky  isle ; 

And  the  deep  passions  flashing  through  her  form 
Made  her  a beautiful  embodied  storm. 

CXXXVI. 

A vulgar  tempest  ’twere  to  a typhoon 
To  match  a common  fury  with  her  rage, 

And  yet  she  did  not  want  to  reach  the  moon,1 
Like  moderate  Hotspur  on  the  immortal  page  ;* 
Her  anger  pitch’d  into  a lower  tune. 

Perhaps  the  fault  of  her  soft  sex  and  age — 

Her  wish  was  but  to  " kill,  kill,  kill,”  like  Lear’s,3 
And  then  her  thirst  of  blood  was  quench’d  in  tears. 

CXXXVII. 

A storm  it  raged,  and  like  the  storm  it  pass’d, 

Pass’d  without  words— in  fact  she  could  not  speak; 
And  then  her  sex’s  shame4 5  broke  in  at  last, 

A sentiment  till  then  in  her  but  weak. 

But  now  it  flow’d  in  natural  and  fast, 

As  water  through  an  unexpected  leak, 

For  she  felt  humbled — and  humiliation 
Is  sometimes  good  for  people  in  her  station. 


wnose  inordinate  passions  they  had  refused  to  gratify  at  the  expense 
of  their  duty,  and  sacrificed  to  the  fatal  credulity  of  the  husbands 
of  the  disappointed  fair  ones.  It  is  very  probable  that  both  the 
itories  are  founded  on  the  Scripture  account  of  Joseph  and  Poti- 
phar’s  wife.”— Giffobd.] 

(1)  [“  By  heaven ! methinks,  it  were  an  easy  leap, 

To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-faced  moon.”  — 
Benrtj  IV.]  < 

(2)  [“  Like  natural  Shakspeare  on  the  immortal  page.” — MS.] 


CXXXVIIT. 

It  teaches  them  that  they  arc  flesh  and  blood, 

It  also  gently  hints  to  them  that  others, 

Although  of  clay,  are  yet  not  quite  of  mud ; 

That  urns  and  pipkins  are  but  fragile  brothers, 

And  works  of  the  same  pottery,  bad  or  good, 

Though  not  all  born  of  the  same  sires  and  mothers 
It  teaches  - Heaven  knows  only  what  it  teaches, 

But  sometimes  it  may  mend,  and  often  reaches. 

CXXXIX. 

Her  first  thought  was  to  cut  off  Juan’s  head  ; 

Her  second,  to  cut  only  his — acquaintance ; 

Her  third,  to  ask  him  where  he  had  been  bred ; 

Her  fourth,  to  rally  him  into  repentance ; 

Her  fifth,  to  call  her  maids  and  go  to  bed ; 

Her  sixth,  to  stab  herself ; her  seventh,  to  sentence 
The  lash  to  Baba : — but  her  grand  resource 
Was  to  sit  down  again,  and  cry  of  course. 

CXL. 

She  thought  to  stab  herself,  but  then  she  had 

The  dagger  close  at  hand,  which  made  it  awkward ; 
For  Eastern  stays  are  little  made  to  pad, 

So  that  a poniard  pierces  if  ’tis  stuck  hard  : 

She  thought  of  killing  J uan — but,  poor  lad  ! 

Though  he  deserved  it  well  for  being  so  backward 
The  cutting  off  his  head  was  not  the  art 
Most  likely  to  attain  her  aim — hie  heart. 

CXLI. 

Juan  was  moved  ; he  had  made  up  his  miml 
To  be  impaled,  or  quarter’d  as  a dish 
For  dogs,  or  to  be  slain  with  pangs  refined, 

Or  thrown  to  lions,  or  made  baits  for  fish. 

And  thus  heroically  stood  resign’d, 

Rather  than  sin— except  to  his  own  wish  : 

But  all  his  great  preparatives  for  dying 
Dissolved  like  snow  before  a woman  crying. 

CXLII. 

As  through  his  palms  Bob  Acres’  valour  oozed, 

So  Juan’s  virtue  ebb’d,  I know  not  how ; 

At  first  he  wonder’d  why  he  had  refused ; 

And  then,  if  matters  could  be  made  up  now  , 

And  next  his  savage  virtue  he  accused. 

Just  as  a friar  may  accuse  his  vow, 

Or  as  a dame  repents  her  of  her  oath, 

Which  mostly  ends  in  some  small  breach  of  both. 

CXLI  II. 

So  he  began  to  stammer  some  excuses ; 

But  words  are  not  enough  in  such  a matter. 
Although  you  borrow’d  all  that  e’er  the  muses 
Have  sung,  or  even  a Dandy’s  dandiest  chatter, 

Or  all  the  figures  Castlereagh  abuses  ;6 

Just  as  a languid  smile  began  to  flatter 
His  peace  was  making,  but  before  he  ventured 
Further,  old  Baba  rather  briskly  enter’d. 


(3)  ['*  And  when  I have  stolen  upon  these  sons-in-law, 

Then  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill.’  — Lear.] 

(4)  [“  A woman. scorn’d  is  pitiless  as  fate, 

For,  there,  the  dread  of  shame  adds  stings  to  hate.” — 

Gifford’s  Juvenal. j 

(5)  [“Yes,  my  valour  is  certainly  going  1 it  is  sneaking  off!  1 
feel  it  oozing,  as  it  were,  at  the  palms  of  my  hands ! ” — Sheridan  s 

Rivals.] 

(6)  [“Or  all  the  sti'tr  which  utter’d  by  the  ‘ Blues’  is.” — MS  ] 


caisco 


DON  JUAN. 


66? 


CXLIV. 

« Bride  of  the  Sun ! and  Sister  of  the  Moon  ! ” 

(’Twas  thus  he  spake,)  “ and  Empress  of  the  Earth  ! 
Whose  frown  would  put  the  spheres  all  out  of  tune, 
Whose  smile  makes  all  the  planets  dance  with  mirth, 
Your  slave  brings  tidings — he  hopes  not  too  soon — 
Which  your  sublime  attention  may  be  worth  : 

The  Sun  himself  has  sent  me  like  a ray, 

To  hint  that  he  is  coming  up  this  way.” 

CXLV. 

“ Is  it,”  exclaim’d  Gulbeyaz,  “ as  you  say  ? 

I wish  to  heaven  he  would  not  shine  till  morning ! 
But  bid  my  women  form  the  milky  way. 

Hence,  my  old  comet!  give  the  stars  due  warning1 — 
And,  Christian  ! mingle  with  them  as  you  may. 

And  as  you’d  have  me  pardon  your  past  scorn- 
ing  ” 

Here  they  were  interrupted  by  a humming 
Sound,  and  then  by  a cry,  “ The  Sultan’s  coming  ! ” 

CXLYI. 

First  came  her  damsels,  a decorous  file, 

And  then  his  Highness’  eunuchs,  black  and  white ; 
The  train  might  reach  a quarter  of  a mile  ; 

His  majesty  was  always  so  polite 
As  to  announce  his  visits  a long  while 
Before  he  came,  especially  at  night ; 

For  being  the  last  wife  of  the  Emperour, 

She  was  of  course  the  favourite  oi  the  four. 

CXLVII. 

His  Highness  was  a man  of  solemn  port. 

Shawl’d  to  the  nose,  and  bearded  to  the  eyes, 
Snatch’d  from  a prison  to  preside  at  court, 

His  lately  bowstrung  brother  caused  his  rise ; 

He  was  as  good  a sovereign  of  the  sort 
As  any  mentioned  in  the  histories 
Of  Cantemir,  or  Knolles,  where  few  shine 
Save  Solyman,  the  glory  of  their  line.2 

CXLVIII. 

He  went  to  mosque  in  state,  and  said  his  prayers 
With  more  than  “ Oriental  scrupulosity  ;”  3 
He  left  to  his  vizier  all  state  affairs, 

And  show’d  but  little  royal  curiosity  ; 

I know  not  if  he  had  domestic  cares — 

No  process  proved  connubial  animosity  ; 

Four  wives  and  twice  five  hundred  maids,  unseen, 
Were  ruled  as  calmly  as  a Christian  queen.4 5 * 

CXLIX. 

If  now  and  then  there  happen’d  a slight  slip, 

Little  was  heard  of  criminal  or  crime  ; 

The  story  scarcely  pass’d  a single  lip — - 
The  sack  and  sea  had  settled  all  in  time, 


(1)  [“  But  prithee — get  my  women  in  the  way, 

That  all  the  stars  may  gleam  with  due  adorning." — MS.] 

(2)  It  may  not  be  unworthy  of  remark,  that  Bacon,  in  his  essay 
on  “ Empire,”  hints  that  Solyman  wa^the  last  of  his  line;  on  what 
authority,  I know  not.  These  are  hir  words : — “The  destruction 
of  Mustapha  was  so  fatal  to  Solyman’s  line ; as  the  succession  of 
the  Turks  from  Solyman  until  this  day  is  suspected  to  be  untrue, 
and  of  strange  blood;  for  that  Selymus  the  second  was  thought  to 
be  supposititious.”  But  Bacon,  in  his  historical  authorities,  is 
often  inaccurate.  I could  give  half  a dozen  instances  from  his 
Apophthegms  only.  [See  Appendix  : Don  Juan,  canto  v.] 

* (3)  [Gibbon.] 

‘ (4)  [“  Because  he  kept  them  wrapt  up  in  his  closet,  he 

Ruled  four  wives  and  twelve  hundred  whores,  unseen, 
More  easily  than  Christian  kings  one  queen.” — MS.] 

(5)  [“  There  ended  many  a fair  Sultana’s  trip: 

The  Public  knew  no  more  than  does  this  rhyme, 

No  printed  scandals  flew. — the  fish,  of  course, 

>rere  netter— while  the  morals  were  no  worse.” — MS.] 


From  which  the  secret  nobody  could  rip 

The  Public  knew  no  more  than  does  this  rhyme ; 
No  scandals  made  the  daily  press  a curse — 

Morals  were  better,  and  the  fish  no  worse.® 

CL. 

He  saw  with  his  own  eyes  the  moon  was  round, 

Was  also  certain  that  the  earth  was  square. 

Because  he  had  journey’d  fifty  miles,  and  found 
No  sign  that  it  was  circular  any  where; 

His  empire  also  was  without  a bound  : 

*Tis  true,  a little  troubled  here  and  there, 

By  rebel  pachas,  and  encroaching  giaours, 

But  then  they  never  came  to  “ the  Seven  Towers 

CLI. 

Except  in  shape  of  envoys,  who  were  sent 

To  lodge  there  when  a war  broke  out,  according 
To  the  true  law  of  nations,  which  ne’er  meant 
Those  scoundrels,  who  have  never  Imd  a sword  ill 
Their  dirty  diplomatic  hands,  to  vent 

Their  spleen  in  making  strife,  and  safely  wording 
Their  lies,  yclep’d  despatches,  without  risk  or  i 
The  singeing  of  a single  inky  whisker. 

CLII. 

He  had  fifty  daughters  and  four  dozen  sons, 

Of  whom  all  such  as  came  of  age  were  stow’d, 

The  former  in  a palace,  where  like  nuns 

They  lived  till  some  Bashaw  was  sent  abroad, 

When  she,  whose  turn  it  was,  was  wed  at  once, 
Sometimes  at  six  years  old7 — though  this  seems  od  t, 
’Tis  true  ; the  reason  is,  that  the  Bashaw 
Must  make  a present  to  his  sire  in  law. 

CLIII. 

His  sons  were  kept  in  prison,  till  they  grew 
Of  years  to  fill  a bowstring  or  the  throne. 

One  or  the  other,  but  which  of  the  two 
Could  yet  be  known  unto  the  fates  alone ; 
Meantime  the  education  they  went  through 

Was  princely,  as  the  proofs  have  always  shown : 

So  that  the  heir  apparent  still  was  found 
No  less  deserving  to  be  bang’d  than  crown’d. 

CLIV. 

His  Majesty  saluted  his  fourth  spouse 
With  all  the  ceremonies  of  his  rank. 

Who  clear’d  her  sparkling  eyes  and  smooth’d  herbr  :>W3, 
As  suits  a matron  who  has  play’d  a prank ; 

These  must  seem  doubly  mindful  of  their  vows. 

To  save  the  credit  of  their  breaking  bank : 

To  no  men  are  such  cordial  greetings  given, 

As  those  whose  wives  have  made  them  fit  for  heaven. 


(6)  [The  state  prison  of  Constantinople,  in  which  the  Porte  shut* 
up  the  ministers  of  hostile  powers  who  are  dilatory  in  taking  theii 
departure,  under  pretence  of  protecting  them  from  the  insults  ol 
the  mob. — Hope. 

We  attempted  to  visit  the  Seven  Towers,  but  were  stopped  at  the 
entrance,  and  informed  that  without  a firman  it  was  inaccessible  to 
strangers.  It  was  supposed  that  Count  Bulukoff,  the  Russian 
minister,  would  be  the  last  of  the  Moussafirs,  or  imperial  hostages, 
confined  in  this  fortress;  but  since  the  year  1784,  M.  Ruffin  and 
manjr  of  the  French  have  been  imprisoned  in  the  same  place ; and 
the  dungeons  were  gaping,  it  seems,  for  the  sacred  persons  of  the 
gentlemen  composing  his  Britannic  Majesty’s  mission,  previous  to 
the  rupture  between  Great  Britain  and  the  Porte  in  1809.-*Hob- 
house.] 

(7)  [“The  princess”  (Suita  Asma,  daughter  of  Achmet  III.) 
“ exclaimed  against  the  barbarity  of  the  institution  which,  at 
six  years  old,  had  put  her  in  the  power  of  a decrepit  old  man, 
who,  by  treating  her  like  a child,  had  only  inspired  disgust.”— 
De  Tott.] 

4% 


666 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Ci  A’}  *i 


CLV. 

His  Highness  cast  around  his  great  black  eyes. 

And  looking,  as  he  always  look’d,  perceived 
Juan  amongst  the  damsels  in  disguise. 

At  which  he  seem’d  no  whit  surprised  nor  grieved. 
But  just  remark’d  with  air  sedate  and  wise, 

While  still  a fluttering  sigh  Gulbevaz  heaved, 

“ I see  you’ve  bought  another  girl ; ’tis  pity 
That  a mere  Christian  should  be  half  so  pretty.” 

CLVI. 

Tliis  compliment,  which  drew  all  eyes  upon 

The  new-bought  virgin,  made  her  blush  and  shake. 
Her  comrades,  aiso,  thought  themselves  undone : 

Oh  ! Mahomet ! that  his  Majesty  should  take 
Such  notice  of  a giaour,  while  scarce  to  one 
Of  them  his  lips  imperial  ever  spake  ! 

There  was  a general  whisper,  toss,  and  wriggle. 

But  etiquette  forbade  them  all  to  giggle. 

CLVII. 

The  Turks  do  well  to  shut — at  least,  sometimes — 
The  women  up — because,  in  sad  reality. 

Their  chastity  in  these  unhappy  climes 
Is  not  a thing  of  that  astringent  quality, 

Which  in  the  North  prevents  precocious  crimes. 

And  makes  our  snow  less  pure  than  our  morality ; 
The  sun,  which  yearly  melts  the  polar  ice. 

Has  quite  the  contrary  effect  on  vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus  in  the  East  they  are  extremely  strict. 

And  wedlock  and  a padlock  mean  the  same  ; 
Excepting  only  when  the  former’s  pick’d 
It  ne’er  can  be  replaced  in  proper  frame ; 


(1)  [This  stanza — which  Lord  Byron  composed  in  bed , Feb.  27, 
1821,  is  not  in  the  first  edition.  On  discovering  the  omission,  he 
thus  remonstrated  with  Mr.  Murray  : — “ Upon  what  principle  have 
you  omitted  one  of  the  concluding  stanzas  sent  as  an  addition  ? — 
because  it  ended,  I suppose,  with — 

‘ And  do  not  link  two  virtuous  souls  for  life 
Into  that  moral  centaur , man  and  wife?  ’ 

Now,  I must  say,  once  for  all,  that  I will  not  permit  any  human 
being  to  take  such  liberties  with  my  writings  because  I am  absent. 
I desire  the  omission  to  be  replaced.  I have  read  over  the  poem 
carefully,  and  I tell  you,  it  is  poetry.  The  little  envious  knot  of 
parson-poets  may  say  what  they  please : time  will  show  that  I am 
not,  in  this  instance,  mistaken.” ] 

(2)  [Blackwood  says,  in  No.  LXV.,  for  June,  1822,  “ These  three 
Cantos  il  II.  IV.  V.)  are,  like  all  Byron’s  poems,  and,  by  the  way, 
like  every  thing  in  this  world,  partly  good  and  partly  bad.  In  the 
particular  descriptions  they  are  not  so  naughty  as  their  predeces- 
sors : indeed,  his  lordship  has  been  so  pretty  and  well-behaved  on 
the  present  occasion,  that  we  should  not  be  surprised  to  hear  of  the 
work  being  detected  among  the  thread-cases,  flower-pots,  and  cheap 
tracts  that  litter  the  drawing-room  tables  of  some  of  the  best  regu- 
lated families.  By  those,  however,  who  suspect  him  of 

‘ a strange  design 

Against  the  creed  and  morals  of  the  land, 

And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line,’ 

tt  will  be  found  as  bad  as  ever.  He  shows  his  knowledge  of  the 
world  too  openly ; and  it  is  no  extenuation  of  this  freedom  that  he 
does  it  playfully.  Only  infants  can  be  shown  naked  in  company; 
but  his  lordship  pulls  the  very  robe  de-chambre  from  both  men 
and  women,  and  goes  on  with  his  exposure  as.  smirkingly  as  a 
barrister  cross-questioning  a chamber-maid  in  a case  of  crim.  cor. 
This,  as  nobody  can  approve,  we  must  confess  is  very  bad.  Still, 
it  is  harsh  to  ascribe  to  wicked  motives  what  may  be  owing  to  the 
temptations  of  circumstances,  or  the  headlong  impulse  of  passion. 
E’ren  the  worst  habits  should  be  charitably  considereu,  for  they 
are  often  the  result  of  the  slow  but  irresistitde  force  of  nature,  over 
the  artificial  manners  and  discipline  of  society  the  flowing  stream 
that  waste?  away  its  embapkments.  Man  towards  his  fellow-m»n 
should  be  at  least  compa  ti  uate;  for  lie  can  be  no  ju^ge  of  tl  a 
instincts  and  the  impulses  of  action,  he  can  only  see  elfects. 


Spoilt,  as  a pipe  of  claret  is  when  prick’d  : 

But  then  their  own  polygamy’s  to  blame  ; 
Why  don’t  they  knead  two  virtuous  souls  for  l:fa 
Into  that  moral  centaur,  man  and  wife  ?l 

CLIX. 

Thus  far  our  chronicle  ; and  now  we  pause, 
Though  not  for  want  of  matter ; but  ’tis  time, 
According  to  the  ancient  epic  laws, 

To  slacken  sail,  and  anchor  with  our  rhyme. 
Let  this  fifth  canto  meet  with  due  applause, 

The  sixth  shall  have  a touch  of  the  sublime  ; 
Meanwhile,  as  Homer  sometimes  sleeps,  perhaps 
You’ll  pardon  to  my  muse  a few  short  naps.1 3 


Bon  gjttan. 


PREFACE  TO  CANTOS  VI.  VII.  AND  Vni.1 

The  details  of  the  siege  of  Ismail  in  two  of  the  fol-  1 
lowing  cantos  (i.  e.  the  seventh  and  eighth)  are  | 
taken  from  a French  Work,  entitled  “Histoire  de  la  I 
Nouvelle  Russie.” 4 Some  of  the  incidents  attributed 
to  Don  Juan  really  occurred,  particularly  the  circum- 
stance of  his  saving  the  infant,  which  was  the  actual 
case  of  the  late  Due  de  Richelieu,5  then  a young 
volunteer  in  the  Russian  service,  and  afterward  the  I 
founder  and  benefactor  of  Odessa,6  where  his  name  j 


‘ Tremble,  thou  wretch, 

That  hast  within  thee  undivulged  crimes. 

Unwhipp’d  of  justice  : Hide  thee,  thou  bloody  hand  ;— 

Thou  perjured,  and  thou  simular  man  of  virtue, 

Thou  art  incestuous  : Caitiff,  to  pieces  shake, 

That  under  covert  and  convenient  seeming 

Hast  practised  on  man’s  life! — Close  pent-up  guilts, 

Rive  your  concealing  continents,  and  cry 
These  dreadful  summoners  grace.’  ” — Lear.'] 

(3)  [Cantos  VI.  VII.  and  VIII.  were  written  at  Pisa,  in  1822,  ! 
and  published  by  Mr.  John  Hunt  in  July,  1823.  The  poet’s  re-  i 
sumption  of  Don  Juan  is  explained  in  the  following  extract  from 
his  correspondence : — 

Pisa,  July  8,  1822. — “ It  is  not  impossible  that  I may  have  three  j 
j or  four  cantos  of  Don  Juan  ready  by  autumn,  or  a little  later,  as  I j 
obtained  a permission  from  my  dictatress  to  continue  it, — provided  \ 
always  it  was  to  be  more  guarded  and  decorous  and  sentimental  in 
the  continuation  than  in  the  commencement.  How  far  these  con-  I 
ditions  have  been  fulfilled  may  be  seen,  perhaps,  by  and  by;  but  | 
the  embargo  was  only  taken  off  upon  these  stipulations.”] 

(4)  [“  Essai  sur  l’Histoire  ancienne  et  moderne  de  la  Nouvelle  i 
Russie,  par  le  Marquis  Gabriel  de  Castelnau.”  3 tom.  Paris, 
1S20.’] 

(5)  [“  Au  commencement  de  1803,  le  Due  de  Richelieu  fut 
nomine  gouverneur  d’Odessa.  Quaud  le  Due  vint  en  prendre 
1’administration,  aucune  rue  n’y  etait  formee,  aucun  etablissement 
n’y  etait  achev6.  On  y comptait  k peine  cinq  mille  habitans  : onze  J 
ans  plus  tard,  lorsqu’il  s’en  eloigna,  on  y en  comptait  trente-einq  i 
milles.  Les  rues  etaient  tir6es  au  cordeau,  plantees  d’une  double  J 
rang  d’arbres  ; et  l’on  y voyait  tous  les  etablissemens  qu’exigent  le  j 
culte,  1’instruction,  la  commodite,  et  meme  les  plaisirs  des  habi-  ; 
tans.  Un  seul  edifice  public  avait  6t6  neglige;  le  gouverneur, 
dans  cct  oubli  de  lui-meme,  et  cette  simplicity  de  inceurs,  qui  dis-  I 
tinguaient  son  caract&re,  n’avait  rien  voulu  changer  k la  modeste 

j habitation  qu’il  avait  trouve  en  arrivant.  Le  commerce,  debarasse 
| d’entraves,  avait  pris  l’essor  le  plus  rapide  k Odessa,  tandis  que  la 
securite  et  la  liberte  de  conscience  y avaient  promptement  attire  la 
population.” — Biog.  Univ.)  I 

(61  [Odessa  is  a very  interesting  place;  and  being  the  seat  o' 
government,  and  the  only  quarantine  allowed  except  Caffa  ami  j 
Taganrog,  is,  though  of  very  recent  erection,  already  wealthy  and 
flourishing.  Too  much  praise  cannot  be  given  to  the  Duke  ot  ! 
Richelieu,  to  whose  administration,  not  to  aov  nature  advantage*,  j 
this  town  ewes  its  prosperity. — Bishop  Heber.j 


pox  JUAN 


66' 


Mid  memory  can  never  cease  to  be  regarded  with 

xeverenoo 

In  the  course  of  these  cantos,  a stanza  or  two  will 
be  found  relative  to  the  late  Marquis  of  Londonderry, 
but  written  some  time  before  his  decease.  Had  that 
person’s  oligarchy  died  with  him,  they  would  have 
been  suppressed ; as  it  is,  I am  aware  of  nothing  in 
the  manner  of  his  death1  or  of  his  life  to  prevent 
the  free  expression  of  the  opinions  of  all  whom  his 
whole  existence  was  consumed  in  endeavouring  to 
enslave.  That  he  was  an  amiable  man  in  private 
life,  may  or  may  not  be  trul ; but  with  this  the 
public  have  nothing  to  do ; a d as  to  lamenting  his 
death,  it  will  be  "time  enough  when  Ireland  has 
ceased  to  mourn  for  his  birth.  As  a minister,  I, 
for  one  of  millions,  looked  upon  him  as  the  most 
despotic  in  intention,  and  the  weakest  in  intellect, 
that  ever  tyrannized  over  a country.  It  is  the  first 
time  indeed  since  the  Normans  that  England  has 
been  insulted  by  a minister  (at  least)  who  could 
not  speak  English,  and  that  Parliament  permitted 
itself  to  be  dictated  to  in  the  language  of  Mrs.  Mala- 

prop.2  i-i 

Of  the  manner  of  his  death  little  need  be  said, 
except  that  if  a poor  radical,  such  as  IV addington  or 
"Watson,  had  cut  his  throat,  he  would  have  been 
buried  in  a cross-road,  with  the  usual  appurtenances 
of  the  stake  and  mallet.  But  the  minister  was  an 
elegant  lunatic — a sentimental  suicide — he  merely  cut 
the' £{  carotid  artery,”  (blessings  on  their  learning  !) 
and  lo!  the  pageant,  and  the  Abbey!  and  “the 
syllables  of  dolour  yelled  forth”  by  the  newspapers— 
and  the  harangue  of  the  Coroner3 4  in  a eulogy  over 
the  bleeding  body  of  the  deceased — (an  Anthony 


(1)  [Robert,  second  Marquis  of  Londonderry,  died,  by  his  own 
hand,  ‘at  his  seat  at  North  Cray  in  Kent,  in  August.  1822.  During 
the  session  of  parliament  which  had  just  closed,  his  lordship  appears 
to  have  sunk  under  the  weight  of  his  labours,  and  insanity  was  the 
consequence.  The  following  tributes  to  *his  eminent  qualities  we 
take  from  the  leading  Tory  and  Whig  newspapers  of  the  day : — 

“ Of  high  honour,  fearless,  undaunted,  and  firm  in  bis  resolves, 
ne  combined,  in  a remarkable  manner,  with  the  fortiter  in  re  the 
ii/or iter  in  modo.  To  his  political  adversaries  (and  he  had  no  other) 
he  was  at  once  open,  frank,  unassuming,  and  consequently  con- 
ciliator,. He  was  happy  in  his  union  with  a most  amiable  consort ; 
he  vat  the  pride  of  a venerated  father;  and  towards  a beloved 
brother  it  might  truly  be  said  he  was  notus  animo  fraterno.  Writh 
regard  to  his  public  character,  all  admit  his  talents  to  have  been  of 
a high  order,  and  his  industry  in  the  discharge  of  his  official  duties 
to  have  been  unremitting.  Party  animosity  may  question  the  wis- 
dom of  measures  in  which  he  was  a principal  aetor,  to  save  its  own 
consistencv,  but  it  does  not  dare  to  breathe  a doubt  of  his  integrity 
and  honour.  His  reputation  as  a minister  is,  however,  above  the 
reach  of  both  friends  and  enemies.  He  was  one  of  the  leaders  of 
that  ministry  which  preserved  the  country  from  being  subjugated 
by  a power  which  subjugated  all  the  rest  of  Europe — which  fought 
the  country  against  combined  Europe,  and  triumphed — and  which 
wrenched  the  sceptre  of  dominion  from  the  desolating  principles 
that  the  French  revolution  spread  through  the  world,  and  restored 
it  to  religion  and  honesty.  If  to  have  preserved  the  faith  and 
liberties  of  England  from  destruction — to  have  raised  her  to  the 
most  magnificent  point  of  greatness — to  have  liberated  a quarter  of 
the  globs  from  a despotism  which  bowed  down  both  body'  and  soul — 
and  to  have  placed  the  world  again  under  the  control  of  national 
law  and  just  principles,  be  tra  scendent  fame — such  fame  belongs 
to  this  ministry;  and,  of  all  its  members,  to  none  more  than  to  the 
Marquis  of  Londonderry.  During  great  part  of  the  year,  he  toiled 
frequently  for  twelve  or  fourteen  hours  per  day  at  the  most  exhaust- 
ing of  all  kinds  of  labour,  for  a salary  which,  unaided  by  private 
.fortune,  would  not  have  supported  him.  He  laboured  for  thirty 
years  in  the  service  of  the  country.  Tn  this  service  be  ruined  a 
robust  constitution,  broke  a lofty  spirit,  destroyed  a first-rate  under- 
standing, and  met  an  untimely  death,  without  adding  a shilling  to 
his  patrimonial  fortune.  What  the  ceuntry  gained  from  him  may 
never  be  calculated — what  he  gained  from  the  country  was  lunacy, 
and  a martyr’s  grave.”  — New  Times. 

" Lord  Londonderry  was  a man  of  unassuming  manners,  of  sim- 
ple tastes,  and  (so  far  as  regarded  private  life)  of  kind  and  gent'ous 


worthy  of  such  a Caesar) — and  the  nauseous  and 
atrocious  cant  of  a degraded  crew  of  conspirators 
against  all  that  is  sincere  and  honourable.  In  his 
death  he  was  necessarily  one  of  two  things  by  the 
late * — a felon  or  a madman — and  in  either  case 
no  great  subject  for  panegyric.5  In  his  life  he  was — 
what  all  the  world  knows,  and  half  of  it  will  feel  for 
years  to  come,  unless  his  death  prove  a “moral 
lesson  ” to  the  surviving  Sejani6  of  Europe.  It  may 
at  least  serve  as  some  consolation  to  the  nations,  that 
their  oppressors  are  not  happy,  and  in  some  instances 
judge  so  justly  of  their  own  actions  as  to  anticipate 
the~  sentence  of  mankind.  Let  ns  hear  no  more  of 
this  man;  and  let  Ireland  remove  the  ashes  of  her 
Grattan  from  the  sanctnary  of  Westminster.  Shall 
the  patriot  of  humanity  repose  by  the  Werther  of 
politics ! ! ! 

With  regard  to  the  objections  which  have  been 
made  on  another  score  to  the  already  published  cantos 
of  this  poem,  I shall  content  myself  with  two  quota- 
tions from  Voltaire : — “ La  pudeur  s’est  enfuite  des 
cceurs,  et  s’est  refugiee  sur  les  levres.”  . . . “ Plus  les 
mceurs  sont  depraves,  plus  les  expressions  deviennent 
mesurees ; on  croit  regagner  en  langage  ce  qu’on  a 
perdu  en  vertu.” 

This  is  the  real  fact,  as  applicable  to  the  degraded 
and  hypocritical  mass  which  leavens  the  present 
English  generation,  and  is  the  only  answer  they  de- 
serve. The  hackneyed  and  lavished  title  of  Blasphemer 
— which,  with  Radical,  Liberal,  Jacobin,  Reformer, 
&c.  are  the  changes  which  the  hirelings  are  daily 
ringing  in  the  ears  of  those  who  will  listen— should 
be  "welcome  to  all  who  recollect  on  whom  it  was 
originally  bestowed.  Socrates  and  Jesus  Christ  were 


disposition.  Towards  the  poor  he  was  beneficent:  in  his  family 
mild,  considerate,  and  forbearing.  He  was  firm  to  the  connexions 
and  associates  of  his  earlier  days,  not  only  those  of  choice,  but  of 
accident,  when  not  unworthy:  and  to  promote  them,  and  to  ad- 
vance their  interests,  his  efforts  were  sincere  and  indefatigable.  In 
power  he  forgot  no  service  rendered  to  him  while  he  was  in  a 
private  station,  nor  broke  any  promise,  expressed  or  implied,  nor 
abandoned  any  friend  who  claimed  and  merited  his  assistance.” — 
Times.] 

(2)  [See  Sheridan  s comedy  of  “ The  Rivals.”] 

(3)  [Lord  Byron  seems  to  have  taken  his  notions  of  the  proceed- 
ings of  this  inquest  from  Ccbbett's  Register.  What  the  Coroner 
really  did  say  was  as  follows: — “ As  a public  man.  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  weigh  his  character  in  any  scales  that  I can  hold.  In 
private  life  I believe  the  world  will  admit  that  a more  amiable  man 
could  not  be  found.  Whether  the  important  duties  of  the  great 
office  which  he  held  pressed  upon  his  mind,  and  conduced  to  the 
melancholy  event  which  you  are  assembled  to  investigate,  is  a cir- 
cumstance which,  in  all  probability,  never  can  be  discovered.  If 
it  should  unfortunately  appear  that  there  is  not  sufficient  evidence 
to  prove  wha-  is  generally  considered  the  indication  of  a disordered 
mind,  I trust  that  the  jury  will  pay  some  attention  to  my  humble 
opinion,  which  is,  that  no  man  can  be  in  his  proper  senses  at  the 
moment  he  commits  so  rash  an  act  as  self-murder.  My  opinion  is 
in  consonance  with  every  moral  sentiment,  and  the  information 
which  the  wisest  of  men  have  given  to  the  world.  The  Bible  de- 
clares that  a man  clings  to  nothing  so  strongly  as  his  own  life.  I 
therefore  view  it  as  an  axiom,  and  an  abstract  principle,  that  a man 
must  necessarily  be  out  of  his  mind  at  the  moment  of  destroying 
himself.”] 

(4)  I say  by  the  law  of  the  land — the  laws  cf  humanity  judge 
more  gently ; but  as  the  legitimates  have  always  the  law  in  their 
mouths,  let  them  here  make  the  most  of  it. 

(5)  [Upon  this  passage  on<-  of  the  magazines  of  the  time  observes : 
“ Lord  Byron  does  not  appear  to  have  remembered  that  it  is  quite 
possible  for  an  English  nobleman  to  be  both  (in  fact)  a felon,  and 
(what  in  common  parlance  is  called)  a madman.”] 

(6)  From  this  number  must  be  excepted  Canning.  Canning  is  a 
genius,  almost  a universal  one,  an  orator,  a wit,  a poet,  a states- 
man ; and  no  man  of  talent  can  long  pursue  the  path  of  his  late 
predecessor,  Lord  C.  1;'  ever  man  siv?d  his  counrxy>  Cunning  can, 
but  will  h?  i I,  fer  me,  hope  so. 


668 


LORD  13 Y RON’S  WORKS. 


r # M-ro  yi 


nut  to  death  publicly  as  blasphemers , and  so  have 
been  and  may  be  many  who  dare  to  oppose  the  most 
notorious  abuses  of  the  name  of  God  and  the  mind  of 
man.  But  persecution  is  not  refutation,  nor  even 
triumph  : the  " wretched  infidel,”  as  lie  is  called,  is 
probably  happier  in  his  prison  than  the  proudest  of 
his  assailants.  With  his  opinions  I have  nothing  to 
do — they  may  be  right  or  wrong — but  he  has  suf- 
fered for  them,  and  that  very  suffering  for  conscience’ 
sake  will  make  more  proselytes  to  deism  than  the  ex- 
ample of  heterodox1  Prelates  to  Christianity,  suicide 
statesmen  to  oppression,  or  over-pensioned  homicides 
to  the  impious  alliance  which  insults  the  world  with 
the  name  of  "Holy!”  I have  no  wish  to  trample 
on  the  dishonoured  or  the  dead  ; but  it  would  be  well 
if  the  adherents  to  the  classes  from  whence  those 
persons  sprung  should  abate  a little  of  the  cant  which 
is  the  crying  sin  of  this  double-dealing  and  false- 
speaking time  of  selfish  spoilers,  and but  enough 

for  the  present. 

Pisa,  July,  1822. 

♦ 

Uon  3juan. 


CANTO  THE  SIXTH. 


I. 

" There  is  a tide  in  the  affairs  of  men 
Which, — taken  at  the  flood,” — you  know  the  rest,2 
And  most  of  us  have  found  it  now  and  then ; 

At  least  we  think  so,  though  but  few  have  guess’d 
The  moment,  till  too  late  to  come  again. 

But  no  doubt  every  thing  is  for  the  best — 

Of  which  the  surest  sign  is  in  the  end  : 

When  things  are  at  the  worst  they  sometimes  mend. 

ii. 

There  is  a tide  in  the  affairs  of  women 

Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads — God  knows  where : 
Those  navigators  must  be  able  seamen 

Whose  charts  lay  down  its  current  to  a hair ; 

Not  all  the  reveries  of  Jacob  Behmen3 

With  its  strange  whirls  and  eddies  can  compare : 
Men  with  their  heads  reflect  on  this  and  that — 

But  women  with  their  nearts  on  heaven  knows  what ! 

ill. 

And  yet  a headlong,  headstrong,  downright  she, 
Young,  beautiful,  and  daring — who  would  risk 
A throne,  the  world,  the  universe,  to  be 
Beloved  in  her  own  way,  and  rather  whisk 
The  stars  from  out  the  sky,  than  not  be  free 
As  are  the  billows  when  the  breeze  is  brisk — 


Though  such  a she’s  a devil  (if  that  there  be  one), 
Yet  she  would  make  full  many  a Manichean. 

IV. 

Thrones,  worlds,  et  cetera,  are  so  oft  upset 
By  commonest  ambition,  that  when  passion 
O’erthrows  the  same,  we  readily  forget, 

Or  at  the  least  forgive,  the  loving  rash  one. 

If  Anthony  be  well  remember’d  yet 

’Tis  not  his  conquests  keep  his  name  in  fashion, 
But  Actium,  lost  for  Cleopatra’s  eyes, 

Outbalances  all  Csesar’s  victories. 

v. 

He  died  at  fifty  for  a queen  of  forty ; 

I wish  their  years  had  been  fifteen  and  twenty, 

For  then  wealth,  kingdoms,  worlds,  are  but  a sport— 1 
Remember  when,  though  I had  no  great  plenty 
Of  worlds  to  lose,  yet  still,  to  pay  my  court,  I 
Gave  what  I had — a heart : as  the  world  went,  1 
Gave  what  was  worth  a world , for  worlds  could  nevei 
Restore  me  those  pure  feelings,  gone  for  ev'T. 

VI. 

’Twas  the  boy’s  " mite,”  and  like  the  " widow’s,”  maj 
Perhaps  be  weigh’d  hereafter,  if  not  now ; 

But  whether  such  things  do  or  do  not  weigh, 

All  who  have  loved,  or  love,  will  still  allow 
Life  has  nought  like  it.  God  is  love,  they  say, 

And  Love’s  a God,  or  was  before  the  brow 
Of  Earth  was  wrinkled  by  the  sins  and  tears 
Of — but  Chronology  best  knows  the  years. 

VII. 

We  left  our  hero  and  third  heroine  in 

A kind  of  state  more  awkward  than  uncommon. 
For  gentlemen  must  sometimes  risk  their  skin 
For  that  sad  tempter,  a forbidden  woman : 

Sultans  too  much  abhor  this  sort  of  sin, 

And  don’t  agree  at  all  with  the  wise  Roman, 
Heroic,  stoic  Cato,  the  sententious, 

Who  lent  his  lady  to  his  friend  Hortensius.4 

VIII. 

I know  Gulbeyaz  was  extremely  wrong ; 

I own  it,  I deplore  it,  I condemn  it, 

But  I detest  all  fiction  even  in  song, 

And  so  must  tell  the  truth,  liowe’e;  ^ou  blame  it. 
Her  reason  being  weak,  her  passions  strong, 

She  thought  that  her  lord’s  heart  (even  could  she 
claim  it)  ■ a] 

Was  scarce  enough;  for  he  had  fifty-nine 
Years,  and  a fifteen-hundredth  concubine. 

ix. 

I am  not,  like  Cassio,  " an  arithmetician,” 

But  by  " the  bookish  theoric”5  it  appears, 

If  ’tis  summ’d  up  with  feminine  precision, 

That,  adding  to  the  account  his  Highness’s  years, 


(1)  When  Lord  Sandwich  said  “he  did  not  know  the  difference 
between  orthodoxy  and  heterodoxy,”  Warburton,  the  bishop,  re- 
plied, “ Orthodoxy,  my  lord,  is  my  doxy,  and  heterodoxy  is  another 
man's  doxy.”  A pre  ate  of  the  present  day  has  discovered,  it  seems, 
a third  kind  of  doxy,  which  has  not  greatly  exalted  in  the  eyes  of 
the  elect  that  which  Bentham  calls  “ Church-of  Englandism.” 

(2)  See  Shakspeare,  Julius  Caesar,  act  iv.  sc.  iii. 

(3)  [A  noted  visionary,  born  near  Gorlitz,  in  Upper  Lusatia,  in 

1575,  and  founder  of  the  sect  called  Behmenites.  He  had  nume- 
rous followers  in  Germany,  and  has  not  been  without  admirers  in 

England  ; one  of  these,  the  famous  William  Law,  author  of  the 
**  Serious  Call,”  edited  an  edition  of  his  works.] 


(4)  Cato  gave  up  his  wife  Martia  to  his  friend  Hortensius  ; but,  j 
on  the  death  of  the  latter,  took  her  back  again.  This  conduct  wat  [ 
ridiculed  by  the  Romans,  who  observed  that  Martia  entered  tb« 
house  of  Hortensius  very  poor,  but  returned  to  the  bed  of  Cats  ! 
loaded  with  treasures. — Plutarch. 

(5)  [“  Forsooth,  a great  arithmetician, 

One  Michael  Cassio,  a Florentine, 

That  never  set  a squadron  in  the  field, 

Nor  the  division  of  a battle  knows 

More  than  a spinster ; unless  the  bookish  theoi  ic,’  &e 

— Othello.] 


CASTO  VI. 


DON  JUAN. 


669 


I lie  fair  Sultana  err’d  from  inanition  ; 

For,  were  the  Sultan  just  to  all  his  dears. 

She  could  but  claim  the  fifteen-lmndredth  part 
Of  what  should  be  monopoly — the  heart. 

x. 

It  is  observed  that  ladies  are  litigious 
Upon  all  legal  objects  of  possession, 

And  not  the  least  so  when  they  are  religious. 

Which  doubles  what  they  think  of  the  transgression; 
With  suits  and  prosecutions  they  besiege  us, 

As  the  tribunals  show  through  many  a session, 
When  they  suspect  that  any  one  goes  shares 
In  that  to  which  the  law  makes  them  sole  heirs. 

XI. 

Now,  if  this  holds  good  in  a Christian  land, 

The  heathen  also,  though  with  lesser  latitude, 

Are  apt  to  carry  tilings  with  a high  hand, 

And  take,  what  kings  call  “ an  imposing  attitude,” 
And  for  their  rights  connubial  make  a staud,  [tude  : 
When  their  liege  husbands  treat  them  with  ingrati- 
And  as  four  wives  must  have  quadruple  claims. 

The  Tigris  hath  its  jealousies  like  Thames. 

XII. 

Gulbevaz  was  the  fourth,  and  (as  I said) 

The  favourite;  but  what’s  favour  amongst  four? 
Polygamy  may  well  be  held  in  dread, 

Not  only  as  a sin,  but  as  a bore : 

Most  wise  men  with  one  moderate  woman  wed. 

Will  scarcely  find  philosophy  for  more  ; 

And  all  (except  Mahometans)  forbear 
To  make  the  nuptial  couch  a “ Bed  of  Ware.”1 

XIII. 

His  Highness,  the  sublimest  of  mankind, — 

So  styled  according  to  the  usual  forms 
Of  every  monarch,  till  they  are  consign’d 
To  those  sad  hungry  jacobins  the  worms,2 
Who  on  the  very  loftiest  kings  have  dined, — 

His  Highness  gazed  upon  Gulbeyaz’  charms, 
Expecting  all  the  welcome  of  a lover 
(A  “ Highland  welcome”3  all  the  wide  world  over). 

XIV. 

Now  here  we  should  distinguish  ; for  howe’er 
Kisses,  sweet  words,  embraces,  and  all  that. 

May  look  like  what  is — neither  here  nor  there, 

K They  are  put  on  as  easily  as  a hat, 

Or  rather  bonnet,  which  the  fair  sex  wear, 

Trimm’d  either  heads  or  hearts  to  decorate, 

Which  form  an  ornament,  but  no  more  part 
Of  heads,  than  their  caresses  of  the  heart. 

xv. 

A slight  blush,  a soft  tremor,  a calm  kind 
Of  gentle  feminine  delight,  and  shown 
More  in  the  eyelids  than  the  eyes,  resign’d 
Rather  to  hide  what  pleases  most  unknown. 

Are  the  best  tokens  (to  a modest  mind) 

Of  love,  when  seated  on  his  loveliest  throne, 

A sincere  woman’s  breast, — for  over -warm 
Or  over -cold  annihilates  the  charm. 


(1)  [At  Ware,  the  inn  known  by  the  sign  of  the  Saracen’s  Head 
still  contains  the  famous  bed , measuring  twelve  feet  square , to  which 
an  allusion  is  made  by  Shakspeare  in  “ Twelfth  Night.”] 

2)  “Your  worm  is  your  only  emperor  for  diet:  we  fat  all  crea- 
tures else,  to  fat  us;  and  we  fat  ourselves  for  maggots.  Your  fat 
king,  anil  your  lean  beggar,  is  but  variable  service : two  dishes  but 

to  onv  table:  that’s  the  end.” — Hamlet. 


XVI. 

For  over- warmth,  if  false,  is  worse  than  trull ; 

If  true,  ’tis  no  great  lease  of  its  own  fire ; 

For  no  one,  save  in  very  early  youth, 

Would  like  (I  think)  to  trust  all  to  desire. 

Which  is  but  a precarious  bond,  in  sooth, 

And  apt  to  be  transferr’d  to  the  first  buyer 
At  a sad  discount : while  your  over  chilly 
TVomen,  on  t’other  hand,  seem  somewhat  silly. 

XVII. 

That  is,  we  cannot  pardon  their  bad  taste. 

For  so  it  seems  to  lovers  swift  or  slow, 

IV ho  fain  would  have  a mutual  flame  confess’d, 

And  see  a sentimental  passion  glow. 

Even  were  St.  Francis’  paramour  their  guest, 

In  his  monastic  concubine  of  snow  ;4 — 

In  short,  the  maxim  for  the  amorous  tribe  is 
Horatian,  “ Medio  tu  tutissimus  ibis.” 

XVIII. 

The  “ tu”  ’s  too  much, — but  let  it  stand, — the  verse 
Requires  it,  that’s  to  say,  the  English  rhyme, 

And  not  the  pink  of  old  hexameters ; 

But,  after  all,  there’s  neither  tune  nor  time 
In  the  last  line,  which  cannot  well  be  worse, 

And  was  thrust  in  to  close  the  octave’s  chime : 

I own  no  prosody  can  ever  rate  it 

As  a rule,  but  truth  may,  if  you  translate  it. 

XIX. 

If  fair  Gulbeyaz  overdid  her  part, 

I know  not — it  succeeded,  and  success 
Is  much  in  most  things,  not  less  in  the  heart 
Thau  other  articles  of  female  dress. 

Self-love  in  man,  too,  beats  all  female  art ; 

They  lie,  we  lie,  all  lie,  but  love  no  less  : 

And  no  one  virtue  yet,  except  starvation, 

Could  stop  that  worst  of  vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We  leave  this  royal  couple  to  repose : 

A bed  is  not  a throne,  and  they  may  sleep, 
Whate’er  their  dreams  be,  if  of  joys  or  woes  : 

Yet  disappointed  joys  are  woes  as  deep 
As  any  man’s  clay  mixture  undergoes. 

Our  least  of  sorrows  are  such  as  we  weep ; 

’Tis  the  vile  daily  drop  on  drop  which  wears 
The  soul  out  (like  the  stone)  with  petty  cares 

XXI. 

A scolding  wife,  a sullen  son,  a bill 

To  pay,  unpaid,  protested,  or  discounted 
At  a per-centage  ; a child  cross,  dog  ill, 

A favourite  horse  fallen  lame  just  as  he’s  mounted, 
A bad  old  woman  making  a worse  will, 

Which  leaves  you  minus  of  the  cash  you  counted 
As  certain  ; these  are  paltry  things,  and  yet 
I’ve  rarely  seen  the  man  they  did  not  fret. 


(3)  See  Waverley. 

(4)  “ The  blessed  Francis,  being  strongly  solicited  one  day  by  the 
emotions  of  the  flesh,  pulled  off  his  clothes  and  scourged  himself 
soundly : being  after  this  inflamed  with  a wonderful  fervour  ol 
mind,  lie  plunged  his  naked  body  into  a great  hea\i  of  snow.  The 
devil,  being  overcome,  retired  immediately,  and  the  holy  man 
returned  victorious  into  his  cell.” — See  Butler’s  Lives  oj  tks 
Saints. 


670 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


XXII. 

I’m  a pliilosoplier ; confound  them  all ! 

Bills,  beasts,  and  men,  and — no  ! not  womankind  ! 
With  one  good  hearty  curse  I vent  my  gall, 

And  then  my  stoicism  leaves  nought  behind 
Which  it  can  either  pain  or  evil  call, 

And  I can  give  my  whole  soul  up  to  mind ; 

Though  what  is  soul  or  mind,  their  birth  or  growth, 
Is  more  than  I know — the  deuce  take  them  both ! 

XXIII. 

So  now  all  things  are  d — n’d  one  feels  at  ease, 

As  after  reading  Athanasius’  curse, 

Which  doth  your  true  believer  so  much  please : 

I doubt  if  any  now  could  make  it  worse 
O’er  his  worst  enemy  when  at  his  knees, 

’Tis  so  sententious,  positive,  and  terse, 

And  decorates  the  book  of  Common  Prayer, 

As  doth  a rainbow  the  just  clearing  air. 

XXIV. 

Gulbeyaz  and  her  lord  were  sleeping,  or 
At  least  one  of  them  ! — Oh,  the  heavy  night. 

When  wicked  wives,  who  love  some  bachelor, 

Lie  down  in  dudgeon  to  sigh  for  the  light 
Of  the  grey  morning,  and  look  vainly  for 

Its  twinkle  through  the  lattice  dusky  quite — 

To  toss,  to  tumble,  doze,  revive,  and  quake 
Lest  their  too  lawful  bed-fellow  should  wake  ! 

XXV. 

These  are  beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven, 

Also  beneath  the  canopy  of  beds, 

Four-posted  and  silk  curtain’d,  which  are  given 
For  rich  men  and  their  brides  to  lay  their  heads  * 
Upon,  in  sheets  white  as  what  bards  call  “ driven 
Snow.” 1 W ell ! ’tis  all  hap-hazard  when  one  weds. 
Gulbeyaz  was  an  empress,  but  had  been 
Perhaps  as  wretched  if  a peasant’s  quean. 

XXVI. 

Don  Juan  in  his  feminine  disguise, 

With  all  the  damsels  in  their  long  array, 

Had  bow’d  themselves  before  th’  imperial  eyes, 

And  at  the  usual  signal  ta’en  their  way 
Back  to  their  chambers,  those  long  galleries 
In  the  seraglio,  where  the  ladies  lay 
Their  delicate  limbs  ; a thousand  bosoms  there 
Beating  for  love,  as  the  caged  bird’s  for  air. 

XXVII. 

I love  the  sex,  and  sometimes  would  reverse 
The  tyrant’s2  wish,  “that  mankind  only  had 
One  neck,  which  he  with  one  fell  stroke  might  pierce 
My  wish  is  quite  as  wide,  but  not  so  bad. 

And  much  more  tender  on  the  whole  than  fierce ; 

It  being  (not  now,  but  only  while  a lad) 

That  womankind  had  but  one  rosy  mouth, 

To  kiss  them  all  at  once  from  North  to  South. 

XXVIII. 

Oh,  enviable  Briareus  ! with  thy  hands 

And  heads,  if  thou  hadst  all  things  multiplied 
In  such  proportion ! — But  my  Muse  withstands 
The  giant  thought  of  being  a Titan’s  bride, 


(1)  [The  bardi  of  Queen  Caroline  were  continually,  during  the 
period  of  her  trial,  ringing  the  changes  on  the  “ driven  snow”  of  her 
purity.]  • 

(2)  Caligula — see  Suetonius.  “ Being  in  a rage  at  the  people,  for 
favouring  a party  in  the  Circensian  games  in  opposition  to  him,  he 
cried  out,  *1  wish  the  Roman  people  had  but  one  neck.’” 


CANTO  m 

Or  travelling  in  Patagonian  lands ; 

So  let  us  back  to  Lilliput,  and  guide 
Our  hero  through  the  labyrinth  of  love. 

In  which  we  left  him  several  lines  above. 

XXIX. 

He  went  forth  with  the  lovely  Odalisques,® 

At  the  given  signal  join’d  to  their  array ; 

And  though  he  certainly  ran  many  risks, 

Yet  he  could  not  at  times  keep,  by  the  way, 
(Although  the  consequences  of  such  frisks 
Are  worse  than  the  worst  damages  men  pay 
In  moral  England,  where  the  thing’s  a tax,) 

From  ogling  all  their  charms  from  breasts  to  backs.  I 

XXX. 

Still  he  forgot  not  his  disguise  : — along 
The  galleries  from  room  to  room  they  walk’d, 

A virgin-like  and  edifying  throng, 

By  eunuchs  flank’d ; while  at  their  head  there  stalk’d 
A dame  who  kept  up  discipline  among 

The  female  ranks,  so  that  none  stirr’d  or  talk’d, 
Without  her  sanction  on  their  she-parades  : 

Her  title  was  “ the  Mother  of  the  Maids.” 

XXXI. 

Whether  she  was  a “ mother,”  I know  not,  [ther ; I 
Or  whether  they  were  “ maids”  who  call’d  her  mo-  n 
But  this  is  her  seraglio  title,  got 

I know  not  how,  but  good  as  any  other ; 

So  Cantemir3 4  can  tell  you,  or  De  Tott  :5 
Her  office  was  to  keep  aloof  or  smother 
All  bad  propensities  in  fifteen  hundred 
Young  women,  and  correct  them  when  they  blunder’d 

XXXII. 

A goodly  sinecure,  no  doubt ! but  made 
More  easy  by  the  absence  of  all  men — 

Except  his  majesty, — who,  with  her  aid,  A 

And  guards,  and  bolts,  and  walls,  and  now  and  then 
A slight  example,  just  to  cast  a shade 
Along  the  rest,  contrived  to  keep  this  den 
Of  beauties  cool  as  an  Italian  convent,  il 

Where  all  the  passions  have,  alas ! but  one  vent. 

XXXIII. 

And  what  is  that  ? Devotion,  doubtless — how 
Could  you  ask  such  a question  ? — but  we  will 
Continue.  As  I said,  this  goodly  row 
Of  ladies  of  all  countries  at  the  will 
Of  one  good  man,  with  stately  march  and  slow. 

Like  water-lilies  floating  down  a rill — • 

Or  rather  lake — for  rills  do  not  run  slowly, — 

Paced  on  most  maiden-like  and  melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But  when  they  reach’d  their  own  apartments,  there, 
Like  birds,  or  boys,  or  bedlamites  broke  loose, 
Waves  at  spring-tide,  or  women  any  where 

When  freed  from  bonds  (which  are  of  no  great  use  j 
After  all),  or  like  Irish  at  a fair, 

Their  guards  being  gone,  and  as  it  were  a iruce 
Establish’d  between  them  and  bondage,  they 
Began  to  sing,  dance,  chatter,  smile,  and  play. 


(3)  The  ladies  of  the  seraglio. 

(4)  [Demetrius  Cantemir,  a prince  of  Moldavia;  whose  “ History 
of  the  Growth  and  Decay  of  the  Ottoman  Empire”  was  translated 
into  English  by  Tindal.  He  died  in  1723.] 

(5)  [“  Memoirs  of  the  State  of  the  Turkish  Empire,  1785.”] 


CANTO  VL 


DON  JUAN. 


671 


XXXV. 

Their  talk,  of  course,  ran  most  on  the  new  comer ; 

Her  shape,  her  hair,  her  air,  her  everything : 

Some  thought  her  dress  did  not  so  much  become  her, 
Or  wonder’d  at  her  ears  without  a ring ; 

Some  said  her  years  were  getting  nigh  their  summer, 
Others  contended  they  were  but  in  spring; 

Some  thought  her  rather  masculine  in  height, 

While  others  wish’d  that  she  had  been  so  quite. 

XXXVI. 

But  no  one  doubted  on  the  whole,  that  she 
Was  what  her  dress  bespoke,  a damsel  fair. 

And  fresh,  and  “ beautiful  exceedingly,”1 
Who  with  the  brightest  Georgians2  might  com  pane  : 
They  wonder’d  how  Gulbeyaz,  too,  could  be 
So  silly  as  to  buy  slaves  who  might  share 
(If  that  iiis  Highness  wearied  of  his  bride) 

Her  throne  and  power,  and  every  thing  beside. 

XXXVII. 

But  what  was  strangest  in  this  virgin  crew, 

Although  her  beauty  was  enough  to  vex, 

After  the  first  investigating  view, 

They  all  found  out  as  few,  or  fewer,  specks 
In  the  fair  form  of  their  companion  new. 

Than  is  the  custom  of  the  gentle  sex, 

When  they  survey,  with  Christian  eyes  or  Heathen, 
In  a new  face,  “ the  ugliest  creature  breathing.” 

XXXVIII. 

And  yet  they  had  their  little  jealousies, 

Like  all  the  rest ; but  upon  this  occasion, 

Whether  there  are  such  things  as  sympathies 
Without  our  knowledge  or  our  approbation, 
Although  they  could  not  see  through  his  disguise, 

All  felt  a soft  kind  of  concatenation, 

Like  magnetism,  or  devilism,  or  what 
You  please — we  will  not  Quarrel  about  that : 

xxxix. 

But  certain  ’tis  they  all  felt  for  their  new 
Companion  something  newer  still,  as  ’twere 
A sentimental  friendship  through  and  through, 
Extremely  pure,  which  made  them  all  concur 
Ln  wishing  her  their  sister,  save  a few 
Who  wish’d  they  had  a brother  just  like  her, 

Whom,  if  they  were  at  home  in  sweet  Circassia, 

They  would  prefer  to  Padisha3  or  Pacha. 

XL. 

Of  those  who  had  most  genius  for  this  sort 
Of  sentimental  friendship,  there  were  three, 

Lolali,  Katinka,4  and  Dudu;  in  short, 

(To  save  description)  fair  as  fair  can  be 
Were  they,  according  to  the  best  report, 

Though  differing  in  stature  and  degree. 

And  clime  and  time,  and  country  and  complexion ; 
They  all  alike  admired  their  new  connexion. 


(.1 ) [“  I guess,  ’twas  irightful  there  to  see 

A lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 

Beautiful  exceedingly.” — Coleridge’*  Christabel.'] 

(2)  “ It  is  in  the  adjacent  climates  of  Georgia,  Mingrelia.  and 
Circassia,  that  nature  has  placed,  at  least  to  our  eyes,  the  model  of 
beauty,  in  the  shape  of  the  limbs,  the  colour  of  the  skin,  the 
symmetry  of  the  features,  and  the  expression  of  the  countenance : 
the  men  are  formed  for  action,  the  women  for  love.” — Gibbon. 

(3)  Padisha  is  the  Turkish  title  of  the  Grand  Signior. 


XLI. 

Lolali  was  dusk  as  India  and  as  warm ; 

Katinka  was  a Georgian,5  white  and  red,  1 
With  great  blue  eyes,  a lovely  hand  and  arm, 

And  feet  so  small  they  scarce  seem’d  made  to  tread, 
But  rather  skim  the  earth ; while  Dudu’s  form 
Look’d  more  adapted  to  be  put  to  bed, 

Being  somewhat  large;  and  languishing,  and  lazy, 

Yet  of  a beauty  that  would  drive  you  crazy 

XLII. 

A kind  of  sleepy  Yenus  seem’d  Dudu, 

Yet  very  fit  to  “ murder  sleep”  in  those 
Who  gazed  upon  her  cheek’s  transcendent  hue, 

Her  Attic  forehead,  and  her  Phidian  nose  : 

Eew  angles  were  there  in  her  form,  ’tis  true, 

Thinner  she  might  have  been,  and  yet  scarce  lose ; 
Yet,  after  all,  ’twould  puzzle  to  say  where 
It  would  not  spoil  some  separate  charm  to  pare. 

XLIII. 

She  was  not  violently  lively,  but 

Stole  on  your  spirit  like  a May-day  breaking , 

Her  eyes  were  not  too  sparkling,  yet,  half-sliut, 

They  put  beholders  in  a tender  taking ; 

She  look’d  (this  simile’s  quite  new)  just  cut 
Eroin  marble,  like  Pygmalion’s  statue  waking, 

The  mortal  and  the  marble  still  at  strife, 

And  timidly  expanding  into  life. 

XLTV, 

Lolali  demanded  the  new  damsel’s  name — 

. “ Juanna.” — Well,  a pretty  name  enough. 

Katinka  ask’d  her  also  whence  she  came — 

“From  Spain.” — “But  where  is  Spain?” — “Don't 
ask  such  stuff, 

Nor  show  your  Georgian  ignorance — for  shame  !” 

Said  Lolali,  with  an  accent  rather  rough, 

To  poor  Katinka  : “ Spain’s  an  island  near 
Morocco,  betwixt  Egypt  and  Tangier.” 

XLV. 

Dudu  said  nothing,  but  sat  down  beside 
Juanna,  playing  with  her  veil  or  hair  ; 

And  looking  at  her  steadfastly,  she  sigh’d. 

As  if  she  pitied  her  for  being  there, 

A pretty  stranger  without  friend  or  guide, 

And  all  abash’d,  too,  at  the  general  stare 
Which  welcomes  hapless  strangers  in  all  places. 

With  kind  remarks  upon  their  mien  and  faces. 

XLVI. 

But  here  the  Mother  of  the  Maids  drew  near. 

With,  “ Ladies,  it  is  time  to  go  to  rest. 

I’m  puzzled  what  to  do  with  you,  my  dear,” 

She  added  to  J uanna,  their  new  guest : 

“ Your  coming  has  been  unexpected  here, 

And  every  couch  is  occupied  ; you  had  oer  c 
Partake  of  mine  ; but  by  to-morrow  early 
We  will  have  all  things  settled  for  you  fairly.” 


(4)  [Katinka  was  the  name  of  the  youngest  of  the  three  yds,  at 
whose  house  Lord  Byron  resided  while  at  Athens,  in  18i0.  Se« 
ante,  p.  546.] 

(5)  [The  “good  points”  of  a Georgian  girl  are  a rosy  or  carnation 
tint  on  her  cheek,  which  they  call  numuck,  “the  salt  c.{  beauty;” 
dark  hair,  large  black  antelope  eyes  and  arched  eyebrows,  a small 
nose  or  mouth,  white  teeth,  long  neck,  delicate  lim’ t and  small 

. joints.  They  are  extremely  beautiful  full  of  animation,  grace,  and 
elegance. — Morieb.] 


.LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CldfTO  Tl. 


XLYIT. 

Hci  : Lolah  interposed — “ Mamma,  you  know 
Y n don’t  sleep  soundly,  and  I cannot  bear 
Thai  any  body  should  disturb  you  so  ; 

I’ll  take  Juanna  ; we’re  a slenderer  pair 
Than  you  would  make  the  half  of ; — don’t  say  no  : 
And  I of  your  young  charge  will  take  due  "care.” 
But  here  Katinka  interfered,  and  said, 

“ She  also  had  compassion  and  a bed.” 

XLVIII. 

" Besides,  I hate  to  sleep  alone,”  quoth  she. 

The  matron  frown’d:  “Why  so?” — “For  fear  of 
Replied  Katinka  : “ I am  sure  I see  [ghosts,” 

A phantom  upon  each  of  the  four  posts  ; 

And  then  I have  the  worst  dreams  that  can  be, 

Of  Guebres,  Giaours,  and  Ginns,  and  Gouls  in  hosts.” 
The  dame  replied,  “ Between  your  dreams  and  you, 

I fear  Juanna’s  dreams  would  be  but  few. 

XLIX. 

“ You,  Lolah,  must  continue  still  to  lie 

Alone,  for  reasons  which  don’t  matter ; you 
The  same,  Katinka,  until  by  and  by ; 

And  I shall  place  Juanna  with  Dudu, 

Who’s  quiet,  inoffensive,  silent,  shy, 

And  will  not  toss  and  chatter  the  night  through. 
What  say  you,  child  ?” — Dudu  said  nothing,  as 
Her  talents  were  of  the  more  silent  class  ; 

But  she  rose  up,  and  kiss’d  the  matron’s  brow 
Between  the  eyes,  and  Lolah  on  both  cheeks, 
Katinka,  too  ; and  with  a gentle  bow 

(Curt’sies  are  neither  used  by  Turks  nor  Greeks) 
She  took  Juanna  by  the  hand  to  show 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  left  to  both  their  piques, 
The  others  pouting  at  the  matron’s  preference 
Of  Dudu,  though  they  held  their  tongues  from 
deference. 

LI. 

It  was  a spacious  chamber  (Oda  is 

The  Turkish  title),  and  ranged  round  the  wall 
Were  couches,  toilets— and  much  more  than  this 
I might  describe,  as  I have  seen  it  all, 

But  it  suffices— little  was  amiss  ; 

’Twas  on  the  whole  a nobly  furnish’d  hall, 

With  all  things  ladies  want,  save  one  or  two. 

And  even  those  were  nearer  than  they  knew. 

hi. 

Dudu,  as  has  been  said,  was  a sweet  creature. 

Not  very  dashing,  but  extremely  winning, 

With  the  most  regulated  charms  of  feature, 

Which  painters  cannot  catch  like  faces  sinning 
Against  proportion — the  wild  strokes  of  nature 
Which  they  hit  off  at  once  in  the  beginning, 

Full  of  expression,  right  or  wrong,  that  strike. 

And  pleasing,  or  unpleasing,  still  are  like. 

LIII. 

But  she  was  a soft  landscape  of  mild  earth, 

Where  all  was  harmony,  and  calm,  and  quiet, 
Luxuriant,  budding  ; cheerful  without  mirth, 

Which,  if  not  happiness,  is  much  more  nigh  it 
Than  are  your  mighty  passions  and  so  forth, 

Which, some  call  “the  sublime:”  I wish  they’d  try  it: 
I’ve  seen  your  stormy  seas  and  stormy  women, 

And  pity  lovers  rather  more  than  seamen. 


(I)  [This  brass,  so  famous  in  antiquity,  is  a mixture  of  gold, 
Tilvei,  and  copper,  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  produced  by  the 


LIV. 

Bui  she  was  pensive  more  than  melancholy, 

And  serious  more  than  pensive,  and  serene, 

It  may  be,  more  than  either — not  unholy 

Her  thoughts,  at  least  till  now,  appear  to  have  been.  I 
The  strangest  tiling  was,  beauteous,  she  was  wholly* 
Unconscious,  albeit  turn’d  of  quick  seventeen. 

That  she  was  fair,  or  dark,  or  short,  or  tall ; 

She  never  thought  about  herself  at  all. 

LV. 

And  therefore  was  she  kind  and  gentle  as 

The  Age  of  Gold  (when  gold  was  yet  unknown, 

By  which  its  nomenclature  came  to  pass ; 

Thus  most  appropriately  has  been  shown 
“ Lucus  a non  iucendo,”  not  what  was , 

But  what  was  not ; a sort  of  style  that’s  grown 
Extremely  common  in  this  age,  whose  metal 
The  devil  may  decompose,  but  never  settle  : 

LVI. 

I think  it  may  be  of  “ Corinthian  Brass,” 1 
Which  was  a mixture  of  all  metals,  but 
The  brazen  uppermost).  Kind  reader  ! pass 
This  long  parenthesis  : I could  not  shut 
It  sooner  for  the  soul  of  me,  and  class 

My  faults  even  with  your  own  ! which  meaneth,  Pul 
A kind  construction  upon  them  and  me  : 

But  that  you  won’t — then  don’t — I am  not  less  free 

LV1I. 

’Tis  time  we  should  return  to  plain  narration, 

And  thus  my  narrative  proceeds : — Dudu, 

With  every  kindness  short  of  ostentation, 

Show’d  Juan,  or  Juanna,  through  and  through 
This  labyrinth  of  females,  and  each  station  [few  ■ 
Described — what’s  strange — in  words  ex“remely 
I have  but  one  simile,  and  that’s  a blunder, 

For  wordless  woman,  which  is  silent  thunder. 

LVIII. 

And  next  she  gave  her  (I  say  her , because 
The  gender  still  was  epicene,  at  least 
In  outward  show,  which  is  a saving  clause)  r 

An  outline  of  the  customs  of  the  East, 

With  all  their  chaste  integrity  of  laws, 

By  which  the  more  a harem  is  increased, 

The  stricter  doubtless  grow  the  vestal  duties 
Of  any  supernumerary  beauties. 

LXX. 

Arid  then  she  gave  Juanna  a chaste  kiss  : 

Dudu  was  fond  of  kissing — which  I’m  sure 
That  nobody  can  ever  take  amiss. 

Because  ’tis  pleasant,  so  that  it  be  pure, 

And  between  females  means  no  more  than  this — 

That  they  have  nothing  better  near,  or  newer. 

“ Kiss”  rhymes  to  “bliss”  in  fact  as  well  as  verse — 

I wish  it  never  led  to  something  worse. 

lx. 

In  perfect  innocence  she  then  unmade 
Her  toilet,  which  cost  little,  for  she  was 
A child  of  Nature,  carelessly  array’d  : 

If  fond  of  a chance  ogle  at  her  glass, 

’Twas  like  the  fawn,  which,  in  the  lake  display’d. 
Beholds  her  own  shy,  shadowy  image  pass, 

When  first  she  starts,  and  then  returns  to  peep, 
Admiring  this  new  native  of  the  deep. 


fusion  of  these  metals,  ki  which  Corinth  funded,  wlien  if  w«w 
sacked.] 


CAJJTO  VI. 


DON  JUAN. 


673 


LXI. 

And  one  by  one  her  articles  of  dress 
Were  laid  aside  ; but  not  before  she  offer’d 
Her  aid  to  fair  Juanna,  whose  excess 
Of  modesty  declin’d  the  assistance  proffer’d  : 
Which  pass’d  well  off — as  she  could  do  no  less  ; 

Though  by  this  politesse  she  rather  suffer’d, 
Pricking  her  fingers  with  those  cursed  pins, 

Which  surely  were  invented  for  our  sins, — 

LXII. 

U 

Making  a woman  like  a porcupine, 

Not  to  be  rashly  touch’d.  But  still  more  dread, 
Oil  ye ! whose  fate  it  is,  as  once  ’twas  mine, 

In  early  youth,  to  turn  a lady’s  maid ; — 

I did  my  very  boyish  best  to  shine 
In  tricking  her  out  for  a masquerade  : 

The  pins  were  placed  sufficiently,  but  not 
Stuck  all  exactly  in  the  proper  spot. 

LXIII. 

But  these  are  foolish  things  to  all  the  wise. 

And  I love  wisdom  more  than  she  loves  me  ; 

My  tendency  is  to  philosophise 
On  most  things,  from  a tyrant  to  a tree  ; 

But  still  the  spouseless  virgin  Knowledge  flies. 

What  are  we  ? and  whence  came  we  ? what  shall  be 
Our  ultimate  existence?  what’s  our  present? 

Are  questions  answerless,  and  yet  incessant. 

I XIV. 

There  was  deep  silence  in  the  chamber : dim 
And  distant  from  each  other  burn’d  the  lights. 

And  slumber  hover’d  o’er  each  lovely  limb 
Of  the  fair  occupants  : if  there  be  sprites, 

They  should  have  walk’d  there  in  their  sprightliest  trim, 
By  way  of  change  from  their  sepulchral  sites, 

And  shown  themselves  as  ghosts  of  better  taste 
Than  haunting  some  Old  ruin  or  vgld  waste. 

LXV. 

Many  and  beautiful  lay  those  around, 

Like  flowers  of  different  hue,  and  clime,  and  root, 
In  some  exotic  garden  sometimes  found, 

With  cost,  and  care,  and  warmth,  induced  to  shoot. 
One  with  her  auburn  tresses  lightly  bound, 

And  fair  brows  gently  drooping,  as  the  fruit 
Nods  from  the  tree,  was  slumbering  with  soft  breath, 
And  lips  apart,  which  show’d  the  pearls  beneath. 

LXVI. 

One  with  her  flush’d  cheek  laid  on  her  white  arm, 
And  raven  ringlets  gather’d  in  dark  crowd 
Above  her  brow,  lay  dreaming  soft  and  warm  ; 

And  smiling  through  her  dream,  as  through  a cloud 
The  moon  breaks,  half  unveil’d  each  further  charm. 
As,  slightly  stirring  in  her  snowy  shroud, 

Her  beauties  seized  the  unconscious  hour  of  night 
All  bashfully  to  struggle  into  light. 

LXVII. 

This  is  no  bull,  although  it  sounds  so  ; for 
’Twas  night,  but  there  were  lamps,  as  hath  been  said. 
A third’s  all  pallid  aspect  offer’d  more 

The  traits  of  sleeping  sorrow,  and  betray’d 
Through  the  heaved  breast  the  dream  of  some  far  shore 
Beloved  and  deplored ; while  slowly  stray’d 
(As  night-dew,  on  a cypress  glittering,  tinges 
The  black  bough),  tear-drops  through  her  eyes’  dark 
fringes. 


LXVIIl. 

A fourth  as  marble,  statue-like  and  still, 

Lay  in  a breathless,  hush’d,  and  stony  sleep ; 
White,  cold,  and  pure,  as  looks  a frozen  rill. 

Or  the  snow  minaret  on  an  Alpine  steep. 

Or  Lot’s  wife  done  in  salt,— or  what  you  will; — 

My  simiLes  are  gather’d  in  a heap, 

So  pick  and  choose — perhaps  you’ll  be  content 
With  a carved  lady  on  a monument. 

LXIX. 

And  lo  ! a fifth  appears  ; — and  what  is  she  ? 

A lady  of  a “ certain  age,”  which  means 
Certainly  aged — what  her  years  might  be 
I know  not,  never  counting  past  their  teens; 

But  there  she  slept,  not  quite  so  fair  to  see, 

As  ere  that  awful  period  intervenes 
Which  lays  both  men  and  women  on  the  shelf. 

To  meditate  upon  their  sins  and  self. 

LXX. 

But  all  this  time  how  slept,  or  dream’d,  Dudu  ? 

With  strict  inquiry  I could  ne’er  discover. 

And  scorn  to  add  a syllable  untrue ; 

But  ere  the  middle  watch  was  hardly  over, 

Just  when  the  fading  lamps  waned  dim  and  blue, 
And  phantoms  hover’d,  or  might  seem  to  hover. 

To  those  who  like  their  company,  about 
The  apartment,  on  a sudden  she  scream’d  out : 

LXXI. 

And  that  so  loudly,  that  upstarted  all 
The  Oda,  in  a general  commotion : 

Matron  and  maids,  and  those  whom  you  may  call 
Neither,  came  crowding  like  the  waves  of  ocean, 
One  on  the  other,  throughout  the  whole  hall, 

All  trembling,  wondering,  without  the  least  notioa 
More  than  I have  myself  of  what  could  make 
The  calm  I)udu  so  turbulently  wake. 

LXXII. 

But  wide  awake  she  was,  and  round  her  bed. 

With  floating  draperies  and  with  flying  hair, 

With  eager  eyes,  and  light  but  hurried  tread, 

And  bosoms,  arms,  and  ankles  glancing  bare. 

And  bright  as  any  meteor  ever  bred 

By  the  North  Pole, — they  sought  her  cause  of  care 
For  she  seem’d  agitated,  flush’d,  and  frighten’d, 

Her  eye  dilated  and  her  colour  heighten’d. 

LXXIII. 

But  what  is  strange — and  a strong  proof  how  great 
A blessing  is  sound  sleep — Juanna  lay 
As  fast  as  ever  husband  by  his  mate 
In  holy  matrimony  snores  away. 

Not  all  the  clamour  broke  her  happy  state 
Of  slumber,  ere  they  shook  her, — so  they  say 
At  least, — and  then  she,  too,  unclosed  her  eyes. 

And  yawn’d  a good  deal  with  discreet  surprise. 

LXXIV. 

And  now  commenced  a sr.rict  investigation, 

Which,  as  all  spoke  at  once,  and  more  than  jp.c« 
Conjecturing,  wondering,  asking  a narration. 

Alike  might  puzzle  either  wit  or  dunce 
To  answer  in  a very  clear  oration. 

Dudu  had  never  pass’d  for  wanting  sense. 

But,  being  “ no  orator  as  Brutus  is,” 

Could  not  at  first  expound  what  was  amisa. 

4 a 


674 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  TL 


"5  ▼'X  V. 

At  length  she  said,  that  in  a slumber  sound 
She  dream’d  a dream,  of  walking  in  a wood — 

A u wood  obscure,”  like  that  where  Dante  found.1 

Himself  in  at  the  ae;e  when  all  grow  good ; 

Life’s  half-way  house,  where  dames  with  virtue  crown’d 
Run  much  less  risk  of  lovers  turning  rude  ; 

And  that  this  wood  was  full  of  pleasant  fruits, 

And  trees  of  goodly  growth  and  spreading  roots ; 
LXXVI. 

And  in  the  midst  a golden  apple  grew, — 

A most  prodigious  pippin — but  it  hung 
Rather  too  high  and  distant ; that  she  threw 
Her  glances  on  it,  and  then,  longing,  flung 
Stones  and  whatever  she  could  pick  up,  to 

Bring  down  the  fruit,  which  still  perversely  clung 
To  its  own  bough,  and  dangled  yet  in  sight. 

But  always  at  a most  provoking  height ; — 

LXXVII. 

That  on  a sudden,  when  she  least  had  hope, 

It  fell  down  of  its  own  accord  before 
Her  feet ; that  her  first  movement  was  to  stoop 
And  pick  it  up,  and  bite  it  to  the  core ; 

That  just  as  her  young  lip  began  to  ope 
Upon  the  golden  fruit  the  vision  bore, 

A bee  flew  out,  and  stung  her  to  the  heart, 

And  so — she  awoke  with  a great  scream  and  start. 

LXXVIII. 

All  this  she  told  with  some  confusion  and 
Dismay,  the  usual  consequence  of  dreams 
Of  the  unpleasant  kind,  with  none  at  hand 
To  expound  then-  vain  and  visionary  gleams. 

I’ve  known  some  odd  ones  which  seem’d  really  plann’d 
Prophetically,  or  that  which  one  deems 
A “strange  coincidence,’* to  use  a phrase 
By  which  such  things  are  settled  now-a-day.2 

LXXIX. 

The  damsels,  who  had  thoughts  of  some  great  harm, 
Began,  as  is  the  consequence  of  fear, 

To  scold  a little  at  the  false  alarm 

That  broke  for  nothing  on  their  sleeping  ear. 

The  matron  too  was  loth  to  leave  her  warm 

Bed  for  the  dream  she  had  been  obliged  to  hear, 
And  chafed  at  poor  Dudu,  who  only  sigh’d, 

And  said,  that  she  was  sorry  she  had  cried. 

LXXX. 

“ I’ve  heard  of  stories  of  a cock  and  bull ; 

But  visions  of  an  apple  and  a bee, 

To  take  us  from  our  natural  rest,  and  pull 

The  whole  Oda  from  their  beds  at  half-past  three. 
Would  make  us  think  the  moon  is  at  its  full. 

You  surely  are  unwell,  child ! we  must  see, 
To-morrow,  what  his  Highness’s  physician 
Will  say  to  this  hysteric  of  a vision. 

LXXXI. 

“ And  poor  Juanna,  too,  the  child’s  first  night 
Within  these  walls,  to  be  broke  in  upon 
With  sucli  a clamour — I had  thought  it  right 
That  the  young  stranger  should  not  lie  alone, 

And,  as  the  quietest  of  all,  she  might 

With  you,  Dudu,  a good  night’s  rest  have  known ; 
But  now  I must  transfer  her  to  the  charge 
Of  Lolah — though  her  couch  is  not  so  large.” 

(1)  “ Nell’  mezzo  del*  eammin’  di  nostra  vita 

Mi  ritrorai  per  una  se^'a  oscura,”  &c. — Inferno. 

(2)  [One  of  the  advocates  employed  for  Queen  Caroline  in  the 


LXXXIT. 

Lolah’s  eyes  sparkled  at  the  proposition ; 

But  poor  Dudu,  with  large  drops  in  her  own. 
Resulting  from  the  scolding  or  the  vision, 

Implored  that  present  pal’don  might  be  shown 
Por  this  first  fault,  and  that  on  no  condition 
(She  added  in  a soft  and  piteous  tone) 

Juanna  should  be  taken  from  her,  and 
Her  future  dreams  should  all  be  kept  in  hand. 

LXXXIII. 

She  promised  never  more  to  have  a dream, 

At  least  to  dream  so  loudly  as  just  now ; 
She*wonder’d  at  herself  how  she  could  scream — 
’Twas  foolish,  nervous,  as  she  must  allow, 

A fond  hallucination,  and  a theme  • 

Por  laughter — but  she  felt  her  spirits  low, 

And  begg’d  they  would  excuse  her  ; she’d  get  over 
This  weakness  in  a few  hours,  and  recover. 

LXXX  iv. 

And  here  Juanna  kindly  interposed. 

And  said  she  felt  herself  extremely  well 
Where  she  then  was,  as  her  sound  sleep  disclcsed, 
When  all  around  rang  like  a tocsin  bell ; 

She  did  not  find  herself  the  least  disposed 
To  quit  her  gentle  partner,  and  to  dwell 
Apart  from  one  who  had  no  sin  to  show, 

Save  that  of  dreaming  once  “ mal-a-propos.” 

LXXXV. 

As  thus  Juanna  spoke,  Dudu  turn’d  round 
And  hid  her  face  within  Juanna’s  breast; 

Her  neck  alone  was  seen,  but  that  was  found 
The  colour  of  a budding  rose’s  crest. 

I can’t  tell  why  she  blush’d,  nor  can  expound 
The  mystery  of  this  rupture  of  their  rest ; 

All  that  I know  is,  that  the  facts  I state 
Are  true  as  truth  has  ever  been  of  late. 

* LXXXVI. 

And  so  good  night  to  them,— or,  if  you  will* 

Good  morrow — for  the  cock  had  crown,  and  light 
Began  to  clothe  each  Asiatic  hill, 

And  the  mosque  crescent  struggled  into  sight 
Of  the  long  caravan,  which  in  the  chill 

Of  dewy  dawn  wound  slowly  round  each  height, 
That  stretches  to  the  stony  belt,  which  girds 
Asia,  where  Kaff  looks  down  upon  the  Kurds. 

LXXXV1I. 

With  the  first  ray,  or  rather  grey  of  morn, 

Gulbeyaz  rose  from  restlessness  ; and  pale 
As  Passion  rises,  with  its  bosom  worn, 

Array’d  herself  with  mantle,  gem,  and  veil. 

The  nightingale  that  sings  with  the  deep  thorn, 
Which  fable  places  in  her  breast  of  wail, 

Is  lighter  far  of  heart  and  voice  than  those 

Whose  headlong  passions  form  their  proper  woes. 

LXXXVIII. 

And  that’s  the  moral  of  this  composition, 

If  people  would  but  see  its  real  drift ; — 

But  that  they  will  not  do  without  suspicion. 

Because  ail  gentle  readers  have  the  gift 
Of  closing  ’gainst  the  light  their  orbs  of  vision ; 

While  gentle  writers  also  love  to  lift 
Their  voices  ’gainst  each  other,  which  is  natural. 

The  numbers  are  too  great  for  them  to  flatter  all. 

House  of  Lords  spoke  of  some  of  the  most  puzzling  passagei  ji  tttf* 
history  of  her  intercourse  with  Bergami.  as  amounting  to  “odd  Lu- 
stances  of  strange  coincidence.”] 


CANTO  n 


DOI  JUAN. 


675 


LXXXIX. 

Rose  the  sultana  from  a bed  of  splendour, 

Softer  than  the  soft  Sybarite’s,  who  cried 
Aloud  because  his  feelings  were  too  tender 
To  brook  a ruffled  rose-leaf  by  his  side, — ■ 

So  beautiful  that  art  could  little  mend  her, 

Though  pale  with  conflicts  between  love  and  pride;— 
So  agitated  was  she  with  her  error, 

She  did  not  even  look  into  the  mirror. 

xc. 

Also  arose  about  the  self-same  time, 

Perhaps  a little  later,  her  great  lord, 

Master  of  thirty  kingdoms  so  sublime, 

And  of  a wife  by  whom  he  was  abhorr’d ; 

A thing  of  much  less  import  in  that  clime — 

At  least  to  those  of  incomes  which  afford 
The  filling  up  their  whole  connubial  cargo — • 

Than  where  two  wives  arc  under  an  embargo, 
xci. 

He  did  not  think  much  on  the  matter,  nor 
Indeed  on  any  other  : as  a man 
He  liked  to  have  a handsome  paramour 
At  hand,  as  one  may  like  to  have  a fan, 

And  therefore  of  Circassians  had  good  store. 

As  an  amusement  after  the  Divan ; 

Though  an  unusual  fit  of  love,  or  duty, 

Had  made  him  lately  bask  in  his  bride’s  beauty. 

xcn. 

And  now  lie  rose  ; and  after  due  ablutions 
Exacted  by  the  customs  of  the  East, 

And  prayers  and  other  pious  evolutions, 

He  drank  six  cups  of  coffee  at  the  least, 

And  then  withdrew  to  hear  about  the  Russians, 

Whose  victories  had  recently  increased 
In  Catherine’s  reign,  whom  glory  still  adores. 

As  greatest  of  all  sovereigns  and  w s. 

xcm. 

But  oh,  thou  grand  legitimate  Alexander ! 

Her  son’s  son,  let  not  this  last  phrase  offend 
Thine  ear,  if  it  should  reach — and  now  rhymes  wander 
Almost  as  far  as  Petersburgh,  and  lend 
A dreadful  impulse  to  each  loud  meander 
Of  murmuring  Liberty’s  wide  waves,  which  blend 
Their  roar  even  with  the  Baltic’s — so  you  be 
Your  father’s  son,  ’tis  quite  enough  for  me. 

xciv. 

To  call  men  love-begotten,  or  proclaim 
Their  mothers  as  the  antipodes  of  Timon, 

That  hater  of  mankind,  would  be  a shame, 

A libel,  or  whate’er  you  please  to  rhyme  on : 

But  people’s  ancestors  are  history’s  game ; 

And  if  one  lady’s  slip  could  leave  a crime  on 
All  generations,  I should  like  to  know 
What  pedigree  the  best  would  have  to  show  ? 
xcv. 

Had  Catherine  and  the  sultan  understood 
Their  own  true  interests,  which  kings  rarely  know. 
Until  ’tis  taught  by  lessons  rather  rude, 

There  was  a way  to  end  their  strife,  although 


(1)  [Motraye,  in  describing  the  interior  of  the  Grand  Signior’s 
palace,  into  which  lie  gained  admission  as  the  assistant  of  a watch- 
maker, who  was  employed  to  regulate  the  clocks,  says  that  the 
eunuch  who  received  them  at  the  entrance  of  the  harem,  conducted 
them  into  the  hall,  which  appeared  to  be  the  most  agreeable  apart- 
ment in  the  edifice  “ Cette  salle  est  incrustee  de  porcelaine  fine ; 
«t  1«  lambris  dore  et  azure  qui  orne  le  fond  d’une  coupole  qui  r^gne 


Perhaps  precarious,  had  they  but  thought  good, 
Without  the  aid  of  prince  or  plenipo : 

She  to  dismiss  her  guards  and  he  his  harem, 

And  for  their  other  matters,  meet  and  share  ’em. 

xcvi. 

But  as  it  was,  his  Highness  had  to  hold 
His  daily  council  upon  ways  and  means 
Plow  to  encounter  with  this  martial  scold. 

This  modern  Amazon  and  queen  of  queans  ; 

And  the  perplexity  could  not  be  told 

Of  all  the  pillars  of  the  state,  which  leans 
Sometimes  a little  heavy  on  the  backs 
Of  those  who  cannot  lay  on  a new  tax. 

xcvii. 

Meantime  Gulbeyaz,  when  her  king  was  gone, 
Retired  into  her  boudoir,  a sweet  place 
For  love  or  breakfast;  private,  pleasing,  lone, 

And  rich  with  all  contrivances  which  grace 
Those  gay  recesses  many  a precious  stone 
Sparkled  along  its  roof,  and  many  a vase 
Of  porcelain  held  in  the  fetter’d  flowers,  * 

Those  captive  soothers  of  a captive’s  hours. 

XCVIII. 

Mother  of  pearl,  and  porphyry,  and  marble, 

Vied  with  each  other  on  this  costly  spot ; 

And  singing  birds  without  were  heard  to  warble ; 

And  the  stain’d  glass  which  lighted  this  fair  giot 
Varied  each  ray  ; — but  all  descriptions  garble 
The  true  effect,1  and  so  we  had  better  not 
Be  too  minute  ; an  outline  is  the  best, — 

A livelv  reader’s  fancy  does  the  rest. 

xcix. 

And  here  she  summon’d  Baba,  and  required 
Don  J uan  at  his  hands,  and  information 
Of  what  had  pass’d  since  all  the  slaves  retired, 

And  whether  he  had  occupied  their  station ; 

If  matters  had  been  managed  as  desired, 

And  his  disguise  with  due  consideration 
Kept  up ; and  above  all,  the  where  and  how 
He  had  pass’d  the  night,  was  what  she  wish’d  to  know; 

c. 

Baba,  with  some  embarrassment,  replied 
To  this  long  catechism  of  questions,  ask’d 
More  easily  than  answer’d — that  he  had  tried 
Plis  best  to  obey  in  what  he  had  been  task’d  ; 

But  there  seem’d  something  that  he  wish’d  to  hide. 
Which  hesitation  more  betray’d  than  mask’d; 

He  scratch’d  his  ear,  the  infallible  resource 
To  which  embarrass’d  people  have  recourse. 

ci. 

Gulbeyaz  was  no  model  of  true  patience, 

Nor  much  disposed  to  wait  in  word  or  deed  : 

She  liked  quick  answers  in  all  conversations  ; 

And  when  she  saw  him  stumbling  like  a steed 
In  his  replies,  she  puzzled  him  for  fresh  ones ; 

And  as  his  speech  grew  still  more  broken-kneed, 
Her  cheek  began  to  flush,  her  eyes  to  sparkle, 

And  her  proud  brow’s  blue  veins  to  swell  and  darkle. 


au-dessus,  est  des  plus  riches.  Une  fontaine  artificielle  et  jaillis- 
sante,  dont  le  bassin  est  d^un  precieux  marbe  vert  qui  m’a  paru 
serpentin  ou  jaspe,  s’elevoit  directement  au  milieu,  sous  le  dome. 
Je  me  trouvai  la  tgte  si  pleine  de  sophas,  de  precieux  plafonds,  d« 
meubles  superbes,  en  un  mot,  d’une  si  grande  confusion  de  mate- 
naux  magnifiques,  qu’  il  seroit  difficile  d’en  donner  un  id6e  olaire  ” 
— Voyages,  tom.  i.  p.  220.] 


676 


iaORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


CANTO  11 


on. 

When  Baba  saw  these  symptoms,  which  lie  knew 
To  bode  him  no  great  good,  he  deprecated 
Her  anger,  and  beseech’d  she’d  hear  him  through — 
He  could  not  help  the  thing  which  he  related  : 
Then  out  it  came  at  length,  that  to  Dudu 

Juan  was  givfm  in  charge,  as  hath  been  stated ; 

But  not  by  Baba's  fault,  he  said,  and  swore  on 
The  holy  camel’s  hump,  besides  the  Koran. 

cm. 

The  chief  dame  of  the  Oda,  upon  whom 
The  discipline  of  the  whole  harem  bore, 

As  soon  as  they  re-enter’d  their  own  room, 

For  Baba’s  function  stopt  short  at  the  door, 

Had  settled  all ; nor  could  he  then  presume 
(The  aforesaid  Baba)  just  then  to  do  more, 

Without  exciting  such  suspicion  as 
Might  make  the  matter  still  worse  than  it  was. 
civ. 

He  hoped,  indeed  he  thought,  he  could  be  sure 
Juan  had  not  betray’d  himself;  in  fact 
’Twas  certain  that  his  conduct  had  been  pure, 

Because  a foolish  or  imprudent  act 
Would  not  alone  have  made  him  insecure, 

But  ended  in  his  being  found  out  and  sack’d , 

And  thrown  into  the  sea. — Thus  Baba  spoke 
Of  all  save  Dudu’s  dream,  which  was  no  joke, 
cv. 

Tills  he  discreetly  kept  in  the  back  giound, 

And  talk’d  away,  and  might  have  talk’d  till  now, 
For  any  further  answer  that  lie  found, 

So  deep  an  anguish  wrung  Gulbeyaz’  brow  : 

Her  cheek  turn’d  ashes,  ears  rung,  brain  whirl’d  round, 
As  if  she  had  received  a sudden  blow, 

And  the  heart’s  dew  of  pain  sprang  fast  and  chilly 
O’er  her  fair  front,  like  Morning’s  on  a lily. 

cvi. 

Althougn  she  was  not  of  the  fainting  sort. 

Baba  thought  she  would  faint,  but  there  lie  err’d — 
It  was  but  a convulsion,  which  though  short 
Can  never  be  described  ; we  all  have  heard. 

And  some  of  us  have  felt  thus  “all  amort’’ 1 2 

When  things  beyond  the  common  have  occurr’d ; 
Gulbeyaz  proved  in  that  brief  agony 
What  she  could  ne’er  express — then  how  should  I ? 
cvn. 

She  stood  a moment  as  a Pythoness 
Stands  on  her  tripod,  agonised,  and  full 
Of  inspiration  gather’d  from  distress, 

When  all  the  heart-strings  like  wild  horses  pull 
The  heart  asunder ; — then,  as  more  or  less 

Their  speed  abated  or  their  strength  grew  dull, 

She  sunk  down  on  her  seat  by  slow  degrees, 

And  bow’d  her  throbbing  head  o’er  trembling  knees, 

cvm. 

Her  face  declined  and  was  unseen  ; her  hair 
Fell  in  long  tresses  like  the  weeping  willow, 
Sweeping  the  marble  underneath  her  chair, 

Or  rather  sofa,  (for  it  was  all  pillow, 

A low,  soft  ottoman,)  and  black  despair 

Stirr’d  up  and  down  her  bosom  like  a billow, 

Which  rushes  to  some  shore  whose  shingles  check 
Its  farther  course,  but  must  receive  its  wreck. 

(1)  [“How  fares  my  Kate?  What!  sweeting,  all  amortf”— 
Taming  Ihe  Shrew.] 

(2)  [*•  His  guilty  soul,  at  enmity  with  gods  and  men,  could  find 
iui  rest ; so  violently  was  his  mind  torn  and  distracted  by  a con- 


CIX. 

Her  head  hung  down,  and  her  long  hair  in  stooping 
Conceal’d  her  features  better  than  a veil ; ^ 

And  one  hand  o’er  the  ottoman  lay  drooping, 

White,  waxen,  and  as  alabaster’  pale  : 

Would  that  I were  a painter!  to  be  grouping 
All  that  a poet  drags  into  detail ! 

Oh  that  my  words  were  colours  ! but  their  tints 
May  serve  perhaps  as  outlines  or  slight  hints, 
cx. 

Baba,  who  knew  by  experience  when  to  talk 
And  when  to  hold  his  tongue,  now  held  it  till 
This  passion  might  blow  o’er,  nor  dared  to  balk 
Gulbeyaz’  taciturn  or  speaking  will. 

At  length  she  rose  up,  and  began  to  walk 
Slowly  along  the  room,  but  silent  still, 

And  her  brow  clear’d,  but  not  her  troubled  eye  ; 

The  wind  was  down,  but  still  the  sea  ran  high. 

CXI. 

She  stopp’d,  and  raised  her  head  to  speak — but  paused* 
And  then  moved  on  again  with  rapid  pace ; 

Then  slacken’d  it,  which  is  the  march  most  caused 
By  deep  emotion  : — you  may  sometimes  trace 
A feeling  in  each  footstep,  as  disclosed 
By  Sallust  in  his  Catiline,  who,  chased 
By  all  the  demons  of  all  passions,  show’d 
Their  work  even  by  the  way  in  which  he  trode.’ 

CXII. 

Gulbeyaz  stopp’d  and  beckon’d  Baba : — “ Slave  ! 

Bring  the  two  slaves  !”  she  said  in  a low  tone, 

But  one  which  Baba  did  not  like  to  brave, 

And  yet  he  shudder’d,  and  seem’d  rather  prone 
To  prove  reluctant,  and  begg’d  leave  to  crave 
(Though  he  well  knew  the  meaning)  to  be  shown 
What  slaves  her  highness  wish’d  to  indicate. 

For  fear  of  any  error,  like  the  late. 

exm 

“ The  Georgian  and  her  paramour,”  replied 
The  imperial  bride — and  added,  “ Let  the  boat 
Be  ready  by  the  secret  portal’s  side  : 

You  know  the  rest.”  The  words  stuck  in  her  thro?  t, 
Despite  her  injured  love  and  fiery  pride; 

And  of  this  Baba  willingly  took  note, 

And  begg’d  by  every  hair  of  Mahomet’s  beard, 

She  would  revoke  the  order  he  had  heard. 

cxiv. 

“To  hear  is  to  obey,”  he  said  ; “ but  still, 

Sultana,  think  upon  the  consequence  : 

It  is  not  that  I shall  not  all  fulfil 

Your  orders,  even  in  their  severest  sense; 

But  such  precipitation  may  end  ill, 

Even  at  your  own  imperative  expense  : 

I do  not  mean  destruction  and  exposure 
In  case  of  any  premature  disclosure  ; 

cxv. 

“ But  your  own  feelings  Even  should  all  the  rest 
Be  hidden  by  the  rolling  waves,  which  hide 
Already  many  a once  love-beaten  breast 
Deep  in  the  caverns  of  the  deadly  tide — 

You  love  this  boyish,  new,  seraglio  guest, 

And  if  this  violent  remedy  be  tried — 

Excuse  my  freedom,  when  I here  assure  you, 

That  killing  him  is  not  the  way  to  cure  you  ” 

sciousness  of  guilt.  Accordingly  his  countenance  was  pale,  h>» 
eyes  gnastly,  his  pace  one  while  quick,  another  slow  ; indeed,  in  all 
his  looks  there  was  an  air  of  distraction." — S aliust.] 


CANTO  VII. 


DON  JUAN 


677 


cxvi 

“ What  dost  thou  know  of  love  or  feeling  ? — Wretch! 

Begone  !”  she  cried,  with  kindling  eyes — “and  do 
My  bidding  !”  Baba  vanish’d,  for  to  stretch 
His  own  remonstrance  further  lie  well  knew 
Might  end  in  acting  as  his  own  “Jack  Ketch  ;” 

And  though  he  wish’d  extremely  to  get  through 
This  awkward  business  without  harm  to  others. 

He  still  preferr’d  his  own  neck  to  another’s. 

cxvn. 

Away  he  went  then  upon  his  commission, 

Growling  and  grumbling  in  good  Turkish  phrase 
Against  all  women  of  whate’er  condition, 

Especially  sultanas  and  their  ways  ; 

Their  obstinacy,  pride,  and  indecision, 

Their  never  knowing  their  own'mind  two  days, 

The  trouble  that  they  gave,  their  immorality, 

Which  made  him  daily  bless  his  own  neutrality. 

CXVIII. 

And  then  he  call’d  his  brethren  to  his  aid, 

And  sent  one  on  a summons  to  the  pair, 

That  they  must  instantly  be  well  array’d. 

And  above  all  be  comb’d  even  to  a hair, 

And  brought  before  the  empress,  who  had  made 
Inquiries  after  them  with  kindest  care  : 

At  which  Dudu  look’d  strange,  and  Juan  silly; 

But  go  they  must  at  once,  and  will  I — nill  I. 
cxix. 

And  here  I leave  them  at  their  preparation 
Eor  the  imperial  presence,  wherein  whether 
Gulbeyaz  show’d  them  both  commiseration, 

Or  got  rid  of  the  parties  altogether, 

Like  other  angry  ladies  of  her  nation, — 

Are  things  the  turning  of  a hair  or  feather 
May  settle ; but  far  be ’t  from  me  to  anticipate 
In  what  way  feminine  caprice  may  dissipate. 

cxx. 

I leave  them  for  the  present  with  good  wishes, 
Though  doubts  of  their  well  doing,  to  arrange 
Another  part  of  history ; for  the  dishes 

Of  this  our  banquet  we  must  sometimes  change ; 
And  trusting  Juan  may  escape  the  fishes, 

Although  his  situation  now  seems  strange, 

And  scarce  secure,  as  such  digressions  are  fair, 

The  Muse  will  take  a little  touch  at  warfare. 


Bon  gjttan. 


CANTO  THE  SEVENTH.1 


0 Love  ! 0 Glory  ! what  are  ye  who  fly 
Around  us  ever,  rarely  to  alight  ? 


(1)  [“The  seventh  and  eighth  Cantos  contain  a full  detail  (like 
the  storm  in  Canto  second)  of  the  siege  and  assault  of  Ismail,  with 
much  of  sarcasm  on  those  butchers  in  large  business,  your  mer- 
cenary soldiers.  With  these  things  and  these  fellows  it  is  necessary, 
in  the  present  clash  of  philosophy  and  tyranny,  to  throw  away  the 
scabbard.  I know  it  is  against  fearful  odds ; but  the  battle  must 
be  fought;  and  it  will  be  eventually  for  the  good  of  mankind, 
whatever  it  may  be  for  the  individual  who  risks  himself.”— Byron 
Letters , Aug.  8,  1822.] 

(2)  [“  Scrawled  this  additional  page  of  life’s  log-book.  One  day 
more  is  over  of  it,  and  of  me : — but,  ‘ which  is  best,  life  or  death, 

the  gods  only  know,’  as  Souates  said  to  his  judges,  on  the  breaking 
up  of  the  tribunal.  Two  thousand  years  since  that  sage’s  declara- 


There’s  not  a meteor  in  the  polar  sky 

Of  such  transcendent  and  more  fleeting  flight. 

Chill,  and  chain’d  to  cold  earth,  we  lift  on  high 
Our  eyes  in  search  of  either  lovely  light ; 

A thousand  and  a thousand  colours  they 
Assume,  then  leave  us  on  our  freezing  way. 

ii. 

xYnd  such  as  they  are,  such  my  present  tale  is, 

A non-descript  and  ever-varying  rhyme, 

A versified  Aurora  Borealis, 

Which  flashes  o’er  a waste  and  icy  clime. 

When  we  know  what  all  are,  we  must  bewail  us, 

But  ne’ertheless  I hope  it  is  no  crime 
To  laugh  at  all  things — for  I wish  to  know 
What,  after  all,  are  all  things — but  a show  ? 

hi. 

They  accuse  me — Me — the  present  writer  of 
The  present  poem — of — I know  not  what — 

A tendency  to  under-rate  and  scoff 

At  human  power  and  virtue,  and  all  that ; 

And  this  they  say  in  language  rather  rough. 

Good  God  ! I wonder  what  they  would  be  at ! 

I say  no  more  than  hath  been  said  in  Dante’s 
Verse,  and  by  Solomon  and  by  Cervantes; 

iv. 

By  Swift,  by  Machiavel,  by  Rocbefoucault, 

By  Fenelon,  by  Luther,  and  by  Plato  ; 

By  Tillotson,  and  Wesley,  and  Rousseau, 

Who  knew  this  life  was  not  worth  a potato. 

’Tis  not  their  fault,  nor  mine,  if  this  be  so — 

Eor  my  part,  I pretend  not  to  be  Cato, 

Nor  even  Diogenes. — We  live  and  die. 

But  which  is  best,  you  know  no  more  than  I. 

v. 

Socrates  said,  our  only  knowledge  was2 

“ To  know  that  nothing  could  be  known;”  a j feasant 
Science  enough,  which  levels  to  an  ass 

Each  man  of  wisdom,  future,  past,  or  present. 
Newton  (that  proverb  of  the  mind),  alas  ! 

Declared,  with  all  his  grand  discoveries  recent, 
That  he  himself  felt  only  “ like  a youth 
Picking  up  shells  by  the  great  ocean — Truth.”  3 

VI. 

Ecclesiastes  said,  “ that  all  is  vanity” — 

Most  modern  preachers  say  the  same,  or  show  it 
By  their  examples  of  true  Christianity : 

In  short,  all  know,  or  very  soon  may  know  it ; 

And  in  this  scene  of  all-confess’d  inanity. 

By  saint,  by  sage,  by  preacher,  and  by  poet, 

Must  I restrain  me,  through  the  fear  of  strife. 

From  holding  up  the  nothingness  of  life  ? 


tion  of  ignorance  have  not  enlightened  us  more  opon  this  important 
point." — Bi/ron  Diary,  1821.] 

(3)  [A  short  time  before  his  death,  Newton  uttered  this  memo- 
rable sentiment:— “ I do  not  know  what  I may  appear  to  the  world; 
but  to  myself  I seem  to  have  been  only  like  a boy  playing  on  the 
sea  shore,  and  diverting  myself  in  now  and  then  finding  a smoother 
pebble  or  a prettier  shell  than  ordinary,  whilst  the  great  ocean  of 
truth  lay  all  undiscovered  before  me.” — What  a lesson  to  the  vanity 
and  presumption  of  philosophers;  to  those,  especially,  who  have 
never  even  found  the  smoother  pebble  or  the  prettier  shell ! What 
a preparation  for  the  latest  inquiries,  and  the  last  views,  of  the 
decaying  spirit, — for  those  inspired  doctrines  which  alone  can 
throw  a light  over  the  dark  ocean  of  undiscovered  truth! — Si* 
David  Brewstbk.] 


o78 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VII. 


VII. 

Dogs,  or  men  ! — for  I flatter  you1  in  saying 
That  ye  are  dogs — your  betters  far — ye  may 
Read,  or  read  not,  what  I am  now  essaying 
To  show  ye  what  ye  are  in  every  way. 

As  little  as  the  moon  stops  for  the  baying 
Of  wolves,  will  the  bright  muse  withdraw  one  ray 
From  out  her  skies — then  howl  your  idle  wrath  ! 
While  she  still  silvers  o’er  your  gloomy  path. 

VIII. 

u Fierce  loves  and  faithless  wars” — I am  not  sure 
If  this  be  the  right  reading — ’tis  no  matter ; 

The  fact’s  about  the  same,  I am  secure  ; 

I sing  them  both,  and  am  about  to  batter  . 

A town  which  did  a famous  siege  endure, 

And  was  beleaguer’d  both  by  land  and  water1 2 
By  Souvaroff,  or  Anglice  Suwarrow, 

Who  loved  blood  as  an  alderman  loves  marrow. 

IX. 

The  fortress  is  call’d  Ismail,  and  is  placed 

Upon  the  Danube’s  left  branch  and  left  bank,3 
With  buildings  in  the  Oriental  taste, 

But  still  a fortress  of  the  foremost  rank. 

Or  was  at  least,  unless  ’tis  since  defaced, 

Which  with  your  conquerors  is  a common  prank  : 
It  stands  some  eighty  versts  from  the  high  sea, 

And  measures  round  of  toises  thousands  three.4 

x. 

Within  the  extent  of  this  fortification 
A borough  is  comprised  along  the  height 
Upon  the  left,  which  from  its  loftier  station 
Commands  the  city,  and  upon  its  site 
A Greek  had  raised  around  this  elevation 
A quantity  of  palisades  upright. 

So  placed  as  to  impede  the  fire  of  those 
Who  held  the  place,  and  to  assist  the  foe’s.5 

XI. 

This  circumstance  may  serve  to  give  a notion 
Of  the  high  talents  of  this  new  Y auban  : 

But  the  town  ditch  below  was  deep  as  ocean, 

The  rampart  higher  than  you’d  wish  to  hang : 

But  then  there  was  a great  want  of  precaution 
(Prithee,  excuse  this  engineering  slang), 

Nor  work  advanced,  nor  cover’d  way  was  there,6 
To  hint  at  least  “ Here  is  no  thoroughfare.” 


(1)  [See  “ Inscription  on  the  Monument  of  a Newfoundland 
Dog,”  antd,  p.  540.] 

(2)  [“An  1790.  Le  30  de  Novembre  on  s’approc-ha  de  la  place ; 
les  troupes  de  terres  formaient  un  total  de  vingt  mille  honunes,  in- 
d£pendamment  de  sept  a huit  mille  Kozaks  "—Hist,  de  la  Nouvellc 
Hustle,  tom.  ii.  p.  201.] 

(3)  ['•  Ismael  est  situ6  sur  la  rive  gauche  du  bras  gauche  du 
Danube.” — Ibid.] 

(4)  [ “4  peu  pr4s  & quatre  vingts  verstes  de  la  mer:  elle  a 

pres  de  trois  mille*  toises  de  tour.”— Ibid.] 

(5)  [“  On  a compris  dans  ces  fortifications  un  faubourg  Mol- 
dave,  situb  41a  gauche  de  la  ville,  sur  une  hauteur  qui  la  domine: 
l’ouvrage  a ete  termin6  par  un  Gvec.  Pour  donner  une  idee  des 
talens  de  cet  ing6nieur,  il  suflira  de  dire  qu’il  fit  placer  les  palis- 
sades  perpendiculairement  sur  le  parapet,  de  manure  qu’elles 
favorisaient  les  assiegcans,  et  arretaient  le  feu  des  assieges.” — Ibid. 

p.  202.] 

(6'  [“  L»  rempart  en  terre  est  prodigieusement  61ev6  \ cause  de 
I’iinmense  profondeurdu  fosse;  il  est  cependant  absolument  rasant; 
il  n’j  a ni  ouvrage  avanc6,  ni  chemin  couvert.” — Ibid.  p.  202.] 

(7)  [“  Casemate  is  a work  made  under  the  rampart,  like  a cellar 


xn. 

But  a stone  bastion,  with  a narrow  gorge, 

And  walls  as  thick  as  most  skulls  born  as  yet; 

Two  batteries,  cap-a-pie,  as  our  St.  George, 
Case-mated7  one,  and  t’other  “a  barbette,” 

Of  Danube’s  bank  took  formidable  charge ; 

While  two  and  twenty  cannon  duly  set 
Rose  over  the  town’s  right  side,  in  bristling  tier 
Forty  feet  high,  upon  a cavalier.9 

XIII. 

But  from  the  river  the  town’s  open  quite, 

Because  the  Turks  could  never  be  persuaded 
A Russian  vessel  e’er  would  heave  in  sight : 10 
And  such  their  creed  was,  tilL they  were  invaded, 
When  it  grew  rather  late  to  set  things  right. 

But  as  the  Danube  could  not  well  be  waded, 

They  look’d  upon  the  Muscovite  flotilla, 

And  only  shouted,  “ Allah  ! ” and  “ Bis  Millali ! ” 

XIV. 

The  Russians  now  were  ready  to  attack ; 

But  oh,  ye  goddesses  of  war  and  glory ! 

How  shall  I spell  the  name  of  each  Cossacque 
Who  were  immortal,  could  one  tell  their  story  ? 

Alas  ! what  to  their  memory  can  lack  P 
Achilles’  self  was  not  more  grim  and  gory 
Than  thousands  of  this  new  and  polish’d  nation, 

Whose  names  want  nothing  but — pronunciation. 

xv. 

Still  I’ll  record  a few,  if  but  to  increase 

Our  euphony:  there  was  Stronganoff,  and  StrokonofT, 
Meknop,  Serge  Low,  Arsniew  of  modern  Greece, 

And  Tschitsshakoff,  and  Roguenoff,  and  Chokenoff,  | 
And  others  of  twelve  consonants  apiece  ; 

And  more  might  be  found  out,  if  I could  poke  enough  1 
Into  gazettes ; but  Fame  (capricious  strumpet), 

It  seems,  has  got  an  ear  as  well  as  trumpet, 


And  cannot  tune  those  discords  of  narration, 

Which  may  be  names  at  Moscow,  into  rhyme  ; 

Yet  there  were  several  worth  commemoration, 

As  e’er  was  virgin  of  a nuptial  chime ; 

Soft  words,  too,  fitted  for  the  peroration 
Of  Londonderry  drawling  against  time, 

Ending  in  “ischskin,”  “ousekin,”  “iffskchy,”  “ouski,”  fl 
Of  whom  we  can  insert  but  Rousamouski,11 


>r  cave,  with  loopholes  to  place  guns  in  it,  and  is  bomb  proof.”-*  | 
Milil.  Diet.] 

(8)  [“When  the  breastwork  of  a battery  is  only  of  such  height  that  i 
the  guns  may  fire  over  it  without  being  obliged  to  make  embrasures,  | 
the  guns  are  said  to  fire  in  barbet.” — Ibid.] 

(9)  [“  Un  bastion  de  pierres,  ouvert  par  une  gorge  tr4s-6troite,  et 
dont  les  murailles  son  fort  6paisses,  a un  batterie  casematee  et  une  I 
abarbette;  il  defend  la  rive  du  Danube.  Du  c6t6  droit  de  la  ville 
est  un  cavalier  de  quarante  pieds  d’elevation  a pic,  garni  de  vingt- 
deux  pieces  de  canon,  et  qui  defend  la  partie  gauche.” — Hist,  de  \ 
la  N.  R.  p.  202.] 

(10)  [“Du  cot6  du  fleuve,  la  villo  est  absolument  ouverte;  les  | 
Turcs  ne  croyaient  pas  que  les  Russes  pussent  jamais  avoir  une 
flotille  dans  le  Danube.” — Ibid.  p.  203.] 

(11)  [“La  premiere  attaque  etait  composee  de  trois  colfcnnes, 
commanilees  par  les  lieutenans-g6neraux  Paul  Potiemkin,  Serge  ' 
Lwow,  les  generaux  majors  Lascy,  Theodore  Meknop.  Trois  autres 
colonnes  avaient  pour  chefs  le  Comte  Samotlow,  les  g6n6raux  Elie 
de  Bezborodxo,  Michel  Koutousow;  les  brigadiers  Orlo.v,  Platow,  I 
llibaupierre.  La  troisi&me  attaque  par  eau  n’avait  q le  deux  co- 
lonnes, sous  les  ordres  des  generaux-majors  Ribas  et  A rs6nie  v,  des  | 
briga  liers  Mark  uflT  et  Tchfcp6ga,”  &c. — Ibid.  p.  207.] 


DON  JUAN, 


679 


XVII. 

ScLerematoff  and  Chrematoff,  Koklophti, 

Koclobski,  Kourakin,  and  Mouskin  Pouskin, 

All  proper  men  of  weapons,  as  e’er  scoff’d  high 
Against  a foe,  or  ran  a sabre  through  skin  : 

Little  cared  they  for  Mahomet  or  Mufti, 

Unless  to  make  their  kettle  drums  a new  skin 
Out  of  their  hides,  if  parchment  had  grown  dear, 

And  no  more  handy  substitute  been  near. 

XVIII. 

Then  there  were  foreigners  of  much  renown, 

Of  various  nations,  and  all  volunteers  ; 

Not  fighting  for  their  country  or  its  crown, 

But  wishing  to  be  one  day  brigadiers  : 

Also  to  have  the  sacking  of  a town  ; 

A pleasant  thing  to  young  men  at  their  years. 
’Mongst  them  were  several  Englishmen  of  pith, 
Sixteen  call’d  Thomson,  and  nineteen  named  Smith. 

XIX. 

Jack  Thomson  and  Bill  Thomson  ; — all  the  rest 
Had  been  call’d  “ Jemmy”  after  the  great  bard ; 

I don’t  know  whether  they  had  arms  or  crest, 

But  such  a godfather’s  as  good  a card. 

Three  of  the  Smiths  were  Peters  ; but  the  best 
Amongst  them  all,  hard  blows  to  inflict  or  ward, 
Was  he , since  so  renown’d  “in  country  quarters 
At  Halifax;”1  but  now  lie  served  the  Tartars. 

xx. 

The  rest  were  Jacks  and  Gills  and  Wills  and  Bills, 
But  when  I’ve  added  that  the  elder  Jack  Smith 
Was  born  in  Cumberland  among  the  hills, 

And  that  his  father  was  an  honest  blacksmith, 

I’ve  said  all  I know  of  a name  that  fills  [smith,” 
Three  lines  of  the  despatch  in  taking  “ Schinack- 
A village  of  Moldavia’s  waste,  wherein 
He  fell,  immortal  in  a biilletin.  * 

xxi. 

I wonder  (although  Mars  no  doubt’s  a god  I 
Praise)  if  a man’s  name  in  a bulletin 
May  make  up  for  a bullet  in  his  body  ? 

I hope  this  little  question  is  no  sin, 

Because,  though  1 am  but  a simple  noddy, 

I think  one  Shakspeare  puts  the  same  thought  in 
The  mouth  of  some  one  in  his  plays  so  doting, 

Which  many  people  pass  for  wits  by  quoting. 

XXII. 

Then  there  were  Prenchmen,  gallant,  young,  and  gay : 
But  I’m  too  great  a patriot  to  record 
Their  Gallic  names  upon  a glorious  day  ; 

I’d  rather  tell  ten  lies  than  say  a word 
Of  truth  ; — such  trutns  are  treason ; they  betray 
Their  country  ; and  as  traitors  are  abhorr’d 
Who  name  the  Prench  in  English,  save  to  show 
How  Peace  should  make  John  Bull  thePrenchman’s  foe. 


(1)  [See  the  farce  of  “ Love  Laughs  at  Locksmiths.”] 

(2)  [“  On  s’etait  propose  deux  buts  egalement  avantageux,  par  la 
construction  de  deux  batteries  sur  l’ile  qui  avoisine  Ismael : le 
premier,  de  bombarder  la  place,  d’en  abattre  les  principaux  edifices 
avec  du  canon  de  quarante-huit,  effet  d’autant  plus  probable,  que 
la  ville  etant  batie  en  amphitheatre,  presque  aucun  coup  ne  serait 
perdu.” — Hist,  de  la  Nouvelle  Rustie,  p.  203.] 

(3)  [“  Le  second  objet  etait  de  profiter  de  ce  moment  d’alarme 
pour  que  la  flotille,  agissant  en  meine  temps,  put  detruire  eelle  des 
Turcs.  On  troisi^me  motif,  et  vraisemblement  xe  plus  plausible, 
fctait  de  jeter  la  consternation  parmi  les  Turcs,  et  de  les  engager  a 
•apituler.” — Ibid  p.  203.] 


XXIII. 

The  Russians,  having  built  tvyo  batteries  on 
An  isle  near  Ismail,  had  two  ends  in  view  : 

The  first  was  to  bombard  it,  and  knock  down 
The  public  buildings  and  the  private  too. 

No  matter  what  poor  souls  might  be  undone. 

The  city’s  shape  suggested  this,  ’tis  true ; 

Form’d  like  an  amphitheatre,  each  dwelling 
Presented  a fine  mark  to  throw  a shell  in  3 

XXIV. 

The  second  object  was  to  profit  by 

The  moment  of  the  general  consternation, 

To  attack  the  Turks’  flotilla,  which  lay  nigh 
Extremely  tranquil,  anchor’d  at  its  station : 

But  a t'fiird  motive  was  as  probably 
To  frighten  them  into  capitulation;8 
A phantasy  which  sometimes  seizes  warriors, 

Unless  they  are  game  as  bull-dogs  and  fox-terriers. 

xxv. 

A habit  rather  blameable,  which  is 

That  of  despising  those  we  combat  with. 

Common  in  many  cases,  was  in  this 

The  cause 4 of  killing  Tchitchitzkoff  and  Smith  ; 
One  of  the  valorous  “ Smiths  ” whom  we  shall  miss 
Out  of  those  nineteen  who  late  rhymed  to  “ pith ;” 
But  ’tis  a name  so  spread  o’er  “ Sir  ” and  “ Madam,’* 
That  one  would  think  the  first  who  bore  it  “ Adam.” 

XXVI. 

The  Russian  batteries  were  incomplete, 

Because  they  were  constructed  in  a hurry;5 6 * 
Thus  the  same  cause  which  makes  a verse  want  feet, 
And  throws  a cloud  o’er  Longman  and  John  Muriav 
When  the  sale  of  new  books  is  not  so  fleet 
As  they  who  print  them  think  is  necessary, 

May  likewise  put  off  for  a time  what  story 
Sometimes  calls  “ murder,”  and  at  others  “ glory.” 

XXVII. 

Whether  it  was  their  engineer’s  stupidity, 

Their  haste  or  waste,  I neither  know  nor  care, 

Or  some  contractor’s  personal  cupidity, 

Saving  his  soul  by  cheating  in  the  ware 
Of  homicide,  but  there  was  no  solidity 
In  the  new  batteries  erected  there ; 

They  either  miss’d,  or  they  were  never  miss’d, 

And  added  greatly  to  the  missing  list. 

xxvm. 

A sad  miscalculation  about  distance 
Made  all  their  naval  matters  incorrect ; 

Three  fireships  lost  their  amiable  existence 
Before  they  reach’d  a spot  to  take  effect : 

The  match  was  lit  too  soon,  and  no  assistance 
Could  remedy  this  lubberly  defect ; 

They  blew  up  in  the  middle  of  the  river, 

While,  though  ’twas  dawn,  the  Turks  slept  fast  as  evei.* 


(4)  [“  Un  habitude  blfimable,  celle  de  mfepriser  son  ennemi,  fut 
la  cause.” — Hist,  de  la  N.  R.  p.  203.] 

(5)  [.  . . “du  d6faut  de  perfection  dans  la  construction  des  bat- 
teries; on  voulait  agir  promptement,  et  on  negligea  de  donner  aux 
ouvrages  la  solidite  qu’ils  exigeaient.” — Ibid,  p-  203.] 

(6)  [“On  calcula  mal  la  distance;  la  mGica  esprit  fit  manquet 
reflet  de  trois  brulots ; on  se  uressa  d’allum  ;r  if  mfeche,  ils  brftl&rem 

au  milieu  du  lleuve,  et  quoioii'’l  ffit  six  heures  uu  matin,  le* 

Turcs,  encore  couches,  n en  prirent  aucun  ombrage.”—  Ibid. 
p.  203.] 


680 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


canto  yu. 


xxix. 

A.t  seven  they  rose,  however,  and  survey’d 
The  Russ  flotilla  getting  under  way ; 

’Twas  nine,  wlien  still  advancing  undismay’d. 

Within  a cable’s  length  their  vessels  lay 
Off  Ismail,  and  commenced  a cannonade, 

Which  was  return’d  with  interest,  I may  say, 

And  by  a fire  of  musketry  and  grape, 

And  shells  and  shot  of  every  size  and  shape.1 

XXX. 

For  six  hours  bore  they  without  intermission 
The  Turkish  fire,  and,  aided  by  their  own 
Land  batteries,  work’d  their  guns  with  great  precision : 
At  length  they  found  mere  cannonade  alone 
By  no  means  would  produce  the  town’s  submission, 
And  made  a signal  to  retreat  at  one. 

One  bark  blew  up,  a second  near  the  works 
Running  aground,  was  taken  by  the  Turks.2 

XXXI. 

The  Moslem,  too,  had  lost  both  ships  and  men ; 

But  when  they  saw  the  enemy  retire, 

Their  Delhis3  mann’d  some  boats,  and  sail’d  again, 
And  gall’d  the  Russians  with  a heavy  fire. 

And  tried  to  make  a landing  on  the  main ; 

But  here  the  effect  fell  short  of  their  desire  : 

Count  Damas  drove  them  back  into  the  water 
Pell-mell,  and  with  a whole  gazette  of  slaughter.4 5 6 

XXXII. 

“ If  ” (says  the  historian  here)  “ I could  report 
All  that  the  Russians  did  upon  this  day, 

I think  that  several  volumes  would  fall  short, 

And  I should  still  have  many  things  to  say  ;”f 
And  so  he  says  no  more — but  pays  his  court 
To  some  distinguish’d  strangers  in  that  fray ; 

The  Prince  de  Ligne,  and  Langeron,  and  Damas, 
Names  great  as  any  that  the  roll  of  Fame  has.fi 

XXXIII. 

This  being  the  case,  may  show  us  what  Fame  is : 

For  out  of  these  three  “ preux  Chevaliers ,”  how 
Many  of  common  readers  give  a guess 

Lhat  such  existed  ? (and  they  may  live  now 


(1)  [“lerDec.  1790.  LaflotilleRusse s’avanpavers les septlieures; 
11  en  etait  neuf  lorsqu’elle  se  trouva  a cinquante  toises  de  la  ville 
d Ismael  : elle  souffrit,  avec  une  Constance  calme,  un  feu  de  mit- 
raille  et  de  mousqueterie  . . . ’’—Hist,  de  la  N.  R.  p.  20+.] 

[.  . . “ pr&s  de  sixheures:  les  batteries  de  terre  secondaient 
la  notille : mais  on  reconnfit  alors  que  les  canonnades  ne  suffisaient 
pas  pour  reduire  la  place,  on  fit  la  retraite  k une  heure.  Un  lancor 
sauta  pendant  Taction,  un  autre  deriva  par  la  force  du  courant,  et 
fut  pris  par  les  Turcs.”— Ibid.  p.  204.] 

(3)  [“  Properly  madmen:  a species  of  troops  who,  in  the  Turkish 
army,  act  as  the  forlorn  hope.” — D’Herbelot.] 

(4)  [“  Les  Turcs  perdirent  beaucoup  de  monde  et  plusieurs  vais- 
seaux ; & peine  la  retraite  des  Russes  fut-elle  remarquee,  que  les 
plus  braves  d’entre  les  ennemis  se  jet^rent  dans  de  petites  barques 
et  essayerent  une  descente : le  Comte  de  Damas  les  mit  en  fuite,  et 
leur  tua  plusieurs  officers  et  grand  nombre  de  soldats.”— Hist,  de 
la  N.  R.  p.  204.] 

(5)  [“  On  ne  tarirait  paa  si  on  voulait  rapporter  tout  ce  que  les 
Russes  firent  de  memorable  dans  cette  journee;  pour  conter  les 
hauts  faits  d’armes,  pour  particulariser  toutes  les  actions  d’eclat,  il 
faudrait  composer  des  volumes.”— Ibid.  p.  204  ] 

(6)  [“  Parmi  les  Strangers,  le  Prince  de  Ligne  se  distingua  de 
mamere  d meriter  l’estime  genSrale;  de  vrais  chevaliers  Francais 
attires  par  l’amour  de  la  gloire,  se  montrerent  dignes  d’elle  : les 
plus  marquans  etaient  le  jeune  Due  de  Richelieu,  les  Comtes  de 
Langeron  et  Damas.”—  Ibid.  p.  204.] 

(7)  [“  Letters  and  Reflections  of  the  Austrian  Field-Marshal, 

Charles  Joseph.  Prince  de  Ligne,  edited  by  the  Baroness  de  Stael- 

Molstein,  2 vols.  1809.1 


| For  aught  we  know.)  Renown’s  all  hit  or  miss; 

I There’s  fortune  even  in  fame,  we  must  allow. 

'Tis  true,  the  Memoirs 7 * of  the  Prince  de  Ligne* 
Have  hall  withdrawn  from  him  oblivion’s  screen. 

XXXIV. 

But  here  are  men  who  fought  in  gallant  actions 
As  gallantly  as  ever  heroes  fought, 
buried  in  the  heap  of  such  transactions 
i Their  names  are  rarely  found,  nor  often  sought. 
Thus  even  good  fame  may  suffer  sad  contractions, 
And  is  extinguish’d  sooner  than  she  ought : 

Of  all  our  modem  battles,  I will  bet 

You  can’t  repeat  nine  names  from  each  Gazette. 

XXXV. 

In  short,  this  last  attack,  though  rich  in  glory, 
Show’d  that,  somewhere , somehow,  there  was  a fault. 
And  Admiral  Ribas  (known  in  Russian  story) 

Most,  strongly  recommended  an  assault ; 

In  which  he  was  opposed  by  young  and  hoary,9 
Which  made  a long  debate ; but  I must  halt, 

For  if  I wrote  down  every  warrior’s  speech, 

I doubt  few  readers  e’er  would  mount  the  breach. 

XXXVI. 

There  was  a man,  if  that  he  was  a man, 

Not  that  his  manhood  could  be  call’d  in  question, 
For  had  lie  not  been  Hercules,  his  span 
Had  been  as  short  in  youth  as  indigestion 
Made  his  last  illness,  when,  all  worn  and  wan, 

Fie  died  beneath  a tree,  as  much  unblest  on 
The  soil  of  the  green  province  he  had  wasted, 

As  e’er  was  locust  on  the  land  it  blasted. 

XXXVII. 

This  was  Potemkin10 — a great  thing  in  days 
Wlien  iiomicide  and  harlotry  made  great ; 

If  stars  and  titles  could  entail  long  praise, 

His  glory  might  half  equal  his  estate. 

This  fellow,  being  six  foot  high,  could  raise 
A kind  of  phantasy  proportionate 
In  the  then  sovereign  of  the  Russian  people. 

Who  measured  men  as  you  would  do  a steeple. 


(8)  [Charles  Joseph,  Comte  de  Ligne,  was  born  at  Brussels.  Being, 
in  1782,  sent  by  the  Emperor  Joseph  II.  on  a mission  to  Catherine,  J 
he  became  a great  favourite  with  her.  She  appointed  him  field-  j 
marshal,  and  gave  him  an  estate  in  the  Crimea.  In  1788,  he  was  ' 
sent  to  assist  Potemkin  at  the  siege  of  Oezakoff.  He  died  in  1814.J  '• 

(9)  [“  L’Amiral  Ribas  declara,  en  plein  conseil,  que  ce  n’etait  j 
qu’en  donnant  Tassaut  qu’on  obtiendrait  la  place:  cet  avis  parut  ' 
hardi ; on  lui  opposa  mille  raisons,  auxquelles  il  repondit  par  de  1 
meilleures.” — Hist  de  la  N.  R.  p.  205.] 

(10)  [The  following  character  of  Prince  Potemkin  is  from  the  I 
pen  of  Count  Segur,  who  lived  in  habits  of  intimacy  with  him  :— 

“ In  his  person  were  collected  the  most  opposite  defects  and  advan-  I 
tages  of  every  kind.  He  was  avaricious  and  ostentatious,  despotic  I 
and  obliging,  politic  and  confiding,  licentious  and  superstitious,  | 
bold  and  timid,  ambitious  and  indiscreet ; lavish  of  his  bounties  to 
his  relations,  his  mistresses,  and  his  favourites,  yet  frequently  pay- 
ing neither  his  household  nor  his  creditors.  His  consequence  | 
always  depended  on  a woman,  and  he  was  always  unfaithful  to  her.  I 
Nothing  could  equal  the  activity  of  his  mind,  nor  the  indolence  of 
his  body.  No  dangers  could  appal  his  courage ; no  difficulties  force 
him  to  abandon  his  projects.  But  the  success  of  an  enterprise  l 
always  brought  on  disgust.  Everything  with  him  was  desultory ; 
business,  pleasure,  temper,  courage.  His  presence  was  a restraint  f 
on  every  company.  He  was  morose  to  all  that  stood  in  awe  of  him,  j 
and  caressed  all  such  as  accosted  him  with  familiarity.  None  had 
read  less  than  he;  few  people  were  better  informed.  One  while  he 
formed  the  project  of  becoming  Duke  of  Courland  ; at  another  he  I 
tnought  of  bestowing  on  himself  the  crown  of  Poland.  He  fre- 
quently gave  intimation  of  an  intention  to  make  himself  a bishop, 
or  even  a simple  monk.  He  built  a superb  palace,  and  warted 


DON  JUAN. 


VII. 

XXXVIII. 

While  tilings  were  in  abeyance,  Ribas  sent 
A courier  to  the  prince,  and  he  succeeded 
In  ordering  matters  after  his  own  bent : 

I cannot  tell  the  way  in  which  he  pleaded, 

But  shortly  he  had  cause  to  be  content. 

in  the  mean  time,  the  batteries  proceeded, 

And  fourscore  cannon  or.  the  Danube’s  border 
Were  briskly  fired  and  mswer’d  in  due  order.1 

XXXIX. 

But  on  the  thirteenth,  when  already  part 
Of  the  troops  were  embark’d,  the  siege  to  raise, 

A courier  on  the  spur  inspired  new  heart 
Into  all  panters  for  newspaper  praise, 

As  well  as  dilettanti  in  war’s  art, 

By  his  despatches  couch’d  in  pithy  phrase ; 
Announcing  the  appointment  of  that  lover  of 
Battles  to  the  command,  Field-Marshal  Souvaroff.2 

XL. 

The  letter  of  the  prince  to  the  same  marshal 
Was  worthy  of  a Spartan,  had  the  cause 
Been  one  to  which  a good  heart  could  be  partial — 
Defence  of  freedom,  country,  or  of  laws  ; 

But  as  it  was  mere  lust  of  power  to  o’er-arch  all 
With  its  proud  brow,  it  merits  slight  applause, 

Save  for  its  style,  which  said,  all  in  a trice, 

“ You  will  take  Ismail  at  whatever  price.” 3 

XLI. 

“Let  there  be  light ! said  God,  and  there  was  light !” 
“ Let  there  be  blood  ! ” says  man,  and  there’s  a sea ! 
The  fiat  of  this  spoil’d  child  of  the  Night 
(For  Day  ne’er  saw  his  merits)  could  decree 
More  evil  in  an  hour,  than  thirty  bright 
Summers  could  renovate,  though  they  should  be 
Lovely  as  those  which  ripen’d  Eden’s  fruit ; 

For  war  cuts  up  not  only  branch,  but  root. 

XLII. 

Our  friends  the  Turks,  who  with  loud  “ Allahs”  now 
Began  to  signalise  the  Russ  retreat,4 
Were  damnably  mistaken ; few  are  slow 
In  thinking  that  their  enemy  is  beat, 

(Or  beaten,  if  you  insist  on  grammar,  though 
I never  think  about  it  in  a heat,) 

But  here  I say  the  Turks  were  much  mistaken, 

Who  hating  hogs,  yet  wish’d  to  save  their  bacon. 

XLIII. 

For,  on  the  sixteenth,  at  full  gallop,  drew 
In  sight  two  horsemen,  who  were  deem’d  Cossacques 
For  some  time,  till  they  came  in  nearer  view. 

They  had  but  little  baggage  at  their  backs, 


to  sell  it  before  it  was  finished.  In  his  youth  he  had  pleased  Cathe- 
rine by  the  ardour  of  his  passion,  by  his  valour,  and  by  his  mascu 
line  beauty.  Become  the  rival  of  OrlofF,  he  performed  for  his 
sovereign  whatever  the  most  romantic  passion  could  inspire.  He 
put  out  an  eye,  to  free  it  from  a blemish  which  diminished  his 
beauty.  Banished  by  his  rival,  he  ran  to  meet  death  in  battle,  and 
returned  with  glory.  He  died  in  1791.  at  the  age  of  fifty-two.”] 

1 1 ) [“Ce  projet,  remis  a un  autre  jour,  eprouva  encore  les  plus 
grandes  difficnites  ; le  courage  de  Ribas  les  surmonta : il  ne  s’agis- 
sait  que  de  d6terminer  le  Prince  Potiemkin ; il  y reussit.  Tandis 
qu’il  se  demen  ait  pour  l’execution  de  projet  agree,  on  construisait 
de  nouvel  les  batteries  ; on  comptait,  le  12  Decembre,  quatre-vingts 
pieces  de  canon  sur  le  bord  du  Danube,  et  cette  journee  se  passa 
en  vives  canonnades.”  — Histoire  de  la  Nonvelle  Russie,  tom.  ii. 
p.  205.] 

(2)  .[•*  Mais  le  13*“,  une  partie  des  troupes  etait  embarquee ; on 
allait  lever  le  si&ge:  un  courrier  arrive:  ce  courrier  annonce,  de  la 
part  du  Prince,  que  le  Marechal  Souwarowva  prendre  lecommande- 
ment  des  forces  reunies  sous  Ismael.” — Ibid.  p.  205.] 


68 1 

For  there  were  but  three  shirts  between  the  two  ; 

But  on  they  rode  upon  two  Ukraine  hacks. 

Till,  in  approaching,  were  at  length  descried 
In  this  plain  pair,  Suwarrow  and  his  guide.5 

XLIV. 

“ Great  joy  to  London  now  ! ” says  some  great  fool. 
When  London  had  a grand  illumination, 

Which  to  that  bottle-conjuror,  John  Bull, 

Is  of  all  dreams  the  first  hallucination ; 

So  that  the  streets  of  colour’d  lamps  are  full, 

That  Sage  (said  John)  surrenders  at  discretion 
His  purse,  his  soul,  his  sense,  and  even  his  nonsenset 
To  gratify,  like  a huge  moth,  this  one  sense. 

XLV. 

’Tis  strange  that  he  should  farther  “ damn  his  eyes,” 
For  they  are  damn’d  : that  once  all  famous  oath 
Is  to  the  devil  now  no  farther  prize, 

Since  John  has  lately  lost  the  use  of  both. 

Debt  he  calls  wealth,  and  taxes  Paradise  ; 

And  Famine,  with  her  gaunt  and  bony  growth, 
Which  stare  him  in  the  face,  he  won’t  examine, 

Or  swears  that  Ceres  hath  begotten  Famine. 

XLV  I. 

But  to  the  tale  ; — great  joy  unto  the  camp  ! 

To  Russian,  Tartar,  English,  French,  Cossacque, 
O’er  whom  Suwarrow  shone  like  a gas  lamp, 

Presaging  a most  luminous  attack  ; 

Or  like  a wisp  along  the  marsh  so  damp, 

Which  leads  beholders  on  a boggy  walk, 

He  flitted  to  and  fro  a dancing  light, 

Which  all  who  saw  it  follow’d,  wrong  or  right. 

XLVII. 

But  certes  matters  took  a different  face ; 

There  was  enthusiasm  and  much  applause, 

The  fleet  and  camp  saluted  with  great  grace. 

And  all  presaged  good  fortune  to  their  cause. 

With  a cannon-shot  length  of  the  place 

They  drew,  constructed  ladders,  repair’d  flaws 
In  former  works,  made  new,  prepared  fascines,6 
And  all  kinds  of  benevolent  machines. 

XLVIII. 

’Tis  thus  the  spirit  of  a single  mind 

Makes  that  of  multitudes  take  one  direction. 

As  roll  the  waters  to  the  breathing  wind, 

Or  roams  the  herd  beneath  the  bull’s  protection ; 

Or  as  a little  dog  will  lead  the  blind, 

Or  a bell-wether  form  the  flock’s  connection 
By  tinkling  sounds,  when  they  go  forth  to  victual  ; 
Such  is  the  sway  of  your  great  men  o’er  little. 


(3)  [“La  lettre  du  Prince  Potiemkin  a Souwarowest  tr6s  courte; 
elle  peint  le  caractere  de  ces  deux  personnages.  La  voici  dans 
toute  sa  teneur : ‘ Vous  prendrez  Ismael  a quel  prix  que  ce  soit ! ' " 
Hist,  de  la  N.  R.  p.  205.] 

(4)  [“Le  courrier  est  temoin  des  cris  de  joie  (Allahs)  du  Turc, 
qui  se  croyait  h la  fin  de  ses  maux.” — Ibid.  p.  205.] 

(5)  [“Le  16e,  on  voit  venir  de  loin  deux  liommes  courant  a toute 
bride:  on  les  prit  pour  des  Kosaks;  1’un  etait  Souwarow,  et  Pautre 
son  guide,  portant  un  paquet  gros  comme  le  poing,  et  renfermant  le 
bagage  du  general.”  — Ibid.  p.  205.] 

(6)  [“Les  succ^s  multiplies  de  Souwarow,  sa  bravoure  a toute 
epreuve,  la  confidence  que  le  soldat  avait  en  lui,  produisirent  un 
enthousiasme  general:  une  salve  des  batteries  du  camp  et  de  la 
flotte  celebrerent  son  arrivee,  et  l’espoir  du  succes  ranima  les  esprits. 
Les  choses  prennent  le  rr.eme  jour  une  autre  tournure;  le  camp  se 
rapproehe  et  s’<etablit  a la  portee  du  canon  de  la  place  ; on  prepare 
des  fascines,  on  eonstruit  des  echelles,  on  etablit  des  batteries 
nouvelles.” — Ibid.  p.  206.] 

4 S 


682 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VII 


XLIX. 

The  whole  camp  rung  with  jov  ; you  would  have 
thought 

That  they  were  going  to  a marriage  feast 
(This  metaphor,  I think,  holds  good  as  aught, 

Since  there  is  discord  after  both  at  least) : 

There  was  not  now  a luggage -boy  but  sought 
Danger  and  spoil  with  ardour  much  increased 
And  why  ? because  a little — odd — old  man, 

Stript  to  his  shirt,  was  come  to  lead  the  van. 

L. 

But  so  it  was  ; and  every  preparation 
Was  made  with  all  alacrity  : the  first 
Detachment  of  three  columns  took  its  station, 

And  waited  but  the  signal’s  voice  to  burst 
Upon  the  foe : the  second’s  ordination 
Was  also  in  three  columns,  with  a thirst 
For  glory  gaping  o’er  a sea  of  slaughter : 

The  third,  in  columns  two,  attack’d  by  water.2 

LI. 

New  batteries  were  erected,  and  was  held 
A general  council,  in  which  unanimity. 

That  stranger  to  most  councils,  here  prevail’d,3 
As  sometimes  happens  in  a great  extremity ; 

And  every  difficulty  being  dispell’d, 

Glory  began  to  dawn  with  due*sublimity, 

While  Souvaroff,  determined  to  obtain  it, 

Was  teaching  his  recruits  to  use  the  bayonet.4 

LII. 

It  is  an  actual  fact,  that  he,  commander 
In  chief,  in  proper  person  deign’d  to  drill 
The  awkward  squad,  and  could  afford  to  squander 
His  time,  a corporal’s  duty  to  fulfil ; 

Just  as  you’d  break  a sucking  salamander 
To  swallow  flame,  and  never  take  it  ill : 

He  sliow’d  them  how  to  mount  a ladder  (which 
Was  not  like  Jacob’s)  or  to  cross  a ditch.5 

LIII. 

Also  he  dress’d  up,  for  the  nonce,  fascines 
Like  men  with  turbans,  scimitars,  and  dirks, 

And  made  them  charge  with  bayonet  these  machines, 
By  way  of  lesson  against  actual  Turks  ;6 
And  when  well  practised  in  these  mimic  scenes, 

He  judged  them  proper  to  assail  the  works  ; 

At  which  your  wise  men  sneer’d  in  phrases  witty : 

He  made  no  answer  ; but  lie  took  the  city. 

LIV. 

Most  things  were  in  this  posture  on  the  eve 
Of  the  assault,  and  all  the  camp  was  in 
A stem  repose  ; which  you  would  scarce  conceive  ; 

Yet  men  resolved  to  dash  through  thick  and  thin 
Are  very  silent  when  they  once  believe 
That  all  is  settled  : — there  v/as  little  din, 

For  some  were  thinking  of  their  home  and  friends, 
And  others  of  themselves  and  latter  ends. 


IV. 

Suwarrow  chiefly  was  on  the  alert, 

Surveying,  drilling,  ordering,  jesting,  pondering; 
For  the  man  was,  we  safely  may  assert, 

A thing  to  wonder  at  beyond  most  wondering ; 
Hero,  buffoon,  half-demon,  and  half-dirt, 

Praying,  instructing,  desolating,  plundering; 

Now  Mars,  now  Momus  ; and  when  bent  to  storm  , 

A fortress,  Harlequin  in  uniform. 

LVI. 

The  day  before  the  assault,  while  upon  drill — 

For  this  great  conqueror  play’d  the  corporal — 

Some  Cossacques,  hovering  like  hawks  round  a hill. 

Had  met  a party  towards  the  twilight’s  fall, 

One  of  whom  spoke  their  tongue — or  well  or  ill,  . 

’Twas  much  that  he  was  understood  at  all ; 

But  whether  from  his  voice,  or  speech,  or  manner,  . I 
They  found  that,  he  had  fought  beneath  their  banner.  | 

LVIT. 

Whereon  immediately  at  his  request 
They  brought  him  and  his  comrades  to  head-quarters; 
Their  dress  was  Moslem,  but  you  might  have  guess’d  ! 

That  these  were  merely  masquerading  Tartars, 

And  that  beneath  each  Turkish-fashion’d  vest 
Lurk’d  Christianity ; which  sometimes  barters 
Her  inward  grace  for  outward  show,  and  makes 
It  difficult  to  shun  some  strange  mistakes. 

LVIII. 

Suwarrow,  who  was  standing  in  his  shirt 
Before  a company  of  Calmucks,  drilling, 

Exclaiming,  fooling,  swearing  at  the  inert, 

And  lecturing  on  the  noble  art  of  killing, — 

For  deeming  human  clay  but  common  dirt, 

This  great  philosopher  was  thus  instilling 
His  maxims,  which  to  martial  comprehension 
Proved  death  in  battle  equal  to  a pension  ; — 

LIX. 

Suwarrow,  when  he  saw  this  company  | 1 

Of  Cossacques  and  their  prey,  turn’d  round  and  cast 
Upon  them  his  slow  brow  and  piercing  eye  : — 

“ Whence  come  ye  ?”— “ From  Constantinople  last, j 
Captives  just  now  escaped,”  was  the  reply. 

“ What  are  ye?” — “What  you  see  us.”  Briefly  pass’d! 
This  dialogue  ; for  he  who  answer’d  knew 
To  whom  he  spoke,  and  made  his  words  but  few. 

LX. 

“ Your  names  ?” — “Mine’s  Johnson,  and  my  comrade’s? 
Juan ; 

The  other  two  are  women,  and  the  third 
Is  neither  man  nor  woman.”  The  chief  threw  on  | 
The  party  a slight  glance,  then  said,  “ I have  heardj 
Your  name  before,  the  second  is  a new  one : 

To  bring  the  other  three  here  was  absurd : 

But  let  that  pass  I think  I have  heard  your  name 
In  the  Nikolaiew  regiment  ?’’ — “ The  same.” 


(1)  [“L’ardeur  de  Souwarow,  son  incroyable  activity,  son  nrtepris 
(1,-s  dangers,  sa  presque  certitude  de  reussir,  son  arae  enfin  s’est 
comrr.uniquee  k l’armee;  il  n’est  pas  jusqu’au  dernier  goujat  qui  ne 
desire  d’obtenir  l’honneur  de  monter  k l’assaut.” — Mist.  deluN.  R. 
p 206  ] 

(2)  [“  La  premiere  attaque  etait  composee  de  trois  colonnes— trots 
autres  colonnes,  destinees  k la  seconde  attaaue,  avaient  pour  chefs, 
fee. — La  troiiteme  attaque  par  eau  r avoit  que  deux  colonnes.”— 
Ib  d.  p.  207.] 

3)  f On  construisit  d®  -"uveites  batteries  le  18<‘.  On  tint  un 


conseil  de  guerre,  on  y examina  les  plans  p«ur  l’assaut  • ils  reunirent 

tous  les  souffrages.” — Hist,  de  la  N.  R . p.  208.] 

(4)  Fact:  Suwaroff  did  this  in  person. 

(5)  [“  Le  19e  et  le  20e,  Souwarow  exerpa  les  soldats;  il  leur  tnon-j 
tra  comment  il  fallait  s’y  prendre  pour  escalader;  il  enseigna  auxj 
recrues  la  maniere  de  donner  le  coupde  baionette.” — Ibid,  p 208.J  I 

(6)  [“  Pour  ces  exerciccs  d’un  nouveau  genre,  il  se  servit  dej 
fascines  disposees  de  mantere  a repr6senter  un  Turc.'"  Ibtd  \ 
P 208/j 


CANTO  VII. 


DON  JUAN. 


683 


LXI. 

“You  served  at.  Widdin?” — “Yes.” — “You  led  tlie 
attack  ? ” 

“I  did.” — “What next  ?”— "I  really  hardly  know.” 
“ You  were  the  first  i’  the  breach  ?” — “ I was  not  slack 
At  least  to  follow  those  who  might  be  so  ” 

« What  follow’d  ?” — “ A shot  laid  me  on  my  back, 
And  I became  a prisoner  to  the  foe.” 

“ You  shall  have  vengeance,  for  the  town  surrounded 
Is  twice  as  strong  as  that  where  you  were  wounded. 

LXII. 

“ Where  will  you  serve  ?” — “ Where’er  you  please.” — 
“ I know 

You  like  to  be  the  hope  of  the  forlorn, 

And  doubtless  would  be  foremost  on  the  foe 
After  the  hardships  you’ve  already  borne. 

And  this  young  fellow — say  what  can  he  do  ? 

He  with  the  beardless  chin  and  garments  torn  ?” 
Why,  general,  if  he  hath  no  greater  fault 
In  war  than  love,  he  had  better  lead  the  assault.” 

LXIII. 

“He  shall  if  that  he  dare.”  Here  Juan  bow’d 
Low  as  the  compliment  deserved.  Suwarrow 
Continued  : “ Your  old  regiment’s  allow’d, 

By  special  providence,  to  lead  to-morrow, 

Or  it  may  be  to-night,  the  assault : I have  vow’d 
To  several  saints,  that  shortly  plough  or  harrow 
Shall  pass  o’er  what  was  Ismail,  and  its  tusk 
Be  unimpeded  by  the  proudest  mosque. 

LXIV. 

“ So  now,  my  lads,  for  glory !” — Here  he  turn’d 
And  drill’d  away  in  the  most  classic  Russian, 

Until  each  high,  heroic  bosom  burn’d 
Bor  cash  and  conquest,  as  if  from  a cushion 
A preacher  had  held  forth  (who  nobly  spurn’d  [on 
All  earthly  goods  save  tithes)  and  bade  them  push 
To  slay  the  Pagans  who  resisted,  battering 
The  armies  of  the  Christian  Empress  Catherine. 

LXV. 

Johnson,  who  knew  by  this  long  colloquy 
Himself  a favourite,  ventured  to  address 
Suwarrow,  though  engaged  with  accents  high 
In  his  resumed  amusement,  “ I confess 
My  debt  in  being  thus  allow’d  to  die 
Among  the  foremost ; but  if  you’d  express 
Explicitly  our  several  posts,  my  friend 
And  self  would  know  what  duty  to  attend.” 

LX  VI. 

r Right ! I was  busy,  and  forgot.  Why,  you 
Will  join  your  former  regiment,  which  should  be 
Now  under  arms.  Ho  ! Katskoff,  take  him  to — 
(Here  lie  call’d  up  a Polish  orderly) 

His  post,  I mean  the  regiment  Nikolaiew  : 

The  stranger  stripling  may  remain  with  me  ; 

He’s  a fine  boy.  The  woman  may  be  sent 
To  the  other  baggage,  or  to  the  sick  tent.” 

LXVII. 

But  here  a sort  of  scene  began  to  ensue : 

Z.  The  ladies, — who  by  no  means  had  been  bred 
To  be  disposed  of  in  a way  so  new, 

Although  their  harem  education  led 
Doubtless  to  that  of  doctrines  the  most  true, 

Passive  obedience, — now  raised  up  the  head, 

With  flashing  eyes  and  starting  tears,  and  flung 
Their  arms,  as-  hens  their  wings  about  their  young, 


LX  VIII. 

O’er  the  promoted  couple  of  brave  men 

Who  were  thus  honour’d  by  the  greatest  chief 
That  ever  peopled  hell  with  heroes  slain,  _ 

Or  plunged  a province  or  a realm  in  grief. 

Oh,  foolish  mortals  ! Always  taught  in  vam ! 

Oh,  glorious  laurel ! ‘since  for  one  sole  leaf 
Of  thine  imaginary  deathless  tree, 

Of  blood  and  tears  must  flow  the  unebbing  sea, 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow,  who  had  small  regard  for  tears, 

And  not  much  sympathy  for  blood,  survey’d 
The  women  with  their  hair  about  their  ears 
And  natural  agonies,  with  a slight  shade 
Of  feeling  : for  however  habit  sears 

Men’s  hearts  against  whole  millions,  when  their  trade 
Is  butchery,  sometimes  a single  sorrow 
Will  touch  even  heroes — and  such  was  Suwarrow. 

LXX. 

He  said, — and  in  the  kindest  Calmuck  tone, — 

“ Why,  Johnson,  what  the  devil  do  you  mean 
By  bringing  women  here  ? They  shall  be  shown 
All  the  attention  possible,  and  seen 
In  safety  to  the  waggons,  where  alone 

In  fact  they  can  "be  safe.  You  should  have  been 
Aware  this  kind  of  baggage  never  thrives  : 

Save  wed  a year,  I hate  recruits  with  wives.” 

LXXI. 

“ May  it  please  your  excellency,”  thus  replied 

Our  Brit-is^  friend,  “these  are  the  wives  of  others, 
And  not  our  own.  I am  too  qualified 
By  service  with  my  military  brothers 
To  break  the  rules  by  bringing  one’s  own  bride 
Into  a camp  : I know  that  nought  so  bothers 
The  hearts  of  the  heroic  on  a charge, 

As  leaving  a small  family  at  large. 

LXXII. 

“ But  these  are  but  two  Turkish  ladies,  who 
With  their  attendant  aided  our  escape, 

And  afterwards  accompanied  us  through 
A thousand  perils  in  this  dubious  shape. 

To  me  this  kind  of  life  is  not  so  new ; 

To  them,  poor  things,  it  is  an  awkward  scrape. 

I therefore,  if  you  wish  me  to  fight  freely, 

Request  that  they  may  both  be  used  genteelly.” 

LXXIII. 

Meantime  these  two  poor  girls,  with  swimming  eyesj 
Look’d  on  as  if  in  doubt  if  they  could  trust 
Their  own  protectors  ; nor  was  their  surprise 
Less  than  their  grief  (and  truly  not  less  just) 

To  see  an  old  man,  rather  wild  than  wise 
In  aspect,  plainly  clad,  besmear’d  with  dust, 

Stript  to  his  waistcoat,  and  that  not  too  clean, 

More  fear’d  than  all  the  sultans  ever  seen. 

LXXIV. 

Eor  every  thing  seem’d  resting  on  his  nod, 

As  they  could  read  in  all  eyes.  Now  to  the-m, 
Who  were  accustom’d,  as  a sort  of  god. 

To  see  the  sultan,  rich  in  many  a gem, 

Like  an  imperial  peacock  stalk  abroad 
(That  royal  bird,  whose  tail’s  a diadem,) 

With  all  the  pomp  of  power,  it  was  a doubt 
How  power  could  condescend  to  do  without. 


684 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VI] 


LXXV. 

John  Johnson,  seeing  their  extreme  dismay, 

Though  little  versed  in  feelings  oriental, 

Suggested  some  slight. comfort  in  his  way: 

Don  Juan,  who  was  much  more  sentimental, 

Swore  they  should  see  him  by  the  dawn  of  day, 

Or  that  the  Russian  army  should  repent  all : 

And,  strange  to -say,  they  found  some  consolation 
In  this— for  females  like  exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And  then  with  tears,  and  sighs,  and  some  slight  kisses, 
They  parted  for  th.e  present — these  to  await, 
According  to  the  artillery’s  hits  or  misses, 

What  sages  call  Chance,  Providence,  or  Fate — 
(Uncertainty  is  one  of  many  blisses, 

A mortgage  on  Humanity’s  estate) — . 

While  their  beloved  friends  began  to  arm, 

To  burn  a town  which  never  did  them  harm. 

LXXV1I. 

Suwarrow, — who  but  saw  things  in  the  gross, 

Being  much  too  gross  to  see  them  in  detail. 

Who  calculated  life  as  so  much  dross, 

And  as  the  wind  a widow’d  nation’s  wail, 

And  cared  as  little  for  his  army’s  loss 

(So  that  their  efforts  should  at  length  prevail) 

As  wife  and  friends  did  for  the  boils  of  Job, — 

What  was’t  to  him  to  hear  two  women  sob  ? 

LXXVIII. 

• 

Nothing. — The  work  of  glory  still  went  on 
In  preparation  for  a cannonade 
As  terrible  as  that  of  Ilion, 

If  Homer  had  found  mortars  ready  made ; 

But  now,  instead  of  slaying  Priam’s  son, 

We  only  can  but  talk  of  escalade, 

Bombs,  drums,  guns,  bastions,  batteries,  bayonets, 
bullets  ; 

Hard  words,  which  stick  in  the  soft  Muses’  gullets. 

LXXIX. 

otrrnal  Homer!  who  couldst  charm 
au  cars,  though  long ; all  ages,  though  so  short, 

By  merely  wielding  with  poetic  arm 

Arms  to  which  men  will  never  more  resort, 

Unless  gunpowder  should  be  found  to  harm 
Much  less  than  is  the  hope  of  every  court, 

Which  now  is  leagued  young  Freedom  to  annoy ; 

But  they  will  not  find  Liberty  a Troy  : — 

LXXX. 

Oh,  thou  eternal  Homer  ! I have  now 

To  paint  a siege,  wherein  more  men  were  slain, 
With  deadlier  engines  and  a speedier  blow, 

Than  in  thy  Greek  gazette  of  that  campaign ; 

And  yet,  like  all  men  else,  I must  allow, 

To  vie  with  thee  would  be  about  as  vain 
As  for  a brook  to  cope  with  ocean’s  flood  ; 

But  still  we  moderns  equal  you  in  blood ; 

LXXXI. 

[f  not,  in  poetry,  at  least  in  fact ; 

And  fact  is  truth,  the  grand  desideratum  ! 

Of  which,  howe’er  the  Muse  describes  each  act, 

There  should  be  ne’ertheless  a slight  substratum. 


But  now  the  town  is  going  to  be  attack’d ; 

Great  deeds  are  doing — how  shall  I relate  ’em  ? 
Souls  of  immortal  generals  ! Phoebus  watches 
To  colour  up  his  rays  from  your  despatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh,  ye  great  bulletins  of  Bonaparte  ! 

Oh,  ye  less  grand  long  lists  of  kill’d  and  wounded  • 
Shade  of  Leonidas,  who  fought  so  hearty, 

When  my  poor  Greece  was  once,  as  now,  sur 
rounded  ! 

Oh,  Csesar’s  Commentaries ! now  impart,  ye 
Shadows  of  glory  ! (lest  I be  confounded) 

A portion  of  your  fading  twilight  hues. 

So  beautiful,  so  fleeting,  to  the  Muse. 

LXXXIII. 

When  I call  “ fading”  martial  immortality, 

I mean,  that  every  age  and  every  year, 

And  almost  every  day,  in  sad  reality, 

Some  sucking  hero  is  compell’d  to  rear, 

Who,  when  we  come  to  sum  up  the  totality 
Of  deeds  to  human  happiness  most  dear, 

Turns  out  to  be  a butcher  in  great  business, 

Afflicting  young  folks  with  a sort  of  dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 

Medals,  rank,  ribands,  lace,  embroidery,  scarlet 
Are  things  immortal  to  immortal  man, 

As  purple  to  the  Babylonian  harlot : 

An  uniform  to  boys  is  like  a fan 
To  women;  there  is  scarce  a crimson  varlet 
But  deems  himself  the  first  in  Glory’s  van. 

But  Glory’s  glory ; and  if  you  would  find 
What  that  is — ask  the  pig  who  sees  the  wind  > 

LXXXV. 

At  least  he  feels  it , and  some  say  he  sees, 

Because  he  runs  before  it  like  a pig ; 

Or,  if  that  simple  sentence  should  displease, 

Say,  that  he  scuds  before  it  like  a brig, 

A schooner,  or — but  it  is  time  to  ease 

This  Canto,  ere  my  Muse  perceives  fatigue. 

The  next  shall  ring  a peal  to  shake  all  people, 

Like  a bob-major  from  a village  steeple. 

LXXXVI. 

Hark  ! through  the  silence  of  the  cold,  dull  i,  rfht, 
The  hum  of  armies  gathering  rank  on  rank : 

Lo ! dusky  masses  steal  in  dubious  sight 
Along  the  leaguer’d  wall  and  bristling  bank 
Of  the  arm’d  river,  while  with  straggling  light 

The  stars  peep  through  the  vapours  dim  and  dank, 
Which  curl  in  curious  wreaths  : — how  soon  the  smoke 
Of  Hell  shall  pall  them  in  a deeper  cloak  ! 

^ LXXXVIT. 

Here  pause  we  for  the  present — as  even  then 
That  awful  pause,  dividing  life  from  death. 

Struck  for  an  instant  on  the  hearts  of  men, 

Thousands  of  whom  were  drawing  their  last  breath  ! 
A moment — and  all  will  be  life  again  ! 

The  march  ! the  charge  ! the  shouts  of  either  faith  ! 
Hurra  ! and  Allah  ! and — one  moment  more — 

The  death-cry  drowning  in  the  battle’s  roar. 


C N TO  VIII. 


DON  JUAN. 


23  on  gjuan. 


CANTO  THE  EIGHTH.1 


I. 

Oh  blood  and  thunder ! and  oh  blood  and  wounds ! 

These  are  but  vulgar  oaths,  as  you  may  deem, 

Too  gentle  reader  ! and  most  shocking  sounds  : 

And  so  they  are ; yet  thus  is  glory’s  dream 
Unriddled,  and  as  my  true  Muse  expounds 
' At  present  such  things,  since  they  are  her  theme, 
So  be  they  her  inspirers  ! Call  them  Mars, 

Bellona,  what  you  will — they  mean  but  wars. 

IT. 

All  was  prepared — the  fire,  the  sword,  the  men 
To  wield  them  in  their  terrible  array. 

The  army,  like  a lion  from  his  den, 

March’d  forth  with  nerve  and  sinews  bent  to  slay, — 
A human  Hydra,  issuing  from  its  fen 
To  breathe  destruction  on  its  winding  way, 

Whose  heads  were  heroes,  which  cut  off  in  vain, 
Immediately  in  others  grew  again. 

ill. 

History  can  only  take  things  in  the  gross; 

But  could  we  know  them  in  detail,  perchance 
In  balancing  the  profit  and  the  loss. 

War’s  merit  it  by  no  means  might  enhance, 

To  waste  so  much  gold  for  a little  dross, 

As  hath  been  done,  mere  conquest  to  advance. 

The  drying  up  a single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  fame,  than  shedding  seas  of  gore. 

IV. 

And  why  ? because  it  brings  self-approbation  ; 

Whereas  tiie  other,  after  all  its  glare, 

Shouts,  bridges,  arches,  pensions  from  a nation, 
Which  (it  may  be)  has  not  much  left  to  spare, 

A higher  title,  or  a loftier  station, 

Though  they  may  make  Corruption  gape  or  stare. 
Yet,  in  the  end,  except  in  Freedom’s  battles, 

Are  nothing  but  a child  of  Murder’s  rattles. 

v. 

And  such  are  they, — and  such  they  will  be  found  : 
Not  so  Leonidas  and  Washington, 

(1)  [This  Canto  is  almost  entirely  filled  with  the  taking  of  Ismail 
by  storm.  It  would  be  absurd  to  attempt,  in  prose,  even  a feeble 
outline  of  the  varied  horrors  which  marked  that  celebrated  scene 
of  ruthless  and  indiscriminate  carnage ; the  noble  writer  has  de- 
picted them  all  with  that  vivid  and  appalling  fidelity,  which,  on 
such  a theme,  might  be  expected  from  his  powerful  muse;  and,  if 
any  thing  can  add  to  the  shuddering  sensation  we  experience  in 
reading  these  terrific  details,  it  is  the  consideration  that  poetry,  in 
this  instance,  instead  of  dealing  in  fiction,  must  necessarily  relate  a 
tale  that  falls  short  of  the  truth. — Campbell.] 

(2)  [“La  nuit  etait  obscure;  un  brouillard  epais  ne  nous  per- 
mettait  de  distinguer  autre  chose  que  le  feu  de  notre  artillerie,  dont 
1’homon  etait  embrase  de  tous  cotes:  ce  feu,  pirtant  du  milieu  du 
Danube,  se  reflechissait  sur  les  eaux,  et  offrait  un  coup  d’oeil  tr6s 
•ingulier.” — Hist,  de  la  Nouvelle  Russia,  tom.  iii.  p.  209.] 

(3)  [“  A peine  eut  on  parcouru  1’espace  de'quelques  toises  au- 
deia  des  batteries,  que  le>  Turcs,  qui  n’avaient  point  tire  pendant 
toute  la  nuit  s’apperpevant  de  nos  mouvemens,  commencerent  de 
leur  cote  un  feu  tres-vif,  qui  embrasa  le  reste  de  l’horizon  : mais  ce 
fut  bien  autre  chose  lorsque,  avances  davantage,  le  feu  de  la  mous- 
queterie  commenpa  dans  toute  l’etendue  du  rempart  que  nous  ap- 
pereevions.  Ce  fut  alors  que  la  place  parut  k nos  yeux  comme  un 
volcan  dont  le  feu  sortait  de  toutes  parties.” — Ibid.  p.  209.] 


Whose  every  battle-field  is  holy  ground. 

Which  breathes  of  nations  saved,  not  worlds  undone. 
How  sweetly  on  the  ear  such  echoes  sound ! 

While  the  mere  victor’s  may  appal  or  stun 
The  servile  and  the  vain,  such  names  will  be 
A watchword  till  the  future  shall  be  free. 

VI. 

The  night  was  dark,  and  tire  thick  mist  allow’d 
Nought  to  be  seen  sa:.e  the  artillery’s  flame. 

Which  arch’d  the  horizon  like  a fiery  cloud, 

And  in  the  Danube’s  waters  shone  the  same — 2 
A mirror’d  hell ! the  volleying  roar,  and  loud 
Long  booming  of  each  peal  on  peal,  o’ercame 
The  ear  far  more  than  thunder;  for  Heaven’s  flashes 
Spare,  or  smite  rarely — man’s  make  millions  ashes  ! 

VII. 

The  column  order’d  on  the  assault  scarce  pass’d 
Beyond  the  Russian  batteries  a few  toises, 

When  up  the  bristliug  Moslem  rose  at  last, 

Answering  the  Christian  thunders  with  like  voices 
Then  one  vast  fire,  air,  earth,  and  stream  embraced, 
Which  rock’d  as  ’twere  beneath  the  mighty  noises ; 
While  the  whole  rampart  blazed  like  Etna,  when 
The  restless  Titan  hiccups  in  his  den.3 

VIII. 

And  one  enormous  shout  of  “Allah  !”4  rose 
In  the  same  moment,  loud  as  even  the  roar 
Of  war’s  most  mortal  engines,  to  their  foes 
Hurling  defiance : city,  stream,  and  shore 
Resounded  “Allah  !”  and  the  clouds  which  close 
With  thickening  canopy  the  conflict  o’er, 

Vibrate  to  the  Eternal  name.  Hark  ! through 
All  sounds  it  pierceth  “ Allah  ! Allah  S Flu!”5 

IX. 

The  columns  were  in  movement  one  and  all, 

But  of  the  portion  which  attacked  by  water, 
Thicker  than  leaves  the  lives  began  to  fall,6 

Though  led  by  Arseniew,  that  great  son  of  slaughter, 
As  brave  as  ever  faced  both  bomb  and  ball. 

“Carnage”  (so  Wordsworth  tells  you)  “is  God’s 
daughter  :”7 

If  he  speak  truth,  she  is  Christ’s  sister,  and 
Just  now  behaved  as  in  the  Holy  Land. 

x. 

The  Prince  de  Ligne  was  wounded  in  the  knee  ; 

Count  Chapeau-Bras,  too,  had  a ball  between 
IFis  cap  and  head,8  which  proves  the  head  to  be 
Aristocratic  as  was  ever  seen, 


(4)  [“  Un  cri  universel  d 'Allah!  qui  se  repetait  tout  autour  de  la 
ville,  vint  encore  rendre  plus  extraordinaire  cet  instant,  dont  il  est 
impossible  de  se  faire  une  idee.” — Hist,  de  la  N.  R.  p.  209.] 

(5)  Allah  Hu!  is  properly  the  war  cry  of  the  Mussulmans,  and 
they  dwell  on  the  last  syllable,  which  gives  it  a wild  and  peculiar 
effect. 

(6)  [“  Toutes  les  colonnes  etaient  en  mouvement;  celles  qui  atta- 
quaient  par  eau  commandoes  par  le  general  Arseniew,  essuyerent 
un  feu  epouvantable,  et  perdirent  avant  le  jour  un  tiers  de  leurs 
officiers.” — Ibid.\ 

(7)  But  Thy*  most  dreaded  instrument 

In  working  out  a pure  intent, 

Is  man  array’d  for  mutual  slaughter; 

Yea,  Carnage  is  thy  daughter  l” 

Worosworth’s  Thanksgiving  Ode. 

(8)  [“  Le  Prince  de  Ligne  fut  blesse  au  genou  ; le  Due  de  Riche 
lieu  eut  une  balle  entre  le  fond  de  son  bonnet  et  sa  tete.” — Hist,  at 
la  Nouvelle  Russia,  t.  iii.  p.2 10.] 


* To  wit,  the  Deity’s:  this  is  perhaps  as  pretty  a pedigree  fo> 
murder  as  ever  was  found  out  by  Garter  King  at  Arms. — What 
would  have  been  said,  had  any  free-spoken  people  discovered  such 
a lineage? 


686 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  Vin 


' Because  it  then  received  no  injury 

Mbre  than  the  cap ; in  fact,  the  ball  could  mean 
No  harm  unto  a right  legitimate  head: 

“Ashes  to  ashes” — why  not  lead  to  lead  ? 

XI. 

Also  the  General  Markow,  Brigadier, 

Insisting  on  removal  of  the  prince 
Amidst  some  groaning  thousands  dying  near, — 

All  common  fellows,  who  might  writhe  and  wince. 
And  shriek  for  water  into  a deaf  ear, — 

The  General  Markow,  who  could  thus  evinGe 
His  sympathy  for  rank,  by  the  same  token, 

To  teach  him  greater,  had  his  own  leg  broken.1 

XII. 

Three  hundred  cannon  threw  up  their  emetic, 

And  thirty  thousand  muskets  flung  their  pills 
Like  hail,  to  make  a bloody  diuretic.2 

Mortality  ! thou  hast  thy  monthly  bills ; 

Thy  plagues,  thy  famines,  thy  physicians,  yet  tick, 
Like  the  death-watch,  within  our  ears  the  ills 
Past,  present,  and  to  come ; — but  all  may  yield 
To  the  true  portrait  of  one  battle-field. 

XIII. 

There  the  still  varying  pangs,  which  multiply 
Until  their  very  number  makes  men  hard 
By  the  infinities  of  agony, 

Which  meet  the  gaze,  whate’er  it  may  regard — 
The  groan,  the  roll  in  dust,  the  all-white  eye 
Turn’d  back  within  its  socket, — these  reward 
Your  rank  and  file  by  thousands,  while  the  rest 
May  win  perhaps  a riband  at  the  breast ! 

XIV. 

Yet  I love  glory ; — glory’s  a great  thing : — 

Think  what  it  is  to  be  in  your  old  age 
Maintain’d  at  the  expense  of  your  good  king : 

A moderate  pension  shakes  full  many  a sage. 

And  heroes  are  but  made  for  bards  to  sing, 

Which  is  still  better ; thus  in  verse  to  wage 
Your  wars  eternally,  besides  enjoying 
Half-pay  for  life,  make  mankind  worth  destroying. 

xv. 

The  troops,  already  disembark’d,  push’d  on 
To  take  a battery  on  the  right ; the  others. 

Who  landed  lower  down,  their  landing  done, 

Had  set  to  work  as  briskly  as  their  brothers  : 
Being  grenadiers,  they  mounted  one  by  one, 

Cheerful  as  children  climb  the  breasts  of  mothers, 
O'er  the  entrenchment  and  the  palisade,3 
Quite  orderly,  as  if  upon  parade. 

xvi. 

And  this  was  admirable  ; for  so  hot 

The  fire  was,  that  were  red  Vesuvius  loaded, 
Besides  its  lava,  with  all  sorts  of  shot 

And  shells  or  hells,  it  could  not  more  have  goaded. 
Of  officers  a third  fell  on  the  spot, 

A thing  which  victory  by  no  means  boded 
To  gentlemen  engaged  in  the  assault : 

Hounds,  when  the  huntsman  tumbles,  are  at  fault. 


(1)  [“  Le  brigadier  Markow,  insistant  pour  qu’on  emportat  le 
prince  blesse,  refut  un  coup  de  fusil  qui  lui  fracassa  le  pied.” — 
Hist,  de  la  Nouvelle  Russie,  tom.  iii.  p.  210.] 

(2)  [“  Trois  cents  bouches  a feu  vomissaient  sans  interruption,  et 
trente  mille  fusils  alimentaient  sans  relache  une  grele  de  balles.” — 
Ibid.  p.  210.] 

(3)  [“  Les  troupes,  dej4  debarquees,  se  portfcrent  & droite  pour 

■’•mparer  d’un  batterie  ; et  celles  debarquees  plus  bas,  principale- 


XVII. 

But  here  I leave  the  general  concern, 

To  track  our  hero  on  his  path  of  fame  : 

He  must  his  laurels  separately  earn ; 

Bor  fifty  thousand  heroes,  name  by  name, 

Though  all  deserving  equally  to  turn 
A couplet,  or  an  elegy  to  claim, 

Would  form  a lengthy  lexicon  of  glory. 

And  what  is  worse  still,  a much  longer  story : 

XVIII. 

And  therefore  we  must  give  the  greater  number ' 

To  the  Gazette — which  doubtless  fairly  dealt 
By  the  deceased,  who  lie  in  famous  slumber 
In  ditches,  fields,  or  where’er  They  felt 
Their  clay  for  the  last  time  their  souls  encumber 
Thrice  happy  he  whose  name  has  been  well  spelt 
In  the  despatch  : I knew  a man  whose  loss 
Was  printed  Grove , although  his  name  was  Grose.4 

XIX. 

Juan  and  Johnson  joined  a certain  corps. 

And  fought  away  with  might  and  main,  not  knowing 
The  way  which  they  had  never  trod  before, 

And  still  less  guessing  where  they  might  be  going ; 
But  on  they  march’d,  dead  bodies  trampling  o’er, 
Tiring,  and  thrusting,  slashing,  sweating,  glowing, 
But  fighting  thoughtlessly  enough  to  win. 

To  their  two  selves,  one  whole  bright  bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus  on  they  wallow’d  in  the  bloody  mire 

Of  dead  and  dying  thousands, — sometimes  gaining 
A yard  or  two  of  ground,  which  brought  them 
nigher 

To  some  odd  angle  for  which  all  were  straining ; 

Yt  other  times,  repulsed  by  the  close  fire, 

Which  really  pour’d  as  if  all  hell  were  raining 
Instead  of  heaven,  they  stumbled  backwards  o’er 
A wounded  comrade,  sprawling  in  his  gore. 

XXI. 

Though  ’twas  Don  Juan’s  first  of  fields,  and  though 
The  nightly  muster  and  the  silent  march 
In  the  chill  dark,  when  courage  does  not  glow 
So  much  as  under  a triumphal  arch, 

Perhaps  might  make  him  shiver,  yawn,  or  throw 
A glance  on  the  dull  clouds  (as  thick  as  starch, 
Which  stiffen’d  heaven)  as  if  he  wish’d  for  day ; — 

Yet  for  all  this  he  did  not  run  away. 

XXII. 

Iudeed  he  could  not.  But  what  if  he  had  ? 

There  have  been  and  are  heroes  who  begun 
With  something  not  much  better,  or  as  bad : 

Bred  eric  the  Great  from  Molwitz  deign’d  to  run 
Bor  the  first  and  last  time  ; for,  like  a pad, 

Or  hawk,  or  bride,  most  mortals  after  one 
Warm  bout  are  broken  in  their  new  tricks, 

And  fight  like  fiends  for  pay  or  politics. 


ment  composees  des  grenadiers  de  Fanagorie,  escaladaient  le  re- 
tranchement  et  la  palissade.” — Hist,  de  la  N.  R.  p.  210.] 

(4)  A fact:  see  tlie  Waterloo  Gazettes.  I recollect  remarking 
at  the  time  to  a friend: — “ There  is  fame!  a man  is  k’.lled,  his 
name  is  Grose,  and  they  print  it  Grove.”  I was  at  college  with 
the  deceased,  who  was  a very  amiable  and  clfver  man,  and  his 
society  in  great  request  for  his  wit,  gaiety,  and  “ Chansons  i 
boire.” 


CANTO  VIII. 


687 


XXIII. 

IHe  was  what  Erin,  calls,  in  her  sublime 
Old  Erse  or  Irish,  or  it  may  be  Punic  ; — 

(The  antiquarians1  who  can  settle  time. 

Which  settles  all  things,  Roman,  Greek,  or  Runic, 
Swear  that  Pat’s  language  sprung  from  the  same  clime 
With  Hannibal,  and  wears  the  Tyrian  tunic 
Of  Dido’s  alphabet ; and  this  is  rational 
As  any  other  notion,  and  not  national) ; — 

XXIV. 

ut  -Juan  was  quite  “ a broth  of  a boy,” 

A thing  of  impulse  and  a child  of  song  ; 

Now  swimming  in  the  sentiment  of  joy, 

Or  the  sensation  (if  that  phrase  seem  wrong), 

And  afterward,  if  he  must  needs  destroy. 

In  such  good  company  as  always  throng 
To  battles,  sieges,  and  that  kind  of  pleasure. 

No  less  delighted  to  employ  his  leisure  : 

XXV. 

But  always  without  malice  : if  he  warr’d 
Or  loved,  it  was  with  what  we  call  “ the  best 
Intentions,”  which  form  all  mankind’s  trump  card , 

' To  be  produced  when  brought  up  to  the  test. 

The  statesman,  hero,  harlot,  lawyer — ward 
OIF  each  attack,  when  people  are  in  quest 
Of  their  designs,  by  saying  they  meant  well ; 

’Tis  pity  “that  such  meaning  should  pave  hell.”2 

XXVI. 

I almost  lately  have  begun  to  doubt 
Whether  hell’s  pavement — if  it  be  so  paced — 

Must  not  have  latterly  been  quite  worn  out, 

* Not  by  the  numbers  good  intent  hath  saved. 

But  by  the  mass  who  go  below  without 
Those  ancient  good  intentions,  which  once  shaved 
And  smooth’d  the  brimstone  of  that  street  of  hell. 
Which  bears  the  greatest  likeness  to  Pall  Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan,  by  some  strange  chance,  which  oft  divides 
Warrior  from  warrior  in  their  grim  career, 

Like  chastest  wives  from  constant  husbands’  sides 
dust  at  the  close  of  the  first  bridal  year, 

By  one  of  those  odd  turns  of  Fortune’s  tides. 

Was  on  a sudden  rather  puzzled  here. 

When,  after  a good  deal  of  heavy  firing, 

He  found  himself  alone,  and  friends  retiring. 

XXVIII. 

I don’t  know  how  the  thing  occurr’d — it  might 
Be  that  the  greater  part  were  kill’d  or  wounded. 

Arid  that  the  rest  had  faced  unto  the  right 
About ; a circumstance  which  has  confounded 
Caesar  himself,  who,  in  the  very  sight 
Of  his  whole  army,  which  so  much  abounded 
In  courage,  was  obliged  to  snatch  a shield. 

And  rally  back  his  Romans  to  the  field.3 4 


(1)  See  General  Valancey  and  Sir  Lawrence  Parsons. 

(2,1  The  Portuguese  proverb  says  that  ‘ hell  is  paved  with  good 
intentions  ” — [See  ante.  p.  518.] 

(3)  [“The  Nervii  marched  to  the  number  of  sixty  thousand,  and 
fell  upon  Caesar,  as  he  was  fortifying  his  camp,  and  had  not  the 
least  notion  of  so  sudden  an  attack  They  first  routed  his  cavalry, 
and  then  surrounde  'he  twelfth  and  the  seventh  legions,  and  killed 
all  the  ofticers.  H not  Caesar  snatched  a buckler  from  one  of  his 
own  men,  forced  his  way  through  the  combatants  before  him,  and 
rushed  upon  the  barbarians : or  had  not  the  tenth  legion,  seeing  his 
danger,  ran  from  the  heights  where  they  were  posted,  and  mowed 


XXIX. 

Juan,  who  had  uo  shield  to  snatch,  and  was 
No  Caesar,  but  a fine  young  lad,  who  fought 
He  knew  not  why,  arriving  at  this  pass, 

Stopp’d  for  a minute,  as  perhaps  he  ought 
For  a much  longer  time  ; then,  like  an  ass — 

(Start  not,  kind  reader,  since  great  Homer  thought 
This  simile  enough  for  Ajax,  Juan 
Perhaps  may  find  it  better  than  a new  one) 

XXX. 

Then,  like  an  a>ss,  he  went  upon  his  way, 

And,  what  was  stranger,  never  look’d  behind  ; 

But  seeing,  flashing  forward,  like  the  day 
Over  the  hills,  a fire  enough  to  blind 
Those  who  dislike  to  look  upon  a fray. 

He  stumbled  on,  to  try  if  he  could  find 
A path,  to  add  his  own  slight  arm  and  forces 
To  corps,  the  greater  part  of  which  were  corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving  then  no  more  the  commandant 

Of  his  own  corps,  nor  even  the  corps,  which  had 
Quite  disappear’d — the  gods  know  how  ! (I  can’t 
Account  for  every  thing  which  may  look°bad 
In  history  ; but  we  at  least  may  grant 
It  was  not  marvellous  that  a mere  lad, 

In  search  of  glory,  should  look  on  before, 

Nor  care  a pinch  of  snuff  about  his  corps  :) — 

XXXII. 

Perceiving  nor  commander  nor  commanded, 

And  left  at  large,  like  a young  heir,  to  make 
His  way  to — where  lie  knew  not — single  handed  ; 

As  travellers  follow  over  bog  and  brake 
An  “ ignis  fatuus  or  as  sailors  stranded 
Unto  the  nearest  hut  themselves  betake ; 

So  Juan,  following  honour  and  his  nose, 

Rush’d  where  the  thickest  fire  announced  most  foes  1 

XXXIII. 

He  knew  not  where  he  was,  nor  greatly  cared, 

For  he  was  dizzy,  busy,  and  his  veins 
Fill’d  as  with  lightning — for  his  spirit  shared 
The  hour,  as  is  the  case  with  lively  brains  ; 

And  where  the  hottest  fire  was  seen  and  heard. 

And  the  loud  cannon  peal’d  his  hoarsest  strains. 

He  rush’d,  while  earth  and  air  were  sadly  shaken 
By  thy  humane  discovery,  Friar  Bacon  !5 

xxxi  v. 

And  as  he  rush’d  along,  it  came  to  pass  he 
Fell  in  with  what  was  late  the  second  column, 
Under  the  orders  of  the  General  Lascy, 

But  now  reduced,  as  is  a bulky  volume 
Into  ail  elegant  extract  (much  less  massy) 

Of  heroism,  and  took  his  place  with  solemn 
Air  ’midst  the  rest,  who  kept  their  valiant  faces 
And  levell’d  weapons  still  against  the  glacis. 


down  the  enemy’s  ranks,  not  one  Roman  would  have  survived  the 

battle.” — Plutarch.] 

(4)  [“  N’appercevant  plusle  commandant  du  corps  doni  je  faisais 
partie,  et  ignorant  oil  je  devais  porter  mes  pas,  je  crus  reconnoitre 
le  lieu  ou  le  rempart  etait  situe ; on  y faisait  un  feu  assez  vif,  que 
je  jugeai  etre  celui  du  General  major  de  Lascy.” — Hist.  delaN.  /?. 
p.  210.1 

(5)  Gunpowder  is  said  to  have  en  discovered  by  this  friar 
[N.  B.  Though  Friar  Bacon  seen  have  discovered  gunpowder, 
he  had  the  humanity  not  to  rec.  his  discovery  in  intelligible 
language.] 


688 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VIII. 


XXXV 

Just,  at  this  crisis  up  came  Johnson  too, 

Who  had  “ retreated,”  as  the  phrase  is  when 
Men  run  away  much  rather  than  go  through 
Destruction’s  jaws  into  the  devil’s  den  ; 

But  Johnson  was  a clever  fellow,  who 

Knew  when  and  how  “ to  cut  and  come  again,” 
And  never  ran  a\va;y,  except  when  running 
Was  nothing  hut  a valorous  kind  of  cunning. 

Xxxvi. 

And  so,  when  all  his  corps  were  dead  or  dying, 
Except  Don  Juan,  a mere  novice,  whose 
More  virgin  valour  never  dreamt  of  flying, 

Erorn  ignorance  of  danger,  which  indues 
Its  votaries,  like  innocence  relying  [thews, — 

On  its  own  strength,  with  careless  nerves  and 
Johnson  retired  a little,  just  to  rally 
Those  who  catch  cold  in  “ shadows  of  Death’s  valley.” 

xxxvii. 

And  there,  a little  shelter’d  from  the  shot, 

Which  rain’d  from  bastion,  battery,  parapet, 
Rampart,  wall,  casement,  house — for  there  was  not 
In  this  extensive  city,  sore  beset 
By  Christian  soldiery,  a single  spot 

Which  did  not  combat  like  the  devil,  as  yet, — 

He  found  a number  of  Chasseurs,  all  scatter’d 
By  the  resistance  of  the  chase  they  batter’d. 

xxxviii. 

And  these  he  call’d  on  ; and,  what’s  strange,  they  came 
Unto  his  call,  uulike  “ the  spirits  from 
The  vasty  deep,”  to  whom  you  may  exclaim, 

Says  Hotspur,  long  ere  they  will  leave  their  home.1 
Their  reasons  were  uncertainty,  or  shame 
At  shrinking  from  a bullet  or  a bomb, 

And  that  odd  impulse,  which  in  wars  or  creeds 
Makes  men,  like  cattle,  follow  him  who  leads 

XXXIX. 

By  Jove  ! he  was  a noble  fellow,  Johnson, 

And  though  his  name,  than  Ajax  or  Achilles, 

Sounds  less  harmonious,  underneath  the  sun  soon 
We  shall  not  see  his  likeness  : he  could  kill  his. 

Man  quite  as  quietly  as  blows  the  monsoon 

Her  steady  breath  (which  some  months  the  same 
still  is)  : 

Seldom  he  varied  feature,  hue,  or  muscle, 

And  could  be  very  busy  without  bustle  ; 

XL. 

And  therefore,  when  he  ran  away,  he  did  so 
Upon  reflection,  knowing  that  behind 
He  would  find  others  who  would  fain  be  rid  so 
Of  idle  apprehensions,  which  like  wind 
Trouble  heroic  stomachs.  Though  their  lids  so 
Oft  are  soon  closed,  all  heroes  are  not  blind, 

But  when  they  light  upon  immediate  death, 

Retire  a little,  merely  to  take  breath. 


11}  [Glcndower.  ‘ I can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep. 

Hotspur.  Why  so  can  I,  or  so  can  any  man : 

But  will  they  come  when  you  do  call  for  them  ? ” 

Henry  IF.] 

(2)  [ “ the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 

The  undiscover’d  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns.” — Hamlet.] 

(3)  {Talus, — the  slope  or  inclination  of  a wall,  whereby,  reclining 

at  the  top  so  as  to  fall  within  its  base,  the  thickness  is  gradually 

eeswued  according  to  the  height.” — Milit.I  !ci.] 


XLI. 

But  Johnson  only  ran  off,  to  return 
With  many  other  warriors,  as  we  said. 

Unto  that  rather  somewhat  misty  bourn. 

Which  Hamlet  tells  us  is  a pass  of  dread.2 
To  Jack,  howe’er,  this  gave  but  slight  concern : • f 

His  soul  (like  galvanism  upon  the  dead) 

Acted  upon  the  living  as  on  wire, 

And  led  them  back  into  the  heaviest  fire. 

XLII. 

Egad  ! they  found  the  second  time  what  they 
The  first  time  thought  quite  terrible  enough 
To  fly  from,  malgre  all  which  people  say 
Of  glory,  and  all  that  immortal  stuff 
Which  fills  a regiment  (besides  their  pay, 

That  daily  shilling  which  makes  warriors  tough)—  I 
They  found  on  their  return  the  self-same  welcome,  ■ 
Which  made  some  think,  and  others  know,  a hell  come  I 

XLIII. 

They  fell  as  thick  as  harvests  beneath  hail, 

Grass  before  scythes,  or  corn  below  the  sickle, 
Proving  that  trite  old  truth,  that  life’s  as  frail 
As  any  other  boon  for  which  men  stickle. 

The  Turkish  batteries  thrash’d  them  like  a flail. 

Or  a good  boxer,  into  a sad  pickle 
Putting  the  very  bravest,  who  were  knock’d 
Upon  the  head,  before  their  guns  were  cock’d. 

XLIV. 

The  Turks  behind  the  traverses  and  flanks 
Of  the  next  bastion,  fired  away  like  devils, 

And  swept,  as  gales  sweep  foam  away,  whole  ranks : 
However,  Heaven  knows  how,  the  Fate  who  levels  | 
Towns,  nations,  worlds,  in  her  revolving  pranks, 

So  order’d  it,  amidst  these  sulphury  revels. 

That  Johnson  and  some  few  who  had  not  scamper’d,  1 
Reach’d  the  interior  talus3  of  the  rampart.4 

XLV. 

First  one  or  two,  then  five,  six,  and  a dozen 
Came  mounting  quickly  up,  for  it  was  now 
All  neck  or  nothing,  as.  like  pitch  or  rosin, 

Flame  was  shower’d  forth  above,  as  well’s  below, 

So  that  you  scarce  could  say  who  best  had  chosen,  j 
The  gentlemen  that  were  the  first  to  show 
Their  martial  faces  on  the  parapet, 

Or  those  who  thought  it  brave  to  wait  as  yet. 

XL  VI. 

But  those  who  scaled,  found  out  that  their  advance 
Was  favour’d  by  an  accident  or  blunder  : 

The  Greek  or  Turkish  Cohorn’s  ignorance 
Had  pallisado’d  in  a way  you’d  wonder 
To  see  in  forts  of  Netherlands  or  France — 

(Though  these  to  our  Gibraltar  must  knock  under) — * I 
Right  in  the  middle  of  the  parapet 
Just  named,  these  palisades  were  primly  set  ;5 


(4)  [“  Appellant  ceux  des  chasseurs  qui  etaient  autour  de  moi  en  | 
assez  grand  liombre,  je  m’avanvai  et  reconnus  ne  m’etre  point  I 
tromp6 dans  mon  calcul ; e’etait  en  effet  eette  colonne  qui  a l'iristant  I 
parvenait  au  sommet  du  rempart.  Les  Turcs  de  derriere  les  travers 

et  les  flanes  des  bastions  voisinr,  faisaient  sur  elle  un  feu  tr^s-vif  de  ji 
oanon  et  de  mousqueterie.  Je  gravis,  avec  les  gens  qui  m’avaient  I 
suivi,  le  talus  interieur  du  rempart  " — Hist,  de  la  N.  R.  p.  211.] 

(5)  [“  Ce  fut  dans  cet  instant  que  je  reconnus  eombien  l’ignorance  | 
du  constructeur  des  palissades  etait  imp^rtante  pour  nous;  car,  I 
comine  elles  etaient  places  au  milieu  du  parapet,”  &c.  — Ibid. 
P-211-] 


DON  JUAN. 


G89 


XLVII. 

So  that  on  either  side  some  nine  or  ten 
Paces  were  left,  whereon  you  could  contrive 
To  march  ; a great  convenience  to  our  men. 

At  least  to  all  those  who  were  left  alive, 

Who  thus  could  form  a line  and  fight  again  ; 

And  that  which  farther  aided  them  to  strive 
Was,  that  they  could  kick  down  the  palisades. 
Winch  scarcely  rose  much  higher  than  grass  Lades. 

xlviii. 

Among  the  first, — I will  not  say  the  first, 

Por  such  precedence  upon  such  occasions 
Will  oftentimes  make  deadly  quarrels  hurst 
Out  between  friends  as  well  as  allied  nations : 
The  Briton  must  be  bold  who  really  durst 
Put  to  such  trial  John  Bull’s  partial  patience, 

As  say  that  Wellington  at  Waterloo 

Was  beaten  — though  the  Prussians  say  so  too ; 


XLIX. 

And  V:at  it  Biueher,  Bulow,  Gneisenau,  5J 

And  God  knows  who  besides  in  “ au  and  ow, 

Had  not  come  up  in  time  to  cast  an  awe5* 

Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  fought  till  now 
As  tigers  combat  with  an  empty  craw 

The  Duke  of  Wellington  had  ceased  to  show 
His  orders,  also  to  receive  his  pensions  ; 

Which  are  the  heaviest  that  our  history  mentions. 

But  never  mind “ God  save  the  king !”  and  kings ! 

[ Por  if  he  don’t,  I doubt  if  men  will  longer— 

I think  I hear  a little  bird,  who  sings 

The  peoole  by  and  by  will  be  the  stronger 
The  veriest  jade  will  wince  whose  harness  wrings 
So  much  into  the  raw  as  quite  to  wrong  her 
Beyond  the  rules  of  posting,— and  the  mob 
At  last  fall  sick  of  imitating  Job. 

LI. 

At  first  it  grumbles,  then  it  swears,  and  then,  . 

Like  David,  flings  smooth  pebbles  gainst  a giant; 
At  last  it  takes  to  weapons  such  as  men 

Snatch  when  despair  makes  human  lieaits  less 
pliant. 

Then  comes  “the  tug  of  war f-’twill  come  again, 

I rather  doubt ; and  I would  fain  say  he  on  t, 

If  I had  not  perceived  that  revolution 
. Alone  can  save  the  earth  from  hell  s pollution. 

LII. 

But  to  continue  : — I say  not  the  first. 

But  of  the  first,  our  little  friend  Don  Juan 
Walk’d  o’er  the  walls  of  Ismail  as  if  nursed  Lone 
Anfldst  such  scenes — though  this  was  quite  a 
To  him,  and  1 should  hope  to  most  The thus ; 

Of  glory,  which  so  pierces  through  and  through  one, 
Pervaded  him— although  a generous  creature, 

As  warm  in  heart  as  feminine  in  feature. 


~7i7nn77^ait  de  chaque  cote  neuf  a dix  pieds  sur  lesquels  on 
pouU  2i£?S  tWs,  apresJiU-e 

s^de^nt11] p ie ds  au'-de  ss  us  du  niveau  de  la  terr e.”—Hist  de 

laN.  R.  p.2U.] 

TTt  has  been  a favourite  assertion  with  almost  all  the  French, 
that  the  English  were  on  the  point  of 

i 

the  enemy,  even  if  the  Prussians  had  never  come  up.  The  laurels 


mu. 

And  here  he  was — who  upon  woman’s  breast, 

Even  from  a child,  felt  like  a child ; howe’er 
The  man  in  all  the  rest  might  be  contest. 

To  him  it  was  Elysium  to  be  there ; 

And  he  could  even  withstand  that  awkward  test 
Which  BAUsseau  points  out  to  the  dubious  fair, 
“ Observe  your  lover  when  he  leaves  your  arms 
But  Juan  never  left  them,  while  thev  had  charms, 

LIV. 

Unless  compelled  by  fate,  or  wave,  or  warn, 

Or  near  relations,  who  are  much  the  same.. 

But  here  he  was  ! — where  each  tie  that  can  bind 
Humanity  must  yield  to  steel  and  flame  : 

And  he  whose  very  body  was  all  mind, 

Flung  here  by  fate  or  circumstance,  which  tame 
The  loftiest,  hurried  by  the  time  and  place. 

Dash’d  or.  like  a sourr’d  blood-horse  in  a race. 


LV. 

So  was  his  blood  stirr’d  while  he  found  resistance. 
As  is  the  hunter’s  at  the  five-bar  gate, 

Or  double  post  and  rail,  where  the  existence 
Of  Britain’s  youth  depends  upon  their  weight. 
The  lightest  being  the  safest ; at  r.  distance 
He  hated  cruelty,  as  all  men  hate 
Blood,  until  heated— and  even  then  his  own 
At  times  would  curdle  o’er  some  heavy  groan. 


LVI. 

The  General  Lascy,  who  had  been  hard  press’d, 
Seeing  arrive  an  aid  so  opportune 
As  were  some  hundred  youngsters  all  abreast, 

Who  came  as  if  just  dropp’d  down  from  the  moot 
To  Juan,  who  was  nearest  him,  address’d 
His  thanks,  and  hopes  to  take  the  city  soon, 

Not  reckoning  him  to  be  a “ base  Bezonian, 

(As  Pistol  calls  it)  but  a young  Livonian.4 

LVII. 

Juan,  to  whom  he  spoke  in  German,  knew 
As  much  of  German  as  of  Sanscrit,  and 
In  answer  made  an  inclination  to 

The  general  who  held  him  in  command ; 

For  seeing  one  with  ribands,  black  and  blue. 

Stars,  medals,  and  a bloody  sword  in  hand, 
Addressing  him  in  tones  which  seem  cl  to  thank. 

He  recognised  an  officer  oi  rank. 


LVIII. 

Short  speeches  pass  between  two  men  who  speak 
No  common  language : and  besides,  m time 
Df  war  and  taking  towns,  when  many  a shriek 
Bings  o’er  the  dialogue,  and  many  a crime 
[s  perpetrated  ere  a word  can  break 
Upon  the  ear,  and  sounds  of  horror  chime 
[n  like  church-bells,  with  sigh,  howl,  groan,  yell,  prayer: 
ri,0r«  nannnt  hp.  much  conversation  there. 


Waterloo  must  be  divided-the  British  won  the  battle,  the  Prus- 
ns  achieved  and  rendered  available  the  victory  .-Sir  Walteh 

3)  [Pistol’s  “Bezonian''  is  a corruption  of  bisognoto— a needy 
in— -metaphorically  (at  least)  a scoundrel.] 

,,  r“Tp  General  Lascy,  voyant  arriver  un  corps  si  a propos  a 

temen't  eet’^langiie.  y repondit  a.ec  sa  modest,.  °rdma,re.  - 
ist.  de  la  N.  R.  p.  211.]  ^ ^ 


690 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CA.NTO  vrn. 


LIX. 

And  therefore  all  we  have  related  in 
Two  long  octaves,  pass’d  in  a little  minute ; 

But  in  the  same  small  minute,  every  sin 
Contrived  to  get  itself  comprised  within  it. 

The  very  cannon,  deafened  by  the  din, 

Grew  dumb,  for  you  might  almost  hear  a linnet, 

As  soon  as  thunder,  ’midst  the  general  noise 
Of  human  nature’s  agonizing  voice  ! 

LX. 

The  town  was  enter’d.  Oh  eternity  ! — 

“ God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town,” 
So  Cowper  says — and  I begin  to  be 
Of  his  opinion,  when  I see  cast  down 
Rome,  Babylon,  Tyre,  Carthage,  Nineveh, 

All  walls  men  know,  and  many  never  known ; 

And  pondering  on  the  present  and  the  past, 

To  deem  the  woods  shall  be  our  home  at  last : — 

LXI. 

Of  all  men,  saving  Sylla1  the  man-slayer. 

Who  passes  for  in  life  and  death  most  lucky. 

Of  the  great  names  which  in  our  faces  stare, 

The  General  Boon,  backwoodsman  of  Kentucky, 
Was  happiest  amongst  mortals  any  where ; 

Bor  killing  nothing  but  a bear  or  buck,  he 
Enjoy’d  the  lonely,  vigorous,  harmless  days 
Of  Ins  old  age  in  wilds  of  deepest  maze.2 

T.YTT- 

Crime  came  not  near  him — she  is  not  the  child 
Of  solitude ; Health  shrank  not  from  him — for 
Her  home  is  in  the  rarely  trodden  wild, 

Where  if  men  seek  her  not,  and  death  be  more 
Their  choice  than  life,  forgive  them,  as  beguiled 
By  habit  to  what  their  own  hearts  abhor — 

In  cities  caged.  The  present  case  in  point  I 
Cite  is,  that  Boon  lived  hunting  up  to  ninety ; 

LXIII. 

And  what’s  still  stranger,  left  behind  a name 
Eor  which  men  vainly  decimate  the  throng, 

Not  only  famous,  but  of  that  good  fame, 

Without  which  glory ’s  but  a tavern  song — 

Simple,  serene,  the  antipodes  of  shame. 

Which  hate  nor  envy  e’er  could  tinge  with  wrong ; 
An  active  hermit,  even  in  age  the  child 
Of  Nature,  or  the  Man  of  Ross  run  wild. 

LXIV. 

’Tis  true  he  shrank  from  men  even  of  his  nation, 
When  they  built  up  unto  his  darling  trees, — 

He  moved  some  hundred  miles  olf,  for  a station 
Where  there  were  fewer  houses  and  more  ease  ;3 
The  inconvenience  of  civilization 

Is,  that  you  neither  can  be  pleased  nor  please ; 

But  where  he  met  the  individual  man, 

He  sliow’d  himself  as  kind  as  mortal  can. 


(1)  [Sec  untd,  p.  461.] 

(2)  [“The  wildest  solitudes  are  to  the  taste  of  some  people. 
General  Boon,  who  was  eincily  instrumental  in  the  first  settlement 
of  Kentucky,  is  of  this  turn,  it  is  said,  that  ne  is  now  (1818),  at 
the  age  of  seventy,  pursuing  the  daily  chase  two  hundred  miles  to 
the  westward  of  the  last  abode  of  civilized  man.  He  had  retired  to 
a chosen  spot,  beyond  the  Missouri,  which,  after  him,  is  named 
Boon’s  Lick,  out  of  the  reach,  as  he  flattered  himself,  of  intrusion  ; 
but  white  men,  even  there,  encroached  upon  him,  and,  tvvo  years 
ago,  he  went  back  two  hundred  miles  farther.” — Birkbeck  s Notes 
oil  America .] 

(3)  [“Such  is  the  restless  disposition  of  these  backwoodsmen, 
nnd  so  averse  are  their  habits  from  those  of  a civilized  neighbour- 
hood, that  nothing  short  of  the  salt,  sandy  desert  can  stop  them. 


LX  f . 

He  was  not  all  alone  : around  him  grew 
A sylvan  tribe  of  children  of  the  chace, 

Whose  young,  unawaken’d  world  was  ever  new 
Nor  sword  nor  sorrow  yet  had  left  a trace 
On  her  unwrinkled  brow,  nor  could  you  view 
A frown  on  Nature’s  or  on  human  face ; — 

The  free-born  forest  found  and  kept  them  free, 

And  fresh  as  is  a torrent  or  a tree. 

LXVI. 

And  tall,  and  strong,  and  swift  of  foot  were  they. 
Beyond  the  dwarfing  city’s  pale  abortions. 

Because  their  thoughts  had  never  been  the  prey 

Of  care  or  gain;  the  green  woods  were  their  portion)*;  I 
No  sinking  spirits  told  them  they  grew  grey, 

No  fashion  made  them  apes  of  her  distortions ; 
Simple  they  were,  not  savage  ; and  their  rifles, 

Though  very  true,  were  not  yet  used  for  trifles. 

LXVII. 

Motion  was  in  their  days,  rest  in  their  slumbers. 

And  cheerfulness  the  handmaid  of  their  toil ; 

Nor  yet  too  many  nor  too  few  their  numbers ; 

Corruption  could  not  make  their  hearts  her  soil ; 

The  lust  which  stings,  the  splendour  which  encumber?, 
With  the  free  foresters  divide  no  spoil; 

Serene,  not  sullen,  were  the  solitudes 
Of  this  unsighing  people  of  the  woods. 

LXV1II. 

So  much  for  Nature : — by  way  of  variety, 

Now  back  to  thy  great  joys,  Civilization! 

And  the  sweet  consequence  of  large  society. 

War,  pestilence,  the  despot’s  desolation. 

The  kingly  scourge,  the  lust  of  notoriety. 

The  millions  slain  by  soldiers  for  their  ration. 

The  scenes  like  Catherine’s  boudoir  at  threescore,  J 
With  Ismail’s  storm  to  soften  it  the  more. 

LXIX. 

The  town  was  enter’d : first  one  column  made 
Its  sanguinary  way  good — then  another ; 

The  reeking  bayonet  and  the  flashing  blade 

Clash’d  ’gainst  the  scimitar,  and  babe  and  motner 
With  distant  shrieks  were  heard  Heaven  to  upbraid : — 
Still  closer  sulphury  clouds  began  to  smother 
The  breath  of  morn  and  man,  where  foot  by  foot 
The  madden’d  Turks  their  city  still  dispute. 

LXX.  \ 

Koutousow,  he  who  afterward  beat  back  i 

(With  some  assistance  from  the  frost  and  snow) 
Napoleon  on  his  bold  and  bloody  track, 

It  happen’d  was  himself  beat  back  just  now : 

He  was  a jolly  fellow,  and  could  crack 
His  jest  alike  in  face  of  friend  or  foe, 

Though  life,  and  death,  and  victory  were  at,  stake;* 
But  here  it  seem’d  his  jokes  had  ceased  to  take : 


The  notorious  Daniel  Boon,  who  about  fifty  different  times  has 
shifted  his  abode  westward,  as  civilization  approached  his  dwelling, 
wiien  asked  the  cause  of  his  frequent  change,  replied,  ‘ I think  it 
time  to  remove,  when  1 can  no  longer  fell  a tree  for  fuel,  so  that  its 
top  will  lie  within  a few  yards  of  my  cabin.’ " — Quart.  Rev.  vol. 
xxlx.  p.  14.) 

(4)  [“  Parmi  les  colonnes,  une  de  celles  qui  souffrirent  le  plus 
ctait  commandee  par  le  General  Koutouzovv  (aujourd’hui  ;Prince 
de  Smolensko).  Ce  brave  militaire  reur.it  1’intrepidite  ii  un  grand 
nombre  de  connaissances  acquises ; 11  marche  au  feu  avec  la  meme 
gaiet6  qu’il  ya  a une  fete  ; il  sait  commander  avec  autant  de  sang 
froid  qu’il  deploie  d’esprit  et  d’amabilite  dans  le  commerce  habituel 
de  la  vie.’  — Ilist.  de  la  Nouvelle  Russie,  tom  ill.  p.  212J 


CANTO  VIII. 


DON  JUAN. 


691 


LXXI. 

For  having  thrown  himself  into  a ditch. 

Follow’d  in  haste  by  various  grenadiers, 

Whose  blood  the  puddle  greatly  did  enrich, 

He  climb’d  to  where  the  parapet  appears ; 

But  there  his  project  reach’d  its  utmost  pitch 
(’Mongst.  other  deaths  the  General  Ttibaupierre’s 
Was  much  regretted),  for  the  Moslem  men 
Threw  them  all  down  into  the  ditch  again.1 

LXXII. 

And  had  it  not  beer,  for  some  stray  troops  landing 
They  knew  not  where,  being  carried  by  the  stream 
To  some  spot,  where  they  lost  their  understanding, 
And  wander’d  up  and  down  as  in  a dream, 

Until  they  reach’d,  as  daybreak  was  expanding, 

That  which  a portal  to  their  eyes  did  seem, — ■ 

The  great  and  gay  Koutousow  might  have  lain 
Where  three  parts  of  his  column  yet  remain.2 

LXXIII. 

And  scrambling  round  the  rampart,  these  same  troops, 
After  the  taking  of  the  “ Cavalier,”3 
Just  as  Koutousow’s  most  “ forlorn  ” of  “ hopes  ” 
Took,  like  chameleons,  some  slight  tinge  of  fear, 
Open’d  the  gate  call’d  “ Kilia,”  to  the  groups4 
Of  baffled  heroes,  who  stood  shily  near, 

Sliding  knee-deep  in  lately  frozen  mud, 

Now  thaw’d  into  a marsh  of  human  blood. 

LXXIV. 

The  Kozacks,  or,  if  so  you  please,  Cossacques — 

(I  don’t  much  pique  myself  upon  orthography. 

So  that  I do  not  grossly  err  in  facts, 

Statistics,  tactics,  politics,  and  geography) — 
Having  been  used  to  serve  on  horses’  backs, 

And  no  greal  dilettanti  in  topography 
Of  fortresses,  but  fighting  where  it  pleases 
Their  chiefs  to  order,' — were  all  cut  to  pieces.5 

LXXV. 

Their  column,  though  the  Turkish  batteries  thunder’d 
Upon  them,  ne’ertheless  had  reach’d  the  rampart,6 
And  naturally  thought  they  could  have  plunder’d 
The  city,  without  being  further  hamper’d ; 

But  as  it  happens  to  brave  men,  they  blunder’d — 

The  Turks  at  first  pretended  to  have  scamper’d. 
Only  to  draw  them  ’twixt  two  bastion  corners,7 
From  whence  they  sallied  on  those  Christian  scorners. 


(1)  [“  Ce  brave  Koutouzow  se  j6ta  dans  le  fosse,  fut  suivi  des 
' siens,  et  ne  penetra  jusqu  au  haut  du  parapet  qu’apres  avoir  eprouve 

des  difficulty  incroyables.  (Le  brigadier  Jtibaupierre  perdit  la  vie 
dans  cctte  occasion  : il  avait  fixe  l’estime  genSrale,  et  sa  mort  occa- 
* sionna  beaucoup  de  regrets.  Les  Turcs  accoururent  en  grand 
nombre;  cette  multitude  repoussa  deux  fois  le  general  jusqu’au 
8 fosse.” — Hist,  de  la  Nouvelle  Russie,  p.  212.] 

(2)  [“  Quelques  troupes  Russes,  emportees  par  le  courant,  n’ayant 
■4  pu  debarquer  sur  le  terrain  qu’on  leur  avait  present,”  &c. — Ibid. 
| P-213.] 

(3)  [A  “ Cavalier”  is  an  elevation  of  earth,  situated  ordinarily  in 
the  gorge  of  a bastion,  bordered  with  a parapet,  and  cut  into  more 
or  fewer  embrasures,  according  to  its  capacity.” — Milit.  Diet.] 

(4)  [.  . . “long&rent  le  rempart,  apres  la  prise  du  cavalier,  et 

ouvrirent  la  porte  dite  de  Kilia  aux  soldats  du  General  Koutou- 

— zow.” — Hist,  de  la  N.  R.  p.  213.] 

(5)  [“  II  etait  reserve  aux  Kozaks  de  combler  de  leur  corps  la 
partie  du  foss6  oil  ils  combattaient-;  leur  colonne  avait  ete  divisee 
entr«  MM.  Piatow  et  d’Orlow.  . .” — Ibid.  p.  213  ] 

■ (6)  [ . . . “ La  premiere  partie,  devant  se  joindre  k la  gauche  du 

' General  Arsenieu,  fut  foudroyee  par  le  feu  des  batteries,  et  parvint 
neanmoins  au  haut  du  rempart.”— Ibid.  p.  213.] 

(7)  [“  Les  Turcs  la  laisserent  un  peu  s'avancer,  dans  la  ville.  et 


LXXVI. 

Then  being  taken  by  the  tail — a taking 
Fatal  to  bishops  as  to  soldiers — these 
Cossacques  were  all  cut  off  as  day  was  breaking, 

And  found  their  lives  were  let  at  a short  lease — 
But  perish’d  without  shivering  or  shaking, 

Leaving  as  ladders  their  heap’d  carcasses, 

O’er  which  Lieutenant-Colonel  Yesouskoi 
March’d  with  the  brave  battalion  of  Polouzki  • — * 

LXXVXI. 

This  valiant  man  kill’d  all  the  Turks  he  met. 

But  could  not  eat  them,  being  in  his  turn 
Slain  by  some  Mussulmans,9  who  would  not  yet. 
Without  resistance,  see  their  city  burn. 

The  walls  were  won,  but  ’twas  an  even  bet 

Which  of  the  armies  would  have  cause  to  mourn  , 
’Twas  blow  for  blow,  disputing  inch  by  inch, 

For  one  would  not  retreat,  nor  t’other  flinch. 

LXXVIII. 

Another' column  also  suffer’d  much  : — 

And  here  we  may  remark  with  the  historian, 

You  should  but  give  few  cartridges  to  such 

Troops  as  are  meant  to  march  with  greatest  glory  or. 
When  matters  must  be  carried  by  the  touch 

Of  the  bright  bayonet,  and  they  all  should  hurry  on, 
They  sometimes,  with  a hankering  for  existence. 

Keep  merely  firing  at  a foolish  distance.10 

LXXIX. 

A junction  of  the  General  Meknop’s  men 

(Without  the  General,  who  had  fallen  some  time 
Before,  being  badly  seconded  just  then) 

Was  made  at  length  with  those  who  dared  to  climb 
The  death-disgorging  rampart  once  again  ; 

And  though  the  Turk’s  resistance  was  sublime, 
They  took  the  bastion,  which  the  Seraskier 
Defended  at  a price  extremely  dear.11 

LXXX. 

Juan  and  Johnson,  and  some  volunteers 

Among  the  foremost,  offer’d  him  good  quarter, 

A word  which  little  suits  with  Seraskiers, 

Or  at  least  suited  not  this  valiant  Tartar. 

He  died,  deserving  well  his  country’s  tears, 

A savage  sort  of  military  martyr. 

An  English  naval  officer,  who  wish’d 
To  make  him  prisoner,  was  also  dish’d : 


firent  deux  sorties  par  les  angles  saillans  des  bastions.” — Hist,  de  la 
N.  R.  tom.  ii.  p.  213.] 

(8)  [“  Alors,  se  trouvant  prise  en  queue,  elle  fut  ecrasee;  cepen- 
dant  le  Li«utenant-colonel  Yesouskoi,  qui  commandait  la  reserve 
composee  d’un  bataillon  du  regiment  de  Polozk,  traversa  le  fosse 
sur  les  eadavres  des  Kozaks.  . .” — Ibid,  p 212.] 

(9)  (.  . . “ et  extermina  tous  les  Turcs  qu’il  eut  en  tete:  ce  brave 
homme  fut  tue  pendant  Paction.”—  Ibid.  p.  213.] 

(10)  [*'  L’autre  partie  des  Kozaks,  qu'Orlow  commandait,  soufi'rit 
de  la  mani&re  la  plus  cruelle : elle  attaqua  a maintes  reprises,  fut 
souvent  repoussee,  et  perdit  les  deux  tiers  de  son  monde.  Et  e’est 
ici  le  lieu  de  placer  une  observation,  que  nous  prenons  dans  les 
memoires  qui  nous  guident;  elle  fait  remarquer  combien  il  est  mal 
vu  de  donner  beaucoup  de  cartouches  aux  soldats  qui  doivent  em- 
porter  un  poste  de  vive  force,  et  par  consequent  oil  la  bai’onnette 
doit  principalement  agir ; ils  pensent  ne  devoir  se  servir  de  cette 
derniere  arme,  que  lorsque  les  cartouches  sont  epuisees : dans  cette 
persuasion,  ils  retardent  leur  marche,  et  restent  plus  long-temps 
exposes  au  canon  et  k la  mitraille  de  l’ennemi.” — Ibid.  p.  214.] 

(11)  [“  La  joncticn  de  la  coloqne  de  Meknop — (le  general  etant 
mal  seconde  fut  tue) — s’etant  effectuee  avec  celle  qui  l’avoisinait, 
ces  colonnes  attaqu^rent  un  bastion,  et  eprouverent  un  resistance 
opini&tre;  mais  bientot  des  cris  de  victoire  se  font  entendre  de 
toutes  parts,  et  le  bastion  est  emportG  : le  seraskier  dGfendait  cette 
partie. —Ibid.  p.  214.] 


692 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VIII 


LXXXI. 

For  all  the  answer  to  his  proposition 

Was  from  a pistol-shot  that  laid  him  dead;1 
On  which  the  rest,  without  more  intermission, 

Began  to  lay  about  with  steel  and  lead — 

The  pious  metals  most  in  requisition 
On  such  occasions  : not  a single  head 
Was  spared  ; — three  thousand  Moslems  perish’d  here, 
And  sixteen  bayonets  pierced  the  Seraskier.2 

LXXXII. 

The  city’s  taken — only  part  by  part — 

And  death  is  drunk  with  gore : there’s  not  a street 
Where  fights  not  to  the  last  some  desperate  heart, 
For  those  for  whom  it  soon  shall  cease  to  beat.3 
Here  War  forgot  his  own  destructive  art 
In  more  destroying  Nature  ; and  the  heat 
Of  carnage,  like  the  Nile’s  sun-sodden  slime, 
Engender’d  monstrous  shapes  of  every  crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian  officer,  in  martial  tread 
Over  a heap  of  bodies,  felt  his  heel 
Seized  fast,  as  if  ’tweve  by  the  serpent’s  head 
Whose  fangs  Eve  taught  her  human  seed  to  feel ; 
In  vain  he  kick’d,  and  swore,  and  writhed,  and  bled, 
And  howl’d  for  help  as  wolves  do  for  a meal — 

The  teeth  still  kept  their  gratifying  hold, 

As  do  the  subtle  snakes  described  of  old. 

LXXXIV. 

A dying  Moslem,  who  had  felt  the  foot 
Of  a foe  o’er  him,  snatch’d  at  it,  and  bit 
The  very  tendon  which  is  most  acute — 

(That  which  some  ancient  Muse  or  modern  wit 
Named  after  thee,  Achilles)  and  quite  through ’t 
He  made  the  teeth  meet,  nor  relinquish’d  it 
Even  with  his  life — for  (but  they  lie)  ’tis  said 
To  the  live  leg  still  clung  the  sever’d  head. 

LXXXV. 

However  this  may  be,  ’tis  pretty  sure 
The  Russian  officer  for  life  was  lamed, 

For  the  Turk’s  teeth  stuck  faster  than  a skewer, 

And  left  him  ’midst  the  invalid  and  maim’d : 

The  regimental  surgeon  could  not  cure 
His  patient,  and  perhaps  was  to  be  blamed 
More  than  the  head  of  the  inveterate  foe, 

Wrhich  was  cut  off,  and  scarce  even  then  let  go. 

LXXXVI. 

But  then  the  fact’s  a fact — and  ’tis  the  part 
Of  a true  poet  to  escape  from  fiction 
Whene’er  he  can ; for  there  is  little  art 

In  leaving  verse  more  free  from  the  restriction 
Of  truth  than  prose,  unless  to  suit  the  mart 
For  what  is  sometimes  called  poetic  diction. 

And  that  outrageous  appetite  for  lies 
Which  Satan  angles  with  for  souls,  like  flies. 


(1)  [.  . . “ un  oflicier  de  marine  Anglais  veut  le  faire  prisonniet 
et  refoit  un  coup  de  pistolet  qui  l’etend  roide  mort.” — Hist,  de  la 
N.  R p.  214. 

(2)  [“  Les  Russes  passent  trois  mille  Turcs  au  fil  de  l’epee;  seize 
baionnettes  percent  k la  fois  le  seraskier.” — Ibid.  p.  214.] 

1 3)  [“  La  ville  est  emportee;  l'image  de  la  mort  et  de  la  destruc- 
tion se  represente  de  tous  les  cotes;  le  soldat  furieux  n’ecoute  plus 
la  voix  de  ses  officiers,  il  ne  respire  cue  le  carnage;  altere  de  sang, 

tout  est  indifferent  pour  lui.’’ — Hist,  dt  la  N.  R.  p.  214.] 


LXXX  /II. 

The  city’s  taken,  but  not  render’d  ! — No ! 

There’s  not  a Moslem  that  hath  yielded  sword : 

The  blood  may  gush  out,  as  the  Danube’s  flow 
Rolls  by  the  city  wall ; but  deed  nor  word 
Acknowledge  aught  of  dread  of  death  or  foe  : 

In  vain  the  yell  of  victory  is  roar’d 
By  the  advancing  Muscovite — the  groan 
Of  the  last  foe  is  echoed  by  his  own. 

LXXXVIII. 

The  bayonet  pierces  and  the  sabre  cleaves, 

And  human  lives  are  lavish’d  every  where, 

As  the  year  closing  whirls  the  scarlet  leaves 
When  the  stripp’d  forest  bows  To  the  bleak  air. 

And  groans ; and  thus  the  peopled  city  grieves, 

Shorn  of  its  best  and  loveliest,  and  left  bare ; 

But  still  it  falls  in  vast  and  awful  splinters, 

As  oaks  blown  down  with  all  their  thousand  winters. 

LXXXIX. 

It  is  an  awful  topic — but  ’tis  not 
My  cue  for  any  time  to  be  terrific  : 

For  checker’d  as  is  seen  our  human  lot 

With  good,  and  bad,  and  worse,  alike  prolific 
Of  melancholy  merriment,  to  quote 

Too  much  of  one  sort  would  be  soporific  ; — 
Without,  or  with,  offence  to  friends  or  foes, 

I sketch  your  world  exactly  as  it  goes. 

xc. 

And  one  good  action  in  the  midst  of  crimes 
Is  “ quite  refreshing,”  in  the  affected  phrase 
Of  these  ambrosial,  Pharisaic  times. 

With  all  their  pretty  milk-and-water  ways,  • 

And  may  serve  therefore  to  bedew  these  rhyi  ds, 

A little  scorch’d  at  present  with  the  blaze 
Of  conquest  and  its  consequences,  which 
Make  epic  poesy  so  rare  and  rich. 

xci. 

Upon  a taken  bastion,  where  there  lay 

Thousands  of  slaughter’d  men,  a yet  warm  group 
Of  murder’d  women,  who  had  found  their  way 
To  this  vain  refuge,  made  the  good  heart  droop 
And  shudder  ; — while,  as  beautiful  as  May, 

A female  child  of  ten  years  tried  to  stoop 
And  hide  her  little  palpitating  breast 
Amidst  the  bodies  lull’d  in  bloody  rest.4 

xcn. 

Two  villanous  Cossacques  pursued  the  child 

With  flashing  eyes  and  weapons;  match’d  with  them, 
The  rudest  brute  that  roams  Siberia’s  wild 
Has  feelings  pure  and  polish’d  as  a gem, — 

The  bear  is  civilized,  the  wolf  is  mild ; 

And  whom  for  this  at  last  must  we  condemn  ? 

Their  natures  P or  their  sovereigns,  who  employ 
All  arts  to  teach  their  subjects  to  destroy  P 


(4)  [“  Je  sauvai  la  vie  & une  fille  de  dix  ans,  dont  l’innoceuoe  e; 
la  candeur  formaient  un  contraste  bien  frappant  avec  la  lage  de 
tout  ce  qui  menvironnait.  En  arrivant  sur  le  bastion  ou  commenfa 
le  carnage,  j’appergus  un  groupe  de  quatre  femmes  egprgees,  entr# 
lesquelles  cet  enfant,  d’une  figure  charmante,  clterchait  un  asdt 
contre  la  fureur  de  deux  Kozaks  qui  etaient  sur  le  point  de  la  mas- 
sacrer.” — Due  dk  Richelieu.  See  Hist,  de  la  Nouv.  Russ.  tom. 
iii.  p.  217.] 


6ANT0  VIII. 


DON  JUAN. 


693 


XCIII. 

Their  sabres  glitter’d  o’er  her  little  head, 

Wlienee  her  fair  hair  rose  twining  with  affright. 
Her  hidden  face  was  plunged  amidst  the  dead  : 
When  Juan  caught  a glimpse  of  this  sad  sight, 
l shall  not  say  exactly  what  lie  said, 

Because  it  might  not  solace  “ ears  polite  1 
But  what  he  did,  was  to  lay  on  their  backs, 

The  readiest  way  of  reasoning  with  Cossacqucs. 

xciv. 

One’s  hip  he  slash’d,  and  split  the  other’s  shoulder. 
And  drove  them  with  their  brutal  yells  to  seek, 

If  there  might  be  chirurgeons  who  could  solder 
The  wounds  they  richly  merited,2  and  shriek 
Their  baffled  rage  and  pain ; while  waxing  colder 
As  he  turn’d  o’er  each  pale  and  gory  cheek, 

Don  Juan  raised  his  little  captive  from 
The  heap  a moment  more  had  made  her  tomb. 

xcv. 

And  she  was  chill  as  they,  and  on  her  face 
A slender  streak  of  blood  announced  how  near 
Her  fate  had  been  to  that  of  all  her  race  ; 

For  the  same  blow  which  laid  her  mother  here 
Had  scarr’d  her  brow,  and  left  its  crimson  trace. 

As  the  last  link  with  all  she  had  held  dear;3 
But  else  unhurt,  she  open’d  her  large  eyes, 

And  gazed  on  Juan  with  a wild  surprise. 

XCVT. 

Just  at  this  instant,  while  their  eyes  were  fix’d 
Upon  each  other,  with  dilated  glance. 

In  Juan’s  look,  pain,  pleasure,  hope,  fear,  mix’d 
With  joy  to  save,  and  dread  of  some  mischance 
Unto  his  protegee  ; while  hers,  transfix’d 
With  infant  terrors,  glared  as  from  a trance. 

A pure,  'transparent,  pale,  yet  radiant  face, 

Like  to  a lighted  alabaster  vase  ; — 

xcvn. 

Up  came  John  Johnson  (I  will  not  say  “ Jack” 

For  that  were  vulgar,  cold,  and  common-place 
On  great  occasions,  such  as  an  attack 

On  cities,  as  hath  been  the  present  case)  : 

Up  Johnson  came,  with  hundreds  at  his  back, 
Exclaiming: — “Juan!  Juan!  On,  boy!  brace 
Your  arm,  and  I’ll  bet  Moscow  to  a dollar, 

That  you  and  I will  win  St.  George’s  collar.4 

xcvm. 

“ The  Seraskier  is  knock’d  upon  the  head, 

But  the  stone  bastion  still  remains,  wherein 
The  old  Pacha  sits  among  some  hundreds  dead, 
Smoking  his  pipe  quite  calmly  ’midst  the  din 
Of  our  artillery  and  his  own  : ’tis  said 
Our  kill’d,  already  piled  up  to  the  chin, 

Lie  round  the  battery  ; but  still  it  batters, 

And  grape  in  volleys,  like  a vineyard,  scatters. 

xeix. 

“ Then  up  with  me  !” — But  Juan  answer’d,  “Look 
Upon  this  child — I saved  her — must  not  leave 
Her  life  to  chance ; but  point  me  out  some  nook 
Of  safety,  where  she  less  may  shrink  and  grieve. 


(!)  [“  But  never  mention  hell  to  ears  polite.” — Pope.] 

(2)  [“  Ce  spectacle  m’attira  bientot,  et  je  n’hesitai  pas,  comme.on 
peut  le  croire,  a prendre  entre  mes  bras  cette  infortunee,  que  les 
barbares  voulaient  y poursuivre  encore.  J’eus  bien  de  la  peine  a 
me  retenir  et  a ne  pas  percer  ces  miserables  du  sabre  que  je  tenais 
suspendu  sur  leur  tdte : — -je  me  contentai  cependant  de  les  eloigner, 
non  sans  leur  prodiguer  les  coups  et  !es  injures  qu’ils  meritaient.  . , ” 
- -RlCHELIEU.j 


And  I am  with  you.” — Whereon  Johnson  took 

A glance  around — and  shrugg’d — and  twitch’d  his 
sleeve 

And  black  silk  neckcloth — and  replied,  “ You’re  right ; 
Poor  thing  ! what’s  to  be  done  ? I’m  puzzled  quite.” 
c. 

Said  Juan— “ Whatsoever  is  to  be 
Done,  I’ll  not  quit  her  till  she  seems  secure 
Of  present  life  a good  deal  more  than  we.” — 

Quoth  Johnson — “ Neither  will  I quite  ensure  ; 

But  at  the  least  you  may  die  gloriously.” — 

Juan  replied — “At  least  I will  endure 
Whate’er  is  to  be  borne — but  not  resign 
This  child,  who  is  parentless,  and  therefore  mine.” 
or. 

Johnson  said — “ Juan,  we’ve  no  time  to  lose  ; 

The  child’s  a pretty  child — a very  pretty — 

I never  saw  such  eyes — but  hark  ! now  choose 

Between  your  fame  and  feelings,  pride  and  pity  ; — • 
Hark  ! how  the  roar  increases  ! — no  excuse 
Will  serve  when  there  is  plunder  in  a city ; 

I should  be  loth  to  march  without  you,  but, 

By  God  ! we’ll  be  too  late  for  the  first  cut.” 

cn. 

But  Juan  was  immoveable ; until 

Johnson,  who  really  loved  him  in  his  way, 

Pick’d  out  amongst  his  followers  with  some  skill 
Such  as  he  thought  the  least  given  up  to  prey  ; 

And  swearing  if  the  infant  came  to  ill 

That  they  should  all  be  shot  on  the  next  day ; 

But  if  she  were  deliver’d  safe  and  sound, 

They  should  at  least  have  fifty  rubles  round, 

era. 

And  all  allowances  besides  of  plundei 

In  fair  proportion  with  their  comrades ; — then 
Juan  consented  to  march  on  through  thunder, 

Which  thinn’d  at  every  step  their  ranks  of  men : 
And  yet  the  rest  rush’d  eagerly — no  wonder, 

For  they  were  heated  by  the  hope  of  gain, 

A thing  which  happens  every  -where  each  day — 

No  hero  trustetli  wholly  to  half  pay. 

CIV. 

And  such  is  victory,  and  such  is  man ! 

At  least  nine-tenths  of  what  we  call  so  ; — God 
May  have  another  name  for  half  we  scan 
As  human  beings,  or  his  ways  are  odd. 

But  to  our  subject : a brave  Tartar  khan — 

Or  “ sultan,”  as  the  author  (to  whose  nod 
In  prose  I bend  my  humble  verse)  doth  call 
This  chieftain  -somehow  would  not  yield  at  all: 

cv. 

But  flank’d  by  Jive  brave  sons  (such  is  polygamy, 

That  she  spawns  warriors  by  the  score,  where  none 
Are  prosecuted  for  that  false  crime  bigamy), 

He  never  would  believe  the  city  won 
While  courage  clung  but  to  a single  twig. — Am  I 
Describing  Priam’s,  Peleus’,  or  Jove’s  son? 

Neither — but  a good,  plain,  old,  temperate  man. 

Who  fought  with  his  five  children  in  the  van.5 


(3)  [“  . . . J’eus  le  plaisir  d’appergevoir  que  ma  petite  prisonniere 
n’avait  d’autre  mal  qu’une  coupure  leg^re  que  lui  avait  faite  au 
visage  le  meme  fer  qui  avait  perce  sa  mere.” — Richelieu.] 

(4)  A Russian  military  order. 

(5)  [“Le  sultan  perit  dans  Taction  en  brave  horame,  digne  d’un 
meiUeur  destin ; ce  fut  lui  qui  rallia  les  Turcs  lorsque  Tennemi 
pen6tra  dans  le  place:  ce  sultan,  d’une  valeur  6prouv6e, surpassait 
en  generosite  les  plus  civilises  de  sa  nation : cinq  de  ses  ills  com- 


694 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  VIII 


CVI. 

To  take  him  was  the  point. — Tim  truly  brave, 

When  they  behold  the  brave  oppress’d  with  odds, 
Are  touch’d  with  a desire  to  shield  and  save  ; — 

A mixture  of  wild  beasts  and  demi-gods 
Are  they — now  furious  as  the  sweeping  wave, 

Now  moved  with  pity : even  as  sometimes  nods 
The  rugged  tree  unto  the  summer  wind, 

Compassion  breathes  along  the  savage  mind, 
cvn. 

But  he  would  not  be  taken , and  replied 
To  all  the  propositions  of  surrender 
By  mowing  Christians  down  on  every  side, 

As  obstinate  as  Swedish  Charles  at  Bender.1 
His  live  brave  boys  no  less  the  foe  defied ; 

Whereon  the  Russian  pathos  grew  less  tender, 

As  being  a virtue,  like  terrestrial  patience, 

Apt  to  wear  out  on  trifling  provocations. 

cvm. 

Aud  spite  of  Johnson  and  of  Juan,  who 
Expended  all  their  Eastern  phraseology 
In  begging  him,  for  God’s  sake,  just  to  show 
So  much  less  fight  as  might  form  an  apology 
Eor  them  in  saving  such  a desperate  foe — 

He  liew’d  away,  like  doctors  of  theology 
When  they  dispute  with  sceptics  ; and  with  curses 
Struck  at  his"  friends,  as  babies  beat  their  nurses, 
cix. 

Nay,  he  had  wounded,  though  but  slightly,  both 
Juan  and  Johnson  ; whereupon  they  fell, 

The  first  with  sighs,  the  second  with  an  oath, 

Upon  his  angry  sultanship,  pell-mell, 

And  all  around  were  grown  exceeding  wroth 
At  such  a pertinacious  infidel, 

And  pour’d  upon  him  and  his  sons  like  rain, 

Which  they  resisted  like  a sandy  plain 
cx. 

That  drinks  and  still  is  dry.  At  last  they  perish’d — 
His  second  son  was  levell’d  by  a shot ; 

His  third  was  sabred  ; and  the  fourth,  most  cherish’d 
Of  all  the  five,  on  bayonets  met  his  lot  ; 

The  fifth,  who,  by  a Christian  mother  nourish’d, 

Mad  been  neglected,  ill-used,  and  what  not, 
Because  deform’d,  yet  died  all  game  and  bottom, 

To  save  a sire  who  blush’d  that  he  begot  him. 

CXI. 

The  eldest  was  a true  and  tameless  Tartar, 

As  great  a scorner  of  the  Nazarene 
As  ever  Mahomet  pick’d  out  for  a martyr, 

Who  only  saw  the  black-eyed  girls  in  green, 

"Who  make  the  beds  of  those  who  won’t  take  quarter 
On  earth.,  in  Paradise ; and  when  once  seen, 

Those  houris,  like  all  other  pretty  creatures, 

Do  just  whate’er  they  please,  by  dint  of  features. 

CXII 

And  what  they  pleased  to  do  with  the  young  khan 
In  heaven  1 know  not,  nor  pretend  to  guess  ; 

But  doubtless  they  prefer  a fine  young  man 
To  tough  old  heroes,  and  can  do  no  less  ; 


battaiont  a ses  cot6s,  il  les  encourageait  par  son  exemple.” — Hist, 
de  la  N.  R.  tom.  iii.  p.  21%.] 

(1)  [“  At  Bender,  after  the  fatal  battle  of  Pultawa,  Charles  gave 
a proof  of  that  unreasonable  obstinacy,  which  occasioned  all  his 
misfortunes  in  Turkey.  When  advised  to  write  to  the  grand  vizier, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  Turks,  he  said  it  was  beneath  his 


And  that’s  the  cause  no  doubt  why,  if  we  scan 
A field  of  battle’s  ghastly  wilderness, 

Eor  one  rough,  weather-beaten,  veteran  body, 

You’ll  find  ten  thousand  handsome  coxcombs  bloody 

CXIII. 

Your  houris  also  have  a natural  pleasure 
In  lopping  off  your  lately  married  men, 

Before  the  bridal  hours  have  danced  their  measure. 
And  the  sad,  second  moon  grows  dim  again. 

Or  dull  repentance  hath  had  dreary  leisure 
To  wish  him  back  a bachelor  now  and  then. 

And  thus  your  houri  (it  may  be)  disputes 
Of  these  brief  blossoms  the  immediate  fruits. 

cxiv. 

Thu3  the  young  khan,  with  houris  in  his  sight, 

Thought  not  upon  the  charms  of  four  young  brides 
But  bravely  rush’d  on  his  first  heavenly  night. 

In  short,  howe’er  our  better  faith  derides, 

These  black-eyed  virgins  make  the  Moslems  fight. 

As  though  there  were  one  heaven  and  none  besides,— 
Whereas,  if  all  be  true  we  hear  of  heaven 
And  hell,  there  must  at  least  be  six  or  seven. 

cxv. 

So  fully  flash’d  the  phantom  on  his  eyes. 

That  when  the  very  lance  was  in  his  heart, 

He  shouted  “Allah  !”  and  saw  Paradise 
With  all  its  veil  of  mystery  drawn  apart, 

And  bright  eternity  without  disguise 

On  his  soul,  like  a ceaseless  sunrise,  dart : — 

With  prophets,  houris,  angels,  saints,  descried 
In  one  voluptuous  blaze, — and  then  he  died : 

CXVI. 

But  with  a heavenly  rapture  on  his  face, 

The  good  old  khan,  who  long  had  ceased  to  see 
Houris,  or  aught  except  his  florid  race 
Who  grew  like  cedars  round  him  gloriously — 
When  he  beheld  his  latest  hero  grace 

The  earth,  which  he  became  like  a fell’d  tree, 
Paused  for  a moment  from  the  fight,  and  cast 
A glance  on  that  slain  son,  his  first  and  last. 

CXVII. 

The  soldiers,  who  beheld  him  dropjiis  point, 

Stopp’d  as  if  once  more  willing  to  concede 
Quarter,  in  case  he  bade  them  not  “ aroynt !” 

As  he  before  had  done.  He  did  not  heed 
Their  pause  nor  signs  : his  heart  was  out  of  joint, 

And  shook  (till  now  unshaken)  like  a reed, 

As  he  look’d  down  upon  his  children  gone, 

And  felt — though  done  with  life — he  was  alone.2 

CXVIII. 

But  ’twas  a transient  tremor : — with  a spring 
Upon  the  Russian  steel  his  breast  he  flung, 

As  carelessly  as  hurls  the  moth  her  wing 

Against  the  light  wherein  she  dies  : he  clung 
Closer,  that  all  the  deadlier  they  might  wring, 

Unto  the  bayonets  which  had  pierced  his  young ; » 

And  throwing  back  a dim  look  on  his  sons, 

In  one  wide  wound  pour’d  forth  his  soul  at  once. 


dignity.  The  same  obstinacy  placed  him  necessarily  at  variance 
with  all  the  ministers  of  the  Porte.”— Voltaire.] 

(2)  [“Ces  cinq  fils  furerit  tous  tu6s  sous  ses  yeux:  il  ne  cessa 
point  de  se  battre,  repondit  par  des  coups  de  sabre  aux  proposition* 
de  se  rendre,  et  ne  fut  atteint  du  coup  mortel  qu’aprfes  avoir  abattu 
de  sa  main  beaucoup  de  Kozaks  des  plus  acharnes  k sa  prise;  'e 
reste  de  sa  troupe  fut  massacr k.”—  Hist.  de  la  N.  R.  p.  215.] 


CANTO  VIII. 


DON  JUAN. 


695 


CXIX. 

’Tis  strange  enough — the  rough,  tough  soldiers,  who 
Spared  neither  sex  nor  age  in  their  career 
Of  carnage,  when  this  old  man  was  pierced  through. 
And  lay  before  them  with  his  children  near, 
Touched  by  the  heroism  of  him  they  slew, 

Were  melted  for  a moment : though  no  tear 
Flow’d  from  their  bloodshot  eyes,  all  red  with  strife, 
They  honour’d  sgch  determined  scorn  of  life. 

cxx. 

flut  the  stone  bastion  still  kept  up  its  fire, 

Where  the  chief  pacha  calmly  held  his  post : 

Some  twenty  times  he  made  the  Russ  retire, 

And  baffled  the  assaults  of  all  their  host : 

At  length  he  condescended  to  inquire 
If  yet  the  city’s  rest  were  won  or  lost ; 

And  being  toldlhe  latter,  sent  a bey 
To  answer  Ribas’  summons  to  give  way.1 

CXXI. 

[n  the  mean  time,  cross-legg’d,  with  great  sang-froid, 
Among  the  scorching  ruins  lie  sat  smoking 
Tobacco  on  a little  carpet; — Troy 
Saw  nothing  like  the  scene  around ; — yet  looking 
With  martial  stoicism,  nought  seem’d  to  annoy 
His  stern  philosophy ; but  gently  stroking 
His  beard,  lie  puff’d  his  pipe’s  ambrosial  gales, 

As  if  he  had  three  lives,  as  well  as  tails.2 

cxxn. 

The  town  was  taken — whether  he  might  yield 
Himself  or  bastion,  little  matter’d  now  : 

His  stubborn  valour  was  no  future  shield. 

Ismail’s  no  more  ! The  crescent’s  silver  bow 
Sunk,  and  the  crimson  cross  glared  o’er  the  field, 

But  red  with  no  redeeming  gore  : the  glow 
Of  burning  streets,  like  lhoonlight  on  the  water, 

Was  imaged  back  in  blood,  the  sea  of  slaughter. 

CXXIII. 

All  that  the  mind  would  shrink  from  of  excesses ; 

All  that  the  body  perpetrates  of  bad  ; 

All  that  we  read,  hear,  dream,  of  man’s  distresses ; 

All  that  the  devil  would  do  if  run  stark  mad  ; 

All  that  defies  the  worst  which  pen  expresses ; 

All  by  which  hell  is  peopled,  or  as  sad 
As  hell — mere  mortals  who  their  power  abuse — 

Was  here  (as  heretofore  and  since)  let  loose.3 


(1)  [Quoiqueles  Russes  fussent  repandus  dans  la  ville,  le  bastion 
4e  pierre  resistait  encore  ; il  etait  defendu  par  un  veillard,  pacha  a 
trois  queues,  et  commandant  les  forces  reunies  a Ismael.  On  lui 
proposa  une  capitulation  ; il  demanda  si  le  reste  de  la  ville  etait 
conquis;  sur  cede  reponse,  il  autorisa  quelques-uns  de  ces  officiers 
& capituler  avec  M.  de  Ribas.” — Hist,  de  la  N.  R.  p.  215.] 

(2)  [“  Pendant  ce  colloque,  il  resta  etendu  sur  des  tapis  places 
sur  les  ruines  de  la  forteresse,  fumant  sa  pipe  avec  la  meme  tran- 
quillite  et  la  meme  indifference  que  s’il  eut  ete  etranger  h tout  ce 
qui  se  passait .’’—Ibid.  p.  215.] 

<3)  [No  man  could  describe  the  horrors  which  ensued.  The 
fei  acinus  victors,  instead  of  being  struck  with  admiration  or  re- 
spect by  the  noble  defence  of  the  brave  garrison,  were  so  enraged 
at  Die  great  slaughter  of  their  fellows  which  had  taken  place,  that 
no  bounds  could  be  prescribed  to  the  excess  of  their  fury.  All 
order  and  command  seem  to  have  been  entirely  at  an  end  during 
the  horrors  of  that  terrible  night:  the  officers  could  neither  restrain 
the  slaughter,  nor  prevent  the  general  plunder,  made  by  the  lawless 
and  ferocious  soldiers.  Thousands  of  the  Turks,  incapable  of 
enduring  the  sight  of  the  horrid  scenes  of  destruction  in  which  all 

that  was  dear  to  them  was  involved,  rushed  desperately  upon  the 


CXXIV. 

If  here  and  there  some  transient  trait  cf  ].ity 

Was  shown,  and  some  more  noblehearf  broke  through 
Its  bloody  bond,  and  saved,  perhaps,  some  pretty 
Child,  or  an  aged,  helpless  man  or  two — 

What’s  this  in  one  annihilated  city, 

Where  thousand  loves,  and  ties,  and  duties  grew  ? 
Cockneys  of  London ! Muscadins  of  Paris  ! 

Just  ponder  what  a pious  pastime  war  is. 

exxv. 

Think  how  the  joys  of  reading  a Gazette 
Are  purchased  by  all  agonies  and  crimes  : 

Or  if  these  do  not  move  you,  don’t  forget 
Such  doom  may  be  your  own  in  after-times. 
Meantime  the  Taxes,  Castlereagh,  and  Debt, 

Are  hints  as  good  as  sermons,  or  as  rhymes. 

Read  your  own  hearts  and  Ireland’s  present  story, 
Then  feed  her  famine  fat  with  Wellesley’s  glory. 

exxvi. 

But  still  there  is  unto  a patriot  nation, 

Which  loves  so  well  its  country  and  its  king, 

A subject  of  sublimest  exultation — 

Bear  it,  ye  Muses,  on  your  brightest  wing ! 
Howe’er  the  mighty  locust,  Desolation, 

Strip  your  green  fields,  and  to  your  harvests  cling, 
Gaunt  Famine  never  shall  approach  the  throne — 
Though  Ireland  starve,  great  George  weighs  twenty 
stone. 

CXXVII. 

But  let  me  put  an  end  unto  my  theme : 

There  was  an  end  of  Ismail — hapless  town  ! 

Par  flash’d  her  burning  towers  o’er  Danube’s  stream, 
And  redly  ran  his  blushing  waters  down. 

The  horrid  war-whoop  and  the  shriller  scream 
Rose  still ; but  fainter  were  the  thunders  grown : 
Of  forty  thousand  who  had  maim’d  the  wall, 

Some  hundreds  breathed — the  rest  were  silent  all ! 4 

CXXVIII. 

In  one  thing  ne’ertheless  ’tis  fit  to  praise 
The  Russian  army  upon  this  occasion, 

A virtue  much  in  fashion  now-a-days, 

And  therefore  worthy  of  commemoration : 

The  topic’s  tender,  so  shall  be  my  phrase — 

Perhaps  the  season’s  chill,  and  their  long  station 
In  winter’s  depth,  or  want  of  rest  and  victual, 

Had  made  them  chaste  ; — they  ravish’d  vefy  little. 


bayonets  of  the  enemy,  in  order  to  shorten  their  misery ; while 
those  who  could  reach  the  Danube  threw  themselves  headlong  intc 
it  for  the  same  purpose.  The  streets  and  passages  were  so  choked 
by  the  heaps  of  dead  and  dying  bodies  which  lay  in  them,  as  con- 
siderably to  impede  the  progress  of  the  victors  in  their  eager  search 
for  plunder. — Dr.  Laurence,  in  Ann.  Reg.  for  1791] 

(4)  [“On  6gorgea  indistinctement,  on  saccagea  la  place;  et  la 
rage  du  vainqueur  se  repandit  comme  un  torrent  furieux  qui  a 
renverse  les  digues  qui  le  retenaient:  persortne  obtint  de  grace,  et 
trenle  huit  mille  huit  cent  snisante  Turcs  perirent  dans  cette  journee 
de  sang.” — Hist,  de  la  Nouv.  Russie,  tom.  iii.  p.  214. 

“ Among  those  who  fell  were  a number  of  the  bravest,  most 
experienced,  and  renowned  commanders  in  the  Turkish  armies 
Six  or  seven  Tartar  princes,  of  the  illustrious  line  of  Gherai,  like- 
wise perished  with  the  rest.  A few  hundreds  of  prisoners  were 
preserved,  to  serve  as  melancholy  recorders  and  witnesses  of  the 
destruction  which  they  had  beheld.  In  consequence  of  an  accurate 
inquiry  set  on  foot  by  an  Ottoman  cemmander  of  rank,  it  appears 
that  the  whole  number  of  Turks,  who  perished  in  the  slaughter  of 
Ismail,  amounted  to  thirty-eight  thousand  eight  hundred  and  six 
teen.*’ — Dr.  Laurence.] 


696 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CXXIX. 

M ucli  did  they  slay,  more  plunder,  and  no  less 
Might  here  and  there  occur  some  violation 
In  the  other  line  ; — but  not  to  such  excess 
As  when  the  French,  that  dissipated  nation. 

Take  towns  by  storm : no  causes  can  I guess, 

Except  cold  weather  and  commiseration ; 

But  all  the  ladies,  save  some  twenty  score, 

II  ere  almost  as  much  virgins  as  before. 

cxxx. 

Some  odd  mistakes,  too,  happen’d  in  the  dark, 

Which  show’d  a want  of  lanterns,  or  of  taste — 
Indeed  the  smoke  was  such  they  scarce  could  mark 
Iheir  friends  from  foes, — besides  such  things  from 
Occur,  though  rarely,  when  there  is  a spark  [haste 
Of  light  to  save  the  venerably  chaste  : 

But  six  old  damsels,  each  of  seventy  years, 

W ere  all  deflower’d  by  different  grenadiers. 

cxxxi. 

But  on  the  whole  their  continence  was  great ; 

So  that  some  disappointment  there  ensued  ’ 

To  those  who  had  felt  the  inconvenient  state 
Of  “ single  blessedness,”  and  thought  it  good 
(Since  it  was  not  their  fault,  but  only  fate, 

To  bear  these  crosses)  for  each  waning  prude 
To  make  a Roman  sort  of  Sabine  weddin0-, 

Without  the  expense  and  the  suspense  of  bedding. 

CXXXII. 

Some  voices  of  the  buxom  middle-aged 
Were  also  heard  to  wonder  in  the  din 
(Widows  of  forty  were  these  birds  long  caged) 

“ Wherefore  the  ravishing  did  not  begin  !” 

But  while  the  thirst  for  gore  and  plunder  raged, 
ihere  was  small  leisure  for  superfluous  sin; 

But  whether  they  escaped  or  no,  lies  hid 
In  darkness — I can  only  hope  they  did. 

CXXXIII. 

Suwarrow  now  was  conqueror— a match 
For  Timour  or  for  Zinghis  in  his  trade.  [thatch 
While  mosques  and  streets,  beneath  his  eyes,  like 
Blamed,  and  the  cannon’s  roar  was  scarce  allay’d. 
With  bloody  hands  he  wrote  his  first  despatch  ; 

And  here  exactly  follows  what  he  said  : — - 
“ Glory  to  God  ana  to  the  Empress  !”  {Powers 
Eternal!  such  names  mingled!)  “Ismail’s  ours.”1 

cxxxiv. 

Methinks  these  are  the  most  tremendous  words, 

Since  “<Mene,  Mene,  Tekel,”  and  “Upharsin,” 
v»  hich  hands  or  pens  have  ever  traced  of  swords. 

Heaven  help  me  ! I’m  but  little  of  a parson: 

What  Daniel  read  was  short-hand  of  the  Lord’s, 

Severe,  sublirne  ; the  prophet  wrote  no  farce  on 
The  fate  of  nations  ; — but  this  Russ  so  witty 
Could  rhyme,  like  Nero,  o’er  a burning  city.2 


(1)  In  the  original  Russian — 

“ Slava  bogu ! slava  vam  ! 

Krjpost  Vzala  y i'a  tam ;” 
a kind  of  couplet;  for  he  was  a poet. 

(2)  [Mr.  Tweddell,  who  met  with  Suwarrow  in  the  Ukraine,  says 
— He  is  a most  extraordinary  character.  He  dines  every  morn- 
lng  about  nine  He  sleeps  almost  naked;  he  affects  a perfect 
indifference  to  heat  and  cold  ; and  quits  his  chamber,  which  ap- 
proaches to  suffocation,  in  order  to  review  his  troops,  in  a thin 
linen  jacket,  while  the  thermometer  of  Reaumur  is  at  ten  degrees 
oeJow  freezing.  His  manners  correspond  with  his  humours.  I 
dined  with  him  this  morning.  He  cried  to  me  across  the  table,— 

1 weddell!  (he  generally  addressed  me  by  my  surname,  without 
addition)  the  French  1 ave  taken  Portsmouth— X have  just  received 


cxxxv. 

He  wrote  this  Polar  melody,  and  set  it, 

Duly  accompanied  by  shrieks  and  groans. 

Which  few  will  sing,  I trust,  but  none  forget  it— 
For  I will  teach,  if  possible,  the  stones 
To  rise  against  earth’s  tyrants.  Never  let  it 
Be  said  that  we  still  truckle  unto  thrones 
But  ye— our  children’s  children  ! think  how  we 
Show’d  wliat  things  were  before  the.world  was  free ! 

CXXXVI. 

That  nour  is  not  for  us,  but  ’tis  for  you : 

And  as,  in  the  great  joy  of  your  millennium, 

You  hardly  will  believe  such  tilings  were  true 
As  now  occur,  I thought  that  I would  pen  you  ’em 
But  may  their  very  memory  perish  too  ! — 

Yet  if  perchance  remember’d,  still  disdain  you  ’em 
More  than  you  scorn  the  savages  of  yore, 

Who  'painted  their  bare  limbs,  but  not  with  gore. 

CXXXVII. 

And  when  you  hear  historians  talk  of  thrones,  ■ f, 
And  those  that  sate  upon  them,  let  it  be 
As  we  now  gaze  upon  the  mammoth’s  bones, 

And  wonder  what  old  world  such  things  could  see, 
Or  hieroglyphics  on  Egyptian  stones, 

The  pleasant  riddles  of  futurity — 

Guessing  at  what  shall  happily  be  hid, 

As  the  real  purpose  of  a pyramid. 

CXXXVIJI. 

Reader  ! I have  kept  my  word, — at  least  so  lai 
As  the  first  Canto  promised.  You  have  now 
Had  sketches  of  love,  tempest,  travel,  war — 

All  very  accurate,  you  must  allow. 

And  epic,  if  plain  truth  should  prove  no  bar; 

For  1 have  drawn  much  less  with  a long  bow 
Than  my  forerunners.  Carelessly  I sing, 

But  Phoebus  lends  me  now  and  then  a string, 

cxxxix. 

With  which  I still  can  harp,  and  carp,  and  fiddle. 

What  farther  hath  befallen  or  may  befall 
The  hero  of  this  grand  poetic  riddle, 

I by  and  by  may  tell  you,  if  at  all : 

But  now  I choose  to  break  off  in  the  middle. 

Worn  out  with  battering  Ismail’s  stubborn  wall, 
While  Juan  is  sent  off  with  the  despatch. 

For  which  all  Petersburgh  is  on  the  watch.3 

CXL. 

This  special  honour  was  conferr’d,  because 
Fie  had  behaved  with  courage  and  humanity — 
Which  last  men  like,  when  they  have  time  to  pause 
From  their  ferocities  produced  by  vanity. 

His  little  captive  gain’d  him  some  applause 
For  saving  her  amidst  the  wild  insanity 
Of  carnage, — and  I think  he  was  more  glad  in  her 
Safety,  than  his  new  order  of  St.  Vladimir. 


a courier  from  England.  The  King  is  in  the  Tower;  and  Sheridan, 
Protector.’  A great  deal  of  his  whimsical  manner  is  affected:  he 
finds  that  it  suits  his  troops,  and  the  people  he  has  to  deal  with. 
I asked  him,  if,  after  the  massacre  at  Ismail,  he  was  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  conduct  of  the  day.  He  said  he  went  home  And 
wept  in  his  tent.” — Remains,  p.  135  ] 

(3)  [“The  ostentatious  and  fantastic  display  of  the  bloody  tropmes 
taken  at  Ismail,  which  were  some  time  after  exhibited  at  Peters- 
burgh, was  unworthy  the  greatness,  the  magnanimity,  and  the  high 
character  of  the  Empress  Catherine.  The  tragedy  should  have 
closed  at  the  conclusion  of  the  last  act  on  the  spot.  It  was  attri- 
buted more  to  a desire  of  gratifying  the  excessive  vanity  of  Prince 
Potemkin,  which  was  not  easily  satiated,  than  that  of  the  ernpreM 
herself.” — Dr.  Laurence.] 


CANTO  IX. 


DON  JUAN. 


697 


CXLI. 

Tlie  Moslem  orphan  went  with  her  protector, 

"Vr  she  was  homeless,  houseless,  helpless  ; all 
Jier  friends,  like  the  sad  family  of  Hector, 

Had  perish’d  in  the  field  or  by  the  wall : 

Her  very  place  of  birth  was  but  a spectre 
Of  what  it  had  been  ; there  the  Muezzin’s  call* 1 
Tc  prayer  was  heard  no  more  ! — and  Juan  wept, 
Luq  made  a vow  to  shield  her,  which  he  kept.2 3 


Bon  3)uan. 


CANTO  THE  NINTH.5 


I. 

Oh,  Wellington!  (or  “ Villainton”4 — for  Fame 
| sounds  the  heroic  syllables  both  ways  ; 

France  could  not  even  conquer  your  great  name, 

But  puun’d  it  down  to  this  facetious  phrase — 
Beating  or  beaten  she  will  laugh  the  same,) 

You  have  obtain’d  great  pensions  and  much  praise : 
Glory  like  yours  should  any  dare  gainsay, 

Humanity  would  rise,  and  thunder  “ Nay  !”5 

II. 

T don’t  think  that  you  used  Kinnaird  quite  well 
[ . Marinet’s  aftair6 — in  fact,  ’twas  shabby, 

And  like  some  other  things  won’t  do  to  tell 
Upon  your  tomb  in  Westminster’s  old  abbey. 

Upon  the  rest  ’tis  not  worth  while  to  dwell, 

Such  tales  being  for  the  tea-hours  of  some  tabby ; 
But  though  your  years  as  man  tend  fast  to  zero, 

In  fact  your  grace  is  still  but  a young  hero. 


/ 

(1)  [See  ante,  p.  22.] 

(2)  [Cantos  VI.,  VII.,  and  VIII.,  if  we  except  some  parts  of  the 
assault  of  Ismail,  contain  a considerably  less  proportion  of  the 
higher  class  of  poetry,  than  was  to  be  found  in  those  which  pre- 
ceded them.  But  in  the  keen  and  pervading  satire,  the  bitter  and 
biting  irony,  which  constitute  the  peculiar  forte  of  Lord  Byron,  we 
uerceive  no  falling  off  in  these  present  cantos.  Nor  are  they  defi- 
cient in  that  vein  of  playful  humour,  and  that  felicitous  transition 
“ from  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe,”  so  conspicuous  in  their 
predecessors.  The  execution,  on  the  whole,  we  think  quite  equal 
to  that  displayed  in  the  earlier  parts  of  the  poem. — Campbell.] 

(3)  [Cantos  IX.,  X.,  and  XI.  were  written  at  Pisa,  and  published 
in  London,  by  Mr.  John  Hunt,  in  August,  1823.  We  extract  the 
following  specimen  of  contemporary  criticism  : — 

“ That  there  is  a great  deal  of  what  is  objectionable  in  these  three 
'antos,  who  can  deny  l What  can  be  more  so  than  to  attack  the 
King,  with  low,  vile,  personal  buffooneries — bottomed  in  utter 
falsehood,  and  expressed  in  crawling  malice?  What  can  be  more 
exquisitely  worthy  of  contempt  than  the  savage  imbecility  of  these 
eternal  tirades  against  the  Duke  of  Wellington  ? What  more  pitiable 
than  the  state  of  mind  that  can  find  any  gratification  in  calling  such 
a man  as  Southey  by  nicknames  that  one  would  be  ashamed  of 
applying  to  a coal-heaver?  What  can  be  so  abject  as  this  eternal 
trampling  upon  the  dust  of  Castlereagh?  Lord  Byron  ought  to 
know  that  all  men,  of  all  parties,  unite  in  regarding  all  these  things, 
but  especially  the  first  and  the  last,  as  insults  to  themselves,  and  as 
n.ost  miserable  degradations  of  him. 

‘ P,ur.  still  Don  Juan  is,  without  exception,  the  first  of  Lord 
Byron’s  works.  It  is  by  far  the  most  original  in  point  of  conception. 
It  is  decidedly  original  in  point  of  tone.  It  contains  the  finest 
specimens  of  serious  poetry  he  has  ever  written  ; and  it  contains  the 
Siest  specimens  of  ludicrous  poetry  that  our  age  has  witnessed, 

prut  may  have  written  the  stanza  earlier  ; he  may  have  written  it 
Tt._>re  carefully,  more  musically,  if  you  will;  but  what  is  he  to 

A', Ton  ? Where  is  the  sweep,  the  pith,  the  soaring  pinion,  the 

•arish  luxury  of  genius  revelling  in  strength  ? No : no : Don  Juan, 

Wj  *he  canting  world  what  it  will,  is  destined  to  hold  a permanent 


III. 

Though  Britain  owes  (and  pays  you  too)  so  much, 
Yet  Europe  doubtless  owes  you  greatly  more  : 

You  have  repair’d  Legitimacy’s  crutch, 

A prop'not  quite  so  certain  as  before : 

The  Spanish,  and  the  French,  as  well  as  Dutch, 

Have  seen  and  felt  how  strongly  you  restore ; 

And  Waterloo  has  made  the  world  your  debtor 
(I  wish  your  bards  would  sing  it  rather  better). 

IV. 

You  are  “the  best  of  cut-throats  :”7 — do  not  start ; 

The  phrase  is  Shakspeare’s,  and  not  misapplied  : — 
War’s  a brain-spattering,  windpipe-slitting  art, 
Unless  her  cause  by  right  be  sanctified. 

If  you  have  acted  once  a generous  part, 

The  world,  not  the  world’s  masters,  will  decide. 
And  I shall  be  delighted  to  learn  who, 

Save  you  and  yours,  have  gain’d  by  Waterloo? 

v. 

I am  no  flatterer — you’ve  supp’d  full  of  flattery  . 

They  say  you  like  it  too — ’tis  no  great  wonder. 

He  whose  whole  life  has  been  assault  and  battery 
At  last  may  get  a little  tired  of  thunder; 

And  swallowing  eulogy  much  more  than  satire,  he 
May  like  being  praised  for  every  lucky  blunder, 
Call’d  “ Saviour  of  the  Nations  ” — not  yet  saved. 
And  “ Europe’s  Liberator  ” — still  enslaved.8 

VI. 

I’ve  done.  Now  go  and  dine  from  off  the  plate 
Presented  by  the  Prince  of  the  Brazils, 

And  send  the  sentinel  before  your  gate 

A slice  or  two  from  your  luxurious  meals  :9 
He  fought,  but  has  not  fed  so  well  of  late. 

Some  hunger,  too,  they  shy  the  people  feels  : — 
There  is  no  doubt  that  you  deserve  your  ration, 

But  pray  give  back  a little  to  the  nation. 


rank  in  the  literature  of  our  country.  It  will  always  be  referred  to 
as  furnishing  the  most  powerful  picture  of  that  vein  of  thought  (no 
matter  how  false  and  bad)  which  distinguishes  a great  portion  of 
the  thinking  people  of  our  time.” — Blackwood. 

(4)  [“  Faut  qu’  lord  Villainton  ait  tout  pris, 

N’y  a plus  d’argent  dans  c’gueux  de  Paris.” — 

De  Berangeb.] 

(5)  Query,  Ncy? — Printer’s  Devil. 

(6)  [The  late  Lord  Kinnaird  w as 'received  in  Paris,  in  1814,  with 
great  civility  by  the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  the  royal  family  of 
France,  but  he  had  himself  presented  to  Buonaparte  during  the 
hundred  days,  and  intrigued  on  with  those  of  that  faction,  in  spite 
of  the  Duke’s  remonstrances,  until  the  restored  government  ordered 
him  out  of  the  French  territory  in  181 G.  In  1817,  he  became  ac- 
quainted at  Brussels  with  one  Marinet,  an  adventurer  mixed  up  in 
a conspiracy  to  assassinate  the  Duke  in  the  streets  of  Paris.  This 
fellow  at  first  promised  to  discover  the  man  who  actually  shot  at 
his  Grace,  but,  on  reaching  Paris,  shuffled  and  would  say  nothing; 
and  Lord  Kinnaird’s  avowed  cause  of  complaint  against  the  Duke 
was,  that  he  did  not  protect  this  creature  from  the  French  police, 
who,  not  doubting  that  he  had  been  one  of  the  conspirators  against 
his  Grace’s  life,  arrested  him  accordingly.  He  was  tried  along 
with  the  actual  assassin,  and  both  were  acquitted  by  the  Parisian 
jury.] 

(7)  [“  Thou  art  the  best  o’  the  cut-throats.”— Macbeth,  act  iii. 
sc.  iii.] 

(8)  Vide  Speeches  in  Parliament,  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 

(9)  “ I at  this  time  got  a post,  being  for  fatigue,  with  four  others. 
We  were  sent  to  break  biscuit,  and  make  a mess  for  Lord  Welling- 
ton’s hounds.  I was  very  hungry,  and  thought  it  a good  job  at  the 
time,  as  we  got  our  own  fill  while  we  broke  the  biscuit, — a thing  1 
had  not  got  for  some  days.  When  thus  engaged,  the  Prodigal  Son 
was  never  once  out  of  my  mind ; and  I sighed,  as  1 fed  the  dogs, 
over  my  humble  situation  and  my  ruined  hopes.” — Journal  of  m 
Soldier  of  the  71s<  Regiment  during  the  war  in  Spain. 

4 u 


698 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANK  X 


VII. 

I don’t  mean  to  reflect — a man  so  great  as 
You,  my  lord  duke  ! is  far  above  reflection : 

The  high  Roman  fashion,  too,  of  Cincinnatus, 

With  modern  history  has  but  small  connection: 
Though  as  an  Irishman  you  love  potatoes, 

You  need  not  take  them  under  your  direction ; 

And  half  a million  for  your  Sabine  farm 
Is  rather  dear ! — I’m  sure  I mean  no  harm. 

VIII. 

Great  men  have  always  scorn’d  great  recompences  ; 

Epaminondas  saved  his  Thebes,  and  diedt 
Not  leaving  even  his  funeral  expenses  :l 

George  Washington  had  thanks  and  nought  beside, 
Except  the  all-cloudless  glory  (which  few  men’s  is) 

To  free  his  country  : Pitt  too  had  his  pride, 

And  as  a high-soul’d  minister  of  state  is 
Renown’ d for  ruining  Great  Britain  gratis.2 

IX. 

Never  had  mortal  man  such  opportunity, 

Except  Napoleon,  or  abused  it  more  : 

You  might  have  freed  fallen  Europe  from  the  unity 
Of  tyrants,  and  been  blest  from  shore  to  shore : 

And  now — what  is  your  fame  ? Shall  the  Muse  tune 
it  ye  ? 

Now — that  the  rabble’s  first  vain  shouts  are  o’er  ? 
Go ! hear  it  in  your  famish’d  country’s  cries  ! 

Behold  the  world ! and  curse  your  victories  ! 

x. 

As  these  new  cantos  touch  on  warlike  feats, 

To  you  the  unflattering  Muse  deigns  to  inscribe 
Truths,  that  you  will  not  read  in  the  Gazettes, 

But  which  ’tis  time  to  teach  the  hireling  tribe 
Who  fatten  on  their  country’s  gore,  and  debts, 

Must  be  recited,  and — without  a bribe. 

You  did  great  things  ; but  not  being  great  in  mind, 
Have  left  undone  the  greatest — and  mankind. 

XI. 

Death  laughs — Go  ponder  o’er  the  skeleton 
With  which  men  image  out  the  unknown  thing 
That  hides  the  past  world,  like  to  a set  sun 

Which  still  elsewhere  may  rouse  a brighter  spring — 
Death  laughs  at  all  you  weep  for  : — look  upon 
This  hourly  dread  of  all ! whose  threaten'd  sting 
Turns  life  to  terror,  even  though  in  its  sheath  : 

Mark ! how  its  lipless  mouth  grins  without  breath ! 

XII. 

Mark  ! how  it  laughs  and  scorns  at  all  you  are  ! 

And  yet  was  what  you  are  : from  ear  to  ear 
It  laughs  not — there  is  now  no  fleshy  bar 

So  call’d ; the  Antic  long  hath  ceased  to  hear , 

But  still  he  smiles  ; and  whether  near  or  far, 

He  strips  from  man  that  mantle  (far  more  dear 
Than  even  the  tailor’s),  his  incarnate  skin, 

White,  black,  or  copper — the  dead  bones  will  grin. 


(1)  [“  In  other  illustrious  men  you  will  observe  that  each  pos- 
sessed some  one  shining  quality,  which  was  the  foundation  of  his 
fame  : in  Epaminondas,  all  the  virtues  are  found  united  ; force  of 
body,  eloquence  of  expression,  vigour  of  mind,  contempt  of  riches.” 
— Digd.  Sic.  lib.  xv.] 

(2)  [These  persons  who  represent  our  statesmen  as  living  and 
fattening  upon  the  public  spoil,  must  either  be  grossly  ignorant,  or 

^ wicked  enough  to  employ  arguments  which  they  know  to  be  false. 
The  emoluments  of  office,  almost  in  every  department  of  the  state, 
and  especially  in  all  the  highest,  are  notoriously  inadequate  to  the 
expenditure  w hicli  the  situation  requires.  Mr.  Pitt,  who  was  no 


XIII. 

And  thus  Death  laughs, — it  is  sad  merriment, 

But  still  it  is  so ; and  with  such  example 
Why  should  not  life  be  equally  content 
With  his  superior,  in  a smile  to  trample 
Upon  the  nothings  which  are  daily  spent 
Like  bubbles  on  an  ocean  much  less  ample 
Than  the  eternal  deluge,  which  devours 
Suns  as  rays — worlds  like  atoms — years  like  hours  1 

XIV. 

“ To  be  or  not  to  be  ? that  is  the  question,” 

Says  Shakspeare,  who  just  now  is  much  in  fashion 
I am  neither  AlexandeY  nor  Hephsestion, 

Nor  ever  had  for  abstract  fame  much  passion ; 

But  would  much  rather  have  a sound  digestion 
Than  Buonaparte’s  cancer  : — could  I dash  on 
Through  fifty  victories  to  shame  or  fame, 

Without  a stomach — what  were  a good  name  ? 

XV. 

“ Oh  dura  ilia  messoruin  !”3 — “ Oh 
Ye  rigid  guts  of  reapers  ! ” I translate 
Eor  the  great  benefit  of  those  who  know 
What  indigestion  is — that  inward  fate 
Which  makes  all  Styx  through  one  small  liver  flow. 

A peasant’s  sweat  is  worth  his  lord’s  estate : 

Let  this  one  toil  for  bread — that  rack  for  rent, 

He  who  sleeps  best  may  be  the  most  content. 

XVI. 

“ To  be  or  not  to  be  ?” — Ere  I decide, 

I should  be  glad  to  know  that  which  is  being. 

’Tis  true  we  speculate  both  far  and  wide, 

And  deem,  because  we  see,  we  are  all-seeing : 

Eor  my  part,  I’ll  enlist  on  neither  side, 

Until  I see  both  sides  for  once  agreeing. 

Eor  me,  I sometimes  think  that  life  is  death, 

Rather  than  life  a mere  affair  of  breath. 

XVII. 

“ Que  scais-je  ?’’4  was  the  motto  of  Montaigne, 

As  also  of  the  first  academicians  : 

That  all  is  dubious  which  man  may  attain, 

Was  one  of  their  most  favourite  positions. 

There’s  no  such  thing  as  certainty,  that’s  plain 
As  any  of  Mortality’s  conditions  ; 

So  little  do  we  know  what  we’re  about  in 
This  world,  I doubt  if  doubt  itself  be  doubting. 

XVIII. 

It  is  a pleasant  voyage  perhaps  to  float, 

Like  Pyrrho,5  on  a sea  of  speculation  ; 

But  what  if  carrying  sail  capsize  the  boat  P 

Your  wise  men  don’t  know  much  of  navigation  ; 
And  swimming  long  in  the  abyss  of  thought 

Is  apt  to  tire  : a calm  and  shallow  station  [gather*, 
Well  nigh  the  shore,  where  one  stoops  down  ami 
Some  pretty  shell,  is  best  for  moderate  bathers. 


gambler,  no  prodigal,  and  too  much  a man  of  business  to  have  ex- 

pensive habits  of  any  kind,  died  in  debt;  and  the  nation  discharged 
bis  debts,  not  less  as  a mark  of  respect,  than  as  an  act  of  justice  — 
Southey.] 

(3)  [“  O,  dura  messorum  ilia!”  &c. — Hor.] 

(4)  [See  Biographie  Univevselle,  tom.  xix.  p.  434.] 

(5)  [Pyrrho,  the  philosopher  of  Elis,  was  in  continual  suspense  c 
judgment : he  doubted  of  every  thing;  never  made  any  conclusion 
and  when  l.e  had  carefully  examined  a subject,  and  iRve>-ugate<{ 
all  its  poin's,  he  concluded  bv  still  doubting  of  its  evidence.-' 
Aul.  Gel.] 


CANTO  IX. 


DON  JUAN. 


699 


XIX. 

“But  heaven/’  as  Cassio  says,  “is  above  all1 — 

No  more  of  this,  then, — let  us  pray  !”  We  have 
Souls  to  save,  since  Eve’s  slip  and  Adam’s  fall, 

Which  tumbled  all  mankind  into  the  grave, 

Besides  fish,  beasts,  and  birds.  “ The  sparrow’s  fall 
Is  special  providence,” 2 though  how  it  gave 
Offence,  we  know  not ; probably  it  perch’d 
Upon  the  tree  which  Eve  so  fondly  search’d. 

xx. 

Oh  ! ye  immortal  Gods  ! what  is  theogony  ? 

Oh  ! thou,  too,  mortal  man  ! what  is  philanthropy  ? 
Oh  ! world,  which  was  and  is,  what  is  cosmogony  ? 

Some  people  have  accused  me  of  misanthropy  ; 

And  yet  I know  no  more  than  the  mahogany 

That  forms  this  desk,  of  what  they  mean ; lykan- 1 
I comprehend,  for  without  transformation  [ jhropy 3 
Men  become  wolves  on  any  slight  occasion. 

XXI. 

But  I,  the  mildest,  meekest  of  mankind, 

Like  Moses,  or  Melancthon,  who  have  ne’er 
Done  any  thing  exceedingly  unkind, — 

And  (though  I could  not  now  and  then  forbear 
Following  the  bent  of  body  or  of  mind) 

Have  always  had  a tendency  to  spare, — 

Why  do  they  call  me  misanthrope  ? Because 
They  hate  me , not  I them  : — and  here  we’ll  pause. 

XXII. 

’Tis  time  we  should  proceed  with  our  good  poem — 

For  I maintain  that  it  is  really  good, 

Not  only  in  the  body  but  the  proem, 

However  little  both  are  understood 
Just  now, — but  by  and  by  the  Truth  will  show  ’em 
Herself  in  her  sublimest  attitude  : 

And  till  she  doth,  I fain  must  be  content 
To  share  her  beauty  and  her  banishment. 

xxnr. 

Our  hero  (and,  I trust,  kind  reader ! yours — ) 

Was  left  upon  his  way  to  the  chief  city 
Of  the  immortal  Peter’s  polish’d  boors,  [witty. 

Who  still  have  shown  themselves  more  brave  than 
I know  its  mighty  empire  now  allures 

Much  flattery — even  Voltaire’s,  and  that’s  a pity. 
For  me,  I deem  an  absolute  autocrat 
Not  a barbarian,  but  much  worse  than  that. 

XXIV. 

And  I will  war,  at  least  in  words  (and — should 
My  chance  so  happen — deeds),  with  all  who  war 
With  Thought ; — and  of  Thought’s  foes  by  far  most 
rude, 

Tyrants  and  sycophants  have  been  and  are. 

I know  not  who  may  conquer : if  I could 
Have  such  a prescience,  it  should  be  no  bar 
To  this  rhj  plain,  sworn,  downright  detestation 
Of  every  despotism  in  every  nation. 

xxv. 

It  is  not  that  I adulate  the  people : 

Without  me,  there  are  demagogues  enough, 

And  infidels,  to  pull  down  every  steeple, 

And  set  up  in  their  stead  some  proper  stuff. 

(1)  8e»  Othello. 

(2)  [ “ We  defy  augury : there  is  a special 

Providence  in  the  fall  of  a sparrow.” — Hamlet .] 


Whether  they  may  sow  scepticism  to  reap  hell. 

As  is  the  Christian  dogma  rather  rough, 

I do  not  know ; — I wish  men  to  be  free 
As  much  from  mobs  as  kkgs — from  you  as  me. 

XXVI. 

The  consequence  is,  being  of  no  party, 

I shall  offend  all  parties  : — never  mind  ! 

My  words,  at  least,  are  more  sincere  and  hearty 
Than  if  I sought  to  sail  before  the  wind. 

He  who  has  nought  to  gain  can  have  small  art : he 
Who  neither  wishes  to  be  bound  or  bind, 

May  still  expatiate  freely,  as  will  I, 

Nor  give  my  voice  to  slavery’s  jackall  cry. 

XXVII. 

| That’s  an  appropriate  simile,  that  jackall ; — 

I’ve  heard  them  in  the  Ephesian  ruins  howl4 
By  night,  as  do  that  mercenary  pack  all, 

Power’s  base  purveyors,  who  for  pickings  prowl. 
And  scent  the  prey  their  masters  would  attack  all. 

However,  the  poor  jackalls  are  less  foul 
(As  being  the  brave  lions’  keen  providers) 

Than  human  insects,  catering  for  spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise  but  an  arm  ! ’twill  brush  their  web  away. 

And  without  that , their  poison  and  their  claws 
Are  useless.  Mind,  good  people  ! what  I say — 

(Or  rather  peoples) — go  on  without  pause ! 

The  web  of  these  tarantulas  each  day 

Increases,  till  you  shall  make  common  cause  : 

None,  save  the  Spanish  fly  and  Attic  bee, 

As  yet  are  strongly  stinging  to  be  free. 

XXIX. 

Don  Juan,  who  had  shone  in  the  late  slaughter, 

Was  left  upon  his  way  with  the  despatch, 

Where  blood  was  talk’d  of  as  we  would  of  water ; 

And  carcasses  that  lay  as  thick  as  thatch 
O’er  silenced  cities,  merely  served  to  flatter 
Fair  Catherine’s  pastime — who  look’d  on  the  maifh 
Between  these  nations  as  a main  of  cocks, 

Wherein  she  liked  her  own  to  stand  like  rocks. 

XXX. 

And  there  in  a kibitka  he  roll’d  on, 

(A  cursed  sort  of  carriage  without  springs, 

Which  on  rough  roads  leaves  scarcely  a whole  bom  .) 

Pondering  on  glory,  chivalry,  and  kings. 

And  orders,  and  on  all  that  he  had  done — 

And  wishing  that  post-horses  had  the  wings 
Of  Pegasus,  or  at  the  least  post-chaises 
Had  feathers,  when  a traveller  on  deep  ways  is. 

XXXI. 

At  every  jolt — and  they  were  many — still 
He  turn’d  his  eyes  upon  his  little  charge, 

As  if  he  wish’d  that  she  should  fare  less  ill 
Than  he,  in  these  sad  highways  left  at  large. 

To  ruts,  and  flints,  and  lovely  Nature’s  skill, 

Who  is  no  paviour,  nor  admits  a barge 
On  her  canals,  where  God  takes  sea  and  land. 

Fishery  and  farm,  both  into  his  own  hand. 


(3)  [“  A kind  of  madness,  in  which  men  have  the  qualities  oi 
wile  beasts.” — Todd  ] 

(4)  In  Greece  I never  saw  or  heard  these  animals;  but  among  tiro 
ruins  of  Ephesus  I have  heard  them  by  hundreds.  [See  anti,  p 131.] 


700 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


-1AKTO  IX 


XXXII. 

At  least  lie  pays  no  rent,  and  has  best  right 
To  be  the  first  of  what  we  used  to  call 
“ Gentlemen  farmers” — a race  worn  out  quite, 

Since  lately  there  have  been  no  rents  at  all. 

And  “gentlemen”  are  in  a piteous  plight, 

And  “farmers”  can’t  raise  Ceres  from  her  fall : 

She  fell  with  Buonaparte — What  strange  thoughts 
Arise,  when  we  see  emperors  fall  with  oats ! 

XXXIII. 

But  Juan  turn’d  his  eyes  on  the  sweet  child 

Whom  he  had  saved  from  slaughter — what  a trophy ! 
Oh ! ye  who  build  up  monuments,  defiled 

With  gore,  like  Nadir  Shah,  that  costive  sophy. 
Who,  after  leaving  Hindostan  a wild, 

And  scarce  to  the  Mogul  a cup  of  coffee 
To  soothe  his  woes  withal,  was  slain,  the  sinner ! 
Because  he  could  no  more  digest  his  dinner ; 1 — 

XXXIV. 

Oh  ye  ! or  we  ! or  he  ! or  she  ! reflect, 

That  one  life  saved,  especially  if  young 
Or  pretty,  is  a thing  to  recollect 

Ear  sweeter  than  the  greenest  laurels  sprung 
From  the  manure  of  human  clay,  though  deck’d 
With  all  the  praises  ever  said  or  sung  : 2 
Though  hymn’d  by  every  harp,  unless  within 
Your  heart  joins  chorus,  Fame  is  but  a din. 

XXXV. 

Oh  ! ye  great  authors  luminous,  voluminous ! 

Ye  twice  ten  hundred  thousand  daily  scribes  ! 
Whose  pamphlets,  volumes,  newspapers,  illumine  us  ! 

Whether  you’re  paid  by  government  in  bribes. 

To  prove  the  public  debt  is  not  consuming  us — 

Or,  roughly  treading  on  the  “ courtier’s  kibes,” 
With  clownish  heel,3  your  popular  circulation 
Feeds  you  by  printing  half  the  realm’s  starvation; — 

XXXVI. 

Oh,  ye  great  authors ! — “ Apropos  des  bottes,” — 

I have  forgotten  what  I meant  to  say, 

As  sometimes  have  been  greater  sages’  lots : — 

’Twas  something  calculated  to  allay 
All  wrath  in  barracks,  palaces,  or  cots  : 

Certes  it  would  have  been  but  thrown  away, 

And  that’s  one  comfort  for  my  lost,  advice, 

Although  no  doubt  it  was  beyond  all  price. 

xxxvii. 

But  let  it  go  : — it  will  one  day  be  found 
Witli  other  relics  of  “ a former  world,” 

When  this  world  shall  be  former,  underground, 
Thrown  topsy-turvy,  twisted,  crisp’d,  and  curl’d, 
Baked,  fried,  or  burnt;  turn’d  inside  out,  or  drown’d, 
Like  all  the  worlds  before,  which  have  been  hurl’d 
First  out  of,  and  then  back  again  to  chaos, 

The  superstratum  which  will  overlay  us. 

xxxviii. 

So  Cuvier  says  ; — and  then  shall  come  again 
Unto  the  new  creation,  rising  out 
From  our  old  crash,  some  mystic,  ancient  strain 
Of  things  destroy’d,  and  left  in  airy  doubt ; 


(1)  He  was  killed  in  a conspiracy,  after  his  temper  had  been 
exasperated  by  his  extreme  costivity  to  a degree  of  insanity. 

(2)  ["  One  virtuous,  or  a mere  good-natured  deed, 

Does  all  desert  in  sciences  exceed.” — Sheffield.] 

(3)  [“  The  age  is  grown  so  picked,  that  the  toe  of  the  peasant  comes 

so  near  the  heel  of  the  courtier,  he  galls  his  kibe.” — Hamlet .]  “ * 


Like  to  tne  notions  we  now  entertain 
Of  Titans,  giants,  fellows  of  about 
Some  hundred  feet  in  height,  not  to  say  miles, 

And  mammoths,  and  your  winged  crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think  if  then  George  the  Fourth  should  be  dug  up ! 

ITow  the  new  worldlings  of  the  then  new  East 
Will  wonder  where  such  animals  could  sup  ! 

(For  they  themselves  will  be  but  of  the  least : 

Even  worlds  miscarry,  when  too  oft  they  pup, 

And  every  new  creation  hath  decreased 
In  size,  from  overworking  the  material — 

Men  are  but  maggots  of  some  huge  Earth’s  burial.] 

XL. 

How  will — to  these  young  people,  just  thrust  out 
From  some  fresh  Paradise,  and  set  to  plough, 

• And  dig,  and  sweat,  and  turn  themselves  about, 

And  plant,  and  reap,  and  spin,  and  grind,  and  so*s 
Till  all  the  arts  at  length  are  brought  about, 
Especially  of  war  and  taxing — how, 

I say,  will  these  great  relics,  when  they  see  ’em, 
Look  like  the  monsters  of  a new  museum  ! 

XLI. 

But  I am  apt  to  grow  too  metaphysical : 

“The  time  is  out  of  joint,”4 — and  so  am  I ; 

I quite  forget  this  poem’s  merely  quizzical, 

And  deviate  into  matters  rather  dry. 

I ne’er  decide  what  I shall  say,  and  this  I call 
Much  too  poetical : men  should  know  why 
They  write,  and  for  what  end  ; but,  note  or  text, 

I never  know  the  word  which  will  come  next. 

XLII. 

So  on  I ramble,  now  and  then  narrating, 

Now  pondering  : — it  is  time  we  should  narrate. 

I left  Don  Juan,  with  his  horses  baiting — 

Now  we’ll  get  o’er  the  ground  at  a great  rate. 

I shall  not  be  particular  in  stating 

His  journey,  we’ve  so  many  tours  of  late  : 

Suppose  him  then  at  Petersburgh  ; suppose 
That  pleasant  capital  of  painted  snows  ; 

XLII  I. 

Suppose  him  in  a handsome  uniform ; 

A scarlet  coat,  black  facings,  a long  plume, 
Waving,  like  sails  new  shiver’d  in  a storm, 

Over  a cock’d  hat  in  a crowded  room, 

And  brilliant  breeches,  bright  as  a Cairn  Gorme,5 
Of  yellow  casimire  we  may  presume, 

White  stockings  drawn  un curdled  as  new  milk 
O’er  limbs  whose  symmetry  set  oil  the  silk  ; 

XLIV. 

Suppose  him  sword  by  side,  and  hat  in  hand. 

Made  up  by  youth,  fame,  and  an  army  tailor — 
That  great  enchanter,  at  whose  rod’s  command 
Beauty  springs  forth,  and  Nature’s  self  turns  paler 
Seeing  how  Art  can  make  her  work  more  grand 
(When  she  don’t  pin  men’s  limbs  in  like  a gaoler),—* 
Behold  him  placed  as  if  upon  a pillar ! He 
Seems  Love  turn’d  a lieutenant  of  artillery. 


(4)  [“  The  time  is  out  of  joint : — O cursed  spite! 

That  ever  I was  born  to  set  it  right.” — Haro.o-' 

(5)  [A  yellow  coloured  crystal,  denominated  from  a hill  in 
Inverness  shire,  where  it  is  found.  This  lias  been  generally  caii6d 
the  Scottish  topaz ; but  it  now  «ives  place  to  another  crystal  of  a 
far  harder  quality,  found  near  Invercauld. — Jameson.] 


CANTO  IX. 


DON  JUAN. 


701 


XLV. 

His  bandage  slipp’d  down  into  a cravat ; 

His  wings  subdued  to  epaulettes  ; his  quiver 
Shrunk  to  a scabbard,  with  his  arrows  at 

His  side  as  a small  sword,  but  sharp  as  ever ; 

His  bow  converted  into  a cock’d  hat ; 

But  still  so  like,  that  Psyche  were  more  clever 
Than  some  wives  (who  make  blunders  no  less  stupid), 
If  she  had  not  mistaken  him  for  Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The  courtiers  stared,  the  ladies  whisper’d,  and 

The  empress  smiled  : the  reigning  favourite 

frown’d — 

I quite  forget  which  of  them  was  in  hand 
Just  then  ; as  they  are  rather  numerous  found. 

Who  took  by  turns  that  difficult  command, 

Since  first  her  majesty  was  singly  crown’d : 

But  they  were  mostly  nervous  six-foot  fellows, 

All  fit  to  make  a Patagonian  jealous. 

XLVII. 

Juan  was  none  of  these,  but  slight  and  slim, 

Blushing  and  beardless ; and  yet  ne’ertheless 
There  was  a something  in  his  turn  of  limb, 

And  still  more  in  his  eye,  which  seem’d  to  express, 
That  though  he  look’d  like  one  of  the  seraphim, 

There  lurk’d  a man  beneath  the  spirit’s  dress. 
Besides,  the  empress  sometimes  liked  a boy, 

And  had  just  buried  the  fair-faced  Lanskoi.1 

XLVIII. 

No  wonder  then  that  YermolofF,  or  Momonoff*, 

Or  Scherbatoff,  or  any  other  off 
Or  on , might  dread  her  majesty  had  not  room  enough 
Within  her  bosom  (which  was  not  too  tough) 

Por  a new  flame  ; a thought  to  cast  of  gloom  enough 
Along  the  aspect,  whether  smooth  or  rough. 

Of  him  who,  in  the  language  of  his  station, 

Then  held  that  “ high  official  situation.” 

XLIX. 

0,  gentle  ladies  ! should  you  seek  to  know 
The  import  of  this  diplomatic  phrase, 

Bid  Ireland’s  Londonderry’s  Marquess2  show 
His  parts  of  speech ; and  in  the  strange  displays 
Of  that  odd  string  of  words,  all  in  a row, 

Which  none  divine,  and  every  one  obeys, 

Perhaps  you  may  pick  out  some  queer  no  meaning, 

Of  that  weak  wordy  harvest  the  sole  gleaning. 

L. 

I think  I can  explain  myself  without 
That  sad  inexplicable  beast  of  prey — 

That  Sphinx,  whose  words  would  ever  be  a doubt, 

Did  not  his  deeds  unriddle  them  each  day — 

That  monstrous  hieroglyphic — that  long  spout 
Of  blood  and  water,  leaden  Castlereagh  ! 

And  here  I must  an  anecdote  relate, 

But  luckily  of  no  great  length  or  weight. 


(1)  He  was  the  grande  passion  of  the  grande  Catherine.  See 
her  Lives  under  the  head  of  “ Lanskoi.” — [“  Lanskoi  was  a youth 
of  as  fine  and  interesting  a figure  as  the  imagination  can  paint.  Of 
all  Catherine’s  favourites,  he  was  the  man  whom  she  loved  the 
most.  His  education  having  been  neglected,  she  took  the  care  of 
his  improvement  upon  herself.  In  1784.  he  was  attacked  with  a 
fever,  and  perished  in  the  flower  of  his  age,  in  the  arms  of  her 
majesty.  When  he  was  no  more,  Catherine  gave  herself  up  to  the 
most  poignant  grief,  and  remained  three  months  without  going  out 
of  her  palace  of  Tzarsko-selo.  She  afterwards  raised  a superb 


LU 

An  English  lady  ask’d  of  an  Italian, 

What  were  the  actual  and  official  duties 
Of  the  strange  thing,  some  women  set  a value  on, 
Which  hovers  oft  about  some  married  beauties, 
Called  “ Cavalier  servente  ?”3  a Pygmalion 

Whose  statues  warm  (I  fear,  alas  ! too  true  ’tis) 
Beneath  his  art.  The  dame,  press’d  to  disclose  them. 
Said — “ Lady,  I beseech  you  to  suppose  them” 

in. 

And  thus  I supplicate  your  supposition, 

And  mildest,  matron-like  interpretation, 

Of  the  imperial  favourite’s  condition. 

’Twas  a high  place,  the  highest  in  the  nation 
In  fact,  if  not  in  rank  ; and  the  suspicion 
Of  any  one’s  attaining  to  his  station, 

No  doubt  gave  pain,  where  each  new  pair  of  shoulders. 
If  rather  broad,  made  stocks  rise  and  their  holders. 

UII. 

Juan,  I said,  was  a most  beauteous  boy, 

And  had  retain’d  his  boyish  look  beyond 
The  usual  hirsute  seasons  which  destroy, 

With  beards  and  whiskers,  and  the  like,  the  fond 
Parisian  aspect,  which  upset  old  Troy 

And  founded  Doctors’  Commons  : — I nave  conn’d 
The  history  of  divorces,  which,  though  chequer’d, 
Calls  llion’s  the  first  damages  on  record. 

LIV. 

And  Catherine,  who  loved  all  things,  (save  her  lord, 
Who  was  gone  to  his  place,)  and  pass’d  for  much. 
Admiring  those  (by  dainty  dames  abhorr’d) 

Gigantic  gentlemen,  vet  had  a touch 
Of  sentiment ; and  he  she  most  adored 
Was  the  lamented  Lanskoi,  who  was  such 
A lover  as  had  cost  her  many  a tear, 

And  yet  but  made  a middling  grenadier. 

LV. 

Oh  thou  “teterrima  causa”  of  all  “ belli”4 — 

Thou  gate  of  life  and  death — thou  nondescript ! 
Whence  is  our  exit  and  our  entrance, — well  I 
May  pause  in  pondering  how  all  souls  are  dipt 
In  thy  perennial  fountain : — how  man  fell , I 

Know  not,  since  knowledge  saw  her  branches  st  ipt 
Of  her  first  fruit ; but  how  he  falls  and  rises 
Since,  thou  hast  settled  beyond  all  surmises. 

LVI. 

Some  call  thee  “ the  worst  cause  of  war,”  but  I 
Maintain  thou  art  the  best ; for  after  all 
Erom  thee  we  come,  to  thee  we  go,  and  why 
To  get  at  thee  not  batter  down  a wall, 

Or  waste  a world  ? since  no  one  can  deny 

Thou  dost  replenish  worlds  both  great  and  small : 
With,  or  without  thee,  all  things  at  a stand 
Are,  or  would  be,  thou  sea  of  life’s  dry  land ! 


monument  to  his  memory,  in  the  gardens  of  that  imperial  seat 
Lanskoi’s  fortune  was  estimated  at  thiee  million  rubles.  He 
bequeathed  it  to  the  empress,  who  returned  it  to  the  sisters  of  that 
favourite,  reserving  only  to  herself  the  right  of  purchasing  the 
pictures,  medals,  and  library.” — Tooke.] 

(2)  This  was  written  long  before  the  suicide  of  that  person. 

(3)  [See  anti,  p.  148.J 

(4)  Hor.  Sat.  lib.  i.  sat.  iii 


702 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


canto  rx. 


LVII. 

Catherine,  who  was  the  grand  epitome 

Of  that  great  cause  of  war,  or  peace,  or  what 
You  please  (it  causes  all  the  things  which  be, 

So  you  may  take  your  choice  of  this  or  that) — 
Catherine,  I say,  was  very  glad  to  see 

The  handsome  herald,  on  whose  plumage  sat 
Victory;  and,  pausing  as  she  saw  him  kneel 
With  his  despatch,  forgot  to  break  the  seal.1 

LVIII. 

Then  recollecting  the  whole  empress,  nor 

Forgetting  quite  the  woman  (which  composed 
At  least  three  parts  of  this  great  whole),  she  tore 
The  letter  open  with  an  air  which  posed 
The  court,  that  watch’d  each  look  her  visage  wore, 

TT util  a royal  smile  at  length  disclosed 
.Fair  weather  for  the  day.  Though  rather  spacious, 
Her  face  was  noble,  her  eyes  fine,  mouth  gracious.2 

LIX. 

Great  joy  was  hers,  or  rather  joys  : the  first 
Was  a ta’en  city,  thirty  thousand  slain. 

Glory  and  triumph  o’er  her  aspect  burst, 

As  an  East  Indian  sunrise  on  the  main. 

These  quench’d  a moment  her  ambition’s  thirst — 

So  Arab  deserts  drink  in  summer’s  rain : 

In  vain  ! — As  fall  the  dews  on  quenchless  sands, 
Blood  only  serves  to  wash  Ambition’s  hands  ! 

LX. 

Her  next  amusement  was  more  fanciful ; 

She  smiled  at  mad  Suwarrow’s  rhymes,  who  threw 
Into  a Russian  couplet  rather  dull 

The  whole  gazette  of  thousands  whom  he  slew.3 
Her  third  was  feminine  enough  to  annul 
The  shudder  which  runs  naturally  through 
Our  veins,  when  things  call’d  sovereigns  think  it  best 
To  kill,  and  generals  turn  it  into  jest. 

LXI. 

The  two  first  feelings  ran  their  course  complete, 

And  lighted  first  her  eye,  and  then  her  mouth : 

The  whole  court  look’d  immediately  most  sweet. 

Like  flowers  well  water’d  after  a long  drouth : — 
But  when  on  the  lieutenant  at  her  feet 
Her  majesty,  who  liked  to  gaze  on  youth 
Almost  as  much  as  on  a new  aespatch, 

Glanced  mildly,  all  the  world  was  on  the  watch. 

LXII. 

Though  somewhat  large,  exuberant,  and  truculent, 
When  wroth — while  pleased,  she  was  as  fine  a figure 
As  those  who  like  things  rosy,  ripe,  and  succulent, 
Would  wish  to  look  on,  while  they  are  in  vigour. 
She  could  repay  each  amatory  look  you  lent 
With  interest,  and  in  turn  was  wont  with  rigour 
To  exact  of  Cupid’s  bills  the  full  amount 
At  sight,  nor  would  permit  you  to  discount. 

(1)  [The  union  of  debauchery  and  ferocity  which  characterised 
Catherine,  are  admirably  depicted  in  her  manner  of  feeding  her 
ambition  with  the  perusal  ol  the  despatch,  and  gratifying  her  rising 
passion  with  the  contemplation  of  Juan;  who,  in  spite  of  the 
jealousy  and  murmurings  of  rival  expectants  and  candidates,  is 
fairly  installed  into  the  “ high  official  situation”  of  Catherine’s 
favourite. — Campbell.] 

(2)  [“Catherine  had  been  handsome  in  her  youth,  and  she  pre- 
served a gracefulness  tnd  majesty  to  the  last  period  of  her  life. 
She  was  of  a moderate  stature,  but  well  proportioned ; and  as  she 
carried  her  head  very  high,  she  appeared  rather  tall.  She  had  an 
open  front,  an  aquiline  nose,  an  agreeable  mouth,  and  her  chin, 
though  long,  was  not  misshapen.  Her  hair  was  auburn,  her  eye- 
brows black  and  rather  t’dck,  and  her  blue  eyes  had  a gentleness 
which  was  often  affected,  but  oftener  still  a mixture  of  pride.  Her 
r»  i . . . lognomy  was  not  deficient  in  expression;  but  this  expression 


LXIII. 

With  her  the  latter,  though  at  times  convenient, 

Was  not  so  necessary;  for  they  tell  [*lenienl:, 

That  she  was  handsome,  and  though  fierce  look'd 
And  always  used  her  favourites  too  well. 

If  once  beyond  her  boudoir’s  precincts  in  ye  went, 
Your  “ fortune”  was  in  a fair  way  “to  swell 
A man”  (as  Giles  says)  ;4  for  though  she  would  widow 
Nations,  she  liked  man  as  an  individual.  [all 

LXIV. 

What,  a strange  thing  is  man ! and  what  a stranger 
Is  woman ! What  a whirlwind  is  her  head, 

And  what  a whirlpool  full  of  depth  and  danger 
Is  all  the  rest  about  her  ! Whether  wed, 

Or  widow,  maid,  or  mother,  she  can  change  her 
Mind  like  the  wind  : whatever  she  has  said 
Or  done,  is  light  to  what  she’ll  say  or  do : — 

The  oldest  thing  on  record,  and  yet  new  ! 

LXV. 

Oh  Catherine  ! (for  of  all  interjections, 

To  thee  both  oh!  and  ah  ! belong  of  right 
In  love  and  war)  how  odd  are  the  connections 
Of  human  thoughts,  which  jostle  in  their  flight ! 
Just  now  yours  were  cut  out  in  different  sections : 
First  Ismael’s  capture  caught  your  fancy  quite  ; 
Next  of  new  knights,  the  fresh  and  glorious  batch  : 
And  thirdly  he  who  brought  you  the  despatch ! 

LX  VI. 

Shakspeare  talks  of  “ the  herald  Mercury 
New  lighted  on  a heaven-kissing  hill  ;”5 
And  some  such  visions  cross’d  her  majesty, 

While  her  young  herald  knelt  before  her  still. 

’Tis  very  true  the  hill  seem’d  rather  high, 

For  a lieutenant  to  climb  up  ; but  skill  [blessing, 
Smooth’d  even  the  Simplon’s  steep,  and  by  God’s 
With  youth  and  health  all  kisses  are  “heaven-kissing.” 
lxvit. 

Her  majesty  look’d  down,  the  youth  look’d  up — 

And  so  they  fell  in  love ; — she  with  his  face, 

His  grace,  his  God-knows-what, : for  Cupid’s  cup 
With  the  first  draught  intoxicates  apace, 

A quintessential  laudanum  or  “ black  drop,” 

Which  makes  one  drunk  at  once,  without  the  base 
Expedient  of  full  bumpers  ; for  the  eye 
In  love  drinks  all  life’s  fountains  (save  tears)  dry. 

LXVIII. 

He,  on  the  other  hand,  if  not  in  love, 

Fell  into  that  no  less  imperious  passion, 

Self-love — which,  when  some  sort  of  thing  above 
Ourselves,  a singer,  dancer,  much  in  fashion, 

Or  duchess,  princess,  empress,  “ deigns  to  prove”6 
(’Tis  Pope’s  phrase)  a great  longing,  though  a rash 
For  one  especial  person  out  of  many,  [one, 

Makes  us  believe  ourselves  as  good  as  any. 


never  discoveied  what  was  passing  in  the  soul  of  Catherine,  oi 

rather  it  served  her  the  better  to  disguise  it.” — Tooke.] 

(3)  [“  Suwarrow  is  as  singular  for  the  brevity  of  his  style  as  for 
the  rapidity  of  his  conquests.  On  the  taking  Tourtourkaya,  in 
Bulgaria,  lie  actually  wrote  no  more  to  the  empress  than  two  lines 
of  Russ  poetry : — 

4 Slawo  Bogon,  Slawo  bowam, 

Glory  to  God,  glory  to  you, 

Tourtourkaya  aviala,  ia  tarn, 

Tourtourkaya  is  taken,  here  am  I.’” — Tooke.] 

(4)  “His  fortune  swells  him,  it  is  rank,  he’s  married.” — Sir  Gile * 
Overreach:  Massinger’s  New  Way  to  pay  Old  Debts. 

(51  [Hamlet,  act  iii.  sc.  iv.] 

(6)  [“  Not  Cmsar’s  empress  would  1 deign  to  prove, 

No!  make  me  mistress  to  the  man  1 love." 

1*ope  : Eloita .] 


canto  ix. 


DON  JUAN. 


703 


LXIX. 

Besides,  lie  was  of  that  delighted  age 
Which  makes  all  female  ages  equal — When 
We  don’t  much  care  with  whom  we  may  engage, 

As  bold  as  Daniel  in  the  lion’s  den, 

So  that  we  can  our  native  sun  assuage 
In  the  next  ocean,  which  may  flow  just  then, 

To  make  a twilight  in,  just  as  Sol’s  heat  is 
Quench’d  in  the  lap  of  the  salt  sea,  or  Thetis. 

LXX. 

And  Catherine  (we  must  say  thus  much  for  Catherine), 
Though  bold  and  bloody,  was  the  kind  of  thing 
Whose  temporary  passion  was  quite  flattering, 
Because  each  lover  look’d  a sort  of  king, 

Made  up  upon  an  amatory  pattern, 

A royal  husband  in  all  save  the  ring — 

Which,  being  the  danm’dest  part  of  matrimony, 
Seem’d  taking  out  the  sting  to  leave  the  honey. 

LXXI. 

And  when  you  add  to  this,  her  womanhood 
In  its  meridian,  her  blue  eyes1  or  gray — 

(The  last,  if  they  have  soul,  are  quite  as  good. 

Or  better,  as  the  best  examples  say : 

Napoleon’s,  Mary’s2  (queen  of  Scotland),  should 
Lend  to  that  colour  a transcendent  ray ; 

And  Pallas  also  sanctions  the  same  hue, 

Too  wise  to  look  through  optics  black  or  blue) — • 

LXXII. 

Her  sweet  smile,  and  her  then  majestic  figure. 

Her  plumpness,  her  imperial  condescension, 

Her  preference  of  a boy  to  men  much  bigger 
(Fellows  whom  Messalina’s  self  would  pension), 
Her  prime  of  life,  just  now  in  juicy  vigour, 

With  other  extras , which  we  need  not  mention, — 
All  these,  or  any  one  of  these,  explain 
Enough  to  make  a stripling  very  vain. 

LXXIII. 

And  that’s  enough,  for  love  is  vanity 
Selfish  in  its  beginning  as  its  end. 

Except  where  ’tis  a mere  insanity, 

A maddening  spirit  which  would  strive  to  blend 
Itself  with  beauty’s  frail  inanity. 

On  which  the  passion’s  self  seems  to  depend  : 

And  hence  some  heathenish  philosophers 
Make  love  the  main- spring  of  the  universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides  Platonic  love,  besides  the  love 
Of  God,  the  love  of  sentiment,  the  loving 
Of  faithful  pairs — (I  needs  must  rhyme  with  dove. 
That  good  old  steam-boat  which  keeps  verses  moving 
’Gainst  reason — Reason  ne’er  was  hand-and-glove 
With  rhyme,  but  always  leant  less  to  improving 
The  sound  than  sense) — besides  all  these  pretences 
To  love,  there  are  those  things  which  words  name 
senses  ; 


(1)  [“  Several  persons  who  lived  at  the  court  affirm  that  Catherine 
had  very  blue  eyes,  and  not  gray,  as  M.  Rulhteres  has  stated.” — 
Tooke.] 

(2)  [See  anti,  p.  661.] 

(3)  [“  Lust,  through  certain  strainers  well  refined, 

Is  gentle  love,  and  charms  all  womankind.” — Pope.] 

(4)  A Russian  estate  is  always  valued  by  the  number  of  the 
slaves  upon  it. 

(5)  | 11  Peter  the  Third  died  in  July,  1762,  just  one  week  after  his 

deposition.  The  real  manner  in  which  he  came  by  his  death  is 

one  of  those  events  over  which,  it  is  probable,  there  will  be  for 


LXXV. 

Those  movements,  those  improvements  in  our  Dodies 
Which  make  all  bodies  anxious  to  get  out 
Of  their  own  sand-pits,  to  mix  with  a goddess. 

For  such  all  women  are  at  first  no  doubt. 

How  beautiful  that  moment ! and  how  odd  is 
That  fever  which  precedes  the  languid  rout 
Of  our  sensations  ! What  a curious  way 
The  whole  thing  is  of  clothing  souls  in  clay  ! 

LXXVI. 

The  noblest  kind  of  love  is  love  Platonical, 

To  end  or  to  begin  with ; the  next  grand 
Is  that  which  may  be  christen’d  love  canonical. 
Because  the  clergy  take  the  thing  in  hand ; 

The  third  sort  to  be  noted  in  our  chronicle 
As  flourishing  in  every  Christian  land, 

Is,  when  chaste  matrons  to  their  other  ties 
Add  what  may  be  call’d  marriage  in  disguise. 

LXXVII. 

Well,  we  won’t  analyse — our  story  must 
Tell  for  itself : the  sovereign  was  smitten, 

Juan  much  flatter’d  by  her  love,  or  lust  ;3 — 

1 cannot  stop  to  alter  words  once  written, 

And  the  two  are  so  mix’d  with  human  dust. 

That  he  who  names  one,  both  perchance  may  hit  on ; 
But  in  such  matters  Russia’s  mighty  empress 
Behaved  no  better  than  a common  sempstress. 

LXXV  in. 

The  whole  court  melted  into  one  wide  whisper. 

And  all  lips  were  applied  unto  all  ears  ! 

The  elder  ladies’  wrinkles  curl’d  much  crisper 
As  they  beheld  ; the  younger  cast  some  leers 
On  one  another,  and  each  lovely  lisper 

Smiled  as  she  talk’d  the  matter  o’er ; but  tears 
Of  rivalship  rose  in  each  clouded  eye 
Of  all  the  standing  army  who  stood  by. 

LXXIX. 

All  the  ambassadors  of  all  the  powers 

Inquired,  Who  was  this  very  new  young  man. 

Who  promised  to  be  great  in  some  few  hours  ? 

Which  is  full  soon  (though  life  is  but  a span). 
Already  they  beheld  the  silver  showers 
Of  rubles  rain,  as  fast  as  specie  can, 

Upon  his  cabinet,  besides  the  presents 
Of  several  ribands,  and  some  thousand  peasants.4 

LXXX. 

Catherine  was  generous, — all  such  ladies  are  : 

Love,  that  great  opener  of  the  heart  and  all 
The  ways  that  lead  there,  be  they  near  or  far. 

Above,  below,  by  turnpikes  great  or  small, — 
Love— (though  she  had  a cursed  taste  for  war. 

And  was  not  the  best  wife,5 * *  unless  we  call 
Such  Clytemnestra,  though  perhaps  ’tis  better 
That  one  should  die,  than  two  drag  on  the  fetter) — 


ever  a veil  impenetrable  to  human  eyes,  and  known  only  to  that 
Being  to  whom  the  heart  is  open,  and  from  whom  no  secrets  are 
concealed.  The  partisans  that  might  have  retained  their  attach- 
ment to  him  after  his  fall ; the  murmurs  of  the  populace,  who 
quietly  permit  revolutions  to  be  effected,  and  afterwards  lament 
those  who  have  fallen  their  victims ; the  difficulties  arising  from 
keeping  in  custody  a prisoner  of  such  consequence  ; all  these 
motives  in  conjunction  tend  to  give  credit  to  the  opinion,  that 
some  hand  of  uncontrollable  authority  shortened  his  days.  But 
the  conduct  of  Catherine  before  that  event,  and  especially  for  four 
and  thirty  years  that  she  afterwards  reigned,  is  of  itself  alone  a 
sufficient  refutation  of  so  atrocious  a calumny  as  would  fix  ths 
guilt  of  it  on  her.” — Tooke.] 


704 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  y 


LXXXI. 

Love  had  made  Catherine  make  each  lover’s  fortune, 
Unlike  our  own  half-chaste  Elizabeth, 

Whose  avarice  all  disbursements  did  importune. 

If  history,  the  grand  liar,  ever  saith 
The  truth  ; and  though  grief  her  old  age  might  shorten, 
Because  she  put  a favourite  to  death, 

Her  vile,  ambiguous  method  of  flirtation, 

And  stinginess,  disgrace  her  sex  and  station. 

LXXXII. 

But  when  the  levee  rose,  and  all  was  bustle 
In  the  dissolving  circle,  all  the  nations’ 
Ambassadors  began  as  ’twere  to  hustle 

Round  the  young  man  with  their  congratulations. 
Also  the  softer  silks  were  heard  to  rustle 
Of  gentle  dames,  among  whose  recreations 
It  is  to  speculate  on  handsome  faces. 

Especially  when  such  lead  to  high  places. 

LXXXIII. 

Juan,  who  found  himself,  he  knew  not  how, 

A general  object  of  attention,  made 
His  answers  with  a very  graceful  bow, 

As  if  born  for  the  ministerial  trade. 

Though  modest,  on  his  unembarrass’d  brow 
Nature  had  written  “gentleman.”  He  said 
Little,  but  to  the  purpose  ; and  his  manner 
Flung  hovering  graces  o’er  him  like  a banner. 

LXXXIV. 

An  order  from  her  majesty  consign’d 
Our  young  lieutenant  to  the  genial  care 
Of  those  in  office  : all  the  world  look’d  kind, 

(As  it  will  look  sometimes  with  the  first  stare, 
Which  youth  would  not  act  ill  to  keep  in  mind,) 

As  also  did  Miss  Protasoff  then  there. 

Named  from  her  mystic  office  “ l’Eprouveuse,” 

A term  inexplicable  to  the  Muse. 

LXXXV. 

With  her  then,  as  in  humble  duty  bound, 

Juan  retired, — and  so  will  I,  until 
My  Pegasus  shall  tire  of  touching  ground. 

We  have  just  lit  on  a “ heaven-kissing  hill,” 

So  lofty  that  I feel  my  brain  turn  round, 

And  all  my  fancies  whirling  like  a mill ; 

Which  is  a signal  to  my  nerves  and  brain. 

To  take  a quiet  ride  in  some  green  lane. 


Bon  3jttan. 


• CANTO  THE  TENTH. 


I. 

When  Newton  saw  an  apple  fall,  he  found 
In  that  slight  startle  from  his  contemplation — 
|  *  *Tis  said  (for  I’ll  not  answer  above  ground 
For  any  sage’s  creed  or  calculation) — 


(1)  ["The  celebrated  apple-tree,  the  fall  of  one  of  the  apples  of 

*h>ch  u said  to  have  turned  the  attention  of  Newton  to  the  sub- 
ject of  gravity,  was  destroyed  by  wind  about  four  years  ago.  The 
anecdote  of  the  falling  apple  is  mentioned  neither  by  Dr.  Stukeley 


A mode  of  proving  that  the  earth  turn’d  round 
In  a most  natural  whirl,  called  “ gravitation  ;* 

And  this  is  the  sole  mortal  who  could  grapple, 

Since  Adam,  with  a fall,  or  with  an  apple.1 

II. 

Man  fell  with  apples,  and  with  apples  rose, 

If  this  be  true  ; for  we  must  deem  the  mode 
In  which  Sir  Isaac  Newton  could  disclose 

Through  the  then  unpaved  stars  the  turnpike  road, 
A thing  to  counterbalance  human  woes  : 

For  ever  since  immortal  man  hath  glow’d 
With  all  kinds  of  mechanics,  and  full  soon 
Steam-engines  will  conduct  him  to  the  moon. 

hi. 

And  wherefore  this  exordium  ? — Why,  just  now, 

In  taking  up  this  paltry  sheet  of  paper, 

My  bosom  underwent  a glorious  glow, 

And  my  internal  spirit  cut  a caper : 

And  though  so  much  inferior,  as  I know, 

To  those  who,  by  the  dint  of  glass  and  vapour. 
Discover  stars,  and  sail  in  the  wind’s  eye, 

I wish  to  do  as  muc’i  by  poesy. 

IV. 

In  the  wind’s  eye  I have  sail’d,  and  sail ; but  for 
The  stars,  I own  my  telescope  is  dim ; 

But  at  the  least  I have  shunn’d  the  common  shore, 
And  leaving  land  far  out  of  sight,  would  skim 
The  ocean  of  eternity  : the  roar 

Of  breakers  has  not  daunted  my  slight,  trim, 

But  still  sea-worthy  skiff ; and  she  may  float 
Where  ships  have  founder’d,  as  doth  many  a boat 

v. 

We  left  our  hero,  Juan,  in  the  bloom, 

Of  favouritism,  but  not  yet  in  the  blush  ; — 

And  far  be  it  from  my  Muses  to  presume 
(For  I have  more  than  one  Muse  at  a push) 

To  follow  him  beyond  the  drawing-room  : 

It  is  enough  that  Fortune  found  him  flush 
Of  youth,  and  vigour,  beauty,  and  those  things 
Which  for  an  instant  clip  enjoyment’s  wings. 

vi. 

But  soon  they  grow  again  and  leave  their  nest, 

“ Oh !”  saith  the  Psalmist,  “that  I had  a dove’s 
Pinions  to  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest ! ” 

And  who  that  recollects  young  years  and  loves, — 
Though  hoary  now,  and  with  a withering  breast, 

And  palsied  fancy,  which  no  longer  roves 
Beyond  its  dimm’d  eye’s  sphere, — but  would  muck 
rather 

Sigh  like  his  son,  than  cough  like  his  grandfather  ? 

VII. 

But  sighs  subside,  and  tears  (even  widows’)  shrink, 
Like  Arno  in  the  summer,  to  a shallow. 

So  narrow  as  to  shame  their  wintry  brink, 

Which  threatens  inundations  deep  and  yellow  ! 
Such  difference  doth  a few  months  make.  You’d  think 
Grief  a rich  field  which  never  would  lie  fallow  ; 

No  more  it  doth,  its  ploughs  but  change  their  boys, 
Who  furrow  some  new  soil  to  sow  for  joys. 


nor  by  Mr.  Conduit,  and.  as  I have  not  been  able  to  find  anj 
authority  for  it  whatever.  1 did  not  feel  myself  at  liberty  to  use  it. 
— Bhewsxeh’s  Life  of  Newton,  p.  344.] 


INTO  X. 


DON  JUAN. 


705 


VIII. 

But  coughs  will  come  when  sighs  depart — and  now 
/ And  then  before  sighs  cease  ; for  oft  the  one 
Will  bring  the  other,  ere  the  lake-like  brow 
Is  ruffled  by  a wrinkle,  or  the  sun 
Of  life  reach’d  ten  o’clock  : and  while  a glow, 

Hectic  and  brief  as  summer’s  day  nigh  done, 
O’erspreads  the  cheek  which  seems  too  pure  for  clay. 
Thousands  blaze,  love,  hope,  die, — how  happy  they  ! — 

IX. 

But  Juan  was  not  meant  to  die  so  soon, 
i We  left  him  in  the  focus  of  such  glory 
As  may  be  won  by  favour  of  the  moon 
Or  ladies’  fancies — rather  transitory 
’Perhaps  ; but  who  would  scorn  the  month  of  J une, 
Because  December,  with  his  breath  so  hoary, 

Must  come  ? Much  rather  should  he  court  the  ray, 
To  hoard  up  warmth  against  a wintry  day. 

x. 

Besides,  he  had  some  qualities  which  fix 
Middle-aged  ladies  even  more  than  young  : 

The  former  know  what’s  what  ; while  new-fledged 
chicks 

Know*  little  more  of  love  than  what  is  sung 
In  rhymes,  or  dreamt  (for  fancy  will  play  tricks) 

In  visions  of  those  skies  from  whence  Love  sprung. 
Some  reckon  women  by  their  suns  or  years, 

I rather  think  the  moon  should  date  the  dears. 

XI. 

And  why  ? Because  she’s  changeable  and  chaste. 

I know  no  other  reason,  whatsoe’er 
Suspicious  people,  who  find  fault  in  haste, 

May  choose  to  tax  me  with ; which  is  not  fair. 

Nor  flattering  to  “ their  temper  or  their  taste,” 

As  my  friend  Jeffrey  writes  with  such  an  air 
However,  1 forgive  him,  and  I trust 
He  will  forgive  himself ; — if  not,  I must. 

XII. 

Old  enemies  who  have  become  new  friends 
Should  so  continue — ’tis  a point  of  honour  ; 

And  I know  nothing  which  could  make  amends 
For  a return  to  hatred:  I would  shun  her 
Like  garlic,  howsoever  she  extends 

Her  hundred  arms  and  legs,  and  fain  outrun  her. 
Old  flames,  new  wives,  become  our  bitterest  foes — 
Converted  foes  should  scorn  to  join  with  those. 

XIII. 

This  were  the  worst  desertion  : — renegadoes. 

Even  shuffling  Southey,  that  incarnate  lie, 

"Would  scarcely  join  again  the  “ reformadoes,”1  2 
Whom  he  forsook  to  fill  the  laureate’s  sty ; 


(1)  [See  ante,  p.  583.—“  I have  read  the  recent  article  of  Jeffrey. 
I suppose  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  that  he  wishes  to  provoke 
tie  to  reply.  But  I won’t,  for  I owe  him  a good  turn  still  for  his 
kindness  by-gone.  Indeed,  1 presume  that  the  present  opportunity 
of  attacking  me  again  was  irresistible;  and  I can’t  blame  him, 
knowing  what  human  nature  is —Byron  Letters,  June,  1822.] 

(2)  “ Reformers,”  or  rather  ‘ Reformed.”  The  Baron  Bradwar- 
dine  in  Waverley  is  authority  for  the  word. 

(3)  Query,  suit  ?—  Printer’s  Devil. 

(4)  [This  tribute  to  a former  antagonist  displays  so  much  frank- 
ness, generosity,  and  manly  feeling,  that  it  must  eradicate  all  latent 
remains  of  animosity  from  the  bosom  of  any  but  the  most  rancoious 
and  vindictive.  In  addition  to  these  merits,  the  felicitous  intro- 
duction of  the  poet’s  recollections  of  his  boyish  days  renders  this 
passage  equal  in  poetical  beauty  to  any  that  has  proceeded  from  his 
pen.— CAMPBF.Lf..] 

(5)  [“  I don’t  like  to  bore  you  about  the  Scotch  novels  (as  they 


And  honest  men  from  Iceland  to  Barbadoes, 

Whether  in  Caledon  or  Italy, 

Should  not  veer  round  with  every  breath,  nor  seize 
To  pain,  the  moment  when  you  cease  to  please. 

XIV. 

The  lawyer  and  the  critic  but  behold 
The  baser  sides  of  literature  and  life. 

And  nought  remains  unseen,  but  much  untold, 

By  those  who  scour  those  double  vales  of  strife. 
While  common  men  grow  ignorantly  old, 

The  lawyer’s  brief  is  like  the  surgeon’s  knife, 
Dissecting  the  whole  inside  of  a question. 

And  with  it  all  the  process  of  digestion. 

XV. 

A legal  broom’s  a moral  chimney-sweeper. 

And  that’s  the  reason  he  himself ’s  so  dirty ; 

The  endless  soot3  bestows  a tint  far  deeper 
Than  can  be  hid  by  altering  his  shirt ; he 
Detains  the  sable  stains  of  the  dark  creeper, 

At  least  some  twenty-nine  do  out  of  thirty, 

In  all  their  habits  not  so  you,  I own  ; 

As  Caesar  wore  his  robe  you  wear  your  gown. 

XVI. 

And  all  our  little  feuds,  at  least  all  mine, 

Dear  Jeffrey,  once  my  most  redoubted  foe 
(As  far  as  rhyme  and  criticism  combine 
To  make  such  puppets  of  us  things  below), 

Are  over  : Here’s  a health  to  “ Auld  Lang  Syne  l” 

I do  not  know  you,  and  may  never  know 
Your  face— but  you  have  acted  on  the  whole 
Most  nobly,  and  I own  it  from  my  soul.4 

XVII. 

And  when  I use  the  phrase  of  “Auld  Lang  Syne  !” 
’Tis  not  address’d  to  you — the  more’s  the  pity 
For  me,  for  I would  rather  take  my  wine 

With  you,  than  aught  (save  Scott)  in  your  proud  city. 
But  somehow, — it  may  seem  a schoolboy’s  whine, 

And  yet  I seek  not  to  be  grand  nor  witty, 

But  I am  half  a Scot  by  birth,  and  bred 
A whole  one,  and  my  heart  flies  to  my  head.5 — 

XVIII. 

As  “Auld  Lang  Syne”  brings  Scotland,  one  and  all, 
Scotch  plaids,  Scotch  snoods,  the  blue  hills,  and 
clear  steams, 

The  Dee,  the  Don,  Balgounie’s  brig’s  black  wall,b 
All  my  boy  feelings,  all  my  gentler  dreams 
Of  what  1 then  dreamt , clothed  in  their  own  pall, 

Like  Banquo’s  offspring  ; — floating  past  me  seems 
My  childhood  in  this  childishness  of  mine  : 

I care  not — ’tis  a glimpse  of  “ Auld  Lang  Syne.” 


call  them,  though  two  of  them  are  English,  and  the  rest  half  so); 
but  nothing  can  or  could  ever  persuade  me,  since  I was  the  first  ten 
minutes  in  your  company,  that  you  are  not  the  man  : to  me  these 
novels  have  so  much  of  ‘ Auld  lang  syne’  (1  was  bred  a canny  Scot 
till  ten  years  old),  that  I never  move  without  them.” — Lord  Byron 
to  Sir  W.  Scott,  Jan.  12,  1822.] 

(G)  The  brig  of  Don,  near  the  “auld  toun”  of  Aberdeen,  with  its 
one  arch,  and  its  black  deep  salmon  stream  below,  is  in  my  memory 
as  yesterday.  I still  remember  thougt  perhaps  I may  misquote, 
the  awful  proverb  which  made  me  pause  to  cross  it,  and  yet  lean 
over  it  with  a childish  delight,  being  an  only  son,  a:  hast  by  the 
mother’s  side.  The  saying  as  recollected  by  me  was  this,  but  1 ha\  e 
never  heard  or  seen  it  since  I was  nine  years  of  age  : — 

“ Brig  of  Balgounie,  black’s  your  u<a', 

Wi’  a wife’s  ae  son,  and  a mear’s  aejoai, 

Doun  ye  shall  fa’ ! ” 

4 x 


f06 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


XIX. 

And  though,  as  you  remember,  in  a fit 

Of  wrath  and  rhyme,  when  juvenile  and  curly, 

I rail’d  at  Scots  to  show  my  wrath  and  wit, 

Winch  must  be  own’d  was  sensitive  and  surly. 

Yet  ’tis  in  vain  such  sallies  to  permit, 

They  cannot  quench  young  feelings  fresh  and  early: 
I “scotch'd  not  kill’d”  the  Scotchman  in  my  blood, 
And  love  the  land  of  “ mountain  and  of  flood.” 1 

xx. 

Don  J nan,  who  was  real,  or  ideal, — 

Dor  both  are  much  the  same,  since  what  men  think 
Exists  when  the  once  thinkers  are  less  real 
Than  what  they  thought,  for  mind  can  never  sink, 
And  ’gainst  the  body  makes  a strong  appeal ; 

And  yet  ’tis  very  puzzling  on  the  brink 
Of  what  is  call’d  eternity,  to  stare, 

And  know  no  more  of  what  is  here,  than  there ; — 

XXI. 

Don  J uan  grew  a very  polish’d  Russian — 

How  wre  won’t  mention,  why  we  need  not  say : 

Few  youthful  minds  can  stand  the  strong  concussion 
Of  any  slight  temptation  in  their  way  ; 

But  his  just  now  were  spread  as  is  a cushion 
Smooth’d  for  a monarch’s  seat  of  honour  : gay 
Damsels,  and  dances,  revels,  ready  money, 

Made  ice  seem  paradise,  and  winter  sunny. 

XXII. 

The  favour  of  the  empress  was  agreeable  ; 
r And  though  the  duty  wax’d  a little  hard, 

Young  people  at  his  time  of  life  should  be  able 
To  come  off  handsomely  in  that  regard. 

He  was  now  growing  up  like  a green  tree,  able 
For  love,  war,  or  ambition,  which  reward 
Their  luckier  votaries,  till  old  age’s  tedium 
Make  some  prefer  the  circulating  medium. 

XXIII. 

About  this  time,  as  might  have  been  anticipated. 
Seduced  by  youth  and  dangerous  examples, 

Don  Juan  grew,  I fear,  a little  dissipated  ; 

Which  is  a sad  thing,  and  not  only  tramples 
On  our  fresh  feelings,  but — as  being  participated 
With  all  kinds  of  incorrigible  samples 
Of  frail  humanity — must  make  us  selfish, 

And  shut  our  souls  up  in  us  like  a shell-fish. 

XXIV. 

This  we  pass  over.  We  will  also  pass 
The  usual  progress  of  intrigues  between 
Unequal  matches,  such  as  are,  alas  ! 

A young  lieutenant’s  with  a not  old  queen, 

But  one  who  is  not  so  youthful  as  she  was 
In  all  the  royalty  of  sweet  seventeen. 

Sovereigns  may  sway  materials,  but  not  matter, 

And  wrinkles,  the  d d democrats,  won’t  flatter. 

XXV. 

And  Death,  the  sovereign’s  sovereign,  through  the  great 
Gracchus  of  all  mortality,  who  levels, 

With  his  Agrarian  laws,2  the  high  estate 
Of  him  who  feasts,  and  fights,  and  roars,  and  revels, 


(1)  [“  Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  ‘he  mountain  and  the  flood,”  &c. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.] 

Cl)  Tiberius  Gracchus,  being  tribune  of  the  people,  demanded  in 


CANTO  X. 

To  one  small  grass-grown  patich  (w)iieh  must  await 
Corruption  tor  its  crop)  with  the  poor  devils 
Who  never  had  a foot  of  land  till  now,— 

Death’s  a reformer,  all  men  must  allow. 

XXVI. 

He  lived  (not  Death,  but  J uan)  in  a hurry 

Of  waste,  and  haste,  and  glare,  and  gloss,  and  glitter  j 
In  this  gay  clime  of  bear-skins  black  and  furry—  ’ 
Which  (though  I hate  to  say  a thing  that’s  bitter)  j 
Beep  out  sometimes,  when  things  are  in  a flurry, 
Through  all  the  “purple  and  fine  linen,”  fitter 
For  Babylon’s  than  Russia’s  royal  harlot— 

And  neutralise  her  outward  show  of  scarlet. 

XXVII. 

And  this  same  state  we  won’t  describe  : we  would 
Perhaps  from  hearsay,  or  from  recollection  ; 

But  getting  nigh  grim  Dante’s  “ obscure  wood,”3 
That  horrid  equinox,  that  hateful  section 
Of  human  years,  that  half- wav  house,  that  rude 
Hut,  whence  wise  travellers  drive  with  circum- 
spection 

Life’s  sad  post-horses  o’er  the  dreary  frontier 
Of  age,  and  looking  back  to  youth,  give  one  tear  \ — 

XXVIII. 

I won’t  describe, — that  is,  if  I can  help 
Description ; and  I won’t  reflect,— that  is, 

If  I cair stave  off  thought,  which — as  a whelp 
Clings  to  its  teat — sticks  to  me  through  the  abvss 
Of  this  odd  labyrinth ; or  as  the  kelp 
Holds  by  the  rock  ; or  as  a lover’s  kiss 
Drains  its  first  draught  of  lips  : — but,  as  I said, 

I won’t  philosophise,  and  will  be  read. 

XXIX. 

Juan,  instead  of  courting  courts,  was  courted, — 

A thing  which  happens  rarely  .*  this  he  owed 
Much  to  his  youth,  and  much  to  his  reported 
Valour ; much  also  to  the  blood  he  sliow’d, 

Like  a race-horse  ; much  to  each  dress  he  sported,  ! 

Which  set  the  beauty  off  in  which  he  glow’d, 

As  purple  clouds  befringe  the  sun ; but  most 
He  owed  to  an  old  woman  and  his  post. 

XXX. 

He  wrote  to  Spain  : — and  all  his  near  relations, 
Perceiving  he  was  in  a handsome  way 
Of  getting  on  himself,  and  finding  stations 
For  cousins  also,  answer’d  the  same  day. 

Several  prepared  themselves  for  emigrations  ; 

And  eating  ices,  were  o’erheard  to  say, 

That  with  the  addition  of  a slight  pelisse, 

Madrid’s  and  Moscow’s  climes  were  of  a piece. 

XXXI. 

His  mother,  Donna  Inez,  finding,  too, 

That  in  the  lieu  of  drawing  on  his  banker, 

Where  his  assets  were  waxing  rather  few,  [anchor, — 
He  had  brought  his  spending  to  a handsome 
Replied,  “ that  she  was  glad  to  see  him  through 
Those  pleasures  after  which  wild  youth  will  hanker  ; 

As  the  sole  sign  of  man’s  being  in  his  senses 
Is,  learning  to  reduce  his  past  expenses. 


their  name  the  execution  of  the  Agrarian  law;  by  which  all  personi 
possessing  above  a certain  number  of  acres  were  to  be  deprived  of 

the  surplus  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  citizens. 

(3)  “ Mi  retrovai  per  un  selva  oscura.” — Inferno.  Canto  1 


CX1CT0  T. 


DON  JUAN. 


707 


XXXII. 

“ She  also  recommended  him  to  God, 

And  no  l^ss  to  God’s  Son,  as  well  as  mother, 

Warn’d  him  against  Greek  worship,  which  looks  odd 
In  Catholic  eyes;  but  told  him,  too,  to  smother 
Outward  dislike,  which  don’t  look  well  abroad; 

Inform’d  him  that  he  had  a little  brother 
Born  in  a second  wedlock ; and  above 
All,  praised  the  empress’s  maternal  love. 

XX  XIII. 

“She  could  not  too  much  give  her  approbation 
f Unto  an  empress,  who  preferr’d  young  men 
Whose  age,  and  what  was  better  still,  whose  nation 
And  climate,  stopp’d  all  scandal  (now  and  then) : — 
At  home  it  might  have  given  her  some  vexation; 

But  where  thermometers  sunk  down  to  ten, 

Or  five,  or  one,  or  zero,  she  could  never 
Believe  that  virtue  thaw’d  before  the  river.” 

xxxiv. 

Oh  for  a forty -par son  power 1 to  chant 
Thy  praise.  Hypocrisy  ! Oh  for  a hymn 
Loud  as  the  virtues  thou  dost  loudly  vaunt, 

Not  practise  ! Oh  for  trumps  of  cherubim  ! 

Or  the  ear-trumpet  of  my  good  old  aunt, 

Who,  though  her  spectacles  at  last  grew  dim, 

Drew  quiet  consolation  through  its  hint, 

When  she  no  more  could  read  the  pious  print. 

XXXV. 

She  was  no  hypocrite  at  least,  poor  soul, 

But  went  to  heaven  in  as  sincere  a way 
As  any  body  on  the  elected  roll, 

Which  portions  out  upon  the  judgment  day 
[leaven’s  freeholds,  in  a sort  of  doomsday  scroll, 

Such  as  the  conqueror  William  did  repay 
His  knights  with,  lotting  others’  properties 
Into  some  sixty  thousand  new  knights’  fees. 

XXXVI. 

I can’t  complain,  whose  ancestors  are  there, 

Erneis,  Itadulphus — eight-and-forty  manors 
(If  that  my  memory  doth  not  greatly  err) 

Were  their  reward  for  following  Billy’s  banners  ;3 
And  though  1 can’t  help  thinking  ’twas  scarce  fair 
To  strip  the  Saxons  of  their  hydes ,3  like  tanners ; 
Yet  as  they  founded  churches  with  the  produce, 

You’ll  deem,  no  doubt,  they  put  it  to  a good  use. 

XXXVII. 

The  gentle  Juan  flourish’d,  though  at  times 
He  felt  like  other  plant*  call’d  sensitive, 

Which  shrink  from  touch,  as  monarchs  do  from  rhymes, 
Save  such  as  Southey  can  afford  to  give. 

Perhaps  he  long’d  in  bitter  frosts  for  climes 
in  which  the  Neva’s  ice  would  cease  to  live 
Before  May-day  : perhaps,  despite  his  duty, 

In  royalty’s  vast  arms  he  sigh’d  for  beauty : 

xxxvm. 

Perhaps — but,  sans  perhaps,  we  need  not  seek 
For  causes  young  or  old  : the  canker-worm 
Will  feed  upon  the  fairest,  freshest  cheek, 

As  weh  as  further  drain  the  wither’d  form : 


(1)  A metaphor,  taken  from  the  “ fortv-horse  power”  of  a steam- 
engine  That  mad  wag.  the  Reverend  Sydney  Smith,  sitting  by  a 
brother  clergyman  at  dinner,  observed  afterwards  that  his  dull 
neighbour  had  a “ twelve-purson  power”  of  conversation. 

i (2)  [See  Collins’s  Peerage,  vol.  vii.  p.  71.] 


Care,  like  a housekeeper,  brings  every  week 
His  bills  in,  and  however  we  may  storm, 

They  must  be  paid  : though  six  days  smoothly  run, 
The  seventh  will  bring  blue  devils  or  a dun. 

xxxix. 

I don’t  know  how  it  was,  but  he  grew  sick  : 

The  empress  was  alarm’d,  and  her  physician 
(The  same  who  physick’d  Peter)  found  the  tick 
Of  his  fierce  pulse  betoken  a condition 
Which  augur’d  of  the  dead,  however  quick 
Itself,  and  show’d  a feverish  disposition ; 

At  which  the  whole  court  was  extremely  troubled, 

The  sovereign  shock’d,  and  all  his  medicines  doubled. 

XL. 

Low  were  the  whispers,  manifold  the  rumours  : 

Some  said  he  had  been  poison’d  by  Potemkin ; 
Others  talk’d  learnedly  of  certain  tumours, 

Exhaustion,  or  disorders  of  the  same  kin  ; 

Some  said  ’twas  a concoction  of  the  humours, 

Which  with  the  blood  too  readily  will  claim  kin ; 
Others  again  were  ready  to  maintain, 

“ ’Twas  only  the  fatigue  of  last  campaign.” 

XLI. 

But  here  is  one  prescription  out  of  many  . 

“Sodse  sulphat.  5vj.  sfs.  Mannae  optim. 

Aq.  fervent,  f.  J ifs.  Sij.  tinct.  Sennae  [him) 

Haustus”  (And  here  the  surgeon  came  and  cuop’d 
“R,  Pulv.  Com.  gr.  iij.  Ipecacuanhae” 

(With  more  beside  if  Juan  had  not  stopp’d  ’em). 
“Bolus  Potass®  Sulphuret.  sumendus, 

Et  haustus  ter  in  die  capiendus.” 

XLI  i. 

This  is  the  way  physicians  mend  or  end  us, 

Secundum  artem  : but  although  we  sneer 
In  he  ,1th — when  ill,  we  call  them  to  attend  us, 
Without  the  least  propensity  to  jeer  : 

While  that  “ hiatus  maxime  deflenaus” 

To  be  fill’d  up  by  spade  or  mattock’s  near. 

Instead  of  gliding  graciously  down  Lethe, 

We  tease  mild  Baillie,4  or  soft  Abernethy.5 

XLIII. 

Juan  demurr’d  at  this  first  notice  to 

Quit;  and  though  death  had  threaten’d  an  ejection. 
His  youth  and  constitution  bore  him  through, 

And  sent  the  doctors  in  a new  direction. 

But  still  his  state  was  delicate  : the  hue 

Of  health  but  flicker’d  with  a faint  reflection 
Along  his  wasted  cheek,  and  seem’d  to  gravel 
The  faculty — who  said  that  he  must  travel. 

XLIV. 

The  climate  was  too  cold,  they  said,  for  him. 
Meridian-born,  to  bloom  in.  This  opinion 
Made  the  chaste  Catherine  look  a little  grim. 

Who  did  not  like  at  first  to  lose  her  minion : 

But  when  she  saw  his  dazzling  eye  wax  dim,  _ 

And  drooping  like  an  eagle’s  with  clipt  pinion., 

She  then  resolved  to  send  him  on  a mission. 

But  in  a style  becoming  his  condition. 


(3)  " Hyde.”— I believe  a hyde  of  land  to  be  a legitimate  word, 
and,  as  such,  subject  to  the  tax  of  a quibble. 

(4)  [For  hd  account  of  Dr.  Baillie’s  visit  to  Lord  Byron,  see  ante . 
p.  593.] 

(5)  [Both  Dr.  Baillie  and  John  Abernethy  the  great  surgeoa, 
were  remarkable  for  plainness  of  speech  ] 


708 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  X. 


XLV. 

There  was  just  then  a kind  of  a discussion, 

A sort  of  treaty  or  negotiation 
Between  the  British  cabinet  and  Russian, 

Maintain’d  with  all  the  due  prevarication 
With  which  great  states  such  things  are  apt  to 
push  on ; 

Something  about  the  Baltic’s  navigation, 

Hides,  train-oil,  tallow,  and  the  rights  of  Thetis, 
Which  Britons  deem  their  “ nti  possidetis.” 

XLVI. 

So  Catherine,  who  had  a handsome  way 
Of  fitting  out  her  favourites,  conferr’d 
This  secret  charge  on  Juan,  to  display 
At  once  her  royal  splendour,  and  reward 
His  services.  • He  kiss’d  hands  the  next  day, 
Received  instructions  how  to  play  his  card, 

Was  laden  with  all  kinds  of  gifts  and  honours, 

Which  show’d  what  great  discernment  was  the  donor’s. 

XLVII. 

But  she  was  lucky,  and  luck’s  all.  Your  queens 
Are  generally  prosperous  in  reigning ; 

Which  puzzles  us  to  know  what  Fortune  means. 

But  to  continue  : though  her  years  were  waning, 
Her  climacteric  teased  her  like  her  teens ; 

And  though  her  dignity  brook’d  no  complaining, 

So  much  did  Juan’s  setting  off  distress  her, 

She  could  not  find  at  first  a fit  successor. 

XLVIII. 

But  time,  the  comforter,  will  come  at  last ; 

And  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  twice  that  number 
Of  candidates  requesting  to  be  placed, 

Made  Catherine  taste  next  night  a quiet  slumber : — 
Not  that  she  meant  to  fix  again  in  haste, 

Nor  did  she  find  the  quantity  encumber, 

But  always  choosing  with  deliberation, 

Kept  the  place  open  for  their  emulation. 

XLIX. 

While  this  high  post  of  honour’s  in  abeyance, 

For  one  or  two  days,  reader,  we  request 
You’ll  mount  with  our  young  hero  the  conveyance 
Which  wafted  him  from  Petersburgh  : the  best 
Barouche,  which  had  the  glory  to  display  once 
The  fair  czarina’s  autocratic  crest, 

When,  a new  Iphigene,  she  went  to  Tauris, 

Was  given  to  her  favourite,’  and  now  bore  his. 

L. 

A bull-dog,  and  a bullfinch,  and  an  ermine, 

All  private  favourites  of  Don  Juan; — for 
(Lei  deeper  sages  the  true  cause  determine) 

He  had  a kind  of  inclination,  or 
Weakness,  for  what  most  people  deem  mere  vermin, 
Live  animals  : an  old  maid  of  threescore 
For  cats  and  birds  more  penchant  ne’er  display’d, 
Although  he  was  not  old,  nor  even  a maid  : — 


(1)  The  empress  went  to  the  Crimea,  accompanied  by  the 
Emperor  Joseph,  in  the  year — I forget  which.— [The  Prince  de 
Ligne,  who  accompanied  Catherine  in  her  progress  through  her 
southern  provinces,  in  1787,  gives  the  following  particulars: — “ We 
have  been  traversing,  during  several  days,  an  immense  tract  of 
deserts  formerly  inhabited  by  hostile  Tartar  hordes,  but  recovered 
by  the  arms  of  her  Majesty,  and  at  present  ornamented  from  stage 
to  stage  with  magnificent  tents,  -vhere  we  are  supplied  with  break- 
fast, collation,  liinae"  supper,  and  .’vdging;  and  our  encampments, 


LI. 

The  animals  aforesaid  occupied 
Their  station  : there  were  valets,  secretaries, 

In  other  vehicles  ; but  at  his  side 

Sat  little  Leila,  who  survived  the  parries 
He  made  ’gainst  Cossacque  sabres,  in  the  wide 

Slaughter  of  Ismail.  Though  my  wild  Muse  varies  i 
Her  note,  she  don’t  forget  the  infant  girl 
Whom  he  preserved,  a pure  and  living  pearl. 

LII. 

Poor  little  thing  ! She  was  as  fair  as  docile. 

And  with  that  gentle,  serious  character, 

As  rare  in  living  beings  as  a fossil 

Man, ’midst  thy  mouldy  mammoths,  “grand Cuvier!” 
Ill  fitted  was  her  ignorance  to  jostle 

With  this  o’erwlielming  world,  where  all  must  err  :r] 
But  she  was  yet  but  ten  years  old,  and  therefore 
Was  tranquil,  though  she  knew  not  why  or  wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don  Juan  loved  Her,  and  she  loved  him,  as 
Nor  brother,  father,  sister,  daughter  love. 

I cannot  tell  exactly  what  it  was ; 

He  was  not  yet  quite  old  enough  to  prove 
Parental  feelings,  and  the  other  class, 

Call’d  brotherly  affection,  could  not  move 
His  bosom, — for  he  never  had  a sister : 

All ! if  he  had,  how  much  he  would  have  miss’d  her ! 

LIV. 

And  still  less  was  it  sensual ; for  besides 
That  lie  was  not  an  ancient  debauchee, 

(Who  like  sour  fruit,  to  stir  their  veins’  salt  tides,  J 
As  acids  rouse  a dormant  alkali,) 

Although  (’ twill  happen  as  our  planet  guides) 

His  youth  was  not  the  chastest  that  might  be. 

There  was  the  purest  Platonism  at  bottom 
Of  all  his  feelings — only  lie  forgot  ’em. 

LY. 

Just  now  there  was  no  peril  of  temptation, 

He  loved  the  infant  orphan  he  had  saved, 

As  patriots  (now  and  then)  may  love  a nation ; ■ 

His  pride,  too,  felt  that  she  was  not  enslaved 
Owing  to  him  ; — as  also  her  salvation 

Through  his  means  and  the  church’s  might  be  paved. 
But  one  tiling’s  odd,  which  here  must  be  inserted,  j 
The  little  Turk  refused  to  be  converted. 

LVI. 

’Twas  strange  enough  she  should  retain  the  impression ' 
Through  such  a scene  of  change,  and  dread,  and  I 
slaughter ; 

But  though  three  bishops  told  her  the  transgression,  I 
She  show’d  a great  dislike  to  holy  water ; 

She  also  had  no  passion  for  confession ; 

Perhaps  she  had  nothing  to  confess : — no  matter 
Whate’er  the  cause,  the  church  made  little  of  it — 

She  still  held  out  that  Mahomet  w'as  a prophet. 


decorated  with  all  the  pomp  of  Asiatic  splendour,  presen  a noble 
military  spectacle.  The  empress  has  left,  in  each  town,  presents 
to  the  amount  of  100,000  roubles.  Each  day  of  rest  is  marked  by 
the  gift  of  some  diamonds,  by  balls,  by  fireworks,  and  by  illumina- 
tions extending  for  leagues  in  every  direction.  During  the  last  two  I 
months  I have  been  daily  employed  in  throwing  money  out  of  our  1 
carriage  windows,  and  have  thus  distributed  the  value  of  some  mil- 
lions of  livres.” — Lettres  et  Pensees.] 


709 


canto  x. 


DON  JUAN. 


HT  lvii. 

[n  fact,  the  only  Christian  she  could  bear 
Was  Juan ; whom  she  seem’d  to  have  selected 
In  place  of  what  her  home  and  friends  once  were. 

I He  naturally  loved  what  he  protected : 

And  thus  they  form’d  a rather  curious  pair, 

A guardian  green  in  years,  a ward  connected 
In  neither  clime,  time,  blood,  with  her  defender  ; 

And  yet  this  want  of  ties  made  theirs  more  tender. 

lviii. 

They  journey’d  on  through  Poland  and  through 
| . ’ Warsaw, 

Famous  for  mines  of  salt  and  yokes  of  iron  . 

Through  Courland  also,  which  that  famous  farce  saw  ^ 
Whfch  gaveherdukes  the  graceless  name  of  “Biron.” 
’Tis  the  same  landscape  which  the  modern  Mars  saw, 
Who  march’d  to  Moscow,  led  by  Fame,  the  siren. 
To  lose  by  one  month’s  frost  some  twenty  years 
Of  conquest,  and  his  guard  of  grenadiers. 

LIX. 

Let  this  not  seem  an  anti-climax  : — “ Oh ! [clay, 
My  guard  ! my  old  guard  !”* 2  exclaim’d  that  god  of 
Think  of  the  Thunderer’s  falling  down  below 
Carotid-artery-cutting  Castlereagh ! 

Alas ! that  glory  should  be  chill’d  by  snow  ! 

But  should  we  wish  to  warm  us  on  our  way 
Through  Poland,  there  is  Kosciusko’s  name 
Might  scatter  fire  through  ice,  like  Hecla’s  flame.3 

lx. 

From  Poland  they  came  on  through  Prussia  Proper, 
And  Konigsberg  the  capital,  whose  vaunt, 

Besides  some  veins  of  iron,  lead,  or  copper, 

Has  lately  been  the  great  Professor  Kant.4 
I Juan,  who  cared  not  a tobacco-stopper 
• About  philosophy,  pursued  his  jaunt 
To  Germany,  whose  somewhat  tardy  millions  _ 

Have  princes  who  spur  more  than  their  postilions. 

LXI. 

I And  f hence  through  Berlin,  Dresden,  and  the  like, 
Until  he  reach’d  the  castellated  Rhine  : — _ 

Ye  glorious  Gothic  scenes  ! how  much  ye  strike 
[ All  phantasies,  not  even  excepting  mine  ; 

A ?rey  wall,  a green  ruin,  rusty  pike, 

Make  my  soul  pass  the  equinoctial  line 
Between  the  present  and  past  worlds,  and  hover 
Upon  their  airy  confine,  half-seas-over. 

LXIT. 

But  Juan  posted  on  through  Manheim,  Bonn, 

Which  Drachenfels5 6  frowns  over  like  a spectre 


Of  the  good  feudal  times  for  ever  gone, 

On  which  I have  not  time  just  now  to  lecture 
From  thence  he  was  drawn  onwards  to  Cologne, 

A city  which  presents  to  the  inspector 
Eleven  thousand  maidenheads  of  bone, 

The  greatest  number  flesh  hath  ever  known.0 

LXIII.  . 

From  thence  to  Holland’s  Hague  and  Helvoetsluyy, 
That  water-land  of  Dutchmen  and  of  ditches, 

Where  juniper  expresses  its  best  juice, 

The  poor  man’s  sparkling  substitute  for  riches. 
Senates  and  sages  have  condemn’d  its  use — 

But  to  deny  the  mob  a cordial,  which  is 
Too  often  all  the  clothing,  meat,  or  fuel, 

Good  government  lias  left  them,  seems  but  cruel. 

LXIV. 

Here  he  embark’d,  and  with  a flowing  sail 
Went  bounding  for  the  island  of  the  lree, 

Towards  which  the  impatient  wind  blew  half  a gaie  ; 

High  dash’d  the  spray,  the  bows  dipp’d  in  the  sea. 
And  sea-sick  passengers  turn’d  somewhat  pale  ; 

But  Juan,  season’d,  as  he  well  might  be, 

Bv  former  voyages,  stood  to  watch  the  skiffs 
Which  pass’d^  or  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  clifls. 

LXV. 

At  length  they  rose,  like  a white  wall  along 
The  blue  sea’s  border ; and  Don  Juan  felt  ■ 

What  even  young  strangers  feel  a little  strong 
At  the  first  sight  of  Albion’s  chalky  belt — 

A kind  of  pride  that  he  should  be  among 

Those  haughty  shopkeepers,  who  sternly  dealt 
Their  goods  and  edicts  out  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  made  the  very  billows  pay  them  toll. 

LXYI. 

I’ve  no  great  cause  to  love  that  spot  of  earth. 

Which  holds  what  might  have  been  the  noblest 
But  though  I owe  it  little  but  my  birth,  [nation ; 

I feel  a mix’d  regret  and  veneration 
For  its  decaying  fame  and  former  worth. 

Seven  years  (the  usual  term  of  transportation) 

Of  absence  lay  one’s  old  resentments  level, 

When  a man’s  country’s  going  to  the  devil. 

LX  VII. 

Alas  ! could  she  but  fully,  truly,  know 

How  her  great  name  is  now  throughout  abhorr  d ; 
How  eager  all  the  earth  is  tor  the  blow 

Which  shall  lay  bare  her  bosom  to  the  sword ; 

How  all  the  nations  deem  her  their  worst  foe, 

That  worse  than  worst  of  foes,  the  once  adored 
False  friend,  who  held  out  lreedom  to  many  in  d, 

And  now  would  chain  them,  to  the  very  mind  ; 


m In  the  Empress  Anne’s  time,  Biren,  her  favourite,  assumed 
die  name  and  arms  of  the  “ Birons”  of  France  ; which  families  are 
yet  extant  with  that  of  England.  There  are  still  the  daughters  of 
Courland  of  that  name;  one  of  them  I remember  seeing  in _ Eng- 
land in  the  blessed  year  of  the  Allies  (1814)— the  Duchess  of  S. 
to  whom  the  English  Duchess  of  Somerset  presented  me  as  a name- 
sake — [“  Ernest  John  Biren,  become  so  famous  by  his  great  ad- 
vancements, and  his  not  less  extraordinary  reverses  of  fortune,  was 
worn  in  Courland,  of  a family  of  mean  extraction.  His  grandfather 
had  been  head  groom  to  James,  the  third  Duke  of  Courland,  and 
obtained  from  his  master  the  present  of  a small  estate  in  land 
. . In  1714,  he  made  his  appearance  at  St.  Petersburgh,  and 
solicited  the  place  of  page  to  the  Princess  Charlotte,  wife  of  the 
Tzarovitch  Alexey;  but  being  contemptuously  rejected  as  a person 
of  mean  extraction,  retired  to  Mittau,  where  he  chanced  to  ingra- 
tiate himself  with  Count  Bestucheflf,  master  of  the  household  to 
Anne,  widow  of  Frederic  William  duke  of  Courland  who  resided 
at  Mittau.  Being  of  a handsome  figure  and  polite  address,  he  soon 
gained  the  good-will  of  the  duchess,  and  became  her  secretary  and 
thief  favourite.  On  her  being  declared  sovereign  of  Russia,  Anne 


called  Biren  to  Petersburgh,  and  the  secretary  soon  became  Duke 
of  Courland,  and  first  minister  or  rather  despot  ot  Russia.  On  the 
death  of  Anne,  which  happened  in  1740,  Biren,  being  declared 
regent,  continued  daily  increasing  his  vexations  and  cruelties,  till 
he  was  arrested,  on  the  18th  of  December,  only  twenty  days  after 
he  had  been  appointed  to  the  regency;  and  at  the  revolution  that 
ensued  he  was  exiled  to  the  frozen  shores  of  the  Oby.  — Iooke.J 

(2)  [Napoleon’s  exclamation  at  the  Elysee  Bourbon,  June  the 
23d,  1815.] 

(3)  Hope  for  a moment  bade  the  world  farewell, 

And  freedom  shriek’d  when  Kosciusko  fell.” — CampbeIL.] 

(4)  [Immanuel  Kant,  the  celebrated  founder  of  a new  phil«- 
sophical  sect,  was  born  at  Konigsberg.  He  d>ed  :’i  ’s04.] 

(5)  [“  The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 

Frowns  o’er  the  wide  arid  winding  Rhine,  arc.— 

See  ante.  p.  34.] 

(6)  St.  Ursula  and  her  eleven  thousand  virgins  were  still  extant 
in  1816,  and  may  be  so  yet,  as  much  as  ever. 


710 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO 


LXVIII. 

Would  she  be  proud,  or  boast  herself  the  free, 

Who  is  but  first  of  slaves  ? The  nations  are 
In  prison, — but  the  gaoler,  what  is  he  ? 

No  less  a victim  to  the  bolt  and  bar. 

Is  the  poor  privilege  to  turn  the  key 

Upon  the  captive,  freedom  ? He’s  as  far 
From  the  enjoyment  of  the  earth  and  air 
Who  watches  o’er  the  chain,  as  they  who  wear. 

LXIX. 

Don  J uan  now  saw  Albion’s  earliest  beauties, 

Thy  cliffs,  dear  Dover ! harbour,  and  hotel ; 

Thy  custom-house,  with  all  its  delicate  duties  ; 

Thy  waiters  running  mucks  at  every  bell ; 

Thy  packets,  all  whose  passengers  are  booties 
To  those  who  upon  land  or  water  dwell ; 

And  last,  not  least,  to  strangers  uninstructed. 

Thy  long,  long  bills,  whence  nothing  is  deducted. 
LXX. 

Juan,  though  careless,  young,  and  magnifique, 

And  rich  in  rubles,  diamonds,  cash,  and  credit, 
Who  did  not  limit  much  his  bills  per  week, 

Yet  stared  at  this  a little,  though  he  paid  it, — 

(His  Maggior  Duomo,  a smart,  subtle  Greek, 

Before  him  summ’d  the  awful  scroll' and  read  it :) 
But  doubtless  as  the  air,  though  seldom  sunny. 

Is  free,  the  respiration’s  worth  the  money. 

LXXI. 

On  with  the  horses  ! Off  to  Canterbury  ! [puddle ; 

Tramp,  tramp  o’er  pebble,  and  splash,  splash  through 
Hurrah  ! how  swiftly  speeds  the  post  so  merry  ! 

Not  like  slow  Germany,  wherein  they  muddle 
Along  the  road,  as  if  they  went  to  bury 

Their  fare ; and  also  pause  besides,  to  fuddle, 

With  “ schnapps” — sad  dogs  ! whom  “ Hundsfot,”  or 
“ Yerflucter,” 

Affect  no  more  than  lightning  a conductor. 

LXXII. 

Now  there  is  nothing  gives  a man  such  spirits, 
Leavening  his  blood  as  cayenne  doth  a curry, 

As  going  at  full  speed — no  matter  where  its 
Direction  be,  so  ’tis  but  in  a hurry, 

And  merely  for  the  sake  of  its  own  merits  ; 

Tor  the  less  cause  there  is  for  all  this  flurry, 

The  greater  is  the  pleasure  in  arriving 
At  the  great  end  of  travel — which  is  driving. 

LXXIII. 

They  saw  at  Canterbury  the  cathedral ; 

Black  Edward’s  helm,1  and  Becket’s  bloody  stone,2 
Were  pointed  out  as  usual  by  the  bedral. 

In  the  same  quaint,  uninterested  tone  : — 

There’s  glory  again  for  you,  gentle  reader ! All 
Ends  in  a rusty  casque  and  dubious  bone,3 
Half-solved  into  these  sodas  or  magnesias, 

Which  form  that  bitter  draught,  the  human  species. 


(1)  [On  the  tomb  of  the  prince  lies  a whole-length  brass  figure 
of  him,  his  armour  with  a hood  of  mail,  and  a scull-cap  enriched 
with  a coronet,  which  had  been  once  studded  with  jewels,  but  only 
the  collets  now  remain.] 

(2)  [Becket  was  assassinated  in  the  cathedral,  in  1171.] 

(8)  [The  French  inscription  on  the  Black  Prince’s  monument  is 
thus  translated  in  the  History  of  Kent: — 

“ Whoso  thou  be  that  passest  by 
Where  these  corps  interred  lie, 

Understand  what  I shall  say, 

As  at  this  time  speak  I may. 

Such  as  thou  art,  sometime  was  I. 

Such  as  1 am,  such  shalt  thou  be. 


LXXIV. 

The  effect  on  Juan  was  of  course  sublime  : 

^ He  breathed  a thousand  Cressvs,  as  he  saw 
That  casque,  which  never  stoop’d  except  to  Time. 

Even  the  bold  Churchman’s  tomb  excited  awe, 
Who  died  in  the  then  great  attempt  to  climb 
O’er  kings,  who  now  at  least  must  talk  of  law 
Before  they  butcher.  Little  Leila  gazed, 

And  asked  why  such  a structure  had  been  raised : 

LXXV. 

And  being  told  it  was  “ God’s  house,”  she  said 
He  was  well  lodged,  but  only  wonder’d  how 
He  suffer  d Infidels  in  his  homestead, 

The  cruel  Nazarenes,  who  had  laid  low 
His  holy  temples  in  the  lands  which  bred 
The  true  Believers and  her  infant  brow 
Was  bent  with  grief  that  Mahomet  should  resign 
A mosque  so  noble,  flung  like  pearls  to  swine.  ° 

LXXVI. 

On  ! on  ! through  meadows,  managed  like  a garden, 
A paradise  of  hops  and  high  production ; 

For  after  years  of  travel  by  a bard  in 

Countries  of  greater  heat,  but  lesser  suction, 

A green  field  is  a sight  which  makes  him  pardon 
The  absence  of  that  more  sublime  construction ; 
Which  mixes  up  vines,  olives,  precipices, 

Glaciers,  volcanos,  oranges,  and  ices. 

LXXVII. 

And  when*  I think  upon  a pot  of  beer 

But  I won’t  weep  ! — and  so  drive  on,  postilions  ! 
As  the  smart  boys  spurr’d  fast  in  their  career, 

Juan  admired  these  highways  of  free  millions  ; 

A country  in  all  senses  the  most  dear 
To  foreigner  or  native,  save  some  silly  ones, 

•Who  “kick. against  the  pricks”  just  at  this  juncture,: 
And  for  their  pains  get  only  a fresh  puncture. 

LXXVIII. 

What  a delightful  thing’s  a turnpike  road ! 

So  smooth,  so  level,  such  a mode  of  shaving  , f 
The  earth,  as  scarce  the  eagle  in  the  broad 

Air  can  accomplish,  with  his  wide  wings  waving. 
Had  such  been  cut  in  Phaeton’s  time,  the  god 
Had  told  his  son  to  satisfy  his  craving 
With  the  York  mail ; — but  onward  as  we  roll, 

“ Surgit  amari  aliquid” — the  toll ! 

LXXIX. 

Alas  ! how  deeply  painful  is  all  payment ! 

Take  lives,  take  wives,  take  aught  except  men’s 
purses. 

As  Machiavel  shows  those  in  purple  raiment, 

Such  is  the  shortest  way  to  general  curses. 

They  hate  a murderer  much  less  than  a claimant 
On  that  sweet  ore  which  every  body  nurses. — 

Kill  a man’s  family,  and  he  may  brook  it, 

But  keep  your  hands  out  of  his  breeches’  pocket : 


I little  thought  on  the  hour  of  death 
So  long  as  I enjoyed  breath. 

Great  riches  here  I did  possess, 
Whereof  I made  great  nobleness ; 

I had  gold,  silver,  wardrobes,  and 
Great  treasures,  horses,  houses,  land. 
But  now  a caitiff  poor  am  I, 

Deep  in  the  ground,  lo  here  J.  lie ; 

My  beauty  great  is  all  quite  gone, 

My  flesh  is  wasted  to  the  bone; 

And  if  you  should  see  me  this  day, 

I do  not  think  but  you  would  say, 
That  I had  never  been  a man 
So  much  alter’d  now  I am.”] 


(UNTO  XI. 


DON  JUAN. 


711 


LXXX. 

! So  said  the  Florentine  : ye  monarchs,  hearken 
To  your  instructor.  Juan  now  was  borne. 

Just  as  the  day  began  to  wane  and  darken, 

O’er  the  high  hill,  which  looks  with  pride  or  scorn 
Toward  the  great  city. —Ye  who  have  a spark  in 
Your  veins  of  Cockney  spirit,  smile  or  mourn 
According  as  you  take  things  well  or  ill ; — 

Bold  Britons,  we  are  now  on  Shooter’s  Hill ! 1 

LXXX  i. 

i The  sun  went  down,  the  smoke  rose  up,  as  from 
I,  A half-unquench’d  volcano,  o’er  a space 
! Which  well  beseem’d  the  “ Devil’s  drawing-room,” 
As  some  have  qualified  that  wondrous  place ; 

But  Juan  felt,  though  not  approaching  home , 

As  one  who,  though  he  were  not  of  the  race, 
"Revered  the  soil,  of  those  true  sons  the  mother, 

Who  butcher’d  half  the  earth,  and  bullied  t’other.2 

LXXXII. 

A mighty  mass  of  brick,  and  smoke,  and  shipping, 

[ Dirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye 
Could  reach,  with  here  and  there  a sail  just  skipping 
In  sight,  then  lost  amidst  the  forestry 

fOf  masts  ; a wilderness  of  steeples  peeping 
On  tiptoe  through  their  sea-coal  canopy ; 

A huge,  dim  cupola,  like  a foolscap  crown 
On  a fool’s  head — and  there  is  London  Town  ! 

LXXXIII. 

But  Juan  saw  not  this  : each  wreath  of  smoke 
Appear’d  to  him  but  as  the  magic  vapour 
Of  some  alchymic  furnace,  from  whence  broke 

The  wealth  of  worlds  (a  wealth  of  tax  and  paper) : 
The  gloomy  clouds,  which  o’er  it  as  a yoke 
Are  bow’d,  and  put  the  sun  out  like  a taper. 

Were  nothing  but  the  natural  atmosphere, 

Extremely  wholesome,  though  but  rarely  clear. 

LXXXIV. 

He  paused — and  so  will  I ; a * doth  a crew 
Before  they  give  their  broadside.  By  and  by, 

My  gentle  countrymen,  we  will  renew 
Our  old  acquaintance  ; and  at  least  I’ll  try 
To  tell  you  truths  you  will  not  take  as  true, 

Because  they  are  so  ; — a male  Mrs.  Fry,3 
With  a soft  besom  will  I sweep  your  halls. 

And  brush  a web  or  two  from  off  the  walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh  Mrs.  Fry  ! Why  go  to  Newgate  ! Why 
Breach  to  poor  rogues  ? And  wherefore  not  begin 
With  Carlton,  or  with  other  houses?  Try 
Your  hand  at  harden’d  and  imperial  sin. 


(1)  [“  Under  his  proud  survey  the  city  lies, 

And  like  a mist  beneath  a hill  doth  rise, 

Whose  state  and  wealth,  the  business  and  the  crowd, 

Seem  at  this  distance  but  a darker  cloud, 

And  is,  to  him  who  rightly  things  esteems, 

No  other  in  effect  than  what  it  seems; 

Where,  with  like  haste,  tho’  several  ways  they  run. 

Some  to  undo,  and  some  to  be  undone ; 

While  luxury  and  wealth,  like  war  and  peace, 

Are  each  the  other’s  ruin  and  increase.” — Denham.] 

(2)  [India;  America.] 

(3)  [The  Quaker  lady,  whose  benevolent  exertions  have  effected 
»o  great  a change  in  the  condition  of  the  female  prisoners  in 
Newgate.] 

(4)  [This  worthy  alderman  died  in  1829.] 

(5)  [“  O for  a blast  of  that  dread  horn, 

On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come, 

When  Rowland  brave,  and  Olivier, 

And  every  paladin  and  peer, 

On  Roncesvalles  died.”-  Marminn .] 


To  mend  the  people’s  an  absurdity, 

A jargon,  a mere  philanthropic  din, 

Unless  you  make  their  betters  better : — Fy  : 

I thought  you  had  more  religion,  Mrs.  Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach  them  the  decencies  of  good  threescore ; 

Cure  them  of  tours,  hussar  and  highland  dresse3  ; 
Tell  them  that  youth  once  gone  returns  no  more, 

That  hired  huzzas  redeem  no  land’s  distresses ; 

Tell  them  Sir  William  Curtis4  is  a bore, 

Too  dull  even  for  the  dullest  of  excesses, 

The  witless  Falstaff  of  a hoary  Hal, 

A fool  whose  bells  have  ceased  to  ring  at  all. 

LXXXVII. 

Tell  them,  though  it  may  be  perhaps  too  late 
On  life’s  worn  confine,  jaded,  bloated,  sated. 

To  set  up  vain  pretences  of  being  great, 

’Tis  not  so  to  be  good ; and  be  it  stated, 

The  worthiest  kings  have  ever  loved  least  state : 

And  tell  them But  you  won’t,  and  1 have  pn.tea 

Just  now  enough ; but  by  and  by  I’ll  prattle 
Like  Roland’s  horn5  in  Roncesvalles’  battle. 


Bon  JJuan. 


CANTO  THE  ELEVENTH. 


I. 

When  Bishop  Berkeley  said  ‘‘there  was  no  matter,” 
And  proved  it — ’twras  no  matter  what  he  said  : 
They  say  his  system  ’tis  in  vain  to  batter, 

Too  subtle  for  the  airiest  human  head 
And  yet  who  can  believe  it  ? I would  shatter 
Gladly  all  matters  down  to  stone  or  lead, 

Or  adamant,  to  find  the  world  a spirit, 

And  wear  my  head,  denying  that  I wear  it. 

ii. 

What  a sublime  discovery  ’twas  to  make  the 
Universe  universal  egotism. 

That  all’s  ideal — all  ourselves : I’ll  stake  the 

World  (be  it  what  you  will)  that  that' s no  schism. 
Oh  Doubt ! — if  thou  be’st  Doubt,  for  which  some  take 
thee. 

But  which  1 doubt  extremely — thou  sole  prism 
Of  the  Truth’s  rays,  spoil  not  my  draught  of  spirit ! 
Heaven’s  brandy,  though  our  brain  can  hardly  bear  it. 


(6)  [The  celebrated  and  ingenious  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  in  his 
“ Principles  of  Human  Knowledge,”  denies,  without  any  ceremony, 
the  existence  of  every  kind  of  matter  whatever  ; nor  does  he  think 
this  conclusion  one  that  need,  in  any  degree,  stagger  the  incredulous. 
“Some  truths  there  are,”  says  he,  “so  near  and  obvious  to  the 
mind,  that  a man  need  only  open  his  eyes  to  see  them.  Such  I 
take  this  important  one  to  be,  that  all  the  choir  of  heaven,  and  fur- 
niture of  earth, — in  a word,  all  those  bodies  which  compose  the 
mighty  frame  of  the  world, — have  not  any  subsistence  without  a 
mind.”  This  deduction,  however  singular,  was  readily  made  from 
the  theory  of  our  perceptions  laid  down  by  Descartes  and  Mr.  Locke, 
and  at  that  time  generally  received  in  the  world.  According  to  that 
theory,  we  perceive  nothing  but  ideas  which  are  present  in  the 
mind,  and  which  have  no  dependence  whatever  upon  external 
things  ; so  that  we  have  no  evidence  of  the  existence  of  any  thing 
external  to  our  minds.  Berkeley  appears  to  have  been  altogether 
in  earnest,  in  maintaining  his  scepticism  concerning  the  existence 
of  matter;  and  the  more  so,  as  he  conceived  this  system  to  be  highly 
favourable  to  the  doctrines  of  religion,  since  it  removes  matter  from 
the  world,  which  had  already  been  the  stronghold  of  the  Atheists 
— Sir  David  Brewster.] 


712 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


LANTG  XI, 


III. 

For  ever  and  anon  comes  Indigestion, 

(Not  the  most  “ dainty  Ariel”)1  and  perplexes 
Our  soarings  with  another  sort  of  question  : 

And  that  which  after  all  my  spirit  vexes, 

Is.  that  I find  no  spot  where  man  can  rest  eye  on, 
Without  confusion  of  the  sorts  and  sexes, 

Of  beings,  stars,  and  this  unriddled  wonder, 

The  world,  which  at  the  worst’s  a glorious  blunder — 

IV. 

If  it  be  chance ; or  if  it  be  according 
To  the  old  text,  still  better — lest  it  should 
Turn  out  so,  well  say  nothing  ’gainst  the  wording, 

As  several  people  think  such  hazards-  rude. 

They’re  right ; our  days  are  too  brief  for  affording 
8pace  to  dispute  what  no  one  ever  could 
Decide,  and  every  body  one  day  will 
Know  very  clearly — or  at  least  lie  still. 

v. 

And  therefore  will  I leave  off  metaphysical 
Discussion,  which  is  neither  here  nor  there  : 

If  I.  agree  that  what  is,  is ; then  this  I call 
Being  quite  perspicuous  and  extremely  fair ; 

The  truth  is,  I’ve  grown  lately  rather  phthisical : 

I don’t  know  what  the  reason  is — the  air 
Perhaps  ; but  as  I suffer  from  the  shocks 
Of  illness,  I grow  much  more  orthodox. 

VI. 

first  attack  at  once  proved  the  Divinity 
(But  that  I never  doubted,  nor  the  Devil) ; 

The  next,  the  Virgin’s  mystical  virginity  j 
The  third,  the  usual  Origin  of  Evil ; 

The  fourth  at  once  established  the  whole  Trinity 
On  so  uncontrovertible  a level, 

That  I devoutly  wish’d  the  three  were  four, 

On  purpose  to  believe  so  much  the  more. 

VII. 

To  our  theme. — The  man  who  has  stood  on  the 
Acropolis, 

And  look’d  down  over  Attica  ; or  he 
*Who  has  sail’d  where  picturesque  Constantinople  is, 
Or  seen  Timbuctoo,  or  hath  taken  tea 
In  small-eyed  China’s  crockery-ware  metropolis, 

Or  sat  amidst  the  bricks  of  Nineveh, 

May  not  think  much  of  London’s  first  appearance — 
But  ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  it  a year  hence  ? 

VIII. 

Don  Juan  had  got  out  on  Shooter’s  Hill ; 

Sunset  the  time,  the  place  the  same  declivity  • 
Which  looks  along  that  vale  of  good  and  ill 
Where  London  streets  ferment  in  full  activity  ; 
Wliile  every  thing  around  was  calnPand  still, 

Except  the  creak  of  wheels,  which  on  their  pivot  he 
Heard,— and  that  bee-like,  bubbling,  busy  hum 
Of  cities,  that  boil  over  with  their  scum  : — • 

IX. 

I say,  Don  Juan,  wrapt  in  contemplation, 

Walk’d  on  behind  his  carriage,  o’er  the  summit, 

And  lost  in  wonder  of  so  great  a nation, 

Gave  way  to’t,  since  he  could  not  overcome  it. 


(1)  [“  Prosp.  Why,  that’s  my  dainty  Ariel : I shall  miss  thee  ; 

But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom.” — Tempest.] 

(2)  [“  Falstaff.  Diana’s  foresters,  gentlemen  of  the  shade,  minion* 


“ And  here,”  he  cried,  “ is  Freedom’s  chosen  station ; ! - 
Here  peals  the  people’s  voice,  nor  can  entomb  it  * 
Racks,  prisons,  inquisitions  ; resurrection 
Awaits  it,  each  new  meeting  or  election. 

x. 

“ Here  are  chaste  wives,  pure  lives  ; here  people  pay  j 
But  what  they  please  ; and  if  that  things  be  dear,  I 
’Tis  only  that  they  love  to  throw  away 
' Their  cash,  to  show  how  much  they  have  a-yea-r. 

Here  laws  are  all  inviolate ; none  lay 
Traps  for  the  traveller;  every  highway’s  clear: 

Here — ” he  was  interrupted  by  a knife, 

With  — “ Damn  your  eyes ! your  money  or  youi  (I 
life  !” — 

XI. 

These  freeborn  sounds  proceeded  from  four  pads 
In  ambush  laid,  who  had  perceived  him  loiter 
Behind  his  carriage ; and,  like  handy  lads, 

Had  seized  the  lucky  hour  to  reconnoitre, 

In  which  the  heedless  gentleman  who  gads 
Upon  the  road,  unless  he  prove  a fighter, 

May  find  himself  within  that  isle  of  riches' 

Exposed  to  lose  his  life  as  well  as  breeches. 

XII. 

Juan,  who  did  not  understand  a word 

Of  English,  save  their  shibboleth,  “ God  damn  !” . I 
And  even  that  he  had  so  rarely  heard, 

He  sometimes  thought  ’twas  only  their  “ Salam/ 

Or  “ God  be  with  you  !” — and  ’tis  not  absurd 
^ To  think  so ; for  half  English  as  I am 
(To  my  misfortune)  never  can  I say 
I heard  them  wish  “ God  with  you,”  save  that  way i j 

XIII. 

Juan  yet  quickly  understood  their  gesture, 

And  being  somewhat  choleric  and  sudden, 

Drew  forth  a pocket  pislol  from  his  vesture, 

And  fired  it  into  one  assailant’s  pudding — 

Who  fell,  as  rolls  an  ox  o’er  in  his  pasture, 

And  roar’d  out,  as  he  writhed  his  native  mud  in, 
Unto  his  nearest  follower  or  henchman, 

“Oh  Jack!  I’m  floor’d  by  that  ’ere  bloody  French.  I 
man  ! ” 

XIV. 

On  which  Jack  and  his  train  set  off  at  speed, 

And  Juan’s  suite,- late  scatter’d  at  a distance, 

Came  up,  all  marvelling  at  such  a deed. 

And  offering,  as  usual,  late  assistance. 

Juan,  who  saw  the  moon’s  late  minion2  bleed 
As  if  his  veins  would  pour  out  his  existence. 

Stood  calling  out  for  bandages  and  lint, 

And  wish’d  he  had  been  less  hasty  with  his  flint. 

xv. 

“ Perhaps,”  thought  he,  “ it  is  the  country’s  want 
To  welcome  foreigners  in  this  way  : now 
I recollect  some  innkeepers  who  don’t  . I 

Differ,  except  in  robbing  with  a bow, 

In  lieu  of  a bare  blade  and  brazen  front. 

But  what  is  to  be  done  ? I can’t  allow 
The  fellow  to  lie  gleaning  on  the  road : 

So  take  him  up  ; I’ll  help  you  with  the  load.” 


of  the  moon:  and  let  men  say,  we  be  men  of  good  government,  j| 
being  governed,  as  the  sea  is,  by  our  noble  and  chaste  mistress  th*  H 
moon,  under  whose  countenance  we— steal.” — Henry  IF.} 


&AN70  XI. 


DON  JUAN. 


713 


XVI. 

But  ere  they  could  perform  this  pious  duty, 

The  dying  man  cried,  “ Hold  ! I’ve  got  my  gruel ! 
Oh!  for  a glass  of  max  !x  We’ve  miss’d  our  booty ; 

Let  me  die  where  I am  !”  And  as  the  fuel 
Of  life  shrunk  in  his  heart,  and  thick  and  sooty 
The  drops  fell  from  his  death-wound,  and  he  drew  ill 
His  breath, — lie  from  his  swelling  throat  untied 
A kerchief,  crying,  “Give  Sal  that!” — and  died. 

XVII. 

The  cravat  stain’d  with  bloody  drops  fell  down 
: Before  Don  Juan’s  feet : he  could  not  tell 

Exactly  why  it  was  before  him  thrown, 
t Nor  what  the  meaning  of  the  man’s  farewell. 

Poor  Tom  was  once  a kiddy1 2  upon  town, 

A thorough  varmint,  and  a real  swell,3 
Full  flash,4  all  fancy,  until  fairly  diddled, 

His  pockets  first  and  then  his  body  riddled. 

XVIII. 

Don  Juan,  having  done  the  best  he  could 
In  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case, 

As  soon  as  “Crowner’s  quest”5  allow’d,  pursued 
His  travels  to  the  capital  apace  ; — • 

Esteeming  it  a little  hard  he  should 

In  twelve  hours’  time,  and  very  little  space, 

Have  been  obliged  to  slay  a freeborn  native 
In  self-defence  : this  made  him  meditative. 

XIX. 

He  from  the  world  had  cut  off  a great  man, 

Who  in  his  time  had  made  heroic  bustle. 

Who  in  a row  like  Tom  could  lead  the  van, 

Booze  in  the  ken,6  or  at  the  spellken7  hustle  ? 

Who  queer  a flat  ?8  Who  (spite  of  Bow-street’s  ban) 
On  the  high  toby-spice9  so  flash  the  muzzle  ? 

Who  on  a lark,10  with  black-eyed  Sal  (his  blowing),11 
So  prime,  so  swell,12  so  nutty,13  and  so  knowing?14 

xx. 

But  Tom’s  no  more — and  so  no  more  of  Tom. 

Heroes  must  die;  and  by  God’s  blessing  ’tis 
Not  long  before  the  most  of  them  go  home. 

Hail ! Thamis,  hail ! Upon  thy  verge  it  is 


(1)  [Gin  or  Hollands.] 

(2)  [A  thief  of  the  lower  order,  who,  when  he  is  breeched. by  a 
course  of  successful  depredation,  dresses  in  the  extreme  of  vulgar 
gentility,  and  affects  a knowingness  in  his  air  and  conversation, 
which  renders  him  in  reality  an  object  of  ridicule. — Vaux.] 

( (3)  [Any  well-dressed  person  is  emphatically  called  a swell,  or  a 
real  swell. — P.  Egan.] 

(4)  [A  fellow  who  affects  any  particular  habit,  as  swearing,  dress- 
ing in  a particular  manner,  taking  snuff,  & c.  merely  to  be  noticed, 
is  said  to  do  it  out  of  flash. — Ibid] 

(5)  [“2 d Clown.  But  is  this  the  law? 

1st  Clown.  Ay  marry  is’t?  crowner’s  quest  law.” — Hamlet .] 

(6)  [A  house  that  harbours  thieves  is  called  a ken. — See  Slang 
Dictionary.] 

(7)  [The  playhouse- — Ibid.] 

(8)  [To  puzzle  or  confound  a gull,  or  silly  fellow. — Ibid.] 

(9)  [Robberv  on  horseback. — Ibid.] 

(lvj  [inm  or  sport  of  any  kind. — Ibid.]  , 

.11)  [A  pickpocket’s  trull. — Ibid.] 

V 1 2)  [So  gentlemanly. — Ibid.] 

(13)  [To  be  nuts  upon,  is  to  be  very  much  pleased  or  gratified 
with  any  thirg:  thus,  a person  who  conceives  a strong  inclination 
for  another  oi  the  opposite  sex  is  said  to  be  quite  nutty  upon  him  or 

her. — Ibid.  J 

(14)  The  advance  of  science  and  of  language  has  rendered  it  un- 
necessary to  translate  the  above  good  and  true  English,  spoken  in 

its  original  purity  by  the  select  mobility  and  their  patrons.  The 
following  is  a stanza  of  a song  which  was  very  popular,  at  least  in 
my  early  days . 

“On  the  high  toby-spice  flash  the  muzzle, 

In  spite  of  each  gallows  old  scout; 


That  Juan’s  chariot,  rolling  like  a drum 

In  thunder,  holds  the  way  it  can’t  well  miss, 
Through  Kennington  and  all  the  other  “ tons,” 

Which  makes  us  wish  ourselves  in  town  at  once  ; — 

xxi. 

Through  Groves,  so  call’d  as  being  void  of  trees, 
(Like  lucus  from  no  light) ; through  prospects  namoC 
Mount  Pleasant,  as  containing  nought  to  please, 

Nor  much  to  climb ; through  little  boxes  framed 
Of  bricks,  to  let  the  dust  in  at  your  ease, 

With  “ To  be  let,”  upon  their  doors  proclaim’d  ; 
Through  “ Rows”  most  modestly  call’d  “ Paradise,  ' 
Which  Eve  might  quit  without  much  sacrifice  ; — 

XXII. 

Through  coaches,  drays,  choked  turnpikes,  and  a wli.ri 
Of  wheels,  and  roar  of  voices,  and  confusion ; 

Here  taverns  wooing  to  a pint  of  “ purl,”15 
There  mails  fast  flying  off  like  a delusion ; 

There  barbers’  blocks  with  periwigs  in  curl 
In  windows ; here  the  lamplighter’s  infusion 
Slowly  distill’d  into  the  glimmering  glass 
(For  in  those  days  we  had  not  got  to  gas — ) ;16 

XXIII. 

Through  this,  and  much,  and  more,  is  the  approacn 
Of  travellers  to  mighty  Babylon  : 

Whether  they  come  by  horse,  or  chaise,  or  coach. 
With  slight  exceptions,  all  the  ways  seem  one. 

I could  say  more,  but  do  not  choose  to  encroach 
Upon  the  Guide-book’s  privilege.  The  sun 
Had  set  some  time,  and  night  was  on  the  ridge 
Of  twilight,  as  the  party  cross’d  the  bridge. 

XXIV. 

That’s  rather  fine,  the  gentle  sound  of  Thamis-  «• 

Who  vindicates  a moment,  too,  his  stream — 
Though  hardly  heard  through  multifarious  “ damme’* . 

The  lamps  of  Westminster’s  more  regular  gleam, 
The  breadth  of  pavement,  and  yon  shrine  w here  fame  .3 
A spectral  resident — whose  pallid  beam 
In  shape  of  moonshine  hovers  o’er  the  pi'e — 

Make  this  a sacred  part  of  Albion’s  isle.17 


If  you  at  the  spellken  can’t  hustle, 

You  ’ll  be  hobbled  in  making  a Clout. 

Then  your  Blowing  will  wax  gallows  haughty, 

When  she  hears  of  your  scaly  mistake. 

She’ll  surely  turn  snitch  for  the  forty — 

That  her  Jack  may  be  regular  weight.” 

If  there  be  any  gemman  so  ignorant  as  to  require  a traduction  I 
refer  him  to  my  old  friend  and  corporeal  pastor  and  master,  Jc.in 
Jackson,  Esq.,  Professor  of  Pugilism;  who,  I trust,  still  retains  too 
strength  and  symmetry  of  his  model  of  a form,  together  with  I. is 
good  humour,  and  athletic  as  well  as  mental  accomplishments. 

(15)  [A  kind  of  medicated  malt  liquor,  in  which  wormwood  and 
aromatics  are  infused. — Todd.] 

(1(5)  [The  streets  of  London  were  first  regularly  lighted  with  gas  in 
1812.] 

(17)  [“I  very  often,”  says  Addison,  “walk  by  myself  in  Wert- 
minster  Abbey.  When  I look  upon  the  tombs  of*the  great,  every 
emotion  of  envy  dies  in  me;  when  I read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beau- 
tiful, every  inordinate  desire  goes  out;  when  I meet  with  the  grief 
of  parents  upon  a tombstone,  my  heart  melts  with  compassicn; 
when  I see  the  tomb  of  the  parents  themselves,  I consider  the 
vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom  we  must  quickly  follow.  WL-on 
I see  kings  lying  by  those  who  deposed  them;  when  I consir.'r 
rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or  the  holy  men  that  divided  the 
world  with  their  contests  and  disputes;  I reflect  with  sorrow  a.J 
astonishment  on  the  little  competitions,  factions,  and  debates  ot  man- 
kind. When  I read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that  died 
yesterday,  and  somp  six  hundred  years  ago,  I consider  that  g»'* 
day,  when  we  shall  a l\  of  us  be  contemporaries,  and  make  our  > p- 
pearance  together.”] 

1 Y 


714 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  E 


XXV. 

The  Druids’  groves  are  gone — so  much  the  better : 
Stone-Henge  is  not — but  what  the  devil  is  it  ? — 
But  Bedlam  still  exists  with  its  sage  fetter, 

That  madmen  may  not  bite  you  on  a visit ; 

The  Bench  too  seats  or  suits  full  many  a debtor ; 

The  Mansion  House  too  (though  some  people  quiz  it) 
To  me  appears  a stiff  yet  grand  erection ; 

But  then  the  Abbey’s  worth  the  whole  collection. 

XXVI. 

The  line  of  lights  too  up  to  Charing  Cross, 

Pall  Mall,  and  so  forth,  have  a coruscation 
Like  gold  as  in  comparison  to  dross, 

Match’d  with  the  Continent’s  illumination, 

Whose  cities  Night  by  no  means  deigns  to  gloss. 

The  French  were  not  yet  a lamp-lighting  nation, 
And  when  they  grew  so — on  their  new-found  lantern, 
Instead  of  wicks,  they  made  a wicked  man  turn. 

XXVII. 

A row  of  gentlemen  along  the  streets 
Suspended  may  illuminate  mankind, 

As  also  bonfires  made  of  country  seats ; 

But  the  old  way  is  best  for  the  purblind : 

The  other  looks  like  phosphorus  on  sheets, 

A sort  of  ignis  fatuus  to  the  mind, 

Which,  though  ’tis  certain  to  perplex  and  frighten. 
Must  burn  more  mildly  ere  it  can  enlighten. 

XXVIII. 

But  London’s  so  well  lit,  that  if  Diogenes 
Could  recommence  to  hunt  his  honest  man , 

And  found  him  not  amidst  the  various  progenies 
Of  this  enormous  city’s  spreading  spawn, 

’Twere  not  for  want  of  lamps  to  aid  his  dodging  his 
Yet  undiscover’d  treasure.  What  I can, 

I’ve  done  to  find  the  same  throughout  life’s  journey, 
But  see  the  world  is  only  one  attorney. 

XXIX. 

Over  the  stones  still  rattling,  up  Pall  Mall, 

Through  crowds  and  carriages,  but  waxing  thinner 
As  thunder’d  knockers  broke  the  long  seal’d  spell 
Of  doors  ’gainst  duns,  and  to  an  early  dinner 
Admitted  a small  party  as  night  fell, — - 
* Don  Juan,  our  youn^  diplomatic  sinner, 

Puisued  his  path,  and  drove  past  some  hotels, 

St.  James’s  Palace  and  St.  James’s  “ Hells.”1 

XXX. 

They  reach’d  the  hotel : forth  stream’d  from  the  front 
A tide  of  well-clad  waiters,  and  around  [door 
The  mob  stood,  and  as  usual  several  score 
Of  those  pedestrian  Paphians  who  abound 
In  decent  London  when  the  daylight’s  o’er; 

Commodious  but  immoral,  they  are  found 
Useful,  like  Malthus,  in  promoting  marriage. — 

But  Juan  now  is  stepping  from  his  carriage 

XXXI. 

Into  one  of  the  sweetest  of  hotels, 

Especially  for  foreigners — and  mostly 
For  those  whom  favour  or  whom  fortune  swells, 

And  cannot  find  a bill’s  small  items  costly. 

There  many  an  envoy  either  dwelt  or  dwells 
(The  den  of  many  a diplomatic  lost  lie), 

Until  to  some  conspicuous  square  they  pass, 

And  blazon  o’er  the  door  their  names  in  brass. 


(1)  “ Hells,”  gaming-houses.  What  their  number  may  now  he 
ia  this  life,  I know  not.  Before  I was  ->f  a ;e  1 knew  them  pretty 
accurately,  both  “gold"  and  “silvei  I was  once  nearly  called 


I • xxxn. 

Juan,  whose  was  a delicate  commission, 

Private,  though  publicly  important,  bore 
No  title  to  point  out  with  due  precision 
The  exact  affair  on  which  he  was  sent  o’er. 

’Twas  merely  known,  that  on  a secret  mission 
A foreigner  of  rank  had  graced  our  shore, 

Young,  handsome,  and  accomplish’d,  who  was  said 
(In  whispers)  to  have  turn’d  his  sovereign’s  head. 

XXXIII. 

Some  rumour  also  of  some  strange  adventures 
Had  gone  before  him,  and  his  wars  and  loves  ; 

And  as  romantic  heads  are  pretty  painters, 

And,  above  all,  an  Englishwoman’s  roves 
Into  the  excursive,  breaking  the  indentures 
Of  sober  reason,  wheresoe’er  it  moves, 

He  found  himself  extremely  in  the  fashion, 

Which  serves  our  thinking  people  for  a passion. 

XXXIV. 

I don’t  mean  that  they  are  passionless,  but  quite 
The  contrary  ; but  then  ’tis  in  the  head  ; 

Yet  as  the  consequences  are  as  bright 
As  if  they  acted  with  the  heart  instead. 

What  after  all  can  signify  the  site 

Of  ladies’  lucubrations  F So  they  lead 
In  safety  to  the  place  for  which  you  start. 

What  matters  if  the  road  be  head  or  heart  P 

XXXV. 

Juan  presented  in  the  proper  place. 

To  proper  placemen,  every  ltuss  credential ; 

And  was  received  with  all  the  due  grimace, 

By  those  who  govern  in  the  mood  potential, 

Who,  seeing  a handsome  stripling  with  smooth  fact 
Thought  (what  in  state  affairs  is  most  essential) 
That  they  as  easily  might  do  the  youngster, 

As  hawks  may  pounce  upon  a woodland  songster. 

XXXVI. 

They  err’d,  as  aged  men  will  do ; but  by 
And  by  we’ll  talk  of  that ; and  if  we  don’t, 

’Twill  be  because  our  notion  is  not  high 
Of  politicians  and  their  double  front, 

Who  live  by  lies,  yet  dare  not  boldly  lie  : — 

Now  what  I love  in  women  is,  they  won’t 
Or  can’t  do  otherwise  than  lie,  but  do  it 
So  well,  the  very  truth  seems  falsehood  to  it, 

XXXVII. 

And,  after  all,  what  is  a lie?  ’Tis  but 
The  truth  in  masquerade  ; and  I defy 
Historians,  heroes,  lawyers,  priests,  to  put 
A fact  without  some  leaven  of  a lie. 

The  very  shadow  of  true  Truth  would  shut 
Up  annals,  revelations,  poesy, 

And  prophecy — except  it  should  be  dated 
Some  years  before  the  incidents  related. 

XXXVIII. 

Praised  be  all  liars  and  all  lies  ! Who  now 
Can  tax  my  rgild  Muse  with  misanthropy? 

She  rings  the  world’s  “ Te  Deum,”  and  her  bron 
Blushes  for  those  who  will  not : — but  to  sigh 
Is  idle  ; let  us  like  most  others  bow, 

Kiss  hands,  feet,  any  part  of  majesty, 

After  the  good  example  of  “ Green  Erin,”2 
Whose  shamrock  now  seems  rather  worse  for  wearing; 


out  by  an  acquaintance,  because  when  he  asked  me  wnere  I thought 
that  his  soul  would  be  found  hereafter,  I answered,  “ Jn  silver  Hell. 

(2)  [See  the  Irish  Avatar,  ante,  p.  576. 1 


CANTC  XI. 


DON  JUAN. 


715 


XXXIX. 

Don  Juan  was  presented,  and  his  dress 
And  mien  excited  general  admiration — 

I don’t  know  which  was  more  admired  or  less : 

One  monstrous  diamond  drew  much  observation, 

: Which  Catherine  in  a moment  of  “ivresse” 

(In  love  or  brandy’s  fervent  fermentation) 

; Bestow’d  upon  him,  as  the  public  learn’d  ; 

! And,  to  say  truth,  it  had  been  fairly  earn’d. 

XL. 

Besides  the  ministers  and  underlings, 

Who  must  be  courteous  to  the  accredited 
Diplomatists  of  rather  wavering  kings, 

Until  their  royal  riddle’s  fully  read, 

The*  very  clerks, — those  somewhat  dirty  springs 
Of  of&ce,  or  the  house  of  office,  fed 
By  foul  corruption  into  streams, — even  they 
Were  hardly  rude  enough  to  earn  their  pay: 

XLI. 

And  insolence  no  doubt  is  what  they  are 
Employ’d  for,  since  it  is  their  daily  labour, 

In  the  dear  offices  of  peace  or  war ; [neighbour, 
And  should  you  doubt,  pray  ask  of  your  next 
When  fora  passport,  or  some  other  bar 
To  freedom,  he  applied  (a  grief  and  a bore), 

If  he  found  not  this  spawn  of  taxborn  riches, 

Like  lap-dogs,  the  least  civil  sons  of  b s. 

XLII. 

But  J nan  was  received  with  much  “ empressement. — 
These  phrases  of  refinement  I must  borrow 
From  our  next  neighbours’  land,  where,  like  a chess- 
man, 

There  is  a move  set  down  for  joy  or  sorrow, 

Not  only  in  mere  talking,  but  the  press.  Man 
In  islands  is,  it  seems,  downright  and  thorough, 
More  than  on  continents  - as  if  the  sea 
(See  Billingsgate)  made  even  the  tongue  more  free. 

XLIII. 

And  yet  the  British  “Damme”  ’s  rather  Attic, 

Your  continental  oaths  are  but  incontinent, 

And  turn  on  things  which  no  aristocratic 
Spirit  would  name,  and  therefore  even  I won’t  anent1 
This  subject  quote  ; as  it  would  be  schismatic 
In  politesse,  and  have  a sound  affronting  in’t : 

But  “ Damme”  ’s  quite  ethereal,  though  too  daring — 
Platonic  blasphemy,  the  soul  of  swearing. 

XLIV. 

For  downright  rudeness,  ye  may  stay  at  home ; 

For  true  or  false  politeness  (and  scarce  that 
Now)  you  may  cross  the  blue  deep  and  white  foam — 
The  first  the  emblem  (rarely  though)  of  what 
You  leave  u'.liind,  the  next  of  much  you  come 
To  meet.  However,  ’tis  no  time  to  chat 
On  general  topics  : poems  must  confine 
Themselves  to  unity,  like  this  of  mine. 


( 1)  “ Anent”  was  a Scotch  phrase  meaning  “ concerning” — “ with 

regard  to:”  it  has  been  made  English  by  the  Scotch  novels;  and, 
*s  the  Frenchman  said,  “ If  it  be  not , ought  to  be  English.” 

(2'  [ “ Oh,  these  flaws,  and  starts, 

(Impostors  to  true  fear,)  would  well  become 
A woman’s  story,”  &c.— Macbeth.] 

(S)  “ Draperv  Misses.” — This  term  is  probably  any  thing  now 
but  a mystery.  It  was,  however,  almost  so  to  me  when  I first 
returned  from  *he  East  in  1811 — 1812.  It  means  a pretty,  a high- 
born, a faaluraable  young  female,  well  instructed  bv  her  friends, 


XLV. 

In  the  great  world, — which,  being  interpreted, 
Meaneth  the  west  or  worst  end  of  a city. 

And  about  twice  two  thousand  people  bred 
By  no  means  to  be  very  wise  or  witty, 

But  to  sit  up  while  others  lie  in  bed, 

And  look  down  on  the  universe  with  pity, — 

Juan,  as  an  inveterate  patrician. 

Was  well  received  by  persons  of  condition. 

XLYI. 

He  was  a bachelor,  which  is  a matter 
Of  import  both  to  virgin  and  to  bride, 

The  former’s  hymeneal  hopes  to  flatter ; 

And  (should  she  not  hold  fast  by  love  or  pride)  ] 
’Tis  also  of  some  moment  to  the  latter : 

A rib’s  a thorn  in  a wed  gallant’s  side, 

Requires  decorum,  and  is  apt  to  double 

The  horrid  sin — and  what’s  still  worse,  the  trouble. 

XLVII. 

But,  Juan  was  a bachelor — of  arts, 

And  parts,  and  hearts:  he  danced  and  sung,  and  had 
An  air  as  sentimental  as  Mozart’s 

Softest  of  melodies ; and  could  be  sad 
Or  cheerful,  without  any  “flaws  or  starts,”2 * * (S) 
Just  at  the  proper  time;  and  though  a lad, 

Had  seen  the  world — which  is  a curious  sight, 

And  very  much  unlike  what  people  write. 

XLVIII. 

Fair  virgins  blush’d  upon  him  ; wedded  dames 
Bloom’d  also  in  less  transitory  hues  ; 

For  both  commodities  dwell  by  the  Thames, 

The  painting  and  the  painted  ; youth,  ceruse. 
Against  his  heart  preferr’d  their  usual  claims, 

Such  as  no  gentleman  can  quite  refuse  : 

Daughters  admired  his  dress,  and  pious  mothers 
Inquired  his  income,  and  if  he  had  brothers. 

XLIX. 

The  milliners  who  furnish  “drapery  Misses”* 
Throughout  the  season,  upon  speculation 
Of  payment  ere  the  honey-moon’s  last  kisses 
Have  waned  into  a crescent’s  coruscation, 

Thought  such  an  opportunity  as  this  is, 

Of  a rich  foreigner’s  initiation, 

Not  to  be  overlook’d — and  gave  such  credit, 

That  future  bridegrooms  swore,  and  sigh’d,  and  paid  a. 

L. 

The  Blues,  that  tender  tribe,  who  sigh  o’er  sonnets, 
And  with  the  pages  of  the  last  Review 
Line  the  interior  of  their  head’s  or  bonnets, 

Advanced  in  all  their  azure’s  highest  hue  : 

They  talked  bad  French  or  Spanish,  and  upon  its 
Late  authors  ask’d  him  for  a hint  or  two ; 

And  which  was  softest,  Russian  or  Castilian  ? 

And  whether  in  his  travels  he  saw  Uion  ? 


and  furnished  by  her  milliner  with  a wardrobe  upon  credit,  to  he 
repaid,  when  married,  by  the  husband.  The  riddle  was  first  read 
to  me  by  a young  and  pretty  heiress,  on  my  praising  the  “ drapery” 
of  the  “ untocher ed"  but  “ pretty  virginities”  (like  Mrs.  Anne  Page) 
of  the  then  day,  which  has  now  been  some  years  yesterday:  she 
assured  me  that  the  thing  was  common  in  London;  and  as  her 
own  thousands,  and  blooming  looks,  and  rich  simplicity  of  array, 
put  any  suspicion  in  her  own  case  out  of  the  question,  I confess  1 
gave  some  credit  to  the  allegation.  If  necessary,  authorities  might 
be  cited ; in  which  case  I could  quote  both  “ drapery”  and  the 
wu»v*>ra.  Let  us  hope,  however,  that  it  is  now  obsolete. 


716 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CAN^O  -U 


LI. 

Juan,  ;vho  was  a little  superficial, 

And  not  in  literature  a great  Drawcansir, 

Examined  by  this  learned  and  especial 
Jury  of  matrons,  scarce  knew  what  to  answer  : 

His  duties  warlike,  loving  or  official, 

His  steady  application  as  a dancer, 

Had  kept  him  from  the  brink  of  Hippocrene, 

Which  now  he  found  was  blue  instead  of  green. 

HI. 

However,  he  replied  at  hazard,  with 
A modest  confidence  and  calm  assurance, 

Which  lent  his  learned  lucubrations  pith, 

And  pass’d  for  arguments  of  good  endurance. 

That  prodigy.  Miss  Araminta  Smith 

(Who  at  sixteen  translated  “Hercules  Furens” 
Into  as  furious  English),  with  her  best  look, 

Set  down  his  sayings  in  her  common-place  book. 

LIII. 

Juan  knew  several  languages — as  well 

He  might — and  brought  them  up  with  skill,  in  time 
To  save  his  fame  with  each  accomplish’d  belle, 

Who  still  regretted  that  he  did  not  rhyme. 

There  wanted  but  this  requisite  to  swell 
His  qualities  (with  them)  into  sublime : 

Lady  Fitz-Frisky,  and  Miss  Msevia  Mannish, 

Both  long’d  extremely  to  be  sung  in  Spanish. 

LTV. 

However,  he  did  pretty  well,  and  was 
Admitted  as  an  aspirant  to  all 
The  coteries,  and,  as  in  Banquo’s  glass, 

At  great  assemblies  or  in  parties  small, 

He  saw  ten  thousand  living  authors  pass, 

That  being  about  their  average  numeral ; 

Also  the  eighty  “ greatest  living  poets,” 

As  every  paltry  magazine  can  show  it’s. 

LV. 

In  twice  five  years  the  " greatest  living  poet,” 

Like  to  the  champion  in  the  fisty  ring, 

Is  call’d  on  to  support  his  claim,  or  show  it, 

Although  ’tis  an  imaginary  thing. 

Even  I — albeit  I’m  sure  I did  not  know  it, 

Nor  sought  of  foolscap  subjects  to  be  king, — 

Was  reckon’d  a considerable  time, 

The  grand  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  rhyme. 

LVI. 

But  Juan  was  my  Moscow,  and  Faliero 
My  Leipsic,  and  my  Mount  Saint  Jean  seems  Cain : 1 
“ La  Belle  Alliance”  of  dunces  down  at  zero. 

Now  that  the  Lion’s  fall’n,  may  rise  again : 

But  I will  fall  at  least  as  fell  my  hero  ; 

Nor  reign  at  all,  or  as  a monarch  reign; 

Or  to  some  lonely  isle  of  gaolers  go, 

With  turncoat  Southey  for  my  turnkey  Lowe. 

LVII. 

Sir  Walter  reign’d  before  me  ;*  Moore  and  Campbell, 
Before  and  after ; but  now  grown  more  holy, 


(1)  [See  anti,  p.  339.] 

(2)  [Some  Reviewer  had  bestowed  the  title  of  “a  Moral  Byron” 
on  Mr.  Bryan  Procter,  author  of  “ Dramatic  Sketches,”  &c.  &c.  all 
published  under  the  name  of  “ Barry  Cornwall.”] 

(3)  [See  anti,  p.  514.] 

(4)  [The  Biographical  Dictionary  says,  — “ Being  in  delicate 
health,  he  was  induced  to  try  the  climate  of  Italy,  where  he  arrived 


The  Muses  upon  Sion’s  hill  must  ramble 
With  poets  almost  Clergymen,  or  wholly ; 

And  Pegasus  has  a psalmodic  amble 

Beneath  the  very  Reverend  Rowley  Powley, 

Who  shoes  the  glorious  animal  with  stilts, 

A modern  Ancient  Pistol — by  the  hilts ! 

LVIII. 

Still  he  excels  that  artificial  hard 

Labourer  in  the  same  vineyard,  though  the  vine 
Yields  him  but  vinegar  for  his  reward, — 

That  neutralised  dull  Dorus  of  the  Nine  : 

That  swarthy  Sporus,  neither  man  nor  bard ; 

That  ox  of  verse,  who  ploughs  for  every  line : — 
Cambyses’  roaring  Romans  beat  at  least 
The  howling  Hebrews  of  Cybele’s  priest. — 

LIX. 

Then  there’s  my  gentle  Euphues;  who,  they  say, 

Sets  up  for  being  a sort  of  moral  me  ; 2 
He’ll  find  it  rather  difficult  some  day 
To  turn  out  both,  or  either,  it  may  be. 

Some  persons  think  that  Coleridge  hath  the  sway  ; 

And  Wordsworth  has  supporters,  two  or  three; 
And  that  deep-mouth’d  Boeotian  “ Savage  Landor”3 
Has  taken  for  a swan  rogue  Southey’s  gander. 

LX. 

John  Keats,  who  was  kill’d  off  by  one  critique, 

Just  as  he  really  promis’d  something  great, 

If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 

Contrived  to  talk  about  the  gods  of  late, 

Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak.* 
Poor  fellow  ! His  was  an  untoward  fate  ; 

’Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle,4 
Should  let  itself  be  snuff’d  out  by  an  article. 

LXI. 

The  list  grows  long  of  live  and  dead  pretendeis 
To  that  which  none  will  gain — or  none  will  know 
The  conqueror  at  least ; who,  ere  Time  renders 
His  last  award,  will  have  the  long  grass  grow 
Above  his  burnt-out  brain,  and  sapless  cinders. 

If  I might  augur,  I should  rate  but  low 
Their  chances  ; — they’re  too  numerous,  like  the  thirt 
Mock  tyrants,  when  Rome’s  annals  wax’d  but  dirty. 

LXII. 

This  is  the  literary  lower  empire, 

Where  the  prsetorian  bands  take  up  the  matter ; — 
A “ dreadful  trade,”  like  his  who  “gathers  samphire,”* 
The  insolent  soldiery  to  soothe  and  flatter, 

With  the  same  feelings  as  you’d  coax  a vampire. 

Now,  were  I once  at  home,  and  in  good  satire, 

I’d  try  conclusions  with  those  Janizaries, 

And  show  them  what  an  intellectual  war  is. 

LXIII. 

I think  I know  a trick  or  two,  would  turn 

Their  flanks  : — but  it  is  hardly  worth  my  while. 
With  such  small  gear  to  give  myself  concern  : 

Indeed  I’ve  not  the  necessary  bile  ; 


in  November,  1820,  and  died  in  the  following  December  Hi 
death  has  been  attributed  to  the  attacks  of  critics;  but  it  was,  i t 
fact,  owing  to  a consumptive  complaint  of  long  standing.”  C'Jtt 
pare,  however,  anti,  p.  575,] 

(5)  “ Bivinae  particulum  aurze.” 

(6)  [ “ Half-way  down 

Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire ; dreadful  trade  ! ” 

Lmu 


CANTO  XI. 


DON  JUAN. 


My  natural  temper's  really  aught  but  stern, 

And  even  my  Muse’s  worst  reproof’s  a smile  ; 

And  then  she  drops  a brief  and  modern  curtsy, 

A.nd  glides  away,  assuied  she  never  hurts  ye. 

LXIV. 

My  Juan,  whom  I left  in  deadly  peril 
Amongst  live  poets  and  blue  ladies,  past 
With  some  small  profit  through  that  field  so  sterile. 

Being  tired  in  time,  and  neither  least  nor  last, 

Left  it  before  he  had  been  treated  very  ill ; 

And  henceforth  found  himself  more  gaily  class’d 
Amongst  the  higher  spirits  of  the  day. 

The  sun’s  true  son,  no  vapour,  but  a ray. 

LXV. 

His  morns  he  pass’d  in  business — which  dissected, 
Was  like  all  business,  a laborious  nothing 
That  leads  to  lassitude,  the  most  infected 

And  Centaur  Nessus  garb  of  mortal  clothing,1 
And  on  our  sofas  makes  us  lie  dejected, 

And  talk  in  tender  horrors  of  our  loathing 
All  kinds  of  toil,  save  for  our  country’s  good — 

Which  grows  no  better,  though  ’tis  time  it  should. 

LX  VI. 

His  afternoons  he  pass’d  in  visits,  luncheons, 
Lounging,  and  boxing  ; and  the  twilight  hour 
In  riding  round  those  vegetable  puncheons  [flower 
Call’d  “Parks,”  where  there  is  neither  fruit  nor 
Enough  to  gratify  a bee’s  slight  munchings ; 

But  after  all  it  is  the  only  “ bower,”2 
(In  Moore’s  phrase)  where  the  fashionable  fair 
Can  form  a slight  acquaintance  with  fresh  air. 

LXVII. 

Then  dress,  then  dinner,  then  awakes  the  world  ! 

Then  glare  the  lamps,  then  whirl  the  wheels,  then  roar 
Through  street  and  square  fast  flashing  chariots  hurl’d 
Like  harness’d  meteors  ; then  along  the  floor 
Chalk  mimics  painting ; then  festoons  are  twirl’d  ; 

Then  roll  the  brazen  thunders  of  the  door. 

Which  opens  to  the  thousand  happy  few 
An  earthly  paradise  of  “ Or  Molu.” 

LXVIII. 

There  stands  the  noble  hostess,  nor  shall  sink 

With  the  three-thousandth  curtsy;  there  the  waltz, 
The  only  dance  which  teaches  girls  to  think,3 
Makes  one  in  love  even  with  its  very  faults. 

Saloon,  room,  hall,  o’erflow  beyond  their  brink, 

And  long  the  latest  of  arrivals  halts, 

’Midst  royal  dukes  and  dames  condemn’d  to  climb, 
And  gain  an  inch  of  staircase  at  a time. 

LXIX. 

Thrice  happy  he  who,  after  a survey 
Of  tne  good  company,  can  win  a corner, 

A door  that’s  in  or  boudoir  out  of  the  way, 

Where  he  may  fix  himself  like  small  “ Jack  Horner,” 
And  let  the  Babel  round  run  as  it  may, 

And  look  on  as  a mourner,  or  a scorner, 

Oi  an  approver,  or  a mere  spectator, 

Yawning  a little  as  the  night  grows  later. 

LXX. 

But  this  won’t  do,  save  by  and  by ; and  he 
Who,  like  Don  Juan,  takes  an  active  share, 


(1)  “ Ulita  Nesseo  tibi  texta  veneno.” — Ovid.  Epist.  ix. 

(2)  [“  Come  to  me,  love,  I’ve  wander’d  far, 

’Tis  past  the  promised  hour : 

Come  to  me,  love,  the  twilight  star 

•Shall  guide  thee  to  my  bower.” — Moore.] 


717 

I Must  steer  with  care  through  all  that  glittering  sea 
Of  gems  and  plumes  and  pearls  and  silks,  to*  where 
He  deems  it  is  his  proper  place  to  be  ; 

Dissolving  in  the  waltz  to  some  soft  air, 

Or  proudlier  prancing  with  mercurial  skill, 

Where  Science  marshals  forth  her  own  quadrille. 

LXXI. 

Or,  if  he  dance  not,  but  hath  higher  views 
Upon  an  heiress  or  his  neighbour’s  bride, 

Let  him  take  care  that  that  which  lie  pursues 
Is  not  at  once  too  palpably  descried. 

Full  many  an  eager  gentleman  oft  rues 

His  haste  : impatience  is  a blundering  guide. 
Amongst  a people  famous  for  reflection, 

Who  like  to  play  the  fool  with  circumspection. 

LXXII. 

But,  if  you  can  contrive,  get  next  at  supper ; 

Or  if,  forestall’d,  get  opposite  and  ogle : — 

Oh,  ye  ambrosial  moments  ! always  upper 
In  mind,  a sort  of  sentimental  bogle,4 
Which  sits  for  ever  upon  memory’s  crupper. 

The  ghost  of  vanish’d  pleasures  once  in  vogue  ! Ill 
Can  tender  souls  relate  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  hopes  and  fears  which  shake  a single  ball. 

LXXIII. 

But  these  precautionary  hints  can  touch 
Only  the  common  run,  who  must  pursue, 

And  watch,  and  ward ; whose  plans  a word  too  much 
Or  little  overturns ; and  not  the  few 
Or  many  (for  the  number’s  sometimes  such) 

Whom  a good  mien,  especially  if  new, 

Or  fame,  or  name,  for  wit,  war,  sense,  or  nonsense, 
Permits  whate’er  they  please,  or  did  not  long  since . 

LXXIV. 

Our  hero,  as  a hero,  young  and  handsome, 

Noble,  rich,  celebrated,  and  a stranger, 

Like  other  slaves  of  course  must  pay  his  ransom. 
Before  he  can  escape  from  so  much  danger 
As  will  environ  a conspicuous  man.  Some 
Talk  about  poetry,  and  “ rack  and  manger,” 

And  ugliness,  disease,  as  toil  and  trouble  ; — 

I wish  they  knew  the  life  of  a young  noble. 

LXXV. 

They  are  young,  but  know  not  youlh — it  is  anticipated 
Handsome  but  wasted,  rich  without  a son ; 

Their  vigour  in  a thousand  arms  is  dissipated ; 

Their  cash  comes  from , their  wealth  goes  to  a Jew; 
Both  senates  see  their  nightly  votes  participated 
Between  the  tyrant’s  and  the  tribunes’  crew ; 

And  having  voted,  dined,  drunk,  gamed,  and  whored, 
The  family  vault  receives  another  lord. 

LXXV  I. 

“ Where  is  the  world  P”  cries  Young,  at  eighty 5 — ■ 
“ Where 

The  world  in  which  a man  was  born  ?”  Alas  ! 
Where  is  the  world  of  eight  years  past  ? *Twas  there — 
I look  for  it — ’tis  gone,  a globe  of  glass  1 
Crack’d,  shiver’d,  vanish’d,  scarcely  gazed  on,  ere 
A silent  change  dissolves  the  glittering  mass. 
Statesmen,  chiefs,  orators,  queens,  patriots,  kings, 
And  dandies,  all  are  gone  on  the  wind’s  wings. 

(3)  [See  anti,  p.  456.] 

(4)  Scotch  for  goblin. 

(5)  [Young  was  more  than  eighty  years  old  when  he  published 
his  poem,  entitled  “ Resignation,”  &c.] 


718 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  U. 


LXXV11. 

Where  is  Napoleon  the  Grand  ? God  knows  : 

Where  little  Castlereagli  ? The  devil  can  tell : 
Where  Grattan,  Curran,  Sheridan,  all  those 
Who  bound  the  bar  or  senate  in  their  spell  ? 

Where  is  the  unhappy  Queen,  with  all  her  woes  ? 

And  where  the  Daughter,  whom  the  Islfes  loved  well? 
Where  are  those  martyr’d  saints  the  Five  perCents?1 
And  where — oh,  where  the  devil  are  the  Rents  ? 

lxxviii. 

Where’s  Brummel?  Dish’d.  Where’s  Long  Pole 
Wellesley  ? Diddled.  [the  Third  ? 

Where’s  Whitbread  ? Romilly  ? Where’s  George 
Where  is  his  will  ?2  (That’s  not  so  soon  unriddled.) 

And  where  is  “Turn”  the  Fourth,  onr  “royal  bird?”3 
Gone  down,  it  seems,  to  Scotland  to  be  fiddled 
Unto  by  Sawney’s  violin,  we  have  heard: 

“ Caw  me,  caw  thee” — for  six  months  hath  been 
hatching 

This  scene  of  royal  itch  and  loyal  scratching. 

LXXIX. 

Where  is  Lord  This  ? And  where  my  Lady  That  ? 

The  Honourable  Mistresses  and  Misses  ? 

Some  laid  aside  like  an  old  Opera  hat, 

Married,  unmarried,  and  remarried : (this  is 
An  evolution  oft  performed  of  late.) 

Where  are  the  Dublin  shouts — and  London  hisses? 
Where  are  the  Grenvilles  ? Turn’d  as  usual.  Where 
My  friends  the  Whigs  ? Exactly  where  they  were. 

LXXX. 

Where  are  the  Lady  Carolines  and  Franceses  ? 

Divorced  or  doing  thereanent.  Ye  annals 
So  brilliant,  where  the  list  of  routs  and  dances  is, — 
Thou  Morning  Post,  sole  record  of  the  panels 
Broken  in  carriages,  and  all  the  phantasies  [nels  ? 

Of  fashion, — say  what  streams  now  fill  those  chan- 
Some  die,  some  fly,  some  languish  on  the  Continent, 
Because  the  times  have  hardly  left  them  one  tenant. 

LXXXI. 

Some  who  once  set  their  caps  at  cautious  dukes, 

Have  taken  up  at  length  with  younger  brothers : 
Some  heiresses  have  bit  at  sharpers’  hooks  : 

Some  maids  have  been  made  wives,  some  merely 
mothers  ; 

Others  have  lost  their  fresh  and  fairy  looks  : 

In  short,  the  list  of  alterations  bothers. 

There’s  little  strange  in  this,  but  something  strange  is 
The  unusual  quickness  of  these  common  changes. 

LXXXII. 

Talk  not  of  seventy  years  as  age  ; in  seven 

I have  seen  more  changes,  down  from  monarchs  to 


(1)  [“I  am  ready  to  accept  the,  or  almost  any  mortgage,  any 
thing  to  get  out  of  the  tremulous  Funds  of  these  oscillatory  tjmes. 
There  will  be  a war  somewhere,  no  doubt — and  wherever  it  may 
be,  the  Funds  will  be  affected  more  or  less;  so  pray  get  us  out  of 
them  with  all  proper  expedition.  It  has  been  the  burthen  of  my 
song  to  you  three  years  and  better,  and  about  as  useful  as  better 
counsels.” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Kinnaird , Jan.  18,1823.] 

(2)  [The  old  story  of  the  will  of  George  I.,  said  to  have  been 
destroyed  by  George  II.  No  such  calumny  was  ever  heard  of  as 
to  George  III.] 

(3)  [See  Moore’s  “ Fum  and  Hum,  the  Two  Birds  of  Royalty,” 
appended  to  his  “ Fudge  Family.”] 

(4)  [The  Congress  at  Verona,  in  1822.  See  anti,  p.  530.] 

(■5)  [“If  I had  a thousand  sons,  the  first  human  principle  I 
would  teach  them  should  be  to  forswear  thin  potations,  and  addict 
themselves  to  sack.”— Shaksp.  llenry  IV.] 

(5)  [“  Carpe  diem,  qu&m  minimum  credula  postero.” — Hou.]  ' 


l The  humblest  individual  under  heaven, 

Than  might  suffice  a moderate  century  through. 

I knew  that  nought  was  lasting,  but  now  even 
Change  grows  too  changeable,  without  being  new 
Nought’s  permanent  among  the  human  race, 

Except  the  Whigs  not  getting  into  place. 

LXXXIII. 

I have  seen  Napoleon,  who  seem’d  quite  a Jupiter, 
Shrink  to  a Saturn.  I have  seen  a Duke 
(No  matter  which)  turn  politician  stupider, 

If  that  can  well  be,  than  his  wooden  look. 

But  it  is  time  that  I should  hoist  my  “ blue  Peter,’* 
And  sail  for  a new  theme: — I have  seen — and  shoot 
To  see  it — the  king  hiss’d,  and  then  carest ; 

But  don’t  pretend  to  settle  which  was  best. 

LXXXIV. 

I have  seen  the  Landholders  without  a rap — 

I have  seen  Joanna  Southcote — I have  seen 
The  House  of  Commons  turn’d  to  a tax-trap — 

I have  seen  that  sad  affair  of  the  late  Queen — - 
I have  seen  crowns  worn  instead  of  a fool’s  cap— 

I have  seen  a Congress4  doing  all  that’s  mean — 

I have  seen  some  nations  like  o’erloaded  asses, 

Kick  off  their  burthens — meaning  the  high  classes. 

LXXXV. 

I have  seen  small  poets,  and  great  prosers,  and 
Interminable — not  eternal — speakers — 

I have  seen  the  funds  at  war  with  house  and  land — • 

I have  seen  the  country  gentlemen  turn  squeakers — ■ 
I have  seen  the  people  ridden  o’er  like  sand 

By  slaves  on  horseback— I have  seen  malt  liquors 
Exchanged  for  “thin  potations”5  by  John  Bull — 

I have  seen  John  half  detect  himself  a fool. — • 

LXXXVI. 

But  “carpe  diem,”  Juan,  “carpe,  carpe  !”a 
To-morrow  sees  another  race  as  gay 
And  transient,  and  devour’d  by  the  same  harpy. 

“Life’s  a poor  player,” — then  “play  out  the  play, 
Ye  villains  ! ” and  above  all  keep  a sharp  eye 
' Much  less  on  what  you  do  than  what  you  say  : 

Be  hypocritical,  be  cautious,  be 

Not  what  you  seem,  but  always  what  you  see. 

LXXXVII. 

But  how  shall  I relate  in  other  cantos 
Of  what  befell  our  hero  in  the  land, 

Which  ’tis  the  common  cry  and  lie  to  vaunt  as  * 

A moral  country  ? But  I hold  my  hand— 

For  I disdain  to  write  an  Atalantis  ;8 

But  ’tis  as  well  at  once  to  understand, 

You  are  not  a moral  people,  and  you  know  it, 

Without  the  aid  of  too  sincere  a poet. 


(7)  [“  Out,  you  rogue!  play  out  the  play.” — Henry  IV .] 

(8)  [See  the  “ New  Atalantis,  or  Memoirs  and  Manners  of  several 
Persons  of  Quality,” — a work  in  which  the  authoress,  Mrs.  Manley, 
makes  very  free  with  many  distinguished  characters  of  her  day. 
Warburton  calls  it  “ a famous  book,  full  of  court  and  party  scandai, 
and  written  in  a loose  effeminacy  of  style  and  sentiment,  which 
well  suited  the  debauched  taste  of  the  better  vulgar.”  Pope  also 
alludes  to  it  in  the  “ Rape  of  the  Lock,” — 

“ As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read, 

Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a lady’s  bed, 

While  nymphs  take  treats  or  assignations  give, 

So  long  my  honour,  name,  and  praise  shall  live. 

And  Swift,  in  his  ballad  on  “ Corinna 

“ Her  common-place  book  all  gallant  is; 

Of  scandal  now  a cornucopia — - - - 

She  pours  it  out  in  Atalantis, 

Or  memoirs  of  the  New  Utopia.”} 


CANTO  AH. 


DON  JUAN. 


719 


LXXXVIII. 

What  Juan  saw  and  underwent  shall  be 
My  topic,  with  of  course  the  due  restriction 
Which  is  required  by  proper  courtesy ; 

And  recollect  the  work  is  only  fiction, 

And  that  I sing  of  neither  mine  nor  me, 

Though  every  scribe,  in  some  slight  turn  of  diction, 
Will  hint  allusions  never  meant.  Ne’er  doubt 
This — when  I speak,  I don’t  hint , but  speak  out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether  he  married  with  the  third  or  fourth 
Offspring  of  some  sage  husband-hunting  countess, 
Or  whether  with  some  virgin  of  more  worth 
(I  mean  in  Fortune’s  matrimonial  bounties) 

He  took  to  regularly  peopling  Earth, 

Of  which  your  lawful  awful  wedlock  fount  is, — • 

Or  whether  he  was  taken  in  for  damages, 

For  being  too  excursive  in  his  homages, — 
xc. 

Is  yet  within  the  unread  events  of  time. 

Thus  far,  go  forth,  thou  lay,  which  I will  back 
Against  the  same  given  quantity  of  rhyme, 

For  being  as  much  the  subject  of  attaeK 
As  ever  yet  was  any  work  sublime, 

By  those  who  love  to  say  that  white  is  black. 

So  much  the  better ! — I may  stand  alone, — 

But  would  not  change  my  free  thoughts  for  a throne. 


Den  3}uan. 

CANTO  THE  TWELFTH.1 


Of  all  the  barbarous  middle  ages,  that 
Which  is  most  barbarous  is  the  middle  age 
Of  man : it  is — I really  scarce  know  what ; 

But  when  we  hover  between  fool  and  sage, 

And  don’t  know  justly  what  we  would  be  at — - 
A period  something  like  a printed  page, 

Black  letter  upon  foolscap,  while  our  hair 
Grows  grizzled,  and  we  are  not  what  we  were; — 

II. 

Too  old  for  youth, — too  young,  at  thirty-five, 

To  herd  with  boys,  or  hoard  with  good  threescore, — 
I wonder  people  should  be  left  alive  ; 

But  since  they  are,  that  epoch  is  a bore  : 


(1)  [Cantos  XII.,  XIII.,  and  XIV.  appeared  in  London,  in 
November,  1823  ] 

(2)  [In  an  unpublished  letter  to  Mr.  Douglas  Kinnaird,  dated 
Genoa,  Jan.  18,  1823,  we  find  the  following  passage: — “I  will 
economise  and  do,  as  I have  partly  proved  to  you  by  my  surplus 
revenue  of  1822,  which  almost  equals  the  ditto  of  the  United  States 
of  America  (vide  President’s  Report  to  Congress) ; and  do  you 
second  my  parsimony  by  judicious  disbursements  of  what  is  re- 
quisite, and  a moderate  liquidation.  Also  make  an  investment  of 
any  spare  moneys  as  may  render  some  usance  to  the  owner ; be- 
eause,  however  little,  * every  little  makes  a mickle,’  as  we  of  the 
north  say,  with  more  reason  than  rhyme.  I hope  that  you  have  all 
receipts,  &c.  &c.  &c.,  and  acknowledgments  of  moneys  paid  in 
liquidation  of  debts,  to  prevent  extortion,  and  hinder  the  fellows 
from  coming  twice-  of  which  they  would  be  capable,  particularly 
as  my  absence  would  lend  a pretext  to  the  pretension. — You  will 
perhaps  wonder  at  this  recent  and  furious  fit  of  accumulation  and 
retrenchment;  but  it  is  not  so  unnatural.  I am  not  naturally 
ostentatious,  although  once  careless,  and  expensive  because  care- 
leu  : and  m i ost  extravagant  passions  have  pretty  well  subsided, 


Love  lingers  still,  although  ’twere  late  to  wive ; 

And  as  for  other  love,  the  illusion’s  o’er ; 

And  money,  that  most  pure  imagination, 

Gleams  only  through  the  dawn  of  its  creation.2 

m. 

0 Gold  ! Why  call  we  misers  miserable?3 

Theirs  is  the  pleasure  that  can  never  pall ; 

Theirs  is  the  best  bower  anchor,  the  chain  cable 
Which  holds  fast  other  pleasures  great  and  small. 
Ye  who  but  see  the  saving  man  at  table, 

And  scorn  his  temperate  board,  as  none  at  all, 

And  wonder  how  the  wealthy  can  be  sparing, 

Know  not  what  visions  spring  from  each  cheese-paring 

IV. 

Love  or  lust  makes  man  sick,  and  wine  much  sicker, 
Ambition  rends,  and  gaming  gains  a loss  ; 

But  making  money,  slowly  first,  then  quicker, 

And  adding  still  a little  through  each  cross 
(Which  will  come  over  things),  beats  love  or  liquor, 
The  gamester’s  counter,  or  the  statesman’s  dross. 

0 Gold  ! I still  prefer  thee  unto  paper, 

Which  makes  bank  credit  like  a bark  of  vapour. 

v. 

Who  hold  the  balance  of  the  world  ? Who  reign 
O’er  congress,  whether  royalist  or  liberal  ? 

Who  rouse  the  shirtless  patriots  of  Spain?4  [all.) 

(That  make  old  Europe’s  journals  squeak  and  gibber 
Who  keep  the  world,  both  old  and  new,  in  pain 
Or  pleasure  ? Who  make  politics  run  glibber  all  ? 
The  shade  of  Buonaparte’s  noble  daring  ? — 

Jew  Rothschild,  and  his  fellow-Christian,  Baring. 

VI. 

Those,  and  the  truly  liberal  Lafitte, 

Are  the  true  lords  of  Europe.  Every  loan 
Is  not  a merely  speculative  hit, 

But  seats  a nation  or  upsets  a throne. 

Republics  also  get  involved  a bit ; 

Columbia’s  stock  hath  holders  not  unknown 
On  ’Change ; and  even  thy  silver  soil,  Peru, 

Must  get  itself  discounted  by  a Jew. 

VII. 

Why  call  the  miser  miserable  ? as 
I said  before : the  frugal  life  is  his, 

Which  in  a saint  or  cynic  ever  was 

The  theme  of  praise  : a hermit  would  not  miss 
Canonization  for  the  self-same  cause, 

And  wherefore  blame  gaunt  Wealth’s  austerities  ? 
Because,  you’ll  say,  nought  calls  for  such  a trial ; — • 
Then  there’s  more  merit  in  his  self-denial. 


as  it  is  time  they  should  on  the  very  verge  of  thirty-five.  I always 
looked  to  about  thirty  as  the  barrier  of  any  real  or  fierce  delight 
in  the  passions,  and  determined  to  work  them  out  in  the  younger 
ore  and  better  veins  of  the  mine ; and  I flatter  myself  (perhaps) 

that  I have  pretty  well  done  so,  and  now  the  dross  is  coming,  and  I 
loves  lucre:  for  we  must  love  something.  At  any  rate,  then,  I have 
a passion  the  more,  and  thus  a feeling.  However,  it  is  not  for  my- 
self; but  I should  like,  God  willing,  to  leave  something  to  my 
relatives  more  than  a mere  name ; and  besides  that,  to  be  able  to 
do  good  to  others  to  a greater  extent.  If  nothing  else  will  do,  I 
must  try  bread  and  water;  which,  by  the  way,  are  very  nourishing 
and  sufficient,  if  good  of  their  kind.”] 

(3)  [Boswell.  “ I have  heard  old  Mr.  Sheridan  maintain,  with 
much  ingenuity,  that  a complete  miser  is  a happy  man  : a miser 
who  gives  himself  wholly  to  the  one  passion  of  saving.” — Johnsov. 
“ That  is  flying  in  the  face  of  all  the  world,  who  have  called  an 
avaricious  man  a miser,  because  he  is  miserable.  No,  sir;  a man 
who  both  spends  and  saves  money  is  the  happiest  man,  because  h*. 
has  both  enjoyments.” — Boswell,  vol.  vii  p.  174,  edit.  1835.] 

(4)  The  Descamisados. 


720 


LORD  .BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  FIT 


vm. 

He  is  your  only  poet ; — passion,  pure, 

And  sparkling  on  from  heap  to  heap,  displays, 
Possess'd,  the  ore,  of  which  mere  hopes  allure 
Nations  athwart  the  deep  : the  golden  rays 
Flash  up  in  ingots  from  the  mine  obscure  ; 

On  him  the  diamond  pours  its  brilliant  blaze  ; 
While  the  mild  emerald’s  beam  shades  down  the  dies 
Of  other  stones,  to  soothe  the  miser’s  eyes. 

IX. 

The  lands  on  either  side  are  his  : the  ship 
From  Ceylon,  Inde,  or  far  Cathay,1  unloads 
For  him  the  fragrant  produce  of  each  trip  ; 

Beneath  his  cars  of  Ceres  groan  the  roads, 

And  the  vine  blushes  like  Aurora’s  lip ; 

His  very  cellars  might  be  kings’  abodes ; 

While  he,  despising  every  sensual  call, 

Commands — the  intellectual  lord  of  all. 

x. 

Perhaps  he  hath  great  projects  in  his  mind, 

To  build  a college,  or  to  found  a race,2 
A hospital,  a church, — and  leave  behind 

Some  dome  surmounted  by  his  meagre  face : 
Perhaps  he  fain  would  liberate  mankind 
Even  with  the  very  ore  which  makes  them  base ; 
Perhaps  he  would  be  wealthiest  of  his  nation, 

Or  revel  in  the  joys  of  calculation. 

XI. 

But  whether  all,  or  each,  or  none  of  these 
May  be  the  hoarder’s  principle  of  action, 

The  fool  will  call  such  mania  a disease  : — 

What  is  his  own  ? Go — look  at  each  transaction, 
Wars,  revels,  loves — do  these  bring  men  more  ease 
Than  the  mere  plodding  through  each  “ vulgar 
fraction  ?” 

Or  do  they  benefit  mankind  ? Lean  miser ! 

Let  spendthrifts’  heirs  inquire  of  yours — who’s  wiser  ? 

XII. 

How  beauteous  are  rouleaus  ! how  charming  chests 
Containing  ingots,  bags  of  dollars,  coins 
(Not  of  old  victors,  all  whose  heads  and  crests 
Weigh  not  the  thin  ore  where  their  visage  shines, 
But)  of  fine  unclipt  gold,  where  dully  rests 

Some  likeness,  which  the  glittering  cirque  confines, 
Of  modern,  reigning,  sterling,  stupid  stamp  : — 

Yes ! ready  money  is  Aladdin’s  lamp. 


(1)  [China.] 

(2)  [“  Die,  and  endow  a college,  or  a cat.” — Pope.] 

(3)  [“  Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove, 

And  men  below,  and  saints  above, 

And  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love.” 

Lay  of  tli<>  Last  Minstrel.'] 

(4)  [Mr.  Malthus  tells  us,  that  the  way  to  reduce  our  poor  rates 
is  to  persuade  the  lower  orders  to  continence;  to  discourage  them, 
as  much  as  possible,  from  marrying;  to  preach  wedding  sermons  to 
them,  if  they  will  marry,  upon  the  immorality  of  breeding, —that 

being  a luxury  reserved  only  for  those  who  can  afford  it;  and  if 
they  will  persist  in  so  improper  and  immoral  a practice,  after  so 
solemn  and  well-timed  a warning,  to  leave  them  to  the  punishment 
of  severe  want,  and  rigidly  deny  all  parish  assistance.  No  public 
relief  is  to  be  given  to  the  starving  infant ; it  is  worth  nothing  to 
society,  for  its  place  will  be  presently  supplied,  and  society,  there- 
fore, has  no  further  business  than  to  hang  the  mother,  if  she  should 
shorten  the  sufferings  of  her  babe  rather  than  see  it  die  of  want. 
The  rich  are  to  be  called  upon  for  no  sacrifices;  nothing  more  is 
required  of  them  than  that  they  should  harden  their  hearts.  That 
we  may  not  be  suspected  of  exaggerating  the  detestable  hard- 
heartedness -of  his  system,  we  present  it  in  his  own  language. — 
*O0T»ET.] 


XIII. 

“ Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove, — for  lore  I 
Is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love  :”3 — so  sings  the  bard ; I 
Which  it  were  rather  difficult  to  prove 
(A  thing  with  poetry  in  general  hard). 

Perhaps  there  may  be  something  in  “ the  grove,” 

At  least  it  rhymes  to  “ love but  I’m  prepared 
To  doubt  (no  less  than  landlords  of  their  rental) 

If  “ courts”  and  “camps”  be  quite  so  sentimental. 

XIV. 

But  if  Love  don’t,  Cash  does,  and  Cash  alone : 

Cash  rules  the  grove,  and  fells  it  too  besides  ; 
Without  cash,  camps  were  thin,  and  courts  were  none ; 

Without  cash,  Malthus  tells  you — “take  no  brides.” 4 
So  Cash  rules  Love  the  ruler,  on  his  own 
High  ground,  as  virgin  Cynthia  sways  the  tides : 

And  as  for  “ Heaven  being  Love,”  why  not  say  honey 
Is  wax  ? Heaven  is  not  Love,  ’tis  Matrimony. 

xv. 

Is  not  all  love  prohibited  whatever, 

Excepting  marriage  ? which  is  love,  no  doubt, 

After  a sort ; but  somehow  people  never  [out : 

With  the  same  thought  the  two  words  have  help’d 
Love  may  exist  with  marriage,  and  should  ever, 

And  marriage  also  may  exist  without; 

But  love  sans  bans  is  both  a sin  and  shame 
And  ought  to  go  by  quite  another  name. 

XVI. 

Now  if  the  “ court,”  and  “ camp,”  and  “ grove,”  be  not 
Recruited  all  with  constant  married  men, 

Who  never  coveted  their  neighbour’s  lot, 

I say  that  line’s  a lapsus  of  the  pen  ; — 

Strange  too  in  my  “ buon  camerado’’  Scott, 

So  celebrated  for  his  morals,  when 
My  Jeffrey  held  him  up  as  an  example5 
To  me  ; — of  which  these  morals  are  a sample. 

XVII. 

Well,  if  I don’t  succeed,  I have  succeeded, 

And  that’s  enough  ; succeeded  in  my  youth. 

The  only  time  when  much  success  is  needed  : 

And  my  success  produced  what  I,  in  sooth, 

Cared  most  about : it  need  not  now  be  pleaded — 
Whate’er  it  was,  ’twas  mine  ; I’ve  paid,  in  truth,  i 
Of  late,  the  penalty  of  such  success, 

But  have  not  learn’d  to  wish  it  any  less. 

? 

(5)  [“  We  have  no  notion  that  Lord  Byron  had  any  mischif-'  iuis 
intention  in  these  publications,  and  readily  acquit  him  of  any  wish  | 
to  corrupt  the  morals,  or  impair  the  happiness  of  his  readers  : but 
it  is  our  duty  to  say,  that  much  of  what  he  has  published  appears 
to  us  to  have  this  tendency.  How  opposite  to  this  is  the  system,  or  . 
the  temper,  of  the  great  author  of  Waverley!  With  all  his  un- 
rivalled power  of  invention  and  judgment,  of  pathos  and  pleasantry, 
the  tenour  of  his  sentiments  is  uniformly  generous,  indulgent,  and 
good-humoured  : and  so  remote  from  the  bitterness  of  misanthropy, 
that  he  never  indulges  in  sarcasm,  and  scarcely,  in  any  case,  carries 
his  merriment  so  far  as  derision.  But  the  peculiarity  by  which  he 
stands  most  broadly  and  proudly  distinguished  from  Lord  Byron 
is,  that  beginning,  as  he  frequently  does,  with  some  ludicrous  or 
satirical  theme,  he  never  fails  to  raise  out  of  it  some  feelings  of  a 
generous  or  gentle  kind,  and  to  end  by  exciting  our  tender  pity, 
or  deep  respect,  for  those  very  individuals  or  classes  of  persons 
who  seemed  at  first  to  be  brought  on  the  stage  for  our  men  sport 
and  amusement;— thus  making  the  ludicrous  itself  subservient  to 
the  cause  of  benevolence — and  inculcating,  at  every  turn,  and  as 
the  true  end  and  result  of  all  his  trials  and  experiments,  the  lov? 
of  our  kind,  and  the  duty  and  delight  of  a cordial  and  genuino 
sympathy  with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  every  condition  of  men.” — 
Jeffrey,  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for  1822.] 


CANTO  XII. 


DON  JUAN. 


721 


XVIII. 

That  suit  in  Chancery, — which  some  persons  plead 
: In  an  appeal  to  the  unborn,  whom  they, 

In  the  faith  of  their  procreative  creed. 

Baptize  posterity,  or  future  clay, — 

To  me  seems  but  a dubious  kind  of  reed 
To  lean  on  for  support  in  any  way ; 

Since  odds  are  that  posterity  will  know  • 

No  more  of  them,  than  they  of  her,  I trow. 

XIX. 

Why,  I’m  posterity — and  so  are  you; 

And  whom  do  we  remember  ? Not  a hundred. 
Were  every  memory  written  down  all  true, 

The  tenth  or  twentieth  name  would  be  but  blunder’d; 
Even  Plutarch’s  Lives  have  but  pick’d  out  a few, 

And  ’gainst  those  few  your  annalists  have  thunder’d ; 
And  Milford1  in  the  nineteenth  century 
Gives,  with  Greek  truth,  the  good  old  Greek  the  lie.2 
xx. 

Good  people  all,  of  every  degree, 

Ye  gentle  readers  and  ungentle  writers, 

In  this  twelfth  Canto  ’tis  my  wish  to  be 
As  serious  as  if  I had  for  inditers 
Malthus  and  Wilberforce  : — the  last  set  free 
The  Negroes,  and  is  worth  a million  fighters  ; 

While  Wellington  has  but  enslaved,  the  Whites, 

And  Malthus  does  the  thing  ’gainst  which  lie  writes. 

XXI. 

I’m  serious — so  are  all  men  upon  paper ; 

And  why  should  I not  form  my  speculation, 

And  hold  up  to  the  sun  my  little  taper?3 

Mankind  just  now  seem  wrapt  in  meditation 
On  constitutions  and  steam-boats  of  vapour ; 

While  sages  write  against  all  procreation, 

Unless  a man  can  calculate  his  means 
Of  feeding  brats  the  moment  his  wife  weans. 

XXII. 

That’s  noble  ! That’s  romantic  ! For  my  part, 

I think  that  “ Philo-genitiveness”  is — 

(Now  here’s  a word  quite  after  my  own  heart, 

Though  there’s  a shorter  a good  deal  than  this, 

If  that  politeness  set  it  not  apart ; 

But  l’m  resolved  to  say  nought  that’s  amiss) — 

I say,  methinks  that  “Philo-genitiveness”4 
Might  meet  from  men  a little  more  forgiveness. 

XXIII. 

And  now  to  business. — 0 my  gentle  Juan  ! 

Thou  art  in  London — in  that  pleasant  place. 

Where  every  kind  of  mischief’s  daily  brewing, 

Which  can  await  warm  youth  in  its  wild  race. 

’Tis  true,  that  thy  career  is  not  a new  one ; 

Thou  art  no  novice  in  the  headlong  chace 
Of  early  life  ; but  this  is  a new  land, 

Which  foreigners  can  never  understand. 


(1)  See  Mitford’s  Greece.  “ Grascia  Verax.”  His  great  pleasure 
consists  in  praising  tyrants,  abusing  Plutarch,  spelling  oddly,  and 
writing  quaintly;  and  what  is  strange,  after  all,  his  is  the  best 
modern  history  of  Greece  in  any  language,  and  he  is  perhaps  the 
best  of  all  modern  historians  whatsoever.  Having  named  his  sins, 
it  is  but  fair  to  state  his  virtues — learning,  labour,  research,  wrath, 
and  partiality.  I call  the  latter  virtues  in  a writer,  because  they 
make  him  write  in  earnest 

(2)  [“  It  has  been,  injuriously  for  him,  too  extensively  held  among 
modern  writers,  that  Plutarch  was  to  be  considered  as  an  historian 
whose  authority  might  be  quoted  for  matters  of  fact  with  the  same 
confidence  as  that  of  Thucydides  or  Xenophon,  or  Caesar,  or  Tacitus. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  he  undertakes  historical  discussion,  or,  relating 
different  reports,  leaves  judgment  on  them  to  his  reader.  When 
truth  thus  appears  his  object,  his  matter  is  valuable  for  the  historian. 


XXIV. 

What  with  a small  diversity  of  climate, 

Of  hot  or  cold,  mercurial  or  sedate, 

I could  send  forth  my  mandate  like  a primate, 

Upon  the  rest  of  Europe’s  social  state ; 

But  thou  art  the  most  difficult  to  rhyme  at, 

Great  Britain,  which  the  Muse  may  penetrate. 

All  countries  have  their  “ Lions,”  but  in  thee 
There  is  but  one  superb  menagerie. 

XXV. 

But  I am  sick  of  politics.  Begin, 

“ Paulo  Majora.”  Juan,  undecided 
Amongst  the  paths  of  being  “ taken  in,” 

Above  the  ice  had  like  a skater  glided  : 

When  tired  of  play,  he  flirted  without  sin 
With  some  of  those  fair  creatures  who  have  prided 
Themselves  on  innocent  tantalisation, 

And  hate  all  vice  except  its  reputation. 

XXVI. 

Buu  these  are  few,  and  in  the  end  they  make 
Some  devilish  escapade  or  stir,  which  shows 
That  even  the  purest  people  may  mistake 

Their  way  through  virtue’s  primrose  paths  of  snows  ; 
And  then  men  stare,  as  if  a new  ass  spake 
To  Balaam,  and  from  tongue  to  ear  o’erflows 
Quicksilver  small  talk,  ending  (if  you  note  it) 

With  the  kind  world’s  amen— “Who  would  have 
thought  it  ? ” 

XXVII. 

The  little  Leila,  with  her  orient  eyes, 

And  taciturn  Asiatic  disposition, 

(Which  saw  all  western  things  with  small  surprise, 

To  the  surprise  of  people  of  condition, 

Who  think  that  novelties  are  butterflies 
To  be  pursued  as  food  for  inanition,) 

Her  charming  figure  and  romantic  history 
Became  a kind  of  fashionable  mystery. 

XXVIII. 

The  women  much  divided — as  is  usual 
Amongst  the  sex  in  little  things  or  great. 

Think  not,  fair  creatures,  that  I mean  to  abuse  you  all — 
I have  always  liked  you  better  than  I state  ; 

Since  I’ve  grown  moral,  still  I must  accuse  you  all 
Of  being  apt  to.  talk  at  a great  rate ; 

And  now  there  was  a general  sensation 
Amongst  you,  about  Leila’s  education. 

xxix. 

In  one  point  only  were  you  settled — and 

You  had  reason ; ’tw'as  that  a young  child  of  grace. 
As  beautiful  as  her  own  native  land, 

And  far  away,  the  last  bud  of  her  race. 

Howe’er  our  friend  Don  Juan  might  command 
Himself  for  five,  four,  three,  or  two  years’  space, 
Would  be  much  better  taught  beneath  the  eye 
Of  peeresses  whose  follies  had  run  dry. 


But  generally  to  do  justice  to  his  great  work,  his  Lives,  apparently 
it  should  be  considered  that,  next  at  least  to  panegyric  of  his 

nation,  example,  political  and  moral,  was  his  purpose,  more  than 
historical  information.  Little  scrupulous  as  he  has  shown  himsell 
about  transactions  the  most  public,  concerning  which  he  often  con- 
tradicts, without  reserve  or  apology,  not  only  the  highest  authorities, 
but  even  himself,  it  can  hardly  be  supposed  that  he  would  scruti- 
nise with  great  solicitude  the  testimonies  to  private  anecdotes,  ii 
even  he  does  not  sometimes  indulge  his  invention.” — Mitford.] 

(3)  [“Thus  commentators  each  dark  passage  shun, 

And  hold  their  farthing  candles  to  the  sun.” — Young.] 

(4)  [Philo^rogenitiveness.  Spurzheim  and  Gall  discover  the 
organ  of  this  name  in  a bump  behind  the  ears,  and  say  it  is  r« 
markably  developed  in  the  bull.] 

4 z 


722 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTl  m, 


XXX. 

So  first  there  was  a generous  emulation, 

And  then  there  was  a general  competition, 

To  undertake  the  orphan’s  education. 

As  J uan  was  a persoHr  of  condition, 

It  had  been  an  affront  on  this  occasion 
To  talk  of  a subscription  or  petition ; 

But  sixteen  dowagers,  ten  unwed  she  sages, 

Whose  tale  belongs  to  “ Hallam’s  Middle  Ages,” 

XXXI. 

And  one  or  twjo  sad,  separate  wives,  without 
A fruit  to  bloom  upon  their  withering  bough — 
Begged  to  bring  up  the  little  girl,  and  “ out”  - 
Bor  that’s  the  phrase  that  settles  all  things  now. 
Meaning  a virgin’s  first  blush  at  a rout, 

And  all  her  points  as  thoroughbred  to  show  : 

And  I assure  you,  that  like  virgin  honey 

Tastes  their  first  season  (mostly  if  they  have  money). 

XXXII. 

How  all  the  needy  honourable  misters, 

Each  out-at-elbow  peer,  or  desperate  dandy, 

The  watchful  mothers,  and  the  careful  sisters, 

(Wrho,  by  the  bye,  when  clever,  are  more  handy 
At  making  matches,  where  “ ’tis  gold  that  glisters,” 
Than  their  he  relatives.)  like  flics  o’er  candy 
Buzz  round  11  the  Fortune”  with  their  busy  battery. 
To  turn  her  head  with  waltzing  and  with  flattery  ! 

xxxm, 

Each  aunt,  each  cousin,  hath  her  speculation ; 

Nay,  married  dames  will  now  and  then  discover 
Such  pure  disinterestedness  of  passion, 

I’ve  known  them  court  an  heiress  for  their  lover. 

“ Tantsene ! ” 1 Such  the  virtues  of  high  station, 

Even  in  the  hopeful  Isle,  whose  outlet’s  “ Dover  1” 
While  the  poor  rich  wretch,  object  of  these  cares. 

Has  cause  to  wish  her  sire  had  had  male  heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some  are  soon  bagg’d,  and  some  reject  three  dozen. 

’Tis  fine  to  see  them  scattering  refusals 
And  wild  dismay  o’er  every  angry  cousin 
(Friends  of  the  party),  who  begin  accusals, 

Such  as — “ Unless  Miss  (Blank)  meant  to  have  chosen 
Poor  Frederick,  why  did  she  accord  perusals 
To  his  billets  ? Why  waltz  with  him  ? Why,  I pray, 
Look  yes  last  night,  and  yet  say  no  to-day  ? 

XXXV. 

“Why  ? — -Why  ? — Besides,  Fred  really  was  attach'd  ; 

’Twas  not  her  fortune — he  has  enough  without : 
The  time  will  come  she’ll  wish  that  she  had  snatch’d 
So  good  an  opportunity,  no  doubt : — 

But  the  old  marcliioness  some  plan  had  hatch’d, 

As  I’ll  tell  Aurea  at  to-morrow’s  rout : 

And  after  all  poor  Frederick  may  do  better— 

Pray  did  you  see  her  answer  to  his  letter?” 

XXXVI. 

Smart  uniforms  and  sparkling  coronets 
Are  spurn’d  in  turn,  until  her  turn  arrives, 

After  male  loss  of  time,  and  hearts,  and  bets 
Upon  the  sweepstakes  for  substantial  wives ; 

And  when  at  last  the  pretty  creature  gets 

Some  gentleman,  who  fights,  or  writes,  or  drives, 

It  soothes  the  awkward  squad  of  the  rejected 
To  find  how  very  badly  she  selected. 

(1)  ["Tautaene  animis  ccelestibus  irae I”— Viho  ] 


XXXVII. 

For  sometimes  they  accept  some  long  pursuer. 

Worn  out  with  importunity  ; or  fall 
(But  here  perhaps  the  instances  are  fewer) 

To  the  lot  of  him  who  scarce  pursued  at  all. 

A hazy  widower  turn’d  of  forty’s  sure2 
(If  ’tis  not  vain  examples  to  recall) 

To  dray  a high  prize : now,  howe’er  he  got  her,  I 
See  nought  more  strange  in  this  than  t’other  lot^ry. 

XXXVIII. 

I,  for  my  part — (one  “ modern  instance”  more, 

“ True,  ’tis  a pity — pity  ’tis,  ’tis  true”) 

Was  chosen  from  out  an  amatory  score, 

Albeit  my  years  were  less  discreet  than  few 
But  though  I also  had  reform’d  before 

Those  became  one  who  soon  were  to  be  two 
I’ll  not  gainsay  the  generous  public’s  voice, 

That  the  young  lady  made  a monstrous  choice 

XXXIX. 

Oh,  pardon  my  digression — or  at  least 
Peruse  ! ’Tis  always  with  a moral  end 
That  I dissert,  like  grace  before  a feast : 

For  like  an  aged  aunt  or  tiresome  friend, 

A rigid  guardian,  or  a zealous  priest, 

My  Muse  by  exhortation  means  to  mend 
All  people,  at  all  times,  and  in  most  places, 

Which  puts  my  Pegasus  to  these  -grave  paces. 

XL. 

But  now  I’m  going  to  be  immoral ; now 
I mean  to  show  things  really  as  they  are, 

Not  as  they  ought  to  be  : for  I avow, 

That  till  we  see  what’s  what  in  fact,  we’re  far 
From  much  improvement  with  that  virtuous  piougfl 
Which  skims  the  surface,  leaving  scarce  a scar 
Upon  the  black  loam  long  manured  by  Vice, 

Only  to  keep  its  corn  at  the  old  price. 

XLI, 

But  first  of  little  Leila  we’ll  dispose  ; 

For  like  a day-dawn  she  was  young  and  pure, 

Or  like  the  old  comparison  of  snows, 

Which  are  more  pure  than  pleasant  to  be  sure. 
Like  many  people  every  body  knows, 

Don  Juan  was  delighted  to  secure 
A goodly  guardian  for  his  infant  charge. 

Who  might  not  profit  much  by  being  at  large. 

XLII. 

Besides,  he  had  found  out  he  was  no  tutor 
(I  wish  that  others  would  find  out  the  same) ; 

And  rather  wish’d  in  such  things  to  stand  neuter, 
For  silly  wards  will  bring  their  guardians  blamfc  > 
So  when  he  saw  each  ancient  dame  a suitor 
To  make  his  little  wild  Asiatic  tame, 

Consulting  “ the  Society  for  Vice 
Suppression,”  Lady  Pinchbeck  was  his  choice. 

XLIII. 

Olden  she  was — but  had  been  very  young ; 

Virtuous  she  was — and  had  been,  [ believe ; 
Although  the  world  has  such  an  evil  tongue 

That but  my  chaster  ear  will  not  receive 

An  echo  of  a syllable  that’s  wrong : 

In  fact,  there’s  nothing  makes  me  so  much  grieve, 
As  that  abominable  tittle-tattle, 

Which  is  the  cud  eschew’d  by  human  cattle. 


(2)  This  line  may  puzzle  the  commentators  more  than  the  prea«ra 
generation. 


DON  JUAN. 


723 


CANTO  XII. 

PXLIV. 

Moreover  I’ve  remark’d  (and  I was  once 
A slight  observer  in  a modest  way), 

And  so  may  every  one  except  a dunce, 

That  ladies  in  they:  youth  a little  gay, 

Besides  their  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  sense 
Of  the  sad  consequence  of  going  astray, 

Are  wiser  in  their  warnings  ’gainst  the  woe 
Which  the  mere  passionless  can  never  know. 

XLV. 

While  the  harsh  prude  indemnifies  her  virtue 
By  railing  at  the  unknown  and  envied  passion, 
Seeking  far  less  to  save  you  than  to  hurt  you, 
i Or,  what’s  still  worse,  to  put  you  out  of  fashion, — 
The  kinder  veteran  with  calm  words  will  court  you, 
Entreating  you  to  pause  before  you  dash  on ; 
Expounding  and  illustrating  the  riddle 
Of  epic  Love’s  beginning,  end,  and  middle. 

XLV  i. 

Now  whether  it  be  thus,  or  that  they  are  stricter, 

As  better  knowing  why  they  should  be  so, 

I think  you ’ll  find  from  many  a family  picture, 

That  daughters  of  such  mothers  as  may  know 
The  world  by  experience  rather  than  by  lecture, 

Turn  out  much  better  for  the  Smithfield  Show 
Of  vestals  brought  into  the  marriage  mart, 

Than  those  bred  up  by  prudes  without  a heart. 

XLVII. 

I said  that  Lady  Pinchbeck  had  been  talk’d  about — 
As  who  has  not,  if  female,  young,  and  pretty  ? 

But  now  no  more  the  ghost  of  Scandal  stalk’d  about ; 
J She  merely  was  deem’d  amiable  and  witty, 

And  several  of  her  best  bon-mots  were  hawk’d  about : 
I Then  she  was  given  to  charity  and  pity, 
i And  pass’d  (at  least  the  latter  years  of  life) 

For  being  a most  exemplary  wife. 

XLVIII. 

High  in  high  circles,  gentle  in  her  own, 

She  was  the  mild  reprover  of  the  young, 

Whenever — which  means  every  day — they ’d  shown 
An  awkward  inclination  to  go  wrong. 

The  quantity  of  good  she  did’s  unknown. 

Or  at  the  least  would  lengthen  out  ray  song  : 

In  brief,  the  little  orphan  of  the  East 
i Had  raised  an  interest  in  her,  which  increased. 

XLIX.  . 

Juan,  too,  was  a sort  of  favourite  with  her. 

Because  she  thought  him  a good  heart  at  bottom. 

A little  spoil’ cl,  but  not  so  altogether ; 

Which  was  a wonder,  if  you  think  who  got  him, 
And  how  he  had  been  toss’d,  he  scarce  knew  whither: 
I Though  this  might  ruin  others,  it  did  not  him, 

At  least  entirely — for  he  had  seen  too  many 
Changes  in  youth,  to  be  surprised  at  any. 

L. 

And  these  vicissitudes  tell  best  in  youth  ; 

Eor  when  they  happen  at  a riper  age, 

Fcople  are  apt  to  blame  the  Fates,  forsooth, 

[ And  wonder  Providence  is  not  mere  sage. 


[ (1)  [“  The  same  feeling  that  makes  the  people  of  France  wish  to 

I keep  the  pictures  and  statues  of  other  nations,  must  naturally  make 

other  nations  wish,  now  that  victory  is  on  their  side,  to  return  those 
articles  to  the  lawful  owners.  According  to  my  feelings,  it  would 
t.ot  only  be  unjust  in  the  Allied  S •’■ereigns  to  gratify  the  French 


Adversity  is  the  first  path  to  truth  : 

He  who  hath  proved  war,  storm,  or  woman’s  rage, 
Whether  his  winters  be  eighteen  or  eighty, 

Hath  won  the  experience  which  is  deem’d  so  weignty, 

LI. 

How  far  it  profits  is  another  matter. — 

Our  hero  gladly  saw  his  little  charge 
Safe  with  a lady,  whose  last  grown-up  daughter 
Being  long  married,  and  thus  set  at  large, 

Had  left  all  the  accomplishments  she  taught  her 
To  be  transmitted,  like  the  Lord  Mayor’s  barge. 

To  the  next  corner ; or — as  it  will  tell 
More  Muse-like — like  to  Cytherea’s  shell. 

LTI. 

I call  such  things  transmission  ; for  there  is 
A floating  balance  of  accomplishment, 

Which  forms  a pedigree  from  Miss  to  Miss, 

According  as  their  minds  or  backs  are  bent. 

Some  waltz  ; some  draw ; some  fathom  the  abyss 
Of  metaphysics  ; others  are  content 
With  music ; the  most  moderate  shine  as  wits ; 

While  others  have  a genius  turn’d  for  fits. 

LIII. 

But  whether  fits,  or  wits,  or  harpsichords. 

Theology,  fine  arts,  or  finer  stays, 

Mqy  be  the  baits  for  gentlemen  or  lords 
With  regular  descent,  in  these  our  days, 

The  last  year  to  the  new  transfers  its  hoards  ; 

New  vestals  claim  men’s  eyes  with  the  same  praise 
Of  “ elegant”  et  catera,  in  fresh  batches— 

All  matchless  creatures,  and  yet  bent  on  matclies. 

LTV. 

But  now  I will  begin  my  poem.  ’Tis 
Perhaps  a little  strange,  if  not  quite  new, 

That  from  the  first  of  Cantos  up  to  this 

I’ve  not  begun  what  we  have  to  go  through. 

These  first  twelve  books  are  merely  flourishes, 
Preludios,  trying  just  a string  or  two 
Upon  my  lyre,  or  making  the  pegs  sure  ; 

And  when  so,  you  shall  have  the  overture. 

LV. 

My  Muses  do  not  care  a pinch  of  rosin 

About  what’s  called  success,  or  not  succeeding : 
Such  thoughts  are  quite  below  the  strain  they  have 
chosen ; 

’Tis  a “ great  moral  lesson”*  1 they  are  reading. 

I thought,  at  setting  off,  about  two  dozen 
Cantos  would  do ; but  at  Apollo’s  pleading. 

If  that  my  Pegasus  should  not  be  founder’d, 

I think  to  canter  gently  through  a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don  Juan  saw  that  microcosm  on  stilts, 

Yclept  the  Great  World  ; for  it  is  the  least, 
Although  the  highest : but  as  swords  have  hilts 
By  which  their  power  of  mischief  is  increased, 
When  man  in  battle  or  in  quarrel  tilts, 

Thus  the  low  world,  north,  south,  or  west,  or  east, 
Must  still  obey  the  high2 — which  is  their  handle, 
Their  moon,  their  sun,  their  gas,  their  farthing  candle. 


people,  but  the  sacrifice  they  would  make  would  be  impolitic,  as  t 
would  deprive  them  of  the  opportunity  of  giving  the  French  natioB 
a great  moral  lesson." — Wellington,  Paris,  1815.] 

(2)  [“  Enfin  partout  la  bonne  society  r6gle  tout.” — Voltairb.J 


724 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO 


LVIT. 

He  had  many  friends  who  had  many  wives,  and  was 
Well  look’d  upon  by  both,  to  that  extent 
Of  friendship  which  you  may  accept  or  pass, 

It  does  nor  good  nor  harm ; being  merely  meant 
To  keep  the  wheels  going  of  the  higher  class, 

And  draw  them  nightly  when  a ticket’s  sent : 

And  what  with  masquerades,  and  fetes,  and  balls. 

For  the  first  season  such  a life  scarce  palls. 

LVIII. 

A young  unmarried  man,  with  a good  name 
And  fortune,  has  an  awkward  part  to  play ; 

For  good  society  is  but  a game, 

“ The  royal  game  of  Goose,”1  as  I may  say, 

Where  every  body  has  some  separate  aim. 

An  end  to  answer,  or  a plan  to  lay — 

The  single  ladies  wishing  to  be  double, 

The  married  ones  to  save  the  virgins  trouble. 

LIX. 

I don’t  mean  this  as  general,  but  particular 
Examples  may  be  found  of  such  pursuits  : 

Though  several  also  keep  their  perpendicular 
Like  poplars,  with  good  principles  for  roots  ; 

Yet  many  have  a method  more  reticular — 

“Fishers  for  men,”  like  sirens  with  soft  lutes  : 

For  talk  six  times  with  the  same  single  lady. 

And  you  may  get  the  wedding  dresses  ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps  you’ll  have  a letter  from  the  mother, 

To  say  her  daughter’s  feelings  are  trepann’d ; 
Perhaps  you’ll  have  a visit  from  the  brother. 

All  strut,  and  stays,  and  whiskers,  to  demand 
What  “your  intentions  are  ?”—  One  way  or  other 
It  seems  the  virgin’s  heart  expects  your  hand : 

And  between  pity  for  her  case  and  yours. 

You’ll  add  to  Matrimony’s  list  of  cures. 

LXI. 

I ’ve  known  a dozen  weddings  made  even  thus , 

And  some  of  them  high  names  : I have  also  known 
Young  men  who — though  they  hated  to  discuss 
Pretensions  which  they  never  dream’d  to  have 
Yet  neither  frighten’d  by  a female  fuss,  [shown — 

Nor  by  mustacliios  moved,  were  let  alone, 

And  lived,  as  did  the  broken-hearted  fair, 

In  happier  plight  than  if  they  form’d  a pair. 

LXII. 

There’s  also  nightly,  to  the  uninitiated, 

A peril — not  indeed  like  love  or  marriage, 

But  not  the  less  for  this  to  be  depreciated : 

It  is — I meant  and  mean  not  to  disparage 
The  show  of  virtue  even  in  the  vitiated — 

It  adds  an  outward  grace  unto  their  carriage — 

But  to  denounce  the  amphibious  sort  of  harlot, 

“ Couleur  de  rose,”  who’s  neither  white  nor  scarlet. 

LXIII. 

Such  is  your  cold  coquette,  who  can’t  say  “ No,” 

And  won’t  say  “ Yes,”  and  keeps  you  on  and  off-ing 
On  a lee-shore,  till  it  begins  to  blow — [scoffing. 
Then  sees  your  heart  wreck’d,  with  an  inward 


This  works  a world  of  sentimental  woe, 

And  sends  new  Werters  yearly  to  their  coffin; 

But  yet  is  merely  innocent  flirtation, 

Not  quite  adultery,  but  adulteration. 

LXIV. 

“ Ye  gods,  I grow  a talker  !”  Let  us  prate. 

The  next  of  perils,  though  I place  it  sternest, 

Is  when,  without  regard  to  “church  or  state,” 

A wife  makes  or  takes  love  in  upright  earnest. 
Abroad,  such  things  decide  few  women’s  fate — 

(Such,  early  traveller!  is  the  truth  thou  learnest)— 
But  in  old  England,  when  a young  bride  errs, 

Poor  thing  ! Eve’s  was  a trifling  case  to  hers. 

LXV. 

For  ’tis  a low,  newspaper,  humdrum,  lawsuit 
Country,  where  a young  couple  of  the  same  ages 
Can’t  form  a friendship,  but  the  world  o’erawes  it. 

Then  there’s  the  vulgar  trick  of  those  d — d damages! 
A verdict — grievous  foe  to  those  who  cause  it ! — ° 
Forms  a sad  climax  to  romantic  homages  : 

Besides  those  soothing  speeches  of  the  pleaders. 

And  evidences  which  regale  all  readers. 

LXVI. 

But  they  who  blunder  thus  are  raw  beginners , 

A little  genial  sprinkling  of  hypocrisy 
Has  saved  the  fame  of  thousand  splendid  sinners, 

The  loveliest  oligarchs  of  our  gynocracy  ; 

You  may  see  such  at  all  the  balls  and  dinners, 

Among  the  proudest  of  our  aristocracy, 

So  gentle,  charming,  charitable,  chaste— 

And  all  by  having  tact  as  well  as  taste. 

LXVII. 

Juan,  who  did  not  stand  in  the  predicament 

Of  a m.ere  novice,  had  one  safeguard  more  ; ! 

For  he  was  sick no,  ’twas  not  the  word  sick  1 

meant — 

But  he  had  seen  so  much  good  love  before,  t 

That  he  was  not  in  heart  so  very  weak ; — I meant  : 

But  thus  much,  and  no  sneer  against  the  shore 
Of  white  cliffs,  white  necks,  blue  eyes,  bluer  stockings,  ’ 
Tithes,  taxes,  duns,  and  doors  with  double  blockings. 

LXV  III. 

But  coming  young  from  lands  and  scenes  romantic,  f 
Where  lives,  not  lawsuits,  must  be  risk’d  for  Passion,  j 
And  Passion’s  self  must  have  a spice  of  frantic, 

Into  a country  where  ’tis  half  a fashion. 

Seem’d  to  him  half  commercial,  half  pedantic, 

Howe’er  he  might  esteem  this  moral  nation  : 

Besides  (alas  ! his  taste — forgive  and  pity  !) 

At  first  he  did  not  think  the  women  pretty. 

LXIX. 

I say  at  first — for  he  found  out  at  last, 

But  by  degrees,  that  they  were  fairer  far 
Than  the  more  glowing  dames  whose  lot  is  cast 
Beneath  the  influence  of  the  eastern  star. 

A further  proof  we  should  not  judge  in  haste  ; 

Yet  inexperience  could  not  lie  his  bar 
To  taste  : — the  truth  is,  if  men  would  confess. 

That  novelties  please  less  than  they  impress. 


(1)  [This  ancient  game  originated,  I believe,  in  Germany,  and  cession  a goose  is  depicted;  and  if  the  cast  thrown  by  the  playni 
is  well  calculated  to  make  young  persons  ready  at  reckoning  the  falls  upon  a goose,  he  moves  forward  double  the  number  of  hit 
produce  of  two  given  numbers.  It  is  called  the  game  of  the  goose,  I throw. — Strutt.] 
becauaa  at  every  fourth  and  fifth  compartment  of  the  table  in  sue-  I 


DON  JUAN. 


725 


CAJfTO  XII. 

[/>•  LXX. 

Though  t "avell’d,  1 have  never  had  the  luck  to 
[ Trace  up  inose  shuffling  negroes,  Nile  or  Niger, 

To  that  impracticable  place  Timbuctoo, 

! Where  Geography  finds  no  one  to  oblige  her 
With  such  a chart  as  may  be  safely  stuck  to — 

! For  Europe  ploughs  in  Afric  like  “ bos  piger 
But  if  I had  been  at  Timbuctoo,  there 
No  doubt  I should  be  told  that  black  is  fair.1 

LXXI. 

It  is.  I will  not  swear  that  black  is  white  ; 

But  I suspect  in  fact  that  white  is  black, 

And  the  whole  matter  rests  upon  eyesight. 

; Ask  a blind  man,  the  best  judge.  You’ll  attack 
Perhaps  this  new  position— but  I’m  right ; 

Or  if  I’m  wrong,  I’ll  not  be  ta’en  aback : — 

He  hath  no  morn  nor  night,  but  all  is  dark 
Within  ; and  what  seest  thou  ? A dubious  spark. 

LXXII. 

But  I’m  relapsing  into  metaphysics. 

That  labyrinth,  whose  clue  is  of  the  same 
Construction  as  your  cures  for  hectic  phthisics, 

Those  bright  moths  fluttering  round  a dying  flame; 
And  this  reflection  brings  me  to  plain  physics, 

And  to  the  beauties  of  a foreign  dame, 

Compared  with  those  of  our  pure  pearls  of  price. 
Those  polar  summers,  all  sun,  and  some  ice. 

LXXIII. 

Or  say  they  are  like  virtuous  mermaids,  whose 
W Beginnings  are  fair  faces,  ends  mere  fishes  ; — ■ 

Not  that  there’s  not  a quantity  of  those 
Who  have  a due  respect  for  their  own  wishes. 

Like  Russians  rushing  from  hot  baths  to  snows  2 
Are  they,  at  bottom  virtuous  even  when  vicious  : 
They  warm  into  a scrape,  but  keep  of  course, 

As  a reserve,  a plunge  into  remorse. 

LXXIV. 

But  this  has  nought  to  do  with  their  outsides. 

I said  that  Juan  did  not  think  them  pretty 
At  the  first  blush  ; for  a fair  Briton  hides 
Half  her  attractions — probably  from  pity — • 

And  rather  calmly  into  the  heart  glides, 

Than  storms  it  as  a foe  would  take  a city ; 

But  once  there  (if  you  doubt  this,  prithee  try) 

She  keeps  it  for  you  like  a true  ally. 

LXXV. 

She  cannot  step  as  does  an  Arab  barb,  _ 

Or  Andalusian  girl  from  mass  returning, 

Nor  wear  as  gracefully  as  Gauls  her  garb, . 

Nor  in  her  eye  Ausonia’s  glance  is  burning ; 

Her  voice,  though  sweet,  is  not  so  fit  to  warb- 
le those  bravuras  (which  I still  am  learning 
To  like,  though  I have  been  seven  years  in  Italy, 

And  have,  or  had,  an  ear  that  served  me  prettily) ; 

LXXVI. 

She  cannot  do  these  things,  nor  one  or  two 
Others,  in  that  off-hand  and  dashing  style 


(1)  [Major  Denham  says,  that  when  he  first  saw  European  women 
after  his  travels  in  Africa,  they  appeared  to  him  to  have  unnatural 


*ems  aces  uiem  nv  uaim.  . , 

(3)  [“  A Gaulish  or  German  soldier  sent  to  arrest  him,  overawed 


Which  takes  so  much — to  give  the  devil  his  due ; 

Nor  is  she  quite  so  ready  with  her  smile, 

Nor  settles  all  things  in  one  interview, 

(A  thing  approved  as  saving  time  and  toil} ; 

But  though  the  soil  may  give  you  time  and  trouble, 
Well  cultivated,  it  will  render  double. 

LXXVI  I. 

And  if  in  fact  she  takes  to  a “ grande  passion,” 

It  is  a very  serious  thing  indeed  : 

Nine  times  in  ten  ’tis  but  caprice  or  fashion, 

Coquetry,  or  a wish  to  take  the  lead, 

The  pride  of  a mere  child  with  a new  sash  on, 

Or  wish  to  make  a rival’s  bosom  bleed : 

But  the  tenth  instance  will  be  a tornado, 

Eor  there’s  no  saying  what  they  will  or  may  do. 

LXXVIII. 

The  reason’s  obvious  ; if  there’s  an  eclat, 

They  lose  their  caste  at  once,  as  do  the  Farias ; 

And  when  the  delicacies  of  the  law 

Have  fill’d  their  papers  with  their  comments  various 
Society,  that  china  without  flaw, 

(The  hypocrite  !)  will  banish  them  like  Manus, 

To  sit  amidst  the  ruins  of  their  guilt  ;3 
Eor  Fame’s  a Carthage  not  so  soon  rebuilt. 

. LXXIX. 

Perhaps  this  is  as  it  should  be  ; — it  is 

A comment  on  the  Gospel’s  “ Sin  no  more. 

And  be  thy  sins  forgiven  but  upon  this 
I leave  the  saints  to  settle  their  own  score. 

Abroad,  though  doubtless  they  do  much  amisa, 

An  erring  woman  finds  an  opener  door 
For  her  return  to  Virtue — as  they  call 
That  lady,  who  should  be  at  home  to  all. 

LXXX. 

For  me,  I leave  the  matter  where  I find  it. 

Knowing  that  such  uneasy  virtue  leads 
People  some  ten  times  less  in  fact  to  mind  it. 

And  care  but  for  discoveries  and  not  deeds. 

And  as  for  chastity,  you’ll  never  bind  it 
By  all  the  laws  the  strictest  lawyer  pleads, 

But  aggravate  the  crime  you  have  not  prevented, 

By  rendering  desperate  those  who  had  else  repented. 

LXXXI. 

But  Juan  was  no  Casuist,  nor  had  ponder’d 
Upon  the  moral  lessons  of  mankind : 

Besides,  he  had  not  seen  of  several  hundred 
A lady  altogether  to  his  mind. 

A little blase”— ’tis  not  to  be  wonder’d 
At,  that  his  heart  had  got  a tougher  rind : 

And  though  not  vainer  from  his  past  success, 

No  doubt  his  sensibilities  were  less. 

LXXXI  I. 

He  also  had  been  busy  seeing  sights— 

The  Parliament  and  all  the  other  houses  ; 

Had  sat  beneath  the  gallery  at  nights. 

To  hear  debates  whose  thunder  roused  (not  routes) 


by  his  aspect,  recoiled  from  the  task  ; and  the  people  of  the  plant, 
as  if  moved  by  the  miracle,  concurred  in  aiding  his  escape,  lho 
presence  of  such  an  exile  on  the  ground  where  Carthage  had  stood 
was  supposed  to  increase  the  majesty  and  the  melancholy  of  the 
scene.  ‘ Go,’  he  said  to  the  lictor  who  brought  him  the  orders  of 
the  praetor  to  depart,  ‘ tell  him  that  you  have  seen  Ma-ion  sitting 
on  the  ruins  of  Carthage.” — Ferguson.] 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


726 

The  world  to  gaze  upon  those  northern  lights, 

Which  flash’d  as  far  as  where  the  musk-bull  browses; 1 
He  had  also  stood  at  times  behind  the  throne — 

But  Grey2  was  not  arrived,  and  Chatham  gone.3 

LXXXIII. 

He  saw,  however,  at  the  closing  session, 

That  noble  sight,  when  really  free  the  nation, 

A k ing  in  constitutional  possession 

Of  such  a throne  as  is  the  proudest  station, 

Though  despots  know  it  not — till  the  progression 
Of  freedom  shall  complete  their  education. 

’Tis  not  mere  splendour  makes  the  show  august 
To  eye  or  heart — it  is  the  people’s  trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There,  too,  he  saw  (where’er  he  may  be  now) 

A Prince,  the  prince  of  princes  at  the  time,4 
With  fascination  in  his  very  bow. 

And  full  of  promise,  as  the  spring  of  prime. 

Though  royalty  was  written  on  his  brow, 

He  had  then  the  grace,  too,  rare  in  every  clime, 

Of  being,  without  alloy  of  fop  or  beau, 

A finish’d  gentleman  from  top  to  toe.5 

LXXXV. 

And  Juan  was  received,  as  hath  been  said, 

Into  the  best  society  : and  there 
Occurr’d  what  often  happens,  I’m  afraid, 

However  disciplined  and  debonnaire  : — 

The  talent  and  good  humour  he  display’d, 

Besides  the  mark’d  distinction  of  his  air. 

Exposed  him,  as  was  natural,  to  temptation, 

Even  though  himself  avoided  the  occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But  what,  and  where,  with  whom,  and  when,  and  why, 
Is  not  to  be  put  hastily  together; 

And  as  my  object  is  morality 

(Whatever  people  say),  I don’t,  know  whether 
I’ll  leave  a single  reader’s  eyelid  dry. 

But  harrow  up  his  feelings,  till  they  wither, 

And  hew  out  a huge  monument  of  pathos, 

As  Philip’s  son  proposed  to  do  with  Athos.6 

LXXXVIT. 

Here  the  twelfth  canto  of  our  introduction 
Ends.  When  the  body  of  the  book’s  begun, 

You’ll  find  it  of  a different  construction 

From  what  some  people  say  ’twill  be  when  done : 
The  plan  at  present’s  simply  in  concoction. 

I can’t  oblige  you,  reader,  to  read  on ; 

(1)  For  a description  and  print  of  this  inhabitant  of  the  polar 
region  and  native  country  of  the  Aurorae  Boreales,  see  Parry’s 
Voyage  in  search  of  a North-west  Passage.  [See  ante,  p.  517.] 

(2)  [Charles,  second  Earl  Grey,  succeeded  to  the  peerage  in 
1807.] 

(3)  [William  Pitt,  first  Earl  of  Chatham,  died  in  May,  1778,  after 
having  been  carried  home  from  the  House  of  Lords,  where  he  had 
fainted  away  at  the  close  of  a remarkable  speech  on  the  American 
war.] 

(4)  [“Nature  had  bestowed  uncommon  graces  on  his  figure  and 
person.  Convivial  as  well  as  social  in  his  temper,  destitute  of  all 
reserve,  and  affable  even  to  familiarity  in  his  reception  of  every 
person  who  had  the  honour  to  approach  him  ; endued  with  all  the 
aptitudes  to  profit  of  instruction,  his  mind  had  been  cultivated  with 
great  care;  and  he  was  probably  the  only  prince  in  Europe,  heir 
io  a powerful  monarchy,  competent  to  peruse  the  Greek  as  well  as 
the  Homan  poets  and  historians  in  their  own  language.  Humane 
and  compassionate,  his  purse  was  open  to  every  application  of  dis- 
tress; nor  was  it  ever  shut  against  genius  or  merit.” — Wraxau, 
1783.] 

(0)  [“  Waving  myself,  let  me  talk  to  you  of  the  Prince  Regent. 


CANTO  XI ft 

That’s  your  affair,  not  mine  : a real  spl;  t 
Should  neither  court  neglect,  nor  dread  to  bear  it. 

LXXXVIII. 

And  if  my  thunderbolt  not  always  rattles, 
i Remember,  reader!  you  have  had  before, 

The  worst  of  tempests  and  the  best  of  battles, 

That  e’er  were  brew’d  from  elements  or  gore. 
Besides  the  most  sublime  of— Heaven  knows  whit  else  I 
An  usurer  could  scarce  expect  much  more — 

But  my  best  canto,  save  one  on  astronomy, 

Will  turn  upon  “ political  economy.” 

LXXXIX. 

That  is  your  present  theme  for  popularity : 

Now  that  the  public  hedge  hath  scarce  a stake, 

It  grows  an  act  of  patriotic  charity. 

To  show  the  people  the  best  way  to  break. 

My  plan  (but  I,  if  but  for  singularity, 

Reserve  it)  will  be  very  sure  to  take. 

Meantime,  read  all  the  national-debt  sinkers, 

And  tell  me  what  you  think  of  our  great  thinkers. 


Bon  3Juan. 


CANTO  THE  THIRTEENTH. 


I. 

I now  mean  to  be  serious  ; — it  is  time, 

Since  laughter  now-a-davs  is  deem’d  too  serious. 

A jest  at  Vice  by  Virtue’s  call’d  a crime, 

And  critically  held  as  deleterious  : 

Besides,  the  sad’s  a source  of  the  sublime, 

Although  when  long  a little  apt  to  weary  us  ; 

And  therefore  shall  my  lay  soar  high  and  solemn, 

As  an  old  temple  dwindled  to  a column. 

II. 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville 

(’Tis  an  old  Norman  name,  and  to  be  found 
In  pedigrees,  by  those  who  wander  still 
Along  the  last  fields  of  that  Gothic  ground) 

Was  high-born,  wealthy  by  her  father’s  will, 

And  beauteous,  even  where  beauties  most  abound, 
In  Britain — which  of  course  true  patriots  find 
The  goodliest  soil  of  body  and  of  mind. 


He  ordered  me  to  be  presented  to  him  at  a ball ; and  after  some 
sayings  peculiarly  pleasing  from  royal  lips,  as  to  my  own  attempts, 
he  talked  to  me  of  you  and  your  immortalities  ; he  preferred  you 
to  every  other  bard  past  and  present.  He  spoke  alternately  oi 
Homer  and  yourself,  and  seemed  well  acquainted  with  both.  All 
this  was  conveyed  in  language  which  would  only  sutler  by  my 
attempting  to  transcribe  it,  and  with  a tone  and  taste  which  gave 
me  a very  high  idea  of  his  abilities  and  accomplishments,  which  I 
had  hitherto  considered  as  confined  to  manners  certainly  superior 
to  those  of  any  living  gentleman.’’ — Lord  B.  to  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
July,  1812.] 

(6)  A sculptor  projected  to  hew  Mount  Athos  into  a statue  of 
Alexander,  with  a city  in  one  hand,  and,  I believe,  a river  in  his 
pocket,  with  various  other  similar  devices.  But  Alexander’s  gone, 
and  Athos  remains,  1 trust  ere  long  to  look  over  a nation  of  free- 
men.— [“  Strasicrates,  an  engineer  in  the  service  of  Alexander, 
offered  to  convert  the  whole  mountain  into  a statue  of  that  prince. 
The  enormous  figure  was  to  hold  a city  in  its  left  hand,  containing 
ten  thousand  inhabitants,  and  in  the  right,  an  immense  basin, 
whence  the  collected  torrents  of  the  mountain  should  issue  in  a 
mighty  river.  But  the  project  was  thought  to  be  too  extravagant 
even  by  Alexander.” — Beloe] 


CANTO  XIII. 


DON  JUAN 


72’ 


m. 

I’ll  not  gainsay  them  ; it  is  not  my  cue ; 

I’ll  leave  them  to  their  taste,  no  doubt  the  best ; 
An  eye’s  an  eye,  and  whether  black  or  blue, 

Is  no  great  matter,  so  ’tis  in  request, 

’Tis  nonsense  to  dispute  about  a hue — 

The  kindest  may  be  taken  as  a test. 

The  fair  sex  should  be  always  fair ; and  no  man, 
Till  thirty,  should  perceive  there’s  a plain  woman. 

IV. 

A nd  after  that  serene  and  somewhat  dull 
Epoch,  that  awkward  corner  turn’d  for  days 
More  quiet,  when  our  moon’s  no  more  at  full, 

We  may  presume  to  criticise  or  praise ; 

Because  indifference  begins  to  lull 

Our  passions,  and  we  walk  in  wisdom’s  ways ; 
Also  because  the  figure  aud  the  face 
Hint,  that  ’tis  time  to  give  the  younger  place. 


IX. 

Of  all  tales  ’tis  the  saddest — and  more  sal, 

Because  it  makes  us  smile  : his  hero  s right5 
And  still  pursues  the  right ; — to  curb  the  bad 
His  only  object,  and  ’gainst  odds  to  fight 
His  guerdon : ’tis  his  virtue  makes  him  mad! 

But  his  adventures  form  a sorry  sight ; — 

A sorrier  still  is  the  great  moral  taught 
By  that  real  epic  unto  all  who  have  thought. 

x. 

Redressing  injury,  revenging  wrong, 

To  aid  the  damsel  and  destroy  the  caitiff ; 
Opposing  singly  the  united  strong, 

From  foreign  yoke  to  free  the  helpless  native  : — 
Alas  ! must  noblest  views,  like  an  old  song, 

Be  for  mere  fancy’s  sport  a theme  creative, 

A jest,  a riddle,  Fame  through  thick  and  thin  sought 
And  Socrates  himself  but  Wisdom’s  Quixote  0 


v. 

1 know  that  some  would  fain  postpone  this  era, 
Reluctant  as  all  placemen  to  resign 
Their  post ; but  theirs  is  merely  a chimera, 

For  they  have  pass’d  life’s  equinoctial  line  : 

But  then  they  have  their  claret  and  Madeira, 

To  irrigate"  the  dryness  of  decline ; 

And  county  meetings,  and  the  parliament, 

A nd  debt,  and  what  not,  for  their  solace  sent. 

vi. 

And  is  there  not  religion,  and  reform, 

Peace,  war,  the  taxes,  and  what  scall  d the  Nation? 
The  struggle  to  be  pilots  in  a storm  ? _ 

The  landed  and  the  monied  speculation  ? 

The  joys  of  mutual  hate  to  keep  them  warm, 

Instead  of  love,  that  mere  hallucination  ? 

Now  hatred  is  by  far  the  longest  pleasure ; 

Men  love  in  haste,  but  they  detest  at  leisure. 

VII. 

Rough  Johnson,  the  great  moralist,  profess’d, 

Right  honestly,  “ he  liked  an  honest  hater  !” 

The  onlv  truth  that  yet  has  been  confest 
Within  these  latest  thousand  years  or  later. 

Perhaps  the  fine  old  fellow  spoke  in  jest 
For  my  part,  I am  but  a mere  spectator,  _ 

And  gaze  where’er  the  palace  or  the  hovel  is. 

Much  in  the  mode  of  Goethe’s  Mephistopheles  ;1 2 

VIII. 

But  neither  love  nor  hate  in  much  excess  ; 

Though  ’twas  not  once  so.  If  I sneer  sometimes, 
It  is  because  I cannot  well  do  less, 

And  now  and  then  it  also  suits  my  rhymes. 

I should  be  very  willing  to  redress 

Men’s  wrongs,  and  rather  check  than  punish  crimes, 
Had  not  Cervantes,  in  that  too  true  tale 
Of  Quixote,  shown  how  all  such  efforts  fail. 


(1)  [“  Sir,  I love  a good  liater.”— See  Boswell’s  Johnson,  vol.  ix. 
p.  30,  edit.  1835.] 

b-  (2)  [Mephistopheles  is  the  name  of  the  Devil  in  Goethe’s  Faust.] 

(3)  r“  Mr.  Spence,  the  author  of  the  late  ingenious  Tour  in  Spain, 
seems  to  believe,  wha  I should  have  supposed  was  entirely  ex- 
ploded. that  Cervantes  wrote  his  hook  for  the  purpose  of  ridiculing 
knitrht  errantry;  and  that,  unfortunately  for  his  country,  his  satire 
put  out  of  fashion,  not  merely  the  absurd  misdirection  of  the  spirit 
of  heroism,  but  that  sacred  spirit  itself.  But  the  practice  of  knight- 
errantry,  if  ever  there  was  such  a thing,  had,  it  is  well  known,  been 

cut  of  date  long  before  the  age  in  which  Don  Quixote  appeared ; 


XI. 

Cervantes  smiled  Spain’s  chivalry  away  ; 

A single  laugh  demolish’d  the  right  arm 
Of  his  own  country  ; — seldom  since  that  day 

Has  Spain  had  heroes.  While  Romance  could  charm, 
The  world  gave  ground  before  her  bright  array; 

And  therefore  have  his  volumes  done  such  harm, 
That  all  their  glory,  as  a composition, 

W'as  dearly  purchased  by  his  land’s  perdition.3 

XTT. 

I’m  “at  my  old  lunes”4— digression,  and  forget 
The  Lady  Adeline  Amundevillc  ; 

The  fair  most  fatal  Juan  ever  met, 

Although  she  was  not  evil  nor  meant  ill ; 

But  Destiny  and  Passion  spread  the  net 
(Fate  is  a good  excuse  for  our  own  will). 

And  caught  them  what  do  they  not  cat < li,  methinks  i 

But  I’m  not  (Edipus,  and  li'e’s  a Sphinx. 

XIII. 

I tell,  the  tale  as  it  Is  told,  nor  dare 
To  venture  a solution  : “ Davus  sum  ! 

And  now  I will  proceed  upon  the  pair. 

Sweet  Adeline,  amidst  the  gay  world’s  hum, 

Was  the  Queen-Bee,  the  glass  of  all  that’s  fair ; 

Whose  charms  made  all  men  speak,  and  women  dumb. 
The  last’s  a miracle,  and  such  was  reckon’d, 

And  since  that  time  there  has  not  been  a second. 

XIV. 

Chaste  was  she,  to  detraction’s  desperation, 

And  wedded  unto  one  she  had  loved  well — 

A man  known  in  the  councils  of  the  nation, 

Cool,  and  quite  English,  imperturbable, 

Though  apt  to  act  with  fire  upon  occasion, 

Proud  of  himself  and  her  : the  world  could  tell 
Nought  against  either,  and  both  seem’d  secure— 

She  in  her  virtue,  he  in  his  hauteur. 


and  as  for  the  spirit  of  heroism,  I think  few  will  sympathise  with 
the  critic  who  deems  it  possible  that  an  individual,  to  say  nothing 
of  a nation,  should  have  imbibed  any  contempt,  either  for  that  or 
any  other  elevating  principle  of  our  nature,  from  the  manly  page  el 
Cervantes.  One  of  the  greatest  triumphs  of  his  skill  is  the  success 
with  which  he  continually  prevents  us  from  confounding  the  ab- 
surdities of  the  knight-errant  with  the  generous  aspirations  ot  the 
cavalier.  For  the  last,  even  in  the  midst  of  madness,  we  respect 
Don  Quixote  himself.”— Lockhart  : Preface  to  Don  Quixote , 18U..  J 

(4)  [“  Your  husband  is  in  his  old  lunes  again.  ’—Merry  tves  oj 
Windsor .] 

(5)  [“  Davus  sum,  non  (Edipus.” — Ter.] 


728 


LORD  1ST  RON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XI3tf 


XV. 

It  chanced  some  diplomatical  relations, 

Arising  out  of  business,  often  brought 
Himself  and  Juan  in  their  mutual  stations 

Into  close  contact.  Though  reserved,  nor  caught 
By  specious  seeming,  Juan’s  youth,  and  patience. 

And  talent,  on  his  haughty  spirit  wrought, 

And  form’d  a basis  of  esteem,  which  ends 
In  making  men  what  courtesy  calls  friends. 

XVI. 

And  thus  Lord  Henry,  who  was  cautious  as 

Reserve  and  pride  could  make  him,  and  full  slow 
In  judging  men — when  once  his  judgment  was 
Determined,  right  or  wrong,  on  friend  or  foe 
Had  all  the  pertinacity  pride  has, 

Which  knows  no  ebb  to  its  imperious  flow, 

And  loves  or  hates,  disdaining  to  be  guided, 

Because  its  own  good  pleasure  hath  decided. 

XVII. 

His  friendships,  therefore,  and  no  less  aversions, 
Though  oft  well  founded,  which  confirm’d  but  more 
His  prepossessions,  like  the  laws  of  Persians 

And  Medes,  would  ne’er  revoke  what  went  before. 
His  feelings  had  not  those  strange  fits,  like  tertians, 
Of  common  likings,  which  make  some  deplore 
What  they  should  laugh  at — the  mere  ague  still 
Of  men’s  regard,  the  fever  or  the  chill. 

XVIII. 

“ ’Tis  not  in  mortals  to  command  success  :l 
But  do  you  more,  Sempronius — don’t  deserve  it,” 
And  take  my  word,  you  won’t  have  any  less. 

Be  wary,  watch  the  time,  and  always  serve  it ; 

Give  gently  way,  when  there’s  too  great  a press  ; 

And  for  your  conscience,  only  learn  to  nerve  it ; 
For,  like  a racer,  or  a boxer  training, 

’Twill  make,  if  proved,  vast  efforts  without  paining. 

XIX. 

Lord  Henry  also  liked  to  be  superior. 

As  most  men  do,  the  little  or  the  great ; 

The  very  lowest  find  out  an  inferior, 

At  least  they  think  so,  to  exert  their  state 
Upon:  for  there  are  very  few  things  wearier 
Than  solitary  Pride’s  oppressive  weight, 

Which  mortals  generously  would  divide. 

By  bidding  others  carry  while  they  ride. 

xx. 

In  birth,  in  rank,  in  fortune  likewise  equal, 

O’er  J uan  he  could  no  distinction  claim  ; 

In  years  he  had  the  advantage  of  time’s  sequel; 

And,  as  he  thought,  in  country  much  the  same — 
Beeause  bold  Britons  have  a tongue  and  free  quill, 

At  which  all  modern  nations  vainly  aim  ; 

And  the  Lord  Henry  was  a great  debater, 

So  that  few  members  kept  the  house  up  later. 

XXI. 

These  were  advantages  : and  then  he  thought — 

It  was  his  foible,  but  by  no  means  sinister — 

That  few  or  none  more  than  himself  had  caught 
Court  mysteries,  having  been  himself  a minister : 

He  liked  to  teach  that  which  he  had  been  taught, 

And  greatly  shone  whenever  there  had  been  a stir ; 
And  reconciled  all  qualities  which  grace  man, 

Always  a patriot,  and  sometimes  a placeman. 


(1)  [“  ’Tis  not  in  mortals  to  command  success  ; 

But  we’ll  do  move,  Sempronius — we’ll  deserve  it.”--Ca<0.1 


XXII. 

He  liked  the  gentle  Spaniard  for  his  gravity ; 

He  almost  honour’d  him  for  his  docility, 

Because,  though  young,  he  acquiesced  with  suavity, 
Or  contradicted  but  with  proud  humility. 

He  knew  the  world,  and  would  not  see  depravity 
In  faults  which  sometimes  show  the  soil’s  fertility 
If  that  the  weeds  o’eriive  not  the  first  crop — 

For  then  they  are  very  difficult  to  stop. 

XXIII. 

And  then  he  talk’d  with  him  about  Madrid, 
Constantinople,  and  sucli  distant  places  ; 

Where  people  always  did  as  they  were  bid,  • 

Or  did  what  they  should  not  with  foreign  graces. 
Of  coursers  also  spake  they  : Henry  rid 
Well,  like  most  Englishmen,  and  loved  the  races; 
And  J uan,  like  a true-born  Andalusian, 

Could  back  a horse,  as  despots  ride  a Russian. 

XXIV. 

And  thus  acquaintance  grew,  at  noble  routs, 

And  diplomatic  dinners,  or  at  other — 

For  Juan  stood  well  both  with  Ins  and  Outs, 

As  in  freemasonry  a higher  brother. 

Upon  his  talent  Henry  had  no  doubts ; 

His  manner  sliow’d  him  sprung  from  a high  mother ; 
And  all  men  like  to  show  their  hospitality 
To  him  whose  breeding  matches  with  liis  quality. 

XXV. 

At  Blank-Blank  Square  ; — for  we  will  break  no  squares 
By  naming  streets  : since  men  are  so  censorious, 
And  apt  to  sow  an  author’s  wheat  with  tares, 

Reaping  allusions  private  and  inglorious, 

Where  none  were  dreamt  of,  unto  love’s  affairs, 

W hich  were,  or  are,  or  are  to  be  notorious, 

That  therefore  do  I previously  declare, 

Lord  Henry’s  mansion  was  in  Blank-Blank  Square 

XXVI. 

Also  there  bin2  another  pious  reason 

For  making  squares  and  streets  anonymous  ; 

Which  is,  that  there  is  scarce  a single  season 
Which  doth  not  shake  some  very  splendid  house 
With  some  slight  heart-quake  of  domestic  treason— 

A topic  scandal  doth  delight  to  rouse : 

Such  I might  stumble  over  unawares. 

Unless  I knew  the  very  chastest  squares. 

XXVII. 

’Tis  true,  I might  have  chosen  Piccadilly, 

A place  where  peccadillos  are  unknown  ; 

But  I have  motives,  whether  wise  or  silly, 

For  letting  that  pure  sanctuary  alone. 

Therefore  I name  not  square,  street,  place,  until  1 
Find  one  where  nothing  naughty  can  be  shown, 

A vestal  shrine  of  innocence  of  heart : 

Such  are but  I have  lost  the  London  Chart. 

XXVIII. 

At  Henry’s  mansion  then,  in  Blank-Blank  Square, 
Was  Juan  a recherche,  welcome  guest, 

As  many  other  noble  scions  were  ; 

And  some  who  had  but  talent  for  their  crest; 

Or  wealth,  which  is  a passport  every  where ; 

Or  even  mere  fashion,  which  indeed ’s  the  best 
Recommendation  ; and  to  be  well  drest 
Will  very  often  supersede  the  rest. 


(2)  ‘ With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin, 

Mv  ladv  sweet  arise.”-  -Sha^pjare. 


•JAM TO  XIII. 


DON  JUAN. 


XXIX. 

And  since  “ tliere’s  safety  in  a multitude 
Of  counsellors,”  as  Solomon  lias  said, 

•Jr  some  one  for  him,  in  some  sage,  grave  mood  ; — 
Indeed  we  see  the  daily  proof  display’d 
In  senates,  at  the  bar,  in  wordy  feud, 

Where’er  collective  wisdom  can  parade, 

Which  is  the  only  cause  that  we  can  guess 
Of  Britain’s  present  wealth  and  happiness ; — 

XXX. 

But  as  “ there’s  safety”  grafted  in  the  number 
“ Of  counsellors,”  for  men, — thus  for  the  sex 
A large  acquaintance  lets  not  Virtue  slumber ; 

Or  should  it  shake,  the  choice  will  more  perplex — 
Variety  itself  will  more  encuriiber. 

’Midst  many  rocks  we  guard  more  against  wrecks ; 
And  thus  with  women  : howsoe’er  it  shocks  some’s 
Self-love,  there’  safety  in  a crowd  of  coxcombs, 
xxxi. 

But  Adeline  had  not  the  least  occasion 

For  such  a shield,  which  leaves  but  little  merit 
To  virtue  proper,  or  good  education. 

Her  chief  resource  was  in  her  own  high  spirit, 
Which  judged  mankind  at  their  due  estimation  ; 

And  for  coquetry,  she  disdain’d  to  wear  it : 

Secure  of  admiration,  its  impression 
Was  faint,  as  of  an  every-day  possession. 

XXXII. 

To  all  she  was  polite  without  parade  ; 

To  some  she  show’d  attention  of  that  kind 
Which  flatters,  but  is  flattery  convey’d 
In  such  a sort  as  cannot  leave  behind 
A trace  unworthy  either  wife  or  maid ; — 

A gentle,  genial  courtesy  of  mind, 

To  those  who  were,  or  pass’d  for  meritorious, 

Just  to  console  sad  glory  for  being  glorious ; 

XXXIII. 

Which  is  in  all  respects,  save  now  and  then, 

A dull  and  desolate  appendage.  Gaze 
Upon  the  shades  of  those  distinguish’d  men, 

Who  were  or  are  the  puppet-shows  of  praise, 

The  praise  of  persecution.  Gaze  again 

On  the  most  favour’d  ; and  amidst  the  blaze 
Of  sunset  halos  o’er  the  laurel-brow’d, 

What  can  ye  recognise  ? — a gilded  cloud. 

xxxiv. 

There  also  was  of  course  in  Adeline 
That  calm  patrician  polish  in  the  address, 

Which  ne’er  can  pass  the  equinoctial  line 
Of  any  thing  which  nature  would  express ; 

Just  as  a mandarin  finds  nothing  fine, — 

At  least  his  manner  suffers  not  to  guess, 

That  any  thing  he  views  can  greatly  please. 

Perhaps  we  have  borrow’d  this  from  the  Chinese — 
xxxv. 

Perhaps  from  Horace  : his  “ Ml  admirari”1 
Was  what  he  call’d  the  “ Art  of  Happiness 
An  art  on  which  the  artists  greatly  vary, 

And  have  not  yet  attain’d  to  much  success. 

(1)  See  ante,  p.  661.] 

(2)  [“  The  creed  of  Zo.oaster,  which  naturally  occurs  to  un- 
assisted reason  as  a mode  of  accounting  for  the  mingled  existence  of 
good  and  evil  in  the  visible  world, — that  belief  which,  in  one  modi- 
fication or  another,  supposes  the  co-existence  of  a benevolent  and 
malevolent  principle,  which  contend  together  without  either  being 
able  decisively  to  prevail  over  his  antagonist, — leads  the  fear  and 
awe  deeply  impressed  on  the  human  mind  to  the  worship  as  well  of 
the  autho:  of  evil,  sc  tremendous  in*  all  the  effects  of  which  ere- 


However,  ’tis  expedient  to  be  wary : 

Indifference  certes  don’t  produce 
And  rash  enthusiasm  in  good  society 
Were  nothing  but  a moral  inebriety. 

XXXVI. 

But  Adeline  was  not  indifferent : foi 

{Now  for  a common-place  !)  beDiv-cJi  the  snow, 

As  a volcano  holds  the  lava  more 

Within — et  ccetera.  Shall  I gr  m r —No  ! 

I hate  to  hunt  down  a tired  metaphor. 

So  let  the  often-used  volcano  ^o. 

Poor  thing  ! How  frequentlv.  ny  me  and  others, 

It  hath  been  stirr’d  up  till  L.  smoke  quite  smothers  ! 
xxxvti. 

I’ll  have  another  figure  in  » crice  : — 

What  say  you  to  a botth  of  champagne  ? 

Prozen  into  a very  vinous  ir.e, 

Which  leaves  few  drops  of  that  immortal  rain. 

Yet  in  the  very  centre,  past  all  price, 

About  a liquid  glassful  will  remain ; 

And  this  is  stronger  than  the  strongest  grape 
Could  e’er  express  in  its  expanded  shape  : 
xxxvm. 

’Tis  the  whole  spirit  brought  to  a quintessence ; 

And  thus  the  chilliest  aspects  may  concentre 
A hidden  nectar  under  a cold  presence. 

And  such  are  many — though  I only  meant  her 
Prom  whom  I now  deduce  these  moral  lessons, 

On  which  the  Muse  has  alway's  sought  to  enter. 
And  your  cold  people  are  beyond  all  price, 

When  once  you  have  broken  their  confounded  ice. 
xxxix. 

But  after  all  they  are  a North-West  Passage 
Unto  the  glowing  India  of  the  soul ; 

And  as  the  good  ships  sent  upon  that  message 
Have  not  exactly  ascertain’d  the  Pole 
(Though  Parry’s  efforts  look  a lucky  presage), 

Thus  gentlemen  may  run  upon  a shoal ; 

Por  if  the  Pole’s  not  open,  but  all  frost 
(A  chance  still),  ’tis  a voyage  or  vessel  lost. 

XL. 

And  young  beginners  may  as  well  commence 
With  quiet  cruising  o’er  the  ocean  woman  • 

While  those  who  are  not  beginners  should  have  sense 
Enough  to  make  for  port,  ere  time  shall  summon 
With  his  grey  signal-flag ; and  the  past  tense, 

The  dreary  “ Fuimus ” of  all  things  human, 

Must  be  declined,  while  life’s  thin  thread’s  spun  out 
Between  the  gaping  heir  and  gnawing  gout. 

XLI. 

But  heaven  must  be  diverted ; its  diversion 
Is  sometimes  truculent — but  never  mind  : 

The  world  upon  the  whole  is  worth  the  assertion 
(If  but  for  comfort)  that  all  things  are  kind  : 

And  that  same  devilish  doctrine  of  the  Persian,2 
Of  the  two  principles,  but  leaves  behind 
As  many  doubts  as  any  other  doctrine 
Has  ever  puzzled  Paitli  withal,  or  yoked  her  in. 

dulity  accounts  him  the  primary  cause,  as  to  that  of  his  great 
opponent,  who  is  loved  and  adored  as  the  father  of  all  that  is  good 
and  bountiful.  Nay,  such  is  the  timid  servility  of  human  nature, 
that  the  worshippers  wii*  neglect  the  altar  of  the  Author  of  good, 
rather  than  that  of  Arimanes  ; trusting  with  indifference  to  the  well- 
known  mercy  of  the  one,  while  they  shrink  from  the  idea  of  irritat- 
ing the  vengeful  jealousy  of  the  awful  father  of  evil.” — SirWaltk* 
Scott  : Demonology,  p.  88.] 

S A 


730 


LORD  BYRON’S  WOixjvS. 


CANTO  XIII  II 


XLII. 

The  English  winter — ending  in  J uly, 

To  recommence  in  August — now  was  done. 

’Tis  the  postilion’s  paradise  : wheels  fly ; 

On  roads,  east,  south,  north,  west,  there  is  a run. 
But  for  post-horses  who  finds  sympathy  F 
Man’s  pity’s  for  himself,  or  for  his  son, 

Always  premising  that  said  son  at  college 
Has  not  contracted  much  more  debt  than  knowledge. 
XLIII. 

The  London  winter’s  ended  in  July — ■ 

Sometimes  a little  later.  I don’t  err 
In  this  : whatever  other  blunders  lie 
Upon  my  shoulders,  here  I must  aver 
My  Muse  a glass  of  weatherology  ; 

Eor  parliament  is  our  barometer : 

Let  radicals  its  other  acts  attack, 

Its  sessions  form  our  only  almanack. 

XLIY. 

When  its  quicksilver’s  down  at  zero, — lo  ! 

Coach,  chariot,  luggage,  baggage,  equipage ! 

Wheels  whirl  from  Carlton  palace  to  Soho, 

And  happiest  they  who  horses  can  engage  ; 

The  turnpikes  glow  with  dust ; and  Rotten  Row 
Sleeps  from  the  chivalry  of  this  bright  age  ; 

And  tradesmen,  with  long  bills  and  longer  faces, 

Sigh — as  the  postboys  fasten  on  the  traces. 

XLY. 

They  and  their  bills,*  “ Arcadians  both,”1  are  left 
To  the  Greek  kalends  of  another  session. 

Alas  ! to  them  of  ready  cash  bereft, 

What  hope  remains  ? Of  hope  the  full  possession, 
Or  generous  draft,  conceded  as  a gift, 

At  a- long  date — till  they  can  get  a fresh  one — 
Hawk’d  about  at  a discount,  small  or  large  ; 

Also  the  solace  of  an  overcharge. 

XLYI. 

But  these  are  trifles.  Downward  flies  my  lord, 
Nodding  beside  my  lady  in  his  carriage. 

Away  ! away  ! “Eresh  horses  !”  are  tne  word, 

And  changed  as  quickly  as  hearts  after  marriage ; 
The  obsequious  landlord  hath  the  change  restored ; 

The  postboys  have  no  reason  to  disparage 
Their  fee ; but  ere  the  water’d  wheels  may  hiss  hence 
The  ostler  pleads  too  for  a reminiscence. 

XLYII. 

’Tis  granted  ; and  the  valet  mounts  the  dickey — 

That  gentleman  of  lords  and  gentlemen ; 

Also  my  lady’s  gentlewoman,  tricky, 

Trick’d  out,  but  modest  more  than  poet’s  pen 
Can  paint, — “ Cosi  viaggino  i Ricchi!”  2 
(Excuse  a foreign  slipslop  now  and  then, 

If  but  to  show  I’ve  travell’d  ; and  what’s  travel, 
Unless  it  teaches  one  to  quote  and  cavil  ?) 

XLVIII. 

The  London  winter  and  the  country  summer 
Were  well  nigh  over.  ’Tis  perhaps  a pity, 

When  nature  wears  the  gown  that  doth  become  her, 
To  lose  those  best  months  in  a sweaty  city, 

And  wait  until  the  nightingale  grows  dumber, 
Listening  debates  not  very  wise  or  witty, 

(1)  “ Arcades  ambo.” 

(2)  [“Thus  the  rich  travel."] 

(3)  [Byron  was  too  good  by  nature  for  what  he  wished  to  be — he 
•ould  not  drain  the  blood  of  the  cavaliers  out  of  his  veins — he 


Ere  patriots  their  true  country  can  remember : — 

But  there’s  no  shooting  (save  grouse)  till  September.  I 
XLIX. 

I’ve  done  with  my  tirade.  The  world  was  gone ; 

The  twice  two  thousand,  for  whom  earth  Was  made  I 
We*e  vanish’d  to  be  what  they  call  alone — 

That  is,  with  thirty  servants  for  parade, 

As  many  guests,  or  more ; before  whom  groan 
As  many  covers,  duly,  daily  laid. 

Let  none  accuse  old  England’s  hospitality — 

Its  quantity  is  but  condensed  to  quality. 

L. 

Lord  Henry  and  the  Lady  Adeline 

Departed  like  the  rest  of  their  compeers, 

The  peerage,  to  a mansion  very  fine  ; 

The  Gothic  Babel  of  a thousand  years. 

None  than  themselves  could  boast  a longer  line, 

Where  time  through  heroes  and  through  beauties,  I 
And  oaks  as  olden  as  their  pedigree  [steers , I 

Told  of  their  sires,  a tomb  in  every  tree. 

lt. 

A paragraph  in  every  paper  told 

Of  their  departure  : such  is  modern  lame : 

’Tis  pity  that  it  takes  no  farther  hold 

Than  an  advertisement,  or  much  the  same ; 

When,  ere  the  ink  be  dry,  the  sound  grows  cold. 

The  Morning  Post  was  foremost  to  proclaim — 

“ Departure,  for  his  country  seat,  to-day. 

Lord  H.  Amundeville  and  Lady  A. 

LI  I. 

“ We  understand  the  splendid  host  intends 
To  entertain,  this  autumn,  a select 
And  numerous  party  of  his  noble  friends ; [correct. 
Midst  whom  we  have  heard,  from  sources  quite  : 

The  Duke  of  D the  shooting  season  spends, 

With  many  more  by  rank  and  fashion  deck’d; 

Also  a foreigner  of  high  condition, 

The  envoy  of  the  secret  Russian  mission.” 

Lin.  I 

And  thus  we  see — who  doubts  the  Morning  Post  ? 1 

(Whose  articles  are  like  the  “ Thirty-nine,” 

Which  those  most  swear  to  who  believe  them  most) — •'! 

Our  gay  Russ  Spaniard  was  ordain’d  to  shine, 

Deck’d  by  the  rays  reflected  from  his  host, 

With  those  who,  Pope  says,  “greatly  daring  dine.” — 1 
’Tis  odd,  but  true, — last  war  the  News  abounded 
More  with  these  dinners  than  the  kill’d  or  wounded : — 1 

LIV. 

As  thus  : “ On  Thursday  there  was  a grand  dinner ; .1 

Present,  Lords  A.  B.  C.” — Earls,  dukes,  by  name  J 
Announced  with  no  less  pomp  than  victory’s  winner  • 11 
Then  underneath,  and  in  the  very  same 
Column ; date,  “ Ealmouth.  There  has  lately  been  here 
The  Slap-dash  regiment,  so  well  known  to  fame  ; 
Whose  loss  in  the  late  action  we  regret : 

The  vacancies  are  fill’d  up — see  Gazette.” 

LV. 

To  Norman  Abbey  whirl’d  the  noble  pair, — 

An  old,  old  monastery  once,  and  now 
Still  older  mansion,3 — of  a rich  and  rare 
Mix’d  Gothic,  such  as  artists  all  allow 


could  not  cover  the  coronet  all  over  with  the  red  night  cap  : — hencf 
that  self-reproaching  melancholy  which  was  eternally  crossing  anc. 
unnerving  him, — hence  the  dark  heaving  of  soul  with  which  ho 
must  have  written,  in  his  Italian  villeggiatura,  this  glorious  descrip- 
tion of  his  own  lost  ancestral  seat. — Lockhart,  1824.] 


CANTO  SHI. 


DON  JUAN. 


731 


Few  specimens  yet  left  us  can  compare 
Withal  i1  it  lies  perhaps  a little  low, 

Because  the  monks  preferred  a hill  behind, 

To  shelter  their  devotion  from  the  wind.2 

LYI. 

It  stood  embosom’d  in  ajiappy  valley, 

Crown’d  by  high  woodlands,  where  the  Druid  oak 
Stood  like  Caractacus  in  act  to  rally 

His  host,  with  broad  arms  ’gainst  the  thunder- 
stroke ; 

And  from  beneath  his  boughs  were  seen  to  sally 
The  dappled  foresters — as  day  awoke, 

The  branching  stag  swept  down  with  all  his  herd, 

To  quaff  a brook  which  murmur’d  like  a bird.3 

LVII. 

Before  the  mansion  lay  a lucid  lake,4 
Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 
By  a river,  which  its  soften’d  way  did  take 
In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 
Around  : the  wildfowl  nestled  in  the  brake 
And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed : 

The  woods"  sloped  downwards  to  its  brink,  and  stood 
With  their  green  faces  fix’d  upon  the  flood. 

LVIII. 

Its  outlet  dash’d  into  a deep  cascade, 

Sparkling  with  foam,  until  again  subsiding, 

Its  shriller  echoes — like  an  infant  made 
Quiet — sank  into  softer  ripples,  gliding 
Into  a rivulet ; and  thus  allay’d, 

Pursued  its  course,  now  gleaming,  and  now  hiding 
Its  windings  through  the  woods ; now  clear,  now  blue, 
According  as  the  skies  their  shadows  threw. 

LIX. 

A glorious  remnant  of  the  Gothic  pile 
(While  yet  the  church  was  Rome’s)  stood  half  apart 
In  a grand  arch,  which  once  screen’d  many  an  aisle. 

These  last  had  disappear’d — a loss  to  art : 

The  first  yet  frown’d  superbly  o’er  the  soil, 

And  kindled  feelings  in  the  roughest  heart, 

Which  mourn’d  the  power  of  time’s  or  tempest’s 
In  gazing  on  that  venerable  arch.  [march, 

LX. 

Within  a niche,  nigh  to  its  pinnacle. 

Twelve  saints  had  once  stood  sanctified  in  stone  ; 


(1)  [“The  front  of  Newstead  Abbey  has  a most  noble  and  ma- 
jestic appearance ; being  built  in  the  form  of  the  west  end  of  a 
cathedral,  adorned  with  rich  carvings  and  lofty  pinnacles.” — Art. 
Newstead,  in  Beauties  of  England,  vol.  xii.] 

(2)  [“  How  sweetly  in  front  looked  the  transparent  water,  and 
the  light  of  religious  remains  (equall’d  by  no  architecture  scarcely 
in  the  kingdom,  except  that  of  York  cathedral),  backed  by  the 
most  splendid  field  beauties,  diversified  by  the  swells  of  the  earth 
on  which  they  were  rooted!” — Thorotom’s  Nottinghamshire .] 

(3)  [“The  beautiful  park  of  Newstede,  which  once  was  richly 
ornamented  with  two  thousand  seven  hundred  head  of  deer,  and 
numberless  fine  spreading  oaks,  is  now  divided  and  subdivided 
into  farms.”— I6id.] 

(4)  [See  antd,  p.  470. — 

“ I did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake, 

By  the  old  Hall,  which  may  be  mine  no  more : 

Letnan’s  is  fair;  but  think  not  I forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a dearer  shore ; 

Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make, 

Ere  that  or  than*  can  fade  these  eyes  before.” — 

Epistle  to  Augusta.] 

(5)  [See  antd,  p.  S78.] 

(fl,  [“  In  the  bow-window  of  the  Hall  there  are  yet  the  arms  of 


But  these  had  fallen,  not  when  the  friars  fell, 

But  in  the  war  which  struck  Charles  from  his 
throne, 

When  each  house  was  a fortalice — as  tell 
The  annals  of  full  many  a line  undone, — 

The  gallant  cavaliers,  who  fought  in  vain 
For  those  who  knew  not  to  resign  or  reign.5 

LXI. 

But  in  a higher  niche,  alone,  but  crown’d, 

The  Virgin  Mother  of  the  God-born  Child,6 
With  her  Son  in  her  blessed  arms,  look’d  round, 
Spared  by  some  chance  when  all  beside  was  spoil’d  ; 
She  made  the  earth  below  seem  holy  ground. 

This  may  be  superstition,  weak  or  wild, 

But  even  the  faintest  relics  of  a shrine 
Of  any  worship  wake  some  thoughts  divine. 

LXII. 

A mighty  window,  hollow  in  the  centre. 

Shorn  of  its  glass  of  thousand  colourings, 

Through  which  the  deepen’d  glories  once  could  enter. 
Streaming  from  off  the  sun  like  seraphs’  wings, 
Now  yawns  all  desolate  : now  loud,  now  fainter, 

The  gale  sweeps  through  its  fretwork,  and  oft  sings 
The  owl  his  anthem,  where  the  silenced  quire 
Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  quench’d  like  fire. 

LXIII. 

But  in  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  when 
The  wind  is  winged  from  one  point  of  heaven, 
There  moans  a strange  unearthly  sound,  which  then 
Is  musical — a dying  accent  driven 
Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sinks  again. 

Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 
Back  to  the  night  wind  by  the  waterfall, 

And  harmonised  by  the  old  choral  wall : 

LXIV. 

Others,  that  some  original  shape,  or  form 

Shaped  by  decay  perchance,  hath  given  the  power 
(Though  less  than  that  of  Memnon’s  statue,7  warm 
In  Egypt’s  rays,  to  harp  at  a fix’d  hour; 

To  this  grey  ruin,  with  a voice  to  charm  : 

Sad,  but  serene,  it  sweeps  o’er  tree  or  tower  ; 

The  cause  I know  not,  nor  can  solve ; but  such 
The  fact : — I’ve  heard  it,— once  perhaps  too  much.8 


Newstede  Priory,  viz.  England,  with  a chief  azure,  in  the  middle 
whereof  is  the  Virgin  Mary  with  Babe  or.”— TiiOROioy.] 

(7)  [The  history  of  this  wonderful  statue  seems  to  be  simply 
this : — Herodotus,  when  he  went  into  Egypt,  was  shown  the  frag- 
ments of  a colossus,  thrown  down  some  years  before  by  Cambyses. 
This  he  calls  Memnon;  but  says  not  a syllable  respecting  its  emit- 
ting a vocal  sound ; a prodigy  which  appears  to  have  been  an 
after-thought  of  the  priests  of  Thebes.  The  upper  part  of  this 
statue  has  been  covered  by  the  sand  for  many  ages;  it  is  that 
which  yet  remains  on  its  pedestal  which  performs  the  wonders 
mentioned  by  so  many  travellers — In  a word,  the  whole  appears 
to  have  been  a trick,  not  ill  adapted  to  such  a place  as  Egypt, 
where  men  went,  and  still  go,  with  a face  of  foolish  wonderment 
predisposed  to  swallow  the  grossest  absurdities.  The  sound  (for 
some  sound  there  was),  I incline  to  think,  with  De  Pauw,  proceeded 
from  an  excavation  near  the  plinth,  the  sides  of  whicli  might  be 
struck,  at  a preconcerted  moment,  with  a bar  sonorous  metal. 
Even  Savary,  who  saw  nothing  but  prodigies  in  Egypt,  treats  thic 
foolish  affair  as  an  artifice  of  the  priests.  So  much  for  the  harp  of 
Memnon! — Gifford.  See  also  Sir  David  Brewster’s  Natural 
Magic,  p.  234.] 

(8)  [“  Next  to  the  apartment  called  King  Edward  the  Third’s 
room,  on  account  of  that  monarch  having  slept  there,  is  the  sound 

! ing  gallery, — so  called  from  a very  remarkable  echo  which  it  pos- 
sesses.” — Art.  Neicstead,  in  Beauties  of  England,  vol.  xii.] 


732 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


CANTO  XIII 


IX  V. 

Amidst  the  court  a Gothic  fountain  play’d,1 

Symmetrical,  but  deck’d  with  carvings  quaint — 
Strange  faces,  like  to  men  in  masquerade, 

And  here  perhaps  a monster,  there  a saint : 

The  spring  gush’d  through  grim  mouths  of  granite 
And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent  [made, 
Its  little  torrent  in  a thousand  bubbles, 

Like  man’s  vain  glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles. 

LXVI. 

The  mansion’s  self  was  vast  and  venerable, 

With  more  of  the  monastic  than  has  been 
Elsewhere  preserved  : the  cloisters  still  were  stable. 
The  cells,  too,  and  refectory,  I ween  : 

An  exquisite  small  chapel  had  been  able, 

Still  unimpair’d,  to  decorate  the  scene  ;2 
The  rest  had  been  reform’d,  replaced,  or  sunk, 

And  spoke  more  of  the  baron  than  the  monk. 

LXVII. 

Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  chambers,  join’d 
By  no  quite  lawful  marriage  of  the  arts. 

Might  shock  a connoisseur ; hut  when  combined, 
Form’d  a whole  which,  irregular  in  parts, 

Yet  left  a grand  impression  on  the  mind, 

At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  are  in  their  hearts ; 
We  gaze  upon  a giant  for  his  stature, 

Nor  judge  at  first  if  all  be  true  to  nature. 

LXVIII. 

Steel  barons,  molten  the  next  generation 
To  silken  rows  of  gay  and  garter’d  earls, 

Glanced  from  the  walls  in  goodly  preservation : 

And  Lady  Marys  blooming  into  girls, 

With  fair  long  locks,  had  also  kept  their  station : 

And  countesses  mature  in  robes  and  pearls : 

Also  some  beauties  of  Sir  Peter  Lely, 

Whose  drapery  hints  we  may  admire  them  freely. 

LXIX. 

Judges  in  very  formidable  ermine 

Were  there,  with  brows  that  did  not  much  invite 
The  accused  to  think  their  lordships  would  determine 
His  cause  by  leaning  much  from  might  to  right : 
Bishops,  who  had  not  left  a single  sermon ; 

Attorneys-general,  awful  to  the  sight, 

As  hinting  more  (unless  our  judgments  warp  us) 

Of  the  “ Star  Chamber”  than  of  <c  Habeas  Corpus.” 

LXX. 

Generals,  some  all  in  armour,  of  the  old 
And  iron  time,  ere  lead  had  ta’en  the  lead  ; 

Others  in  wigs  of  Marlborough’s  martial  fold, 

Huger  than  twelve  of  our  "degenerate  breed  : 
Lordlings,  with  staves  of  white  or  keys  of  gold  : 
Nimrods,  whose  canvass  scarce  contain’d  the  steed; 
And  here  and  there  some  stern  high  patriot  stood, 
Who  could  not  get  the  place  for  which  he  sued. 

LXXI. 

But  ever  and  anon,  to  soothe  your  vision, 

Fatigued  with  these  hereditary  glories, 

9 : ■ 

(J)  [“  From  the  windows  of  the  gallery  over  the  cloisters,  we  see 
the  cloister  court,  with  a basin  in  the  centre,  used  as  a stew  for 
fish,  &c.” — Art.  Newslead,  in  Beauties  of  England,  vol.  xii.] 
t f“  The  cloisters  exactly  resemble  those  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
only  on  a sma.ler  scale;  but  possessing,  if  possible,  a more  vener- 
able appearance.  These  were  the  cloisters  of  the  ancient  abbey, 
and  manv  of  its  ancient  tenants  now  lie  in  silent  repose  under  the 
flagged  pavement.  The  anoient  chapel,  too,  is  still  entire;  its 


There  rose  a Carlo  Dolce  or  a Titian, 

Or  wilder  group  of  savage  Salvatore’s  :3 4 
Here  danced  Albano’s  boys,  and  here  the  sea  shone  > 
In  Vernet’s  ocean  lights;  and  there  the  stories 
Of  mart  yrs  awed,  as  Spagnolctto  tainted 
His  brush  with  all  the  blood  of  all  the  sainted. 

LXXII. 

Here  sweetly  spread  a landscape  of  Lorraine  ; 

There  Rembrandt  made  his  darkness  equal  light,  I 
Or  gloomy  Caravaggio’s  gloomier  stain 

Bronzed  o’er  some  lean  and  stoic  anchorite  : — 

But,  lo  ! a Teniers  woos,  and  not  in  vain, 

Your  eyes  to  revel  in  a livelier  sight ; 

His  bell-mouth’d  goblet  makes  me  feel  quite  Danish41: 
Or  Dutch  with  thirst — What  ho  ! a flask  of  RhenishB 

LXXIII. 

0 reader  ! if  that  thou  canst  read, — and  know, 

’Tis  not  enough  to  spell,  or  even  to  read, 

To  constitute  a reader  ; there  must  go 

Virtues  of  which  both  you  and  1 have  need. 

Firstly,  begin  with  the  beginning — (though 
That  clause  is  hard) ; and  secondly,  proceed  ; 
Thirdly,  commence  not  with  the  end — or,  sinning 
In  this  sort,  end  at  least,  with  the  beginning. 

LXXIV. 

But,  reader,  thou  hast  patient  been  of  late, 

While  I,  without  remorse  of  rhyme,  or  fear,’ 

Have  built  and  laid  out  ground  at  such  a rate, 

Dan  Phoebus  takes  me  for  an  auctioneer. 

That  poets  were  so  from  their  earliest  date, 

By  Homer’s  tc  catalogue  of  ships”  is  clear ; 

But  a mere  modern  must  be  moderate — 

1 spare  you  then  the  furniture  and  plate. 

LX  XV. 

The  mellow  autumn  came,  and  with  it  came 
The  promised  party,  to  enjoy  its  sweets. 

The  corn  is  cut,  the  manor  full  of  game  ; 

The  pointer  ranges,  and  the  sportsman  beats 
In  russet  jacket ; — lynx-like  is  his  aim  ; 

Full  grows  his  bag,  and  wonder/h/  his  feats. 

Ah,  nut  brown  partridges  ! Ah,  brilliant  pheasants  l 
And  ah,  ye  poachers  ! — ’Tis  no  sport  for  peasants.  ’ j 

LXXVI. 

An  English  autumn,  though  it  hath  no  vines, 

Blushing  with  Bacchant  coronals  along 
The  paths,  o’er  which  the  far  festoon  entwines 
The  red  grape  in  the  sunny  lands  of  song, 

Hath  yet  a purchased  choice  of  choicest  wines  ; 

The  claret  light,  and  the  Madeira  strong. 

If  Britain  mourn  her  bleakness,  we  can  tell  her, 

The  very  best  of  vineyards  is  the  cellar. 

J LXXVII. 

Then,  if  she  hath  not  that  serene  decline 

Which  makes  the  southern  autumn’s  day  appear 
As  if  ’t would  to  a second  spring  resign 
The  season,  rather  than  to  winter  drear, — 


ceiling  is  a very  handsome  specimen  of  the  Gothic  style  of  spring 

ing  arches.” — Art.  Newstead,  in  Beauties  of  England,  vol.  xii.] 

(3)  Salvator  Rosa — 

[“  Whate’er  Lorraine  light  touch’d  with  softening  hue,  ; 
Or  savage  Rosa  dash'd,  or  learned  Poussin  drew.” — 

Thomson’s  Castle  of  indolence .] 

(4)  If  I err  not,  “ your  Dane”  is  one  of  lago’s  catalogue  of  nationi 
“ exquisite  in  their  drinking.” 


CANTO  XIII. 


DOX  JU AX 


733 


Of  in-door  comforts  still  she  hath  a mine, — 
jfc  The  sea-coal  fires,  the  “ earliest  of  the  year : ” 1 
Without  doors,  too,  she.  may  compete  in  mellow, 

As  what  is  lost  in  green  is  gain’d  in  yellow. 

LXXYIII. 

And  for  the  effeminate  villeggiatura — [cliace, 

J Rife  with  more  horns  than  hounds — she  hath  the 
So  animated  that  it  might  allure  a 
Saint  from  his  beads  to  join  the  jocund  race ; 

Even  Nimrod’s  self  might  leave  the  plains  of  Dura,2 
, | And  wear  the  Melton  jacket3  for  a space  : 

If  she  hath  no  wild  boars,  she  hatli  a tame 
Preserve  of  bores,  who  ought  to  be  made  game. 

lxxix. 

The  noble  guests,  assembled  at  the  Abbey, 

Consisted  of — we  give  the  sex  the  pas — 

The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fulke  ; the  Countess  Crabby; 

The  Ladies  Scillv,  Busey : — Miss  Eclat, 

Miss  Bombazeen,  Miss  Mackstay,  Miss  O’Tabby, 

I And  Mrs.  Rabbi,  the  rich  banker’s  squaw  : 

Also  the  honourable  Mrs.  Sleep, 

Who  look’d  a white  lamb,  yet  was  a black  sheep  : 

LXXX. 

i With  other  Countesses  of  Blank — but  rank : 

I At  once  the  “lie”  and  the  “ elite”  of  crowds  ; 

Who  pass  like  water  filter’d  in  a tank, 

All  purged  and  pious  from  their  native  clouds ; 

Or  paper  turn’d  to  money  by  the  Bank : 

^No  matter  how  or  why,  the  passport  shrouds 
| The  “ passee”  and  the  past ; for  good  society 
Is  no  less  famed  for  tolerance  than  piety, — 

LXXXI. 

That  is,  up  to  a certain  point ; which  point 
I Forms  the  most  difficult  in  punctuation. 
Appearances  appear  to  form  the  joint 
On  which  it  hinges  in  a higher  station  ; 

And  so  that  no  explosion  cry  “ Aroint 
' Thee,  witch  !”4 5  or  each  Medea  has  her  Jason ; 

Or  (to  the  point  with  Horace  and  with  Pulci — 

“ Omne  tulit  punctum,  quse  miswrit  utile  dulci .” 

LXXXII. 

1 can’t,  exactly  trace  their  rule  of  right, 

» Which  hath  a little  leaning  to  a lottery. 

I’ve  seen  a virtuous  woman  put  down  quite 
By  the  mere  combination  of  a coterie  ; 

Also  a so-so  matron  boldly  fight 
Her  way  back  to  the  world  by  dint  of  plottery, 

And  shine  the  very  Siria 5 of  the  spheres. 

Escaping  with  a few  slight,  scarless  sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

I have  seen  more  than  I’ll  say  : — but  we  will  see 
How  our  villeggiatura  will  get  on. 

The  party  might  consist  of  thirty-three 

Of  highest  caste — the  Brahmins  of  the  ton. 

I have  named  a few,  not  foremost  in  degree, 

But  ta’en  at  hazard  as  the  rhyme  may  run. 


(1)  [“  Gray’s  omitted  stanza — 

* Here  scatter’d  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 

By  hands  unseen,  are  showers  of  violets  found; 

The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble  here, 

And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground.’ 

IS  as  fine  as  any  in  the  Elegy.  I wonder  that  he  coull  have  the 
Mart  to  omit  it.” — Byron  Diary,  Feb.  1821.] 

12)  In  Assyria. 


By  way  of  sprinkling,  scatter’d  amongst  these. 

There  also  were  some  Irish  absentees. 

LXXXIY. 

There  was  Parolles,  too,  the  legal  bully, 

WTho  limits  all  his  battles  to  the  bar 
And  senate  : when  invited  elsewhere,  truly, 

He  shows  more  appetite  for  words  than  war. 

There  was  the  young  bard  Rackrhyme,  who  had  newrj 
Come  out  and  glimmer’d  as  a six  weeks’  star. 

There  was  Lord  Pyrrho,  too,  the  great  freethinker ; 
And  Sir  John  Pottledeep,  the  mighty  drinker. 

LXXXY. 

There  was  the  Duke  of  Dash,  who  was  a — duke, 

“ Ay,  every  inch  a”  duke ; there  were  twelve  peers 
Like  Charlemagne’s — and  all  such  peers  in  look 
And  intellect,  that  neither  eyes  nor  ears 
For  commoners  had  ever  them  mistook. 

There  were  the  six  Miss  Rawbolds — pretty  dears  1 
All  song  and  sentiment ; whose  hearts  were  set 
Less  on  a convent  than  a coronet. 

LXXX  VI. 

There  were  four  Honourable  Misters,  whose 

Honour  was  more  before  their  names  than  after ; 
There  was  the  preux  Chevalier  de  la  Ruse,  [here, 
Whom  France  and  Fortune  lately  deign’d  to  waft 
Whose  chiefly  harmless  talent  was  to  amuse  ; 

But  the  clubs  found  it  rather  serious  laughter. 
Because — such  was  his  magic  power  to  please — 

The  dice  seem’d  charm’d,  too,  with  his  repartees. 

LXXX  VII. 

There  was  Dick  Dubious,  the  metaphysician, 

Who  loved  philosophy  and  a good  dinner ; 

Angle,  the  soi-disant  mathematician  ; 

Sir  Henry  Silvercup,  the  great  race-winner. 

There  was  the  Reverend  Rodomont  Precisian. 

Who  did  not  hate  so  much  the  sin  as  sinner  ; 

And  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet, 

Good  at  all  things,  but  better  at  a bet. 

LXXXYIII. 

There  was  Jack  Jargon,  the  gigantic  guardsman ; 

And  General  Fireface,  famous  in  the  field, 

A great  tactician,  and  no  less  a swordsman, 

Who  ate,  last  war,  more  Yankees  than  he  kill’d. 
There  was  the  waggish  Welsh  Judge,  Jefferies  Hards* * 
In  his  grave  office  so  completely  skill’d,  [man,6 
That  when  a culprit  came  for  condemnation. 

He  had  his  judge’s  joke  for  consolation. 

LXXXIX. 

Good  company’s  a chess-board — there  are  kings. 
Queens,  bishops,  knights,  rooks,  pawns ; the  world's 
a game  ; 

Save  that  the  puppets  pull  at  their  own  strings, 
Methinks  gav  Punch  hath  something  of  the  same. 
My  Muse,  the  butterfly,  hath  but  her  wings, 

Not  stings,  and  flits  through  ether  without  aim, 
Alighting  rarely : — were  she  but  a hornet, 

Perhaps  there  might  be  vices  wdiicli  would  mourn  it. 


(3)  [For  a graphic  account  of  Melton  Mowbray,  the  head- 
quarters of  the  English  chace,  see  Quarterly  Review,  vol.  xlviL 
p.  216.1 

(4)  [“  Aroint  thee,  witch  ! the  ramp-fed  ronyon  cries.” — Macbeth.  J 

(5)  Siria,  i.  e.  bitch-star. 

(6)  [Georee  Hardinge.  Esq.,  M.P.,  one  of  the  Welsh  judges,  died 
i in  1816.  His  works  were  collected,  in  1818,  by  Mr.  Nichols.] 


734 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  xru 


xc. 

I had  forgotten — out  must  not  forget — 

An  orator,  the  latest  of  the  session, 

Wrho  had  deliver’d  well  a very  set 
Smooth  speech,  his  first  and  maidenly  transgression 
Upon  debate : the  papers  echoed  yet 
With  his  debut,  which  made  a strong  impression. 
And  rank’d  with  what  is  every  day  display’d — 

“The  best  first  speech  that  ever  yet  was  made.” 

xci. 

Proud  of  his  “Hear  liims  !”  proud,  too,  of  his  vote 
And  lost  virginity  of  oratory, 

Proud  of  his  learning  (just  enough  to  quote). 

He  revell’d  in  his  Ciceronian  glory : 

With  memory  excellent  to  get  by  rote, 

With  wit  to  hatch  a pun  or  tell  a story, 

Graced  with  some  merit,  and  with  more  effrontery, 

“ His  country’s  pride,”  he  came  down  to  the  country. 

XCII. 

There  also  were  two  wits  by  acclamation, 

Longbow  from  Ireland,  Strongbow  from  the  Tweed,1 
Both  lawyers  and  both  men  of  education ; 

But  Strongbow’s  wit  was  of  more  polish’d  breed  : 
Longbow  was  rich  in  an  imagination 
As  beautiful  and  bounding  as  a steed, 

But  sometimes  stumbling  over  a potato, — [Cato. 

While  Strongbow’s  best  things  might  have  come  from 

XCIII. 

Strongbow  was  like  a new-tuned  harpsichord ; 

But  Longbow  wild  as  an  JEolian  harp, 

With  which  the  winds  of  heaven  can  claim  accord, 
And  make  a music,  whether  flat  or  sharp. 

Of  Strongbow’s  talk  you  would  not  change  a word : 

At  Longbow’s  phrases  you  might  sometimes  carp  : 
Both  wits — one  bom  so,  and  the  other  bred, 

This  by  his  heart — his  rival  by  his  head. 

xciv. 

If  all  these  seem  an  heterogeneous  mass 
To  be  assembled  at  a country  seat, 

Yet  think,  a specimen  of  every  class 
Is  better  than  a humdrum  tete-a-tete. 

The  days  of  Comedy  are  gone,  alas  ! 

When  Congreve’s  fool  could  vie  with  Moliere’s  bete: 
Society  is  smooth’d  to  that  excess, 

That  manners  hardly  differ  more  than  dress. 

xcv. 

Our  ridicules  are  kept  in  the  background — 

Ridiculous  enough,  but  also  dull ; 

Professions,  too,  are  no  more  to  be  found 
Professional ; and  there  is  nought  to  cull 
Of  folly’s  fruit : for  though  your  fools  abound, 

They’re  barren,  and  not  worth  the  pains  to  pull. 
Society  is  now  one  polish’d  horde, 

Form’d  of  two  mighty  tribes,  the  Bores  and  Bored. 

xcvi. 

But  from  being  farmers,  we  turn  gleaners,  gleaning 
The  scanty  but  right-well  thresh’d  ears  of  truth  ; 
And,  gentle  reader  ! when  you  gather  meaning, 

You  may  be  Boaz,  and  I — modest  Ruth. 


(1)  [Curran  and  Erskine.] 

(2)  “ Mrs.  Adams  answered  Mr.  Adams,  that  it  was  blasphemous 
to  talk  of  Scripture  out  of  church.”  This  dogma  was  broached 
to  her  husband  — the  best  Christian  in  any  book.— See  Joseph 
A ndrews. 


Farther  I’d  quote,  but  Scripture  intervening 
Forbids.  A great  impression  in  my  youth 
Was  made  by  Mrs.  Adams,  where  she  cries, 

“ That  Scriptures  out  of  church  are  blasphemies.” 1 

XCVII. 

But  what  we  can  we  glean  in  this  vile  age 
Of  chaff,  although  our  gleanings  be  not  grist. 

I must  not  quite  omit  the  talking  sage, 

Kit-Cat,  the  famous  Conversationist. 

Who,  in  his  common-place  book,  had  a page, 

Prepared  each  morn  for  evenings.  “ List,  oh  list ! 

“ Alas,  poor  ghost ! ” — What  unexpected  woes 
Await  those  who  have  studied  their  bon-mots  ! 

XCVIII. 

Firstly,  they  must  allure  the  conversation, 

By  many  windings,  to  their  clever  clinch ; 

And  secondly,  must  let  slip  no  occasion, 

Nor  bate  (abate)  their  hearers  of  an  inch, 

But  take  an  ell — and  make  a great  sensation, 

If  possible  ; and  thirdly,  never  flinch 
When  some  smart  talker  puts  them  to  the  test, 

But  seize  the  last  word,  which  no  doubt’s  the  best 

xeix. 

Lord  Henry  and  his  lady  were  the  hosts ; 

The  party  we  have  touch’d  on  were  the  guests. 

Their  table  was  a board  to  tempt  even  ghosts 
To  pass  the  Styx  for  more  substantial  feasts. 

I will  not  dwell  upon  ragouts  or  roasts. 

Albeit  all  human  history  attests 
That  happiness  for  man — the  hungry  sinner  ! — 

Since  Eve  ate  apples,  much  depends  on  dinner.3 

c. 

Witness  the  lands  which  “flow’d  with  milk  and  honey. 
Held  out  unto  the  hungry  Israelites  ; 

To  this  we  have  added  since,  the  love  of  money, 

The  only  sort  of  pleasure  which  requites. 

Youth  fades,  and  leaves  our  days  no  longer  sunny ; I 
We  tire  of  mistresses  and  parasites ; J 

But  oh,  ambrosial  cash  ! Ah  ! who  would  lose  thee  ? 1 
When  we  no  more  can  use,  or  even  abuse  thee ! 

ci. 

The  gentlemen  got  up  betimes  to  shoot, 

Or  hunt : the  young,  because  they  liked  the  sport — I 
The  first  thing  boys  like,  after  play  and  fruit ; 

The  middle-aged,  to  make  the  day  more  short ; I 
For  ennui  is  a growth  of  English  root, 

Though  nameless  in  our  language : — we  retort 
The  fact  for  words,  and  let  the  French  translate 
That  awful  yawn  which  sleep  can  not  abate. 

cn. 

The  elderly  walk’d  through  the  library, 

And  tumbled  books,  or  criticised  the  pictures, 

Or  saunter’d  through  the  gardens  piteously. 

And  made  upon  "the  hot-house  several  strictures, 

Or  rode  a nag  which  trotted  not  too  high, 

Or  on  the  morning  papers  read  their  lectures, 

Or  on  the  watch  their  longing  eyes  would  fix, 

Longing  at  sixty  for  the  hour  of  six. 

(3)  [“A  man  seldom  thinks  with  more  earnestness  of  any  thing 
than  he  does  of  his  dinner;  and  if  he  carnot  get  that  well 
dressed,  he  should  be  suspected  of  inaccuracy  in  other  tnings.  — 
Johnson.] 


DON  JUAN. 


735 


I CAN TO  XIV 

But  none  were  " gene  tlie  great  hour  of  union 
Was  rung  by  dinner’s  knell ; till  then  all  were 
Masters  of  their  own  time — or  in  communion, 

Or  solitary,  as  they  chose  to  bear 
The  hours,  which  how  to  pass  is  but  to  few  known. 

Each  rose  up  at  his  own,  and  had  to  spare 
What  time  he  chose  for  dress,  and  broke  his  fast 
When,  where,  and  how  he  chose  for  that  repast. 

I civ. 

The  ladies — some  rouged,  some  a little  pale — 

Met  the  morn  as  they  might.  If  fine,  they  rode, 
Or  walk’d;  if  foul,  they  read,  or  told  a tale. 

Sung,  or  rehearsed  the  last  dance  from  abroad; 
Discuss’d  the  fashion  which  might  next  prevail, 

And  settled  bonnets  by  the  newest  code, 

Or  cramm’d  twelve  sheets  into  one  little,  letter, 

To  make  each  correspondent  a new  debtor. 

cv. 

For  some  had  absent  lovers,  all  had  friends. 

The  earth  has  nothing  like  a she  epistle, 

And  hardly  heaven — because  it  never  ends. 

I love  the  mystery  of  a female  missal, 

;•  Which,  like  a creed,  ne’er  says  all  it  intends, 

But  full  of  cunning  as  Ulysses’  whistle, 
k When  he  allured  poor  Dolon  : — you  had  better 
Take  care  what  you  reply  to  such  a letter. 

cvi. 

Then  there  were  billiards  ; cards,  too,  but  no  dice  ; — 
Save  in  the  clubs  no  man  of  honour  plays  ; — 

Boats  when  ’twas  water,  skating  when  ’twas  ice, 

And  the  hard  frost  destroy’d  the  scenting  days : 
And  angling,  too,  that  solitary  vice, 

Whatever  Izaalc  Walton  sings  or  says  : 

The  quaint,  old,  cruel  coxcomb,  in  his  gullet 
Should  have  a hook,  and  a small  trout  to  pull  it.1 

CVII. 

With  evening  came  the  banquet  and  the  wine ; 

The  conversazione  ; the  duet, 

Attuned  by  voices  more  or  less  divine 

(My  heart  or  head  aches  with  the  memory  yet). 

The  four  Miss  Bawbolds  in  a glee  would  shine  ; 

But  the  two  youngest  loved  more  to  be  set 
Down  to  the  harp — because  to  music’s  charms. 

They  added  graceful  necks,  white  hands  and  arms. 

cvm. 

Sometimes  a dance  (though  rarely  on  field  days, 

For  then  the  gentlemen  were  rather  tired) 
Display’d  some  sylph-like  figures  in  its  maze ; 

Then  there  was  small-talk  ready  when  required  ; 
Flirtation — but  decorous  ; the  mere  praise 

Of  charms  that  should  or  should  not  be  admired. 
The  hunters  fought  their  fox-hunt  o’er  again, 

And  then  retreated  soberly — at  ten. 


(1)  It  would  have  taught  him  humanity  at  least.  This  senti- 
mental savage,  whom  it  is  a mode  to  quote  (amongst  the  novelists) 
to  show  their  sympathy  for  innocent  sports  and  old  songs,  teaches 
how  to  sew  up  frogs,  and  break  their  legs  by  way  of  experiment,  in 
addition  to  the  art  of  angling, — the  cruelest,  the  coldest,  and  the 
stupidest  of  pretended  sports.  They  may  talk  about  the  beauties 
of  nature,  but  the  angler  merely  thinks  of  his  dish  of  fish ; he  has 
no  leisure  to  take  his  eyes  from  off  the  streams,  and  a single  bile  is 
worth  to  him  more  than  all  the  scenery  around.  Besides,  some  fish 
bite  best  on  a rainy  day.  The  whale,  the  shark,  and  the  tunny  fishery 


CIX. 

The  politicians,  in  a nook  apart, 

Discuss’d  the  world,  and  settled  all  the  spheres  : 
The  wits  watch’d  every  loophole  for  their  art, 

To  introduce  a bon-mot  head  and  ears ; 

Small  is  the  rest  of  those  who  would  be  smar\ 

A moment’s  good  thing  may  have  cost  them  years. 
Before  they  find  an  hour  to  introduce  it ; 

And  then,  even  then , some  bore  may  make  them  lose  it. 

cx. 

But  all  was  gentle  and  aristocratic 

In  this  our  party ; polish’d,  smooth,  and  cold, 

As  Phidian  forms  cut  out  of  marble  Attic. 

There  now  are  no  Squire  Westerns  as  of  old  ; 

And  our  Sophias  are  not  so  emphatic, 

But  fair  as  then,  or  fairer  to  behold. 

We  have  no  accomplished  blackguards,  like  Tom  Jones, 
But  gentlemen  in  stays,  as  stiff  as  stones. 

CXI. 

They  separated  at  an  early  hour  ; 

That  is,  ere  midnight — which  is  London’s  noon 
But  in  the  country  ladies  seek  their  bower 
A little  earlier  than  the  waning  moon. 

Peace  to  the  slumbers  of  each  folded  flower — 

May  the  rose  call  back  its  true  colour  soon  1 
Good  hours  of  fair  cheeks  are  the  fairest  tinters. 

And  lower  the  price  of  rouge — at  least  some  winters* 


Bon  gjuan. 


CANTO  THE  FOURTEENTH# 


I. 

If  from  great  nature’s  or  our  own  abyss 
Of  thought  we  could  but  snatch  a certainty, 

Perhaps  mankind  might  find  the  path  they  miss— 

But  then  ’twould  spoil  much  good  philosophy. 

One  system  eats  another  up,  and  this 
Much  as  old  Saturn  ate  his  progeny ; 

For  when  his  pious  consort  gave  him  stones 

In  lieu  of  sons,  of  these  he  made  no  bones. 

II. 

But  System  doth  reverse  the  Titan’s  breakfast, 

And  eats  her  parents,  albeit  the  digestion 

Is  difficult.  Pray  tell  me,  can  you  make  fast, 

After  due  search,  your  faith  to  any  question  ? 

Look  back  o’er  ages,  ere  unto  the  stake  fast 

You  bind  yourself,  and  call  some  mode  the  best  one. 

Nothing  more  true  than  not  to  trust  your  senses ; 

And  yet  what  are  your  other  evidences  ? 


have  somewhat  of  noble  and  perilous  in  them ; even  net  fishing, 
trawling,  &c.  are  more  humane  and  useful.  But  angling! — no 
angler  can  be  a good  man. 

“ One  of  the  best  men  I ever  knew, — as  humane,  delicate- 
minded,  generous,  and  excellent  a creature  as  any  in  the  world, — 
was  an  angler:  true,  he  angled  with  painted  fiies,  and  would  have 
been  incapable  of  the  extravagancies  of  I.  Walton.” 

The  above  addition  was  made  by  a friend  in  reading  over  the 
MS. — “Audi  alteram  partem.  ' — I leave  it  to  counterbalaace  my 
own  observation. 


736 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XIV 


III. 

For  me,  I know  nought ; nothing  I deny, 

Admit,  reject,  contemn ; and  what  know  you , 
Except  perhaps  that  yon  were  born  to  die  ? 

And  both  may  after  all  turn  out  untrue. 

An  age  may  come,  Font  of  Eternity, 

When  nothing  shall  be  either  old  or  new. 

Death,  so  call’d,  is  a thing  which  makes  men  weep, 
And  yet  a third  of  life  is  pass’d  in  sleep. 

IV. 

A sleep  without  dreams,  after  a rough  day 
Of  toil,  is  what  we  covet  most ; and  yet 
How  clay  shrinks  back  from  more  quiescent  clay ! 

The  very  Suicide  that  pays  his  debt 
At  once  without  instalment's  (an  old  way 
Of  paying  debts,  which  creditors  regret) 

Lets  out  impatiently  his  rushing  breath, 

Less  from  disgust  of  life  than  dread  of  death. 

v. 

’Tis  round  him,  near  him,  here,  there,  everywhere; 

And  there’s  a courage  which  grows  out  of  fear, 
Perhaps  of  all  most  desperate,  which  will  dare 
The  worst  to  know  it : — when  the  mountains  rear 
Their  peaks  beneath  your  human  foot,  and  there 
You  look  down  o’er  the  precipice,  and  drear 
The  gulf  of  rock  yawns, — you  can’t  gaze  a minute. 
Without  an  awful  wish  to  plunge  within  it. 

VI. 

’Tis  true,  you  don’t — but,  pale  and  struck  with  terror, 
Retire  : but  look  into  your  past  impression  ! 

And  you  will  find,  though  shuddering  at  the  mirror 
Of  your  own  thoughts,  in  all  their  self-confession, 
The  lurking  bias,  be  it  truth  or  error, 

To  the  unknown  ; a secret  prepossession, 

To  plunge  with  all  your  fears — but  where?  You 
know  not, 

And  that’s  the  reason  why  you  do — or  do  not. 

VII. 

But  what’s  this  to  the  purpose  ? you  will  say. 

Gent,  reader,  nothing ; a mere  speculation, 

For  which  my  sole  excuse  is — ’tis  my  way, 

Sometimes  with  and  sometimes  without  occasion 
[ write  what’s  uppermost,  without  delay  ; 

This  narrative  is  not  meant  for  a narration, 

But  a mere  airy  and  fantastic  basis, 

To  build  up  common  things  with  common  places. 

VIII. 

You  know,  or  don’t  know,  that  great  Bacon  saith, 

“ Fling  up  a straw,  ’twill  show  the  way  the  wind 
blows ,” 

And  such  a straw,  borne  on  by  human  breath, 

Is  poesy,  according  as  the  mind  glows  ; 

A paper  kite  which  flies  ’twixt  life  and  death, 

A shadow  which  the  onward  soul  behind  throws  : 
And  mine’s  a bubble,  not  blown  up  for  praise. 

But  just  to  play  with,  as  an  infant  plays. 

IX. 

The  world  is  all  before  me — or  behind  ; 

For  I have  seen  a portion  of  that  same, 

And  quite  enough  for  me  to  keep  in  mind ; — 

Of  passions,  too,  I have  proved  enough  to  blame, 

To  the  great  pleasure  of  our  friends,  mankind, 

Who  like  to  mix  some  slight  alloy  with  fame ; 

For  1 was  rather  famous  in  my  time, 

Until  I fairly  knock’d  it  up  with  rhyme. 


X. 

I have  brought  this  world  about  my  ears,  and  eke 
The  other  : that’s  to  say,  the  clergy — who 
Upon  my  head  have  bid  their  thunders  break 
In  pious  libels  by  no  means  a few. 

And  yet  I can’t  help  scribbling  once  a week, 

Tiring  old  readers,  nor  discovering  new. 

In  youth  I wrote  because  my  mind  was  full, 

And  now  because  1 feel  it  growing  dull. 

XI. 

But  “why  then  publish?”1 — There  are  no  rewards 
Of  fame  or  profit  when  the  world  grows  weary. 

I ask  in  turn, — Why  do  you  play  at  cards  ? [dreary. 

Why  drink  ? Why  read  ? — To  make  some  hour  less 
It  occupies  me  to  turn  back  regards 

On  what  I ’ve  seen  or  ponder’d,  sad  or  cheery ; 

And  what  I write  I cast  upon  the  stream, 

To  swim  or  sipk — I have  had  at  least  my  dream. 

XII. 

I think  that  were  I certain  of  success, 

I hardly  could  compose  another  line : 

So  long  I’ve  battled  either  more  or  less, 

That  no  defeat  can  drive  me  from  the  Nine. 

This  feeling  ’tis  not  easy  to  express, 

And  yet  ’tis  not  affected,  1 opine. 

In  play,  there  are  two  pleasures  for  your  choosing — 
The  one  is  winning,  and  the  other  losing. 

XIII. 

Besides,  my  Muse  by  no  means  deals  in  fiction  : 

She  gathers  a repertory  of  facts, 

Of  course  with  some  reserve  and  slight  restriction, 
But  mostly  sings  of  human  things  and  acts — 

And  that’s  one  cause  she  meets  with  contradiction ; 

For  too  much  truth,  at  first  sight,  ne’er  attracts ; 
And  were  her  object  only  what’s  call’d  glory. 

With  more  ease  too  she’d  tell  a different  story. 

XIV. 

Love,  war,  a tempest — surely  there’s  variety  ; 

Also  a seasoning  slight  of  lucubration ; 

A bird’s  eye  view,  too,  of  that  wild,  Society ; 

A slight  glance  thrown  on  men  of  every  station. 

If  you  have  nought  else,  here’s  at  least  satiety, 

Both  in  performance  and  in  preparation ; 

And  though  these  lines  should  only  line  portmanteaus. 
Trade  will  be  all  the  better  for  these  Cantos. 

xv. 

The  portion  of  this  world  which  I at  present 
Have  taken  up  to  fill  the  following  sermon, 

Is  one  of  which  there’s  no  description  recent : 

The  reason  why,  is  easy  to  determine : 

Although  it  seems  both  prominent  and  pleasant. 

There  is  a sameness  in  its  gems  and  ermine, 

A dull  and  family  likeness  through  all  ages, 

Of  no  great  promise  for  poetic  pages. 

XVI. 

With  much  to  excite,  there’s  little  to  exalt ; 

Nothing  that  speaks  to  all  men  and  all  times ; 

A sort  of  varnish  over ‘every  fault; 

A kind  of  common-place,  even  in  their  crimes  ; 
Factitious  passions,  wit  without  much  salt, 

A want  of  that  true  nature  which  sublimes 
Whate’er  it  shows  with  truth  ; a smooth  monotony 
Of  character,  in  those  at  least  who  have  got  any. 


(1)  [“  But  why  then  publish  ? — Granville,  the  polite, 

And  knowing  Walsh,  would  tell  me  1 could  write.” 

POP  E.J 


CANTO  XIV. 


DON  JUAN. 


737 


XVII. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  like  soldiers  off  parade, 

I*  They  break  their  ranks  and  gladly  leave  the  drill ; 
But  then  the  roll-call  draws  them  back  afraid, 

■ And  they  must  be  or  seem  what  they  were : still 

Doubtless  it  is  a brilliant  masquerade ; 

■ But  when  of  the  first  sight  you  have  had  your  fill, 

It.  palls — at  least  it  did  so  upon  me, 

This  paradise  of  pleasure  and  ennui. 

XVIII. 

When  we  have  made  our  love,  and  gamed  our  gaming, 
V Drest,  voted,  shone,  and,  may  be,  something  more ; 
With  dandies  dined ; heard  senators  declaiming  ; 

I Seen  beauties  brought  to  market  by  the  score. 

Sad  rakes  to  sadder  husbands  chastely  taming ; 

I There’s  little  left  but  to  be  bored  or  bore. 

Witness  those  “ ci-devant  jeunes  homines”  who  stem 
The  stream,  nor  leave  the  world  which  leaveth  them. 

xix. 

’Tis  said — indeed  a general  complaint— 

I That  no  one  has  succeeded  in  describing 
The  monde,  exactly  as  they  ought  to  paint : 

I Some  say,  that  authors  only  snatch,  by  bribing 
The  porter,  some  slight ’scandals  strange  and  quaint, 
{/,.  To  furnish  matter  for  their  moral  gibing ; 

And  that  their  books  have  but  one  style  in  common — 
My  lady’s  prattle,  filter’d  through  her  woman. 

xx. 

But  this  can’t  well  be  true,  just  now  ; for  writers 
r Are  grown  of  the  beau,  monde  a part  potential : 

I’ve  seen  them  balance  even  the  scale  with  fighters, 

J Especially  when  young,  for  that’s  essential. 

Why  do  their  sketches  fail  them  a3  inditers 
■ Of  what  they  deem  themselves  most  consequential, 
The  real  portrait  of  the  highest  tribe  ? 

’Tis  that,  in  fact,  there’s  little  to  describe. 

XXI. 

1 “ Baud  ignara  loquor  these  are  Nuga,  “ quarum 
Pars  parva  fai but  still  art  and  part. 

Now  I could  much  more  easily  sketch  a harem, 

I . A battle,  wreck,  or  history  of  the  heart, 

Than  these  things  ; and  besides,  I wish  to  spare  ’em, 
Eor  reasons  which  I choose  to  keep  apart. 

“ Veiaho  Cereris  sacrum  qui  vulgar  it” — 1 
Which  means  that  vulgar  people  must  not  share  it. 

XXII. 

And  therefore  what  I throw  off  is  ideal — 

Lower’d,  leaven’d  like  a history  of  freemasons  ; 
"Which  bears  the  same  relation  to  the  real,  ^ 

As  Captain  Parry’s  voyage  may  do  to  Jason’s. 

The  grand  arcanum’s  not  for  men  to  see  all ; 

My  music  has  some  mystic  diapasons  ; 

And  there  is  much  which  could  not  be  appreciated 
In  any  manner  by  the  uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas ! worlds  fall— and  woman,  since  she  fell’d 
j The  world  (as,  since  that  history,  less  polite 
Than  true,  hath  been  a creed  so  strictly  held) 

■ Has  not  yet  given  up  the  practice  quite. 

Poor  thing  of  usages  ! coerced,  compell’d, 

Victim  when  wrong,  and  martyr  oft  when  right. 
Condemn’d  to  child-bed,  as  men  for  their  sins 
Have  shaving  too  entail’d  upon  their  chins, — 


XXIV. 

A daily  plague,  which  in  the  aggregate 
Mav  average  on  the  whole  with  parturition. 

But  as  to  women,  who  can  penetrate 

The  real  sufferings  of  their  she  condition  ? 

Man’s  very  sympathy  with  their  estate 

Has  much  of  selfishness,  and  more  suspicion. 

Their  love,  their  virtue,  beauty,  education, 

But  form  good  housekeepers,  to  breed  a nation. 

XXV. 

All  this  were  very  well,  and  can’t  be  better ; 

But  even  this  is  difficult,  Heaven  knows, 

So  many  troubles  from  her  birth  beset  her, 

Such  small  distinction  between  friends  and  foes. 

The  gilding  wears  so  soon  from  off  her  fetter, 

That but  ask  any  woman  if  she’d  choose 

(Take  her  at  thirty,  that  is)  to  have  been 
Eemale  or  male  ? a schoolboy  or  a queen  ? 

XXVI. 

“ Petticoat  influence”  is  a great  reproach, 

Which  even  those  who  obey  would  fain  be  thought 
To  fly  from,  as  from  hungry  pikes  a roach  ; 

But  since  beneath  it  upon  earth  we  are  brought, 

By  various  joltings  of  life’s  hackney  coach, 

I for  one  venerate  a petticoat — 

A garment  of  a mystical  sublimity, 

No  matter  whether  russet,  silk,  or  dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much  I respect,  and  much  I have  adored, 

In  my  young  days,  that  chaste  aud  goodly  veil, 
Which  holds  aHeasure,  like  a miser’s  hoard, 

And  more  attracts  by  all  it  doth  conceal — 

A golden  scabbard  on  a Damasque  sword, 

A loving  letter  with  a mystic  seal, 

A cure  for  grief — for  what  can  ever  rankle 
Before  a petticoat  and  peeping  ankle  ? 

XXVIII. 

And  when  upon  a silent,  sullen  day, 

With  a sirocco,  for  example,  blowing, 

When  even  the  sea  looks  dim  with  all  its  spray, 

And  sulkily  the  river’s  ripple’s  flowing, 

And  the  sky  shows  that  very  ancient  gray, 

The  sober,  sad  antithesis  to  glowing,— 

’Tis  pleasant,  if  then  any  thing  is  pleasant, 

To  catch  a glimpse  even  of  a pretty  peasant. 

XXIX. 

We  left  our  heroes  and  our  heroines 

In  that  fair  clime  which  don’t  depend  on  climate, 
Quite  independent  of  the  Zodiac’s  signs, 

Though  certainly  more  difficult  to  rhyme  at. 
Because  the  sun,  and  stars,  and  aught  that  shines, 
Mountains,  and  all  we  can  be  most  sublime  at, 

Are  there  oft  dull  and  dreary  as  a dun— 

Whether  a sky’s  or  tradesman’s  is  all  one. 

XXX. 

An  in-door  life  is  less  poetical ; 

And  out  of  door  hath  showers,  and  mists,  and  sleet 
With  which  I could  not  brew  a pastoral. 

But  be  it  as  it  may,  a bard  must  meet 
All  difficulties,  whether  great  or  small, 

To  spoil  his  undertaking  or  complete, 

And  work  away  like  spirit  upon  matter, 

Embarrass’d  somewhat  both  with  fire  and  water. 

5 B 


(1)  [Hor.  Carm.  1.  iii.  od.  2.] 


738 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XI Y 


XXXI. 

J «an — in  this  respect,  at  least,  like  saints — 

Was  ail  things  unto  people  of  all  sorts, 

Arid  lived  contentedly,  without  complaints, 

In  camps,  in  ships,  in  cottages,  or  courts — ■ 

Born  with  that  happy  soul  which  seldom  faints, 

And  mingling  modestly  in  toils  or  sports. 

He  likewise  could  be  most  things  to  all  women, 
Without  the  coxcombry  of  certain  she  men. 

XXXII. 

A fox-hunt  to  a foreigner  is  strange  ; 

’Tis  also  subject  to  the  double  danger 
Of  tumbling  first,  and  having  in  exchange 

Some  pleasant  jesting  at  the  awkward  stranger  : 
But  Juan  had  been  early  taught  to  range 
The  wilds,  as  doth  an  Arab  turn’d  avenger, 

So  that  his  horse,  or  charger,  hunter,  hack, 

Knew  that  he  had  a rider  on  his  back. 

XXXIII. 

And  now  in  this  new  field,  with  some  applause, 

He  clear’d  hedge,  ditch,  and  double  post,  and  rail, 
And  never  craned and  made  but  few  “faux pus” 
And  only  fretted  when  the  scent  ’gan  fail. 

He  broke,  ’tis  true,  some  statutes  of  the  laws 
Of  hunting — for  the  sagest  youth  is  frail ; 

Rode  o’er  the  hounds,  it  may  be,  now  and  then, 

And  once  o’er  several  country  gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 

But  on  the  whole,  to  general  admiration 
He  acquitted  both  himself  and  horse  : the  squires 
Marvell’d  at  merit  of  another  nation; 

The  boors  cried  “ Dang  it ! wlio’d  have  thoua-ht 
it?”— Sires, 

The  Nestors  of  the  sporting  generation, 

Swore  praises,  and  recall’d  their  former  fires  ; 

The  huntsman’s  self  relented  to  a grin, 

And  rated  him  almost  a whipper-in. 

XXXV. 

Such  were  his  trophies — not  of  spear  and  shield, 

But  leaps,  and  bursts,  and  sometimes  foxes’  brushes ; 
Yet  I must  own, — although  in  this  I yield 
To  patriot  sympathy  a Briton’s  blushes, — 

He  thought  at  heart  like  courtly  Chesterfield, 

Who,  after  a long  chase  o’er  hills,  dales,  bushes, 
And  what  not,  though  he  rode  beyond  all  price, 

Ask’d  next  day,  “ If  men  ever  hunted  twice?”2 

XXXVI. 

He  also  had  a quality  uncommon 
To  early  risers  after  a long  chace, 

Who  wake  in  winter  ere  the  cock  can  summon 
December’s  drowsy  day  to  his  dull  race, — 

A quality  agreeable  to  woman, 

When  her  soft,  liquid  words  run  on  apace, 

Who  likes  a listener,  whether  saint  or  sinner, — 

He  did  not  fall  asleep  just  after  dinner ; 


) Craning. — “To  crane"  is,  or  was,  an  expression  used  to 
denote  a gentleman’s  stretching  out  his  neck  over  a hedge,  “ to  look 
before  he  leaped;” — a pause  in  his  “vaulting  ambition,”  which  in 
toe  field  doth  occasion  some  delay  and  execration  in  those  who  may 
be  immediately  behind  the  equestrian  sceptic.  “Sir,  if  you  don’t 
choose  to  take  the  leap,  let  me  1 ” — was  a phrase  which  generally 
sent  the  aspirant  on  again  ; and  to  good  purpose:  for  though  “ the 
horse  and  rider”  might  fall,  they  made  a gap  through  which,  and 
»v«r  him  and  his  steed,  the  field  might  follow. 


XXXVII. 

But,  light  and  airy,  stood  on  the  alert, 

And  shone  in  the  best  part  of  dialogue, 

By  humouring  always  what  they  might  assert, 

And  listening  to  the  topics  most  in  vogue ; 

Now  grave,  now  gay,  but  never  dull  or  pert; 

And  smiling  but  in  secret— cunning  rogue  ! 

He  ne’er  presumed  to  make  an  error  clearer : — 

In  short,  there  never  was  a better  hearer. 

XXXVIII. 

And  then  lie  danced ; — all  foreigners  excel 
The  serious  Angles  in  the  eloquence 
Of  pantomime ; he  danced,  I say,  right  well, 

With  emphasis,  and  also  with  good  sense — 

A thing  in  footing  indispensable  ; 

He  danced  without  theatrical  pretence. 

Not  like  a ballet-master  in  the  van 

Of  his  drill’d  nymphs,  but  like  a gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste  were  his  steps,  each  kept  within  due  bound, 
And  elegance  was  sprinkled  o’er  his  figure : 

Like  swift  Camilla,  he  scarce  skimm’d  the  ground,3 
And  rather  held  in  than  put  forth  his  vigour; 

And  then  he  had  an  ear  for  music’s  sound, 

Which  might  defy  a crotchet  critic’s  rigour. 

Such  classic  pas — sans  flaws — set  off  our  hero, 

He  glanced  like  a personified  Bolero  ;4 

XL. 

Or  like  a flying  Hour  before  Aurora, 

In  Guido’s  famous  fresco,5  which  alone 
Is  worth  a tour  to  Rome,  although  no  more  a 
Remnant  were  there  of  the  old  world’s  sole  throne.  ; 
The  “ tout  ensemble ” of  his  movements  wore  a 
Grace  of  the  soft  ideal,  seldom  shown, 

And  ne’er  to  be  described ; for,  to  the  dolour 
Of  bards  and  prosers,  words  are  void  of  colour. 

XLI. 

No  marvel  then  he  was  a favourite; 

A full-grown  Cupid,  very  much  admired ; 

A little  spoilt,  but  by  no  means  so  quite ; 

At  least  he  kept  liis  vanity  retired. 

Such  was  his  tact,  he  could  alike  delight 
The  chaste,  and  those  who  are  not  so  much  inspired,  i 
The  DucheSs  of  Fitz-Fulke,  who  loved  “ tracasserie”  l 
Began  to  treat  him  with  some  small  “ agacerie” 

XLII. 

She  was  a fine  and  somewhat  full-blown  blonde, 
Desirable,  distinguish’d,  celebrated 
For  several  winters  in  the  grand,  grand  mo?ide. 

I’d  rather  not  say  what  might  be  related 
Of  her  exploits,  for  this  were  ticklish  ground ; 

Besides,  there  might  be  falsehood  in  what’s  stated : 
Her  late  performance  had  been  a dead  set 
At  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 


(2)  See  his  Letters  to  his  Son. 

(3)  [ “ as  she  skimm’d  along, 

Her  flying  feet  unbath’d  on  billows  hung.” — Dkvdin's  Virgil.] 

(4)  [A.  Spanish  dance  noted  for  its  liveliness.] 

(5)  [Guido’s  most  celebrated  work,  in  the  palaces  of  Rome,  is  his 
fresco  of  the  Aurora,  in  the  Palazzo  Rospigliosi. — Biitant.*  ' 


CANTO  XIV. 


DON  JUAN. 


739 


XLIII. 

This  noble  personage  began  to  look 
A little  black  upon  this  new  flirtation ; 

But  such  small  licences  must  lovers  brook, 

Mere  freedoms  of  the  female  corporation. 

Woe  to  the  man  who  ventures  a rebuke  ! 

’Twill  but  precipitate  a situation 
Extremely  disagreeable,  but  common 
To  calculators  when  they  count  on  woman. 

XLIV. 

The  circle  smiled,  then  whisper’d,  and  then  sneer’d ; 

The  Misses  bridled,  and  the  matrons  frown’d ; 

Some  hoped  things  might  not  turn  out  as  they  fear’d  ; 

Some  would  not  deem  such  women  could  be  found ; 
Some  ne’er  believed  one  half  of  what  they  heard  : 
Some  look’d  perplex’d,  and  others  look’d  profound : 
And  several  pitied  with  sincere  regret 
Poor  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLV. 

But  what  is  odd,  none  ever  named  the  duke. 

Who,  one  might  think,  was  something  in  the  affair : 
True,  he  was  absent,  and,  ’twas  rumour’d,  took 
But  small  concern  about  the  when,  or  where,  - 
Or  what  his  consort  did : if  he  could  brook 
Her  gaieties,  none  had  a right  to  stare : 

Theirs  was  that  best  of  unions,  past  all  doubt, 

Which  never  meets,  and  therefore  can’t  fall  out. 

XLVI. 

But,  oh  ! that  I should  ever  pen  so  sad  a line ! 

Fired  with  an  abstract  love  of  virtue,  she, 

My  Dian  of  the  Ephesians,  Lady  Adeline, 

Began  to  think  the  duchess’  conduct  free ; 
Regretting  much  that  she  had  chosen  so  bad  a line, 
And  waxing  chiller  in  her  courtesy, 

Look’d  grave  and  pale  to  see  her  friend’s  fragility, 

For  which  most  friends  reserve  their  sensibility. 

XLVII. 

There’s  nought  ir.  this  bad  world  like  sympathy : 

’Tis  so  becoming  to  the  soul  and  face, 

Sets  lo  soft  music  the  harmonious  sigh, 

And  robes  sweet  friendship  in  a Brussels  lace. 
Without  a friend,  what  were  humanity, 

To  hunt  our  errors  up  with  a good  grace  ? 

Consoling  us  with — “Would  you  had  thought  twice  ! 
Ah  ! if  you  had  but  follow’d  my  advice  1” 

XLVIII. 

0 Job  ! you  had  two  friends : one’s  quite  enough, 
Especially  when  we  are  ill  at  ease ; 

They  are  but  bad  pilots  when  the  weather’s  rough, 
Doctors  less  famous  for  their  cures  than  fees. 

Let  no  man  grumble  when  his  friends  fall  off, 

As  they  will  do  like  leaves  at  the  first  breeze  : 

When  your  affairs  come  round,  one  way  or  t’other, 

Go  to  the  coffee-house,  and  take  another.1 

XLIX. 

But  tins  is  not  my  maxim  : had  it  been,  [not — 

Some  heart-aches  had  been  spared  me : yet  I care 
L would  not  be  a tortoise  in  his  screen  [not. 

Of  stubborn  shell,  which  waves  and  weather  wear 


(1 ) In  Swift’s  or  Horace  Walpole’s  letters  I think  it  is  mentioned 
that  somebody,  regretting  the  loss  of  a friend,  was  answered  by  an 
universal  Pylades : “ When  I lose  one,  I go  to  the  Saint  James’s 
Coffee-house,  and  take  another.”  1 recollect  having  heard  an 
anecdote  of  the  same  kind. — Sir  W.  D.  was  a great  gamester. 


’Tis  better  on  the  whole  to  have  felt  and  seen 
That  which  humanity  may  bear,  or  bear  not: 
’Twill  teach  discernment  to  the  sensitive, 

And  not  to  pour  their  ocean  in  a sieve. 

l. 

Of  all  the  horrid,  hideous  notes  of  woe, 

Sadder  than  owl-songs  or  the  midnight  blast. 

Is  that  portentous  phrase,  “ I told  you  so,” 

Utter’d  by  friends,  those  prophets  of  the  past. 
Who,  ’stead  of  saying  what  you  now  should  do, 

Own  they  foresaw  that  you  would  fall  at  last. 

And  solace  your  slight  lapse  ’gainst  “ bonos  mores , 
With  a long  memorandum  of  old  stories. 

U. 

The  Lady  Adeline’s  serene  severity 

Was  not  confined  to  feeling  for  her  friend, 

Whose  fame  she  rather  doubted  with  posterity, 
Unless  her  habits  should  begin  to  mend : 

But  Juan  also  shared  in  her  austerity. 

But  mix’d  with  pity,  pure  as  e’er  was  penn’d : 

His  inexperience  moved  her  gentle  ruth, 

And  (as  her  junior  by  six  weeks)  his  youth. 

LII. 

These  forty  days’  advantage  of  her  years — 

And  hers  were  those  which  can  face  calculation, 
Boldly  referring  to  the  list  of  peers 

And  noble  births,  nor  dread  the  enumeration — 
Gave  her  a right  to  have  maternal  fears 
For  a young  gentleman’s  fit  educat  ion, 

Though  she  was  far  from  that  lea])  year,  whose  leap 
In  female  dates,  strikes  Time  all  of  a heap. 

LIII. 

This  may  be  fix’d  at  somewhere  before  thirty — 

Say  seven-and-twenty ; for  I never  knew 
The  strictest  in  chronology  and  virtue 

Advance  beyond,  while  they  could  pass  for  new. 

0 Time  ! why  dost  not  pause  ? Thy  scythe,  so  dirty 
With  rust,  should  surely  cease  to  hack  and  hew. 
Reset  it ; shave  more  smoothly,  also  slower. 

If  but  to  keep  thy  credit  as  a mower. 

LIV. 

But  Adeline  was  far  from  that  ripe  age, 

WTiose  ripeness  is  but  bitter  at  the  best : 

’Twas  rather  her  experience  made  her  sage, 

For  she  had  seen  the  world  and  stood  its  test. 

As  I have  said  in — I forget  what  page  ; 

My  Muse  despises  reference,  as  you  have  guess’d 
By  this  time ; — but  strike  six  from  seven-and-twenty, 
And  you  will  find  her  sum  of  years  in  plenty. 

LV. 

At  sixteen  she  came  out ; presented,  vaunted. 

She  put  all  coronets  into  commotion : 

At  seventeen,  too,  the  world  was  still  enchanted 
With  the  new  Venus  of  their  brilliant  ocean: 

At  eighteen,  though  below  her  feet  still  panted 
A hecatomb  of  suitors  with  devotion. 

She  had  consented  to  create  again 
That  Adam,  called  “ The  happiest  of  men.” 


Coming  in  one  day  to  the  Club  of  which  he  was  a member,  he  was 
observed  to  look  melancholy.  “ What  is  the  matter,  Sir  William  t ” 
cried  Hare,  of  facetious  memory.  “ Ah?”  replied  Sir  W.,  I have 
just  lost  poor  Lady  D.” — “Lost!  What  at?  Quinze  or  Hazard  t,: 
was  the  consolatory  rejoinder  of  the  querist. 


740 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTU  XV* 


LYI. 

Since  then  she  had  sparkled  through  three  glowing 
Admired,  adored  ; but  also  so  correct,  [winters, 
That  she  had  puzzled  all  the  acutest  hinters, 

Without  the  apparel  of  being  circumspect: 

They  could  not  even  glean  the  slightest  splinters 
From  off  the  marble,  which  had  no  defect. 

She  had  also  snatch’d  a moment  since  her  marriage, 
To  bear  a son  and  heir — and  one  miscarriage. 

LVII. 

Fondly  the  wheeling  fire-flies  flew  around  her, 

Those  little  glitterers  of  the  London  night ; 

But  none  of  these  possess’d  a sting  to  wound  her — 
She  was  a pitch  beyond  a coxcomb’s  flight. 

Perhaps  she  wish’d  an  aspirant  profounder ; 

But  whatsoe’er  she  wish’d,  she  acted  right ; 

And  whether  coldness,  pride,  or  virtue,  dignify 
A woman,  so  she’s  good,  what  does  it  signify  F 

LVIII. 

I hate  a motive,  like  a lingering  bottle 

Which  with  the  landlord  makes  too  long  a stand, 
Leaving  all-claretless  the  unmoisten’d  throttle. 
Especially  with  politics  on  hand  ; 

I hate  it,  as  I hate  a drove  of  cattle, 

Who  whirl  the  dust  as  simooms  whirl  the  sand ; 

I hate  it  as  I hate  an  argument, 

A laureate’s  ode,  or  servile  peer’s  “ content.” 

LIX. 

’Tis  sad  to  hack  into  the  roots  of  things. 

They  are  so  much  intertwisted  with  the  earth  ; 

So  that  the  branch  a goodly  verdure  flings, 

I reck  not  if  an  acorn  gave  it  birth. 

To  trace  all  actions  to  their  secret  springs 

Would  make  indeed  some  melancholy  mirth; 

But  this  is  not  at  present  my  concern, 

And  I refer  you  to  wise  Oxenstiern.1  t 

LX. 

Wit-h  the  kind  view  of  saving  an  eclat. 

Both  to  the  duchess  and  diplomatist. 

The  Lady  Adeline,  as  soon’s  she  saw 
That  Juan  was  unlikely  to  resist — 

(For  foreigners  don’t  know  that  a faux  pas 
In  England  ranks  quite  on  a different  list 
From  those  of  other  lands  unblest  with  juries, 

Whose  verdict  for  such  sin  a certain  cure  is  ; — ) 

lxt. 

The  Lady  Adeline  resolved  to  take 

Such  measures  as  she  thought  might  best  impede 
The  farther  progress  of  this  sad  mistake. 

She  thought  with  some  simplicity  indeed ; 

But  innocence  is  bold  even  at  the  stake, 

And  simple  in  the  world,  and  doth  not  need 
Nor  use  those  palisades  by  dames  erected, 

Whose  virtue  lies  in  never  being  detected. 

LXII. 

It  was  not  that  she  fear’d  the  very  worst : 

II  is  Grace  was  an  enduring,  married  man, 

And  was  not  likely  all  at  once  to  burst 

Into  a scene,  and  swell  the  clients’  clan 


(1)  The  famous  Chancellor  Oxenstiern  said  to  his  son,  on  the 
iatter  expressing  his  surprise  upon  the  great  effects  arising  from 
petty  causes  in  the  presumed  mystery  of  politics : “ You  see  by 
this,  my  son  with  how  little  wisdom  the  kingdoms  of  the  worid 
are  governed.” — [The  true  story  is; — young  Oxenstiern,  on  being 


Of  Doctors’  Commons  ; but  she  dreaded  first 
The  magic  of  her  Grace’s  talisman, 

And  next  a quarrel  (as  he  seem’d  to  fret) 

With  Lord  Augustus  Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIII. 

Her  Grace,  too,  pass’d  for  being  an  intrigante, 

And  somewhat  niechante  in  her  amorous  srhere  • 
One  of  those  pretty,  precious  plagues,  whir/t  haun< 

A lover  with  caprices  soft  and  dear. 

That  like  to  malce  a quarrel,  when  they  cau’t 
Find  one,  each  day  of  the  delightful  Tenr  : 
Bewitching,  torturing,  as  they  freeze  or  glow, 

And — what  is  worst  of  all — won’t  lei  you  go  : 

LXIV. 

The  sort  of  thing  to  turn  a young  man’s  head, 

Or  make  a Werter  of  him  in  the  end. 

No  wonder  then  a purer  soul  should  dread 
This  sort  of  chaste  liaison  for  a friend  ; 

It  were  much  better  to  be  wed  or  dead, 

Than  wear  a heart  a woman  loves  to  rend. 

’Tis  best  to  pause,  and  think,  ere  you  rush  on 
If  that  a “ bonne  fortune ” be  really  “ bonne” 

* 

LXV. 

And  first,  in  the  overflowing  of  her  heart, 

Which  really  knew  or  thought  it  knew  no  < ulle, 
She  call’d  her  husband  now  and  then  apart, 

And  bade  him  counsel  Juan.  With  a smi  . 

Lord  Henry  heard  her  plans  of  artless  art 
To  wean  Don  Juan  from  the  siren’s  wile  ; 

And  answer’d,  like  a statesman  or  a prophet 
In  such  guise  that  she  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

LXVI. 

Firstly,  he  said,  “ he  never  interfered 
In  anybody’s  business  but  the  king’s 
Next,  that  “ he  never  judged  from  what  appear’d. 
Without  strong  reason,  of  those  sort  of  things 
Thirdly,  that  “Juan  had  more  brain  than  beard, 

And  was  not  to  be  held  in  leading  strings 
And  fourthly,  what  need  hardly  be  said  twice, 

“ That  good  but  rarely  came  from  good  advice.” 

LXVII. 

And,  therefore,  doubtless  to  approve  the  truth 
Of  the  last  axiom,  he  advised  his  spouse 
To  leave  the  parties  to  themselves,  forsooth — 

At  least  as  far  as  bienseance  allows : 

That  time  would  temper  Juan’s  faults  of  youth  ; 

That  young  men  rarely  made  monastic  vows  ; 

That  opposition  only  more  attaches — 

But  here  a messenger  brought  in  despatches  : 

LXVIII. 

And  being  of  the  council  call’d  " the  Privy,” 

Lord  Henry  walk’d  into  his  cabinet, 

To  furnish  matter  for  some  future  Livy 
To  tell  how  he  reduced  the  nation’s  debt ; 

And  if  their  full  contents  1 do  not  give  ye, 

It  is  because  I do  not  knew  them  yet ; 

But  1 shall  add  them  in  a brief  appendix. 

To  come  between  mine  epic  and  its  index. 

told  he  was  to  proceed  on  some  diplomatic  mission,  expressed  his 
doubts  of  his  own  fitness  for  such  an  office.  The  old  Chancellor, 
laughing,  answer’d— “ Nescis,  mi  fili,  quantula  scientia  gubernatui 
mundus.”] 


CANTO  XIV. 


DON  JUAN. 


741 


LXIX. 

But  ere  he  went,  he  added  a slight  hint, 

Another  gentle  common-place  or  two,  » 

Such  as  are  coin’d  in  conversation’s  mint, 

And  pass,  for  want  of  better,  though  not  new : 
Then  broke  his  packet,  to  see  what  was  in’t, 

And  having  casually  glanced  it  through, 

Retired  ; and,  as  he  went  out,  calmly  kiss’d  her, 

Less  like  a young  wife  than  an  aged  sister. 

LXX. 

He  was  a cold,  good,  honourable  man, 

Proud  of  his  birth,  and  proud  of  every  thing ; 

A goodly  spirit  for  a state  divan, 

A figure  fit  to  walk  before  a king ; 

Tall,  stately,  form’d  to  lead  the  courtly  van 
On  birthdays,  glorious  with  a star  and  string  ; 

The  very  model  of  a chamberlain — 

And  such  I mean  to  make  him  when  I reign. 

LXXI. 

But  there  was  something  wanting  on  the  whole — 

I don’t  know  what,  and  therefore  cannot  tell — 
Which  pretty  women — the  sweet  souls  ! — call  soul. 

Certes  it  was  not  body ; he  was  well 
Proportion’d,  as  a poplar  or  a pole, 

A handsome  man,  that  human  miracle ; 

And  in  each  circumstance  of  love  or  war, 

Had  still  preserved  his  perpendicular. 

Lxx  II. 

Still  there  was  something  wanting,  as  I’ve  said — 
That  undefinable  “ Je  ne  sgais  quoi ,” 

Which,  for  what  I know,  may  of  yore  have  led 
To  Homer’s  Iliad,  since  it  drew  to  Troy 
The  Greek  Eve,  Helen,  from  the  Spartan’s  bed ; 

Though  on  the  whole,  no  doubt,  the  Hardau  boy 
Was  much  inferior  to  King  Menelaiis : — 

But  thus  it  is  some  women  will  betray  us. 

LXXIII. 

There  is  an  awkward  thing  which  much  perplexes, 
Unless  like  wise  Tiresias  we  had  proved 
By  turns  the  difference  of  the  several  sexes  ; 

Neither  can  show  quite  how  they  would  be  loved. 
The  sensual  for  a short  time  but  connects  us — 

The  sentimental  boasts  to  be  unmoved ; 

But  both  together  form  a kind  of  centaur, 

Upon  whose  back  ’tis  better  not  to  venture. 

LXXIV. 

A something  all-sufficient  for  the  heart 

Is  that  for  which  the  sex  are  always  seeking: 

But  how  to  fill  up  that  same  vacant  part  ? 

There  lies  the  rub — and  this  they  are  but  weak  in. 
Erail  mariners  afloat  without  a chart,  [ing ; 

They  run  before  the  wind  through  high  seas  break- 
And  when  they  have  made  the  shore  through  every 
’Tis  odd,  or  odds,  it  may  turn  out  a rock.  [shock, 

LXXV. 

There  is  a flower  call’d  “ Love  in  Idleness,” 

Eor  which  see  Shakspeare’s  ever  blooming  garden; — 
I will  not  make  his  great  description  less, 

And  beg  his  British  godship’s  humble  pardon. 

If  in  my  extremity  of  rhyme’s  distress, 

I touch  a single  leaf  where  he  is  warden  : — 

But  though  the  flower  is  different,  with  the  French 
Or  Swiss  Rousseau,  cry  “ Voila  la  Pervenche  Z”1 


LXX  VI. 

Eureka ! I have  found  it ! What  I mean 
To  say  is,  not  that  love  is  idleness, 

But  that  in  love  such  idleness  has  been 
An  accessory,  as  I have  cause  to  guess. 

Plard  labour’s  an  indifferent  go-between; 

Your  men  of  business  are  not  apt  to  express 
Much  passion,  since  the  merchant-ship,  the  Argo, 
Convey’d  Medea  as  her  supercargo. 

LXXVII. 

“ Beatus  Me  procul  Z”  from  “ negotiis,”'* 

Saith  Horace  ; the  great  little  poet’s  wrong; 

His  other  maxim,  “ Noscitur  a sociis ,*’ 

Is  much  more  to  the  purpose  of  his  song; 

Though  even  that  were  sometimes  too  ferocious. 
Unless  good  company  be  kept  too  long  ; 

But,  in  his  teeth,  whate’er  their  state  or  station, 
Thrice  happy  they  who  have  an  occupation ! 

LXXVIII. 

Adam  exchanged  his  Paradise  for  ploughing, 

Eve  made  up  millinery  with  fig  leaves — 

The  earliest  knowledge  from  the  tree  so  knowing, 

As  far  as  1 know,  that  the  church  receives  : 

And  since  that  time  it  need  not  cost  much  showing. 
That  many  of  the  ills  o’er  which  man  grieves, 

And  still  more  women,  spring  from  not  employing 
Some  hours  to  make  the  remnant  worth  enjoying. 

LXXIX. 

And  hence  high  life  is  oft  a dreary  void, 

A rack  of  pleasures,  where  we  must  invent 
A something  wherewithal  to  be  annoy’d. 

Bards  may  sing  what  they  please  about  Content ; 
Contented,  when  translated,  means  but  cloy’d; 

And  hence  arise  the  woes  of  sentiment, 

Blue  devils,  and  blue-stockings,  and  romances 
Reduced  to  practice,  and  perform’d  like  dances. 

* LXXX. 

I do  declare,  upon  an  affidavit, 

Romances  I ne’er  read  like  those  I have  seen ; 

Nor,  if  unto  the  world  I ever  gave  it, 

Would  some  believe  that  such  a tale  had  been  : 

But  such  intent  I never  had,  nor  have  it ; 

Some  truths  are  better  kept  behind  a screen, 
Especially  when  they  would  look  like  lies  ; 

I therefore  deal  in  generalities. 

LXXXI. 

“ An  oyster  may  be  cross’d  in  love,”3 — and  why  ? 

Because  he  mopeth  idly  in  his  shell, 

And  heaves  a lonely  subterraqueous  sigh, 

Much  as  a monk  may  do  within  his  cell : 

And  a-propos  of  monks,  their  piety 

With  sloth  hath  found  it  difficult  to  dwell ; 

Those  vegetables  of  the  Catholic  creed 
Are  apt  exceedingly  to  run  to  seed. 

LXXXII. 

0 Wilberforce  ! thou  man  of  black  renown, 

Whose  merit  none  enough  can  sing  or  say, 

Thou  hast  struck  one  immense  Colossus  down, 

Thou  moral  Washington  of  Africa  ! 

But  there’s  another  little  thing,  1 own, 

Which  you  should  perpetrate  some  summer’s  day,  ^ 
And  set  the  other  half  of  earth  to  rights ; [whites, 
You  have  freed  the  blacks — now  pray  shut  up  the 


(1)  See  “ La  Nouvelle  Heloise.’ 


(2)  Hor.  Epod.  Od.  ii. 


(3)  [See  Sheridan’s  “ Critic.”] 


742 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CAKTO  ZJ 7 


LXXXIII. 

Shut  up  the  bald-coot'1  bully  Alexander ! 

Ship  off  I lie  Holy  Three  to  Senegal ; 

Teach  them  that  “ sauce  for  goose  is  sauce  for  gander,” 
And  ask  them  how  they  like  to  be  in  thrall  F 
Shut  up  each  high  heroic  salamander, 

Who  eats  fire  gratis  (since  the  pay’s  but  small) ; 
Shut  up — no,  not  the  King,  but  the  Pavilion,2 
Or  else  ’twill  cost  us  all  another  million. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut  up  the  world  at  large,  let  Bedlam  out ; 

And  you  will  be  perhaps  surprised  to  find 
All  things  pursue  exactly  the  same  route, 

As  now  with  those  of  soi-disant  sound  mind. 

This  I could  prove  beyond  a single  doubt, 

Were  there  a jot  of  sense  among  mankind  ; 

But  till  that  point  d'appui  is  found,  alas ! 

Like  Archimedes,  I leave  earth  as  ’twas. 

LXXXV. 

Our  gentle  Adeline  had  one  defect — 

Her  heart  was  vacant,  though  a splendid  mansion  ; 
Her  conduct  had  been  perfectly  correct, 

As  she  had  seen  nought  claiming  its  expansion. 

A wavering  spirit  may  be  easier  wreck’d, 

Because  ’tis  frailer,  doubtless,  than  a stanch  one ; 
But  when  the  latter  works  its  own  undoing, 

Its  inner  crash  is  like  an  earthquake’s  ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She  loved  her  lord,  or  thought  so  ; but  that  love 
Cost  her  an  effort,  which  is  a sad  toil, 

The  stone  of  Sysiphus,  if  once  we  move 
Our  feelings  ’gainst  the  nature  of  the  soil. 

She  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  or  reprove, 

No  bickerings,  no  connubial  turmoil : 

Their  union  was  a model  to  behold, 

Serene  and  noble, — conjugal,  but  cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There  was  no  great  disparity  of  years,  * 

Though  much  in  temper ; but  they  never  clash’d  : 
They  moved  like  stars  united  in  their  spheres, 

Or  like  the  Rhone  by  Leman’s  waters  wash’d, 
Where  mingled  and  yet  separate  appears 
The  river  from  the  lake,  all  blueiy  dash’d 
Through  the  serene  and  placid  glassy  deep, 

Which  fain  would  lull  its  river-child  to  sleep.3 

LXXXVIII. 

Now  when  she  once  had  ta’en  an  interest 
In  any  thing,  however  she  might  flatter 
Herself  that  her  intentions  were  the  best, 

Intense  intentions  are  a dangerous  matter  : 
Impressions  were  much  stronger  than  she  guess’d, 

And  gather’d  as  they  run  like  growing  water 
Upon  her  mind;  the  more  so,  as  her  breast 
Was  not  at  first  too  readily  impress’d. 

LXXXIX. 

But  when  it  was,  she  had  that  lurking  demon 
Of  double  nature,  and  thus  doubly  named — 
Firmness  yclept  in  heroes,  kings,  and  seamen, 

That  is,  when  they  succeed  ; but  greatly  blamed 
As  obstinacy , both  in  men  and  women, 

Whene’er  their  triumph  pales,  or  star  is  tamed  : — 
And  ’twill  perplex  the  casuist  in  morality 
To  fi-x  the  due  bounds  of  this  dangerous  quality. 


(1)  [The  bald-coot  is  a small  bird  of  prey  in  marshes.  The 
Emperor  Alexander  was  balaish.] 

(2)  [The  King’s  palace  at  U^tditon.] 


XC. 

Had  Buonaparte  won  at  Waterloo, 

lt^  had  been  firmness  ; now  ’tis  pertinacity : 

Must  the  event  decide  between  the  two  ? 

1 leave  it  to  your  people  of  sagacity 
To  draw  the  line  between  the  false  and  true ; 

If  such  can  e’er  be  drawn  by  man’s  capacity : 

My  business  is  with  Lady  Adeline, 

W ho  in  her  way  too  was  a heroine. 

xci. 

She  knew  not  her  own  heart ; then  how  should  I ? 

I think  not  she  was  then  in  love  with  J uan  : 

If  so,  she  would  have  had  the  strength  to  fly 
The  wild  sensation,  unto  her  a new  one  : 

She  merely  felt  a common  sympathy 

(I  will  not  say  it  was  a false  or  true  one) 

In  him,  because  she  thought  he  was  in  danger, — 

Her  husband’s  friend,  her  own,  young,  and  a stranger, 

xcn. 

She  was,  or  thought  she  was,  his  friend — and  this 
Without  the  farce  of  friendship,  or  romance 
Platonism,  which  leads  so  oft  amiss 

Ladies  who  have  studied  friendship  but  in  France, 
Or  Germany,  where  people  purely  kiss. 

To  thus  much  Adeline  would  not  advance  ; 

But  of  such  friendship  as  man’s  may  to  man  be 
She  was  as  capable  as  woman  can  be. 

XCIII. 

No  doubt  the  secret  influence  of  the  sex 
Will  there,  as  also  in  the  ties  of  blood. 

An  innocent  predominance  annex, 

And  tune  the  concord  to  a finer  mood. 

If  free  from  passion,  which  all  friendship  checks. 

And  your  true  feelings  fully  understood, 

No  friend  like  to  a woman  earth  discovers. 

So  that  you  have  not  been  nor  will  be  lovers. 

xciv. 

Love  bears  within  its  breast  the  very  germ 
Of  change  ; and  how  should  this  be  otherwise  ? 
That  violent  things  more  quickly  find  a term 
Is  shown  through  nature’s  whole  analogies  ;4 
And  how  should  the  most  fierce  of  all  be  firm  F 
Would  you  have  endless  lightning  in  the  skies  ? 
Methinks  Love’s  very  title  says  enough : 

How  should  “ the  tender  passion”  e’er  be  tough  ? 

xcv. 

Alas  ! by  all  experience,  seldom  yet 

(I  merely  quote  what  I have  heard  from  many) 

Had  lovers  not  some  reason  to  regret 
The  passion  which  made  Solomon  a zany. 

I ’ve  also  seen  some  wives  (not  to  forget 

The  marriage  state,  the  best  or  worst  of  any) 

Who  were  the  very  paragons  of  wives, 

Yet  made  the  misery  of  at  least  two  lives. 

xcvi. 

I’ve  also  seen  some  female  friends  (’tis  odd. 

But  true — as,  if  expedient,  I could  prove) 

That  faithful  were  through  thick  and  thin,  abroad, 

At  home,  far  more  than  ever  yet  was  Love — 

Who  did  not  quit  me  when  Oppression  trod 
Upon  me  ; whom  no  scandal  could  remove ; 

Who  fought,  and  fight,  in  absence,  too,  my  battles, 
Despite  the  snake  Society’s  loud  rattles. 


(3)  [Sec  anti,  p.  36.] 

(4)  [“  These  violent  delights  hare  violent  ends, 

And  in  their  triumph  die.” — Romeo  and  Juliet.] 


CANTO  XV. 


DON  JUAN. 


743 


XCVII. 

Whether  Don  Juan  and  chaste  Adeline 
Grew  friends  in  this  or  any  other  ®*nse, 

Will  be  discuss’d  hereafter,  I opine : 

At  present  I am  glad  of  a pretence 
To  leave  them  hovering,  as  the  effect  is  fine. 

And  keeps  the  atrocious  reader  in  suspense : 

The  surest  way  for  ladies  and  for  books 
To  bait  their  tender  or  their  tenter  hooks. 

XCVIII. 

Whether  they  rode,  or  walk’d,  or  studied  Spanish, 

To  read  Don  Quixote  in  the  original, 

A pleasure  before  which  all  others  vanish  ; 

Whether  their  talk  was  of  the  kind  call’d  “ small,” 
Or  serious,  are  the  topics  I must  banish 
To  the  next  Canto ; where  perhaps  I shall 
Say  something  to  the  purpose,  and  display 
Considerable  talent  in  my  way. 

XCIX. 

Above  all,  I beg  all  men  to  forbear 
Anticipating  aught  about  the  matter  : 

They’ll  only  make  mistakes  about  the  fair. 

And  Juan  too,  especially  the  latter. 

And  I shall  take  a much  more  serious  air, 

Than  I have  yet  done,  in  this  epic  satire. 

It  Is  not  clear  that  Adeline  and  Juan 
Will  fall ; but  if  they  do,  ’twill  be  their  ruin, 
c. 

But  great  things  spring  from  little  : — Would  you  think, 
That  in  our  youth,  as  dangerous  a passion 
As  e’er  brought  man  and  woman  to  the  brink 
Of  ruin,  rose  from  such  a slight  occasion, 

As  few  would  ever  dream  could  form  the  link 
Of  such  a sentimental  situation  F 
You’ll  never  guess,  I’ll  bet  you  millions,  milliards — 
It  all  sprung  from  a harmless  game  at  billiards, 
ci. 

’Tis  strange,— but  true  ; for  truth  is  always  strange  ; 

Stranger  than  fiction  : if  it  could  be  told, 

How  much  would  novels  gain  by  the  exchange  ! 

How  differently  the  world  would  men  behold ! 

How  oft  would  vice  and  virtue  places  change ! 

The  new  world  would  be  nothing  to  the  old, 

If  some  Columbus  of  the  moral  seas 
Would  show  mankind  their  souls’  antipodes, 
cn. 

IVhat  ffantres  vast  and  deserts  idle”1  then 
Would  be  discover’d  in  the  human  soul ! 
fYliat  icebergs  in  the  hearts  of  mighty  men. 

With  self-love  in  the  centre  as  their  pole  ! 

What  Anthropophagi  are  nine  of  ten 
Of  those  who  hold  the  kingdoms  in  control ! 

Were  things  but  only  call’d  by  their  right  name, 

Caesar  himself  would  be  ashamed  of  fame. 


IDon  3(uan. 


CANTO  THE  FIFTEENTH.2 


I. 

Ah  ! — What  should  follow  slips  from  my  reflection ; 
Whatever  follows  ne’ertheless  may  be 


1 As  a-propos  of  hope  or  retrospection, 

As  though  the  lurking  thought  had  follow’d  free. 

I All  present  life  is  but  an  interjection, 

An  “Oh  !”  or  “Ah  !”  of  joy  or  misery, 

Or  a “ Ha  ! ha ! ” or  “ Bah  ! ” — a yawn,  or  “ Pooh  : ’* 
Of  which  perhaps  the  latter  is  most  true. 

ii. 

But,  more  or  less,  the  whole’s  a syncope 
Or  a singultus — emblems  of  emotion. 

The  grand  antithesis  to  great  ennui, 

Wherewith  we  break  our  bubbles  on  the  ocean. 
That  watery  outline  of  eternity, 

Or  miniature  at  least,  as  is  my  notion, 

Which  ministers  unto  the  soul’s  delight, 

In  seeing  matters  which  are  out  of  sight. 

in. 

But  all  are  better  than  the  sigh  supprest. 

Corroding  in  the  cavern  of  the  heart, 

Making  the  countenance  a masque  of  rest, 

And  turning  human  nature  to  an  art. 

Fetf  men  dare  show  their  thoughts  of  worst  or  best » 
Dissimulation  always  sets  apart 
A corner  for  herself ; and  therefore  fiction 
Is  that  which  passes  with  least  contradiction. 

iv. 

Ah  ! who  can  tell  ? Or  rather,  who  can  not 
Remember,  without  telling,  passion’s  errors  ? 

The  drainer  of  oblivion,  even  the  sot. 

Hath  got  blue  devils  for  his  morning  mirrors  : 
What  though  on  Lethe’s  stream  he  seem  to  float, 

He  cannot  sink  his  tremors  or  his  terrors ; 

The  ruby  glass  that  shakes  within  his  hand 
Leaves  a sad  sediment  of  Time’s  worst  sand. 

v. 

And  as  for  love — 0 love ! We  will  proceed : 

The  Lady  Adeline  Amundeville, 

A pretty  name  as  one  would  wish  to  read. 

Must  perch  harmonious  on  my  tuneful  quill. 
There’s  music  in  the  sighing  of  a reed; 

There’s  music  in  the  gushing  of  a rill ; 

There’s  music  in  all  things,  if  men  had  ears : 

Their  earth  is  but  an  echo  of  the  spheres. 

VI. 

The  Lady  Adeline,  right  honourable, 

And  honour’d,  ran  a risk  of  growing  less  so ; 

For  few  of  the  soft  sex  are  very  stable 

In  their  resolves — alas  ! that  I should  say  so  ! 

They  differ  as  wine  differs  from  its  label, 

When  once  decanted; — I presume  to  guess  so. 

But  will  not  swear : yet  both  upon  occasion, 

Till  old,  may  undergo  adulteration. 

VII. 

But  Adeline  was  of  the  purest  vintage, 

The  unmingled  essence  pf  the  grape ; and  yet 
Bright  as  a new  Napoleon  from  its  mintage, 

Or  glorious  as  a diamond  richly  set ; 

A page  where  Time  should  hesitate  to  print  age, 

And  for  which  Nature  might  forego  her  debt — 
Sole  creditor  whose  process  doth  involve  in ’t 
The  luck  of  finding  every  body  solvent. 


(2)  [Cantos  XV.  and  XVI.  were  published  in  London  in  Marcl. 
1 324.] 


(1)  [ Othello , Act  I.  Sc.  iii.] 


744 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


VIII. 

0 Death  ! thou  dunnest  of  all  duns  ! thou  daily 
Knockest  at  doors,  at  first  with  modest  tap, 

Like  a meek  tradesman  when,  approaching  palely, 
Some  splendid  debtor  he  would  take  by  sap  : 

But  oft  denied,  as  patience  ’gins  to  fail,  lie 
Advances  with  exasperated  rap, 

And  (if  let  in)  insists,  in  terms  unhandsome, 

On  ready  money,  or  “ a draft  on  Ransom.” 1 

IX. 

Whate’er  thou  takest,  spare  a while  poor  Beauty ! 

She  is  so  rare,  and  thou  hast  so  much  prey. 

What  though  she  now  and  then  may  slip  from  duty. 
The  more’s  the  reason  why  you  ought  to  stay. 
Gaunt  Gourmand ! with  whole  nations  for  your  booty, 
You  should  be  civil  in  a modest  way : 

Suppress,  then,  some  slight  feminine  diseases, 

And  take  as  many  heroes  as  Heaven  pleases. 

x. 

Fair  Adeline,  the  more  ingenuous 

Where  she  was  interested  (as  was  said), 

Because  she  was  not  apt,  like  some  of  us, 

To  like  too  readily,  or  too  high  bred 
To  show  it — (points  we  need  not  now  discuss) — 
Would  give  up  artlessly  both  heart  and  head 
Unto  such  feelings  as  seem’d  innocent, 

For  objects  worthy  of  the  sentiment. 

XI. 

Some  parts  of  Juan’s  history,  which  Rumour, 

That  live  gazette,  had  scatter’d  to  disfigure, 

She  Jjad  heard ; but  women  hear  with  more  good 
humour 

Such  aberrations  than  we  men  of  rigour : 

Besides,  his  conduct,  since  in  England,  grew  more 
Strict,  and  his  mind  assumed  a manlier  vigour ; 
Because  he  had,  like  Alcibiades, 

The  art  of  living  in  all  climes  with  ease.2 

XII. 

His  manner  was  perhaps  the  more  seductive, 

Because  he  ne’er  seem’d  anxious  to  seduce ; 
Nothing  affected,  studied,  or  constructive 
Of  coxcombry  or  conquest : no  abuse 
Of  his  attractions  marr’d  the  fair  perspective, 

To  indicate  a Cupidon  broke  loose, 

And  seem  to  say,  “ Resist  us  if  you  can” — 

Which  makes  a dandy  while  it  spoils  a man. 

XIII. 

They  are  wrong — that’s  not  the  way  to  set  about  it ; 

As,  if  they  told  the  truth,  could  well  be  shown. 

But,  right  or  wrong,  Don  Juan  was  without  it ; 

In  fact,  his  manner  was  his  own  alone ; 

Sincere  he  was — at  least  you  could  not  doubt  it. 

In  listening  merely  to  his  voice’s  tone. 

The  devil  hath  not  in  all  his  quiver’s  choice 
An  arrow  for  the  heart  like  a sweet  voice. 

XIV. 

By  nature  soft,  his  whole  address  held  off 
Suspicion  : though  not  timid,  his  regard 
Was  such  as  rather  seem’d  to  keep  aloof, 

To  shield  himself  than  put  you  on  your  guard  : 

(1)  [Ransom,  Kinnaird,  and  Co.  were  Lord  Byron’s  bankers.] 

(2)  [See  Mitford’s  Greece,  vol.  iii.] 

(3)  [Raphael’s  masterpiece  is  called  the  Transfiguration.] 

(4)  As  it  is  necessary  in  these  times  to  avoid  ambiguity,  I say 
that  I mean,  by  “ Diviner  still,”  Christ.  If  ever  God  was  man— 


CANTO  » 

Perhaps  ’twas  hardly  quite  assured  enough. 

But  modesty ’s  at  times  its  own  reward, 

Like  virtue ; and  the  absence  of  pretension 

Will  go  much  farther  than  there’s  need  to  mentions.  ] 

xv. 

Serene,  accomplish’d,  cheerful  but  not  loud  ; 

Insinuating  without  insinuation ; 

Observant  of  the  foibles  of  the  crowd, 

Yet  ne’er  betraying  this  in  conversation ; 

Proud  with  the  proud,  yet  courteously  proud. 

So  as  to  make  them  feel  he  knew  his  station 
And  theirs  : — without  a struggle  lor  priority, 

He  neither  brook’d  nor.  claim’d  superiority. 

XVI. 

That  is,  with  men  : with  women  he  was  what 
They  pleased  to  make  or  take  him  for  ; and  their 
Imagination’s  quite  enough  for  that : 

So  that  the  outline’s  tolerably  fair, 

They  fill  the  canvass  up — and  “ verbum  sat.” 

If  once  their  phantasies  be  brought  to  bear 
Upon  an  object,  whether  sad  or  playful, 

They  can  transfigure  brighter  than  a Raphael.3 

XVII. 

Adeline,  no  deep  judge  of  character, 

Was  apt  to  add  a colouring  from  her  own : 

’Tis  thus  the  good  will  amiably  err, 

And  eke  the  wise,  as  has  been  often  shown. 
Experience  is  the  chief  philosopher. 

But  saddest  when  his  science  is  well  known  : 

And  persecuted  sages  teach  the  schools 
Their  folly  in  forgetting  there  are  fools. 

XVIII. 

Was  it  not  so,  great  Locke  ? and  greater  Bacon  i 
Great  Socrates  ? And  thou,  Diviner  still,4 
Whose  lot  it  is  by  man  to  be  mistaken, 

And  thy  pure  creed  made  sanction  of  all  ill  ? 
Redeeming  worlds  to  be  by  bigots  shaken, 

How  was  thy  toil  rewarded ! We  might  fill 
Volumes  with  similar  sad  illustrations, 

But  leave  them  to  the  conscience  of  the  nations. 

XIX. 

I perch  upon  an  humbler  promontory, 

Amidst  life’s  infinite  variety  : 

With  no  great  care  for  what  is  nicknamed  glory, 

But  speculating  as  I cast  mine  eye 
Oil  what  may  suit  or  may  not  suit  my  story, 

And  never  straining  hard  to  versify, 

I rattle  on  exactly  as  I’d  talk 
With  any  body  in  a ride  or  walk. 

xx. 

I don’t  know  that  there  may  be  much  ability 
Shown  in  this  sort  of  desultory  rhyme ; 

But  there’s  a conversational  facility. 

Which  may  round  off  an  hour  upon  a time 
Of  this  I’m  sure  at  least,  there’s  no  servility 
In  mine  irregularity  of  chime, 

Which  rings  what’s  uppermost  of  new  or  hoary. 

Just  as  I feel  the  “ Improvvisatore.” 

or  man  God— he  was  both.  I never  arraigned  his  creed,  but  the 
use— or  abuse — made  of  it.  Mr.  Canning  one  day  quoted  Chris- 
tianity to  sanction  negro  slavery,  and  Mr.  Wilberforce  had  little  to  i 
say  in  reply.  And  was  Christ  crucified,  that  black  men  might  be  i 
scourged?  If  so,  he  had  better  been  born  a Mulatto,  to  give  botfc  H 
colours  an  equal  chance  of  freedom,  or  at  least  salvation. 


canto  it. 


DON  JUAN. 


i ±5 


m. 

W Omnia  vult  belle  Matho  dicere — die  aliquando 
| Et  Le.ie,  die  neutrum,  die  aliquaudo  male  ” 1 
The  first  is  rather  more  than  mortal  can  do ; 

I"  The  second  may  be  sadly  done  or  gaily ; 

The  third  is  still  more  difficult  to  stand  to  ; 
l"  The  fourth  we  hear,  and  see,  and  say  too,  daily : 

The  whole  together  is  what  I could  wish 
To  serve  in  this  conundrum  of  a dish. 

XXII. 

A modest  hope — but  modesty’s  my  forte, 

I And  pride  my  feeble  : — let  us  ramble  on. 

N meant  to  make  this  poem  very  short, 

F But  now  I can’t  tell  wliere  it  may  not  run. 

No  doubt,  if  I had  wish’d  to  pay  my  court 
| To  critics,  or  to  hail  the  setting  sun 
Of  tyranny  of  all  kinds,  my  concision 
"Were  more ; — but  I was  tiom  for  opposition, 
xxm. 

But  then  ’tis  mostly  on  the  weaker  side ; 

I So  that  I verily  believe  if  they 
Who  now  are  basking  in  their  full-blown  pride 
; Were  shaken  down,  and  “dogs  had  had  their  day,5’1 2 * 
Though  at  the  first  I might  perchance  deride 
I Their  tumble,  I should  turn  the  other  way. 

And  wax  an  ultra-royalist  in  loyalty, 

-Because  I hate  even  democratic  royalty. 

XXIV. 

I think  I should  have  made  a decent  spouse, 

If  I had  never  proved  the  soft  condition  ; 

I think  I should  have  made  monastic  vows, 

I But  for  my  own  peculiar  superstition  : 
l ’Gainst  rhyme  I never  should  have  knock’d  my  brows, 
i Nor  broken  my  own  head,  nor  that  of  Priscian, 

Nor  worn  the  motley  mantle  of  a poet, 

If  some  one  had  not  told  me  to  forego  it.s 

XXV. 

But  “ laissez  aller”— knights  and  dames  I sing, 

[ Such  as  the  times  may  furnish.  ’Tis  a flight 
Which  seems  at  first  to  need  no  lofty  wing. 

Plumed  by  Longinus  or  the  Stagyrite  : 

The  difficulty  lies  in  colouring 
, (Keeping  the  due  proportions  still  in  sight) 

With  nature  manners  which  are  artificial, 

And  rend’ring  general  that  which  is  especial. 

XXVI. 

The  difference  is,  that  in  the  days  of  old 
! Men  made  the  manners ; manners  now  make  men — 
; Pinn’d  like  a flock,  and  fleeced  too  in  their  fold, 

At  least  nine,  and  a ninth  beside  of  ten. 

Now  this  at  all  events  must  render  cold 
Your  writers,  who  must  either  draw  again 
Days  better  drawn  before,  or  else  assume 
-The  present,  with  their  common-place  costume. 


(1)  [“  Thou  finely  wouldst  say  all?  Say  something  well : 

Say  something  ill,  if  thou  wouldst  bear  the  bell.” 

ElPHINSTON.] 

(2)  [“  The  cat  will  mew  ; the  dog  will  have  his  day.” — Hamlet.] 

'*■)  [The  reader  has  already  seen  in  what  style  the  Edinburgh 

Peviewers  dealt  with  Lord  Byron’s  early  performance  (ante,  p.  419) 
-ne  effect  which  that  criticism  produced  on  him  at  the  time — and 
&«w  he  felt  the  more  favourable  treatment  which  he  received  from 
*»=  Monthly  Review  (p.  420).  We  should  not,  however,  in  the  page 
nwt  referred  to,  have  forgotten  to  observe,  that  the  young  poet  was 
n-«  less  courteously  and  encouragingly  welcomed  in  another  publi- 
cation. We  allude  to  an  article  on  the  “Hours  of  Idleness,”  by 
Z fl.  Maryland,  Esq.,  the  learned  Editor  of  the  Chester  Mysteries, 


xxvn. 

We’ll  do  our  best  to  make  the  best  on  t : — March ! 

March,  my  Muse ! If  you  cannot  fly,  yet  flut.tei  ; 
And  when  you  may  not  be  sublime,  be  arch, 

Or  starch,  as  are  the  edicts  statesmen  utter. 

We  surely  may  find  something  worth  research : 
Columbus  found  a new  world  in  a cutter. 

Or  brigantine,  or  pink,  of  no  great  tonnage. 

While  yet  America  was  in  her  non-age.4 

XXVIII. 

When  Adeline,  in  all  her  growing  sense 
Of  Juan’s  merits  and  his  situation, 

Felt  on  the  whole  an  interest  intense, — 

Partly  perhaps  because  a fresh  sensation. 

Or  that  he  had  an  air  of  innocence, 

'Which  is  for  innocence  a sad  temptation, — 

As  women  hate  half  measures,  on  the  whole. 

She  ’gan  to  ponder  how  to  save  his  soul. 

XXIX. 

She  had  a good  opinion  of  advice, 

Like  all  who  give  and  eke  receive  it  gratis, 

Por  which  small  thanks  are  still  the  market  price. 

Even  where  the  article  at  highest  rate  is  : 

She  thought  upon  the  subject  twice  or  thrice, 

And  morally  decided,  the  best  state  is 
For  morals,  marriage  ; and  this  question  carried. 
She  seriously  advised  him  to  get  married . 

XXX. 

Juan  replied,  with  all  becoming  deference, 

He  had  a predilection  for  that  tie  ; 

But  that,  at  present,  with  immediate  reference 
To  his  own  circumstances,  there  might  lie 
Some  difficulties,  as  in  his  own  preference, 

Or  that  of  her  to  whom  he  might  apply : 

That  still  he’d  wed  with  such  or  such  a lady. 

If  that  they  were  not  married  all  already. 

XXXI. 

Next  to  the  making  matches  for  herself, 

And  daughters,  brothers,  sisters,  kith  or  kin. 
Arranging  T liem  like  books  on  the  same  shelf. 
There’s  nothing  women  love  to  dabble  in 
More  (like  a stock-holder  in  growing  pelf) 

Than  match-making  in  general : ’tis  no  sin 
Certes,  but  a preventative,  and  therefore 
That  is,  no  doubt,  the  only  reason  wherefore. 

XXXII. 

But  never  yet  (except  of  course  a miss 
Unwed,  or  mistress  never  to  be  wed. 

Or  wed  already,  who  object  to  this) 

Was  there  chaste  dame  who  had  not  in  her  head 
Some  drama  of  the  marriage  unities. 

Observed  as  strictly  both  at  board  and  bed. 

As  those  of  Aristotle,  though  sometimes 
They  turn  out  melodrames  or  pantomimes. 


which  concluded  in  these  terms: — “We  neartily  hope  that  the 
illness  and  depression  of  spirits,  which  evidently  pervade  the  greater 
part  of  these  effusions,  are  entirely  dispelled;  and  are  confident 
that  ‘ George-Gordon  Lord  Byron’  will  have  a conspicuous  niche  in 
every  future  edition  of  * Royal  and  Noble  Authors.’” — See  Gentle- 
man’s Mag.  vol.  Ixxvi.  p.  1217.] 

(4)  [Three  small  vessels  were  apparently  all  that  Columbus  had 
required.  Two  of  them  were  light  barques,  called  caravels,  not 
superior  to  river  and  coasting  craft  of  more  modern  days.  That 
such  long  and  perilous  expeditions  into  unknown  seas,  should  be 
undertaken  in  vessels  without  decks,  and  that  they  sbou  d live 
through  the  violent  tempests  by  which  they  were  frequently  assailed, 
remain  among  the  singular  circumstances  of  those  daring  voyages 
—Washington  Irving.] 

5 c 


746 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


XXXIII. 

They  generally  have  some  only  son. 

Some  heir  to  a large  property,  some  friend 
f)f  an  old  family,  some  gay  Sir  John,  [end 

Or  grave  Lord  George,  with  whom  perhaps  might 
A line,  and  leave  posterity  undone, 

Unless  a marriage  was  applied  to  mend 
The  prospect  and  their  morals  : and  besides, 

They  have  at  hand  a blooming  glut  of  brides. 

xxxiv. 

From  these  they  will  be  careful  to  select. 

For  this  an  heiress,  and  for  that  a beauty ; 

For  one  a songstress  who  hath  no  defect, 

For  t’  other  one  who  promises  much  duty  ; 

For  this  a lady  no  one  caa  reject, 

Whose  sole  accomplish.xnents  were  quite  a booty ; 

A second  for  her  excellent  connexions  ; 

A third,  because  there  can  be  no  objections. 

XXXV. 

When  Rapp  the  Harmonist  embargo’d  marriage1 
In  his  harmonious  settlement — (which  flourishes 
Strangely  enough  as  yet  without  miscarriage, 

Because  it  breeds  no  more  mouths  than  it  nourishes, 
Without  those  sad  expenses  which  disparage 
What  Nature  naturally  most  encourages) — 

Why  call’d  he  “ Harmony”  a state  sans  wedlock  ? 

Now  here  I’ve  got  the  preacher  at  a dead  lock, 

XXXVI. 

Because  he  either  meant  to  sneer  at  harmony 
Or  marriage,  by  divorcing  them  thus  oddly. 

But  whether  reverend  Rapp  learn’ d this  in  Germany 
Or  no,  ’tis  said  his  sect  is  rich  and  godly, 

Pious  and  pure,  beyond  what  I can  term  any 
Of  ours,  although  they  propagate  more  broadly. 

My  objection’s  to  his  title,  not  his  ritual. 

Although  I wonder  how  it  grew  habitual. 

XXXVII. 

But  Rapp  is  the  reverse  of  zealous  matrons, 

Who  favour,  malgre  Malthus,  generation — 
Professors  of  that  genial  art,  and  patrons 
Of  all  the  modest  part  of  propagation ; 

Which  after  all  at  such  a desperate  rate  runs,  • 

That  half  its  produce  tends  to  emigration. 

That  sad  result  of  passions  and  potatoes— 

Two  weeds  which  pose  our  economic  Catos. 

XXXVIIT. 

Had  Adeline  read  Malthus  ? I can’t  tell ; 

1 wish  she  had:  his  book’s  the  eleventh  command- 
ment, 

"Which  says,  “ Thou  shalt  not  marry,”  unless  well: 
This  he  (as  far  as  I can  understand)  meant. 

’Tis  not  my  purpose  on  his  views  to  dwell, 

Nor  canvass  what  “so  eminent  a hand”  meant  ;2 
But  certes  it  conducts  to  lives  ascetic, 

Or  turning  marriage  into  arithmetic. 


(1)  This  extraordinary  and  flourishing  German  colony  in  America 
does  not  entirely  exclude  matrimony,  as  the  ‘‘Shakers”  do;  but 
lays  such  restrictions  upon  it  as  prevents  more  than  a certain 
quantum  of  births  within  a certain  number  of  years;  which  births 
(as  Mr  II  ulmc  observes)  generally  arrive  “ in  a little  flock  like  those 
of  a farmer’s  lambs,  all  within  the  same  month  perhaps.”  These 
Harmonists  (so  called  from  the  name  of  their  settlement)  are  repre- 
sented as  a remarkably  flourishing,  pious,  and  quiet  people.  See 
the  various  recent  writers  on  America. 

Jacob  Tonson,  according  to  Mr.  Pope,  was  accustomed  to  call 


CANTO  XV | 

XXXIX. 

But  Adeline,  who  probably  presumed 
That  J uan  had  enough  of  maintenance, 

Or  separate  maintenance,  in  case  ’twas  doom’d— 

As  on  the  whole  it  is  an  even  chance 
That  bridegrooms,  after  they  are  fairly  groom'd , 

May  retrograde  a little  in  the  dance 
Of  marriage — (which  might  form  a painter’s  fame, 
Like  Holbein’s  “Dance  of  Death”3 — but  ’tis  th« 
same) ; — 

XL. 

But  Adeline  determined  Juan’s  wedding 

In  her  own  mind,  and  that’s  enough  for  woman  . 
But  then,  with  whom?  There  was  the  sage  Miss 
Reading, 

Miss  Raw,  Miss  Flaw,  Miss  Showman,  ana  Mist 
Knowman, 

And  the  two  fair  co-heiresses  Giltbedding. 

She  deem’d  his  merits  sometiiing  more  than  common  : 
All  these  were  unobjectionable  matches, 

And  might  go  on,  if  well  wound  up,  like  watches. 

XLI. 

There  was  Miss  Millpond,  smooth  as  summer’s  sea, 
That  usual  paragon,  an  only  daughter, 

Who  seem’d  the  cream  of  equanimity,  [water, 

Till  skimm’d — and  then  there  was  some  milk  and 
With  a slight  shade  of  blue  too,  it  might  be, 

Beneath  the  surface  ; but  what  did  it  matter  ? 
Love’s  riotous,  but  marriage  should  have  quiet, 

And  being  consumptive,  live  on  a milk  diet. 

XIII. 

And  then  there  was  the  Miss  Audacia  Shoestring, 

A dashing  demoiselle  of  good  estate, 

Whose  heart  was  fix’d  upon  a star  or  blue  string ; 

But  whether  English  dukes  grew  rare  of  late, 

Or  that  she  had  not  harp’d  upon  the  true  string, 

By  which  such  sirens  can  attract  our  great, 

She  took  up  with  some  foreign  younger  brother, 

A Russ  or  Turk — the  one’s  as  good  as  t’other. 

XLIII. 

And  then  there  was — but  why  should  I go  on, 

Unless  the  ladies  should  go  off? — there  was 
Indeed  a certain  fair  and  fairy  one, 

Of  the  best  class,  and  better  than  her  class, — 
Aurora  Raby,  a young  star  who  shone 

O’er  life,  too  sweet  an  image  for  such  glass, 

A lovely  being,  scarcely  form’d  or  moulded, 

A rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded ; 

XLIV. 

Rich,  noble,  but  an  orphan ; left  an  only 

Child  to  the  care  of  guardians  good  and  kind ; 

But  still  her  aspect  had  an  air  so  lonely  ! 

Blood  is  not  water ; and  where  shall  we  find 
Feelings  of  youth  like  those  which  overthrown  lie 
By  death,  when  we  are  left,  alas ! behind, 

To  feel,  in  friendless  palaces,  a home 
Is  wanting,  and  our  best  ties  in  the  tomb  ? 


liis  writers  “able  pens,”  “persons  of  honour,”  and  especiallv 
“eminent  hands.”  Vide  Correspondence,  kc.  See. — [“Perhaps  • 
should  myself  be  much  better  pleased,  if  1 were  told  you  caller-  vr* 
your  little  friend,  than  if  you  complimented  me  with  the  title  <>♦  *> 

‘ great  genius,’  or  an  * eminent  hand,’  as  Jacob  does  all  Jus  authors 
— Pope  to  Steele .] 

(3)  [See  D’lsraeli's  Curiosities  of  Literature,  N«w  Series,  ♦ 
p.  308,  and  the  Dissertation  prefixed  to  Mr.  Douce* 
edition  of  Hollar’s  Dance  of  Death.] 


CA1TTO  XT. 


DON  JUAN. 


747 


XLV. 

Early  in  years,  and  yet  more  infantine 
In  figure,  she  had  something  of  sublime 
In  eves  which  sadly  shone,  as  seraphs’  shine. 

All  youtli — but  with  an  aspect  beyond  time ; 
Radiant  and  grave — as  pitying  man’s  decline ; 

Mournful — but  mournful  of  another’s  crime, 

She  look’d  as  if  she  sat  by  Eden’s  door, 

And  grieved  for  those  who  could  return  no  more. 

XLVI. 

She  was  a Catholic,  too,  sincere,  austere, 

As  far  as  her  own  gentle  heart  allow’d, 

And  deem’d  that  fallen  worship  far  more  dear 

Perhaps  because  ’twas  fallen  : her  sires  were  proud 
Of  deeds  and  days  when  they  had  fill’d  the  ear 
Of  nations,  and  had  never  bent  or  bow’d 
To  novel  power ; and  as  she  was  the  last, 

She  held  their  old  faith  and  old  feelings  fast. 

XLVI  I. 

She  gazed  upon  a world  she  scarcely  knew 
As  seeking  not  to  know  it ; silent,  lone, 

As  grows  a flower,  thus  quietly  she  grew, 

And  kept  her  heart  serene  within  its  zone. 

There  was  awe  in  the  homage  which  she  drew  ; 

Her  spirit  seem’d  as  seated  on  a throne 
Apart  from  the  surrounding  world,  and  strong 
In  its  own  strength — most  strange  in  one  so  young ! ] 
XLVIII. 

Now  it  so  happen’d,  in  the  catalogue 
Of  Adeline,  Aurora  was  omitted, 

Although  her  birth  and  wealth  had  given  her  vogue. 
Beyond  the  charmers  we  have  already  cited ; 

Her  beauty  also  seem’d  to  form  no  clog 
Against  her  being  mention’d  as  well  fitted, 

By  many  virtues,  to  be  worth  the  trouble 
Of  single  gentlemen  who  would  be  double. 

XLIX. 

And  this  omission,  like  that  of  the  bust 
Of  Brutus  at  the  pageant  of  Tiberius,1 
Made  Juan  wonder,  as  no  doubt  he  must. 

This  he  express’d  half  smiling  and  half  serious ; 
When  Adeline  replied  with  some  disgust, 

And  with  an  air,  to  say  the  least,  imperious, 

She  marvell’d  “ what  he  saw  in  such  a oaby 
As  that  prim,  silent,  cold  Aurora  Raby  F ” 

L. 

Juan  rejoin’d  - “ She  was  a Catholic, 

And  therefore  fittest,  as  of  his  persuasion ; 

Since  he  was  sure  his  mother  would  fall  sick, 

And  the  Pope  thunder  excommunication, 

I*f ” But  here  Adeline,  who  seem’d  to  pique 

Herself  extremely  on  the  inoculation 
Of  others  with  her  own  opinions,  stated — 

As  usual — the  same  reason  which  she  late  did. 

LI. 

And  wherefore  not  ? A reasonable  reason, 

If  good,  is  none  the  worse  for  repetition ; 

If  bad,  the  best  way’s  certainly  to  tease  on. 

And  amplify : you  lose  much  by  concision, 

Whereas  insisting  in  or  out  of  season 
Convinces  all  men,  even  a politician  ; 

Or — what  is  just  the  same — it  wearies  out. 

So  the  end’s  gain’d,  what  signifies  the  route  ? 


(1)  See  Tacitus,  b.  vL 


HI. 

Why  Adeline  had  this  slight  prejudice — 

Eor  prejudice  it  was — against  a creature 
As  pure  as  sanctity  itself  from  vice. 

With  all  the  added  charm  of  form  and  feature. 

For  me  appears  a question  far  too  nice, 

Since  Adeline  was  liberal  by  nature ; 

But  nature’s  nature,  and  has  more  caprices 
Than  I have  time,  or  will,  to  take  to  pieces. 

LIII. 

Perhaps  she  did  not  like  the  quiet  way 

With  which  Aurora  on  those  baubles  look’d. 
Which  charm  most  people  in  their  earlier  day : 

For  there  are  few  things  by  mankind  less  brook’d. 
And  womankind  too,  if  we  so  may  say. 

Than  finding  thus  then  genius  stand  rebuked, 

Like  “Anthony’s  by  Csesar,”2  by  the  few 
Who  look  upon  them  as  they  ought  to  do. 

LIV. 

It  was  not  envy — Adeline  had  none  ; 

Her  place  was  far  beyond  it,  and  her  mind. 

It  was  not  scorn — which  could  not  light  on  one 
Whose  greatest  fault  was  leaving  few  to  find. 

It  was  not  jealousy,  I think  : but  shuni 
Following  the  “ ignes  fatui”  of  mankind. 

It  was  not but  ’tis  easier  far,  alas  ! 

To  say  what  it  was  not  than  what  it  was. 

LV. 

Little  Aurora  deem’d  she  was  the  theme 
Of  such  discussion.  She  was  there  a guest ; 

A beauteous  ripple  of  the  brilliant  stream 

Of  rank  and  youth,  though  purer  than  the  rest, 
Which  flow’d  on  for  a moment  in  the  beam 

Time  sheds  a moment  o’er  each  sparkling  crest. 
Had  she  known  this,  she  would  have  calmly  smLed— 
She  had  so  much,  or  little,  of  the  child. 

LVI. 

The  dashing  and  proud  air  of  Adeline 

Imposed  not  upon  her  : she  saw  her  blaze 
Much  as  she  would  have  seen  a glow-worm  shine. 
Then  turn’d  unto  the  stars  for  loftier  rays. 

Juan  was  something  she  could  not  divine, 

Being  no  sibyl  in  the  new  world’s  ways ; 

Ye£  she  was  nothing  dazzled  by  the  meteor 
Because  she  did  not  pin  her  faith  on  feature. 

LVII. 

His  fame  too, — for  he  had  that  kind  of  fame 

Which  sometimes  plays  the  deuce  with  womaaxici, 
A heterogeneous  mass  of  glorious  blame, 

Half  virtues  and  whole  vices  beiflg  combined  : 
Faults  which  attract  because  they  are  not  tame  , 
Follies  trick’d  out  so  brightly  that  they  blind  : — 
These  seals  upon  her  wax  made  no  impression. 

Such  was  her  coldness  or  her  self-possession. 

LVIII. 

Juan  knew  nought  of  such  a character — 

High,  yet  resembling  not  his  lost  Haid6e ; 

Yet  each  was  radiant  in  her  proper  sphere  : 

The  island  girl,  bred  up  by  the  lone  sea, 

More  warm,  as  lovely,  and  not  less  sincere. 

Was  Nature’s  all : Aurora  could  not  be, 

Nor  would  be  thus  : — the  difference  in  them 
Was  such  as  lies  between  a flower  and  gem. 


(2)  [ “And,  under  him, 

My  genius  is  rebuked ; as  it  is  said 
Mark  Antony’s  was  by  Csesar.”—  Macbeth.} 


748 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


canto  xv 


LIX. 

Having  wound  up  with  this  sublime  comparison, 
Mcthinks  we  may  proceed  upon  our  narrative, 

And,  as  my  friend  Scott  says,  “I  sound  my  warison  j”1 
Scott,  the  superlative  of  my  comparative — 

Scott,  who  can  paint  your  Christian  knight  or  Saracen, 
Serf,  lord,  man,  with  such  skill  as  none  would  share 
it,  it 

There  had  not  been  one  Shakspeare  and  Voltaire, 

Of  one  or  both  of  whom  be  seems  the  heir. 

LX. 

[ say,  in  my  slight  way  I may  proceed 
To  play  upon  the  surface  of  humanity. 

I write  the  world,  nor  care  if  the  world  read, 

At  least  for  this  I cannot  spare  its  vanity. 

Mv  Muse  hath  bred,  and  still  perhaps  may  breed 
More  foes  by  this  same  scroll : when  I began  it,  I 
Thought  that  it  might  turn  out  so — mow  I know  it. 
But  still  I am,  or  was,  a pretty  poet 

lxi. 

The  conference  or  congress  (for  it  ended 
As  congresses  of  late  do)  of  the  Lady 
Adeline  and  Don  Juan  rather  blended 

Some  acids  with  the  sweets — for  she  was  heady ; 
But,  ere  the  matter  could  be  marr’d  or  mended, 

The  silvery  bell  rang,  not  for  “ dinner  ready,” 

But  for  that  hour,  call’d  half-hour , given  to  dress, 
Though  ladies’  robes  seem  scant  enough  for  less. 

LXII. 

Great  things  were  now  to  be  achieved  at  table, 

With  massy  plate  for  armour,  knives  and  forks 
For  weapons ; but  what  Muse  since  Homer’s  able 
(His  feasts  are  not  the  worst  part  of  his  works) 

To  draw  up  in  array  a single  day-bill 

Of  modern  dinners  ? where  more  mystery  lurks, 

In  soups  or  sauces,  or  a sole  ragout, 

Tli an  witches,  b — ches,  or  physicians,  brew. 

lxiit. 

There  was  a goodly  “ soupe  a la  bonne  femme,”2 
Though  God  knows  whence  it  came  from ; there 
was,  too, 

A turbot  for  relief  of  those  who  cram. 

Relieved  with  “ dindon  a la  Parigeux 

There  also  was the  sinner  that  1 am  ! 

How  shall  I get  this  gourmand  stanza  through? — 
“ Soupe  a la  Beauveau,”  whose  relief  was  dory, 
Relieved  itself  by^pork,  for  greater  glory. 

LXIV. 

But  I mast  crowd  all  into  one  grand  mess 
Or  mass  ; for  should  I stretch  into  detail, 

My  Muse  would  run  much  more  into  excess, 

Than  when  some  squeamish  people  deem  her  frail ; 
But  though  a “ bonne  vivante,”  I must  confess 
Her  stomach ’s  not  her  peccant  part ; this  tale 
However  doth  require  some  slight  refection, 

Just  to  relieve  her  spirits  from  dejection. 


(I)  [ Warison— cri-de-guerre — note  of  assault: — 

“ Either  receive  within  these  towers 
Two  hundred  of  my  master’s  powers, 

Or  straight  they  sound  their  warison, 

And  storm  and  spoil  this  garrison.” 

Lap  of  the  Last  Minstrel .] 

(S)  [See  Alrnanach  des  Gourmands,  Code  Gourmand,  Le  Cuisinier 
Royal,  &c.  Ac  ] 

G)  A dish  ‘A  la  Locullus.’  This  hero,  who  conquered  the  East, 


LXY. 

Fowls  “ a la  Conde,”  slices  eke  of  salmon. 

With  “ sauces  Genevoises,”  and  haunch  of  venison; 
Wines  too,  which  might  again  have  slain  young 
Ammon — 

A man  like  whom  I hope  we  sha’n’t  see  many  soon; 
They  also  set  a glazed  Westphalian  ham  on, 

Whereon  Apicius  would  bestow  his  benison ; 

And  then  there  was  champagne  with  foaming  whirls, 

As  white  as  Cleopatra’s  melted  pearls. 

LXVI. 

Then  there  was  God  knows  what  “ a l’Allemande,” 

“ A l’Espagnole,”  “ timballe,”  and  “ salpicon” — 
With  things  I can’t  withstand  or  understand, 

Though  swallow’d  with  much  zest  upon  the  whole  ; 
And  “ entremets”  to  piddle  with  at  hand, 

Gently  to  lull  down  the  subsiding  soul ; 

While  great  Lucullus’  Robe  triumphal  muffles — 
(There’s  fame) — young  partridge  fillets,  deck’d  with 
truffles.3 

LXVTI. 

What  are  the  filets  on  the  victor’s  brow 

To  these  ? They  are  rags  or  dust.  Where  is  the  arch 
Which  nodded  to  the  nation’s  spoils  below  ? 

Where  the  triumphal  chariots’  haughty  march  ? 

Gone  to  where  victories  must  like  dinners  go. 

Farther  I shall  not  follow  the  research  : 

But  oh  ! ye  modern  heroes  with  your  cartridges. 

When  will  your  names  lend  lustre  e’en  to  partridges  ? 

LXVIII. 

Those  truffles  too  are  no  bad  accessories, 

Follow’d  by  “ petits  puits  d’amour” — a dish 
Of  which  perhaps  the  cookery  rather  varies, 

So  every  one  may  dress  it  to  his  wish, 

According  to  the  best  of  dictionaries, 

Which  encvclopedize  both  flesh  and  fish ; 

But  even  sans  “ confitures,”  it  no  less  true  is, 

There’s  pretty  picking  in  those  “petits  puits.”4 (S) 

LXIX. 

The  mind  is  lost  in  mighty  contemplation 
Of  intellect  expanded  on  two  courses ; 

And  indigestion’s  grand  multiplication 
Requires  arithmetic  beyond  my  forces. 

Who  would  suppose,  from  Adam’s  simple  ration, 

That  cookery  could  have  call’d  forth  such  resources,  | 
As  form  a science  and  a nomenclature  \ 

From  out  the  commonest  demands  of  nature  ? 

LXX. 

The  glasses  jingled,  and  the  palates  tingled ; 

The  diners  of  celebrity  dined  well ; 

The  ladies  with  more  moderation  mingled 
In  the  feast,  pecking  less  than  I can  tell ; 

Also  the  younger  men  too  : for  a springald 
Can’t,  like  ripe  age,  in  gormandize  excel, 

But  thinks  less  of  good  eating  than  the  whisper 
(WTien  seated  next  him)  of  some  pretty  lisper. 


has  left  his  more  extended  celebrity  to  the  transplantation  of 
cherries  (which  he  first  brought  into  Europe),  and  the  nomen- 
clature of  some  very  good  dishes; — and  I am  not  sure  that  (barring 
indigestion)  he  has  not  done  more  service  to  mankind  by  his 
cookery  than  by  his  conquests.  A cherry-tree  may  weigh  against 
a bloody  laurel ; besides,  he  has  contrived  to  earn  celebrity  from 
both. 

(4)  “Petits  puits  d'amour  garnis  des  confitures," — a classic* 
and  well  known  dish  for  part  of  the  flank  of  a second  course. 


CASIO  IT. 


DON  JUAN. 


749 


LXXI. 

Alas  ! I must  leave  undescribed  the  gibier, 

The  salmi,  the  consomme,  the  puree, 

All  which  I use  to  make  my  rhymes  run  glibber 
Than  could  roast  beef  in  our  rough  John  Bull  way  : 
I must  not  introduce  even  a spare  rib  here, 

“ Bubble  and  squeak”  would  spoil  my  liquid  lay, 
But  I have  dined,  and  must  forego,  alas  ! 

The  chaste  description  even  of  a “ becasse 

LXXII. 

And  fruits,  and  ice,  and  all  that  art  refines 
From  nature  for  the  service  of  the  gout — 

Taste  or  the  gouty — pronounce  it  as  inclines 

Your  stomach  ! Ere  you  dine,  the  French  will  do ; 
But  after , there  are  sometimes  certain  signs 
Which  prove  plain  English  truer  of  the  two. 

Hast  ever  had  the  g'out  ? I have  not  had  it — 

But  I may  have,  and  you  too,  reader,  dread  it. 

LXXIII. 

The  simple  olives,  best  allies  of  wine, 

Must  I pass  over  in  my  bill  of  fare  ? 

I must,  although  a favourite  “ plat”  of  mine 
In  Spain,  and  Lucca,  Athens,  everywhere : 

On  them  and  bread  ’twas  oft  my  luck  to  dine, 

The  grass  my  table-cloth,  in  open  air. 

On  Sunium  or  Hymettus,  like  Diogenes, 

Of  whom  half  my  philosophy  the  progeny  is.1 

LXXI  V. 

Amidst  this  tumult  of  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl, 

And  vegetables,  all  in  masquerade, 

The  guests  were  placed  according  to  their  roll, 

But  various  as  the  various  meats  display’d : 

.Don  Juan  sat  next  an  “a  l’Espagnole” — 

No  damsel,  but  a dish,  as  hath  been  said ; 

But  so  far  like  a lady,  that  ’twas  drest 
Superbly,  and  contain’d  a world  of  zest. 

LXXV. 

By  some  odd  chance  too,  he  was  placed  between 
Aurora  and  the  Lady  Adeline — 

A situation  difficult,  I ween, 

For  man  therein,  with  eyes  and  heart,  to  dine. 

Also  the  conference  which  we  have  seen 
Was  not  such  as  to  encourage  him  to  shine, 

For  Adeline,  addressing  few  words  to  hir  , [him. 
With  two  transcendent  eyes  seem’d  to  look  through 

LXXVI. 

I sometimes  almost  think  that  eyes  have  ears : 

This  much  is  sure,  that,  out  of  earshot,  things 
Are  somehow  echoed  to  the  pretty  dears, 

Of  which  I can’t  tell  whence  their  knowledge  springs. 
Like  that  same  mystic  music  of  the  spheres, 

Which  no  one  hears,  so  loudly  though  it  rings, 

’Tis  wonderful  how  oft  the  sex  have  heard 
Long  dialogues — which  pass’d  without  a word ! 

LXXVII. 

Aurora  sat  with  that  indifference 

Which  piques  a preux  chevalier — as  it  ought : 

Of  all  offences  that’s  the  worst  offence. 

Which  seems  to  hint  you  are  not  worth  a thought. 
Now  Juan,  though  no  coxcomb  in  pretence, 

Was  not  exactly  pleased  to  be  so  caught : 

Like  a good  ship  entangled  among  ice. 

And  after  so  much  excellent  advice. 


(1)  [“To-day  in  a palace,  to-morrow  in  a cow-house — this  day 
rith  the  pacha,  the  next  with  a shepherd.” — Byron  Letters,  1810.] 


LXXVIII. 

To  his  gay  nothings,  nothing  was  replied, 

Or  something  which  was  nothing,  as  urbanity 
Required.  Aurora  scarcely  look’d  aside. 

Nor  even  smiled  enough  for  any  vanity. 

The  devil  was  in  the  girl ! Could  it  be  pride  ? 

Or  modesty,  or  abseuce,  or  inanity  ? 

Heaven  knows  ! But  Adeline’s  malicious  eyes 
Sparkled  with  her  successful  prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And  look’d  as  much  as  if  to  say,  “ I said  it 
A kind  of  triumph  I’ll  not  recommend. 

Because  it  sometimes,  as  I have  seen  or  read  it, 

Both  in  the  case  of  lover  and  of  friend, 

Will  pique  a gentleman,  for  his  own  credit, 

To  bring  what  was  a jest  to  a serious  end  : 

For  all  men  prophesy  what  is  or  was, 

And  hate  those  who  won’t  let  them  come  to  pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan  was  drawn  thus  into  some  attentions. 

Slight  but  select,  and  just  enough  to  express. 

To  females  of  perspicuous  comprehensions, 

That  he  would  rather  make  them  more  than  less. 
Aurora  at  the  last  (so  history  mentions, 

Though  probably  much  less  a fact  than  guess) 

So  far  relax’d  her  thoughts  from  their  sweet  prison. 
As  once  or  twice  to  smile,  if  not  to  listen. 

LXXXI. 

From  answering  she  began  to  question  : this 
With  her  was  rare  ; and  Adeline,  who  as  yet 
Thought  her  predictions  went  not  much  amiss. 

Began  to  dread  she’d  thaw  to  a coquette — 

So  very  difficult,  they  say,  it  is 

To  keep  extremes  from  meeting,  when  once  set 
In  motion ; but  she  here  too  much  refined — 

Aurora’s  spirit  was  not  of  that  kind. 

LXXXI  I. 

But  Juan  had  a sort  of  winning  way, 

A proud  humility,  if  such  there  be, 

Which  show’d  such  deference  to  what  females  say, 

As  if  each  charming  word  were  a decree. 

His  tact,  too,  temper’d  him  from  grave  to  gav, 

And  taught  him  when  to  be  reserved  or  free : 

He  had  the  art  of  drawing  people  out, 

Without  their  seeing  what  he  was  about. 

LXXXIII. 

Aurora,  who  in  her  indifference 

Confounded  him  in  common  with  the  crowd 
Of  flatterers,  though  she  deem’d  he  had  more  sense 
Than  whispering  foplings,  or  than  witlings  loud — 
Commenced  (from  such  slight  things  will  great  ccm- 
mence) 

To  feel  that  flattery  which  attracts  the  proud, 
Rather  by  deference  than  compliment, 

And  wins  even  by  a delicate  dissent. 

LXXXIV. 

And  then  he  had  good  looks  ; — that  point  was  carried 
Nem.  con.  amongst  the  women,  which T grieve 
To  say  leads  oft  to  crim.  con.  with  the  married — 

A case  which  to  the  juries  we  may  leave, 

Since  with  digressions  we  too  long  have  tarried. 

Now  though  we  know  of  old  that  looks  deceive, 
And  always  have  done,  somehow  these  good  looks 
Make  more  impression  than  the  best  of  books. 


750 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XV 


LXXXV. 

Aurora,  who  look’d  more  on  books  than  faces, 

Was  very  young,  although  so  very  sage, 

Admiring  more  Minerva  than  the  Graces, 

Especially  upon  a printed  page. 

But  Virtue’s  self,  with  all  her  tightest  laces, 

Has  not  the  natural  stays  of  strict  old  age  ; 

And  Socrates,  that  model  of  all  duty, 

Own’d  to  a penchant,  though  discreet,  for  beauty. 
lxxXvi. 

And  girls  of  sixteen  are  thus  far  Socratic, 

But  innocently  so,  as  Socrates ; 

And  really,  if  the  sage  su clime  and  Attic 
At  seventy  years  had  phantasies  like  these, 

Which  Plato  in  his  dialogues  dramatic 

Has  shown,  I know  not  why  they  should  displease 
In  virgins — always  in  a modest  way, 

Observe;  for  that  with  me’s  a “sine  qua.”1 

LXXXVII. 

Also  observe,  that,  like  the  great  Lord  Coke 
(See  Littleton),  whene’er  I have  express’d 
Opinions  two,  which  at  first  sight  may  look 
Twin  opposites,  the  second  is  the  best. 

Perhaps  I have  a third  too,  in  a nook, 

Or  none  at  all — which  seems  a sorry  jest : 

But  if  a writer  should  be  quite  consistent. 

How  could  he  possibly  show  things  existent  ? 
Lxxxym. 

If  people  contradict  themselves,  can  I 
Help  contradicting  them,  ami  every  body, 

Even  my  veracious  self? — But  that’s  a lie  : 

I never  did  so,  never  will — how  should  I ? 

He  who  doubts  all  things  nothing  can  deny  : 

Truth’s  fountains  # may  be  clear — her  streams  are 
muddy, 

And  cut  through  such  canals  of  contradiction. 

That  she  must  often  navigate  o’er  fiction. 

LXXXIX. 

Apologue,  fable,  poesy,  and  parable, 

Are  false,  but  may  be  render’d  also  true, 

By  those  who  sow  them  in  a land  that’s  arable. 

’Tis  wonderful  what  fable  will  not  do  ! 

’Tis  said  it  makes  reality  more  bearable  : 

But  what’s  reality  ? Who  has  its  clue  ? 

Philosophy  ? No  : she  too  much  rejects 
Religion  ? Yes  ; but  which  of  all  her  sects  ? 
xc. 

Some  millions  must  be  wrong,  that’s  pretty  clear; 

Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  that  all  were  right. 

God  help  us  ! Since  we  have  need  on  our  career 
To  keep  our  holy  beacons  always  bright, 

KTis  time  that  some  new  prophet  should  appear. 

Or  old  indulge  man  with  a second  sight. 

Opinions  wear  out  in  some  thousand  years, 

Without  a small  refreshment  from  the  spheres. 

xci. 

But  here  again,  why  will  I thus  entangle 
Myself  with  metaphysics  ? None  can  hate 
So  much  as  I do  any  kind  of  wrangle  ; 

And  yet  such  is  my  folly,  or  my  fate, 

(1)  Subauditur  “ von;"  omitted  for  the  sake  of  euphony. 

(2)  [John  Scott,  Earl  cf  Eldon,  Chancellor  of  England  (with  the 
Interruption  of  fourteen  months)  from  1801  to  1830.J 

(3)  Hecla  is  a famous  hot-spring  in  Iceland. 

(4)  Hamlet  Act  III.  sc.  ii. 


I always  knock  my  head  against  some  angle 
About  the  present,  past,  or  future  state : 

Yet  I wish  well  to  Trojan  and  to  Tyrian, 

Eor  I was  bred  a moderate  Presbyterian. 

XCII. 

But  though  I am  a temperate  theologian, 

And  also  meek  as  a metaphysician, 

Impartial  between  Tyrian  and  Trojan 
As  Eldon2  on  a lunatic  commission, — 

In  politics  my  duty  is  to  show  John 

Bull  something  of  the  lower  world’s  condition. 

It  makes  my  blood  boil  like  the  springs  of  Hecla,3 4 
To  see  men  let  these  scoundrel  sovereigns  break  law. 

XCIII. 

But  politics,  and  policy,  and  piety. 

Are  topics  which  I sometimes  introduce. 

Not  only  for  the  sake  of  their  variety. 

But  as  subservient  to  a moral  use ; 

Because  my  business  is  to  dress  society, 

And  stuff  with  sage  that  very  verdant  goose. 

And  now,  that  we  may  furnish  with  some  matter  all 
Tastes,  we  are  going  to  try  the  supernatural. 

xciv. 

And  now  I will  give  up  all  argument ; 

And  positively  henceforth  no  temptation 
Shall  “ fool  me  to  the  top  up  of  my  bent — 

Yes,  I’ll  begin  a thorough  reformation. 

Indeed,  I 'never  knew  what  people  meant 
By  deeming  that  my  Muse’s  conversation 
Was  dangerous  ; — I think  she  is  as  harmless 
As  some  who  labour  more  and  yet  may  charm  less. 

xcv. 

Grim  reader  ! did  you  ever  see  a ghost  ? 

No ; but  you  have  heard — I understand — be  dumb ! , 

And  don’t  regret  the  time  you  may  have  lost, 

Eor  you  have  got  that  pieasure  still  to  come  : 

And  do  not  think  I mean  to  sneer  at  most  , 

Of  these  things,  or  by  ridicule  benumb 
That  source  of  the  sublime  and  the  mysterious 
Eor  certain  reasons  my  belief  is  serious. 

xcvi. 

Serious  ? You  laugh ; — you  may : that  will  I not ; 

My  smiles  must  be  sincere  or  not  at  all. 

I say  I do  believe  a haunted  spot 

Exists — and  where  ? That  shall  I not  recall. 

Because  I’d  rather  it  should  be  forgot, 

“ Shadows  the  soul  of  Richard”5  may  appal. 

In  short,  upon  that  subject  I’ve  some  qualms  very 
Like  those  of  the  philosopher  of  Malmsbury.6 

xcvn. 

The  night — (I  sing  by  night — sometimes  an  owl, 

And  now  and  then  a nightingale) — is  dim, 

And  the  loud  shriek  of  sage  Minerva’s  fowl 
Rattles  around  me  her  discordant  hymn  : 

Old  portraits  from  old  walls  upon  me  scowl — 

I wish  to  heaven  they  would  not  look  so  grim ; 

The  dying  embers  dwindle  in  the  grate — 

I think  too  that  I have  sate  up  too  late  : 


(5)  [“  By  the  apostle  Paul,  shadowsto-night 

Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard 
Than  can  the  substance  of  ten  thousand  soldiers,”  &c. 

R ‘chard  III.) 

(6)  Hobbes:  who,  doubting  of  his  own  soul,  paid  that  compli- 
ment to  the  souls  of  other  people  as  to  decline  their  visxw,  ox  wn:ca 
he  had  some  apprehension. 


TJLKTO  XVI. 


DON  JUAN. 


75  i 


XCVIII. 

And  therefore,  though  ’tis  by  no  means  my  way 
To  rhyme  at  noon— when  I have  other  things 
To  think  of,  if  I ever  think — I say 
I feel  some  chilly  midnight  shudderings. 

And  prudently  postpone,  until  mid-dav, 

Treating  a topic  which,  alas  ! but  brings 
Shadows ; — but  you  must  be  in  my  condition, 
Before  you  learn  to  call  this  superstition. 

xcix. 

Between  two  worlds  life  hovers  like  a star, 

’Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon’s  verge. 
How  little  do  we  know  that  which  we  are ! 

How  less  what  we  may  be ! The  eternal  surge 
Of  time  and  tide  rolls  on  and  bears  afar 

Our  bubbles  ; as  the  old  burst,  new  emerge, 
Lash’d  from  the  foam  of  ages  ; while  the  graves 
Of  empires  heave  but  like  some  passing  waves.1 


Bon  gjttan. 


CANTO  THE  SIXTEENTH. 


I. 

T he  antique  Persians  taught  three  useful  things. 
To  draw  the  bow,  to  ride,  and  speak  the  truth.2 
This  was  the  mode  of  Cyrus,  best  of  kings — 

A mode  adopted  since  by  modern  youth. 

Bows  have  they,  generally  with  two  strings ; 

Horses  they  ride  without  remorse  or  ruth ; 

At  speaking  truth  perhaps  they  are  less  clever, 

But  draw  the  long  bow  better  now  than  ever. 

ii. 

The  cause  of  this  effect,  or  this  defect, — 

“For  this  effect  defective  comes  by  cause,” — 3 
Is  what  I have  not  leisure  to  inspect ; 

But  this  I must  say  in  my  own  applause, 

Of  all  the  Muses  that  I recollect, 

Whate’er  may  be  her  follies  or  her  flaws 
In  some  things,  mine’s  beyond  all  contradiction 
The  most  sincere  that  ever  dealt  in  fiction. 

ill. 

And  as  she  treats  all  things,  and  ne’er  retreats 
From  any  thing,  this  epic  will  contain 
A wilderness  of  the  most  rare  conceits. 

Which  you  might  elsewhere  hope  to  find  in  vain. 
'Tis  true  there  be  some  bitters  with  the  sweets. 

Yet  mix’d  so  slightly,  that  you  can’t  complain, 
But  wonder  they  so  few  are,  since  my  tale  is 
:t  De  rebus  cunctis  et  quibusdam  aliis.” 


(1)  [“  Man’s  life  is  like  a sparrow — mighty  king! 

That,  stealing  in  while  by  the  fire  you  sit, 

Housed  with  rejoicing  friends,  is  seen  to  flit 
Safe  from  the  storm,  in  comfort  tarrying. 

Here  did  it  enter — there  on  hasty  wing 
Flies  out,  and  passes  on  from  cold  t®  cold ; 

But  whence  it  came  Vve  know  not,  nor  behold 
Whithei  it  goes.  Even  such  that  transient  thing 
The  human  soul : not  utterly  unknown 
While  in  the  body  lodged,  her  warm  abode; 

But  from  what  world  she  came,  what  woe  or  weal 
On  her  departure  waits,  no  tongue  hath  shown.” 

Wordsworth.]  j 


IV. 

But  of  all  truths  which  she  has  told,  the  most 
True  is  that  which  she  is  about  to  tell. 

1 said  it  was  a story  of  a ghost — 

What  then  ? I only  know  it  so  befell. 

Have  you  explored  the  limits  of  the  coast, 

Where  all  the  dwellers  of  the  earth  must  dwell  ? 
’Tis  time  to  strike  such  puny  doubters  dumb  as 
The  sceptics  who  would  not  believe  Columbus. 

v. 

Some  people  would  impose  now  with  authority, 
Turpin’s  or  Monmouth  Geoffry’s  Chronicle ; 

Men  whose  historical  superiority 
Is  always  greatest  at  a miracie. 

But  Saint  Augustine  has  the  great  priority. 

Who  bids  all  men  believe  the  impossible, 

Because  ’ tis  so.  Who  nibble,  scribble,  quibble,  he 
Quiets  at  once  with  “ quia  impossible.” 

VI. 

And  therefore,  mortals,  cavil  not  at  all ; 

Believe  : — if  ’tis  improbable,  you  must. 

And  if  it  is  impossible,  you  shall : 

’Tis  always  best  to  take  things  upon  trust. 

I do  not  speak  profanely,  to  recall 

Those  holier  mysteries  which  the  wise  and  just 
Receive  as  gospel,  and  which  grow  more  rooted, 

As  all  truths  must,  the  more  they  are  disputed : 

VII. 

I merely  mean  to  say  what  Johnson  said. 

That  in  the  course  of  some  six  thousand  years, 
All  nations  have  believed  that  from  the  dead 
A visitant  at  intervals  appears  ;4 
And  what  is  strangest  upon  this  strange  head. 

Is,  that  whatever  bar  the  reason  rears 
’Gainst  such  belief,  there’s  something  stronger  still 
In  its  behalf,  let  those  deny  who  will. 

VIII. 

The  dinner  and  the  soiree  too  were  done, 

The  supper  too  discuss’d,  the  dames  admired, 
The  banqueteers  had  dropp’d  off  one  by  one — 

The  song  was  silent,  and  the  dance  expired : 

The  last  thin  petticoats  were  vanish’d,  gone 
Like  fleecy  clouds  into  the  sky  retired, 

And  nothing  brighter  gleam’d  through  the  saloon 
Than  dying  tapers — and  the  peeping  moon. 

IX. 

The  evaporation  of  a joyous  day 

Is  like  the  last  glass  of  champagne,  without 
The  foam  which  made  its  virgin  bumper  gay ; 

Or  like  a system  coupled  with  a doubt ; 

Or  like  a soda  bottle  when  its  spray 
Has  sparkled  and  let  half  its  spirit  out ; 

Or  like  a billow  left  by  storms  behind. 

Without  the  animation  of  the  wind ; 


(2)  Xenophon,  Cyrop. 

(3)  Harriet,  Act  II.  sc.  ii. 

(4)  [“  That  the  dead  are  seen  no  more,”  said  Imlac,  “ I will  not 
undertake  to  maintain,  against  the  concurrent  and  unvaried  testi- 
mony of  all  ages,  and  of  all  nations.  There  is  no  people,  rude  or 
unlearned,  among  whom  apparitions  of  the  dead  are  not  related  and 
believed.  This  opinion,  which  prevails  as  far  as  human  nature  is 
diffused,  could  become  universal  only  by  its  truth ; those  that  never 
heard  of  one  another  would  not  have  agreed  in  a tale  which  nothing 
but  experience  can  make  credible.  That  it  is  doubted  by  single 
cavillers,  can  very  little  weaken  the  general  evidence ; and  some, 
who  deny  it  with  their  tongues,  confess  it  with  their  fears.”— 
Rasseku .] 


752 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XVI 


X. 

Or  like  an  opiate,  which  brings  troubled  rest, 

Or  none ; or  like — like  nothing  that  I know 
Except  itself ; — such  is  the  human  breast ; 

A thing,  of  which  similitudes  can  show 
No  real  likeness, — like  the  old  Tyrian  vest 
Dyed  purple,  none  at  present  can  tell  how. 

If  frnn  a shell-fish  or  from  cochineal.1 
Sr.  perish  every  tyrant’s  robe  piece-meal  1 

XI. 

B.it  next  to  dressing  for  a ront  or  ball, 

Undressing  is  a woe  ; our  robe  de  chambre 
May  sit  like  that  of  Nessus,2  and  recall 

Thoughts  quite  as  yellow,  but  less  clear  th?j  amber. 
Titus  exclaim’d,  “ I’ve  lost  a day  !”  Of  all 
The  nights  and  days  most  people  can  re  me  riber, 

(I  have  had  of  both,  some  not  to  be  disdain’d,) 

I wish  they’d  state  how  many  they  have  gain'd. 

XII. 

And  Juan,  on  retiring  for  the  night. 

Felt  restless,  and  perplex’d,  and  compromised : 

He  thought  Aurora  Raby’s  eyes  more  bright 
Than  Adeline  (such  is  advice)  advised  ; 

If  he  had  known  exactly  his  own  plight, 

He  probably  would  have  philosophized : 

A great  resource  to  all,  and  ne’er  denied 
Till  wanted;  therefore  Juan  only  sigh’d. 

XIII. 

He  sigh’d ; — the  next  resource  is  the  full  moon, 
Where  all  sighs  are  deposited ; and  now 
It  happen’d  luckily,  the  chaste  orb  shone 
As  clear  as  such  a climate  will  allow ; 

And  Juan’s  mind  was  in  the  proper  tone 

To  hail  her  with  the  apostrophe — “ 0 thou !” 

Of  amatory  egotism  the  Tuism , 

IV  hi ch  further  to  explain  would  be  a truism. 

XIV. 

But  lover,  poet,  or  astronomer, 

Shepherd,  or  swain,  whoever  may  behold, 

Feel  some  abstraction  when  they  gaze  on  her  : 

Great  thoughts  we  catch  from  thence  (besides  a cold 
Sometimes,  unless  my  feelings  rather  err ) ; 

Deep  secrets  to  her  rolling  light  are  told ; 

The  ocean’s  tides  and  mortals’  brains  she  sways, 

And  also  hearts,  if  there  be  truth  in  lays. 

xv. 

Juan  felt  somewhat  pensive,  and  disposed 
For  contemplation  rather  than  his  pillow : 

The  Gothic  chamber,  where  he  was  enclosed, 

Let  in  the  rippling  sound  of  the  lake’s  billow, 

With  all  the  mystery  by  midnight  caused : 

Below  his  window  waved  (ol  course)  a willow ; 

And  he  stood  gazing  out  on  the  cascade 
That  flash’d  and  after  darken’d  in  the  shade. 

xvi. 

Upon  his  table  or  his  toilet, — which 
Of  these  is  not  exactly  ascertained, — 

(I  state  this,  for  I am  cautious  to  a pitch 
Of  nicety,  where  the  fact  is  to  be  gain’d,) 


(1)  T.ne  composition  of  the  old  Tyrian  purple,  whether  from  a 
shell  fish,  or  from  cochineal  or  from  kermes,  is  still  an  article  of 

dispute;  and  even  its  colour  -some  say  purple,  others  scarlet:  I say 

cotiiiaa. 


A lamp  burn’d  high,  while  he  leant  from  a niche, 
Where  many  a Gothic  ornament  remain’d. 

In  chisell’d  stone  and  painted  glass,  and  all 
That  time  has  left  our  fathers  of  their  hall. 

XVII. 

Then,  as  the  night  was  clear  through  cold,  he  threw 
His  chamber  door  wide  open— and  went  forth 
Into  a gallery,  of  a sombre  hue. 

Long,  furnish’d  with  old  pictures  of  great  worth. 
Of  knights  and  dames  heroic  and  chaste  too, 

As  doubtless  should  be  people  of  high  birth. 

But  by  dim  lights  the  portraits  of  the  dead 
Have  something  ghastly,  desolate,  and  dread. 

XVIII. 

The  forms  of  the  grim  knight  and  pictured  saint 
Look  living  in  the  moon  ; and  as  you  turn 
Backward  and  forward  to  the  echoes  faint 
Of  your  own  footsteps — voices  from  the  urn 
Appear  to  wake,  and  shadows  wild  and  quaint 

Start  from  the  frames  which  fence  their  aspects  stern, 
As  if  to  ask  how  you  can  dare  to  keep 
A vigil  there,  where  all  but  death  should  sleep. 

XIX. 

And  the  pale  smile  of  beauties  in  the  grave. 

The  charms  of  other  days,  in  starlight  gleams, 
Glimmer  on  high ; their  buried  locks  still  wave 
Along  the  canvass ; their  eyes  glance  like  dreams 
On  ours,  or  spars  within  some  dusky  cave, 

But  death  is  imaged  in  their  shadowy  beams. 

A picture  is  the  past ; even  ere  its  frame 
Be  gilt,  who  sate  hath  ceased  to  be  the  same. 

xx. 

As  Juan  mused  on  mutability, 

Or  on  his  mistress — terms  synonymous — 

No  sound  except  the  echo  of  his  sigh 

Or  step  ran  sadly  through  that  antique  house ; 
When  suddenly  he  heard,  or  thought  so,  nigh, 

A supernatural  agent — or  a mouse. 

Whose  little  nibbling  rustle  will  embarrass 
Most  people  as  it  plays  along  the  arras. 

XXI. 

It  was  no  mouse,  but  lo ! a monk,  array’d 
In  cowl  and  beads,  and  dusky  garb,  appear’d. 

Now  in  the  moonlight,  and  now  lapsed  in  shade, 
With  steps  that  trod  as  heavy,  yet  unheard ; 

His  garments  only  a slight  murmur  made  ; 

He  moved  as  shadowy  as  the  sisters  weird,3 
But  slowly ; and  as  he  passed  Juan  by. 

Glanced,  without  pausing,  on  him  a bright  eye. 

XXII. 

Juan  was  petrified ; he  had  heard  a hint 
Of  suen  a spirit  in  these  halls  of  old, 

But  thought,  like  most  men,  there  was  nothing  in’t 
Beyond  the  rumour  which  such  spots  unfold, 
Coin’d  from  surviving  superstition’s  mint. 

Which  passes  ghosts  in  currency  like  gold, 

But  rarely  seen,  like  gold  compared  with  paper. 

And  did  he  see  this  ? or  was  it  a vapour  ? 


(2)  [See  Ovid.  Epist.  ix.] 

(3j  [“  Shew  hi8  eyes,  and  grieve  hi*  hear’ 

Come  like  shadows,  so  depart." — AfaeC'^-  - 


CANTO  XVI. 


DON  JUAN. 


753 


XXIII. 

Once,  twice,  thrice  pass’d,  repass’d — the  thing  of  air. 
Or  earth  beneath,  or  heaven,  or  t’other  place  : 

And  Juan  gazed  upon  it  with  a stare, 

Yet  could  not  speak  or  move  ; but,  on  its  base 
As  stands  a statue,  stood : he  felt  his  hair 
Twine  like  a knot  of  suakes  around  his  face  ; 

He  tax’d  his  tongue  for  words,  which  were  not  granted. 
To  ask  the  reverend  person  what  he  wanted. 

xxiv. 

The  third  time,  after  a still  longer  pause, 

The  shadow  pass’d  away — but  where  F the  hall 
Was  long,  and  thus  far  there  was  no  great  cause 
To  think  his  vanishing  unnatural : 

Doors  there  were  many,  through  which,  by  the  laws 
Of  physics,  bodies  whether  short  or  tall 
Might  come  or  go ; but  J uan  could  not  state 
Through  which  the  spectre  seem’d  to  evaporate. 

xxv. 

He  stood — how  long  he  knew  not,  but  it  seem’d 
An  age — expectant,  powerless,  with  his  eyes 
Strain’d  on  the  spot  where  first  the  figure  gleam’d ; 

Then  by  degrees  recall’d  his  energies, 

And  would  have  pass’d  the  whole  off  as  a dream, 

But  could  not  wake ; he  was,  he  did  surmise. 
Waking  already,  and  return’d  at  length 
Back  to  his  chamber,  shorn  of  half  his  strength. 

XXVI. 

All  there  was  as  he  left  it : still  his  taper 
Burnt,  and  not  blue , as  modest  tapers  use. 
Receiving  sprites  with  sympathetic  vapour  ; 

He  rubb’d  his  eyes,  and  they  did  not  refuse 
Their  office  : he  took  up  £.n  old  newspaper  ; 

The  paper  was  right  easy  to  peruse ; 

He  read  an  article  the  king  attacking, 

And  a long  eulogy  of  “ patent  blacking.” 

XXVII. 

This  savour’d  of  this  world ; but  his  hand  shook : 

He  shut  his  door,  and  after  having  read 
A paragraph,  I think  about  Horne  Tooke, 

Undrest,  and  rather  slowly  went  to  bed. 

There,  couch’d  all  snugly  on  his  pillow’s  nook. 

With  what  he  had  seen  his  phantasy  he  fed ; 

And  though  it  was  no  opiate,  slumber  crept 
Upon  him  by  degrees,  and  so  he  slept. 

XXVIII. 

He  woke  betimes  ; and,  as  may  be  supposed. 

Ponder’d  upon  his  visitant  or  vision, 

And  whether  it  ought  not  to  be  disclosed, 

At  risk  of  being  quizz’d  for  superstition. 

The  more  lie  thought,  the  more  his  mind  was  posed: 
In  the  mean  time,  his  valet,  whose  precision 
Was  great,  because  his  master  brook’d  no  less, 
Knock’d  to  inform  him  it  was  time  to  dress. 

XXIX. 

He  dress’d  ; and  like  young  people  he  was  wont 
To  take  some  trouble  with  his  toilet,  but 
This  morning  rather  spent  less  time  upon ’t ; 

Aside  his  very  mirror  soon  was  put ; 

His  curls  fell  negligently  o’er  his  front, 

His  clothes  were  not  curb’d  to  their  usual  cut, 

His  very  neckcloth’s  Gordian  knot  was  tied 
Almost  an  hair’s  breadth  too  much  on  one  side. 


(I)  [During  a visit  to  Newstead,  in  18H,  Lord  Byron  actually 
fancied  he  saw  the  ghoet  of  the  Black  Friar,  which  was  supposed  to 


XXX. 

And  when  he  walk’d  down  into  the  saloon. 

He  sate  him  pensive  o’er  a dish  of  tea, 

Which  he  perhaps  had  not  discover’d  soon. 

Had  it  not  happen’d  scalding  hot  to  be, 

Which  made  him  have  recourse  unto  his  spoon ; 

So  much  distrait  he  was,  that  all  could  see 
That  something  was  the  matter — Adeline 
The  first — but  what  she  could  not  well  divine. 

XXXI. 

She  look’d,  and  saw  him  pale,  and  turn’d  as  pale 
Herself ; then  hastily  look’d  down,  and  mutter’d 
Something,  but  what ’s  not  stated  in  my  tale. 

Lord  Henry  said,  his  muffin  was  ill  butter’d ; 

The  Duchess  of  Fitz-Fluke  play’d  with  her  veil. 

And  look’d  at  Juan  hard,  but  nothing  utter’d. 
Aurora  Raby  with  her  large  dark  eyes 
Survey’d  him  with  a kind  of  calm  surprise. 

XXXII. 

But  seeing  him  all  cold  and  silent  still. 

And  every  body  wondering  more  or  less, 

Pair  Adeline  inquired,  “ If  he  were  ill  ?” 

He  started,  and  said,  “ Yes — no — rather — yes.” 

The  family  physician  had  great  skill. 

And  being  present,  now  began  to  express 
His  readiness  to  feel  his  pulse  and  tell 
The  cause,  but  Juan  said,  “ He  was  quite  well.” 
XXXIII. 

“ Quite  well ; yes, — no.” — These  answers  were  n ys- 
terious, 

And  yet  his  looks  appear’d  to  sanction  both. 
However  they  might  savour  of  delirious  ; 

Something  like  illness  of  a sudden  growth 
Weigh’d  on  his  spirit,  though  by  no  means  serious : 
But  for  the  rest,  as  he  himself  seem’d  loth 
To  state  the  case,  it  might  be  ta’en  for  granted, 

It  was  not  the  physician  that  he  wanted. 

xxxiv. 

Lord  Henry,  wrho  had  now  discuss’d  his  chocolate. 
Also  the  muffin  whereof  he  complain’d, 

Said,  Juan  had  not  got  his  usual  look  elate, 

At  which  he  marvell’d,  since  it  had  not  rain’d ; 

Then  ask’d  her  Grace  what  news  wereof  the  duke  of  late? 

Her  Grace  replied,  his  Grace  was  rather  pain’d 
With  some  slight,  light,  hereditary  twinges 
Of  gout,  which  rusts  aristocratic  hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then  Henry  turn’d  to  Juan,  and  address’d 
A few  words  of'  condolence  on  his  state : 

“ You  look,”  quotli  he,  “ as  if  you  had  had  your  rest 
Broke  in  upon  by  the  Black  Friar  of  late.” 

“ What  friar  ?”  said  Juan  ; and  he  did  his  best 
To  put  the  question  with  an  air  sedate, 

Or  careless  ; but  the  effort  was  not  valid 
To  hinder  him  from, growing  still  more  pallid, 
xxxvi 

“Oh ! have  you  never  heard  of  the  Black  Friar  F1 
The  spirit  of  these  walls  F” — “ In  truth  not  I.” 
“Why  Fame — but  Fame  you  know’s  sometimes  a 
Tells  an  odd  story,  of  which  by  and  by  : [liar — 

Whether  with  time  the  spectre  has  grown  shyer, 

Or  that  our  sires  had  a more  gifted  eye 
For  such  sights,  though  the  tale  is  half  believed, 

The  friar  of  late  has  not  been  oft  perceived. 


have  haunted  the  Abbey  from  the  time 
monasteries. — Moore.] 

* D 


754 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  xvt 


XXXVII. 

" The  last  time  was ” — “ I pray,”  said  Adeline — 

(Who  watch’d  the  changes  of  Don  Juan’s  brow, 
And  from  its  context  thought  she  could  divine 
Connexions  stronger  than  he  chose  to  avow 
With  this  same  legend) — “ if  you  but  design 
To  jest,  you’ll  choose  some  other  theme  just  now. 
Because  the  present  tale  has  oft  been  told. 

And  is  not  much  improved  by  growing  old.” 

XXXVIII. 

‘ Jest !”  quoth  Milor  ; “ why,  Adeline,  you  know 
That  we  ourselves — ’twas  in  the  honey  moon— 

Saw ” — “ Well,  no  matter,  ’twas  so  long  ago ; 

But,  come.  I’ll  set  your  story  to  a tune.” 

Graceful  as  Dian,  when  she  draws  her  bow. 

She  seized  her  harp,  whose  strings  were  kindled  soon 
As  touch’d,  and  plaintively  began  to  play 
The  air  of  “ ’Twas  a Friar  of  Orders  Gray.” 
xxxix. 

“ But  add  the  words,”  cried  Henry,  “ which  you  made ; 

For  Adeline  is  half  a poetess,” 

Turning  round  to  the  rest,  he  smiling  said. 

Of  course  the  others  could  not  but  express 
courtesy  their  wish  to  see  display’d 
By  one  three  talents,  for  there  were  no  less — • 

The  voice,  the  words,  the  harper’s  skill,  at  once 
Could  hardly  be  united  by  a dunce. 

XL. 

After  some  fascinating  hesitation, — 

The  charmer  of  these  charmers,  who  seem  bound, 

I can’t  tell  why,  to  this  dissimulation, — 

Fair  Adeline,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground 
At  first,  then  kindling  into  animation, 

Added  her  sweet  voice  to  the  lyric  sound, 

And  sang  with  much  simplicity, — a merit 
Not  the  less  precious,  that  we  seldom  hear  it. 

1. 

Beware ! beware  ! of  the  Black  Friar, 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone, 

For  he  mutters  his  prayer  in  the  midnight  air. 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 

When  the  Lord  of  the  Hill,  Amundeville, 

Made  Norman  Church  his  prey, 

And  expell’d  the  friars,  one  friar  still 
Would  not  be  driven  away. 

2. 

Though  he  came  in  his  might,  with  King  Henry’s  right, 
To  turn  church  lands  to  lay, 

With  sword  in  hand,  and  torch  to  light 
Their  walls,  if  they  said  nay ; 

A monk  remain’d,  unchased,  unchain’d, 

And  he  did  not  seem  form’d  of  clay, 

For  he’s  seen  in  the  porch,  and  he’s  seen  in  the  church, 
Though  he  is  not  seen  by  day. 

3. 

Ana  whether  for  good,  or  whether  for  ill. 

It  is  not  mine  to  say ; 

But  still  with  the  house  of  Amundeville 
1 1 e abideth  night  and  day. 


(I)  [“Of  the  leading  superstitions,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  is 
the  Irish  fiction,  which  assigns  to  certain  families  of  ancient  descent 
and  distinguished  rank,  the  privilege  of  a Banshie,  whose  office  it  Is 
to  appear,  seemingly  mourning,  while  she  announces  the  approach 
jMg  death  of  some  one  of  the  destined  race.  The  subject  has  been 
uuoly,  and  beautifully,  investigated  by  Mr.  Crofton  Croker,  in  Lis 
Fairy  Legends.’’— Sir  W altsk  Scott,  1820.]  m _ 


By  the  marriage-bed  of  their' lords,  ’tis  said, 

He  flits  on  the  bridal  eve  ; 

And  ’tis  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  death 
He  comes — but  not  to  grieve. 

4. 

When  an  heir  is  born,  he’s  heard  to  mourn. 

And  when  aught  is  to  befall 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 
He  walks  from  hall  to  hall.1 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

’Tis  shadow’d  by  his  cowl : 

But  his  eyes  may  he  seen  from  the  folds  between. 
And  they  seem  of  a parted  soul. 

5. 

But  beware  ! beware  ! of  the  Black  Friar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway, 

For  he  is  yet  the  church’s  heir, 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay. 

Amundeville  is  lord  by  day, 

But  the  monk  is  lord  by  night ; 

Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a vassal 
To  question  that  friar’s  right. 

6. 

Say  nought  to  him  as  he  walks  the  hall, 

And  he’ll  say  nought  to  you ; 

He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall. 

As  o’er  the  grass  the  dew. 

Then  graminercy  ! for  the  Black  Friar ; 

Heaven  sain  him  ! fair  or  foul, 

And  whatsoe’er  may  be  his  prayer, 

Let  ours  bq  for  his  soul. 

The  lady’s  voice  ceased,  and  the  thrilling  wires 
Died  from  the  touch  that  kindled  them  to  sound  j 
And  the  pause  follow’d,  which  when  song  expires 
Pervades  a moment  those  who  listen  round , 

And  then  of  course  the  circle  much  admires. 

Nor  less  applauds,  as  in  politeness  bound. 

The  tones,  the  feeling,  and  the  execution. 

To  the  performer’s  diffident  confusion. 

XIII. 

Fair  Adeline,  though  in  a careless  way, 

As  if  she  rated  such  accomplishment , 

As  the  mere  pastime  of  an  idle  day, 

Pursued  an  instant  for  her  own  content. 

Would  now  and  then  as  ’twere  without  display, 

Yet  with  display  in  fact,  at  times  relent 
To  such  performances  with  haughty  smile, 

To  show  she  could , if  it  were  worth  her  while. 

XL1II. 

Now  this  (but  we  will  whisper  it  aside) 

Was — pardon  the  pedantic  illustration — 
Trampling  on  Plato’s  pride  with  greater  pride. 

As  did  the  Cynic  on  some  like  occasion ; 

Deeming  the  sage  would  be  much  mortified. 

Or  thrown  into  a philosophic  passion, 

For  a spoilt  carpet — but  the  “Attic  Bee” 

Was  much  consoled  by  his  own  repartee.2 3 


(2)  I think  that  it  was  a carpet  on  which  Diogenes  trod,  with— 

“ Thus  I trample  on  the  pride  of  Plato  ! ” — “ With  greater  pride,”  aa 
the  other  replied.  But  as  carpets  are  meant  to  be  trodden  upon,  my 
memory  probably  misgives  me,  and  it  might  be  a robe,  or  tapestry, 
or  a table-cloth,  or  some  other  expensive  and  oncynical  piece  o I 
furniture. 


CAifTO  XVI. 


DON  JUAN. 


755 


XLIV. 

Thus  Adeline  would  throw  into  the  shade 
(By  doing  easily,  whene’er  she  chose, 
i What  dilettanti  do  with  vast  parade) 

Their  sort  of  half  profession  ; for  it  grows 
To  something  like  this  when  too  oft  display’d  ; 

And  that  it  is  so,  every  body  knows, 

Who  have  heard  Miss  That  or  This,  or  Lady  T’other, 
Show  off — to  please  their  company  or  mother. 

XLV. 

Oh  ! the  long  evenings  of  duets  and  trios  ! 

The  admirations  and  the  speculations ; 

The  “ Mamma  Mia’s  !”  and  the  “ Amor  Mio’s  !” 

The  “Tanti  palpiti’s”  on  such  occasions  : 

The  “ Lasciami’s,”  and  quavering  “ Addio’s  ! ” 
Amongst  our  own  most  musical  of  nations  : 

With  “ Tu  mi  chamas’s”  from  Portingale,1 
To  soothe  our  ears,  lest  Italy  should  fail.2 

XLVI. 

In  Babylon’s  bravuras — as  the  home 

Heart-ballads  of  Green  Erin  or  Gray  Highlands, 
That  bring  Lochaber  back  to  eyes  that  roam 
O’er  far  Atlantic  continents  or  islands, 

The  calentures  of  music  which  o’ercome  [lands, 
All  mountaineers  with  dreams  that  they  are  nigh 
No  more  to  be  beheld  but  in  such  visions — 

Was  Adeline  well  versed,  as  compositions. 

XLVII. 

She  also  had  a twilight  tinge  of  “ Blue,” 

Could  write  rhymes,  and  compose  more  than  she 
wrote, 

Made  epigrams  occasionally  too 
jUpon  her  friends,  as  every  body  ought. 

But  still  from  that  sublimer  azure  hue. 

So  much  the  present  dye,  she  was  remote  ; 

Was  weak  enough  to  deem  Pope  a great  poet, 

And  what  was  worse,  was  not  ashamed  to  show  it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — since  we  are  touching  upon  taste. 

Which  now-a-days  is  the  thermometer 
By  whose  degrees  all  characters  are  class’d — 

Was  more  Shakspearian,  if  I#do  not  err. 

The  worlds  beyond  this  world’s  perplexing  waste 
Had  more  of  her  existence,  for  in  her 
There  was  a depth  of  feeling  to  embrace 
Thoughts,  boundless,  deep,  but  silent  too  as  Space. 

XLIX. 

Not  so  her  gracious,  graceful,  graceless  Grace, 

The  full-grown  Hebe  of  Fitz-Fulke,  whose  mind, 

If  she  had  any,  was  upon  her  face, 

And  that  was  of  a fascinating  kind. 

A little  turn  for  mischief  you  might  trace 
Also  thereon, — but  that’s  not  much  ; we  find 
Few  females  without  some  such  gentle  leaven, 

For  fear  we  should  suppose  us  quite  in  heaven. 


(1)  [For  two  translations  of  this  Portuguese  song,  see  p.  557.] 

(2)  I remember  that  the  mayoress  of  a provincial  town,  some- 

what surfeited  with  a similar  display  from  foreign  parts,  did  rather 
indecorously  break  through  the  applauses  of  an  intelligent  audience 
— intelligent,  I mean,  as  to  music— for  the  words,  besides  being  in 
recondite  languages  (it  was  some  years  before  the  peace,  ere  all  the 
world  had  travelled,  and  while  1 was  a collegian  i,  were  sorely  dis- 
guised by  the  performers: — this  mayoress,  1 say,  broke  out  with, 

“ Hot  your  Italianos!  for  my  part,  1 loves  a simple  ballat!”  Ros- 
sini will  go  a good  way  to  bring  most  people  to  the  same  opinion 


I* 

I have  not  heard  she  was  at  all  poetic, 

Though  once  she  was  seen  reading  the  “Bath 
Guide,” 

And  “Hayley’s  Triumphs,”  which  she  deem’d  pathetic, 
Because  she  said  her  temper  had  been  tried 
So  much,  the  bard  had  really  been  prophetic 
Of  what  she  had  gone  through  with — since  a bride. 
But  of  all  verse,  what  most  ensured  her  praise 
Were  sonnets  to  herself,  or  “bouts  rimes.”3 

LI. 

’Twere  difficult  to  say  what  was  the  object 
Of  Adeline,  in  bringing  this  same  lay 
To  bear  on  what  appear’d  to  her  the  subject 
Of  Juan’s  nervous  feelings  on  that  day. 

Perhaps  she  merely  had  the  simple  project 
To  laugh  him  out  of  his  supposed  dismay ; 

Perhaps  she  might  wisly  to  confirm  him  in  it, 

Though  why  I cannot  say — at  least  this  minute. 

III. 

But  so  far  the  immediate  effect 
Was  to  restore  him  to  his  self-propriety, 

A thing  quite  necessary  to  the  elect, 

Who  wish  to  take  the  tone  of  their  society : 

In  which  you  cannot  be  too  circumspect. 

Whether  the  mode  be  persiflage  or  piety, 

But  wear  the  newest  mantle  of  hypocrisy, 

On  pain  of  much  displeasing  the  gynocracy.4 

LIIL 

And  therefore  Juan  now  began  to  rally  , 

His  spirits,  and  without  more  explanation 
To  jest  upon  such  themes  in  many  a sally. 

Her  Grace  too,  also  seized  the  same  occasion. 

With  various  similar  remarks  to  tally. 

But  wish’d  for  a still  more  detailed  narration 
Of  this  same  mystic  friar’s  curious  doings. 

About  the  present  family’s  deaths  and  wooings. 

LIV. 

Of  these  few  could  say  more  than  has  been  said  ; 

They  pass’d  as  such  things  do,  for  superstition 
Wit  h some,  while  others,  wlio  had  more  in  dread 
The  theme,  half  credited  the  strange  tradition ; 

And  much  was  talk’d  on  all  sides  on  that  head  : 

But  Juan,  when  cross- questioned  on  the  vision, 
Which  some  supposed  (though  he  had  not  avow’d  it) 
Had  stirr’d  him,  answer’d  in  a way  to  cloud  it. 

LV. 

And  then,  the  mid-day  having  worn  to  one. 

The  company  prepared  to  separate  ; 

Some  to  their  several  pastimes,  or  to  none, 

Some  wondering  ’twas  so  early,  some  so  late. 

There  was  a goodly  match  too,  to  be  run 

Between  some  greyhounds  on  my  lord’s  estate, 

And  a young  race-horse  of  old  pedigree, 

Match’d  for  the  spring,  whom  several  went  to  see. 


some  day.  Who  would  imagine  that  he  was  to  be  the  successor  of 
Mozart?  However,  I state  this  with  diffidence,  as  a liege  and  loyal 
admirer  of  Italian  music  in  general,  and  of  much  of  Rossini’s;  but 
we  may  say,  as  the  connoisseur  did  of  painting  in  “The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,”  that  “ the  picture  would  be  better  painted  if  the  painter 
had  taken  more  pains.” 

(3)  [The  last  words  or  rhymes  of  a number  of  verses  given  to  a 
poet  to  be  filled  up. — Toon.] 

(4)  [Petticoat  government — female  power. — Ibid.] 


756 


LORD  BYRON'S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XVI 


LYI. 

There  was  a picture-dealer  who  had  brought 
A special  Titian,  warranted  original, 

So  precious  that  it  was  not  to  be  bought, 

Though  princes  the  possessor  were  besieging  all. 
The  king  himself  had  cheapen’d  it,  but  thought 
The  civil  list  lie  deigns  to  accept  (obliging  all 
His  subjects  by  his  gracious  acceptation) — 

Too  scanty,  in  these  times  of  low  taxation. 

LVII. 

But  as  Lord  Henry  was  a connoisseur, — 

The  friend  of  artists,  if  not  arts, — the  owner. 

With  motives  the  most  classical  and  pure, 

So  that  he  would  have  been  the  very  donor, 

Rather  than  seller,  had  his  wants  been  fewer, 

So  much  he  deem’d  his  patronage  an  honour, 

Had  brought  the  capo  d’opera,1  not  for  sale, 

But  for  his  judgment — never  known  to  fail. 

lviii.  • 

There  was  a modern  Goth,  I mean  a Gothic 

Bricklayer  of  Babel,  call’d  an  architect,  [thick, 
Brought  to  survey  these  grey  walls,  which  though  so 
Might  have  from  time  acquired  some  slight  defect ; 
Who  after  rummaging  the  Abbey  through  thick 
And  thin,  produced  a plan  whereby  to  erect 
New  buildings  of  correctest  conformation, 

And  throw  down  old,  which  he  call’d  rent  oration. 

LIX. 

The  cost  would  be  a trifle — an  “ old  song,” 

Set  to  some  thousands  (’tis  the  usual  burthen 
Of  that  same  tune,  when  people  hum  it  long) — 

The  price  would  speedily  repay  its  worth  in 
An  edifice  no  less  sublime  than  strong. 

By  which  Lord  Henry’s  good  taste  would  go  forth  in 
Its  glory,  through  all  ages  shining  sunny, 

For  Gothic  daring  shown  in  English  money.2 

lx. 

There  were  two  lawyers  busy  on  a mortgage 
Lord  Henry  wish’d  to  raise  for  a new  purchase  ; 
Also  a lawsuit  upon  tenures  burgage, 

And  one  on  tithes,  which  sure  are  Discord’s  torches. 
Kindling  Religion  till  she  throws  down  her  gage, 
“Untying”  squires  “to  fight  against  the  churches;”3 
There  was  a prize  ox,  a prize  pig,  and  ploughman. 

For  Henry  was  a sort  of  Sabine  showman. 

LXI. 

There  were  two  poachers  caught  in  a steel  trap. 
Ready  for  gaol,  their  place  of  convalescence ; 

There  was  a country  girl  in  a close  cap 

And  scarlet  cloak  (I  hate  the  sight  to  see,  since — 
Since — since — in  youth,  I had  the  sad  mishap— 

But  luckily  I have  paid  few  parish  fees  since) : 

That  scarlet  cloak,  alas  ! unclosed  with  rigour. 
Presents  the  problem  of  a double  figure. 

LXII. 

A reel  within  a bottle  is  a mystery. 

One  can’t  tell  how  it  e’er  got  in  or  out ; 

Therefore  the  present  piece  of  natural  history 
I leave  to  those  who  are  fond  of  solving  doubt ; 


(1)  [ Capo  cC  opera — chef  d’ceuvre — master-piece.] 

(2)  “ Ausu  Romano,  are  Veneto”  is  the  inscription  (and  well 
inscribed  in  this  instance)  on  the  sea  walls  between  the  Adriatic 

and  Venice.  The  walls  were  a republican  work  of  the  Venetians; 
the  inscription,  I believe,  Imperial;  and  inscribed  by  Napoleon 
the  First.  It  is  time  to  continue  to  him  that  title — there  will  be  a 
second  by  and  by,  “ Spes  altera  mundi,”  if  he  live;  let  him  not 
defeat  it  like  his  lather.  But  in  any  case,  he  will  be  preferable  to 


And  merely  state,  though  not  for  the  consistory. 
Lord  Henry  was  a justice,  and  that  Scout 
The  constable,  beneath  a warrant’s  banner, 

Had  bagg’d  this  poacher  upon  Nature’s  manor. 

LXII  i. 

Now  justices  of  peace  must  judge  all  pieces 
Of  mischief  of  all  kinds,  and  keep  the  game 
And  morals  of  the  country  from  caprices 

Of  those  who  have  not  a licence  for  the  same ; 

And  of  all  things,  excepting  tithes  and  leases, 
Perhaps  these  are  most  difficult  to  tame  : 
Preserving  partridges  and  pretty  wenches 
Are  puzzles  to  the  most  precautious  benches. 

LXIV. 

The  present  culprit  was  extremely  pale. 

Pale  as  if  painted  so  ; her  cheek  being  red 
By  nature,  as  in  higher  dames  less  hale 

’Tis  white,  at  least  when  they  just  rise  from  bed. 
Perhaps  she  was  ashamed  of  seeming  frail. 

Poor  spul ! for  she  was  country  born  and  bred. 

And  knew  no  better  in  her  immorality 
Than  to  wax  white — for  blushes  are  for  quality. 

LXV. 

Her  black,  bright,  downcast,  yet  espiegle  eye. 

Had  gather’d  a large  tear  into  its  corner, 

Which  the  poor  thing  at  times  essay’d  to  dry. 

For  she  was  not  a sentimental  mourner 
Parading  all  her  sensibility, 

Nor  insolent  enough  to  scorn  the  scorner, 

But  stood  in  trembling,  patient  tribulation. 

To  be  call’d  up  for  her  examination. 

LXVI. 

Of  course  these  groups  were  scatter’d  here  and  there, 
Not  nigh  the  gay  saloon  of  ladies’  gent.  f 

The  lawyers  in  the  study ; and  in  air 

The  prize  pig,  ploughman,  poachers ; the  men  sent 
From  town,  viz.  architect  and  dealer,  were 
Both  busy  (as  a general  in  his  tent 
Writing  despatches)  in  their  several  stations, 
Exulting  in  their  brilliant  lucubrations. 

LXVII. 

But  this  poor  girl  was  left  in  the  great  hall, 

While  Scout,  the  parish  guardian  of  the  frail. 
Discuss’d  (he  hated  beer  yclept  the  “ small”) 

A mighty  mug  of  moral  double  ale. 

She  waited  until  Justice  could  recall 
Its  kind  attentions  to  their  proper  pale, 

To  name  a thing  in  nomenclature  rather 
Perplexing  for  most  virgins— a child’s  father. 

LXVIII. 

You  see  here  was  enough  of  occupation 

For  the  Lord  Henry,  link’d  with  dogs  and  horses. 
There  was  much  bustle  too,  and  preparation 
Below  stairs  on  the  score  of  second  courses  ; 
Because,  as  suits  their  rank  and  situation, 

Those  who  in  counties  have  great  land  resources 
Have  “ public  days,”  when  all  men  may  carouse, 
Though  not  exactly  what’s  call’d  “open  house.” 


Imbeciles.  There  is  a glorious  field  for  him,  if  he  know  how  It 
cultivate  it.— [Napoleon,  Duke  of  Reichstadt,  died  at  Vienna  i« 
1832 — to  the  disappointment  of  many  prophets.] 

(3)  “ 1 conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess, 

(Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it)  answer  mo  • 

Though  ye  untie  the  winds,  and  let  them  fight 
Against  the  churches." — Macbeth. 


CANTO  XVI. 


DON  JUAN. 


757 


LX  IX. 

But  once  a week  or  fortnight,  ^invited 
(Thus  we  translate  a general  invitation) 
ill  country  gentlemen,  esquired  or  knighted, 

May  drop  in  without  cards,  and  take  their  station 
it  the  full  board,  and  sit  alike  delighted 
With  fashionable  wines  and  conversation  ; 

And,  as  the  isthmus  of  the  grand  connexion, 

Talk  o’er  themselves,  the  pqst  and  next  election. 

LXX. 

Lord  Henry  was  a great  electioneerer 

Burrowing  for  boroughs  like  a rat  or  rabbit. 

But  county  contests  cos't  him  rather  dearer, 

Because  the  neighbouring  Scotch  Earl  of  Giftgabbit 
Had  English  influence,  in  the  self-same  sphere  here  ; 

His  son,  the  Honourable  Dick  Dicedrabbit, 

Was  member  for  the  “ other  interest”  (meaning 
The  same  self-interest,  with  a different  leaning). 

LXXI. 

Courteous  and  cautious  therefore  in  his  county, 

He  was  all  things  to  all  men,  and  dispensed 
To  some  civility,  to  others  bounty, 

And  promises  to  all — which  last  commenced 
To  gather  to  a somewhat  large  amount,  he 
Not  calculating  how  much  they  condensed  ; 

But  what  with  keeping  some,  and  breaking  others, 

His  word  had  the  same  value  as  another’s. 

LXXII. 

A friend  to  freedom  and  freeholders — yet 
No  less  a friend  to  government — he  held, 

That  he  exactly  the  just  medium  hit 

’Twixt  place  and  patriotism — albeit  compell’d 
Such  was  his  sovereign’s  pleasure,  (though  unfit. 

Me  added  modestly,  when  rebels  rail’d*) 

To  hold  some  sinecures  he  wish’d  abolish’d, 

But  that  with  them  all  law  would  be  demolish’d. 

LXXIII. 

He  was  "free  to  confess” — (whence  comes  this  phrase? 

Is’t  English  ? No— ’tis  only  parliamentary) 

That  innovation’s  spirit  now-a-days 

Had  made  more  progress  than  for  the  last  century. 
He  would  not  tread  a factions  path  to  praise, 

Though  for  the  public  weal  disposed  to  venture  high ; 
As  for  his  place,  he  could  but  say  this  of  it, 

That  the  fatigue  was  greater  than  the  profit. 

LXXIV. 

Heaven,  and  his  friends,  knew  that  a private  life 
Had  ever  been  his  sole  and  whole  ambition ; 

But  could  he  quit  his  king  in  times  of  strife. 

Which  threaten’d  the  whole  country  with  perdition? 
When  demagogues  would  with  a butcher’s  knife 
Cut  through  and  through  (oh  ! damnable  incision  !) 
The  Gordian  or  the  Geordi-an  knot,  whose  strings 
Have  tied  together  commons,  lords,  and  kings. 

LXXV. 

Sooner  "come  place  into  the  civil  list  [keep  it, 

And  champion  him  to  the  utmost”1 — he  would 
Till  duly  disappointed  or  dismiss’d  : 

Profit  he  cared  not  for,  let  others  reap  it ; 

But  should  the  day  come  when  place  ceased  to  exist, 
The  country  would  have  far  more  cause  to  weep  it : 
For  how  could  it  go  on  ? Explain  who  can  ! • 

He  gloried  in  the  name  of  Englishman. 


LXX  VI. 

He  was  as  independent — ay,  much  more— 

Than  those  who  were  not  paid  for  independence. 

As  common  soldiers,  or  a common shore. 

Have  in  their  several  arts  or  parts  ascendance 
O’er  the  irregulars  in  lust  or  gore, 

Who  do  not  give  professional  attendance. 

Thus  on  the  mob  all  statesmen  are  as  eager 
To  prove  their  pride,  as  footmen  to  a beggar. 

LXXVII. 

All  this  (save  the  last  stanza)  Henry  said, 

And  thought.  I say  no  more— I’ve  said  too  much*, 
For  all  of  us  have  either  heard  or  read — 

Off — 01  upon  the  hustings — some  slight  such 
Hints  from  the  independent  heart  or  head 
' Of  the  official  candidate.  I’ll  touch 
No  more  on  this — the  dinner-bell  hath  rung, 

And  grace  is  said ; the  grace  I should  have  sung — 

LXXVIII. 

But  I’m  too  late,  and  therefore  must  make  play 
’T'.vas  a great  banquet,  such  as  Albion  old 
Was  wont  to  boast — as  if  a glutton’s  tray 
Were  something  very  glorious  to  behold. 

But  ’twas  a public  feast  and  public  day, — 

Quite  full,  right  dull,  guests  hot,  and  dishes  cold, 
Great  plenty,  much  formality,  small  cheer. 

And  every  body  out  of  their  own  sphere. 

LXXIX. 

The  squires  familiarly  formal,  and 

My  lords  and  ladies  proudly  condescending ; 

The  very  servants  puzzling  how  to  hand 

Their  plates — without  it  might  be  too  much  bending 
From  their  high  places  by  the  sideboard’s  stand — 
Yet,  like  their  masters,  fearful  of  offending. 

For  any  deviation  from  the  graces 

Might  cost  both  man  and  master  too — their  places. 

LXXX. 

There  were  some  hunters  bold,  and  coursers  keen, 
Whose  hounds  ne’er  err’d,  nor  greyhounds  deign’d 
to  lurch  ; 

Some  deadly  shots  too,  Septembrizers,  seen 
Earliest  to  rise,  and  last  to  quit  the  search 
Of  the  poor  partridge  through  his  stubble  screen. 

There  were  some  massy  members  of  the  church. 
Takers  of  tithes,  and  makers  of  good  matches, 

And  several  who  sung  fewer  psalms  than  catches. 

LXXXI. 

There  were  some  country  wags  too — and,  alas  ! 

Some  exiles  from  the  town,  who  had  been  driven 
To  gaze,  instead  of  pavement,  upon  grass, 

And  rise  at  nine  in  lieu  of  long  eleven. 

And  lo  ! upon  that  day  it  came  to  pass, 

I sate  next  that  o’erwhelming  son  of  heaven. 

The  very  powerful  parson,  Peter  Pith,2 
The  loudest  wit  I e’er  was  deafen’d  with. 

LXXXII. 

I knew  him  in  his  livelier  London  days, 

A brilliant  diner  out,  though  but  a curate. 

And  not  a joke  he  cut  but  earn’d  its  praise. 

Until  preferment,  coming  at  a sure  rate, 

(0  Providence ! how  wondrous  are  thy  ways  ! 

Who  would  suppose  thy  gifts  sometimes  obdiuate  P) 
Gave  him,  to  lay  the  devil  who  looks  o’er  Lincoln, 

A fat  fen  vicarage,  and  nought  to  think  on. 


(1)  “Rather  than  so,  come,  fate,  into  the  l;st, 

And  champion  me  to  the  utterance.” — Macbeth. 


(2)  [Query,  Sidney  Smith,  author  of  Peter  Plimley’s  Letters  f— 
Printer’s  Devil.] 


758 


LORI)  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CA*TO  XV] 


LXXX1II. 

His  jokes  were  sermons,  and  his  sermons  jokes ; 

But  both  were  thrown  away  amongst  the  fens  ; 

Bor  wit  hath  no  great  friend  in  aguish  folks. 

No  longer  ready  ears  and  short-hand  pens 
Imbibed  the  gay  bon-mot,  or  happy  hoax  : 

The  poor  priest  was  reduced  to  common  sense, 

Or  to  coarse  efforts  very  loud  and  long, 

To  hammer  a hoarse  laugh  from  the  thick  throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There  is  a difference,  says  the  song,  “ between 
A beggar  and  a queen,1”  or  was  (of  late 
The  latter  worse  used  of  the  two  we’ve  seen — ■ 

But  we’ll  say  nothing  of  affairs  of  state) 

A difference  “ ’twixt  a bishop  and  a dean,” 

A difference  between  crockery  ware  and  plate, 

As  between  English  beef  and  Spartan  broth — 

And  yet  great  heroes  have  been  bred  by  both. 

LXXXV. 

But  of  all  nature’s  discrepancies,  none 

Upon  the  whole  is  greater  than  the  difference 
Beheld  between  the  country  and  the  town, 

Of  which  the  latter  merits  every  preference 
Erom  those  who  have  few  resources  of  their  own, 

And  only  think,  or  act,  or  feel,  with  reference 
To  some  small  plan  of  interest  or  ambition — 

Both  which  are  limited  to  no  condition. 

LXXXVI. 

But  “ en  avant ! ” The  light  loves  languish  o’er 
Long  banquets  and  too  many  guests,  although 
A slight  repast  makes  people  love  much  more, 
Bacchus  and  Ceres  being,  as  we  know, 

Even  from  our  grammar  upwards,  friends  of  yore 
With  vivifying  Yenus,2  who  doth  owe 
To  these  the  invention  of  champagne  and  truffles  : 
Temperance  delights  her,  but  long  fasting  ruffles. 

lxxxvii. 

Dully  past  o’er  the  dinner  of  the  day  ; 

And  Juan  took  his  place,  he  knew  not  where, 
Confused,  in  the  confusion,  and  distrait, 

And  sitting  as  if  nail’d  upon  his  chair  : 

Though  knives  and  forks  clank’d  round  as  in  a fray, 
He  seem’d  unconscious  of  all  passing  there, 

Till  some  one,  with  a groan,  exprest  a wish 
(Unheeded  twice)  to  have  a fin  of  fish. 

LXXXVIII. 

On  which,  at  the  third  asking  of  the  bans, 

He  started  ; and  perceiving  smiles  around 
Broadening  to  grins,  he  colour’d  more  than  once, 

And  hastily — as  nothing  can  confound 
A wise  man  more  than  laughter  from  a dunce — 
Inflicted  on  the  dish  a deadly  wound, 

And  with  such  hurry,  that  ere  he  could  curb  it, 

He  had  paid  his  neighbour’s  prayer  with  half  a turbot. 

LXXXTX. 

This  was  no  bad  mistake,  as  it  occurr’d. 

The  supplicator  being  an  amateur; 

But  others,  who  were  left  with  scarce  a third, 

Were  angry — as  they  well  might,  to  be  sure, 

They  wonder’d  how  a young  man  so  absurd 
Lord  Henry  at  his  table  should  endure; 

And  this,  and  his  not  knowing  how  much  oats 
Had  fallen  last  market,  cost  his  host  three  votes. 


(I)  C"  There’s  a differenre  between  a beegar  and  a queen ; 
And  I’ll  tell  you  the  reason  why. 


XC. 

They  little  knew,  or  might  have  sympathized, 

That  he  the  night  before  had  seen  a ghost, 

A prologue  which  but  slightly  harmonized 
With  the  substantial  company  engross’d 
By  matter,  and  so  much  materialized, 

That  one  scarce  knew  at  what  to  marvel  most 
Of  two  things— how  (the  question  rather  odd  is) 

Such  bodies  could  have  souls,  or  souls  such  bodies, 
xci. 

But  what  confused  him  more  than  smile  or  stare, 

Erom  all  the  ’squires  and  ’squiresses  around, 

Who  wonder’d  at  the  abstraction  of  his  air. 

Especially  as  he  had  been  renown’ d 
Eor  some  vivacity  among  the  fair, 

Even  in  the  country  circle’s  narrow  bound — 

(Eor  little  things  upon  my  lord’s  estate 

Were  good  small  talk  for  others  still  less  great) — 

XCII. 

Was,  that  he  caught  Aurora’s  eye  on  his, 

And  something  like  a smile  upon  her  cheek. 

Now  this  he  really  rather  took  amiss  : 

In  those  who  rarely  smile,  their  smile  bespeaks 
A strong  external  motive ; and  in  this 

Smile  of  Aurora’s  there  was  nought  to  pique, 

Or  hope,  or  love,  with  any  of  the  wiles 
Which  some  pretend  to  trace  in  ladies’  smiles. 

xcm. 

’Twas  a mere  quiet  smile  of  contemplation, 

Indicative  of  some  surprise  and  pity ; 

And  Juan  grew  carnation  with  vexation, 

Which  was  not  very  -wise,  and  still  less  witty, 

Since  he  had  gain’d  at  least  her  observation, 

A most  important  outwork  of  the  city — 

As  Juan  should  have  known,  had  not  his  senses 
By  last  night’s  ghost  been  driven  from  their  defences  : 

xciv. 

But  what  was  bad,  she  did  not  blush  in  turn, 

Nor  seem  embarrass’d — quite  the  contrary  ; 

Her  aspect  was  as  usual,  still — not  stern — 

And  she  withdrew,  but  cast  not  down,  her  eye, 

Yet  grew  a little  pale — with  what  ? concern  ? 

I know  not ; but  her  colour  ne’er  was  high — 
Though  sometimes  faintly  flush’d — and  always  clear, 
As  deep  seas  in  a sunny  atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But  Adeline  was  occupied  by  fame 

This  day  ; and  watching,  witching,  condescending  l 
To  the  consumers  of  fish,  fowl,  and  game. 

And  dignity  with  courtesy  so  blending. 

As  all  must  blend  whose  part  it  is  to  aim 
(Especially  as  the  sixth  year  is  ending) 

At  their  lord’s,  son’s,  or  similar  connexion’s 
Safe  conduct  through  the  rocks  of  re-elections. 

xcvi. 

Though  this  was  most  expedient  on  the  whole, 

And  usual — Juan,  when  he  cast  a glance 
On  Adeline  while  playing  her  grand  role, 

Which  she  went  through  as  though  it  were  a dance 
Betraying  only  now  and  then  her  soul 
By  a look  scarce  perceptibly  askance 
(Of  weariness  or  scorn),  began  to  feel 
Some  doubt  how  much  of  Adeline  was  re*l ; 

A queen  does  i.ot  swagger,  nor  get  drunk  like  a beggar, 

Nor  be  half  so  merry  as  I,”  &c.J 

(2)  [Sine  Cerere  et  Baccho  friget  Venus  — Adao.] 


CAXTO  XVI. 


DON  JUAN.  ' 750 


xcvn. 

^ So  well  she  acted  all  and  every  part 

By  turns — with  that  vivacious  versatility, 

1 Which  many  people  take  for  want  of  heart, 
f.  They  err — ’tis  merely  what  is  call’d  mobility,1 
A thing  of  temperament  and  not  of  art, 

Though  seeming  so,  from  its  supposed  facility ; 

And  false — though  true  ; for  surely  they’re  sincerest, 
[ Who  are  strongly  acted  on  by  what  is  nearest. 

XCVIII. 

This  makes  your  actors,  artists,  and  romancers, 

Heroes  sometimes,  though  seldom — sages  never  : 
But  speakers,  bards,  diplomatists,  and  dancers, 

Little  that’s  great,  but  much  of  what  is  clever; 
Most  orators,  but  very  few  financiers. 

Though  all  Exchequer  chancellors  endeavour, 

Of  late  years,  to  dispense  with  Cocker’s  rigours. 

And  grow  quite  figurative  with  their  figures, 
xcix. 

The  poets  of  arithmetic  are  they 
Who,  though  they  prove  not  two  and  two  to  be 
Five,  as  they  might  do  in  a modest  way, 

Have  plainly  made  it  out  that  four  are  three, 
Judging  by  what  they  take,  and  what  they  pay. 

The  Sinking  Fund’s  unfathomable  sea, 

That  most  unliquidating  liquid,  leaves 
The  debt  unsunk,  yet  sinks  all  it  receives. 

c. 

While  Adeline  dispensed  her  airs  and  graces. 

The  fair  Fitz-Fulke  seem’d  very  much  at  ease ; 
Though  too  well  bred  to  quiz  men  to  their  faces. 

Her  laughing  blue  eyes  with  a glance  could  seize 
The  ridicules  of  people  in  all  plactS — 

That  honey  of  your  fashionable  bees — 

And  store  it  up  for  mischievous  enjoyment; 

And  this  at  present  was  her  kind  employment, 
ci. 

However,  the  day  closed,  as  days  must  close ; 

The  evening  also  waned — and  coffee  came. 

Each  carnage  was  announced,  and  ladies  rose, 

And  curtsying  off,  as  curtsies  country  dame, 

Retired  : with  most  unfashionable  bows 
Their  docile  esquires  also  did  the  same, 

Delighted  with  their  dinner  and- their  host. 

But  with  the  Lady  Adeline  the  most. 

CII. 

Some  praised  her  beauty  : others  her  great  grace  ; 

The  warmth  of  her  politeness,  whose  sincerity 
Was  obvious  in  each  feature  of  her  face. 

Whose  traits  were  radiant  with  the  rays  of  verity. 
Yes  ; she  was  truly  worthy  her  high  place  ! 

No  one  could  envy  her  deserved  prosperity. 

And  then  her  dress — what  beautiful  simplicity 
Draperied  her  form  with  curious  felicity ! 2 

cm. 

Meanwhile  sweet  Adeline  deserved  their  praises, 

By  an  impartial  indemnification 
For  all  her  past  exertion  and  soft  phrases, 

In  a most  edifying  conversation, 

(1)  In  French  “ mobilite.”  I am  not  sure  that  mobility  is 
English;  but  it  is  expressive  of  a quality  which  rather  belongs  to 
other  Climates,  though  it  is  sometimes  seen  to  a areat  extent  in  our 
own.  It  may  be  defined  an  an  excessive  susceptibility  of  immediate 
impressions — at  the  same  time  without  losing  the  past:  and  is, 
though  sometimes  apparently  useful  to  the  possessor,  a most  painful 
and  unhappy  attribute. — [That  Lord  Byron  was  fully  aware  not 
only  cf  the  abundance  of  this  quality  in  his  own  nature,  but  of  the 
danger  in  which  it  placed  consistency  and  singleness  of  character, 
did  not  require  this  note  to  assure  you.  The  consciousness,  indeed, 
of  bis  own  natural  tendency  to  yield  thus  to  every  chance  impres- 


Which  turn’d  upon  their  late  guests’  miens  and  fac^s. 
And  families,  even  to  the  last  relation  ; 

Their  hideous  wives,  their  horrid  selves  and  dresses. 
And  truculent  distortion  of  their  tresses. 

civ. 

True,  she  said  little — ’twas  the  rest  that  broke 
Forth  into  universal  epigram  ; 

But  then  ’twas  to  the  purpose  what  she  spoke : 

Like  Addison’s  “ faint  praise,”3  so  wont  to  damn 
Her  own  but  served  to  set  off  every  joke, 

As  music  chimes  in  with  a melodrame. 

How  sweet  the  task  to  shield  an  absent  friend 1 

I ask  but  this  of  mine,  to not  defend. 

cv. 

There  were  but  two  exceptions  to  this  keen 
Skirmish  of  wits  o’er  the  departed  ; one 
Aurora,  with  her  pure  and  placid  mien ; 

And  Juan,  too,*  in  general  behind  none 
In  gay  remark  on  what  he  had  heard  or  seen. 

Sate  silent  now,  his  usual  spirits  gone  : 

In  vain  he  heard  the  others  rail  or  rally,  • 

He  would  not  join  them  in  a single  sally. 

cvi. 

’Tis  true  he  saw  Aurora  look  as  though 

She  approved  his  silence  ; she  perhaps  mistook 
Its  motive  for  that  charity  we  owe 

But  seldom  pay  the  absent,  nor  would  look 
Farther  ; it  might  or  it  might  not  be  so. 

But  Juan,  sitting  silent  in  his  nook, 

Observing  little  in  his  reverie, 

Yet  saw  this  much,  which  he  was  glad  to  see. 
evil. 

The  ghost  at  least  had  done  him  this  much  good, 

In  making  him  as  silent  as  a ghost. 

If  in  the  circumstances  which  ensued 

He  gain’d  esteem  where  it  was  worth  the  most. 

And  certainly  Aurora  had  renew’d 

In  him  some  feelings  lie  had  lately  lost, 

Or  harden’d  ; feelings  which,  perhaps  ideal. 

Are  so  divine,  that  I must  deem  them  real : — 
cvm. 

The  love  of  higher  things  and  better  days  ; 

The  unbounded  hope,  and  heavenly  ignorance 
Of  what  is  call’d  the  world,  and  the  world’s  ways  ; 

The  moments  when  we  gather  from  a glance 
More  joy  than  from  all  future  pride  or  praise, 

Which  kindle  manhood,  but  can  ne’er  entrance 
The  heart  in  an  existence  of  its  own, 

Of  which  another’s  bosom  is  the  zone. 

cix. 

Who  would  not  sigh  At  at  rav  K vOepeiav 
That  hath  a memory,  or  that  had  a heart  ? 

Alas  ! her  star  must  fade  like  that  of  Dian : 

Ray  fades  on  ray,  as  years  on  years  depart. 

Anacreon  only  had  the  soul  to  tie  an 

Unwithering  myrtle  round  the  unblunted  dfxt 
Of  Eros  ; but  though  thou  hast  play’d  us  many  tricks, 
Still  we  respect  thee,  “Alma  Venus  Genetrix  !”4 

sion,  and  change  with  every  passing  impulse,  was  not  only  for  evej 
present  in  his  mind,  but  had  the  effect  of  keeping  him  in  that 
general  line  of  consistency,  on  certain  great  subjects,  which  he  con- 
tinued to  preserve  throughout  life. — Moore.] 

(2)  “ Curiosa  felicitas.” — Petxonius  Arbiter. 

(3)  [“  Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 

And  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer.” 

Pope  on  Addison.] 

(4)  [ “genetrix  hominum,  divomque  voluptas, 

Alma  Venus  !” — Lucrkt.  lib.  i.] 


760 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


CANTO  XTT 


. CX. 

And  full  of  sentiments,  sublime  as  billows 

Heaving  between  this  world  and  worlds  beyond, 
Don  Juan,  when  the  midnight  hour  of  pillows 
Arrived,  retired  to  his ; but  to  despond 
Rather  than  rest.  Instead  of  poppies,  willows 
Waved  o’er  his  couch  ; he  meditated,  fond 
Of  those  sweet  bitter  thoughts  which  banish  sleep, 
And  make  the  worldling  sneer,  the  youngling  weep. 

CXI. 

The  night  was  as  before  : he  was  undrest, 

Saving  his  night-gown,  which  is  an  undress  ; 
Completely  “ sans  culotte,”  and  without  vest ; 

In  short,  he  hardly  could  be  clothed  with  less : 

But  apprehensive  of  his  spectral  guest, 

He  sate  with  feelings  awkward  to  express 
(By  those  who  have  not  had  such  visitations). 
Expectant  of  the  ghost’s  fresh  operations. 

cxn. 

And  not  in  vain  he  listen’d  ; — Hush  ! what’s  that  ? 

I see — I see— Ah,  no  ! — ’tis  not — yet  ’tis  - 
Ye  powers  ! — it  is  the — the — the — Pooh  ! the  cat ! 

The  devil  may  take  that  stealthy  pace  of  his  ! 

So  like  a spiritual  pit-a-pat, 

Or  tiptoe  of  an  amatory  Miss, 

Gliding  the  first  time  to  a rendezvous, 

And  dreading  the  chaste  echoes  of  her  snoe. 

cxm. 

Again  —what  is ’t  ? The  wind  ? No,  no, — this  time 
It  is  the  sable  friar  as  before, 

With  awful  footsteps  regular  as  rhyme, 

Or  (as  rhymes  may  be  in  these  days)  much  more. 
Again  through  shadows  of  the  night  sublime, 

When  deep  sleep  fell  on  men,  and  the  world  wore 
The  starry  darkness  round  her  like  a girdle 
Spangled  with  gems — the  monk  made  his  blood  curdle, 
cxiv. 

A noise  like  to  wet  fingers  drawn  on  glass,1 

Which  sets  the  teeth  on  edge ; and  a slight  clatter, 
Like  showers  which  on  the  midnight  gusts  will  pass, 
Sounding  like  very  supernatural  water, 

Came  over  Juan’s  ear,  which  throbb’d,  alas  ! 

Eor  immaterialism ’s  a serious  matter; 

So  that  even  those  whose  faith  is  the  most  great 
In  souls  immortal,  shun  them  tete-a-tete. 

cxv. 

Were  his  eyes  open  ? — Yes ! and  his  mouth  too. 

Surprise  has  this  effect — to  make  one  dumb, 

Yet  leave  the  gate  which  eloquence  slips  through 
As  wide  as  if  a long  speech  were  to  come. 

Nigh  and  more  nigh  the  awful  echoes  drew, 
Tremendous  to  a mortal  tympanum  : 

His  eyes  were  open,  and  (as  was  before 

Stated)  his  mouth.  What  open’d  next  ? — the  door. 

CXVI. 

It  open’d  with  a most  infernal  creak, 

Like  that  of  hell.  “ Lasciate  ogni  speranza 
Voi  che  entrate  !”  The  hinge  seemed  to  speak. 
Dreadful  as  Dante’s  rhima,  or  this  stanza; 

Or — but  all  words  upon  such  themes  are  weak  : 

A single  shade’s  sufficient  to  entrance  a 
Hero — lor  what  is  substance  to  a spirit  ? 

Or  how  is’t  matter  trembles  to  come  near  it  ? 


CXVII. 

The  door  flew  wide,  not  swiftly, — but,  as  fly 
The  sea-gulls,  with  a steady,  sober  flight — 

And  then  swunsr  back  ; nor  close — but  stood  avrry. 
Half  letting  in  long  shadows  on  the  light, 

Which  still  in  Juan’s  candlesticks  burn’d  high, 

Eor  he  had  two,  both  tolerably  bright, 

And  in  the  door- way,  darkening  darkness,  stood 
The  sable  friar  in  his  solemn  hood. 

CXVI  II. 

Don  Juan  shook,  as  erst  he  had  been  shaken 
The  night  before  ; but  being  sick  of  shaking, 

He  first  inclined  to  think  he  had  been  mistaken ; 

And  then  to  be  ashamed  of  such  mistaking ; 

His  own  internal  ghost  began  to  awaken 

Within  him,  and  to  quell  his  corporal  quaking — 
Hinting  that  soul  and  body  on  the  whole 
Were  odds  against  a disembodied  soul. 

cxix. 

And  then  his  dread  grew  wrath,  and  his  wrath  tierce 
And  he  arose,  advanced — the  shade  retreated ; 

But  Juan,  eager  now  the  truth  to  pierce, 

Follow’d,  his  veins  no  longer  cold,  but  heated, 
Resolved  to  thrust  the  mystery  carte  and  tierce. 

At  whatsoever  risk  of  being  defeated  : 

The  ghost  stopp’d,  menaced,  then  retired,  until 
He  reach’d  the  ancient  wall,  then  stood  stone  still, 
cxx. 

Juan  put  forth  one  arm — Eternal  powers  ! 

It  touch’d  no  soul,  no  body,  but  the  wall, 

On  which  the  moonbeams  fell  in  silvery  showers, 
Chequer’d  with  all  the  tracery  of  the  hall ; 

He  shudder’d,  as  no  doubt  the  bravest  cowers 
When  he  cau’t  tell  what  ’tis  that  doth  appal. 

How  odd,  a single  hobgoblin’s  nonentity 
Should  cause  more  fear  than  a whole  host’s  identity : 
CXXI. 

But  still  the  shade  remain’d : the  blue  eyes  glared, 
And  rather  variably  for  stony  death  ; 

Yet  one  thing  rather  good  the  grave  had  spared, 

The  ghost  had  a remarkably  sweet  breath : 

A straggling  curl  sliow’d  he  had  been  fair-hair’d  ; 

A red  lip,  with  two  rows  of  pearls  beneath. 
Gleam’d  forth,  as  through  the  casement’s  ivy  shrouf 
The  moon  peep’d,  just  escaped  from  a grey  cloud, 
cxxn. 

And  Juan,  puzzled,  but  still  curious,  thrust 
His  other  arm  forth — Wonder  upon  wonder  ! 

It  press’d  upon  a hard  but  glowing  bust, 

Which  beat  as  if  there  was  a warm  heart  under. 
He  found,  as  people  on  most  trials  must, 

That  he  had  made  at  first  a silly  blunder. 

And  that  in  his  confusion  he  had  caught 
Only  the  wall,  instead  of  what  he  sought. 

exxm. 

The  ghost,  if  ghost  it  were,  seem’d  a sweet  soul 
As  ever  lurk’d  beneath  a holy  hood : 

A dimpled  chin,  a neck  of  ivorv,  stole 

Forth  into  something  much  like  flesh  and  blood 
Back  fell  the  sable  frock  and  dreary  cowl, 

And  they  reveal’d — alas  ! that  e’er  they  should ! 
In  full,  voluptuous,  but  not  o’ergrown  bulk, 

The  phantom  of  her  frolic  Grace — Fitz-Fulke  ! 


(1)  See  the  account  of  the  ghost  of  the  uncle  of  Prince  Charles  of 
Saxony,  raised  by  Schroepfer — “ Karl — Karl — was  wollst  du  mit 

Wilch  ?” 


f&aroItTs  pilgrimage. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 

Note  [A]. — Battle  of  Talavera.  See  p.  9. 

“ To  feed  the  e^ow  on  Talavera’s  plain. 

And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain." 

Stanza  xli. 

We  think  it  right  to  restore  here  a note  which  Lord  Byron  himself 
suppressed  with  reluctance,  at  the  urgent  request  of  a friend.  It 
alludes,  inter  alia,  to  the  then  recent  publication  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott’s  “ Vision  of  Don  Roderick,”  of  which  work  the  profits  had 
been  handsomely  given  to  the  cause  of  Portuguese  patriotism : — 
“ We  have  heard  wonders  of  the  Portuguese  lately,  and  their  gal- 
lantry. Pray  Heaven  it  continue!  yet  ‘would  it  were  bed- time, 
Hal,  and  all  were  well !’  They  must  fight  a great  many  hours,  by 
‘Shrewsbury  clock,’  before  the  number  of  their  slain  equals  that  of 
our  countrymen  butchered  by  these  kind  creatures,  now  metamoit- 
phosed  into  ‘ ca9adores,’  and  what  not.  I merely  state  a fact,  not 
confined  to  Portugal;  for  in  Sicily  and  Malta  we  are  knocked  on 
the  head  at  a handsome  average  nightly,  and  not  a Sicilian  or 
Maltese  is  ever  punished!  The  neglect  of  protection  is  disgraceful 
to  our  government  and  governors ; for  the  murders  are  as  notorious 
as  the  moon  that  shines  upon  them,  and  the  apathy  that  overlooks 
them.  The  Portuguese,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  are  complimented  with 
the  ‘ Forlorn  Hope,’ — if  the  cowards  are  become  brave  (like  the 
rest  of  their  kind,  in  a corner),  pray  let  them  display  it.  But  there 
is  a subscription  for  these  ‘ dpaov-deiXoi,'  (they  need  not  to  be 
ashamed  of  the  epithet  once  applied  to  the  Spartans);  and  all  the 
charitable  patronymics,  from  ostentatious  A.  to  diffident  Z.,  and 
\l.  Is.  Od.  from  ‘An  admirer  of  Valour,’  are  in  requisition  for  the 
lists  at  Lloyd’s,  and  the  honour  of  British  benevolence.  Well ! we 
have  fought,  and  subscribed,  and  bestowed  peerages,  and  buried 
the  killed  by  our  friends  and  foes;  and,  lo!  all  this  is  to  be  done 
over  again ! Like  Lien  Chi  (in  Goldsmith’s  Citizen  of  the  World) 
as  we  ‘ grow  older,  we  grow  never  the  better.’  It  would  be  pleasant 
to  learn  who  will  subscribe  for  us,  in  or  about  the  year  1815,  and 
what  nation  will  send  fifty  thousand  men,  first  to  be  decimated  in 
the  capital,  and  then  decimated  again  (in  the  Irish  fashion,  nine 
out  of  ten)  in  the  ‘ bed  of  honour ; * which,  as  Serjeant  Kite  says,  is 
considerably  larger  and  more  commodious  than  ‘ the  bed  of  Ware.’ 
Then  they  must  have  a poet  to  write  the  ‘ Vision  of  Don  Perceval,’ 
and  generously  bestow  the  profits  of  the  well  and  widely  printed 
quarto,  to  rebuild  the  ‘ Backwynd’  and  the  ‘Canongate,’  or  furnish 
new  kilts  for  the  half-roasted  Highlanders.  Lord  Wellington, 
however,  has  enacted  marvels ; and  so  did  his  oriental  brother, 
whom  I saw  charioteering  over  the  French  flag,  and  heard  clipping 
bad  Spanish,  after  listening  to  the  speech  of  a patriotic  cobbler  of 
Cadiz,  on  the  event  of  his  own  entry  into  that  city,  and  the  exit^of 
some  five  thousand  bold  Britons  out  of  this  ‘ best  of  all  possible 
worlds.’  Sorely  were  we  puzzled  how  to  dispose  of  that  same  vic- 
tory of  Talavera;  and  a victory  It.  surely  was  somewhere,  for  every - 
oody  claimed  it.  The  Spanish  despatch  and  mob  called  it  Cuesta’s, 
and  made  no  great  mention  cf  the  Viscount;  the  French  called  it 
theirs  (to  my  great  discomfiture, — for  a French  consul  stopped  my 
mouth  in  Greece  with  a pestilent  Paris  Gazette,  just  as  I had  killed 
Sebastiana  ‘ in  buckram,’  and  King  Joseph  ‘ in  Kendal  green  ’) — 


and  we  have  not  yet  determined  what  to  call  it,  or  ivhose ; for 
certes,  it  was  none  of  our  own.  Howbeit,  Massena’s  retreat  is  a 
great  comfort ; and  as  we  have  not  been  in  the  habit  of  pursuina 
for  some  years  past,  no  wonder  we  are  a little  awkward  at  first.  No 
doubt  we  shall  improve  ; or,  if  not,  we  have  only  to  take  to  our  ola 
way  of  retrograding,  and  there  we  are  at  home.” 


CANTO  THE  SECOND 

Note  [A]. — Removal  of  the  Works  of  Art  from 
Athens.  See  p.  17. 

‘ But  most  the  modern  Piet’s  ignoble  boast. 

To  rive  what  Goth,  and  Turk,  and  Time  hath  spared." 

Stanza  xii. 

At  this  moment  (January  3,  18101,  besides  what  has  been  already 
deposited  in  London,  an  Hydriot  vessel  is  in  the  Pyraeus  to  receive 
every  portable  relic.  Thus,  as  I heard  a young  Greek  observe,  in 
common  with  many  of  his  countrymen — for,  lost  as  they  are,  they 
yet  feel  on  this  occasion — thus  may  Lord  Elgin  boast  of  having 
ruined  Athens.  An  Italian  painter  of  the  first  eminence,  named 
Lusieri,  is  the  agent  of  devastation ; and  like  the  Greek  finder  of 
Verres  in  Sicily,  who  followed  the  same  profession,  he  has  proved 
the  able  instrument  of  plunder.  Between  this  artist  and  the  French 
Consul  Fauvel,  who  wishes  to  rescue  the  remains  for  his  own 
government,  there  is  now  a violent  dispute  concerning  a car  em 
ployed  in  their  conveyance,  the  wheel  of  which — I wish  they  were 
both  broken  upon  it! — has  been  locked  up  by  the  Consul,  and 
Lusieri  has  laid  his  complaint  before  the  Waywode.  Lord  Elgin 
has  been  extremely  happy  in  his  choice  of  Signor  Lusieri.  During 
a residence  of  ten  years  in  Athens,  he  never  had  the  curiosity  to 
proceed  as  far  as  Sunium  (now  Cape  Colonna),  till  he  accompanied 
us  in  our  second  excursion.  However,  his  works,  as  far  as  they  go, 
are  most  beautiful : but  they  are  almost  all  unfinished.  While  he 
and  his  patrons  confine  themselves  to  testing  medals,  appreciating 
cameos,  sketching  columns,  and  cheapening  gems,  their  little 
absurdities  are  as  harmless  as  insect  or  fox-hunting,  maiden 
speechifying,  barouche-driving,  or  any  such  pastime ; but  when 
they  carry  away  three  or  four  shiploads  of  the  most  valuable  and 
massy  relics  that  time  and  barbarism  have  left  to  the  most  injured 
and  most  celebrated  of  cities;  when  they  destroy,  in  a vain  attempt 
to  tear  down,  those  works  which  have  been  the  admiration  of  ages, 

I know  no  motive  which  can  excuse,  no  name  which  can  designate, 
the  perpetrators  of  this  dastardly  devastation.  It  was  not  the 
least  of  the  crimes  laid  to  the  charge  of  Verres,  that  he  had 
plundered  Sicily,  in  the  manner  since  imitated  at  Athens.  The 
most  unblushing  impudence  could  hardly  go  farther  than  to 
affix  the  name  of  its  plunderer  to  the  walls  of  the  Acropolis  ; 
while  the  wanton  and  useless  defacement  of  the  whole  range 
of  the  basso-relievos,  in  one  compartment  of  the  ‘.emple,  will 
never  permit  that  name  to  be  pronounced  by  an  observer  without 
execration. 

On  this  occasion  I speak  impartially:  I am  not  a collector  ot 
admirer  of  collections,  consequently  no  rival;  but  I have  sums 
early  prepossession  'n  favour  of  Greece,  and  do  not  think  th« 
honour  of  England  advanced  bj  plunder,  whether  of  India  01 
Attica. 


762 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Another  noble  Lord  has  aone  better,  because  he  has  done  less  : 
but  some  others,  more  or  less  noble,  yet  “ all  honourable  men,” 
have  done  best , because,  after  a deal  of  excavation  and  execration, 
bribery  to  the  Waywode,  mining  and  countermining,  they  have 
done  nothing  at  all.  We  had  such  ink  shed,  and  wine  shed,  which 
almost  ended  in  bloodshed  ! Lord  E.’s  “ prig” — see  Jonathan  Wild 
for  the  definition  of  “ priggism” — quarrell’d  with  another,  Gropius' 
byname  (a  very  good  name  too  for  his  business),  and  muttered 
something  about  satisfaction,  in  a verbal  answer  to  a note  of'  the 
poor  Prussian : this  was  stated  at  table  to  Gropius,  who  laughed, 
but  could  eat  no  dinner  afterwards.  The  rivals  were  not  reconciled 
when  I left  Greece.  I have  reason  to  remember  their  squabble,  for 
they  wanted  to  make  me  their  arbitrator. 


Note  [B]. — Albania  and  the  Albanians. 

See  p.  20. 

" Land  of  Albania!  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men  !” 

Stanza  xxxvii. 

Albania  comprises  part  of  Macedonia,  Illyria,  Chaonia,  and 
Epirus.  Iskander  is  the  Turkish  word  for  Alexander;  and  the 
celebrated  Scanderbeg  (Lord  Alexander)  is  alluded  to  in  the  third 
and  fourth  lines  of  the  thirty  eighth  stanza.  I do  not  know  whether 
I am  correct  in  making  Scanderbeg  the  countryman  of  Alexander, 
who  was  born  at  Pella  in  Macedon,  but  Mr.  Gibbon  terms  him  so, 
and  adds  Pyrrhus  to  the  list,  in  speaking  of  his  exploits. 

Of  Albania  Gibbon  remarks,  that  a country  “ within  sight  of 
Italy  is  less  known  than  the  interior  of  America.”  Circumstances, 
of  little  consequence  to  mention,  led  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  myself  into 
that  country  before  we  visited  any  other  part  of  the  Ottoman 
dominions;  and  with  the  exception  of  Major  Leake,  then  officially 
resident  at  Joannina,  no  other  Englishmen  have  ever  advanced 
beyond  the  capital  into  the  interior,  as  that  gentleman  very  lately 
assured  me.  Ali  Pacha  was  at  that  time  (October,  1809)  carrying 
on  war  against  Ibrahim  Pacha,  whom  he  had  driven  to  Berat,  a 
strong  fortress,  which  he  was  then  besieging;  on  our  arrival  at 
Joannina  we  were  invited  to  Tepaleni,  his  highness’s  birthplace, 
and  favourite  Serai,  only  one  day’s  distance  from  Berat;  at  this 
juncture  the  Vizier  had  made  it  his  head-quarters.  After  some 
stay  in  the  capital,  we  accordingly  followed ; but  though  furnished 
with  every  accommodation,  and  escorted  by  one  of  the  Vizier’s 
secretaries,  we  were  nine  days  (on  account  of  the  rains)  in  accom- 
plishing a journey  which,  on  our  return,  barely  occupied  four.  On 
our  route  we  passed  two  cities,  Argyroeastro  and  Libochabo,  appa- 
rently little  inferior  to  Yanina  in  size;  and  no  pencil  or  pen  can 
ever  do  justice  to  the  scenery  in  the  vicinity  of  Zitza  and  Delvi- 
nachi,  the  frontier  village  of  Epirus  and  Albania  Proper. 

On  Alb  ,nia  and  its  inhabitants  I am  unwilling  to  descant, 
because  this  will  be  done  so  much  better  by  my  fellow-traveller,  in 
a work  which  may  probably  precede  this  in  publication,  that  I as 
little  wish  to  follow  as  I would  to  anticipate  him.  But  some  few 
observations  are  necessary  to  the  text.  The  Arnaouts.  or  Albanese, 
struck  me  forcibly  by  their  resemblance  to  the  Highlanders  of 
Scotland,  in  dress,  figure,  and  manner  of  living.  Their  very  moun- 
tains seemed  Caledonian,  with  a kinder  climate.  The  kilt,  though 
white;  the  spare,  active  form;  their  dialect,  Celtic  in  its  sound, 
and  their  hardy  habits,  all  carried  me  back  to  Morven.  No  nation 
are  so  detested  and  dreaded  by  their  neighbours  as  the  Albanese; 
the  Greeks  hardly  regard  them  as  Christians,  or  the  Turks  as 
Moslems : and  in  fact  they  are  a mixture  of  both,  and  sometimes 
neither.  Their  habits  are  predatory — all  are  armed;  and  the  red- 
shawled  Arnaouts,  the  Montenegrins,  Chimariots,  and  Gegdes  are 
treacherous;  the  others  differ  somewhat  in  garb,  and  essentially  in 
character.  As  far  as  my  own  experience  goes,  I can  speak  favour- 
ably. I was  attended  by  two,  an  Infidel  and  a Mussulman,  to 
Constantinople  and  every  other  part  of  Turkey  which  came  within 
my  observation;  and  more  faithful  in  peril,  or  indefatigable  in 
service,  are  rarely  to  be  found.  The  Infidel  was  named  Basilius, 


(1)  This  Sr.  Gropius  was  employed  hv  a noble  Lord  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
sketching,  in  which  he  excels  ; but  1 am  sorry  to  say,  that  he  has,  through  the 
abused  sanction  of  that  most  respectable  name,  been  treading  at  humble  dis- 
tance in  the  steps  of  Sr.  Lusteri.  — A shipful  of  his  trophies  was  detained,  and 

I believe  confiscated,  at  Constantinople,  in  1810.  I ant  most  happy  to  be  now 
enabled  to  state,  that  “ this  was  not  in  his  bond  that  he  was  employed 
solely  as  a painter,  and  that  his  noble  patron  disavows  all  connection  with  him. 


the  Moslem,  Dervish  Tahiri:  t.ie  former  a man  of  middle  age,  and 
the  latter  about  my  own.  Basilius  was  strictly  charged  by  AH 
Pacha  in  person  to  attend  us ; and  Dervish  was  one  of  fifty  who 
accompanied  us  through  the  forests  of  Acarnania  to  the  banks  o*  1 
Achelous,  and  onward  to  Messalonghi  in  JEtolia.  There  I took 
him  into  my  own  service,  and  never  had  occasion  to  repent  it  till 
the  moment  of  my  departure. 

When,  in  1810,  after  the  departure  of  my  friend  Mr.  Hobhouse 
for  England,  I was  seized  with  a severe  fever  in  the  Morea,  these 
men  saved  my  life  by  frightening  away  my  physician,  whose  throat 
they  threatened  to  cut  if  I was  not  cured  within  a given  time.  To 
this  consolatory  assurance  of  posthumous  retribution,  and  a resolute 
refusal  of  Dr.  Romanell’s  prescriptions,  I attributed  my  recovery. 

I had  left  my  last  remaining  English  servant  at  Athens ; my  drag- 
oman was  as  ill  as  myself,  and  my  poor  Arnaouts  nursed  me  with 
an  attention  which  would  have  done  honour  to  civilization.  They 
had  a variety  of  adventures;  for  the  Moslem,  Dervish,  being  a re- 
markably handsome  man,  was  always  squabbling  with  the  husbands 
of  Athens ; insomuch  that  four  of  the  principal  Turks  paid  me  u 
visit  of  remonstrance  at  the  Convent,  on  the  subject  of  his  having 
taken  a woman  from  the  bath — whom  he  had  lawfully  bought, 
however — a thing  quite  contrary  to  etiquette.  Basilius  also  was 
extremely  gallant  amongst  his  own  persuasion,  and  had  the  greatest 
veneration  for  the  church,  mixed  with  the  highest  contempt  of 
churchmen,  whom  he  cuffed  upon  occasion  in  a most  heterodox 
manner.  Yet  he  never  passed  a church  without  crossing  himself ; 
and  I remember  the  risk  he  ran  in  entering  St.  Sophia,  in  Stambol, 
because  it  had  once  been  a place  of  his  worship.  On  remonstrating 
with  him  on  his  inconsistent  proceedings,  he  invariably  answered, 

“ Our  church  is  holy,  our  priests  are  thieves ; ” and  then  he  crossed 
himself  as  usual,  and  boxed  the  ears  of  the  first  “papas”  who 
refused  to  assist  in  any  required  operation,  as  was  always  found  to 
be  necessary  where  a priest  had  any  influence  with  the  Cogia  Bashi 
of  his  village.  Indeed,  a more  abandoned  race  of  miscreants  can- 
not exist  than  the  lower  orders  of  the  Greek  clergy. 

When  preparations  were  made  for  my  return,  my  Albanians  were 
summoned  to  receive  their  pay.  Basilius  took  his  with  an  awkward 
show  of  regret  at  my  intended  departure,  and  marched  away  to  his 
quarters  with  his  bag  of  piastres.  T sent  for  Dervish,  but  for  some 
time  he  was  not  to  be  found;  at  last  he  entered,  just  as  Signor 
Logotheti,  father  to  the  cidevant  Anglo-consul  of  Athens,  and  some 
other  of  my  Greek  acquaintances,  paid  me  a visit.  Dervish  took 
the  money,  but  on  a sudden  dashed  it  to  the  ground ; and  clasping  1 
his  hands,  which  he  raised  to  his  forehead,  rushed  out  of  the  room 
weeping  bitterly.  From  that  moment  to  the  hour  of  my  embark- 
ation, he  continued  his  lamentations,  and  all  our  efforts  to  console 
him  only  produced  this  answer,  “ M’  atpeivet,”  “ He  leaves  me.” 
Signor  Logotheti,  who  never  wept  before  for  any  thing  less  than  the  ( 
loss  of  a para  (about  the  fourth  of  a farthing),  melted ; the  padre  of  , 
the  convent,  my  attendants,  my  visitors: — and  I verily  believe  that 
even  Sterne’s  “foolish  fat  scullion”  would  have  left  her  “fish- 
kettle”  to  sympathize  with  the  unaffected  and  unexpected  sorrow 
of  this  barbarian. 

For  my  own  part,  when  I remembered  that,  a short  time  before  « 
my  departure  from  England,  a noble  and  most  intimate  associate  ; 
had  excused  himself  from  taking  leave  of  me  because  he  had  to  * 
attend  a relation  “to  a milliner’s,"  I felt  no  less  surprised  than 
humiliated  by  the  present  occurrence  and  the  past  recollection.  * 
That  Dervish  would  leave  me  with  some  regret  was  to  be  expected  ; ) 

when  master  and  man  have  been  scrambling  over  the  mountains  of  / 
a dozen  provinces  together,  they  are  unwilling  to  separate;  but  his  ■« 
present  feelings,  contrasted  with  his  native  ferocity,  impro~ed  my  \ 
opinion  of  the  human  heart.  I believe  this  almost  feuda,  fidelity 
is  frequent  amongst  them.  One  day,  on  our  journey  over  Par- 
nassus, an  Englishman  in  my  service  gave  him  a push  in  some 
dispute  about  the  baggage,  which  he  unluckily  mistook,  for  a blow ; 
he  spoke  not,  but  sat  down,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hands.  Fore- 
seeing the  consequences,  we  endeavoured  to  explain  away  the 
affront,  which  produced  the  following  answer: — “I  have  been  a 
robber;  I am  a soldier;  no  captain  ever  struck  me:  you  are  my 
master,  I have  eaten  your  bread,  but  by  that  bread  ! (an  usual  oath) 
had  it  been  otherwise,  I would  have  stabbed  the  dog  your  servant, 
anjl  gone  to  the  mountains.”  So  the  affair  ended,  but  from  that 


except  as  an  artist.  If  the  error  in  the  first  and  second  edition  of  this  poem 
has  given  the  noble  Lord  a moment’s  pain,  I am  very  sorry  for  it : Sr.  Gropius 
has  assumed  for  years  the  name  of  his  agent  ; and  though  I cannot  much  con- 
demn myself  for  sharing  in  the  mistake  of  somanv,  I am  happy  in  being  one  o! 
the  first  to  be  undeceived.  Indeed,  I have  as  much  pleasure  in  contrad'eting' 
this  as  1 felt  regret  in  stating  it , — Kotc  to  third  edition. 


APPENDIX. 


day  forward  he  never  thoroughly  forgave  the  thoughtless  fellow 
who  insulted  him.  Dervish  excelled  in  the  dance  of  his  country, 
conjectured  to  be  a remnant  of  the  ancient  Pyrrhic  : be  that  as  it 
may,  it  is  manly,  and  requires  wonderful  agility.  It  is  very  distinct 
from  the  stupid  Romaika,  the  dull  round-about  of  the  Greeks,  of 
which  our  Athenian  party  had  so  many  specimens. 

The  Albanians  in  general  (I  do  not  mean  the  cultivators  of  the 
earth  in  the  provinces,  who  have  also  that  appellation,  but  the 
mountaineers)  have  a fine  cast  of  countenance  ; and  the  most  beau- 
tiful women  I ever  beheld,  in  stature  and  in  features,  we  saw  level- 
ling the  road  broken  down  by  the  torrents  between  Delvinachi  and 
Libochabo.  Their  manner  of  walking  is  truly  theatrical ; but  this 
strut  is  probably  the  effect  of  the  capote,  or  cloak,  depending  from 
one  shoulder.  Their  long  hair  reminds  you  of  the  Spartans,  and 
their  courage  in  desultory  warfare  is  unquestionable.  Though  they 
have  some  cavalry  amongst  the  Gegdes,  I never  saw  a good  Arnaout 
horseman ; my  own  preferred  the  English  saddles,  which,  however, 
*hey  could  never  keep.  But  on  foot  they  are  not  to  be  subdued  by 
fatigue. 


Note  [C]. — Specimen  oe  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout 
Dialect  of  the  Illyric.  See  p.  24. 

“ While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sang , half  scream'd." 

Stanza  lxxii. 

As  a specimen  of  the  Albanian  or  Arnaout  dialect  of  the  Illyric, 
I here  insert  two  of  their  most  popular  choral  songs,  which  are 
generally  chanted  in  dancing  by  men  or  women  indiscriminately. 
The  first  words  are  merely  a kind  of  chorus  without  meaning,  like 
some  in  our  own  and  all  other  languages. 


1.  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo, 
Naciarura,  popuso. 

1. 

Lo,  Lo,  I come,  I come;  be 
thou  silent. 

2.  Naciarura  na  civin 
Ha  pen  derini  ti  hin. 

2. 

I come,  I run  ; open  the  door 
that  I may  enter. 

3.  Ha  pe  uderi  escrotini 
Ti  vin  ti  mar  servetini. 

3. 

Open  the  door  by  halves,  that 
I may  take  my  turban. 

4.  Caliriote  me  surme 
Ea  ha  pe  pse  dua  tive. 

4. 

Caliriotes1  with  the  dark 
eyes,  open  the  gate  that  I 
may  enter. 

5.  Buo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo,  Bo, 
Gi  egem  spirta  esimiro. 

5. 

Lo,  Lo,  I hear  thee,  my  soul. 

6.  Caliriote  vu  le  funde 
Ede  vete  tunde  tunde. 

6. 

An  Arnaout  girl,  in  costly 
garb,  walks  with  graceful 
pride. 

7.  Caliriote  me  surme 
Ti  mi  put  e poi  mi  le. 

7. 

Caliriot  maid  of  the  dark 
eyes,  give  me  a kiss. 

8.  Se  ti  puta  citi  mora 
Si  mi  ri  ni  veti  udo  gia. 

8. 

If  I have  kissed  thee,  what 
hast  thou  gained  ? My  soul 
is  consumed  with  fire. 

9.  V a le  ni  il  che  cadale 
Celo  more,  more  celo. 

9. 

Dance  lightly,  more  gently, 
and  gently  still. 

’0  Flu  hari  ti  tirete 

Plu  huron  cai  pra  seti. 

10. 

Make  not  so  much  dust  to 
destroy  your  embroidered 
hose. 

The  last  stanza  would  puzzle  a commentator:  the  men  have 
certainly  buskins  of  the  most  beautiful  texture,  but  the  ladies  (to 
whom  the  above  is  supposed  to  be  addressed)  have  nothing  under 
their  little  yellow  boots  and  slippers  but  a well-turned  and  some- 
times very  white  ankle.  The  Arnaout  girls  are  much  handsomer 
than  the  Greeks,  and  their  dress  is  far  more  picturesque.  They 
preserve  their  shape  much  longer  also,  from  being  always  in  the 
open  air.  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  the  Arnaout  is  not  a written 
language : the  words  of  this  song,  therefore,  as  well  as  the  one 
which  follows,  are  spelt  according  to  their  pronunciation.  They 
are  copied  by  one  who  speaks  and  understands  the  dialect  perfectly, 
and  who  is  a native  of  Athens. 

1.  Ndi  sefda  tin#e  ulavossa  1.  I am  wounded  by  thy  love, 

Vettimi  upri  vi  lofsa.  and  have  loved  but  to  scorch 

myself. 


1)  The  Albaneie,  particularly  the  women,  are  frequently  termed  “ 
riotes  ; ’ for  what  reason  I inquired  in  vain. 


763 


2.  Ah  vaisisso  mi  privi  lofse 
Si  mi  rini  mi  la  vosse. 


3.  Uti  tasa  roba  stua 
Sitti  eve  tulati  dua. 

4.  Roba  stinori  ssidua 
Qu  mi  sini  vetti  dua. 

5.  Qurmini  dua  civileni 
Roba  ti  siarmi  tildi  eni. 

6.  Utara  pisa  vaisisso  me  simi 

rin  t;  napti 

Eti  m’  bire  a piste  si  gui 
dendroi  tiltati. 


2.  Thou  hast  consumed  me  < 

Ah,  maid  ! thou  hast  struck 
me  to  the  heart. 

3.  I have  said  I wish  no  dowrj', 

but  itum;  eyes  and  eyelashes, 

4.  The  accursed  dowry  I want 

not,  but  thee  only. 

5.  Give  me  thy  charms,  and  let 

the  portion  feed  the  flames. 

6.  I have  loved  thee,  maid,  with 

a sincere  soul,  but  thou  hast 
left  me  like  a withered  tree. 


7.  Udi  vura  udorini  udiri  cicova  7.  If  I have  placed  my  hand  on 
cilti  mora  thy  bosom,  what  have  I 

Udorini  talti  hollna  u ede  gained?  my  hand  is  with- 
caimoni  mora.  drawn,  but  retains  the  flame. 

I believe  the  two  last  stanzas,  as  they  are  in  a different  measure, 
ought  to  belong  to  another  ballad.  An  idea  something  similar  to 
the  thought  in  the  last  lines  was  expressed  by  Socrates,  whose  arm 
having  come  in  contact  with  one  of  his  il  vnoKohntot,”  Critobulus 
or  Cleobulus,  the  philosopher  complained  of  a shooting  pain  as  far 
as  his  shoulder  for  some  days  after,  and  therefore  very  properly  re- 
solved to  teach  his  disciples  in  future  without  touching  them. 


Note  [D]. — Thoughts  on  the  Present  State  of 
Greece.  See  p.  25. 

“ Fair  Greece  ! sad  relic  of  departed  worth  ! 

Immortal,  though  no  more  ; though  fallen,  great!" 

Stanza  Ixxiii. 


I. 

Before  I say  anything  about  a city  of  which  everybody,  traveller 
or  not,  has  thought  it  necessary  to  say  something,  I will  request 
Miss  Owenson,  when  she  next  borrows  an  Athenian  heroine  for  her 
four  volumes,  to  have  the  goodness  to  marry  her  to  somebody  more 
of  a gentleman  than  a “ Disuar  Aga  ” (who  by  the  by  is  not  an  Aga), 
the  most  impolite  of  petty  officers,  the  greatest  patron  of  larceny 
Athens  ever  saw  (except  Lord  E.),  and  the  unworthy  occupant  of 
the  Acropolis,  on  a handsome  annual  stipend  of  150  piastres  (eight 
pounds  sterling),  out  of  which  he  has  only  to  pay  his  garrison,  the 
most  ill-regulated  corps  in  the  ill-regulated  Ottoman  Empire.  1 
speak  it  tenderly,  seeing  I was  once  the  cause  of  the  husband  of 
“Ida  of  Athens”  nearly  suffering  the  bastinado;  and  because  the 
said  “ Disdar”  is  a turbulent  husband,  and  beats  his  wife;  so  that 
I exhort  and  beseech  Miss  Owenson  to  sue  for  a separate  mainte- 
nance in  behalf  of  “ Ida.”  Having  premised  thus  much,  on  a 
matter  of  such  import  to  the  readers  of  romances,  I may  now  leave 
Ida,  to  mention  her  birthplace. 

Setting  aside  the  magic  of  the  name,  and  all  those  associations 
which  it  would  be  pedantic  and  superfluous  to  recapitulate,  the 
very  situation  of  Athens  would  render  it  the  favourite  of  all  who 
have  eyes  for  art  or  nature.  The  climate,  to  me  at  least,  appeared 
a perpetual  spring;  during  eight  months  I never  passed  a day  with- 
out being  as  many  hours  on  horseback : rain  is  extremely  rare, 
snow  never  lies  in  the  plains,  and  a cloudy  day  is  an  agreeable 
rarity.  In  Spain,  Portugal,  and  every  part  of  the  East  which  I 
visited,  except  Ionia  and  Attica,  I perceived  no  such  superiority  of 
climate  to  our  own ; and  at  Constantinople,  where  I passed  May, 
June,  and  oart  of  July  (1810),  you  might  “damn  the  climate,  and 
complain  ot  spleen,”  five  days  out  of  seven. 

The  air  ot  the  Morea  is  heavy  and  unwholesome,  but  the  moment 
you  pass  the  istnmus  in  the  direction  of  Megara  the  change  is 
strikingly  perceptible.  But  I fear  Hesiod  will  still  be  found  correct 
in  his  description  of  a Boeotian  winter. 

We  found  at  Livadia  an  “esprit  fort”  in  a Greek  bishop,  of  all 
freethinkers ! This  worthy  hypocrite  rallied  his  own  religion  with 
great  intrepidity  (but  not  before  his  flock),  and  talked  of  a mass  as 
a “ coglioneria.”  It  was  impossible  to  think  better  of  him  for  this; 
but,  for  a Boeotian,  he  was  brisk  with  all  his  absurdity.  This 
phenomenon  (with  the  exception  indeed  of  Thebes,  the  remains  ot 
Chaeronea,  the  plain  of  Platea,  Orchomenus,  Livadia,  and  it* 
nominal  cave  of  Trophonius)  was  the  only  remarkable  thing  —e  saw 
before  we  passed  Mount  Cithaeron. 


764 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


The  fountain  of  Dirce  turns  a mill : at  least  my  companion  (who, 
-esolving  to  be  at  once  cleanly  and  classical,  bathed  in  it)  pro- 
nounced it  to  be  the  fountain  of  Dirce,  and  anybody  who  thinks  it 
worth  while  may  contradict  him.  At  Castri  we  drank  of  half  a 
dozen  streamlets,  some  not  of  the  purest,  before  we  decided  to  our 
satisfaction  which  was  the  true  Castalian,  and  even  that  had  a vil- 
.anous  twang,  probably  from  the  snow,  though  it  did  not  throw  us 
into  an  epic  fever,  like  poor  Dr.  Chandler. 

From  Fort  Phyle,  of  which  large  remains  still  exist,  the  Plain  of 
Athens,  Pentelicus,  Hymettus,  the  Aegean,  and  the  Acropolis, 
burst  upon  the  eye  atonce;  in  my  opinion,  a more  glorious  prospect 
than  even  Cintra  or  Istambol.  Not  the  view  from  the  Troad,  with 
Ida,  the  Hellespont,  and  the  more  distant  Mount  Athos,  can  equal 
it,  though  so  superior  in  extent. 

I heard  much  of  the  beauty  of  Arcadia,  but  excepting  the  view 
from  the  monastery  of  Megaspelion  (which  is  inferior  to  Zitza  in  a 
command  of  country),  and  the  descent  from  the  mountains  on  the 
way  from  Tripolitza  to  Argos,  Arcadia  has  little  to  recommend  it 
beyond  the  name. 

“ Sternitur,  et  dulces  moriens  reminiscitur  Argos.” 

Virgil  could  have  put  this  into  the  mouth  of  none  but  an  Argive, 
and  (with  reverence  be  it  spoken)  it  does  not  deserve  the  epithet. 
\nd  if  the  Polynices  of  Statius,  “ In  mediis  audit  duo  litora  campis,” 
did  actually  hear  both  shores  in  crossing  the  isthmus  of  Corinth,  he 
had  better  ears  than  have  ever  been  worn  in  such  a journey  since. 

“ Athens,”  says  a celebrated  topographer,  “ is  still  the  most 
polished  city  of  Greece.”  Perhaps  it  may  of  Greece,  but  not  of  the 
Greeks;  for  Joannina  in  Epirus  is  universally  allowed,  amongst 
themselves,  to  be  superior  in  the  wealth,  refinement,  learning,  and 
dialect  of  its  inhabitants.  The  Athenians  are  remarkable  for  their 
cunning ; and  the  lower  orders  are  not  improperly  characterised  in 
that  proverb,  which  classes  them  with  “ the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and 
the  Turks  of  the  Negropont.” 

Among  the  various  foreigners  resident  in  Athens,  French, 
Italians,  Germans,  Ragusans,  &e.,  there  was  never  a difference  of 
opinion  in  their  estimate  of  the  Greek  character,  though  on  all 
other  topics  they  disputed  with  great  acrimony. 

M.  Fauvel,  the  French  Consul,  who  has  passed  thirty  years  prin- 
cipally at  Athens,  and  to  whose  talents  as  an  artist,  and  manners 
as  a gentleman,  none  who  have  known  him  can  refuse  their  testi- 
mony, has  frequently  declared  in  my  hearing  that  the  Greeks  do 
not  deserve  to  be  emancipated  ; reasoning  on  the  grounds  of  their 
“national  and  individual  depravity!”  while  he  forgot  that  such 
depravity  is  to  be  attributed  to  causes  which  can  only  be  removed 
by  the  measure  he  reprobates. 

M.  Roque,  a French  merchant  of  respectability  long  settled  in 
Athens,  asserted  with  the  most  amusing  gravity,  “ Sir,  they  are  the 
same  canaille  that  existed  in  the  days  of  Themistocles  / ” an 
alarming  remark  to  the  “ Laudator  temporis  acti.”  The  ancients 
banished  Themistocles ; the  moderns  cheat  Monsieur  Roque : thus 
great  men  have  ever  been  treated  ! 

In  short,  all  the  Franks  who  are  fixtures,  and  most  of  the 
Englishmen,  Germans,  Danes,  &c.  of  passage,  came  over  by  degrees 
to  their  opinion,  on  much  the  same  grounds  that  a Turk  in  England 
would  condemn  the  nation  by  wholesale,  because  he  was  wronged 
by  his  lacquey,  and  overcharged  by  his  washerwoman. 

Certainly  it  was  not  a little  staggering  when  the  Sieurs  Fauvel 
and  Lusieri,  the  two  greatest  demagogues  of  the  day,  who  divide 
between  them  the  power  of  Pericles  and  the  popularity  of  Cleon, 
and  puzzle  the  poor  Waywode  with  perpetual  differences,  agreed  in 
the  utter  condemnation,  “ nulla  virtute  redemptum,”  of  the  Greeks 
in  general,  and  of  the  Athenians  in  particular. 

For  my  own  humble  opinion,  I am  loth  to  hazard  it,  knowing  as 
I do  that  there  be  now  in  MS.  no  less  than  five  tours  of  the  first 
magnitude  and  of  the  most  threatening  aspect,  all  in  typographical 
array,  by  persons  of  wit,  and  honour,  and  regular  common-place 
books : but,  if  I may  say  this  without  offence,  it  seems  to  me  rather 
hard  to  declare  so  positively  and  pertinaciously,  as  almost  every 
body  has  declared,  that  the  Greeks,  because  they  are  very  bad,  will 
never  be  better. 

Eton  and  Sonnini  have  led  us  astray  by  their  panegyrics  and 
projects ; but,  on  the  other  hand,  De  Pauw  and  Thornton  have 
debased  the  Greeks  beyond  their  demerits. 

The  Greeks  will  never  be  independent;  they  will  never  be  sove- 
reigns as  heretofore,  and  God  forbid  they  ever  should ! but  they 
may  be  subjects  without  being  slaves.  Our  colonies  are  not  inde- 
pendent, but  they  are  free  and  industrious,  and  such  may  Greece 
be  hereafter. 


At  present,  like  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  and  the  Jews  throughout 
the  world,  and  such  other  cudgelled  and  heterodox  people,  they 
suffer  all  the  moral  and  physical  ills  that  can  afflict  humanity. 
Their  life  is  a struggle  against  truth ; they  are  vicious  in  their  own 
defence.  They  are  so  unused  to  kindness,  that  when  they  occa- 
sionally meet  with  it  they  look  upon  it  with  suspicion,  as  a dog 
often  beaten  snaps  at  your  fingers  if  you  attempt  to  caress  him. 

“ They  are  ungrateful,  notoriously,  abominably  ungrateful !”— this 
is  the  general  cry.  Now,  in  the  name  of  Nemesis!  for  what  are 
they  to  be  grateful  ? Where  is  the  human  being  that  ever  conferred 
a benefit  on  Greek  or  Greeks  ? They  are  to  be  grateful  to  the  Turks 
for  their  fetters,  and  to  the  Franks  for  their  broken  promises  and 
lying  counsels  ! They  are  to  be  grateful  to  the  artist  who  engraves 
their  ruins,  and  to  the  antiquary  who  carries  them  away;  to  th* 
traveller  whose  janissary  flogs  them,  and  to  the  scribbler  whose 
journal  abuses  them ! This  is  the  amount  of  their  obligations  to 
foreigner!. 

II. 

Franciscan  Convent,  Athens,  January  23,  1811. 

Amongst  the  remnants  of  the  barbarous  policy  of  the  earlier  ages, 
are  the  traces  of  bondage  which  yet  exist  in  different  countries ; 
whose  inhabitants,  however  divided  in  religion  and  manners,  almost 
all  agree  in  oppression. 

The  English  have  at  last  compassionated  their  negroes,  and, 
under  a less  bigoted  government,  may  probably  one  day  release 
their  Catholic  brethren : but  the  interposition  of  foreigners  alone 
can  emancipate  the  Greeks,  who,  otherwise,  appear  to  have  as  small 
a chance  of  redemption  from  the  Turks,  as  the  Jews  have  from 
mankind  in  general. 

Of  the  ancient  Greeks  we  know  more  than  enough ; at  least  the 
younger  men  of  Europe  devote  much  of  their  time  to  the  study  of 
the  Greek  writers  and  history,  which  would  be  more  usefully  spent 
in  mastering  their  own.  Of  the  moderns  we  are  perhaps  more 
neglectful  than  they  deserve;  and  while  every  man  of  any  preten- 
sions to  learning  is  tiring  out  his  youth,  and  often  his  age,  in  the 
study  of  the  language  and  of  the  harangues  of  the  Athenian  dema- 
gogues in  favour  of  freedom,  the  real  or  supposed  descendants  of 
these  sturdy  republicans  are  left  to  the  actual  tyranny  of  their 
masters,  although  a very  slight  effort  is  required  to  strike  off  their 
chains. 

To  talk,  as  the  Greeks  themselves  do,  of  their  rising  again  to  their 
pristine  superiority,  would  be  ridiculous:  as  the  rest  of  the  world  , 
must  resume  its  barbarism,  after  reasserting  the  sovereignty  of 
Greece : but  there  seems  to  be  no  very  great  obstacle,  except  in  the 
apathy  of  the  Franks,  to  their  becoming  an  useful  dependency,  or 
even  * free  state  with  a proper  guarantee ; — under  correction,  how-  ' 
ever,  be  it  spoken,  for  many  and  well-informed  men  doubt  the  1 
practicability  even  of  this. 

The  Greeks  have  never  lost  their  hope,  though  they  are  now 
more  divided  in  opinion  on  the  subject  of  their  probable  deliverers. 
Religion  recommends  the  Russians;  but  they  have  twice  been 
deceived  and  abandoned  by  that  power,  and  the  dreadful  lesson 
they  received  after  the  Muscovite  desertion  in  the  Morea  has  never 
been  forgotten.  The  French  they  dislike ; although  the  subjuga-  i 
tion  of  the  rest  of  Europe  will,  probably,  be  attended  by  the  > 
deliverance  of  continental  Greece.  The  islanders  look  to  tha  | 
English  for  succour,  as  they  have  very  lately  possessed  themselves 
of  the  Ionian  republic,  Corfu  excepted.  But  whoever  appear  with  j 
arms  in  their  hands  will  be  welcome ; and  when  that  day  arrives,  7 
Heaven  have  mercy  on  the  Ottomans ! they  cannot  expect  it  from  ( 
the  Giaours. 

But  instead  of  considering  what  they  have  been,  and  speculating 
on  what  they  may  be,  let  us  look  at  them  as  they  are. 

And  here  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile  the  contrariety  of  opinions : 
some,  particularly  the  merchants,  decrying  the  Greeks  in  the 
strongest  language;  others,  generally  travellers,  turning  periods  in 
their  eulogy,  and  publishing  very  curious  speculations  grafted  on 
their  former  state,  which  can  have  no  more  effect  on  their  present 
lot,  than  the  existence  of  the  Incas  on  the  future  fortunes  ot 
Peru. 

One  very  ingenious  person  terms  them  the  “ natural  allies  of 
Englishmen;”  another,  no  less  ingenious,  will  not  allow  them  to 
be  the  allies  of  anybody,  and  denies  their  very'  (tescent  from  the 
ancients;  a third,  more  ingenious  than  either, Guilds  a Greek 
empire  on  a Russian  foundation,  and  realises  (on  paper)  all  the 
chimeras  of  Catherine  II.  As  to  the  question  of  their  descent, 
what  can  it  import  whether  the  Mainotes  are  the  lineal  Laconians 
or  notf  or  the  present  Athenians  as  indigenous  as  the  bees  o 4 


^PPEXDIX. 


765 


Hymsttus,  or  as  die  grasshoppers,  to  which  they  once  likened 
themselves  ? What  Englishman  cares  if  he  be  of  a Danish.  Saxon, 
Norman,  or  Trojan  blood?  i r who,  except  a Welshman,  is  afflicted 
with  a desire  of  being  descended  from  Caractacus  ? 

The  poor  Greeks  do  not  so  much  abound  in  the  good  things  of 
this  world,  as  to  render  even  their  claims  to  antiquity  an  object  of 
enfy ; it  is  very  cruel,  then,  in  Mr.  Thornton  to  disturb  them  in 
the  possession  of  all  that  time  has  left  them ; viz.  their  pedigree,  of 
which  they  are  the  more  tenacious,  as  it  is  all  they  can  call  their 
own.  It  would  be  worth  while  to  publish  together,  and  compare 
the  works  of  Messrs.  Thornton  and  De  Pauw,  Eton  and  Sonnini ; 
paradox  on  one  side,  and  prejudice  on  the  other.  Mr.  Thornton 
conceives  himself  to  have  claims  to  public  confidence  from  a four- 
teen years’  residence  at  Pera ; perhaps  he  may  on  the  subject  of  i 
the  Turks,  but  this  can  give  him  no  more  insight  into  the  real  state 
of  Greece  and  her  inhabitants,  than  as  many  years  spent  in  Wap- 
ping  into  that  of  the  Western  Highlands. 

The  Greeks  of  Constantinople  live  in  Fanal ; and  if  Mr.  Thornton 
did  not  oftener  cross  the  Golden  Horn  than  his  brother  merchants 
are  accustomed  to  do,  I should  place  no  great  reliance  on  his  in- 
formation. I actually  heard  one  of  these  gentlemen  boast  of  their 
little  general  intercourse  with  the  city,  and  assert  of  himself,  with 
an  air  of  triumph,  that  he  had  been  but  four  times  at  Constantinople  j 
in  as  many  years. 

As  to  Mr.  Thornton’s  voyages  in  the  Black ‘Sea  with  Greek  j 
vessels,  they  gave  him  the  same  idea  of  Greece  as  a cruise  to  Ber- 
wick  in  a Scotch  smack  would  of  Johnny  Grot’s  house.  Up.m  what  J 
grounds  then  does  he  arrogate  the  right  of  condemning  by  wholesale  \ 
a body  of  men,  of  whom  he  can  know  little  ? It  is  rather  a curious  I 
circumstance  that  Mr.  Thornton,  who  so  lavishly  dispraises  Pouque-  : 
ville  on  every  occasion  of  mentioning  the  Turks,  has  yet  recourse  i 
to  him  as  authority  on  the  Greeks,  and  terms  him  an  impartial  I 
observer.  Now,  Dr.  Pouqueville  is  as  little  entitled  to  thatappella-  ! 
tion  as  Mr.  Thornton  to  confer  it  on  him. 

The  fact  is,  we  are  deplorably  in  want  of  information  on  the 
subject  of  the  Greeks,  and  in  particular  their  literature;  nor  is  I 
there  any  probability  of  our  being  better  acquainted,  till  our  inter- 
course becomes  more  intimate  or  their  independence  confirmed : 
the  relations  of  passing  travellers  are  as  little  to  be  depended  on  as 
the  invectives  of  angry  factors;  but  till  something  more  can  be 
attained,  we  must  be  content  with  the  little  to  be  acquired  from 
rimilar  sources.1 

However  defective  these  may  be,  they  are  preferable  to  the  para-  i 
doxes  of  men  who  have  read  superficially  of  the  ancients  and  seen  j 
nothing  of  the  moderns,  such  as  De  Pauw;  who,  when  he  asserts 
that  the  British  breed  of  horses  is  ruined  by  Newmarket,  and  that  | 
the  Spartans  were  cowards  in  the  field,  betrays  an  equal  knowledge 
of  English  horses  and  Spartan  men.  His  •*  philosophical  observa-  i 
vations”  have  a much  better  claim  to  the  title  of  “poetical.”  It  | 
could  not  be  expected  that  he  who  so  liberally  condemns  some  of 
the  most  celebrated  institutions  of  the  ancient,  should  have  mercy 
on  the  modern  Greeks;  and  it  fortunately  happens,  that  the 
absurdity  of  bis  hypothesis  on  their  forefathers  refutes  his  sentence 
on  themselves. 

Let  us  trust,  then,  that,  in  spite  of  the  prophecies  of  De  Pauw, 
and  the  doubts  of  Mr.  Thornton,  there  is  a reasonable  hope  of  the 
redemption  of  a race  of  men,  who.  whatever  may  be  the  errors  of 
their  religion  and  policy,  have  been  amply  punished  by  three  cen- 
turies aud  a half  of  captivity. 


III. 

Athens,  Franciscan  Convent,  March  17,  1811. 
• I must  have  same  talk  with  this  learned  Theban.” 

Some  time  after  my  return  from  Constantinople  to  this  city,  I 
received  the  thirty-first  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  as  a great 


favour,  aud  certainly  at  this  distance  an  acceptable  one.  from  the 
captain  of  an  English  frigate  ofTSalamk.  In  that  number.  Art-  S, 
containing  the  review  of  a French  translation  of  Strabo,  there  are 
introduced  some  remarks  on  the  modern  Greeks  and  their  litera- 
ture. with  a short  account  of  Cony,  a co-translator  in  the  French 
version.  On  those  remarks  I mean  to  ground  a few  observations  ; 
and  the  spot  where  I now  write  will.  I hope,  be  sufficient  excuse 
for  introducing  them  in  a work  in  some  degree  connected  with  the 
subject.  Coray,  the  most  celebrated  of  living  Greeks,  at  least 
among  the  Franks,  was  born  at  Scio  (in  die  Review,  Smyrna  is 
stated,  I have  reason  to  think,  incorrecdy),  and  besides  the  transla- 
tion of  Beccaria  and  other  works  mentioned  by  the  Reviewer,  has 
published  a lexicon  in  Romaic  and  French,  if  I may  trust  the 
assurance  of  some  Danish  travellers  lately  arrived  from  Paris ; but 
the  latest  we  have  seen  here  in  French  and  Greek  is  that  of  Gregory 
Zolikogloou.2 3 * * * *  Coray  has  recently  been  involved  in  an  unpleasant 
controversy  with  M.  Gail,8  a Parisian  commentator  and  editor  of 
some  translations  from  the  Greek  poets,  in  consequence  of  the  In- 
stitute having  awarded  him  the  prize  for  his  version  of  Hippocrates. 
“ nepi  i’da-ov,”  &'c.  to  the  disparagement,  and  consequently  dis- 
pleasure, of  the  said  Gail.  To  his  exertions,  literary  and  patriotic, 
great  praise  is  undoubtedly  due ; but  a part  of  that  praise  ought 
not  to  be  withheld  from  the  two  brothers  Zosiinado  (merchants 
settled  in  Leghorn),  who  sent  him  to  Paris,  and  maintained  him* 
for  the  express  purpose  of  elucidating  the  ancient,  and  adding  to 
the  modern,  researches  of  his  countrymen.  Corav,  however,  is  not 
considered  by  his  countrymen  equal  t>>  some  who  lived  in  the  two 
last  centuries;  more  particularly  Dorotheus  of  Mitylene,  whose 
Hellenic  writings  are  so  much  esteemed  by  the  Greeks,  that 
Meletius  terms  him  “ Merd  to*  SovKvdidnv  k at  iipitrrcs 

'F.XXqwu*.”  (P-  224,  Ecclesiastical  History,  vol.  iv.) 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  the  translator  of  Fontenelle,  and  Kama- 
rases,  who  translated  Ocellus  Lucanus  on  the  Universe  into  French, 
Christodoulus,  and  more  particularly  Psalidn,  whom  I have  con- 
versed with  in  Joannina,  are  also  in  high  repute  among  their 
literati.  The  last  mentioned  has  published  in  Romaic  and  Latin  a 
work  on  “True  Happiness,”  dedicated  to  Catherine  II.  But 
Polyzois,  who  is  stated  by  the  Reviewer  to  be  the  only  modern 
except  Corav  who  has  distinguished  himself  by  a knowledge  of 
Hellenic,  if  he  be  the  Polyzois  Lampanitziotes  of  Yanina,  who  has 
published  a number  of  editions  in  Romaic,  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  an  itinerant  vendor  of  books  ; with  the  contents  of  which 
he  had  no  concern  beyond  his  name  on  the  title-page,  placed  there 
to  secure  his  property  in  the  publication ; and  he  was,  moreover,  a 
man  utterly  destitute  of  scholastic  acquirements.  As  the  name, 
however,  is  not  uncommon,  some  other  Polyzois  may  have  edited 
the  Epistles  of  Aristaenetus. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  system  of  continental  blockade  has 
closed  the  few  channels  through  which  the  Greeks  received  their 
publications,  particularly  Venice  and  Trieste.  Even  the  common 
grammars  for  children  are  become  too  de.ir  for  the  lower  orders. 
Amongst  their  original  works  the  Geography  of  Meletius,  Arch- 
bishop of  Athens,  and  a multitude  of  theological  quartos  and 
poetical  pamphlets,  are  to  be  met  with;  their  grammars  and  lexi- 
cons of  two,  tliredfand  four  languages  are  numerous  and  excellent. 
Their  poetry  is  in  rhyme.  The  most  singular  piece  I have  lately 
seen  is  a satire  in  a dialogue  between  a Russian,  English,  and 
French  traveller,  and  the  VVajrwode  of  Wallachia  (or  Blackbey,  as 
they  term  him),  an  archbishop,  a merchant,  and  Cogia  Baehi  (or 
primate),  in  succession ; to  all  of  whom  under  the  Turks  the  writer 
attributes  their  present  degeneracy.  Their  songs  are  sometimes 
pretty  and  pathetiq,  but  their  tunes  generally  unpleasing  to  the 
ear  of  a Frank ; the  best  is  the  famous  “ Aeure  naides  riav  'EWi/vutv,” 
by  the  unfortunate  Riga.  But  from  a catalogue  of  more  than  sixty 
authors  now  before  me,  only  fifteen  can  be  found  who  have  touched 
on  any  theme  except  theology. 

I am  intrusted  with  a commission  by  a Greek  of  Athens  named 


U)  A word,  en  passant,  with  Mr.  Thornton  and  Dr.  Pouqueville,  who  have 
been  guilty  between  them  of  sadly  clipping  the  Sultan’s  Turkish.  Dr. 
Pouqueville  tells  a long  story  of  a Moslem  who  swallowed  corrosive  sublimate 
in  such  quantities  that  he  acquired  the  name  or  “ Suleyman  Yeyen,"  i.  e. 
quoth  the  Doctor,  “ Suleyman , the  eater  of  corrosive  sublimate .”  “ Aha." 

thinks  Mr.  Thornton,  (angry  with  the  Doctor  for  thp  fiftieth  time,)  “have  I 
caught  you  ?”—  Then,  in  a note  twice  the  thickness  of  the  Doctor’s  anecdote, 
he  questions  the  Doctor’s  proficiency  in  the  Turkish  t >ngue,  and  his  veracity 
in  his ’own.  — “For,”  observes  Mr.  Thornton  (after  inflicting  on  us  the  touch 
participle  of  a Turkish  verb i,  “it  means  nothing  more  than  Suleyman 
the  eater.”  and  quite  cashiers  the  supplementary  “ sublimate .”  Now  both 
are  right,  and  both  are  wrong.  If  Mr.  Thornton,  when  he  next  resides 
“ fourteen  years  in  the  factory,”  will  consult  his  Turkish  dictionary,  or  ask 
any  of  his  Sramboline  acquaintance,  he  will  discover  that  “ Suleyma'n  yeyen” 
wit  together  discreetly,  ni»an  the  “ Swallower  of  sublimate,”  without  any 
" Suleyman  ” in  the  cas*  : “ Suleyma ” signifying  “ corrosive  sublimate,”  and 
not  being  a proper  name  on  this  occasion,  although  it  be  an  orthodox  name 
•Bough  with  the  addition  of  n After  Mr.  Thornton’s  frequent  hints  of 


profound  Orientalism,  he  might  have  found  this  out  before  he  sang  such  pteans 
over  Dr.  Pouqueville. 

After  this,  1 thir.k  “ Travellers  versus  Factors”  shall  be  our  motto,  though 
the  ahove  Mr.  Thornton  has  condemned  “ hoc  genus  omne,”  fer  mistake  and 
misrepresentation.  “ Ne  Sutor  ultra  crepidani,”  “ No  merchant  beyond 
his  bales.” — N.  B.  For  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Thornton,  “Sutor"  is  not  a proper 
name. 

(2)  I have  in  my  possession  an  exeel  lent  lexicon  “ TptyXuxrtrov,"  which  1 re- 
ceived in  exchange  from  S.  G , Esq.  for  a small  gem:  my  antiquarian 

friends  have  never  forgotten  it,  or  forgiven  me 

(3)  In  Gail’s  pamphlet  against  Coray,  he  talks  of  “throwing  the  insolent 

Hellenist  out  of  the  window.”  On  this  a French  critic  exclaims,  “Ah,  my 

God  ! throw  an  Hellenist  out  of  the  window  ! what  sacrilege  ! ” It  certainly 

would  be  a serious  business  for  those  authors  who  dwell  in  the  attics  : but  I 

have  quoted  the  passage  merely  to  prove  the  similarity  of  style  among  the  con- 
troversialists of  all  polished  countries  ; London  or  Edinburgh  could  hardly 

parallel  this  Parisian  ebullition 


766 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Marmarotouri  to  make  arrangements,  if  possible,  for  printing  in 
London  a translation  of  Barthelemi’s  Anacharsis  in  Romaic,  as  he 
has  no  other  opportunity,  unless  he  despatches  the  MS.  to  Vienna 
by  the  Black  Sea  and  Danube. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  a school  established  at  Hecatonesi,  and 
suppressed  at  the  instigation  of  Sebastiana  : he  means  Cidonies,  or, 
in  Turkish,  Haivali;  a town  on  the  continent,  where  that,  institu- 
tion for  a hundred  students  and  three  professors  still  exists.  It  is 
true  that  this  establishment  was  disturbed  by  the  Porte,  under  the 
ridiculous  pretext  that  the  Greeks  were  constructing  a fortress  in- 
stead of  a college  : but  on  investigation,  and  the  payment  of  some 
purses  to  the  Divan,  it  has  been  permitted  to  continue.  The  prin- 
cipal professor,  named  Veniamin  (i.  e.  Benjamin),  is  stated  to  be  a 
man  of  talent,  but  a freethinker.  He  was  born  in  Lesbos,  studied 
in  Italy,  and  is  master  of  Hellenic,  Latin,  and  some  Frank  lan- 
guages ; besides  a smattering  of  the  sciences. 

Though  it  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  farther  on  this  topic  than 
may  allude  to  the  article  in  question,  I cannot  but  observe  that  the 
Reviewer’s  lamentation  over  the  fall  of  the  Greeks  appears  singular, 
when  he  closes  it  with  these  words : “ The  change  is  to  be  attributed 
to  their  misfortunes  rather  than  to  any  ‘ physical  degradation.’  ” It 
may  be  true  that  the  Greeks  are  not  physically  degenerated,  and 
that  Constantinople  contained  on  the  day  when  it  changed  masters 
as  many  men  of  six  feet  and  upwards  as  in  the  hour  of  prosperity ; 
but  ancient  history  and  modern  politics  instruct  us  that  something 
more  than  physical  perfection  Is  necessary  to  preserve  a state  in 
vigour  and  independence ; and  the  Greeks,  in  particular,  are  a 
melancholy  example  of  the  near  connexion  between  moral  degra- 
dation and  national  decay. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  a plan  “ we  believe  ” by  Potemkin  for  the 
purification  of  the  Romaic;  and  I have  endeavoured  in  vain  to 
procure  any  tidings  or  traces  of  its  existence.  There  was  an 
academy  in  St.  Petersburgh  for  the  Greeks ; but  it  was  suppressed 
by  Paul,  and  has  not  been  revived  by  his  successor. 

There  is  a slip  of  the  pen,  and  it  can  only  be  a slip  of  the  pen,  in 
p.  58,  No.  31  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  where  these  words  occur: — 
“ We  are  told  that  when  the  capital  of  the  East  yielded  to  Solyman.’’ 
— It  may  be  presumed  that  this  last  word  will,  in  a future  edition, 
be  altered  to  Mahomet  II.1  The  “ladies  of  Constantinople,”  it 
seems,  at  that  period  spoke  a dialect,  “ which  would  not  have  dis- 
graced the  lips  of  an  Athenian.”  I do  not  know  how  that  might 
be,  but  am  sorry  to  say  the  ladies  in  general,  and  the  Athenians  in 
particular,  are  much  altered ; being  far  from  choice  either  in  their 
dialect  or  expressions,  as  the  whole  Attic  race  are  barbarous  to  a 
proverb : — 

“ £ l A&rjva,  npu,~r,  \copa, 

Tt  yaidapov y rpetpets  roopa .” 

In  Gibbon,  vol.  x.  p.  1G1,  is  the  following  sentence: — “ The  vul- 
gar dialect  of  the  city  was  gross  and  barbarous,  though  the  compo- 
sitions of  the  church  and  palace  sometimes  affected  to  copy  the 
purity  of  the  Attic  models.”  Whatever  may  be  asserted  on  the 
subject,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  “ ladies  of  Constantinople,” 
in  the  reign  of  the  last  Cmsar,  spoke  a purer  dialect  than  Anna 
Comnena  wrote  three  centuries  before  : and  those  royal  pages  are 
not  esteemed  the  best  models  of  composition,  although  the  princes 
y\o)TTai/  etxer  AKPIBiiX  Attiki^ovociv.  In  the  Fanal,  and  in 
Yanina,  the  best  Greek  is  spoken  : in  the  latter  there  is  a flourish- 
ing school  under  the  direction  of  Psalida. 

There  is  now  in  Athens  a pupil  of  Psalidas,  who  is  making  a 
tour  of  observation  through  Greece ; he  is  intelligent,  and  better 
educated  than  a fellow-commoner  of  most  colleges.  I mention  this 
as  a procff  that  the  spirit  of  inquiry  is  not  dormant  among  the 
Greeks. 

The  Reviewer  mentions  Mr.  Wright,  the  author  of  the  beautiful 
poem  “ Horae  lomcse,”  as  qualified  to  give  details  of  these  nominal 
Romans  and  degenerate  Greeks ; and  also  of  their  language : but 
Mr.  Wright,  though  a good  poet  and  an  able  man,  has  made  a 
mistake  where  he  states  the  Albanian  dialect  of  the  Romaic  to 
approximate  nearest  to  the  Hellenic;  for  the  Albanians  speak  a 
Romaic  as  notoriously  corrupt  as  the  Scotch  of  Aberdeenshire,  or 
the  Italian  of  Naples.  Y'anina  (where,  next  to  the  Fanal,  the 
Greek  is  purest),  although  the  capital  of  Ali  Pacha’s  dominions,  is 


(1)  Inaformer  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  18(18,  itis  observed  : “ Lord 
Byror,  passed  some  of  his  early  years  in  Scotland,  where  he  might  have  learned 
tint  pibroch  does  not  mean  a bagpipe , any  more  than  duet  means  a fiddle." 
Query,  — Was  it  in  Scotland  that  the  ' oung  gentlemen  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review  learned  that  Soli/ man  means  Mahomet  H.  any  more  than  criticism 
meant  infallibility  t — but  thus  it  is, 

*•  Cwdimus  tuque  vicem  pr.eoeir.us  crura  saglttis.*’ 

The  mistake  seemed  so  completely  a lapse  of  the  pen  (from  the  great 


not  in  Albania  but  Epirus;  and  beyond  Delvinachi  in  Albanix 
Proper  up  to  Argyrocastro  and  Tepaleen  (beyond  which  I did  not 
advance)  they  speak  worse  Greek  than  even  the  Athenians.  I was 
attended  for  a year  and  a half  by  two  of  these  singular  moun- 
taineers, whose  mother  tongue  is  Illyric,  and  I never  heard  them  or 
their  countrymen  (whom  I have  seen,  not  only  at  home,  but  to  the 
amount  of  twenty  thousand  in  the  army  of  Vely  Pacha)  praised 
for  their  Greek,  but  often  laughed  at  for  their  provincial  barba- 
risms. 

I have  in  my  possession  about  twenty-five  letters,  amongst 
which  some  from  the  Bey  of  Corinth,  written  to  me  by  Notaras, 
the  Cogia  Bachi,  and  others  by  the  Dragoman  of  the  Caimacam 
of  the  Morea  (which  last  governs  in  Vely  Pacha’s  absence,)  are 
said  to  be  favourable  specimens  of  their  epistolary  style.  I 
also  received  some  at  Constantinople  from  private  persons,  written 
in  a most  hyperbolical  style,  but  in  the  true  antique  character. 

The  Reviewer  proceeds,  after  some  remarks  on  the  tongue  in 
its  past  and  present  state,  to  a paradox  (page  59)  on  the  great 
mischief  the  knowledge  of  his  own  language  has  done  to  Coray, 
who,  it  seems,  is  less  likely  to  understand  the  ancient  Greek 
because  he  is  perfect  master  of  the  modern  ! This  observation 
follows  a paragraph  recommending,  in  explicit  terms,  the  study  of 
the  Romaic,  as  “ a powerful  auxiliary,”  not  only  to  the  traveller 
and  foreign  merchant,  but  also  to  the  classical  scholar ; in  short, 
to  every  body  except  the  only  person  who  can  be  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  its  uses ; and  by  a parity  of  reasoning,  our  old 
language  is  conjectured  to  be  probably  more  attainable  by 
“foreigners”  than  by  ourselves!  Now,  I am  inclined  to  think 
that  a Dutch  Tyro  in  our  tongue  (albeit  himself  of  Saxon  blood) 
would  be  sadly  perplexed  with  “Sir  Tristrem,”  or  any  other  given 
“ Auchinleck  MS.”  with  or  without  a grammar  or  glossary ; and 
to  most  apprehensions  it  seems  evident  that  none  but  a native  can 
acquire  a competent,  far  less  complete,  knowledge  of  our  obsolete 
idioms.  We  may  give  the  critic  credit  for  his  ingenuity,  but  no 
more  believe  him  than  we  do  Smollet’s  Lismahago,  who  maintains 
that  the  purest  English  is  spoken  in  Edinburgh.  That  Coray  may 
err  is  very  possible ; but  if  he  does,  the  fault  is  in  the  man  rather 
than  in  his  mother  tongue,  which  is,  as  it  ought  to  be,  of  the 
greatest  aid  to  the  native  student. — Here  the  Reviewer  proceeds 
to  business  on  Strabo’s  translators,  and  here  I close  my  remarks. 

Sir  \V.  Drummond,  Mr.  Hamilton,  Lord  Aberdeen,  Dr.  Clarke, 
Captain  Leake,  Mr.  Gell,  Mr.  Walpole,  and  many  others  now  in 
England,  have  all  the  requisites  to  furnish  details  of  this  fallen 
people.  The  few  observations  I have  offered,  I should  have  left 
where  I made  them,  had  not  the  article  in  question,  and  above  all 
the  snot  where  I read  it,  induced  me  to  advert  to  those  pages, 
which  the  advantage  of  my  present  situation  enabled  me  to  clear, 
or  at  least  to  make  the  attempt. 

I have  endeavoured  to  wave  the  personal  feelings  which  rise 
in  despite  of  me,  in  touching  upon  any  part  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review ; not  from  a wish  to  conciliate  the  favour  of  its  writers,  or 
to  cancel  the  remembrance  of  a syllable  I have  formerly  published, 
but  simply  from  a sense  of  the  impropriety  of  mixing  up  private 
resentments  with  a disquisition  of  the  present  kind,  and  more 
particularly  at  this  distance  of  time  and  place. 


Note  [E]. — On  the  Present  State  of  Turkey 
and  the  Turks.  See  p.  25. 

The  difficulties  of  travelling  in  Turkey  have  been  much  exagge- 
rated, or  rather  have  considerably  diminished,  of  late  years.  The 
Mussulmans  have  been  beaten  into  a kind  of  sullen  civility,  very 
comfortable  to  voyagers. 

It  is  hazardous  to  say  much  on  the  subject  of  Turks  or  Turkey  ; 
since  it  is  possible  to  live  amongst  them  twenty  years  without 
acquiring  information,  at  least  from  themselves.  As  far  as  my 
own  slight  experience  carried  me,  I have  no  complaint  to  make; 
but  am  i.idebted  for  many  civilities  (I  might  also  say  for  friendship), 
and  much  hospitality,  to  Ali  Pacha,  his  son  Veli  Pacha  of  the  v 


similarity  of  the  two  words,  and  the  total  absence  if  error  from  the  former 
pages  of  the  literary  leviathan)  that  l should  have  passed  it  over  as  in  the 
text,  had  I not  perceived  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  much  facetious  exultation 
on  all  such  detections,  particularly  a recent  one,  where  words  and  syllables 
arc  subjects  of  disquisition  and  transposition , and  the  above-mentioned 
parallel  passage  in  n y own  case  irresistibly  propelled  me  to  hint  how  much 
easier  it  is  to  be  critical  than  correct.  'The  gentlemen,  having  enjoyed  many 
a triumph  on  sucli  victories,  will  hardly  begrudge  me  a slight  ovation  for  the 
present. 


APPENDIX. 


767 


Morea,  and  several  others  of  high  rank  in  the  provinces  Suleyman 
Aga,  late  Governor  of  Athens,  and  now  of  Thebes,  was  a bon 
vivant,  and  as  social  a being  as  ever  sat  cross-legged  at  a tray  or  a 
table.  During  the  carnival,  when  our  English  party  were  masque- 
rading, both  himself  and  his  successor  were  more  happy  to 
“ receive  masks”  than  any  dowager  in  Grosvenor-square. 

On  one  occasion  of  his  supping  at  the  convent,  his  friend  and 
visiter,  the  Cadi  of  Thebes,  was  carried  from  table  perfectly  qualified 
for  any  club  in  Christendom  j while  the  worthy  Way  wode  himself 
triumphed  in  his  fall. 

In  all  money  transactions  with  the  Moslems,  I ever  found  the 
strictest  honour,  the  highest  disinterestedness.  In  transacting 
business  with  them,  there  are  none  of  those  dirty  peculations, 
under  the  name  of  interest,  difference  of  exchange,  commission, 
&c.  &c.  uniformly  found  in  applying  to  a Greek  consul  to  cash 
bills,  even  on  the  first  houses  in  Pera. 

With  regard  to  presents,  an  established  custom  in  the  East, 
you  will  rarely  find  yourself  a loser ; as  one  worth  acceptance 
if  generally  returned  by  another  of  similar  value — a horse,  or  a 
shawl. 

In  the  capital  and  at  court  the  citizens  and  courtiers  are  formed 
in  the  same  school  with  those  of  Christianity;  but  there  does  not 
exist  a more  honourable,  friendly,  and  high-spirited  character  than 
the  true  Turkish  provincial  Aga,  or  Moslem  country  gentleman. 
It  is  not  meant  here  to  designate  the  governors  of  towns,  but  those 
Agas  who,  by  a kind  of  feudal  tenure,  possess  lands  and  houses,  of 
more  or  less  extent,  in  Greece  and  Asia  Minor. 

Th^  lower  orders  are  in  as  tolerable  discipline  as  the  rabble  in 
countries  with  greater  pretensions  to  civilisation.  A Moslem,  in 
walking  the  streets  of  our  country  towns,  would  be  more  incom- 
moded in  England  than  a Frank  in  a similar  situation  in  Turkey. 
Regimentals  are  the  best  travelling  dress. 

The  best  accounts  of  the  religion  and  different  sects  of  Islamism, 
may  be  found  in  D'Ohsson’s  French ; of  their  manners,  &c.  perhaps 
in  Thornton’s  English.  The  Ottomans,  with  all  their  defects,  are 
not  a people  to  be  despised.  Equal,  at  least,  to  the  Spaniards, 
they  are  superior  to  the  Portuguese.  If  it  be  difficult  to  pronounce 
what  they  are,  we  can  at  least  say  what  they  are  not : they  are  not 
treacherous,  they  are  not  cowardly,  they  do  not  burn  heretics,  they 
are  not  assassins,  nor  has  an  enemy  advanced  to  their  capital. 
They  are  faithful  to  their  sultan  till  he  becomes  unfit  to  govern, 
and  devout  to  their  God  without  an  inquisition.  Were  they  driven 
from  St.  Sophia  to  morrow,  and  the  French  or  Russians  enthroned 
in  their  stead,  it  would  become  a question  whether  Europe  would 
gain  by  the  exchange.  England  would  certainly  be  the  loser. 

With  regard  to  that  ignorance  of  which  they  are  so  generally, 
and  sometimes  justly  accused,  it  may  be  doubted,  always  excepting 
France  and  England,  in  what  useful  points  of  knowledge  they  are 
excelled  by  other  nations.  Is  it  in  the  common  arts  of  life?  In 
their  nranufactures ? Is  a Turkish  sabre  inferior  to  a Toledo?  or 
is  a Turk  worse  clothed  or  lodged,  or  led  and  taught,  than  a Span- 
iard? Are  their  Pachas  worse  educated  than  a Grandee?  or  an 
Effendii  than  a Knight  of  St.  Jago?  I think  not. 

I remember  Mahmout,  the  grandson  of  Ali  Pacha,  asking 
whether  my  fellow-traveller  and  myself  were  in  the  upper  or  lower 
House  of  Parliament.  Now,  this  question  from  a boy  of  ten  years 
old  proved  that  his  education  had  not  been  neglected.  It  may  be 
doubted  if  an  English  boy  at  that  age  knows  the  difference  of  the 
Divan  from  a College  of  Dervises ; but  I am  very  sure  a Spaniard 
does  not.  How  little  Mahmout,  surrounded,  as  he  had  been, 
entirely  by  his  Turkish  tutors,  had  learned  that  there  was  such  a 
thing  as  a Parliament,  it  were  useless  to  conjecture,  unless  we 
suppose  that  his  instructors  did  not  confine  his  studies  to  the 
Koran. 

In  all  the  mosques  there  are  schools  established,  which  are  very 
regularly  attended;  and  the  poor  are  taught  without  the  church  of 
Turkey  being  put  into  peril.  I believe  the  system  is  not  yet  printed 
(though  there  is  such  a thing  as  a Turkish  press,  and  books  printed 
on  the  late  military  institution  of  the  Nizam  Gedidd);  nor  have  I 
heard  whether  the  Mufti  and  the  Mollas  have  subscribed,  or  the 
Caimacam  and  the  Tefterdar  taken  the  alarm,  for  fear  the  ingenu- 
ous youth  of  the  turban  should  be  taught  not  to  “ pray  to  God  their 
way."  The  Greeks  also — a kind  of  Eastern  Irish  papists — have  a 
college  of  their  own  at  Maynooth,— no,  at  Haivali ; where  the  hete- 
rodox receive  much  the  same  kind  of  countenance  from  the 
Ottoman  as  the  Catholic  college  from  the  English  legislature. 
Who  shall  then  affirm  that  the  Turks  are  ignorant  bigots,  when 
they  thus  evince  the  exact  proportion  of  Christian  charity  which  is 
tolerated  in  the  most  prosperous  and  orthodox  of  all  possible  king- 
doms ? But  though  they  allow  all  this,  they  will  not  suffer  the 


Greeks  to  participate  in  their  privileges : no,  let  them  fight  thefi 
battles,  and  pay  their  haratch  (taxes),  be  drubbed  in  this  world, 
and  damned  in  the  next.  And  shall  we  then  emancipate  our  Irish 
Helots?  Mahomet  forbid!  We  should  then  be  bad  Mussulmans, 
and  worse  Christians : at  present  we  unite  the  best  of  both— 
jesuitical  faith,  and  something  not  much  inferior  to  Turkish  tol** 
ration. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 

Note  [E].  See  p.  38. 

“ Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  ear th-o’er guzing  mountains ,”  8fc. 

Stanza  xci. 

It  is  to  be  recollected,  that  the  most  beautiful  and  impressive 
doctrines  of  the  divine  Founder  of  Christianity  were  delivered,  not 
in  the  Temple,  but  on  the  Mount.  To  wave  the  question  of  devo- 
tion, and  turn  to  human  eloquence,  — the  most  effectual  and 
splendid  specimens  were  not  pronounced  within  walls.  Demos- 
thenes addressed  the  public  and  popular  assemblies.  Cicero  spoke 
in  the  forum.  That  this  added  to  their  effect  on  the  mind  of  both 
orator  and  hearers,  may  be  conceived  from  the  difference  between 
what  we  read  of  the  emotions  then  and  there  produced,  and  those 
we  ourselves  experience  in  the  perusal  in  the  closet.  It  is  one 
thing  to  read  the  Iliad  at  Sigaeum  and  on  the  tumuli,  or  by  the 
springs  with  Mount  Ida  above,  and  the  plain  and  rivers  and 
Archipelago  around  you;  and  another  to  trim  your  taper  over  it  in 
a snug  library — this  I know.  Were  the  early  and  rapid  progress  of 
what  is  called  Methodism  to  be  attributed  to  any  cause  beyond  the 
enthusiasm  excited  by  its  vehement  faith  and  doctrines  (the  truth 
or  error  of  which  I presume  neither  to  canvass  nor  to  question),  I 
should  venture  to  ascribe  it  to  the  practice  of  preaching  in  th e fields, 
and  the  unstudied  and  extemporaneous  effusions  of  its  teachers. — 
The  Mussulmans,  whose  erroneous  devotion  (at  least  in  the  lower 
orders)  is  most  sincere,  and  therefore  impressive,  are  accustomed 
to  repeat  their  prescribed  orisons  and  prayers,  wherever  they  may 
be,  at  the  stated  hours — of  course,  frequently  in  the  open  air, 
kneeling  upon  a light  mat  (which  they  carry  for  the  purpose  of  a 
bed  or  cushion  as  required);  the  ceremony  lasts  some  minutes, 
during  which  they  are  totally  absorbed,  and  only  living  in  their 
supplication;  nothing  can  disturb  them.  On  me  the  simple  and 
entire  sincerity  of  these  men,  and  the  spirit  which  appeared  to  be 
within  and  upon  them,  made  a far  greater  impression  than  any 
general  rite  which  was  ever  performed  in  places  of  worship,  of 
which  I have  seen  those  of  almost  every  persuasion  under  the  sun; 
including  most  of  our  own  sectaries,  and  the  Greek,  the  Catholic,  the 
Armenian,  the  Lutheran,  the  Jewish,  and  the  Mahometan.  Many 
of  the  negroes,  of  whom  there  are  numbers  in  the  Turkish  empire, 
are  idolaters,  and  have  free  exercise  of  their  belief  and  its  rites : 
some  of  these  I had  a distant  view  of  at  Patras ; and,  from  what 
I could  make  out  of  them,  they  appeared  to  be  of  a truly  Pagan 
description,  and  not  very  agreeable  to  a spectator. 


Note  [G].  See  p.  39. 

“ Clarens  ! by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod,— 

Undying  Love's,  who  here  ascends  a throne 
To  which  the  steps  are  mountains ; where  the  god 
Is  a pervading  life  and  light,”  fyc. 

Stanza  c. 

Rousseau’s  Heloise,  Lettre  17,  part.  4,  note.  “ Ces  montagnei 
sont  si  hautes  qu’une  demi-heure  apr&s  le  soleil  couche,  leurs  som- 
mets  sont  eclaires  de  ses  rayons;  dont  le  rouge  forme  sur  ces  cimes 
blanches  une  belle  couleur  de  rose,  qu’on  aperpoit  de  fort  loin.” — 
This  applies  more  particularly  to  the  heights  over  Meillerie. — 
“J’allai  a Vevay  loger  a la  Clef,  et  pendant  deux  jours  que  j’y 
restai  sans  voir  personne,  je  pris  pour  cette  ville  un  amour  qui  m’a 
suivi  dans  tous  mes  voyages,  et  qui  m’y  a fait  etablir  enfin  les  hfcros 
de  mon  roman.  Je  dirais  volontiers  k ceux  qui  ont  du  gofit  et  qui 
sont  sensibles  : Allez  a Vevay— visitez  le  pays,  examinez  les  sites, 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


768 

proroenez-vous  sur  le  lac,  et  dites  si  la  Nature  n’a  pas  fait  ce  beau 
pays  pour  une  Julie,  pour  une  Claire,  et  pour  un  St.  Preux;  mais 
Be  les  y cherchez  pas.” — Les  Confessions , livre  iv.  p.  30C.  Lyon, 
ed.  1796. — In  July,  1816,  I made  a voyage  round  the  Lake  of 
Geneva;  and,  as  far  as  my  own  observations  have  led  me  in  a not 
uninterested  nor  inattentive  survey  of  all  the  scenes  most  celebrated 
by  Rousseau  in  his  “ Helo'ise,”  I can  safely  say,  that  in  this  there 
is  no  exaggeration.  It  would  be  difficult  to  see  Clarens  (with  the 
scenes  around  it,  Vevay,  Chillon,  Boveret,  St.  Gingo,  Meillerie, 
Eivan,  and  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone)  without  being  forcibly 
struck  with  its  peculiar  adaptation  to  the  persons  and  events  with 
which  it  has  been  peopled.  But  this  is  not  all:  the  feeling  with 
which  all  around  Clarens,  and  the  opposite  rocks  of  Meillerie,  is 
invested,  is  of  a still  higher  and  more  comprehensive  order  than  the 
mere  sympathy  with  individual  passion;  it  is  a sense  of  the  exist- 
ence of  love  in  its  most  extended  and  sublime  capacity,  and  of  our 
own  participation  of  its  good  and  of  its  glory  : it  is  the  great  princi- 
ple of  the  universe,  which  is  there  more  condensed,  but  not  less 
manifested ; and  of  which,  though  knowing  ourselves  a part,  we 
lose  our  individuality,  and  mingle  in  the  beauty  of  the  whole. —If 
Rousseau  had  never  written,  nor  lived,  the  same  associations  would 
not  less  have  belonged  to  such  scenes.  He  has  added  to  the  inter- 
est of  his  works  by  their  adoption ; he  has  shown  his  sense  of  their 
beauty  by  the  selection  ; but  they  have  done  that  for  him  which  no 
human  being  could  do  for  them. — I had  the  fortune  (good  or  evil 
as  it  might  be)  to  sail  from  Meillerie  (where  we  landed  for  some 
time)  to  St.  Gingo  during  a lake  storm,  which  added  to  the  magnifi- 
cence of  all  around,  although  occasionally  accompanied  by  danger 
to  the  boat,  which  was  small  and  overloaded.  1 1 was  over  this  very 
part  of  the  lake  that  Rousseau  has  driven  the  boat  of  St.  Preux  and 
Madame  Wolmar  to  Meillerie  for  shelter  during  a tempest.  On 
gaining  the  shore  at  St.  Gingo,  I found  that  the  wind  had  been 
sufficiently  strong  to  blow  down  some  fine  old  chestnut  trees  on  the 
lower  part  of  the  mountains.  On  the  opposite  height  of  Clarens  is  a 
chateau.  The  hills  are  covered  with  vineyards,  and  interspersed 
with  some  small  but  beautiful  woods ; one  of  these  was  named  the 
“ Bosquet  de  Julie;  ” and  it  is  remarkable  that,  though  long  ago 
cut  down  by  the  brutal  selfishness  of  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard  (to 
whom  the  land  appertained),  that  the  ground  might  be  enclosed 
into  a vineyard  for  the  miserable  drones  of  an  execrable  supersti- 
tion, the  inhabitants  of  Clarens  still  point  out  the  spot  where  its 
trees  stood,  calling  it  by  the  name  which  consecrated  and  survived 
them.  Rousseau  has  not  been  particularly  fortunate  in  the 
preservation  of  the  “local  habitations”  he  has  given  to  “airy 
nothings.”  The  Prior  of  Great  St.  Bernard  has  cut  down  some  of 
his  woods  for  the  sake  of  a few  casks  of  wine,  and  Buonaparte  has 
levelled  part  of  the  rocks  of  Meillerie  in  improving  the  road  to  the 
Simplon.  The  road  is  an  excellent  r*ie  ; but  I cannot  quite  agree 
with  the  remark  which  I heard  made,  that  “ La  route  vaut  inieux 
que  les  souvenirs.” 


CANTO  THE  EOURTH. 

HISTORICAL  NOTES. 

No.  I. — State  Dungeons  of  Venice. 

“ I stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs , 

A palace  and  a prison  on  each  hand.” 

Stanza  i. 

The  communication  between  the  ducal  palace  and  the  prisons 
of  Venice  is  by  a gloomy  bridge,  or  covered  gallery,  high  above  the 
water,  and  divided  by  a stone  wall  into  a passage  and  a cell.  The 
state  dungeons,  called  pozzi,  or  wells,  were  sunk  in  the  thick  walls 
of  the  palace;  and  the  prisoner  when  taken  out  to  die  was  con- 
ducted across  the  gallery  to  the  other  side,  and  being  then  led  back 
into  the  other  compartment,  or  cell,  upon  the  bridge,  was  there 
strangled.  The  low  portal  through  which  the  criminal  was  taken 
into  this  cell  is  now  walled  up;  but  the  passage  is  still  open,  and  is 
stiii  known  by  the  name  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  The  pozzi  are 
tinder  the  flooring  of  the  chamber  at  the  foot  of  the  bridge.  They 
weqe  formerly  twelve;  but  on  the  first  arrival  of  the  French,  the 
Venetians  hastily  blocked  or  broke  up  the  deeper  of  these  dungeons. 
Ifou  may  still,  however,  descend  by  a trap-door,  and  crawl  down 


through  holes,  half-choked  by  rubbish,  to  the  depth  of  two  stori*a 
below  the  first  range.  If  you  are  in  want  of  consolation  for  the  ex- 
tinction of  patrician  power,  perhaps  you  may  find  it  there ; scarcely 
a ray  of  light  glimmers  into  the  narrow  gallery  which  leads  to  the 
cells,  and  the  places  of  confinement  themselves  are  totally  dark. 
A small  hole  in  the  wall  admitted  the  damp  air  of  the  passages, 
and  served  for  the  introduction  of  the  prisoner’s  food.  A wooden 
pallet,  raised  a foot  from  the  ground,  was  the  only  furniture.  The 
conductors  tell  you  that  a light  was  not  allowed.  The  cells  are 
about  five  paces  in  length,  two  and  a half  in  width,  and  seven  feet 
in  height.  They  are  directly^beneath  one  another,  and  respiration 
is  somewhat  difficult  in  the  lower  holes.  Only  one  prisoner  was 
found  when  the  republicans  descended  into  these  hideous  recesses, 
and  he  is  said  to  have  been  confined  sixteen  years.  But  the  in- 
mates of  the  dungeons  beneath  had  left  traces  of  their  repentance, 
or  of  their  despair,  which  are  still  visible,  and  may,  perhaps,  owe 
something  to  recent  ingenuity.  Some  of  the  detained  appear  tc 
have  offended  against,  and  others  to  have  belonged  to,  the  sacred 
body,  not  only  from  their  signatures,  but  from  the  churches  and 
belfries  which  they  have  scratched  upon  the  walls.  The  reader 
may  not  object  to  see  „ specimen  of  the  records  prompted  by  so 
terrific  a solitude.  As  nearly  as  they  could  be  copied  by  more  than 
one  pencil,  three  of  them  are  as  follows  : — 

1.  NON  XI  F1DAR  AD  ALCUNO  PENSA  e TAC1 
SE  FUGIR  VUOI  DE  SPIONI  INSIDIE  e LACCI 
IL  TENTIRTI  PENT1RTI  NULLA  GIOVA 

MA  BEN  DI  VALOR  TUO  LA  VEKA  PROVA 

1607.  ADI  2.  GENARO.  FUI  RE 
TENTO  P’  LA  BESTI EMMA  P’  AVER  DATO 
DA  MANZAR  A UN  MORTO 

IACOMO  GRITTI  SCRISSE. 

2.  UN  PARLAR  POCHO  et 
NEGARE  PRONTO  et 

UN  PENSAR  AL  FINE  PUO  DARE  LA  VITA 
A NOI  ALTRI  MESCH1NI 

1605. 

EGO  IOHN  BAPTISTA  AD 
ECCI.ESI AM  CORTELLARIUS. 

8.  DE  CHI  MI  FIDO  GUARD  AMI  DIO 

DE  CHI  NON  MI  FIDO  Ml  GUARDARO  IO 
A TA  H A NA 

V . LA  S . C . K . R . 

The  copyist  has  followed,  not  corrected,  the  solecisms;  some  of 
which  are,  however,  not  quite  so  decided,  since  the  letters  were 
evidently  sctatched  in  the  dark.  It  only  need  be  observed,  that 
bestemmia  and  mangiar  may  be  read  in  the  first  inscription,  which 
was  probably  written  by  a prisoner  confined  for  some  act  of  impiety 
committed  at  a funeral ; that  Cortel/arius  is  the  name  of  a parish 
on  terra  firma,  near  the  sea ; and  that  the  last  initials  evidently  are 
put  for  Viva  la  santa  Chiesa  Kattnlica  Rotnana. 


No.  II.— Songs  of  the  Gondoliers. 

“ In  Venice  Tasso’s  echoes  are  no  more” 

Stanza  iii. 

The  well-known  song  of  the  gondoliers,  of  alternate  stanzas  from 
Tasso’s  Jerusalem,  has  died  with  the  independence  of  Venice 
Editions  of  the  poem,  with  the  original  in  one  column,  and  the 
Venetian  variations  on  the  other,  as  sung  by  the  boatmen,  were 
once  common,  and  ?re  still  to  be  found.  The  following  extract 
will  serve  to  show  the  difference  between  the  Tuscan  epic  and  the 
“ Canta  alia  Barcariola.” 

ORIGINAL. 

Canto  1’  arme  pietose,  e ’i  capitano 
Che  ’1  gran  Sepolcro  liberb  di  Cristo. 

Molto  egli  opro  col  senno,  e con  la  mano 
Molto  soffri  nel  glorioso  acquisto ; 

E in  van  1’  Inferno  a lui  s’  c ppose,  e in  vano 
S’  arm6  d’ Asia,  e di  Lib  a il  popol  misto, 

Che  il  Ciel  gli  dib  favore,  e sotto  a i Santi 
Segni  ridusse  i suoi  compagni  erranti. 


APPENDIX. 


769 


VESETIAH. 

L’  anne  pietose  de  cantar  gho  vogia, 

E de  Goffredo  la  immortal  braura 
Che  al  fin  1’  ha  libera  co  strassia,  e dogia 
Del  nostro  buon  Gesti  la  Sepoltura 
De  mezo  mondo  unito,  e de  quel  Bogia 
Missier  Pluton  non  1’  ha  bu  mai  paura : 

Dio  1’  ha  agiutd,  e i compagni  sparpagnai 
Tutti  '1  gh’  i ha  messi  insieme  i di  del  Dai. 

gome  of  the  elder  gondoliers  will,  however,  take  up  and  continue  a 
stanza  of  their  once  familiar  bard. 

On  the  7th  of  last  January,  the  author  of  Childe  Harold,  and 
another  Englishman,  the  writer  of  this  notice,  rowed  to  the  Lido 
with  two  singers,  one  of  whom  was  a carpenter,  and  the  other  a 
gondolier.  The  former  placed  himself  at  the  prow,  the  latter  at 
the  stern  of  the  boat.  A little  after  leaving  the  quay  of  the  Pia- 
zetta,  thev  began  to  sing,  and  continued  their  exercise  until  we 
arrived  at  the  island.  They  gave  us,  amongst  other  essays,  the 
death  of  Clorinda,  and  the  palace  of  Armida ; and  did  not  sing  the 
Venetian,  but  the  Tuscan  verses.  The  carpenter,  however,  who 
was  the  cleverer  of  the  two,  and  was  frequently  obliged  to  prompt 
his  companion,  told  us  that  he  could  translate  the  original.  He 
added,  that  lie  could  sing  almost  three  hundred  stanzas,  but  had 
not  spirits  ( morbin  was  the  word  he  used)  to  learn  any  more,  or  to 
sing  what  he  already  knew : a man  must  have  idle  time  on  his 
hands  to  acquire,  or  to  repeat,  and,  said  the  poor  fellow,  “look  at 
my  clothes  and  at  me ; I am  starving.”  This  speech  was  more 
affecting  than  his  performance,  which  habit  alone  can  make  attrac- 
tive. The  recitative  was  shrill,  screaming,  and  monotonous ; and 
the  gondolier  behind  assisted  his  voice  by  holding  his  hand  to  one 
side  of  his  mouth.  The  carpenter  used  a quiet  action,  which  he 
evidently  endeavoured  to  restrain,  but  was  teo  much  interested  in 
his  subject  altogether  to  repress.  From  these  men  we  learnt  that 
singing  is  not  confined  to  the  gondoliers,  and  that,  although  the 
chant  is  seldom,  if  ever,  voluntary.  *b«re  are  still  several  amongst 
the  lower  classes  who  are  acquainted  with  a few  stanzas. 

It  does  not  appear  that  it  is  usual  for  the  performers  to  row  and 
sing  at  the  same  time.  Although  the  verses  of  the  Jerusalem  are 
no  longer  casually  heard,  there  is  yet  much  music  upon  the  Vene- 
tian canals ; and  upon  holidays,  those  strangers  who  are  not  near 
or  informed  enough  to  distinguish  the  words,  may  fancy  that  many 
of  the  gondolas  still  resound  with  the  strains  of  Tasso.  The  writer 
of  some  remarks  which  appeared  in  the  “ Curiosities  of  Literature 
must  excuse  his  being  twice  quoted ; for,  with  the  exception  of 
some  phrases  a little  too  ambitious  and  extravagant,  he  has  fur- 
nished a very  exact,  as  well  as  agreeable,  description  : 

“ In  Venice  the  gondoliers  know  by  heart  long  passages  from 
Ariosto  and  Tasso,  and  often  chant  them  with  a peculiar  melody. 
But  this  talent  seems  at  present  on  the  decline : — at  least,  after 
taking  some  pains,  I could  find  no  more  than  two  persons  who 
delivered  to  me  in  this  way  a passage  from  lasso.  I must  add, 
that  the  late  Mr.  Berry  once  chaunted  to  me  a passage  in  Tasso  in 
the  manner,  as  he  assured  me,  of  tiie  gondoliers. 

“ There  are  always  two  concerned,  who  alternately  sing  the 
strophes.  We  know  the  melody  eventually  by  Rousseau,  to  whose 
songs  it  is  printed;  it  has  properly  no  melodious  movement,  and  is 
a sort  of  medium  between  the  canto  fermo  and  the  canto  figurato  ; 
it  approaches  to  the  former  by  recitativical  declamation,  and  to  the 
latter  by  passages  and  course,  by  which  one  syllable  is  detained 
and  embellished. 

« I entered  a gondola  by  moonlight;  one  singer  placed  himself 
forwards  and  the  other  aft,  and  thus  proceeded  to  St.  Georgio. 
One  began  the  song:  when  he  had  ended  his  strophe,  the  other 
took  up  the  lay,  and  so  continued  the  song  alternately.  Through- 
out the  whole  of  it,  the  same  notes  invariably  returned;  but, 
according  to  the  subject  matter  of  the  strophe,  they  laid  a greater 
or  a smaller  stress,  sometimes  on  one,  and  sometimes  on  another 
note,  and  indeed  changed  the  enunciation  of  the  whole  strophe  as 
the  object  of  the  poem  altered. 

“ On  the  whole,  however,  the  sounds  were  hoarse  and  scream- 
ing : they  seemed,  in  the  manner  of  all  rude  uncivilized  men,  to 
make  the  excellency  of  their  singing  in  the  force  of  their  voice : onS 
seemed  desirous  of  conquering  the  other  by  the  strength  of  his 
lungs ; and  so  far  from  receiving  delight  from  this  scene  (shut  up 
as  I was  in  the  box  of  the  gondola),  I found  myself  in  a very  un- 
pleasant situation. 


(1)  The  writer  meant  Lido,  whieh  is  not  a long  row  of  islands,  but  a long 

Island  : Rtiut,  the  shore 


“ My  companion,  to  whom  I communicated  this  circumstance, 
being  very  desirous  to  keep  up  the  credit  of  his  countrymen, 
assured  me  that  this  singing  was  very  delightful  when  heard  at  a 
distance.  Accordingly  we  got  out  upon  the  shore,  leaving  one  oi 
the  singers  in  the  gondola,  while  the  other  went  to  the  distance  ol 
some  hundred  paces.  They  now  began  to  sing  against  one  another, 
and  I kept  walking  up  and  down  between  them  both,  so  as  always 
to  leave  him  who  was  to  begin  his  part.  I frequently  stood  still 
and  hearkened  to  the  one  and  to  the  other. 

“ Here  the  scene  was  properly  introduced.  The  strong  declama- 
tory, and,  as  it  were,  sleeking  sound,  met  the  ear  from  far,  and 
called  forth  the  attention ; the  quickly  succeeding  transitions, 
which  necessarily  required  to  be  sung  in  a lower  tone,  seemed  like 
plaintive  strains  succeeding  the  vociferations  of  emotion  or  of  pain. 
The  other,  who  listened  attentively,  immediately  began  where  the 
former  left  off,  answering  him  in  milder  or  more  vehement  notes, 
according  as  the  purport  of  the  strophe  required.  The  sleepy 
canals,  the  lofty  buildings,  the  splendour  of  the  moon,  the  deep 
shadows  of  the  few  gondolas  that  moved  like  spirits  hither  and 
thither,  increased  the  striking  peculiarity  of  the  scene;  and,  amidst 
all  these  circumstances,  it  was  easy  to  confess  the  character  of  this 
wonderful  harmony. 

“ It  suits  perfectly  well  with  an  idle  solitary  mariner,  lying  at 
length  in  his  vessel  at  rest  on  one  of  these  canals,  waiting  for  his 
company,  or  for  a fare,  the  tiresomeness  of  which  situation  is 
somewhat  alleviated  by  the  songs  and  poetical  stories  he  has  in 
memory.  He  often  raises  his  voice  as  loud  as  he  can,  which  ex- 
tends itself  to  a vast  distance  over  the  tranquil  mirror;  and  as  all 
is  still  around,  he  is,  as  it  were,  in  a solitude  in  the  midst  of  a large 
and  populous  town.  Here  is  no  rattling  of  carriages,  no  noise  of 
foot  passengers ; a silent  gondola  glides  now  and  then  by  him,  of 
which  the  splashings  of  the  oars  are  scarcely  to  be  heard. 

“ At  a distance  he  hears  another,  perhaps  utterly'  unknown  to 
him.  Melody  and  verse  immediately  attach  the  two  strangers  ; he 
becomes  the  responsive  echo  to  the  former,  and  exerts  himself  to 
be  heard  as  he  had  heard  the  other.  By  a tacit  convention  they 
alternate  verse  for  verse ; though  the  song  should  last  the  whole 
night  through,  they  entertain  themselves  without  fatigue ; the 
hearers,  who  are  passing  between  the  two,  take  part  in  the  amuse- 
ment. 

“ This  vocal  performance  sounds  best  at  a great  distance,  and  is 
then  inexpressibly  charming,  as  it  only  fulfils  its  design  in  the  sen- 
timent of  remoteness.  It  is  plaintive,  but  not  dismal  in  its  sound, 
and  at  times  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  refrain  from  tears.  My  com- 
panion, who  otherwise  was  not  a very  delicately  organized  person, 
said  quite  unexpectedly  : — E singolare  come  quel  canto  intenerisce, 
e molto  piii  quando  lo  cantano  meglio. 

“ I was  told  that  the  women  of  Libo,  the  long  row  of  islands 
that  divides  the  Adriatic  from  the  Lagoons,1  particularly  the 
women  of  the  extreme  districts  of  Malamocco  and  Palestrina, 
sing  in  like  manner  the  works  of  Tasso  to  these  and  similar 
tunes. 

“ They  have  the  custom,  when  their  husbands  are  fishing  out  at 
sea,  to  sit  along  the  shore  in  the  evenings  and  vociferate  thes'i 
songs,  and  continue  to  do  so  with  great  violence,  till  each  of  them 
can  distinguish  the  responses  of  her  own  husband  at  a distance.  2 
“ The  love  of  music  and  of  poetry  distinguishes  all  classes  of 
Venetians,  even  amongst  the  tuneful  sons  of  Italy.  The  city  itself 
can  occasionally  furnish  respectable  audiences  for  two  and  even 
three  opera-houses  at  a time;  and  there  are  few  events  in  private 
life  that  do  not  call  forth  a printed  and  circulated  sonnet.  Does  a 
physician  or  a lawyer  take  his  degree,  or  a clergyman  preach  hil 
maiden  sermon,  has  a surgeon  performed  an  operation,  would  a 
harlequin  announce  his  departure  or  his  benefit,  are  you  to  be  con- 
gratulated on  a marriage,  or  a birth,  or  a lawsuit,  the  Muses  are 
invoked  to  furnish  the  same  number  of  syllables,  and  the  individual 
triumphs  blaze  abroad  in  virgin  white  or  party-coloured  placards 
on  half  the  corners  of  the  capital.  The  last  curtesy  of  a favourite 
“prima  donna”  brings  down  a shower  of  these  poetical  tributes 
from  those  upper  regions,  from  which,  in  our  theatres,  nothing  but 
cupids  and  snow-storms  are  accustomed  to  descend.  There  is  a 
poetry  in  the  very  life  of  a Venetian,  which,  in  its  common  course, 
is  varied  with  those  surprises  and  changes  so  recommendable  in 
fiction,  but  so  different  from  the  sober  monotony  of  northern  exist- 
ence; amusements  are  raised  into  duties,  duties  are  softened  into 
amusements,  and  every  object  being  considered  as  equally  making 
a part  of  the  business  of  life,  is  announced  and  performed  with  the 


1.2)  Curiosities  of  Literature,  voL  ii.  p.  156,  edit.  1907  ; and  Appendix  xxix. 
to  Black’s  Life  of  Ta.-so. 

5 i 


770 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


same  earnest  indifference  and  gay  assiduity.  The  Venetian 
gazette  constantly  closes  its  columns  with  the  following  triple 
advertisement : — 

Charade. 

Exposition  of  the  most  Holy  Sacrament  in  the  church  of  St. 


Theatres. 

St.  Moses,  opera. 

St.  Benedict,  a comedy  of  characters. 

St  Luke,  repose. 

When  it  is  recollected  what  the  Catholics  believe  their  consecra- 
ted wafer  to  be,  we  may  perhaps  think  it  worthy  of  a more 
respectable  niche  than  between  poetry  and  the  playhouse. 


No.  III. — The  Lion  and  Horses  or  St.  Mark’s. 


“ St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 
Stand." 

Stanza  xi. 


The  Lion  has  lost  nothing  by  his  journey  to  the  Invalides  but  the 
gospel  which  supported  the  paw ; that  is  now  on  a level  with  the 
other  foot.  The  Horses  also  are  returned  to  the  ill-chosen  spot 
whence  they  set  out,  and  are,  as  before,  half  hidden,  under  the 
porch  window  of  St.  Mark’s  church.  Their  history,  after  a despe- 
rate struggle,  has  been  satisfactorily  explored.  The  decisions  and 
doubts  of  Erizzo  and  Zanetti,  and  lastly,  of  the  Count  Leopold 
Cicognara,  would  have  given  them  a Roman  extraction,  and  a 
pedigree  not  more  ancient  than  the  reign  of  Nero.  But  M.  de 
Sehlegel  stepped  in  to  teach  the  Venetians  the  value  of  their  own 
treasures,  and  a Greek  vindicated,  at  last  and  for  ever,  the  preten- 
sion of  his  countrymen  to  this  noble  production.1  M.  Mustoxidi 
has  not  been  left  without  a reply  : but,  as  yet,  he  has  received  no 
answer.  It  should  seem  that  the  horses  are  irrevocably  Chian,  and 
were  transferred  to  Constantinople  by  Theodosius.  Lapidary 
writing  is  a favourite  play  of  the  Italians,  and  has  conferred  repu- 
tation on  more  than  one  of  their  literary  characters.  One  of  the 
best  specimens  of  Bodoni’s  typography  is  a respectable  volume  of 
inscriptions,  all  written  by  his  friend  Pacciaudi.  Several  were  pre- 
pared for  the  recovered  horses.  It  is  to  be  hoped  the  best  was  not 
selected,  when  the  following  words  were  ranged  in  gold  letters 
above  the  cathedral  porch  : — 

QUATUOR  • EQUORUM  SIGNA  * A " VENETIS  - BYZANTIO  • 
CAPTA  • A U ' TEMP  ' D ' MAR  ’A  R ' 8 ' MCCIV  ’ POSITA  * 
au*  • HOSTILIS  * CCPIDITAS  • A * MDCCIIIC  * ABSTULERAT  ‘ 
FRANC  • I IMP  * PACI8  ' ORBI  ' DAT.®  * TROPHjEUM  * A * 
MDCCCXV  - VICTOR  • REDUXIT. 

Nothing  shall  be  said  of  the  Latin ; but  it  may  be  permitted  to 
observe,  that  the  injustice  of  the  Venetians  in  transporting  the 
horses  from  Constantinople  was  at  least  equal  to  that  of  the  French 
in  carrying  them  to  Paris,  and  that  it  would  have  been  more  pru- 
dent to  have  avoided  all  allusions  to  either  robbery.  An  apostolic 
prince  should,  perhaps,  have  objected  to  affixing  over  the  principal 
entrance  of  a metropolitan  church  an  inscription  having  a reference 
to  any  other  triumphs  than  those  of  religion.  Nothing  less  than 
the  pacification  of  the  world  can  excuse  such  a solecism. 


No  IV. — Submission  of  Barbarossa  to  Pope 
Alexander  III. 

“ The  Suabian  sued , and  now  the  Austrian  reigns — 

An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt.” 

Stanza  xii. 

After  many  vain  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  Italians  entirely  to 
throw  off  the  yoke  of  Frederic  Barbarossa,  and  as  fruitless  attempts 


O)  Sui  quattro  cavalll  della  Basilica  dl  S.  Marco  in  Venezia.  Letters  di 
Andrea  Mustoxidi  Corcireie,  Padua,  1916. 

(2)  “ Quibus  audltii,  imperator,  operante  eo,  qul  enrda  princjjiuns  aieut 
Tult  el  quando  vult  humiliter  inclinat,  leonina  Irritate  deposit*,  ovinam 
■nansuetudinem  indult.” — komualdi  Salernitani  Chronicon,  ajmd  Berlin.  Ker. 
Vial.  lorn.  vli.  p.  229. 


of  the  Emperor  to  make  himself  absc  ute  master  throughout  the 
whole  of  his  Cisalpine  dominions,  the  bloody  struggles  of  four  and 
twenty  years  were  happily  brought  to  a close  in  the  city  of  Venice. 
The  articles  of  a treaty  had  been  previously  agreed  upon  between 
Pope  Alexander  III.  and  Barbarossa;  and  the  former  having  re- 
ceived a safe-conduct,  had  already  arrived  at  Venice  from  Ferrara, 
in  company  with  the  ambassadors  of  the  King  of  Sicily  and  the 
consuls  of  the  Lombard  league.  There  still  remained,  however, 
many  points  to  adjust,  and  for  several  days  the  peace  was  believed 
to  be  impracticable.  At  this  juncture  it  was  suddenly  reported 
that  the  Emperor  had  arrived  at  Chioza,  a town  fifteen  miles  from 
the  capital.  The  Venetians  rose  tumultuously,  and  insisted  upon 
immediately  conducting  him  to  the  city.  The  Lombards  took  the 
alarm,  and  departed  towards  Treviso.  The  Pope  himself  was 
apprehensive  of  some  disaster  if  Frederic  should  suddenly  advance 
upon  him,  but  was  reassured  by  the  prudence  and  address  of 
Sebastian  Ziani,  the  Doge.  Several  embassies  passed  between 
Chioza  and  the  capital,  until,  at  last,  the  Emperor,  relaxing  some- 
what of  his  pretensions,  “ laid  aside  his  leonine  ferocity,  and  put  on 
the  mildness  of  the  lamb.”2 

On  Saturday  the  23d  of  July,  in  the  year  1177,  six  Venetian  gal- 
leys transferred  Frederic,  in  great  pomp,  from  Chioza  to  the  island 
of  Lido,  a mile  from  Venice.  Early  the  next  morning  the  Pope, 
accompanied  by  the  Sicilian  ambassadors  and  by  the  envoys  of 
Lombardy,  whom  he  had  recalled  from  the  main  land,  together 
with  a great  concourse  of  people,  repaired  from  the  patriarchal 
palace  to  St.  Mark’s  church,  and  solemnly  absolved  the  Emperor 
and  his  partisans  from  the  excommunication  pronounced  against 
him.  The  Chancellor  of  the  Empire,  on  the  part  of  his  master, 
renounced  the  anti  popes  and  their  schismatic  adherents.  Imme- 
diately the  Doge,  with  a great  suite  both  of  the  clergy  and  laity, 
got  on  board  the  galleys,  and  waiting  on  Frederic,  rowed  him  in 
mighty  state  from  the  Lido  to  the  capital.  The  Emperor  descended 
from  the  galley  at  the  quay  of  the  Piazzetta.  The  Doge,  the 
patriarch,  his  bishops  and  clergy,  and  the  people  of  Venice  with 
their  crosses  and  their  standards,  marched  in  solemn  procession 
before  him  to  the  church  of  St.  Mark.  Alexander  was  seated  before 
the  vestibule  of  the  basilica,  attended  by  his  bishops  and  cardinals, 
by  the  patriarch  of  Aquileja,  by  the  archbishops  and  bishops  of 
Lombardy,  all  of  them  in  state,  and  clothed  in  their  church  robes. 
Frederic  approached — “ moved  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  venerating  the 
Almighty  in  the  person  of  Alexander,  laying  aside  his  imperial 
dignity,  and  throwing  off  his  mantle,  he  prostrated  himself  at  full 
length  at  the  feet  of  the  Pope.  Alexander,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
raised  him  benignantly  from  the  ground,  kissed  him,  blessed  him ; 
and  immediately  the  Germans  of  the  train  sang,  with  a loud  voice, 

‘ We  praise  thee,  O Lord.’  The  Emperor  then,  taking  the  Pope  by 
the  right  hand,  led  him  to  the  church,  and  having  received  his 
benediction,  returned  to  the  ducal  palace. ”3  The  ceremony  of 
humiliation  was  repeated  the  next  day.  The  Pope  himself,  at  the 
request  of  Frederic,  said  mass  at  St.  Mark’s.  The  Emperor  again 
laid  aside  his  imperial  mantle,  and,  taking  a wand  in  his  hand, 
officiated  as  verger,  driving  the  laity  from  the  choir,  and  preceding 
the  pontiff  to  the  altar.  Alexander,  after  reciting  the  gospel, 
preached  to  the  people.  The  Emperor  put  himself  close  to  the 
pulpit  in  the  attitude  of  listening ; and  the  pontiff,  touched  by  this 
mark  of  his  attention  (for  he  knew  that  Frederic  did  not  under- 
stand a word  he  said),  commanded  the  patriarch  of  Aquileja  to 
translate  the  Latin  discourse  into  the  German  tongue.  The  creed 
was  then  chanted.  Frederic  made  his  oblation,  and  kissed  the 
Pope’s  feet,  and,  mass  being  over,  led  him  by  the  hand  to  hit 
white  horse.  He  held  the  stirrup,  and  would  have  led  the 
horse’s  rein  to  the  water  side,  had  not  the  Pope  accepted  of 
the  inclination  for  the  performance,  and  affectionately  dismissed 
him  with  his  benediction.  Such  is  the  substance  of  the  account 
left  by  the  Archbishop  of  Salerno,  who  was  present  at  the 
ceremony,  and  whose  story  is  confirmed  by  every  subsequent 
narration.  It  would  be  not  worth  so  minute  a record,  were  it 
not  the  triumph  of  liberty  as  well  as  of  superstition.  The  states 
of  Lombardy  owed  to  it  the  confirmation  of  their  privileges; 
and  Alexander  had  reason  to  thank  the  Almighty,  who  had 
enabled  an  infirm,  unarmed  old  man  to  subdue  a terrible  and 
potent  sovereign.3 4 


(3)  Rer.  ltal.  tom.  vii.  p.  231. 

(4)  See  the  ahove-cited  Romuald  of  Salerno.  In  a second  »enr.on  which 
Alexander  preached,  on  the  tirst  day  of  August,  before  the  Emperor, 
he  compared  Frederie  l*  th*  predial  son,  and  himself  to  the  forgiviDg 

Adlui. 


APPENDIX. 


771 


No.  V.—  Henry  Dandolo. 

“ Oh,  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo  ! 

Th'  octogenarian  chief , Byzantium’ s conquering  foe.” 

Stanza  xii. 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  exclamation  of  the  Highlander,  Oh 
for  one  hour  of  Dundee  ! Henry  Dandolo  when  elected  Doge,  in 
1192,  was  eighty-five  years  of  age.  When  he  commanded  the 
Venetians  at  the  taking  of  Constantinople  he  was  consequently 
ninety-seven  years  old.  At  this  age  he  annexed  the  fourth  and  a 
half  of  the  whole  empire  of  Romania,1  for  so  the  Roman  empire 
was  then  called,  to  the  title  and  to  the  territories  of  the  Venetian 
Doge.  The  three  eighths  of  this  empire  were  preserved  in  the 
diplomas  until  the  dukedom  of  Giovanni  Dolfini,  who  made  use  of 
the  above  designation  in  the  year  1357. 2 

Dandolo  led  the  attack  on  Constantinople  in  person  : two  ships, 
the  Paradise  and  the  Pilgrim,  were  tied  together,  and  a drawbridge 
or  ladder  let  down  from  their  higher  yards  to  the  walls.  The  Doge 
was  one  of  the  first  to  rush  into  the  city.  Then  was  completed, 
said  the  Venetians,  the  prophecy  of  the  Erythraean  sibyl: — “A 
gathering  together  of  the  powerful  shall  be  made  amidst  the  waves 
of  the  Adriatic,  under  a blind  leader ; they  shall  beset  the  goat — 
they  shall  profane  Byzantium — they  shall  blacken  her  buildings — 
spoils  shall  be  dispersed;  a new  goat  shall  bleat  until  they  have 
measured  out  and  run  over  fifty-four  feet,  nine  inches,  and  a half.”3 
Dandolo  died  on  the  first  day  of  June,  1205,  having  reigned  thirteen 
years,  six  months,  and  five  days,  and  was  buried  in  the  church  of 
St.  Sophia,  at  Constantinople.  Strangely  enough  it  must  sound, 
that  the  name  of  the  rebel  apothecary  who  received  the  Doge’s 
sword,  and  annihilated  the  ancient  government,  in  1796-7,  was 
Dandolo. 


No.  VI. — The  War  of  Chioza. 

“ But  is  not  Doria’s  menace  come  to  pass; 

Are  they  not  bridled  t” 

Stanza  xiii. 

After  the  loss  of  the  battle  of  Pola,  and  the  taking  of  Chioza  on 
the,  lfith  of  August,  1379,  by  the  united  armament  of  the  Genoese 
and  Francesco  da  Carrara,  Signor  of  Padua,  the  Venetians  were 
reduced  to  the  utmost  despair.  An  embassy  was  sent  to  the  con- 
querors with  a blank  sheet  of  paper,  praying  them  to  prescribe  what 
terms  they  pleased,  and  leave  to  Venice  only  her  independence. 
The  Prince  of  Padua  was  inclined  to  listen  to  these  proposals;  but 
the  Genoese,  who,  after  the  victory  at  Pola  had  shouted,  “To 
Venice,  to  Venice,  and  long  live  St.  George ! ” determined  to  anni- 
hilate their  rival ; and  Peter  Doria,  their  commander-in-chief, 
returned  this  answer  to  the  suppliants : “ On  God’s  faith,  gentle- 
men of  Venice,  ye  shall  have  no  peace  from  the  Signor  of  Padua, 
nor  from  our  commune  of  Genoa,  until  we  have  first  put  a rein 
upon  those  unbridled  horses  of  yours,  that  are  upon  the  porch  of 
your  evangelist  St.  Mark.  When  we  have  bridled  them,  we  shall 
keep  you  quiet.  And  this  is  the  pleasure  of  us  and  of  our  com- 
mune. As  for  these  my  brothers  of  Genoa,  that  you  have  brought 
with  you  to  give  up  to  us,  I will  not  have  them : take  them  back ; 
for,  in  a few  days  hence,  I shall  come  and  let  them  out  of  prison 
myself,  both  these  and  all  the  others.”  In  fact,  the  Genoese  did 
advance  as  far  as  Malamocco,  within  five  miles  of  the  capital ; but 
their  own  danger  and  the  pride  of  their  enemies  gave  courage  to 
the  Venetians,  who  made  prodigious  efforts,  and  many  individual 
sacrifices,  all  of  them  carefully  recorded  by  their  historians.  Vettor 
Pisani  was  put  at  the  head  of  thirty-four  galleys.  The  Genoese 
broke  up  from  Malamocco,  and  retired  to  Chioza  in  October;  but 
they  again  threatened  Venice,  which  was  reduced  to  extremities. 
At  this  time,  the  1st  of  January,  1380,  arrived  Carlo  Zeno,  who  had 
been  cruising  on  the  Genoese  coast  with  fourteen  galleys.  The 
Venetians  were  now  strong  enough  to  besiege  the  Genoese.  DoriJ 


(1)  Mr.  Gibbon  has  omitted  the  itnportant  at,  and  has  written  Romani 
instead  of  Romanian.  Decline  and  Fall,  cnap.  lxi.  note  9.  Rut  the  title 
acquired  bv  Dandolo  runs  thus  in  the  chronicle  of  his  namesake,  the  Doge 
Andrew  Dandolo.  “ Ducali  titulo  add  id  it,  * Quartae  partis  et  dimidia; 
totius  imperii  Romanise.’ ” And.  Dand.  Chrcnicon,  cap.  iii.  pars  xxxvii. 
ap.  Script.  Rer.  Ilal.  tom.  xii.  page  331.  Ant?  the  Romanise  is  observed  in 
the  subsequent  acts  of  the  Doges.  Indeed,  the  continental  possessions  of 
the  Greek  empire  in  Europe  were  then  generally  known  by  the  name  of 


was  killed  on  the  22d  of  January,  by  a stone  bullet  195  pounds 
weight,  discharged  from  a bombard  called  the  Trevisan.  Chioza 
was  then  closely  invested ; 5oU0  auxiliaries,  amongst  whom  were 
some  English  condottieri,  commanded  by  one  Captain  Ceccho, 
joined  the  Venetians.  The  Genoese,  in  their  turn,  prayed  for  con- 
ditions, but  none  were  granted,  until,  at  last,  they  surrendered  at 
discretion;  and,  on  the  24th  of  June,  1380,  the  Doge  Contarini 
made  his  triumphant  entry  into  Chioza.  Four  thousand  prisoners, 
nineteen  galleys,  many  smaller  vessels  and  barks,  with  all  the 
ammunition  and  arms,  and  outfit  of  the  expedition,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  conquerors,  who,  had  it  not  been  for  the  inexorable 
answer  of  Doria,  would  have  gladly  reduced  their  dominion  to  the 
city  of  Venice.  An  account  of  these  transactions  is  found  in  avork 
called  the  War  of  Chioza,  written  by  Daniel  Chinazzo,  who  was  ir 
Venice  at  the  time. 


No.  VII. — Venice  under  the  Government  op 
Austria. 

“ Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthrals.” 

Stanza  xv. 

The  population  of  Venice  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century 
amounted  to  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  souls.  At  the  last 
census,  taken  two  years  ago,  it  was  no  more  than  about  one  hun- 
dred and  three  thousand : and  it  diminishes  daily.  The  commerce 
and  the  official  employments,  which  were  to  be  the  unexhausted 
source  of  Venetian  grandeur,  have  both  expired.  Most  of  the 
patrician  mansions  are  deserted,  and  would  gradually  disappear, 
had  not  the  government,  alarmed  by  the  demolition  of  seventy-two 
during  the  last  two  years,  expressly  forbidden  this  sad  source  ol 
poverty.  Many  remnants  of  the  Venetian  nobility  are  now  scat- 
tered and  confounded  with  the  wealthier  Jews  upon  the  banks  of 
the  Brenta,  whose  Palladian  palaces  have  sunk,  or  are  sinking,  in 
the  general  decay.  Of  the  “ gentiluomo  Veneto,”  the  name  is  still 
known,  and  that  is  all.  He  is  but  the  shadow  of  his  former  self, 
hut  he  is  polite  and  kind.  It  surely  may  be  pardoned  to  him  if  he 
is  querulous.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  vices  of  the  republic, 
and  although  the  natural  term  of  its  existence  may  be  thought  by 
foreigners  to  have  arrived  in  the  due  course  of  mortality,  only  one 
sentiment  can  be  expected  from  the  Venetians  themselves.  At  no 
time  were  the  subjects  of  the  republic  so  unanimous  in  their  reso- 
lution to  rally  round  the  standard  of  St.  Mark,  as  when  it  was  for 
the  last  time  unfurled ; and  the  cowardice  and  the  treachery  of  the 
few  patricians  who  recommended  the  fatal  neutrality  were  confined 
to  the  persons  of  the  traitors  themselves.  The  present  race  cannot 
be  thought  to  regret  the  loss  of  their  aristocratical  forms,  and  too 
despotic  government;  they  think  only  on  their  vanished  inde- 
pendence. They  pine  away  at  the  remembrance,  and  on  this 
subject  suspend  for  a moment  their  gay  good  humour.  Venice 
may  be  said,  in  the  words  of  the  Scripture,  “ to  die  daily;  ” and  so 
general  and  so  apparent  is  the  decline,  as  to  become  painful  to  a 
stranger,  not  reconciled  to  the  sight  of  a whole  nation  expiring  as 
it  were  before  his  eyes.  So  artificial  a creation  having  lost  that 
principle  which  called  it  into  life  and  supported  its  existence,  must 
fall  to  pieces  at  once,  and  sink  more  rapidly  than  it  rose.  The 
abhorrence  of  slavery  which  drove  the  Venetians  to  the  sea,  has. 
since  their  disaster,  forced  them  to  the  land,  where  they  may  be  at 
least  overlooked  amongst  the  crowd  of  dependents,  and  not  present 
the  humiliating  spectacle  of  a whole  nation  loaded  with  recent 
chains.  Their  liveliness,  their  affability,  and  that  happy  indiffe- 
rence which  constitution  alone  can  give  (for  philosophy  aspires  to 
it  in  vain),  have  not  sunk  under  circumstances ; but  many  pecu- 
liarities of  costume  and  manner  have  by  degrees  been  lost,  and  the 
nobles,  with  a pride  common  to  all  Italians  who  have  been  masters, 
have  not  been  persuaded  to  parade  their  insignificance.  That 
splendour  which  was  a proof  and  a portion  of  their  power,  they  would 
not  degrade  into  the  trappings  of  their  subjection.  They  retired 


Romania,  and  that  appellation  it  still  seen  in  the  maps  of  Turkey  as  applied 
to  Thrace. 

(2)  See  the  continuation  of  Dandolo’s  Chronicle,  ibid.  p.  498.  Mr  Gibbon 
appears  no;  to  include  Dolfino,  following  Sanudo,  who  says,  “ il  qual  titolo  si 
us&  fin  al  Doge  Giovanni  Dolfino.”  See  Vite  de’  Duchidi  Venezia,  ap.  Script. 
Iter.  Ital.  tom.  xxii.  530,  t>4l. 

(3J  Chronicon,  ibid,  pars  xxxiv. 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


772 

from  the  space  which  they  had  occupied  in  the  eyes  of  their  fellow- 
citizens;  their  continuance  in  which  would  have  been  a symptom 
of  acquiescence,  and  an  insult  to  those  who  suffered  by  the 
common  misfortune.  Those  who  remained  in  the  degraded  capital 
night  be  said  rather  to  haunt  the  scenes  of  their  departed  power, 
than  to  live  in  them.  The  reflection,  “ who  and  what  enthrals,” 
will  hardly  bear  a comment  from  one  who  is,  nationally,  the 
friend  and  the  ally  of  the  conqueror.  It  may,  however,  be 
allowed  to  say  thus  much,  that  to  those  who  wish  to  recover 
tLe.r  independence,  any  masters  must  be  an  object  of  detestation  ; 
and  it  may  be  safely  foretold  that  this  unprofitable  aversion  will 
not  have  been  corrected  before  Venico  shall  have  sunk  into  the 
slime  of  her  choked  canals. 


. No.  VIII.— Laura. 

“ Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame.” 

Stanza  xxv. 

Thanks  to  the  critical  acumen  of  a Scotchman,  we  now  know  as 
llttie  of  Laura  as  ever.i  The  discoveries  of  the  Abbe  de  Sade,  his 
triumphs,  his  sneers,  can  no  longer  instruct  or  amuse.  We  must 
not,  however,  think  that  these  memoirs  are  as  much  a romance  as 
Belisarius  or  the  Incas,  although  we  are  told  so  by  Dr.  Beattie,  a 
great  name,  but  a little  authority.2  His  “labour”  has  not  been 
in  vain,  notwithstanding  his  “love”  has,  like  most  other  passions, 
made  him  ridiculous.  3 The  hypothesis  which  overpowered  the 
struggling  Italians,  and  carried  along  less  interested  critics  in  its 
current,  is  run  out.  We  have  another  proof  that  we  can  be  never 
sure  that  the  paradox,  the  most  singular,  and  therefore  having  the 
most  agreeable  and  authentic  air,  will  not  give  place  to  the 
re-established  ancient  prejudice. 

It  seems,  then,  first,  that  Laura  was  bom,  lived,  died,  and  was 
buried,  not  in  Avignon,  but  in  the  country.  The  fountains  of  the 
Sorga,  the  thickets  of  Cabrieres,  may  resume  their  pretensions,  and 
the  exploded  de  la  Bastie  again  be  heard  with  complacency.  The 
hypothesis  of  the  Abbe  had  no  stronger  props  than  the  parchment 
sonnet  and  medal  found  on  the  skeleton  of  the  wife  of  H ugo  de 
Sade,  and  the  manuscript  note  to  the  Virgil  of  Petrarch,  now  in 
the  Ambrosian  library.  If  these  proofs  were  both  incontestable, 
the  poetry  was  written,  the  medal  composed,  cast,  and  deposited 
within  the  space  of  twelve  hours : and  these  deliberate  duties  were 
performed  round  the  carcass  of  one  who  died  of  the  plague,  and 
was  hurried  to  the  grave  on  the  day  of  her  death.  These,  docu- 
ments, therefore,  are  too  decisive : they  prove  not  the  fact,  but  the 
forgery.  Either  the  sonnet  or  the  Virgilian  note  must  be  a 
falsification.  The  Abbe  cites  both  as  incontestably  true;  the 
consequent  deduction  is  inevitable  — they  are  both  evidently 
false.* 

Secondly,  Laura  was  never  married,  and  was  a haughty  virgin 
rather  than  that  tender  and  prudent  wife  who  honoured  Avignon, 
by  making  that  town  the  theatre  of  an  honest  French  passion  ; and 
played  off  for  one  and  twenty  years  her  little  machinery  of  alternate 
favours  and  refusals1 2 3 4  5 upon  the  first  poet  of  the  age.  It  was, 
indeed,  rather  too  unfair  that  a female  should  be  made  responsible 
for  eleven  children  upon  the  faith  of  a misinterpreted  abbreviation, 
and  the  decision  of  a librarian. 6 It  is,  however,  satisfactory  to 
think  that  the  love  of  Petrarch  was  not  Platonic.  The  happiness 
which  he  prayed  to  possess  but  once  for  a moment  was  surely  not 


(1)  See  an  Historical  and  Critical  Essay  on  the  Life  and  Character  of 
Petrarch  ; and  a Dissertation  on  an  Historical  Hypothesis  of  the  Abbe  de 
Sade. 

(2)  Life  of  Beattie,  by  Sir  W.  Forbes,  voL  ii.  p.  106. 

(3)  Mr.  Gibbon  called  his  Memoirs  “a  labour  of  love”  (see  Decline  and 
Fall,  chap.  Ixx  note  1),  and  followed  him  with  confidence  and  delifrht. 
The  compiler  of  a very  voluminous  work  must  take  much  criticism  upon 
trust.  Mr.  Gibbon  has  done  so,  though  not  as  readily  as  some  other 
authors. 

(4)  The  sonnet  had  before  awakened  the  suspicions  of  Mr  Horace  Walpole. 
See  his  letter  to  Warton  in  1763. 

(5)  " Par  ce  petit  manage,  cette  alternative  de  faveurs  et  de  rigueurs  bien 
m4nag4e,  une  femme  tendre  et  sage  amuse,  pendant  vingt  et  un  ans  le  plus 
grand  pocte  de  son  siicle,  sans  faire  la  moindre  briche  k son  honneur.”  M*m. 
pour  la  Vie  de  Petrarque,  Preface  aux  Fran«ais. 

(6)  In  a dialogue  with  Sc.  Augustin,  Petrarch  has  described  Laura  as  having 

a body  exhausted  with  repeated  jitulii.  The  old  editors  read  and  printed 

vrrtuibationibus ; but  M.  Capperonier,  librarian  to  the  French  king  in  1762, 

who  saw  tne  MS.  in  the  Paris  library,  made  an  attestation  that  “on  lit  et 


of  the  mind  7,  and  something  so  very  real  as  a marriage  project, 
with  one  who  has  been  idly  called  a shadowy  nymph,  may  be, 
perhaps,  detected  in  at  least  six  places  of  his  own  sonnets.  The 
love  of  Petrarch  was  neither  Platonic  nor  poetical:  and  if  in  one 
passage  of  his  works  he  calls  it  “ amore  veementeissimo  ma  unico 
ed  onesto,”  he  confesses,  in  a letter  to  a friend,  that  it  was  guilty 
and  perverse,  that  it  absorbed  him  quite,  and  mastered  his 
heart. 

In  this  case,  however,  he  was  perhaps  alarmed  for  the  culpa- 
bility of  his  wishes  ; for  the  Abbe  de  Sade  himself,  who  certainly 
would  not  have  been  scrupulously  delicate  if  he  could  have  prov  d 
his  descent  from  Petrarch  as  well  as  Laura,  is  forced  into  a stout 
defence  of  his  virtuous  grandmother.  As  far  as  relates  to  the  poet, 
we  have  no  security  for  the  innocence,  except  perhaps  in  the 
constancy  of  his  pursuit.  He  assures  us  in  his  epistle  to  posterity, 
that,  when  arrived  at  his  fortieth  year,  he  not  only  had  in  horror, 
but  had  lost  all  recollection  and  image  of  any  “ irregularity.”  But 
the  birth  of  his  natural  daughter  cannot  be  assigned  earlier  than 
his  thirty-ninth  year ; and  either  the  memory  or  the  morality  of  the 
poet  must  have  failed  him,  when  he  forgot  or  was  guilty  of  this 
slip.6 * *  The  weakest  argument  for  the  purity  of  this  love  has  been 
drawn  from  the  permanence  of  its  effects,  which  survived  the 
object  of  his  passion.  The  reflection  of  M.  de  la  Bastie,  that  virtue 
alone  is  capable  of  making  impressions  which  death  cannot  efface, 
is  one  of  those  which  every  body  applauds,  and  every  body  finds 
not  to  be  true,  the  moment  he  examines  his  own  breast  or  the 
records  of  human  feeling.9  Such  apophthegms  can  do  nothing  for 
Petrarch  or  for  the  cause  of  morality,  except  with  the  very  weak 
and  the  very  young.  He  that  has  made  even  a little  progress 
beyond  ignorance  and  pupillage  cannot  be  edified  with  any  thing 
but  truth.  What  is  called  vindicating  the  honour  of  an  individual 
or  a nation,  is  the  most  futile,  tedious,  and  uninstructive  of  all 
writing;  although  it  will  always  meet  witli  more  applause  than 
that  sober  criticism,  which  is  attributed  to  the  malicious  desire  of 
reducing  a great  man  to  the  common  standard  of  humanity.  It  is, 
after  all,  not  unlikely  that  our  historian  was  right  in  retaining  his 
favourite  hypothetic  salvo,  which  secures  the  author,  although 
it  scarcely  saves  the  honour  of  the  still  unknown  mistress  of 
Petrarch.10 


No.  IX. — Petrarch. 

“ They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died.” 

Stanza  xxxi. 

Petrarch  retired  to  Arqutl  immediately  on  his  return  from  the 
unsuccessful  attempt  to  visit  Urban  V.  at  Rome,  in  the  year  1370, 
and,  with  the  exception  of  his  celebrated  visit  to  Venice  in  com- 
pany with  Francesco  Novello  da  Carrara,  he  appears  to  have 
passed  the  four  last  years  of  his  life  between  that  charming  solitude 
and  Padua.  For  four  months  previous  to  his  death  he  was  in  a 
state  of  continual  languor,  and  in  the  morning  of  July  the  19th,  in 
the  year  1374,  was  found  dead  in  his  library  chair  with  his  head 
resting  upon  a book.  The  chair  is  still  shown  amongst  the  precious 
relics  of  Arqua,  which,  from  the  uninterrupted  veneration  that  has 
been  attached  to  every  thing  relative  to  this  great  man  from  the 
moment  of  his  death  to  the  present  hour,  have,  it  may  lie  hoped,  a 
better  chance  of  authenticity  than  the  Shakspearian  memorials  of 
Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Arqua  (for  the  last  syllable  is  accented  in  pronunciation, 
although  the  analogy  of  the  English  language  has  been  observed  in 


qu’on  doit  lire,  partubus  exhaustion. ” De  Sade  joined  the  names  of  Messrs. 
Boudot  and  Rejot  with  M.  Capperonier,  and,  in  the  whole  discussion  on  this 
plulm.  showed  himself  a downright  literary  rogue.  See  Ritlessioni,  Sic.  p.  2C7. 
Thom.is  Aquinas  is  called  in  to  settle  whether  Petrarch’s  mistress  was  a chaste 
maid  or  a continent  wile. 

(7)  “ Pigmalion.  quanto  lodar  ti  dei 

Dell’  imagine  tua,  se  nolle  volte 
N’  avesti  quel  ch’  i’  sol  una  vorrei.” 

Sonetto  58,  quando  giu  se  a .Simon  l alto  c+ncetto. 
Le  Uime,  Si c.  par.  i.  pag.  189,  edit.  Ven.  1756. 

(8)  “ A questa  confessione  cosi  sincera  diede  forse  occasione  una  nuova 
caduta  ch’ ei  fece.”  Tiraboschi,  Storia,  Sic.  v.  492. 

(9)  M.  de  Bimard,  Baron  de  la  Bastie,  in  the  Msmoires  de  1’AcatUmie  ties 
Inscriptions  et  Bolles  Lettres  for  1740  and  1751.  See  also  Ritlessioni,  Ate. 
p 29  . 

(10)  “ And  if  the  virtue  or  prudence  of  I aura  waa  inexorable,  he  enjoyed, 
and  might  boast  of  enjoying,  the  nymph  vpoetry.”  Decline  and  Fall,  chap. 
Ixx.  p.  327,  vol.  xii.  8vo.  Perhaps  the  (Ais  here  meant  for  althougk. 


APPENDIX. 


773 


the  verse)  is  twelve  miles  from  Padua,  and  about  three  miles  on 
the  right  of  the  high  road  to  Rovigo,  in  the  bosom  of  the  Euganean 
hills.  After  a walk  of  twenty  minutes  across  a flat  well-wooded 
meadow,  you  come  to  a little  blue  lake,  clear  but  fathomless,  and 
to  the  foot  of  a succession  of  acclivities  and  hills,  clothed  with 
vineyards  and  orchards,  rich  with  fir  and  pomegranate  trees,  and 
every  sunny,  fruit  shrub.  From  the  banks  of  the  lake  the  road 
winds  into  the  hills,  and  the  church  of  Arqua  is  soon  seen  between 
a cleft  where  two  ridges  slope  towards  each  other,  and  nearly 
enclose  the  village.  The  houses  are  scattered  at  intervals  on  the 
steep  sides  of  these  summits;  and  that  of  the  poet  is  on  the  edge 
of  a little  knoll  overlooking  two  descents,  and  commanding  a view, 
not  only  of  the  glowing  gardens  in  the  dales  immediately  beneath, 
but  of  the  wide  plains,  above  whose  low  woods  of  mulberry  and 
willow,  thickened  int » a dark  mass  by  festoons  of  vines,  tall,  single 
cypresses,  and  the  spires  of  towns,  are  seen  in  the  distance,  which 
stretches  to  the  mouths  of  the  Po  and  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic. 
The  climate  of  these  volcanic  hills  is  warmer,  and  the  vintage 
begins  a week  sooner  than  in  the  plains  of  Padua.  Petrarch  is 
laid,  for  he  cannot  be  said  to  be  buried,  in  a sarcophagus  of  red 
marble,  raised  on  four  pilasters  on  an  elevated  base,  and  preserved 
from  an  association  with  meaner  tombs.  It  stands  conspicuously 
alone,  but  will  be  soon  overshadowed  by  four  lately  planted  laurels. 
Petrarch’s  fountain,  for  here  every  thing  is  Petrarch’s,  springs  and 
expands  itself  beneath  an  artificial  arch,  a little  below  the  church, 
and  abounds  plentifully,  in  the  driest  season,  with  that  soft  water 
which  was  the  ancient  wealth  of  the  Euganean  hills.  It  would  be 
more  attractive,  were  it  not,  in  some  seasons,  beset  with  hornets 
and  wasps.  No  other  coincidence  could  assimilate  the  tombs  of 
Petrarch  and  Archilochus.  The  revolutions  of  centuries  have 
spared  these  sequestered  valleys,  and  the  only  violence  which  has 
been  offered  to  the  ashes  of  Petrarch  was  prompted,  not  by  hate, 
but  veneration.  An  attempt  was  made  to  rob  the  sarcophagus  of 
its  treasure,  and  one  of  the  arms  was  stolen  by  a Florentine 
through  a rent  which  is  still  visible.  The  injury  is  not  forgotten, 
but  has  served  to  identify  the  poet  with  the  country  where  he  was 
born,  but  where  he  would  not  live.  A peasant  boy  of  Arqua  being 
asked  who  Petrarch  was,  replied,  “ that  the  people  of  the  parson- 
age knew  all  about  him,  but  that  he  only  knew  that  he  was  a 
Florentine.” 

Mr.  Forsyth'  was  not  quite  correct  in  saying  that  Petrarch  never 
returned  to  Tuscany  after  he  had  once  quitted  it  when  a boy.  It 
appears  he  did  pass  through  Florence  on  his  way  from  Parma  to 
Rome,  and  on  his  return  in  the  year  1350,  and  remained  there  long 
enough  to  form  some  acquaintance  with  its  most  distinguished 
inhabitants.  A Florentine  gentleman,  ashamed  of  the  aversion  of 
the  poet  for  his  native  country,  was  eager  to  point  out  this  trivial 
error  in  our  accomplished  traveller,  whom  he  knew  and  respected 
for  an  extraordinary  capacity,  extensive  erudition,  and  refined 
taste,  joined  to  that  engaging  simplicity  of  manners  which  has 
been  so  frequently  recognised  as  the  surest,  though  it  is  certainly 
not  an  indispensable,  trait  of  superior  genius. 

Every  footstep  of  Laura’s  lover  has  been  anxiously  traced  and 
recorded.  The  house  in  which  he  lodged  is  shown  in  Venice. 
The  inhabitants  of  Arezzo,  in  order  to  decide  the  ancient  contro- 
versy between  their  city  and  the  neighbouring  Ancisa,  where  j 
Petrarch  was  carried  when  seven  months  old,  and  remained  until 
his  seventh  year,  have  designated  by  a long  inscription  the  spot 
where  their  great  fellow- citizen  was  born.  A tablet  has  been 
raised  to  him  at  Parma,  in  the  chapel  of  St.  Agatha,  at  the 
cathedral,  because  he  was  archdeacon  of  that  society,  and  was  only 
snatched  from  his  intended  sepulture  in  their  church  by  a foreign 
death.  Another  tablet,  with  a bust,  has  been  erected  to  him  at 
Pavia,  on  account  of  his  having  passed  the  autumn  of  1368  in  that 
city,  with  his  son-in-law  Brossano.  The  political  condition  which 
has  for  ages  precluued  the  Italians  from  the  criticism  of  the  living, 
has  concentrated  their  attention  to  the  illustration  of  the  dead. 


(1)  Remarks,  &e.  on  Italy,  p.  95,  note  2d  edit. 

(2)  La  Vita  del  Tasso,  lib.  iii. 

(.11  Histoire  de  I’Acadlmie  Fran^aise  depuis  1652  jusqu’4  1700,  pa  I’Abb* 
d’Olivet.  “ Mais,  ensuite,  venant  4 I’usage  qu’il  a fait  de  ses  talens.  j’aurais 
montr*  que  le  bon  sens  r.'est  pas  toujours  ce  qui  domine  chez  lui  ” p.  182. 
Roileau  said,  he  had  not  changed  his  opinion.  “ J’en  ai  si  peu  chang4,  dit-il,” 
Jtc.  p.  181 

(4)  La  Maniire  de  bien  Pe.nser.  Philanthes  is  for  Tasso,  and  says  in  the 

outset,  ‘ ‘ De  tous  les  beaux  esprits  que  l’ltalie  a portis,  le  Tasse  est  peut-*tre 

celui  qui  pense  le  plus  noblement.”  But  Bohours  seems  to  speak  in  Kudoxus. 

who  closes  with  the  absurd  comparison  : “ Faites  valoir  le  Tasse  tant  qu’il  vous 

plaira.  je  m’en  tiens  pour  moi  4 Virgile,”  &c. 

(51  La  Vita,  &c.  l:b.  iii.  p 90,  tom.  ii.  The  English  reader  may  see  an 

account  of  the  oppositior  o ‘he  Crusca  to  Tasso,  in  Dr.  Black,  Life,  ate.  chap, 

svii.  vol.  ii. 


No.  X. — Tasso. 

“ In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire  ; 

And  Boileau,  whose  rush  envy,"  $n. 

Stanza  xxxviii. 

Perhaps  the  couplet  in  which  Boileau  depreciates  Tasso  may 
serve  as  well  as  any  other  specimen  to  justify  the  opinion  given  oi 
the  harmony  of  French  verse : — 

“ A Malherbe,  k Racan,  prefere  Theophile, 

Ei  lc  clinquant  du  Tasse  k tout  l’or  de  Virgile.” — Sat.  ix. 

The  biographer  Serassi,1 2  out  of  tenderness  to  the  reputation 
either  of  the  Italian  or  the  French  poet,  is  eager  to  observe  that  the 
satirist  recanted  or  explained  away  this  censure,  and  subsequently 
allowed  the  author  of  the  Jerusalem  to  be  a “ genius,  sublime, 
vast,  and  happily  born  for  the  higher  flights  of  poetry.”  To  this 
we  will  add,  that  the  recantation  is  far  from  satisfactory,  when  we 
examine  the  whole  anecdote  as  reported  by  Olivet.3 4  The  sentence 
pronounced  against  him  by  Bohours  4 is  recorded  only  to  the  con- 
fusion of  the  critic,  whose  palinodia  the  Italian  makes  no  effort  to 
discover,  and  would  not,  perhaps,  accept.  As  to  the  opposition 
which  the  Jerusalem  encountered  from  the  Cruscan  academy,  who 
degraded  Tasso  from  all  competition  with  Ariosto,  below  Bojardo 
and  Pulci,  the  disgrace  of  such  opposition  must  also  in  some 
measure  be  laid  to  the  cha^je  of  Alfonso,  and  the  court  of  Ferrara. 
For  Leonard  Salviati,  the  principal  and  nearly  the  sole  origin  of 
this  attack,  was,  there  can  be  no  doubt,5  influenced  by  a hope  to 
acquire  the  favour  of  the  House  of  Este : an  object  which  he 
thought  attainable  by  exalting  the  reputation  of  a native  poet  at 
the  expense  of  a rival,  then  a prisoner  of  state.  The  hopes  and 
efforts  of  Salviati  must  serve  to  show  the  contemporary  opinion  as 
to  the  nature  of  the  poet’s  imprisonment ; and  will  fill  up  the  mea- 
sure of  our  indignation  at  the  tyrant  jailer.6 *  In  fact,  the  antagonist 
of  Tasso  was  not  disappointed  in  the  reception  given  to  his  criti- 
cism : he  was  called  to  the  court  of  Ferrara,  where,  having  endea- 
voured to  heighten  his  claims  to  favour,  by  panegyrics  on  the 
family  of  his  sovereign,?  he  was  in  turn  abandoned,  and  expired  in 
neglected  poverty.  The  opposition  of  the  Cruscans  was  brought  to 
a close  in  six  years  after  the  commencement  of  the  controversy ; 
and  if  the  academy  owed  its  first  renown  to  having  almost  opened 
with  such  a parodox,8  it  is  probable  that,  on  the  ether  hand,  the 
care  of  his  reputation  alleviated  rather  than  aggravated  the  im- 
prisonment of  the  injured  poet.  The  defence  of  his  father  and  of 
himself,  for  both  were  involved  in  the  censure  of  Salviati,  found 
employment  for  many  of  his  solitary  hours,  and  the  captive  could 
have  been  but  little  embarrassed  to  reply  to  accusations,  where, 
amongst  other  delinquencies,  he  was  charged  with  invidiously 
omitting,  in  his  comparison  between  France  and  Italy,  to  make 
any  mention  of  the  cupola  of  St.  Maria  del  Fiore  at  Florence.9 
The  late  biographer  of  Ariosto  seems  as  if  willing  to  renew  the 
controversy  by  doubting  the  interpretation  of  Tasso’s  self-esti- 
mation10 related  in  Serassi’s  life  of  the  poet.  But  Tirabosehi  had 
before  laid  that  rivalry  at  rest11  by  showing,  that  between  Ariosto 
and  Tasso  it  is  not  a question  of  comparison,  but  of  preference. 


No.  XI. — Ariosto. 

“ The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust, 

The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimick'd  leaves.’’ 

Stanza  xli. 

Before  the  remains  of  Ariosto  were  removed  from  the  Bene- 
dictine church  to  the  library  of  Ferrara,  his  bust,  which  surmounted 
the  tomb,  was  struck  by  lightning,  and  a crown  of  iron  laurels 


(6)  For  further,  and,  it  is  hoped,  decisive  proof,  that  Tasso  was  neither  more 
nor  less  than  a prisoner  of  state,  the  reader  is  referred  to  “ Historical  Illustra 
tions  of  the  I Vth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold,”  page  a and  following. 

(7)  Orazioni  funebri  . . . delle  lodi  di  Don  Luigi,  Cardinal  d’Este  . . . delle 
odi  di  Donno  Alfonso  d’Este.  See  La  Vita,  lib.  iii.  p.  117. 

(8)  It  was  founded  in  1582,  and  the  Crusean  answer  to  I’ellegrino’s  Curaffn, 
or  eyica  poesia,  was  published  in  1584. 

(9)  “ Contanto  puti  sempre  in  lui  il  veleno  della  sua  pessitna  voionU  contro 
alia  nazion  Fiorentina.”-  La  Vita,  lib.  iii.  pp.  96,  98,  tom.  ii. 

(10)  La  Vita  di  M.  L.  Ariosto,  seritta  dall*  Abate  Girolamo  BarufTaldt 
Giuniore,  &c.  Ferrara.  1807,  lib.  iii.  p.  262.  See  “ Historical  Illustrations  * 
Sic.  p 26. 

(11)  Storia  della  Lett  Jtc.  lib.  iii.  torn.  rll.  par  iii.  p.  1220.  sect  % 


774 


LOUD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


melted  away.  The  event  has  been  recorded  by  a writer  of  the  last 
century. i The  transfer  of  these  sacred  ashes,  on  the  6tli  of  June, 
1801,  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  spectacles  of  the  short-lived 
Italian  republic;  and  to  consecrate  the  memory  of  the  ceremony, 
the  once  famous  fallen  Intrepid i were  revived  and  reformed  into 
the  Ariostean  academy.  The  large  public  place  through  which  the 
procession  paraded  was  then  for  the  first  time  called  Ariosto 
Square.  The  author  of  the  Orlando  is  jealously  claimed  as  the 
Homer,  not  of  Italy,  but  Ferrara.-  The  mother  of  Ariosto  was  of 
Reggio,  and  the  house  in  which  he  was  born  is  carefully  distin- 
guished by  a tablet  with  these  words:  “ Qui  nacque  Ludovico 
Ariosto  il  giorno  8 di  Settembre  dell’  anno  1474.”  Rut  the  Fer- 
rarese  make  light  of  the  accident  by  which  their  poet  was  born 
abroad,  and  claim  him  exclusively  for  their  own.  They  possess 
'Jts  bones,  they  show  his  arm-chair,  and  his  inkstand,  and  his 
autogi  aphs. 

“ Hie  illius  arma, 

Hie  currus  fuit ” 

The  house  where  he  lived,  the  room  where  he  died,  are  designated 
oy  his  own  replaced  memorial,^  and  by  a recent  inscription.  The 
Ferrarese  arc  more  jealous  of  their  claims  since  the  animosity  of 
Denina,  arising  from  a cause  which  their  apologists  mysteriously 
hint  is  not  unknown  to  them,  ventured  to  degrade  their  soil  and 
climate  to  a Boeotian  incapacity  for  all  spiritual  productions.  A 
quarto  volume  has  been  called  forth  by  the  detraction,  and  this 
supplement  to  Barotti’s  Memoirs  of  the  illustrious  Ferrarese  has 
been  considered  a triumphant  reply  to  the  “ Quadro  Storico 
Statistico  dell’  Alta  Italia.” 


No.  XII. — Ancient  Superstitions  respecting 
Lightning. 

“ For  the.  true  laurel-wreath  which  Glory  weave $ 

Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves." 

Stanza  xli. 

The  eagle,  the  sea  calf,  the  laurel,  and  the  white  vine,  were 
amongst  the  most  approved  preservatives  against  lightning : Jupiter 
chose  the  first,  Augustus  Caesar  the  second,  and  Tiberius  never 
failed  to  wear  a wreath  of  the  third  when  the  sky  threatened  a 
thunder-storm.1 2 3 4  These  superstitions  may  be  received  without  a 
sneer  in  a country  where  the  magical  properties  of  the  hazel  twdg 
have  not  lost  all  their  credit;  and  perhaps  the  reader  may  not  be 
much  surprised  to  find  that  a commentator  on  Suetonius  has  taken 
upon  himself  gravely  to  disprove  the  imputed  virtues  of  the  crown 
of  Tiberius,  by  mentioning  that  a few  years  before  he  wrote  a 
laurel  was  actually  struck  by  lightning  at  R/me.5 


No.  XIII. 

“ Know  that  the  lightning  sanctifies  below." 

Stanza  xli. 

The  Curtian  lake  and  the  Ruminal  fig-tree  in  the  Forum,  having 
been  touched  by  lightning,  were  held  sacred,  and  the  memory  of 
the  accident  was  preserved  by  a puteal,  or  altar  resembling  the 
Inouth  of  a well,  with  a little  chapel  covering  the  cavity  supposed 
to  be  made  by  the  thunderbolt.  Bodies  scathed  and  persons 
struck  dead  were  thought  to  be  incorruptible;6  and  a stroke  not 
fatal  conferred  perpetual  dignity  upon  the  man  so  distinguished  by 
heaven. 7 

Those  killed  by  lightning  were  wrapped  in  a white  garment,  and 


(1)  Op.  di  Bianconl,  vol.  iii.  p.  176,  p<1.  Milano,  1802;  lcttera  al  Signor 
Outdo  Savini  Arciliiiocritico,  sull’  indole  di  un  fulmine  eailuto  in  Dresda 
l’anno  1759. 

(2)  “ Appassionata  ammiratore  ed  invitto  apologista  dell’  Omvra  Ferrame 
The  title  was  (irst  given  by  Tatiso,  and  is  quoted  to  the  confuiion  of  the  Taimti, 
lib.  iii.  pp.  262,  255.  La  Vita  di  M.  L.  Ariosto,  &c. 

(3)  “ Parva  sed  apta  mihi,  sed  nuili  obnoxia,  sod  non 

Sordida,  partu  meo  sed  tamen  fere  tlomul.” 

(4)  Plin.  Nat.  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  65.  Columella,  lib  a.  Sueton,  in  Vit. 
August,  cap.  xc  et  in  Vit.  Tiberii,  cap  lxix. 

(5)  Note  2,  p.  400,  edit.  Lugd.  Bat.  1667. 


buried  where  they  fell.  The  superstition  was  not  cot  fined  to  th# 
worshippers  of  Jupiter:  the  Lombards  believed  in  the  omens  fur- 
nished by  lightning;  and  a Christian  priest  confesses  that,  by  a 
diabolical  skill  in  interpreting  thunder,  a seer  foretold  to  Agilulf, 
duke  of  Turin,  an  event  which  came  to  pass,  and  gave  him  a queen 
and  a crown. » There  was,  however,  something  equivocal  in  this 
sign,  which  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Rome  did  not -always  con- 
sider propitious;  and,  as  the  fears  are  likely  to  last  longer  than  the 
consolations  of  superstition,  it  is  not  strange  that  the  Romans  of 
the  age  of  Leo  X.  should  have  been  so  much  terrified  at  some  mis- 
interpreted storms  as  to  require  the  exhortations  of  a scholar,  who 
arrayed  all  the  learning  on  thunder  and  lightning  to  prove  th* 
omen  favourable;  beginning  with  the  flash  which  strvck  the  walls 
of  Velitne,  and  including  that  which  played  upon  agate  at  Florence, 
and  foretold  the  pontificate  of  one  of  its  citizens. 9 


No.  XIY. — Tiie  Yenus  of  Medicis. 

“ There , too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone" 

Stanza  xlix. 

The  view  of  the  Venus  of  Medicis  instantly  suggests  the  lines  In 
the  Seasons,  and  the  comparison  of  the  object  with  the  description 
proves,  not  only  the  correctness  of  the  portrait,  but  the  pecuniar 
turn  of  thought,  and,  if  the  term  may  be  used,  the  sexual  imagina- 
tion of  the  descriptive  poet.  The  same  conclusion  may  be  deduced 
from  another  hint  in  the  same  episode  of  Musidora;  for  Thomson’s 
notion  of  the  privileges  of  favoured  love  must  have  been  either 
very  primitive,  or  rather  deficient  in  delicacy,  when  he  made  his 
grateful  nymph  inform  her  discreet  Damon  that  in  some  happier 
moment  he  might  perhaps  be  the  companion  of  her  bath  : — 

“ The  time  may  come  you  need  not  fly.” 

The  reader  will  recollect  the  anecdote  told  in  the  Life  of  Dr. 
Johnson.  We  will  not  leave  the  Florentine  gallery  without  a word 
on  the  Whetter.  It  seems  strange  that  the  character  of  that  dis- 
puted statue  should  not  be  entirely  decided,  at  least  in  the  mind  of 
any  one  who  has  seen  a sarcophagus  in  the  vestibu.e  of  the 
Basilica  of  St.  Paul  without  the  walls,  at  Rome,  where  the  whole 
group  of  the  fable  of  Marsyas  is  seen  in  tolerable  preservation ; and 
the  Scythian  slave  whetting  the  knife  is  represented  exactly  in  the 
same  position  as  this  celebrated  masterpiece.  The  slave  is  not 
naked ; but  it  is  easier  to  get  rid  of  this  difficulty  than  to  suppose 
the  knife  in  the  hand  of  the  Florentine  statue  an  instrument  for 
shaving,  which  it  must  be,  if,  as  Lanzi  supposes,  the  man  is  no 
other  than  the  barber  of  Julius  Caesar.  Winkelmann,  illustrating 
a bas-relief  of  the  same  subject,  follows  the  opinion  of  Leonard 
Agostini,  and  his  authority  might  have  been  thought  conclusive, 
even  if  the  resemblance  did  not  strike  the  most  pareless  observer.10 
Amongst  the  bronzes  of  the  same  princely  collection  is  still  to  be 
seen  the  inscribed  tablet  copied  and  commented  upon  by  Mr. 
Gibbon. ll  Our  historian  found  some  difficulties,  but  did  not  desist 
from  his  illustration : he  might  be  vexed  to  hear  that  his  criticism 
has  been  thrown  away  on  an  inscription  now  generally  recognised 
to  be  a forgery. 


No.  XY. — Madame  de  St\el. 

“ In  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie." 

Stanza  liv 

This  name  will  recall  the  memory,  not  only  of  those  whose 
tombs  have  raised  the  Santa  Croce  into  the  centre  of  pilgrimage, 
the  Mecca  of  Italy,  but  of  her  whose  eloquence  was  poured  over 
the  illustrious  ashes,  and  whose  voice  is  now  as  mute  as  those. she 


(6)  Viil.  J.  C.  Bullenger,  de  Terra:  Motu  et  Fulminib.  lib.  v.  cap.  si. 

(7)  Ovbett  KepauwOeis  arip&r  eon,  otiev  Kai  tev  tteop  TiguTfc. 
I'lut.  Sympos.  vid.  J.  C.  Hulleng.  ut.  sup. 

(81  Pauli  Diaconi  de  Gestis  l.angobard,  lib.  iii.  cap.  xiv. 

(9)  I.  P.  Valeriaui  de  fulminum  signiticationibus  declamntio,  ap.  Gr:*v. 
Antiq.  Kotn.  tom.  v.  p.  593.  The  declamation  is  addressed  to  Julian  oi 
Medicis. 

(10)  See  Monim.  Ant.  Ined.  par.  1,  cap.  xvii.  n.  xlii.  pag.  50  ; and  Storia 
ilell’  Arti,  Xtc.  lib.  xi.  cap.  i.  tom.  ii.  pag.  314,  not.  B. 

Ol)  Nomina  grotesque  Antiquie  Italia:,  p.  204,  edit.  oct. 


APPENDIX. 


775 


sung.  Corinx  a Is  no  more ; and  with  her  should  expire  the  fear, 
the  flattery,  and  the  envy,  which  threw  too  dazzling  or  too  dark  a 
cloud  round  the  march  of  genius,  and  forbade  the  steady  gaze  of  l 
disinterested  criticism.  We  have  her  picture  embellished  or  dis- 
torted, as  friendship  or  detraction  has  held  the  pencil : the  impartial 
portrait  was  hardly  to  be  expected  from  a contemporary.  The  im- 
mediate voice  of  her  survivors  will,  it  is  probable,  be  far  from 
affording  a just  estimate  of  her  singular  capacity.  The  gallantry, 
the  love  of  wonder,  and  the  hope  of  associated  fame,  which  blunted 
the  edge  of  censure,  must  cease  to  exist. — The  dead  have  no  sex ; 
they  can  surprise  by  no  new  miracles ; they  can  confer  no  privilege: 
Corinna  has  ceased  to  be  a woman — she  is  only  an  author:  and  it 
may  be  foreseen  that  many  will  repay  themselves  for  former  com- 
plaisance, by  a severity  to  which  the  extravagance  of  previous 
praises  may  perhaps  give  the  colour  of  truth.  The  latest  posterity, 
for  to  the  latest  posterity  they  will  assuredly  descend,  will  have  to 
pronounce  upon  her  various  productions;  and  the  longer  the  vista 
through  which  they  are  seen,  the  more  accurately  minute  will  be 
the  object,  the  more  certain  the  justice,  of  the  decision.  She  will 
enter  into  that  existence  in  which  the  great  writers  of  all  ages  and 
nations  are,  as  it  were,  associated  in  a world  of  their  own,  and, 
from  that  superior  sphere,  shed  their  eternal  influence  for  the  con- 
trol and  consolation  of  mankind,  llut  the  individual  will  gradually 
disappear  as  the  author  is  more  distinctly  seen  : some  one,  there- 
fore, of  all  those  whom  the  charms  of  involuntary  wit,  and  of  easy 
hospitality,  attracted  within  the  friendly  circles  of  Coppet,  should 
rescue  from  oblivion  those  virtues  which,  although  they  are  said  to 
love  the  shade,  are,  in  fact,  more  frequently  chilled  than  excited 
by  the  domestic  cares  of  private  life.  Some  one  should  be  found 
to  portray  the  unaffected  graces  with  which  she  adorned  those 
dearer  relationships,  the  performance  of  whose  duties  is  rather 
discovered  amongst  the  interior  secrets,  than  seen  in  the  outward 
management,  of  family  intercourse;  and  which,  indeed,  it  requires 
the  delicacy  of  genuine  affection  to  qualify  for  the  eye  of  an  indiffe- 
rent spectator.  Some  one  should  be  found,  not  to  celebrate,  but  to 
describe  the  amiable  mistress  of  an  open  mansion,  the  centre  of  a 
society  ever  varied,  and  always  pleased,  the  creator  of  which, 
divested  of  the  ambition  and  the  arts  of  public  rivalry,  shone  forth 
only  to  give  fresh  animation  to  those  around  her.  The  mother 
tenderly  affectionate  and  tenderly  beloved,  the  friend  unboundedly 
generous,  but  still  esteemed,  the  charitable  patroness  of  all  distress, 
cannot  be  forgotten  by  those  whom  she  cherished,  and  protected, 
and  fed.  Her  loss  will  be  mourned  the  most  where  she  was  known 
the  best;  and,  to  the  sorrows  of  very  many  friends,  and  more 
dependents,  may  be  offered  the  disinterested  regret  of  a stranger, 
who,  amidst  the  sublimer  scenes  of  the  Leman  lake,  received  his 
chief  satisfaction  from  contemplating  the  engaging  qualities  of  the 
ccomparable  Corinna. 


No.  XVI. — Alfieri. 

“ Here  repose 
Angelo's,  Aljleri’s  bones.” 

Stanza  liv. 

. fieri  is  the  great  name  of  this  age.  The  Italians,  without 
ng  fi  r the  hundred  years,  consider  him  as  “ a poet  good  in 
•av.  —His  memory  is  the  more  dear  to  them  because  he  is  the 
bard  if  freedom ; and  because,  as  such,  his  tragedies  can  receive 
no  ;c  ntenance  from  any  of  their  sovereigns.  They  are  but  very 
seldom,  and  but  very  few  of  them,  allowed  to  be  acted.  It  was 
observed  by  Cicero,  that  nowhere  were  the  true  opinions  and 
feelings  of  the  Romans,  so  clearly  shown  as  at  the  theatre.l  In  the 
autumn  of  1816,  a celebrated  improvisatore  exhibited  his  talents  at 
the  Opera-house  of  Milan.  The  reading  of  the  theses  handed  in 
for  the  subjects  of  his  poetry  was  received  by  a very  numerous 
audience,  for  the  most  part  in  silence,  or  with  laughter;  but  when 
the  assistant,  unfolding  one  of  the  papers,  exclaimed  The  apolhe- 
»sis  of  Victor  Alfieri,  the  whole  theatre  burst  into  a shout,  and  the 


(1)  The  free  expression  of  their  honest  sentiments  survived  their  liberties. 
Titius,  the  friend  of  Antony,  presented  them  with  games  in  the  theatre  of 
Ponipey.  They  did  not  suffer  the  brilliancy  of  the  spectacle  to  efface  from 
their  memory  that  the  man  who  furnished  them  with  the  entertainment 
had  murdered  the  son  of  Pompey  : they  drove  him  from  the  theatre  with 
curses.  The  moral  sense  of  a populace,  spontaneously  expiessed,  is  never 
wrong.  K*->n  the  soldiers  of  the  triumvir*  joined  in  the  execration  of  the 
citizens,  bj  .houting  round  the  chariots  of  I.epidus  and  Plancus,  who  had 


applause  was  continued  for  some  moments.  The  lot  did  not  fall 
on  Alfieri ; and  the  Hignor  Sgricci  had  to  pour  forth  his  extempo- 
rary common-places  on  the  bombardment  of  Algiers.  The  choice, 
indeed,  is  not  left  to  accident  quite  so  much  as  might  be  thought 
from  a first  view  of  the  ceremony;  and  the  police  not  only  takes 
care  to  look  at  the  papers  beforehand,  but,  in  case  of  any  pru- 
dential after-thought,  steps  in  to  correct  the  blindness  of  chance. 
The  proposal  for  deifying  Alfieri  was  received  with  immediate 
enthusiasm,  the  rather  because  it  was  conjectured  there  would  L» 
no  opportunity  of  carrying  it  into  effect. 


No.  XVII. — Machiavelli. 

“ Here  Machiavelli' s earth  return'd  to  whence  it  rose. 

Stanza  liv 

The  affectation  of  simplicity  in  sepulchral  inscriptions,  which  so 
often  leaves  us  uncertain  whether  the  structure  before  us  is  an 
actual  depository,  or  a cenotaph,  or  a simple  memorial  not  of  death 
but  life,  has  given  to  the  tomb  of  Machiavelli  no  information  as  to 
the  place  or  time  of  the  birth  or  death,  the  age  or  parentage,  of  tl>*» 
historian. 

TANTO  NOMINI  NVILVM  PAR  ELOGIVM 
N1CCOLAVS  M ACUI AVELLI. 

There  seems  at  least  no  reason  why  the  name  should  not  have  been 
put  above  the  sentence  which  alludes  to  it. 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  the  prejudices  which  have  passed 
the  name  of  Machiavelli  into  an  epithet  proverbial  of  iniquity 
exist  no  longer  at  Florence.  His  memory  was  persecuted,  as  his 
life  had  been,  for  an  attachment  to  liberty  incompatible  with  the 
new  system  of  despotism  which  succeeded  the  fall  of  the  free 
governments  of  Italy.  He  was  put  to  the  torture  for  being  a 
“ libertine,”  that  is,  for  wishing  to  restore  the  republic  of  Florence  ; 
and  such  are  the  undying  efforts  of  those  who  are  interested  in  the 
perversion,  not  only  of  the  nature  of  actions,  but  the  meaning  of 
words,  that  what  was  once  patriotism,  has  by  degrees  come  to 
signify  debauch.  We  have  ourselves  outlived  the  old  meaning  of 
“liberality,”  which  is  now  another  word  for  treason  in  one  country 
and  for  infatuation  in  all.  It  seems  to  have  been  a strange  mistake 
to  accuse  the  author  of  “ The  Prince,”  as  being  a pander  to 
tyranny;  and  to  think  that  the  Inquisition  would  condemn  his 
work  for  such  u delinquency.  The  fact  is,  that  Machiavelli,  as  is 
usual  with  those  against  whom  no  crime  can  be  proved,  was  sus- 
pected of  and  charged  with  atheism ; and  the  first  and  last  most 
violent  opposers  of  “ The  Prince”  were  both  Jesuits,  one  of  whom 
persuaded  the  Inquisition  “ bench6  fosse  tardo,”  to  prohibit  the 
treatise,  and  the  other  qualified  the  secretary  of  the  Florentine 
republic  as  no  better  than  a fool.  The  father  Possevin  was  proved 
never  to  have  read  the  book,  and  the  father  LuccheSini  not  to  have 
understood  it.  It  is  clear,  however,  that  such  critics  must  have 
objected,  not  to  the  slavery  of  the  doctrines,  but  to  the  supposed 
tendency  of  a lesson  which  shows  how  distinct  are  the  interests  of 
a monarch  from  the  happiness  of  mankind.  The  Jesuits  are  re- 
established in  Italy,  and  the  last  chapter  of  “The  Prince”  may 
again  call  forth  a particular  refutation  from  those  who  are  employed 
once  more  in  moulding  the  minds  of  the  rising  generation,  so  as  to 
receive  the  impressions  of  despotism.  The  chapter  bears  for  title, 
“ Esortazione  a liberare  la  Italia  dai  Barbari,”  and  concludes  with 
a libertine  excitement  to  the  future  redemption  of  Italy.  “Non 
si  deve  adunque  lasciar  passare  questa  occasione,  acciocchd  la  Italia 
vegga  dopo  tanto  tempo  apparire  un  suo  redentore.  N&  poaso 
esprimere  con  qual  amore  ei  fusse  ricevuto  in  tutte  quelle  pro- 
vincie,  che  hanno  patito  per  queste  illuvioni  esterne,  con  qual  sete 
di  vendetta,  con  che  ostinata  fede,  con  che  lacrime.  Quali  porte 
se  li  serrerebenoT  Quali  popoli  li  negherebbono  la  obbedienza? 
Quale  Italiano  li  negherebbe  l’ossequio?  ad  ognuno  pizza 

QUESTO  BARBARO  DOMINIO.”2 


proscribed  their  brothers,  De  Germamt  de  Gnllit  duo  Itiumphnnt  Con  rut  Ft ; 
a saying  worth  a record,  were  it  nothing  but  n good  pun.  [C.  Veil  Pater- 
culi  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  lxxix._,  pug.  7b,  edit.  Elzevir.  1039.  Ibid.  lih.  li 

cap.  lxxvii.] 

(2)  II  Principe  di  Niecoli  Machiavelli,  &c.  eon  la  prefazione  e le  nntw 
istoriche  e poiitiche  di  M.  Amelot  de  la  Houssaye  e 1’  csaine  e confutations 
dell’  opera  . . Cosniopoli,  1709. 


776 


iORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


No.  XVIII. — Dante. 

**  Ungrateful  Florence  l Dante  sleeps  afar." 

Stanza  lvii. 

Dante  was  jom  at  Florence,  in  the  year  1261.  He  fought  in  two 
battles,  was  fourteen  times  ambassador,  and  once  prior  of  the 
republic.  "When  the  party  of  Charles  of  Anjou  triumphed  over  the 
Bianchi,  he  was  absent  on  an  embassy  to  Pope  Boniface  VIII., 
and  was  condemned  to  two  years’  banishment,  and  to  a fine  of 
8000  lire;  on  the  non-payment  of  which  he  was  further  punished 
by  the  sequestration  of  all  his  property.  The  republic,  however, 
was  not  content  with  this  satisfaction,  for  in  1772  was  discovered 
in  the  archives  at  Florence  a sentence  in  which  Dante  is  the 
eleventh  of  a list  of  fifteen  condemned  in  1302  to  be  burnt  alive; 
Talis  perveniens  igne  comburatur  sic  quod  moriatur.  Tlfc  pretext 
for  this  judgment  was  a proof  of  unfair  barter,  extortions,  and  illicit 
gains.  Baracteriarum  iniquarum,  extorsionum,  et  illicitorum 
lucrorum and  with  such  an  accusation  it  is  not  strange  that  Dante 
should  have  always  protested  his  innocence,  and  the  injustice  of 
his  fellow-citizens.  His  appeal  to  Florence  was  accompanied  by 
another  to  the  Emperor  Henry;  and  the  death  of  that  sovereign  in 
1313  was  the  signal  for  a sentence  of  irrevocable  banishment.  He 
had  before  lingered  near  Tuscany  with  hopes  of  recal ; then 
travelled  into  the  north  of  Italy,  where  Verona  had  to  boast  of  his 
longest  residence;  and  he  finally  settled  at  Ravenna,  which  was 
his  ordinary  but  not  constant  abode  until  his  death.  The  refusal 
of  the  Venetians  to  grant  him  a public  audience,  on  the  part  of 
Guido  Novello  da  Polenta,  his  protector,  is  said  to  have  been  the 
principal  cause  of  this  event,  which  happened  in  1321.  He  was 
buried  (“in  sacra  minorum  aede”)  at  Ravenna,  in  a handsome 
tomb,  which  was  erected  by  Guido,  restored  by  Bernardo  Bembo 
in  1483,  praetor  for  that  republic  which  had  refused  to  hear  him, 
again  restored  by  Cardinal  Corsi,  in  1692,  and  replaced  by  a more 
magnificent  sepulchre,  constructed  in  17S0  at  the  expense  of  the 
Cardinal  Luigi  Valenti  Gonzaga.  The  offence  or  misfortune  of 
Dante  was  an  attachment  to  a defeated  party,  and,  as  his  least 
favourable  biographers  allege  against  him,  too  great  a freedom  of 
speech  and  haughtiness  of  manner.  But  the  next  age  paid  honours 
almost  divine  to  the  exile.  The  Florentines,  having  in  vain  and 
frequently  attempted  to  recover  his  body,  crowned  his  image  in  a 
church, 2 and  his  picture  is  still  one  of  the  idols  of  their  cathedral. 
They  struck  medals,  they  raised  statues  to  him.  The  cities  of 
Italy,  not  being  able  to  dispute  about  his  own  birth,  contended  for 
that  of  his  great  poem,  and  the  Florentines  thought  it  for  their 
honour  to  prove  that  he  had  finished  the  seventh  Canto  before  they 
drove  him  from  his  native  city.  Fifty-one  years  after  his  death, 
they  endowed  a professorial  chair  for  the  expounding  of  his  verses, 
and  Boccaccio  was  appointed  to  this  patriotic  employment.  The 
example  was  imitated  by  Bologna  and  Pisa;  and  the  commen- 
tators, if  they  performed  but  little  service  to  literature,  augmented 
the  venerations  which  beheld  a sacred  or  moral  allegory  in  all  the 
images  of  his  mystic  muse.  His  birth  and  his  infancy  were  dis- 
covered to  have  been  distinguished  above  those  of  ordinary  men : 
the  author  of  the  Decameron,  his  earliest  biographer,  relates  that 
his  mother  was  warned  in  a dream  of  the  importance  of  her 
pregnancy;  and  it  was  found,  by  others,  that  at  ten  years  of  age 
he  had  manifested  his  precocious  passion  for  that  wisdom  or 
theology,  which,  under  the  name  of  Beatrice,  had  been  mistaken 
for  a substantial  mistress.  When  the  Divine  Comedy  had  been 
recognised  as  a mere  mortal  production,  and  at  the  distance  of  two 
centuries,  when  criticism  and  competition  had  sobered  the  judg- 
ment of  the  Italians,  Dante  was  seriously  declared  superior  to 
Homer,3  and  though  the  preference  appeared  to  ■some  casuists 
“ an  heretical  blasphemy  worthy  of  the  flames,”  the  contest  was 
vigorously  maintained  for  nearly  fifty  years.  In  later  times  it  was 
made  a question  which  of  the  Lords  of  Verona  could  boast  of 
having  patronised  him,4  and  the  jealous  scepticism  of  one  writer 
would  not  allow  Ravenna  the  undoubted  possession  of  his  bones. 
Even  the  critical  Tiraboschi  was  inclined  to  believe  that  the  poet 
had  foreseen  and  foretold  one  of  the  discoveries  of  Galileo. — Like 
the  great  originals  of  other  nations,  his  popularity  has  not  always 


(1)  Storia  della  Lett.  Itnl.  tom.  v.  lib.  iii  par.  ii.  p.  448.  Tiraboschi  is  in- 
coirect;  the  dates  ol  the  three  decrees  against  Dante  are  A.  D.  1302,  1314, 
aixl  1316. 

(2)  So  relates  Ficino,  but  some  think  his  coronation  only  an  allegory.  See 
Storia,  &c.  ut  sup.  p.  453. 

^3)  by  Varclii,  in  his  Ercolano.  The  controversy  continued  from  1570  to 
1616.  See  Storia,  &c.  tom.  vii.  lib.  iii,  par.  iii.  p.  1280. 


maintained  the  same  level.  The  last  age  seemed  inclined  t« 
undervalue  him  as  a model  and  a study : and  Bettinelli  one  day 
rebuked  his  pupil  Monti,  for  poring  over  the  harsh  and  obsolete 
extravagances  of  the  Commedia.  The  present  generation  having 
recovered  from  the  Gallic  idolatries  of  Cesarotti,  has  returned  to 
the  ancient  worship,  and  the  Danteggiare  of  the  northern  Italian1- 2 
is  thought  even  indiscreet  by  the  more  moderate  Tuscans. 

There  is  still  much  curious  information  relative  to  the  life  ano 
writings  of  this  great  poet,  which  has  not  as  yet  been  collected 
even  by  the  Italians;  but  the  celebrated  Ugo  Foscolo  meditates  to 
supply  this  defect,  and  it  is  not  to  be  regretted  that  this  national 
work  has  been  reserved  for  one  so  devoted  to  his  country  and  the 
cause  of  truth. 


No.  XIX. — Tomb  oe  the  Scipios. 

“ Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore; 

Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war , 

Proscribed ,”  (fc. 

Stanza  lvii. 

The  elder  Scipio  Africanus  had  a tomb  if  he  was  not  buried  at 
Liternum,  whither  he  had  retired  to  voluntary  banishment.  This 
tomb  was  near  the  sea-shore,  and  the  story  of  an  inscription  upon 
it,  Ingrata  Patria,  having  given  a name  to  a modern  tower,  is,  if 
not  true,  an  agreeable  fiction.  If  he  was  not  buried,  he  certainly 
lived  there.5 

In  cos!  angusta  e solitaria  villa 

Era  T grand'  uomo  che  d’  Africa  s’  appella 

Perch6  prima  col  ferro  al  vivo  aprilla.6 

Ingratitude  is  generally  supposed  the  vice  peculiar  to  republics, 
and  it  seems  to  be  forgotten  that  for  one  instance  of  popular 
inconstancy,  we  have  a hundred  examples  of  the  fall  of  courtly 
favourites.  Besides,  a people  have  often  repented — a monarch 
seldom  or  never.  Leaving  apart  many  familiar  proofs  of  this  fact, 
a short  story  may  show  the  difference  between  even  an  aristocracy 
and  the  multitude. 

Vettor  Pisani,  having  been  defeated  in  1354,  at  Portolongo.  and 
many  years  afterwards  in  the  more  decisive  action  of  Pola,  by  the 
Genoese,  was  recalled  by  the  Venetian  government,  and  thrown 
into  chains.  The  Avvogadori  proposed  to  behead  him,  but  the 
supreme  tribunal  was  content  with  the  sentence  of  imprisonment. 
Whilst  Pisani  was  suffering  this  unmerited  disgrace,  Chioza,  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  capital, 7 was,  by  the  assistance  of  the  Signor  of 
Padua,  delivered  into  the  hands  of  Pietro  Doria.  At  the  intelli- 
gence of  that  disaster,  the  great  bell  of  St.  Mark’s  tower  tolled  to 
arms,  and  the  people  and  the  soldiery  of  the  galleys  were  sum- 
moned to  the  repulse  of  the  approaching  enemy:  but  they 
protested  they  would,  not  move  a step,  unless  Pisani  were  liberated 
aqd  placed  at  their  head.  The  great  council  was  instantly 
assembled : the  prisoner  was  called  before  them,  and  the  Doge, 
Andrea  Contarini,  informed  him  of  the  demands  of  the  people,  and 
the  necessities  of  the  state,  whose  only  hope  of  safety  was  reposed 
in  his  efforts,  and  who  implored  him  to  forget  the  indignities  lie 
had  endured  in  her  service.  “ I have  submitted,”  replied  the 
magnanimous  republican,  “ I have  submitted  to  your  deliberations 
without  complaint;  I have  supported  oatiently  the  pains  of 
imprisonment,  for  they  were  inflicted  at  your  command;  this  is  no 
time  to  inquire  whether  I deserved  them — the  good  of  the  republic 
may  have  seemed  to  require  it,  and  that  which  the  republic 
resolves  is  always  resolved  wisely.  Behold  me  ready  to  lay  down 
my  life  for  the  preservation  of  my  country.”  Pisani  was  appointed 
generalissimo,  and  by  his  exertions,  in  conjunction  with  those  of 
Carlo  Zeno,  the  Venetians  soon  recovered  the  ascendancy  over 
their  maritime  rivals. 

The  Italian  communities  were  no  less  unjust  to  their  citizens 
than  the  Greek  republics.  Liberty,  both  with  the  one  and  the 
other,  seems  to  have  been  a national,  not  an  individual  object- 


(4)  Gio.  Jaeopo  Dionisi  Canonico  di  Verona.  Serie  di  Aneddoti,  n.  2 Sp« 
Storia,  &c.  tom.  v.  lib.  i.  par.  i.  p.  24. 

(5)  Vitam  Literni  exit  sine  desiderio  urbis.  See  T.  Liv.  Hist.  lib.  ixivrit 
Livy  reports  that  some  said  he  was  buried  at  Liternum,  others  at  Kqku. 
Ibid.  cap.  Iv 

(6)  Trionfo  della  CastitL  (7)  See  Nc  VI  p»|je  771 


APPENDIX. 


777 


and,  notwithstanding  the  boasted  equality  before  the  laws,  which  an 
ancient  Greek  writer1  considered  the  great  distinctive  mark 
between  his  countrymen  and  the  barbarians,  the  mutual  rights  of 
fellow-citizens  seem  never  to  have  been  the  principal  scope  of  the 
old  democracies.  The  world  may  have  not  yet  seen  an  essay  by 
the  author  of  the  Italian  Republics,  in  which  the  distinction 
between  the  liberty  of  former  states,  and  the  signification  attached 
to  that  word  by  the  happier  constitution  of  England,  is  ingeniously 
developed.  The  Italians,  however,  when  they  had  ceased  to  be 
free,  still  looked  back  with  a sigh  upon  those  times  of  turbulence, 
when  every  citizen  might  rise  to  a share  of  sovereign  power,  and 
have  never  been  taught  fully  to  appreciate  the  repose  of  a monarchy. 
Sperone  Speroni,  when  Francis  Maria  II.  Duke  of  Rovere  proposed 
the  question,  “ Which  was  preferable,  the  republic  or  the  princi- 
pality— the  perfect  and  not  durable,  or  the  less  perfect  and  not  so 
liable  to  change f”  replied,  that  “our  happiness  is  to  be  measured 
by  its  quality,  not  by  its  duration;  and  that  he  preferred  to  live 
for  one  day  like  a man,  than  for  a hundred  years  like  a brute,  a 
stock,  or  a stone.”  This  was  thought,  and  called,  a magnificent 
answer,  down  to  the  last  days  of  Italian  servitude.2 


No.  XX. — Petrarch’s  Crown. 

“ And,  the  crown 

Which  Pe track's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore 
Upon  afar  and  foreign  soil  had  grown.” 

Stanza  Ivii. 

The  Florentines  did  not  take  the  opportunity  of  Petrarch’s  short 
visit  to  their  city  in  1350  to  revoke  the  decree  which  confiscated 
the  property  of  his  father,  who  had  been  banished  shortly  after  the 
exile  of  Dante.  His  crown  did  not  dazzle  them ; but  when  in  the 
next  year  they  were  in  want  of  his  assistance  in  the  formation  of 
their  university,  they  repented  of  their  injustice,  and  Boccaccio 
was  sent  to  Padua  to  entreat  the  laureate  to  conclude  his  wander- 
ings in  the  bosom  of  his  native  country,  where  he  might  finish  his 
immortal  Africa,  and  enjoy,  with  his  recovered  possessions,  the 
esteem  of  all  classes  of  his  fellow-citizens.  They  gave  him  the 
option  of  the  book  and  the  science  he  might  condescend  to  expound : 
they  called  him  the  glory  of  his  country,  who  was  dear,  and  who 
would  be  dearer  to  them ; and  they  added,  that  if  there  was  any 
thing  unpleasing  in  their  letter,  he  ought  to  return  amongst  them, 
were  it  only  to  correct  their  style.3  Petrarch  seemed  at  first  to 
listen  to  the  flattery  and  to  the  entreaties  of  his  friend,  but  he  did 
not  return  to  Florence,  and  preferred  a pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of 
Laura  and  the  shades  of  Vaucluse. 


No.  XXI.— Boccaccio. 

“ Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeath'd 
His  dust.” 

Stanza  lviii. 

Boccaccio  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  James, 
at  Certaldo,  a small  town  in  the  Yaldelsa,  which  was  by  some  sup- 
posed the  place  of  his  birth.  There  he  passed  the  latter  part  of  his 
life  in  a course  of  laborious  study,  which  shortened  his  existence; 
and  there  might  his  ashes  have  been  secure,  if  not  of  honour,  at 
least  of  repose.  But  the  “hyena  bigots”  of  Certaldo  tore  up  the 
tombstone  of  Boccaccio,  and  ejected  it  from  the  holy  precincts  of 
St.  Michael  and  St.  James.  The  occasion,  and,  it  may  be  hoped, 
the  excuse,  for  this  ejectment  was  the  making  of  a new  floor  for  the 
church;  but  the  fact  is,  that  the  tombstone  was  taken  up  and 


(1)  The  Greek  boasted  that  he  was  I aovopoi.  See  the  last  chapter  of  the 
first  book  of  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus. 

(2)  “ K intomo  alia  magnifica  risposta,"  &c.  Serassi,  Vita  del  Tasso,  lib. 
hi.  pag.  14!*,  tom.  ii.  edit.  3.  Bergamo. 

(3)  “ Accingiti  innoltre,  se  ci  i lecito  aneor  V esortarti,  a compire  T im- 
mortal tua  Africa  . . . See  ti  avviene  d’  incontrare  nel  nostro  stile  cosa  che  ti 
dispiaccia,  ci6  debb’  essere  un  altro  motivo  ad  esaudire  i desiderj  della  tua 
patria.”  Storia  della  Lett.  Ital.  tom.  v.  par.  i.  lib  i.  pag.  76. 

(4)  Classical  Tour,  chap.  ix.  vol.  ii.  p.  3 5,  edit.  3d.  “ Of  Boccaccio,  the 

modern  Petromus,  we  say  nothing  ; the  abuse  of  genius  is  more  odi  >us  and 
more  contemptible  than  its  absence ; and  it  imports  little  where  the  impure 
remains  of  a licentious  author  are  consigned  to  their  kndred  dust.  For 
A*  tame  reason  the  traveller  may  pass  unnoticed  the  tomb  of  the  malignant 


thrown  aside  at  the  bottom  of  tha  building.  Ignorance  may  share 
the  sin  with  bigotry.  It  would  be  painful  to  relate  such  an  excep 
tion  to  the  devotion  of  the  Italians  for  their  great  names,  could  it 
not  be  accompanied  by  a trait  more  honourably  conformable  to  tie 
general  character  of  the  nation.  The  principal  person  of  the  dis- 
trict, the  last  branch  of  the  house  of  Medicis,  afforded  that  pro- 
tection to  the  memory  of  the  insulted  dead  which  her  best 
ancestors  had  dispensed  upon  all  contemporary  merit.  The  Mar- 
chioness Lenzoni  rescued  the  tombstone  of  Boccaccio  froru  the 
neglect  in  which  it  had  some  time  lain,  and  found  for  it  an  honour- 
able elevation  in  her  own  mansion.  She  has  done  more : the  house 
in  which  the  poet  lived  has  been  as  little  respected  as  his  tomo, 
and  is  falling  to  ruin  over  the  head  of  one  indifferent  to  the  name 
of  its  former  tenant.  It  consists  of  two  or  three  little  chambers, 
and  a low  tower,  on  which  Cosmo  II.  affixed  an  inscription.  This 
house  she  has  taken  measures  to  purchase,  and  proposes  to  devote 
to  it  that  care  and  consideration  which  are  attached  to  the  cradle 
and  to  the  roof  of  genius. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  undertake  the  defence  of  Boccaccio : but 
the  man  who  exhausted  his  little  patrimony  in  the  acquirement  of 
learning,  who  was  amongst  the  first,  if  not  the  first,  to  allure  the 
science  and  the  poetry  of  Greece  to  the  bosom  of  Italy ; — who  not 
only  invented  a new  style,  but  founded,  or  certainly  fixed,  a new 
language  ; who,  besides  the  esteem  of  every  polite  court  of  Europe, 
was  thought  worthy  of  employment  by  the  predominant  republic 
of  his  own  country,  and,  what  is  more,  of  the  friendship  of 
Petrarch,  who  lived  the  life  of  a philosopher  and  a freeman,  and 
who  died  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge, — such  a man  might  have 
found  more  consideration  than  he  has  met  with  from  the  priest  of 
Certaldo,  and  from  a late  English  traveller,  who  strikes  off  his 
portrait  as  an  odious,  contemptible,  licentious  writer,  whose 
impure  remains  should  be  suffered  to  rot  without  a record.4  That 
English  traveller,  unfortunately  for  those  who  have  to  deplore  the 
loss  of  a very  amiable  person,  is  beyond  all  criticism ; but  the 
morality  which  did  not  protect  Boccaccio  from  Mr.  Eustace,  must 
not  defend  Mr.  Eustace  from  the  impartial  judgment  of  his  suc- 
cessors. Death  may  canonize  his  virtues,  not  his  errors;  and  it 
may  be  modestly  pronounced  that  he  transgressed,  not  only  as  an 
author,  but  as  a man,  when  he  evoked  the  shade  of  Boccaccio  in 
company  with  that  of  Aretine,  amidst  the  sepulchres  of  Santa 
Croce,  merely  to  dismiss  it  with  indignity.  As  far  as  respects 

“ II  flagello  de’  Principi, 

II  divin  Pietro  Aretino,” 

it  is  of  little  import  what  censure  is  passed  upon  a coxcomb  wh ; 
owes  his  present  existence  to  the  above  burlesque  character  given 
to  him  by  the  poet,  whose  amber  has  preserved  many  other  grubs 
and  worms : but  to  classify  Boccaccio  with  such  a person,  and  to 
excommunicate  his  very  ashes,  must  of  itself  make  us  doubt  of  the 
qualification  of  the  classical  tourist  for  writing  upon  Italian,  or, 
indeed,  upon  any  other  literature ; for  ignorance  on  one  point  may 
incapacitate  an  author  merely  for  that  particular  topic,  but  subjec- 
tion to  a professional  prejudice  must  render  him  an  unsafe  director 
on  all  occasions.  Any  perversion  and  injustice  may  be  made  what 
is  vulgarly  called  “a  case  of  conscience,”  and  this  poor  excuse  is 
all  that  can  be  offered  for  the  priest  of  Certaldo,  or  the  author  of 
the  Classical  Tour.  It  would  have  answered  the  purpose  to  confine 
the  censure  to  the  novels  of  Boccaccio;  and  gratitude  to  that 
source  which  supplied  the  muse  of  Dryden  with  her  last  and  most 
harmonious  numbers  might,  perhaps,  have  restricted  that  censure 
to  the  objectionable  qualities  of  the  hundred  tales.  At  any  rate, 
the  repentance  of  Boccaccio  might  have  arrested  his  exhumation, 
and  it  should  have  been  recollected  and  told,  that  in  his  old  age  he 
wrote  a letter  entreating  his  friend  to  discourage  the  reading  of  the 
Decameron,  for  the  sake  of  modesty,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  author, 
who  would  not  have  an  apologist  always  at  hand  to  state  in  his 
excuse  that  he  wrote  it  when  young,  and  at  the  command  of  his 
superiors.s  It  is  neither  the  licentiousness  of  the  writer,  nor  the 
evil  propensities  of  the  reader,  which  have  given  to  the  Decameron 


Aretino.”  This  dubious  phrase  is  hardly  enough  to  save  the  tourist  fbom  the 
suspicion  of  another  blunder  respecting  the  burial-place  of  Aretine,  whose 
tomb  was  in  the  ehureh  of  St.  Luke  at  Venice,  and  gave  rise  to  the  famous  con- 
troversy of  which  some  notice  is  taken  in  Bayle.  Now  the  words  of  Mr. 
Eustace  would  lead  us  to  think  the  tomb  was  at  Florence,  or  at  least  was  to  be 
somewhere  recognised.  Whether  the  inscription  so  much  disputed  was  ever 
w ritten  on  the  tomb  cannot  now  be  decided,  for  all  memorial  of  thi»  author  ha* 
disappeared  from  the  church  of  St.  Luke. 

(5)  “ Non  enim  ubique  est,  qui  in  excusationem  meam  consurgens  dicat, 
juvenis  scripsit,  et  majoris  coactus  imperio.”  The  letter  was  addressed  to 
Maghinard  cf  Cavalcanti,  marshal  of  the  kingdom  of  Sicily.  See  Tiraboschj, 
Storia,  & c.  tom  »■  par.  ii.  lib.  'ii. 

5 C 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


778 

alone,  of  all  the  works  of  Boccaccio,  a perpetual  popularity.  The 
establishment  of  a new  and  delightful  dialect  conferred  an  immor- 
tality on  the  works  in  which  it  was  first  fixed.  The  sonnets  of 
Petrarch  were,  for  the  same  reason,  fated  to  survive  his  self- 
adirdred  Africa,  the  “ favourite  of  kings.”  The  invariable  traits  of 
nature  and  feeling  with  which  the  novels,  as  well  as  the  verses, 
abound,  have  doubtless  been  the  chief  ^ource  of  the  foreign 
celebrity  of  both  authors;  but  Boccaccio,  as  a man,  is  no  more  to 
ee  estimated  by  that  work,  than  Petrarch  is  to  be  regarded  in  no 
other  light  than  as  the  lover  of  Laura.  Even,  however,  had  the 
father  of  the  Tuscan  prose  been  known  only  as  the  author  of  the 
Decameron,  a considerate  writer  would  have  been  cautious  to  pro- 
nounce a sentence  irreconcileable  with  the  unerring  voice  of  many 
ages  and  nations.  An  irrevocable  value  has  never  been  stamped 
upon  any  work  solely  recommended  by  impurity. 

The  true  source  of  the  outcry  against  Boccaccio,  which  began  at 
a very  early  period,  was  the  choice  of  his  scandalous  personages  in 
the  cloisters  as  well  as  the  courts  ; but  the  princes  only  laughed  at 
the  gallant  adventures  so  unjustly  charged  upon  queen  Theolinda, 
whilst  the  priesthood  cried  shame  upon  the  debauches  drawn  from 
the  convent  and  the  hermitage ; and  most  probably  for  the  opposite 
reason,  namely,  that  the  picture  was  faithful  to  the  life.  Two  of 
the  novels  are  allowed  to  be  facts  usefully  turned  into  tales  to 
deride  the  canonization  of  rogues  and  laymen.  Ser  Ciappelletto 
and  Marcellinus  are  cited  with  applause  even  by  the  decent 
Muratori. 1 * The  great  Arnaud,  as  he  is  quoted  in  Bayle,  states,  that 
a new  edition  of  the  novels  was  proposed,  of  which  the  expurgation 
consisted  in  omitting  the  words  “monk,”  and  “ nun,”  and  tacking 
the  immoralities  to  other  names.  The  literary  history  of  Italy 
particularizes  no  such  edition ; but  it  was  not  long  before  the  whole 
of  Europe  had  but  one  opinion  of  the  Decameron  ; and  the  absolu- 
tion of  the  author  seems  to  have  been  a point  settled  at  least  a 
hundred  years  ago : ‘‘On  se  feroit  siffler  si  l’on  pretendoit  con- 
vaincre  Boccace  de  n’avoir  pas  6te  honnete  homme,  puis  qu’il  a 
fait  le  Decameron.”  So  said  one  of  the  best  men,  and  perhaps  the 
best  critic,  that  ever  lived — the  very  martyr  to  impartiality. 2 But 
as  this  information,  that  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century  one 
would  have  been  hooted  at  for  pretending  that  Boccaccio  was  not  a 
good  man,  may  seem  to  come  from  one  oPthose  enemies  who  are  to 
be  suspected,  even  when  they  make  us  a present  of  truth,  a more 
acceptable  contrast  with  the  proscription  of  the  body,  soul,  and 
muse  of  Boccaccio  maybe  found  in  a few  words  from  the  virtuous, 
the  patriotic  contemporary,  who  thought  one  of  the  tales  of  this 
impure  writer  worthy  a Latin  version  from  his  own  pen.  “ I have 
remarked  elsewhere,”  says  Petrarch,  writing  to  Boccaccio,  “ that 
the  book  itself  has  been  worried  by  certain  dogs,  but  stoutly 
defended  by  your  staff  and  voice.  Nor  was  I astonished,  for  I have 
had  proof  of  the  vigour  of  your  mind,  and  I know  you  have  fallen 
on  that  unaccommodating  incapable  race  of  mortals,  who,  whatever 
they  either  like  not,  or  know  not,  or  cannot  do,  are  sure  to  repre- 
hend in  others;  and  on  those  occasions  only  put  on  a show  of 
learning  and  eloquence,  but  otherwise  are  entirely  dumb.” 3 

It  is  satisfactory  to  find  that  all  the  priesthood  do  not  resemble 
those  of  Certaldo,  and  that  one  of  them  who  did  not  possess  the 
hones  of  Boccaccio  would  not  lose  the  opportunity  of  raising  a 
cenotaph  to  hi*  memory.  Bevius,  canon  of  Padua,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  »ixteenth  century,  erected  at  Arqua,  opposite  to  the 
tomb  of  the  Laureate,  a tablet,  in  which  he  associated  Boccaccio  to 
the  eqm»-'  honours  of  Dante  and  of  Petrarch. 


No.  XXII.— The  Medici. 

“ What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones?” 

Stanza  lx. 

'•"»#*  veneration  for  the  Medici  begins  with  Cosmo  and  expires 
v ith  c <s  grandson ; that  stream  is  pure  only  at  the  source;  and  it 
is  in  search  of  some  memorial  of  the  virtuous  republicans  of  the 
family  that  we  visit  the  church  of  St.  Lorenzo  at  Florence.  The 
tawdry,  glaring,  unfinished  chapel  in  that  church,  designed  for  the 
mausoleum  of  the  Dukes  of  Tuscany,  set  round  with  crowns  and 
coffins,  gives  birth  to  no  emotions  but  those  of  contempt  for  the 


(l)  Disseitrtioni  soprale  AntichiU  Italiane,  Diss.  lviii. 

(2;  Kcla  fo  icnurnt,  81c.  See.  p.  638,  edit.  Basle,  1741,  in  the  Supplement  to 
Bayle’s  l)i«  ►’■•nary. 

(3)  Opp  * » I.  i.  p.  640,  edit.  Basil. 

14)  Com  . UeJices,  Decreto  Publico,  Pater  Tatruc. 


lavish  vanity  of  a race  of  despots,  whilst  the  pavement  slab,  simply 
inscribed  to  the  Father  of  his  Country,  reconciles  us  to  the  name 
of  Medici.4  It  was  very  natural  for  Corinna3  to  suppose  that  the 
statue  raised  to  the  Duke  of  Urbino  in  the  capclla  de’  depositi  was 
intended  for  his  great  namesake ; but  the  magnificent  Lorenzo  if 
only  the  sharer  of  a coffin  half  hidden  in  a niche  of  the  sacristy. 
The  decay  of  Tuscany  dates  from  the  sovereignty  of  the  Medici. 
Of  the  sepulchral  peace  which  succeeded  to  the  establishment  of 
the  reigning  families  in  Italy,  our  own  Sidney  has  given  us  a 
glowing,  but  a faithful  picture.  “ Notwithstanding  all  the  seditions 
of  Florence,  and  other  cities  of  Tuscany,  the  horrid  factions  of 
Guelphs  and  Ghibelins,  Neri  and  Bianchi,  nobles  and  commons, 
they  continued  populous,  strong,  and  exceeding  rich;  but  in  the 
space  of  less  than  a hundred  and  fifty  years,  the  peaceable  reign  of 
the  Medices  is  thought  to  have  destroyed  nine  parts  in  ten  of  the 
people  of  that  province.  Amongst  other  things,  it  is  remarkable, 
that  when  Philip  II.  of  Spain  gave  Sienna  to  the  Duke  of  Florence, 
his  ambassador  then  at  Rome  sent  him  word  that  he  had  given 
away  more  than  650,000  subjects ; and  it  is  not  believed  there  are 
now  20,000  souls  inhabiting  that  city  and  territory.  Pisa,  Pistola, 
Arezzo,  Cortona,  and  other  towns,  that  were  then  good  and  popu- 
lous, are  in  the  like  proportion  diminished,  and  Florence  more  than 
any.  When  that  city  had  been  long  troubled  with  seditions, 
tumults,  and  wars,  for  the  most  part  unprosperous,  they  still 
retained  such  strength,  that  when  Charles  VIII.  of  France,  being 
admitted  as  a friend  with  his  whole  army,  which  soon  after  con- 
quered the  kingdom  of  Naples,  thought  to  master  them,  the  people, 
taking  arms,  struck  such  a terror  into  him,  that  he  was  glad  to 
depart  upon  such  conditions  as  they  thought  fit  to  impose. 
Machiavel  reports,  that  in  that  time  Florence  alone,  with  the  Val 
d’Arno,  a small  territory  belonging  to  that  city,  could,  in  a few 
hours,  by  the  sound  of  a bell,  bring  together  135,000  well-armed 
men ; whereas  now  that  city,  with  all  the  others  in  that  province, 
are  brought  to  such  despicable  weakness,  emptiness,  poverty,  and 
baseness,  that  they  can  neither  resist  the  oppressions  of  their  own 
prince,  nor  defend  him  or  themselves  if  they  were  assaulted  by  a 
foreign  enemy.  The  people  are  dispersed  or  destroyed,  and  the 
best  families  sent  to  seek  habitations  in  Venice,  Genoa,  Rome, 
Naples,  and  Lucca.  This  is  not  the  effect  of  war  or  pestilence: 
they  enjoy  a perfect  peace,  and  suffer  no  other  plague  than  the 
government  they  are  under.”  6 Erom  the  usurper  Cosmo  down  to 
the  imbecile  Gaston,  we  look  in  vain  for  any  of  those  unmixed 
qualities  which  should  raise  a patriot  to  the  command  of  his  fellow- 
citizens.  The  Grand  Dukes,  and  particularly  the  third  Cosmo,  had 
operated  so  entire  a change  in  the  Tuscan  character,  that  the 
candid  Florentines,  in  excuse  for  some  imperfections  in  the  phil- 
anthropic system  of  Leopold,  are  obliged  to  confess  that  the 
sovereign  was  the  only  liberal  man  in  his  dominions.  Yet  that 
excellent  prince  himself  had  no  other  notion  of  a national  assem- 
bly, than  of  a body  to  represent  the  wants  and  wishes,  not  the  will, 
of  the  people. 


No.  XXIII. — Battle  of  Thrasimene. 

“ An  earthquake  reel’d  unheededly  away.” 

Stanza  lxiii. 

“ And  such  was  their  mutual  animosity,  so  intent  were  they  upon 
the  battle,  that  the  earthquake,  which  overthrew  in  great  part 
many  of  the  cities  of  Italy,  which  turned  the  course  of  rapid 
streams,  poured  back  the  sea  upon  the  rivers,  and  tore  down  the 
very  mountains,  was  not  felt  by  one  of  the  combatants.”  7 Such  is 
the  description  of  Livy.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  modern 
tactics  would  admit  of  such  an  abstraction. 

The  site  of  the  battle  of  Thrasimene  is  not  to  be  mistaken.  Tht 
traveller  from  the  village  under  Cortona  to  Casa  di  Piana,  the  next 
stage  on  the  way  to  Rome,  has  for  the  first  two  or  three  miles, 
around  him,  but  more  particularly  to  the  right,  that  flat  land 
which  Hannibal  laid  waste  in  order  to  induce  the  Consul  Flami- 
nius  to  move  from  Areizo.  On  his  left,  and  in  front  of  him,  is  a 
ridge  of  hills  bending  down  towards  the  lake  of  Thrasimene,  called 
by  Livy  “ montes  Cortonenses,”  and  now  named  the  Gualandra. 


(5)  Corinne,  liv.  xviii.  chap.  iii.  vol.  iii.  page  248. 

(6)  On  Government,  chap.  ii.  sect.  xxvi.  pag.  2C€  edit.  1751.  Sidney  ii 
together  with  Locke  and  HoadUy,  one  or  Mr.  Hume  a despicabla”  writer* 

(P)  Tit.  Liv.  lib.  xxii.  cap.  xii 


APPENDIX. 


779 


These  hills  he  approaches  at  Ossaja,  a village  which  the  itineraries 
£ pretend  to  have  been  so  denominated  from  the  bones  found  there : 
but  there  have  been  no  bones  found  there,  and  the  battle  was 
fought  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill.  From  Ossaja  the  road  begins 
to  rise  a little,  but  does  not  pass  into  the  roots  of  the  mountains 
until  the  sixty-seventh  milestone  from  Florence.  The  ascent 
thence  is  not  steep  but  perpetual,  and  continues  for  twenty 
minutes.  The  lake  is  soon  seen  below  on  the  right,  with  Borghetto, 
a round  tower,  close  upon  the  water;  and  the  undulating  hills 
• partially  covered  with  wood,  amongst  which  the  road  winds,  sink 
by  degrees  into  the  marshes  near  to  this  tower.  Lower  than  the 
road,  down  to  the  right  amidst  these  woody  hillocks,  Hannibal 
placed  his  horse,1  in  the  jaws  of,  or  rather  above  the  pass,  which 
was  between  the  lake  and  the  present  road,  and  most  probably  close 
to  Borghetto,  just  under  the  lowest  of  the  “ tumuli.”2  On  a sum- 
mit to  the  left,  above  the  road,  is  an  old  circular  ruin,  which  the 
I peasants  call  “ the  tower  of  Hannibal  the  Carthaginian.”  Arrived 
at  the  highest  point  of  the  road,  the  traveller  has  a partial  view  of 
. the  fatal  plain,  which  opens  fully  upon  him  as  he  descends  the 
Gualandra.  He  soon  finds  himself  in  a vale  enclosed  to  the  left, 
and  in  front,  and  behind  him  by  the  Gualandra  hills,  bending 
round  in  a segment  larger  than  a semicircle,  and  running  down  at 
each  end  to  the  lake,  which  obliques  to  the  right  and  forms  the 
chord  of  this  mountain  arc.  The  position  cannot  be  guessed  at 
from  the  pjains  of  Cortona,  nor  appears  to  be  so  completely  enclosed 
unless  to  one  who  is  fairly  within  the  hills.  It  then,  indeed, 
appears  “ a place  made  as  it  were  on  purpose  for  a snare,”  locus 
insidiis  uatus.  “Borghetto  is  then  found  to  stand  in  a narrow 
. marshy  pass  close  to  the  hill,  and  to  the  lake,  whilst  there  is  no 
other  outlet  at  the  opposite  turn  of  the  mountains  than  through  the 
. little  town  of  Passignano,  which  is  pushed  into  the  water  by  the 
foot  of  a high  rocky  acclivity.”  There  is  a woody  eminence 
I branching  down  from  the  mountains  into  the  upper  end  of  the 
plain  nearer  to  the  side  of  Passignano,  and  on  this  stands  a white 
village  called  Torre.  Polybius  seems  to  allude  to  this  eminence  as 
the  one  on  which  Hannibal  encamped,  and  drew  out  his  heavy- 
armed Africans  and  Spaniards  in  a conspicuous  position.* 3 *  From 
this  spot  he  despatched  his  Balearic  and  light-armed  troops  round 
through  the  Gualandra  heights  to  the  right,  so  as  to  arrive  unseen 
and  form.an  ambvsh  amongst  the  broken  acclivities  which  the  road 
now  passes,  and  fa  be  ready  to  act  upon  the  left  flank  and  above 
the  enemy,  whilst  the  horse  shut  up  the  pass  behind.  Flaminius 
came  to  the  lake  near  Borghetto  at  sunset;  and,  without  sending 
any  spies  before  him,  marched  through  the  pass  the  next  morning 
before  the  day  l.ad  quite  broken,  so  that  he  perceived  nothing  of 
the  horse  and  light  troops  above  and  about  him,  and  saw  only  the 
heavy-armed  Carthaginians  in  front  on  the  hill  of  Torre.  The 
consul  began  to  draw  out  his  army  in  the  flat,  and  in  the  meantime 
the  horse  in  ambush  occupied  the  pass  behind  him,  at  Borghetto. 
Thus  the  Romans  were  completely  enclosed,  having  the  lake  on  the 
right,  the  main  army  on  the  hill  of  Torre  in  front,  the  Gualandra 
hills  filled  with  the  light-armed  on  their  left  flank,  and  being  pre- 
vented from  receding  by  the  cavalry,  who,  the  farther  they 
advanced,  stopped  up  all  the  outlets  in  the  rear.  A fog  rising  from 
the  lake  now  spread  itself  over  the  army  of  the  consul,  but  the  high 
lands  were  in  the  sunshine,  and  all  the  different  corps  in  ambush 
looked  toward  the  hill  of  Torre  for  the  order  of  attack.  Hannibal 
gave  the  signal,  and  moved  down  from  his  post  on  the  height.  At 
the  same  moment  all  his  troops  on  the  eminences  behind  and  in 
the  flank  of  Flaminius  rushed  forwards  as  it  were  with  one  accord 
into  the  plain.  The  Romans,  who  were  forming  their  array  in  the 
mist,  suddenly  heard  the  shouts  of  the  enemy  amongst  them,  on 
every  side,  and  before  they  could  fall  into  their  ranks,  or  draw 
their  swords,  or  see  by  whom  they  were  attacked,  felt  at  once  that 
they  were  surrounded  and  lost. 

There  are  two  little  rivulets  which  run  from  the  Gualandra  into 
the  lake.  The  traveller  crosses  the  first  of  these  at  about  a mile 
after  he  comes  into  the  plain,  and  this  divides  the  Tuscan  from  the 
Papal  territories.  The  second,  about  a quarter  of  a mile  further 
on,  is  called  “the  bloody  rivulet;"  and  the  peasants  point  out  an 
open  spot  to  the  left  between  the  “ Sanguinetto  ” and  the  hills, 
which,  they  say,  was  the  principal  scene  of  slaughter.  The  other 
part  of  the  plain  is  covered  with  thick-set  olive  trees  in  corn 
grounds,  and  is  nowhere  quite  level  except  near  the  edges  of  the 


(l)  Tit.  Liv.  lib.  xxii.  cap.  iv.  (2)  Ibid. 

(3)  Hist.  lib.  iii.  cap.  83.  The  account  in  Polybius  is  not  so  easily  recon- 
eileable  with  present  appearances  as  that  in  Livy  ; he  talks  of  hills  to  the  right 
and  left  of  the  pass  and  valley  ; but  when  Flaminius  entered  he  had  the  lake  at 
the  right  of  both. 

(4)  About  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century  the  coins  of  Mantua  bore  on 


lake.  It  is,  indeed,  most  probable  that  the  battle  was  fought  pear 
this  end  of  the  valley,  for  the  six  thousand  Romans,  who,  at  Jhe 
beginning  of  the  action,  broke  through  the  enemy,  escaped  to  the 
summit  of  an  eminence  which  must  have  been  in  this  quarter, 
otherwise  they  would  have  had  to  traverse  the  whole  plain,  and  to 
pierce  through  the  main  army  of  Hannibal. 

The  Romans  fought  desperately  for  three  hours ; but  the  death 
of  Flaminius  was  the  signal  for  a general  dispersion.  The  Cartha- 
ginian horse  then  burst  in  upon  the  fugitives,  and  the  lake,  the 
marsh  about  Borghetto,  but  chiefly  the  plain  of  the  Sanguinetto 
and*  the  passes  of  the  Gualandra,  were  strewed  with  dead.  Near 
some  old  walls  on  a bleak  ridge  to  the  left  above  the  rivulet,  many 
human  bones  have  been  repeatedly  found,  and  this  has  confirmed 
the  pretensions  and  the  name  of  the  “stream  of  blood.” 

Every  district  of  Italy  has  its  hero.  In  the  north  some  painter 
is  the  usual  genius  of  the  place,  and  the  foreigfi  Julio  Romano 
more  than  divides  Mantua  with  her  native  Virgil.4  To  the  south 
we  hear  of  Roman  names.  Near  Thrasimene  tradition  is  still 
faithful  to  the  fame  of  an  enemy,  and  Hannibal  the  Carthaginian 
is  the  only  ancient  name  remembered  on  the  banks  of  the  Perugian 
lake.  Flaminius  is  unknown;  but  the  postilions  on  that  road 
have  been  taught  to  show  the  very  spot  where  II  Console  Romano 
was  slain.  Of  all  who  fought  and  fell  in  the  battle  of  Thrasimene, 
the  historian  himself  has,  besides  the  generals  and  Maharbal,  pre- 
served indeed  only  a single  name.  You  overtake  the  Carthaginian 
again  on  the  same  road  to  Rome.  The  antiquary,  that  is,  the 
hostler  of  the  postliouse  at  Spoleto,  tells  you  that  his  town  repulsed 
the  victorious  enemy,  and  shows  you  the  gate  still  called  Porta  di 
Annibale.  It  is  hardly  worth  while  to  remark  that  a French 
travel  writer,  well  known  by  the  name  of  the  President  Dupaty, 
saw  Thrasimene  in  the  lake  of  Bolsena,  which  lay  conveniently  or 
his  way  from  Sienna  to  Rome. 


No.  XXIY. — Statue  of  Pompet. 

“ And  thou,  dread  statue  ! still  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty .” 

Stan*a  lxxxvii. 

The  projected  division  of  the  Spada  Pompey  has  already  bee* 
recorded  by  the  historian  of  the  Decline  asvd  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire.  Mr.  Gibbon  found  it  in  the  memorials  of  Flaminius 
Vacca;  and  it  may  be  added  to  his  mention  of  it,  that  Pope  Julius 
III.  gave  the  contending  owners  five  hundred  crowns  for  the  statue, 
and  presented  it  to  Cardinal  Capo  di  Ferro,  who  had  prevented  the 
judgment  of  Solomon  from  being  executed  upon  the  image.  In  a 
more  civilised  age  this  statue  was  exposed  to  an  actual  operation ; 
for  the  French  who  acted  the  Brutus  of  Voltaire  in  the  Coliseum, 
resolved  that  their  Caesar  should  fall  at  the  base  of  that  Pompey, 
which  was  supposed  to  have  been  sprinkled  with  the  blood  of  the 
original  dictator.  The  nine-foot  hero  was  therefore  removed  to  the 
arena  of  the  amphitheatre,  and,  to  facilitate  its  transport,  suffered 
the  temporary  amputation  of  its  right  arm.  The  republican 
tragedians  had  to  plead  that  the  arm  was  a restoration  : but  their 
accusers  do  not  believe  that  the  integrity  of  the  statue  would  have 
protected  it.  The  love  of  finding  every  coincidence  has  discovered 
the  true  Caesarian  ichor  in  a stain  near  the  right  knee  ; but  colder 
criticism  has  rejected  not  only  the  blood,  but  the  portrait,  and 
assigned  the  globe  of  power  rather  to  the  first  of  the  emperors  than 
to  the  last  of  the  republican  masters  of  Rome.  Winkelmann5  is 
loth  to  allow  an  heroic  statue  of  a Roman  citizen,  but  the  Grimairi 
Agrippa,  a contemporary  almost,  is  heroic ; and  naked  Roman 
figures  were  only  very  rare,  not  absolutely  forbidden.  The  face 
accords  much  better  with  the  “liominem  integrum  et  castum  et 
gravem,”  6 7 than  with  any  of  the  busts  of  Augustus,  and  is  too  stern 
for  him,  who  was  beautiful,  says  Suetonius,  at  all  periods  of  his  life. 
The  pretended  likeness  to  Alexander  the  Great  cannot  be 
discerned,  but  the  traits  resemble  the  medal  of  Pompey.7  The 
objectionable  globe  may  not  have  been  an  ill  applied  flattery  to 
him  who  found  Asia  Minor  the  boundary,  and  left  it  the  centre  of 
the  Roman  empire.  It  seems  that  Winkelmann  has  made  a mis- 


one  side  the  image  and  figure  of  Virgil.  Zecca  d’  Italia,  pi.  xtII.  i.  • 

Voyage  dans  le  Milanais,  & c.  par  A.  Z.  Millin  tom.  ii.  pag.  194  Park 

1817. 

(5)  Storia  delle  Arti,  &c.  lib.  ir.  cap.  1,  pag.  321, 329,  tom  ii. 

(6)  Cicer.  Epist.  ad  Atticum,  xi.  6. 

(7)  Published  by  Cuuseus,  in  his  Museum  Romanum. 


780 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


take  in  thinking  that  no  proof  of  the  identity  of  this  statue  with 
that  which  received  the  bloody  sacrifice  can  be  derived  from  the 
spot  where  it  was  discovered.!  Flaminius  Vacca  says  sotto  una 
cantina , and  this  cantina  is  known  to  have  been  in  the  Viccdo  de’ 
Leutari,  near  the  Cancellaria;  a position  corresponding  exactly  to 
that  of  the  Janus  before  the  basilica  of  Pompey’s  theatre,  to  which 
Augustus  transferred  the  statue  after  the  curia  was  either  burnt  or 
taken  down.1 2  Part  of  the  Pompeian  shade,  the  portico,  existed  in 
the  beginning  of  the  XVth  century,  and  the  atrium  was  still  called 
Satrum.  So  says  Blondus.  At  all  events,  so  imposing  is  the 
stern  majesty  of  the  statue,  and  so  memorable  is  the  story, ^that 
the  play  of  the  imagination  lea-vcs  no  room  for  the  exercise  of  the 
judgment,  and  the  fiction,  if  a fiction  it  is,  operates  on  the  spectator 
with  an  effect  not  less  powerful  than  truth. 


No.  XXY. — The  Bronze  Wolf. 

“ And  thou,  the  thunder- stricken  nurse  of  Rome  t” 

Stanza  lxxxviii. 

Ancient  Rome,  like  modern  Sienna,  abounded  most  probably 
with  images  of  the  foster-mother  of  her  founder;  but  there  were 
two  she-wolves  of  whom  history  makes  particular  mention.  One 
•f'these,  of  brass  in  ancient  work,  was  seen  by  Dionysius  3 4 at  the 
temple  of  Romulus,  under  the  Palatine,  and  is  universally  believed 
to  be  that  mentioned  by  the  Latin  historian,  as  having  been  made 
from  the  money  collected  by  a fine  on  usurers,  and  as  standing 
under  the  Ruminal  fig-tree.4  The  other  was  that  which  Cicero5 * 7 
has  celebrated  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  which  the  historian 
Dion  also  records  as  having  suffered  the  same  accident  as  is  alluded 
to  by  the  orator.®  The  question  agitated  by  the  antiquaries  is, 
whether  the  wolf  now  in  the  Conservator’s  Palace  is  that  of  Livy 
and  Dionysius,  or  that  of  Cicero,  or  whether  it  is  neither  one  nor 
the  other.  The  earlier  writers  differ  as  much  as  the  moderns : 
Lucius  Faunus7  says,  that  it  is  the  one  alluded  to  by  both,  which 
is  impossible,  and  also  by  Virgil,  which  may  be.  Fulvius  Ursinus8 * 
sails  it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius,  and  Marlianus2  talks  of  it  as  the  one 
mentioned  by  Cicero.  To  him  Rycquius  tremblingly  assents.10 
Nardini  is  inclined  to  suppose  it  may  be  one  of  the  many  wolves 
preserved  in  ancient  Rome ; but  of  the  two  rather  bends  to  the 
Ciceronian  statue.11  Montfaucon 12  mentions  it  as  a point  without 
doubt.  Of  the  latter  writers  the  decisive  Winkelmann13  proclaims 
it  as  having  been  found  at  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore,  where,  or 
near  where,  was  the  temple  of  Romulus,  and  consequently  makes 
it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius.  His  authority  is  Lucius  Faunus,  who, 
however,  only  says  that  it  was  placed,  not  feund,  at  the  Ficus 
Ruminalis,  by  the  Comitium,  by  which  he  does  not  seem  to  allude 
to  the  church  of  Saint  Theodore.  Rycquius  was  the  first  to  make 
the  mistake,  and  Winkelmann  followed  Rycquius. 

Flaminius  Vacca  tells  quite  a different  story,  and  says  he  had 
heard  the  wolf  with  the  twins  was  found14  near  the  arch  of  Sep- 
timius  Severus.  The  commentator  on  Winkelmann  is  of  the  same 
opinion  with  that  learned  person,  and  is  incensed  at  Nardini  for 
not  having  remarked  that  Cicero,  in  speaking  of  the  wolf  struck 
with  lightning  in  the  Capitol,  makes  use  of  the  past  tense.  But, 
with  the  Abate ’s  leave,  Nardini  does  not  positively  assert  the  statue 


(1)  Storia  delle  Arti,  ft c.  1.  ix.  e.  i. 

(2)  Sueton.  in  vit.  August,  cap.  31,  and  in  vit.  C.  J.  Caesar,  cap.  88.  Appian 
cays  it  was  burnt  down. 

(3)  Antiq.  Rom.  lib.  i. 

(4)  Liv.  Hist.  lib.  x.  cap.  lxix. 

(5)  “ Turn  statua  Nattae,  turn  simulacra  Deorum,  Romulusque  et  Remus 
cum  altrice  bellua  vi  fulminis  ictis  conciderunt.”  D.  Divinat.  ii.  20.  “ Tactus 
est  ille  etiarn  qui  hanc  urbem  condidit  Romulus,  quern  inauratum  in  Capitolio 
parvum  atque  lactantem,  uberibus  lupinis  inhiantem  fuisse  meministis.”  In 
Catilia.  iii.  3. 

Hie  silvestris  erat  Romani  nominis  altrix 
Martia,  quae  parvos  Marvortis  semine  natos 
Uberibus  gravidis  vitali  rore  rigebat 
Que  turn  cum  pueris  flammato  fulminis  ictus 
Concidit,  atque  avulsa  pedum  vestigia  liquat.” 

De  Consulatu,  lib.  ii.  (lib.  i.  de  Divinat.  cap.  ii.) 

(8)  Dion.  Hist.  lib.  xxxvii.  p.  37,  edit.  Rob.aSteph.  1548. 

(7)  Luc.  Fai.ni  de  Antiq.  Urb.  Rom.  lib.  ii.  cap.  vii.  ap.  Sallengre,  tom.  I. 
1 217.  In  hii  seventeenth  chapter  he  »peats,  that  the  statues  were  there,  but 
not  that  they  were  found  there. 

(.8)  Ap.  Nardini,  Roma  Vetua,  1.  v 

',9)  Marliani  Urb.  Rom.  Topograph,  'it  ' cap.  ix.  He  mentions  "another 
wolf  and  twins  in  the  Vatican,  lib.  v.  o»p.  xx. 

(10)  Just.  Rycquii.  de  Capit.  Roman.  C\  ot  ap.  xxiv.  pag.  250,  edit.  Lugd. 
Bat.  1696. 

(11)  Nardini,  Roma  Vetus,  lib.  v.  ca  i 


to  be  that  mentioned  by  Cicero,  and,  if  he  had,  the  assumpt’os 
would  not  perhaps  have  been  so  exceedingly  indiscreet.  The 
Abate  himself  is  obliged  to  own  th^t  there  are  marks  very  like  the 
scathing  of  lightning  in  the  hinder  legs  of  the  present  wolf ; and  to 
get  rid  of  this  adds,  that  the  wolf  seen  by  Dionysius  might  have 
been  also  struck  by  lightning  or  otherwise  injured. 

Let  us  examine  the  subject  by  a reference  to  the  words  of  Cicero. 
The  orator  in  two  places  seems  to  particularize  the  Romulus  and 
the  Remus,  especially  the  first,  which  his  audience  remembered  to 
have  been  in  the  Capitol,  as  being  struck  with  lightning.  In  his 
verses  he  records  that  the  twins  and  wolf  both  fell,  and  that  the 
latter  left  behind  the  marks  of  her  feet.  Cicero  does  not  say  that 
the  wolf  was  consumed:  and  Dion  only  mentions  that  it  fell  down, 
without  alluding,  as  the  Abate  has  made  him,  to  the  force  of  the 
blow,  or  the  firmness  with  which  it  had  been  fixed.  The  whole 
strength,  therefore,  of  the  Abate’s  argument  hangs  upon  the  past 
tense;  which,  however,  maybe  somewhat  diminished  by  remarking 
that  the  phrase  only  shows  that  the  statue  was  not  then  standing 
in  its  former  position.  Winkelmann  has  observed  that  the  present 
twins  are  modern ; and  it  is  equally  clear  that  there  are  marks  ol 
gilding  on  the  wolf,  which  might  therefore  be  supposed  to  make  a 
part  of  the  ancient  group.  It  is  known  that  the  sacred  images  oi 
the  Capitol  were  not  destroyed  when  injured  by  time  or  accident, 
but  were  put  into  certain  under  ground  depositories,  called 
favissce ,15  It  may  be  thought  possible  that  the  wolf  had  been  so 
deposited,  and  had  been  replaced  in  some  conspicuous  situation 
when  the  Capitol  was  rebuilt  by  Vespasian.  Rycquius,  without 
mentioning  his  authority,  tells  that  it  was  transferred  from  the 
Comitium  to  the  Lateran,  and  thence  brought  to  the  Capitol.  If»it 
was  found  near  the  arch  of  Severus,  it  may  have  been  one  of  the 
images  which  Orosius 16  says  was  thrown  down  in  the  Forum  by 
lightning  when  Alaric  took  the  city.  That  it  is  of  very  high 
antiquity  the  workmanship  is  a decisive  proof;  and  that  circum- 
stance induced  Winkelmann  to  believe  it  the  wolf  of  Dionysius. 
The  Capitoline  wolf,  however,  may  have  been  of  the  same  early 
date  as  that  at  the  temple  of  Romulus.  Lactantius  asserts  that 
in  his  time  the  Romans  worshipped  a wolf;  and  it  is  known  that 
the  Lupercalia  held  out  to  a very  late  period18  after  every  other 
observance  of  the  ancient  superstition  had  totally  expired.  This 
may  account  for  the  preservation  of  the  ancient  image  longer  than 
the  other  early  symbols  of  Paganism. 

It  may  be  permitted,  however,  to  remark,  that  the  wolf  was  a 
Roman  symbol,  but  that  the  worship  of  that  symbol  is  an  inference 
drawn  by  the  zeal  of  Lactantius.  The  early  Christian  writers  are! 
not  to  be  trusted  in  the  charges  which  they  make  against  the 
Pagans.  Eusebius  accused  the  Romans  to  their  faces  of  worship- 
ping Simon  Magus,  and  raising  a statue  to  him  in  the  island  of  the 
Tyber.  The  Romans  had  probably  never  heard  of  such  a person 
before,  who  came,  however,  to  play  a considerable,  though  scanda: 
lous  part  in  the  church  history,  and  has  left  several  tokens  of  his 
aerial  combat  with  St.  Peter  at  Rome ; notwithstanding  that  an 
inscription  found  in  this  very  island  of  the  Tyber  showed  the  Simon 
Magus  of  Eusebius  to  be  a certain  indigenal  god  called  Seme 
Sangus  or  Fidius.12 

Even  when  the  worship  of  the  founder  of  Rome  had  been  aban- 
doned, it  was  thought  expedient  to  humour  the  habits  of  the  good 
matron*  of  the  city,  by  sending  them  with  their  sick  infants  to  thd 
church  of  Saint  Theodore,  as  they  had  before  carried  them  to  thtf 
temple  of  Romulus.20  The  practice  is  continued  to  this  day ; and 


(12)  “ Lupa  hodieque  in  capitolinis  prostat  redibus,  cum  vestigio  fulminij: 
quo  ictum  narrat  Cicero.”  Diarium  Italic,  tom.  i.  p.  174. 

(13)  Storia  delle  Arti,  See.  lib.  iii.  cap.  iii.  s.  ii.  note  10.  Winkelmann  has 
made  a strange  blunder  in  the  note,  by  saying  the  Ciceronian  wolf  was  tiol  in 
the  Capitol,  and  that  Dion  was  wrong  in  saying  so. 

(14)  Flam.  Vacca,  Memorie,  num.  iii.  pag.  i.  ap.  Montfaucon,  Diar.  Ital. 
tom.  i. 

(15)  Luc.  Faun.  ibid. 

(16)  See  note  to  stanza  lxxx.  in  “ Historical  Illustrations.” 

(17)  “ Romuli  nutrix  Lupa  honoribus  est  affecta  divinis.  et  ferrem,  si  animal 
ipsum  fuisset,  cujus  figuram  gerit,”  Lactant.  de  Falsa  Religione.  lib.  i. 
cap.  xx.  pag.  101,  edit,  varior.  1660  ; that  is  to  say.  he  would  rather  adore 
a wolf  than  a prostitute.  His  commentator  has  observed  that  the  opinion  ol 
Livv  concerning  Laurentia  being  figured  in  this  wolf  was  not  universal. 
Strabo  thought  so.  Rycquius  is  wrong  in  saying  that  Lactantius  mentions  the 
wolf  was  in  the  Capitol. 

(18)  To  a.  d.  496.  “ Quis  credere  possit,”  says  Baronius  [Ann.  Eccles.  tom. 

viii.  p.  602,  in  an.  496],  “ viguisse  adhuc  Romae  ad  Gelasii  tempora,  quae  fuere 
ante  exordia  urbis  allata  in  Italiam  Lupercalia?”  Gelasius  wrote  a letter 
which  occupies  four  lolio  pages  to  Andromachus  the  senator,  and  others,  to 
show  that  the  rites  should  be  given  up. 

(19)  Ecdes.  Hist.  lib.  ii.  cap.  xiii.  p.  40.  Justin  Martyr  had  told  the  stqrl’ 
before  ; but  Baronius  himself  was  obliged  to  detect  this  fable.  See  Nardini, 
Roma  Vet.  lib.  vii.  cap.  xii. 

(20)  Rione  xii.  Ripa,  accurata  e suocmcta  Descrizione,  &c.di  Roma  Mo- 
derna,  dell’  Ab.  Ridolf.  Venuti,  1766. 


APPENDIX. 


781 


the  site  of  the  above  church  seems  to  be  thereby  identified  with 
that  of  the  temple ; so  that  if  the  wolf  had  been  really  found  there, 
as  Winkelmann  says,  there  would  be  no  doubt  of  the  present  statue 
being  that  seen  by  Dionysius.  But  Faunus,  in  saying  that  it  was 
at  the  Ficus  Ruminalis  by  the  Comitium,  is  only  talking  of  its 
ancient  position  as  recorded  by  Pliny ; and  even  if  he  had  been 
remarking  where  it  was  found,  would  not  have  alluded  to  the  cliuroh 
ot  St.  Theodore,  but  to  a very  different  place,  near  which  it  was 
then  thought  the  Ficus  Ruminalis  had  been,  and  also  the 
Comitium ; that  is,  the  three  columns  by  the  church  of  Santa 
Maria  Liberatrice,  at  the  corner  of  the  Palatine  looking  on  the 
Forum. 

It  is,  in  fact,  a mere  conjecture  where  the  image  was  actually 
tug  up ; and,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  marks  of  the  gilding,  and 
of  the  lightning,  are  a better  argument  in  favour  of  its  being  the 
Ciceronian  wolf  than  any  that  can  be  adduced  for  the  contrary 
opinion.  At  any  rate,  it  is  reasonably  selected  in  the  text  of  the 
poem  as  one  of  the  most  interesting  relics  of  the  ancient  city,* 1  and 
is  certainly  the  figure,  if  not  the  very  animal,  to  which  Virgil 
alludes  in  his  beautiful  verses  : — 

“ Geminos  huic  ubera  circum 
Ludere  pendentes  pueros,  et  lambere  matrem 
Impavidos  : illam  tereti  cervice  reflexam 
Mulcere  alternos,  et  corpora  fingere  lingua.”2 


No.  XXYI. — Julius  CUsar. 

“ For  the  Roman’s  mind 
Was  modell'd  in  a less  terrestrial  mould.” 

Stanza  xc. 

It  is  possible  to  be  a very  great  man  and  to  be  still  very  inferior 
to  Julius  Caesar,  the  most  complete  character,  so  Lord  Bacon 
rthought,  of  all  antiquity.  Nature  seems  incapable  of  such  extra- 
ordinary combinations  as  composed  his  versatile  capacity,  which 
was  the  wonder  even  of  the  Romans  themselves.  The  first  general 
—the  only  triumphant  politician — inferior  to  none  in  eloquence — 
cotnparable  to  any  in  the  attainments  of  wisdom,  in  an  age  made 
up  of  the  greatest  commanders,  statesmen,  orators,  and  philoso- 
phers that  ever  appeared  in  the  world — an  author  who  composed  a 
perfect  specimen  of  military  annals  in  his  travelling  carriage— at 
one  time  in  a controversy  with  Cato,  at  another  writing  a treatise 
on  punning,  and  collecting  a set  of  good  sayings — fighting  and 
making  love  at  the  same  moment,  and  willing  to  abandon  both  his 
empire  and  his  mistress  for  a sight  of  the  Fountains  of  the  Nile. 
Such  did  Julius  Caesar  appear  to  his  contemporaries  and  to  those 
of  the  subsequent  ages  who  were  the  most  inclined  to  deplore  and 
execrate  his  fatal  genius. 

But  we  must  not  be  so  much  dazzled  with  his  surpassing  glory, 
or  with  his  magnanimous,  his  amiable  qualities,  as  to  forget  the 
decision  of  his  impartial  countrymen  : — 

HE  WAS  JUSTLY  SLAIN.3 * * * * * 


No.  XXVII.— Egeria. 

M Egeria  ! sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
Which  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast.” 

Stanza  cxv. 

The  respectable  authority  of  Flaminius  Vacca  would  incline  us 
| to  believe  in  the  claims  of  the  Egerian  grotto.*  He  assures  us  that 
[ tie  saw  an  inscription  in  the  pavement,  stating  that  the  fountain 


il)  Donatus,  lib.  xi.  cap.  18,  gives  a medal  representing  on  one  side  the  wolf 
in  the  same  position  as  that  in  the  Capitol ; and  on  the  reverse  the  wolf  with 
the  head  not  reverted.  It  is  of  the  time  of  Antoninus  Pius. 

(2)  Mn.  viii.  631.  See  Dr.  Middleton,  in  his  Letter  from  Rome,  who  in- 
| clines  t»  the  Ciceronian  wolf,  but  without  examining  the  subject. 

1 (3)  “ Jure  cassus  existimetur,”  says  Suetonius,  after  a fair  estimate  of  his 

character,  and  making  use  of  a phrase  which  was  a formula  in  Livy’s  time. 

“ Melium  jure  cajsum  pronuntiavit,  etiam  si  tegni  crimine  insons  fuerit:” 

Dib.  iv.  cap.  48.]  and  which  was  continued  in  the  legal  judgments  pronounced 

in  justifiable  homicides,  such  as  killing  housebreakers.  See  Sueton  in  Vit.  C. 

J.  Caesar,  with  the  commentary  of  Pitiscus,  p.  184. 

f41  Memorie,  See.  ap.  Nardini,  pag.  13.  He  does  not  give  the  inscription. 

■'•>)  “ In  villa  Justiniana  extat  ingens  lapis  quadrants  solidus,  in  quo  sculpta 

naec  duo  Ovidii  carmina  sunt : — 


was  that  of  Ege'  a,  dedicated  to  he  nymphs.  The  inscription  is 
not  there  at  this  day ; but  Montfa  icon  quotes  two  lines  of  Ovid  * 
from  a stone  in  the  Villa  Giustiniani,  wlii«h  he  seems  to  think  had 
been  brought  from  the  same  grotto. 

This  grotto  and  valley  were  formerly  frequented  in  summer,  and 
particularly  the  first  Sunday  in  May,  by  the  modern  Romans,  who 
attached  a salubrious  quality  to  the  fountain  which  trickles  from 
an  orifice  at  the  bottom  of  the  vault,  and,  overflowing  the  little 
pools,  creeps  down  the  matted  grass  into  the  brook  below.  The 
brook  is  the  Ovidian  Almo,  whose  name  and  qualities  are  lost  in 
the  modern  Aquataccio.  The  valley  itself  is  called  Valle  di 
Caffarelli,  from  the  dukes  of  that  name  who  made  over  their 
fountain  to  the  Pallavicini,  with  sixty  rubbia  of  adjoining  land. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  long  dell  is  the  Egerian  valley 
of  Juvenal,  and  the  pausing  place  of  Umbritius,  notwithstanding 
the  generality  of  his  commentators  have  supposed  the  descent  of 
the  satirist  and  his  friend  to  have  been  into  the  Arician  grove, 
where  the  nymph  met  Hippolitus,  and  where  she  was  more  pecu- 
liarly worshipped. 

The  step  from  the  Porta  Capena  to  the  Alban  hill,  fifteen  miles 
distant,  would  be  too  considerable,  unless  we  were  to  believe  in  the 
wild  conjecture  of  Vossius,  who  makes  that  gate  travel  from  its 
present  station,  where  he  pretends  it  was  during  the  reign  of  the 
Kings,  as  far  as  the  Arician  grove,  and  then  makes  it  recede  to  its 
old  site  with  the  shrinking  city.G  The  tufo,  or  pumice,  which  the 
poet  prefers  to  marble,  is  the  substance  composing  the  bank  in 
which  the  grotto  is  sunk. 

The  modern  topographers  7 find  in  the  grotto  the  statue  of  the 
nymph,  and  nine  niches  for  the  Muses;  and  a late  traveller®  has 
discovered  that  the  cave  is  restored  to  that  simplicity  which  the 
poet  regretted  had  been  exchanged  for  injudicious  orn&ment.  But 
the  headless  statue  is  palpably  rather  a male  than  a nymph,  and 
has  none  of  the  attributes  ascribed  to  it  at  present  visible.  The 
nine  Muses  could  hardly  have  stood  in  six  niches;  and  Juvenal 
certainly  does  not  allude  to  any  individual  cave.9  Nothing  can  be 
collected  from  the  satirist  but  that  somewhere  near  the  Porta 
Capena  was  a spot  in  which  it  was  supposed  Numa  held  nightly 
consultations  with  his  nymph,  and  where  there  was  a grove  and  a 
sacred  fountain,  and  fanes  once  consecrated  to  the  Muses;  and 
that  from  this  spot  there  was  a descent  into  the  valley  of  Egeria, 
where  were  several  artificial  caves.  It  is  clear  that  the  statues  of 
the  Muses  made  no  part  of  the  decoration  which  the  satirist 
thought  misplaced  in  these  caves  ; for  he  expressly  assigns  other 
fanes  (delubra)  to  these  divinities  above  the  valley,  and  moreover 
tells  us  that  they  had  been  ejected  to  make  room  for  the  Jews.  In 
fact,  the  little  temple,  now  called  that  of  Bacchus,  was  formerly 
thought  to  belong  to  the  Muses,  and  Nardini 19  places  them  in  a 
poplar  grove,  which  was  in  his  time  above  the  valley. 

It  is  probable,  from  the  inscription  and  position,  that  the  cave 
now  shown  may  be  one  of  the  “ artificial  caverns,”  of  which, 
indeed,  there  is  another  a little  way  higher  up  the  valley,  under  a 
tuft  of  alder  bushes  : but  a single  grotto  of  Egeria  is  a mere  modern 
invention,  grafted  upon  the  application  of  the  epithet  Egerian  to 
these  nymphea  in  general,  and  which  might  send  us  to  look  for  the 
haunts  of  Numa  upon  the  banks  of  the  Thames. 

Our  English  Juvenal  was  not  seduced  into  mistranslation  by  his 
acquaintance  with  Pope : he  carefully  preserves  the  correct 
plural: — 

“ Thence  slowly  winding  down  thq  vale,  we  view 
The  Egerian  grots : oh,  how  unlike  the  true  ! ” 

The  valley  abounds  with  springs,11  and  over  these  springs,  which 
the  Muses  might  haunt  from  their  neighbouring  groves,  Egeria 
presided:  hence  she  was  said  to  supply  them  with  water ; and  she 
was  the  nymph  of  the  grottos  through  which  the  fountains  were 
taught  to  flow. 

The  whole  of  the  monuments  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Egerian 
valley  have  received  names  at  will,  which  have  been  changed  at 
will.  Venuti12  owns  he  can  see  no  traces  of  the  temples  of  Jove 


‘ Algeria  est  quae  prasbet  aquas  (lea  grata  Carncenis 
Ilia  Numae  conjunx  consiliumque.’ 

Qui  lapis  videtur  eodem  Egeria;  fonte,  aut  ejus  vicinia  isthuc  comoartatu*." 
Diarium  Italic,  p.  153. 

(6)  De  Magnit.  Vet.  Rom.  ap.  Grsev.  Ant.  Rom.  tom.  iv.  p.  1507, 

(7)  Eehinard,  Descrizione  di  Roma  e dell*  Agro  Romano,  corretto  dal . 
Abate  Venuti,  in  Roma,  1750.  They  believe  in  the  grotto  and  nymph 
“ Simulacro  di  questo  fonte,  essendovi  sculpite  le  acque  a pie  di  c-p«o.” 

(8)  Classical  Tour,  chap.  vi.  p.  217,  vol.  ii. 

(9)  Sat.  III. 

(10)  Lib.  iii.  cap.  Hi. 

(lO  ■'  Undique  e solo  aquae  scaturiunt.”  Nardini,  lib.  iii.  cap.  iii. 

02)  Eehinard,  &c.  Cic.  cit,  p.  297,  298. 


782 


LORD  BVRON'S  WORKS. 


Saturn,  Juno,  Venus,  and  Diana,  which  Nardini  found,  or  hoped 
to  find.  The  mutatorium  of  Caracalla’s  circus,  the  temple  of 
Honour  and  Virtue,  the  temple  of  Bacchus,  and,  above  all,  the 
temple  the  god  Rediculus,  are  the  antiquaries’  despair. 

The  circus  of  Caracalla  depends  on  a medal  of  that  emperor 
cited  by  Fulvius  Ursinus,  of  which  the  reverse  shows  a circus, 
supposed,  however,  by  some  to  represent  the  Circus  Maximus.  It 
gives  a very  good  idea  of  that  place  of  exercise.  The  soil  has  been 
jmt  little  raised,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  small  cellular  structure 
at  the  end  of  the  Spina,  which  was  probably  the  chapel  of  the  god 
Consus.  This  cell  is  half  beneath  the  soil,  as  it  must  have  been  in 
the  circus  itself;  for  Dionysius1 2  could  not  be  persuaded  to  believe 
that  this  divinity  was  the  Roman  Neptune,  because  his  altar  was 
under  ground. 


No  XXVIII. — The  Roman  Nemesis. 

“ Great  Nemesis! 

Here,  where  the  ancient  paid,  thee  homage  long.” 

Stanza  cxxxii. 

We  read  in  Suetonius,  that  Augustus,  from  a warning  received 
in  a dream, 2 counterfeited,  once  a year,  the  beggar  sitting  before 
the  gate  of  his  palace  with  his  hand  hollowed  and  stretched  out  for 
charity.  A statue  formerly  in  the  villa  Borghese,  and  which 
should  be  now  at  Paris,  represents  the  Emperor  in  that  posture  of 
supplication.  The  object  of  this  self-degradation  was  the  appease- 
ment of  Nemesis,  the  perpetual  attendant  on  good  fortune,  of 
whose  power  the  Roman  conquerors  were  also  reminded  by  certain 
symbols  attached  to  their  cars  of  triumph.  The  symbols  were  the 
whip  and  the  crotalo,  which  were  discovered  in  the  Nemesis  of  the 
Vatican.  The  attitude  of  beggary  made  the  above  statue  pass  for 
that  of  Belisarius : and  until  the  criticism  of  Winkelmann 3 had 
rectified  the  mistake,  one  fiction  was  called  in  to  support  another. 
It  was  the  same  fear  of  the  sudden  termination  of  prosperity  that 
made  Amasis  king  of  Egypt  warn  his  friend  Polycrates  of  Samos, 
that  the  gods  loved  those  whose  lives  were  chequered  with  good 
and  evil  fortunes.  Nemesis  was  supposed  to  lie  in  wait  particularly 
for  the  prudent;  that  is,  for  those  whose  caution  rendered  them 
accessible  only  to  mere  accidents:  and  her  first  altar  was  raised 
on  the  banks  of  the  Phrygian  HSsepus  by  Adrastus,  probably  the 
prince  of  that  name  who  killed  the  son  of  Croesus  by  mistake. 
Hence  the  goddess  was  called  Adrastea.4 

The  Roman  Nemesis  was  sacred  and  august:  there  was  a 
temple  to  her  in  the  Palatine  under  the  name  of  Rhamnusia:  so 
great,  indeed,  was  the  propensity  of  the  ancients  to  trust  to  the 
revolution  of  events,  and  to  believe  in  the  divinity  of  Fortune,  that 
in  the  same  Palatine  there  was  a temple  to  the  Fortune  of  the 
day.5 * * *  This  is  the  last  superstition  which  retains  its  hold  over  the 
human  heart ; and,  from  concentrating  in  one  object  the  credulity 
so  natural  to  man,  has  always  appeared  strongest  in  those  unem- 
barrassed by  other  articles  of  belief.  The  antiquaries  have  sup- 
posed this  goddess  to  be  synonymous  with  Fortune  and  with  Fate  : 
but  it  was  in  her  vindictive  quality  that  she  was  worshipped  under 
the  name  of  Nemesis. 


No.  XXIX. — Gladiators. 

liHe,  their  sire, 

Butcher’d  to  make  a Roman  holiday." 

Stanza  cxli. 

Gladiators  were  of  two  kinds,  compelled  and  voluntary:  and 
were  supplied  from  several  conditions; — from  slaves  sold  for  that 

(1)  Antiq.  Rom.  lib.  ii.  cap.  xxxi. 

(2)  Sueton.  in  Vit.  Augusti,  cap.  91. 

(3)  Storia  delle  Arti,  &c.  lib.  xii.  cap.  iii.  tom.  ii.  p.  422. 

(4)  Diet,  de  Bayle,  article  Adrastea. 

(5)  Fortun®  hujusce  diei.  Cicero  mentions  her,  de  Legib.  lib.  ii. 

B8AE  NEM  RSI 

S1VE  FORTCJVAB 
PISTORIVS 
RVOXANVS 

V.  C.  L 10  AT . 

2.X0.  XIII.  O. 

CORD. 

See  Questiones  Roman®,  &c.  ap.  Gr®v.  Antiq.  Roman,  tom.  v.  p.  942.  See 

also  Muratori,  Nov.  Tuesaur.  Inscrip.  Vet.  turn.  i.  p.  88,  89,  where  there  are 

three  Latin  and  one  Greek  inscription  to  Nemesis,  and  others  to  Fate. 


purpose;  from  culprits ; from  barbarian  captives  either  taken  in  war, 
and,  after  being  led  in  triumph,  set  apart  for  the  games,  or  those 
seized  and  condemned  as  rebels;  also  from  free  citizens,  some 
fighting  for  hire  ( auclorati ),  others  from  a depraved  ambition ; at 
last  oven  knights  and  senators  were  exhibited, — a disgrace  of  which 
the  first  tyrant  was  naturally  the  first  inventor.9 *  In  the  end, 
dwarfs,  and  even  women,  fought;  an  enormity  prohibited  by 
Severus.  Of  these  the  most  to  be  pitied  undoubtedly  were  the 
barbarian  captives;  and  to  this  species  a Christian  writer 7 justly 
applies  the  epithet  “ innocent,”  to  distinguish  them  from  the  pro- 
fessional gladiators.  Aurelian  and  Claudius  supplied  great  num- 
bers of  these  unfortunate  victims  ; the  one  after  his  triumph,  and 
the  other  on  a pretext  of  a rebellion.®  No  war,  say  Lipsius,9  was 
ever  so  destructive  to  the  human  race  as  these  sports.  In  spite  of 
the  laws  of  Constantine  and  Constans,  gladiatorial  shows  survived 
the  old  established  religion  more  than  seventy  years ; but  they 
owed  their  final  extinction  to  the  courage  of  a Christian.  In  the 
year  404,  on  the  kalends  of  January,  they  were  exhibiting  the  shows 
in  the  Flavian  amphitheatre  before  the  usual  immense  concourse 
of  people.  Almachius,  or  Telemachus,  an  eastern  monk,  who  had 
travelled  to  Rome  intent  on  his  holy  purpose,  rushed  into  the 
midst  of  the  area,  and  endeavoured  to  separate  the  combatants. 
The  praetor  Alypius,  a person  incredibly  attached  to  these  games,19 
gave  instant  orders  to  the  gladiators  to  slay  him ; and  Telemachus 
gained  the  crown  of  martyrdom,  and  the  title  of  saint,  which  surely 
has  never  either  before  or  since  been  awarded  for  a more  noble 
exploit.  Honorius  immediately  abolished  the  shows,  which  were 
never  afterwards  revived.  The  story  is  told  by  Theodoret11  and 
Cassiodorus,12  and  seems  worthy  of  credit,  notwithstanding  its 
place  in  the  Roman  martyrology.13  Besides  the  torrents  of  blood 
which  flowed  at  the  funerals,  in  the  amphitheatres,  the  circus,  the 
forums,  and  other  public  places,  gladiators  were  introduced  at 
feasts,  and  tore  each  other  to  pieces  amidst  the  supper  tables,  to 
the  great  delight  and  applause  of  the  guests.  Yet  Lipsius  permit* 
himself  to  suppose  the  loss  of  courage,  and  the  evident  degeneracy 
of  mankind,  to  be  nearly  connected  with  the  abolition  of  these 
bloody  spectacles. 


No.  XXX. 

“ Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a crowd.” 

Stanaa  cxlii. 

When  one  gladiator  wounded  another,  he  shouted,  “he  has  it.”; 
“hochabet,”  or  “habet.”  The  wounded  combatant  dropped  his. 
weapon,  and,  advancing  to  the  edge  of  the  arena,  supplicated  the 
spectators.  If  he  had  fought  well,  the  people  saved  him ; if  other- 
wise, or  as  they  happened  to  be  inclined,  they  turned  down  their 
thumbs,  and  he  was  slain.  They  were  occasionally  so  savage, 
that  they  were  impatient  if  a combat  lasted  longer  than  ordinary 
without  wounds  or  death.  The  emperor’s  presence  generally  saved 
the  vanquished;  and  it  is  recorded  as  an  instance  of  Caracalla’s- 
ferocity,  that  he  sent  those  who  supplicated  him  for  life,  in  a 
spectacle,  at  Nicomedia,  to  ask  the  people;  in  other  words,  handed; 
them  over  to  be  slain.  A similar  ceremony  is  observed  at  the' 
Spanish  bull-fights.  The  magistrate  presides ; and  after  the , 
horsemen  and  piccadores  have  fought  the  bull,  the  matadore  steps 
forward  and  bows  to  him  for  permission  to  kill  the  animal.  If  the  j 
bull  has  done  his  duty  by  killing  two  or  three  horses,  or  a man, 
which  last  is  rare,  the  people  interfere  with  shouts,  the  ladies 
wave  their  handkerchiefs,  and  the  animal  is  saved.  The  wounds 
and  death  of  the  horses  are  accompanied  with  the  loudest  acclama- 
tions, and  many  gestures  of  delight,  especially  from  the  female 
portion  of  the  audience,  including  those  of  the  gentlest  blood. 


(6)  Julius  C®sar,  who  rose  by  the  fall  of  the  aristocracy,  brought  Furiu* 
Leptinus  and  A.  Calenus  upon  the  arena. 

(7)  Tertullian,  “certe  quidem  et  innocentes  gladiatores  in  ludum  veniunt, 
et  voluptatis  public®  hosti®  fiant.”  Just.  Lips.  Saturn.  Sermon,  lib.  ii. 
cap.  iii. 

(8)  Vopiscus,  in  vit.  Aurel.  and  in  vit.  Claud,  ibid. 

(9)  Just.  Lip*.  ibid.  lib.  i.  cap.  xii. 

(10)  Augustinus  (lib.  vi.  Confess,  cap.  vlii.)  *•  Alypium  suum  gladlatoril 
spectaculi  inhiatu  incredibiliter  abreptum,”  scribit.  ib.  lib.  i.  cap.  xii. 

(11)  Hist,  Eccles.  cap.  xxvi.  lib.  v. 

(12)  Cassiod.  Tripartita,  1.  x.  c.  xi.  Saturn,  ib.  ib. 

(13)  Baronius  ad  ann.  et  in  notis  ad  Martyrol.  Rom.  1.  Jan.  &ee— 
rangon  delle  mernone  aacre  e profane  dell’  Anfiteatro  Flavio,  p.  26.  edifc 
1746. 


APPENDIX. 


Ev«jry  thing  depends  on  habit.  The  author  of  Childe  Harold,  the 
writer  of  this  note,  and  one  or  two  other  Englishmen,  who  have 
certainly  in  other  days  borne  the  sight  of  a pitched  battle,  were, 
during  the  summer  of  1809,  in  the  governor’s  box  at  the  great 
amphitheatre  of  Santa  Maria,  opposite  to  Cadiz.  The  death  of  one 
or  two  horses  completely  satisfied  their  curiosity.  A gentleman 
present,  observing  them  shudder  and  look  pale,  noticed  that  unusual 
reception  of  so  delightful  a sport  to  some  young  ladies,  who  stared 
and  smiled,  and  continued  their  applauses  as  another  horse  fell 
bleeding  to  the  ground.  One  bull  killed  three  horses  off  his  own 
horns.  He  was  saved  by  acclamations,  which  were  redoubled  when 
it  was  known  he  belonged  to  a priest. 

An  Englishman,  who  can  be  much  pleased  with  seeing  two  men 
beat  themselves  to  pieces,  cannot  bear  to  look  at  a horse  galloping 
round  an  arei^  with  his  bowels  trailing  on  the  ground,  and  turns 
rom  the  spectacle  and  the  spectators  with  horror  and  disgust. 


No.  XXXI. — The  Alban  Hill. 

“ And  afar 

The  Tiber  winds , and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast,  8(c.  fyc. 

Stanza  clxxiv. 

The  whole  declivity  of  the  Alban  hill  is  of  unrivalled  beauty,  and 
from  the  convent  on  the  highest  point,  which  has  succeeded  to  the 
temple  of  the  Latian  Jupiter,  the  prospect  embraces  all  the  objects 
alluded  to  in  the  cited  stanza ; the  Mediterranean,  the  whole  scene 
of  the  latter  half  of  the  A2neid,  and  the  coast  from  beyond  the 
mouth  of  the  Tiber  to  the  headland  of  Circajum  and  the  Cape  of 
Terracina. 

The  site  of  Cicero’s  villa  may  be  supposed  either  at  the  Grotta 
Ferrata,  or  at  the  Tusculum  of  Prince  Lucien  Buonaparte. 

The  former  was  thought  some  years  ago  the  actual  site,  as  may 
be  seen  from  Myddleton’s  Life  of  Cicero.  At  present  it  has  lost 
something  of  its  credit,  except  for  the  Domenichinos.  Nine  monks 
of  the  Greek  order  live  there,  and  the  adjoining  villa  is  a cardinal’s 
summer-house.  The  other  villa,  called  Rufinella,  is  on  the  sum- 
mit of  the  hill  above  Frascati,  and  many  rich  remains  of  Tusculum 
have  been  found  there,  besides  seventy-two  sts,'  es  of  different 
merit  and  preservation,  and  seven  busts. 

From  the  same  eminence  are  seen  the  Sabine  hills,  embosomed 
in  which  lies  the  long  valley  of  Rustica.  There  are  several 
circumstances  which  tend  to  establish  the  identity  of  this  valley 
with  the  “ Ustica ” of  Horace;  and  it  seems  possible  that  the 
mosaic  pavement  which  the  peasants  uncover  by  throwing  up  the 
earth  of  a vineyard  may  belong  to  his  villa.  Rustica  is  pronounced 
short,  not  according  to  our  stress  upon — “ Usticce  cubantis." — It  is 
more  rational  to  think  that  we  are  wrong,  than  that  the  inhabitants 
of  this  secluded  valley  have  changed  their  tone  in  this  word.  The 
addition  of  the  consonant  prefixed  is  nothing ; yet  it  is  necessary 
to  be  aware  that  Rustica  may  be  a modern  name  which  the  pea- 
sants may  have  caught  from  the  antiquaries. 

The  villa,  or  the  mosaic,  is  in  a vineyard  on  a knoll  covered 
with  chestnut  trees.  A stream  runs  down  the  valley ; and  although 
it  is  not  true,  as  said  in  the  guide  books,  that  this  stream  is  called, 
Licenza,  yet  there  is  a village  on  a rock  at  the  head  of  the  valley 
which  is  so  denominated,  and  which  may  have  taken  its  name 
from  the  Digentia.  Licenza  contains  700  inhabitants.  On  a peak 
a little  way  beyond  is  Civitella,  containing  300.  On  the  banks  of 
the  Anio,  a little  before  you  turn  up  into  Valle  Rustica,  to  the 
left,  about  an  hour  from  the  villa,  is  a town  called  Vicovaro, 
another  favourable  coincidence  with  the  Varia  of  the  poet.  At  the 
md  of  the  valley,  towards  the  Anio,  there  is  a bare  hill,  crowned 
•ith  a httle  town  called  Bardela.  At  the  foot  of  this  hill  the 
ivulet  of  Licenza  flows,  and  is  almost  absorbed  in  a wide  sandy 
bed  before  it  reaches  the  Anio.  Nothing  can  be  more  fortunate 
for  the  lines  of  the  poet,  whether  in  a metaphorical  or  direct 
sense : — 

“ Me  quotiens  reficit  gelidus  Digentia  rivus 
Quern  Mandela  bibit  rugosus  frigore  pagus. 


! 1 ) See  Historical  Illustrations  of  the  Fourth  Canto,  p.  43 
9)  See  Classical  Tour,  &c.  thap.  vii.  p.  360,  vo*.  U. 


783 

The  stream  is  clear  high  up  the  valley,  but  before  it  reaches  the 
hill  of  Bardela  looks  green  and  yellow  like  a sulphur  rivulet. 

Rocca  Giovane,  a ruined  village  in  the  hills,  half  au  hour  > walk 
from  the  vineyard  where  the  pavement  is  shown,  does  seem  to  be 
the  site  of  the  fane  of  Vacuna,  and  an  inscription  found  there  tells 
that  this  temple  of  the  Sabine  Victory  was  repaired  by  Vespasian. 
With  these  helps,  and  a position  corresponding  exactly  'o  every 
thing  which  the  poet  has  told  us  of  his  retreat,  we  may  feel  tolerably 
secure  of  our  site. 

The  hill  which  should  be  Lucretilis  is  called  Campanile,  and  by 
following  up  the  rivulet  to  the  pretended  Bandusia,  you  come  to 
the  roots  of  the  higher  mountain  Gennaro.  Singularly  enough,  the 
only  spot  of  ploughed  land  in  the  whole  valley  is  on  the  knoll 
where  this  Bandusia  rises. 

“ . . . . tu  frigus  amabile 
Fessis  vomere  tauris 
Praebes,  et  pecori  vago.” 

The  peasants  show  another  spring  near  the  mosaic  pavement  which 
they  call  “ Oradina,”  and  which  flows  down  the  hills  into  a tank, 
or  mill-dam,  and  thence  trickles  over  into  the  Digentia. 

But  we  must  not  hope 

“ To  trace  the  Muses  upwards  to  their  spring,” 

by  exploring  the  windings  of  the  romantic  valley  in  search  of  the 
Bandusian  fountain.  It  seems  strange  that  any  one  should  have 
thought  Bandusia  a fountain  of  the  Digentia. — Horace  has  not  let 
drop  a word  of  it;  and  this  immortal  spring  has  in  fact  been  dis- 
covered in  possession  of  the  holders  of  many  good  things  in  Italy, 
the  monks.  It  was  attached  to  the  church  of  St.  Gervais  and 
Protais  near  Venusia,  where  it  was  most  likely  to  be  found.1  We 
shall  not  be  so  lucky  as  a late  traveller  in  finding  the  ocasional 
pine  still  pendent  on  the  poetic  villa.  There  is  not  a pine  in  thr 
whole  valley,  but  there  are  two  cypresses,  which  he  evidently  took, 
or  mistook,  for  the  tree  in  the  ode.2  The  truth  is,  that  th'3  pine  is 
now,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  Virgil,  a garden  tree,  and  it  was  not 
at  all  likely  to  be  found  in  the  craggy  acclivities  of  the  valley  of 
Rustica.  Horace  probably  had  one  of  them  in  the  orchard  close 
above  his  farm,  immediately  overshadowing  his  villa,  not  on  the 
rocky  heights  at  some  distance  from  his  abode.  The  tourist  may 
have  easily  supposed  himself  to  have  seen  this  pine  figured  in  the 
above  cypresses  ; for  the  orange  and  lemon  trees  which  throw  such 
a bloom  over  his  description  of  the  royal  gardens  at  Naples,  unless 
they  have  been  since  displaced,  were  assuredly  only  acacias  and 
other  common  garden  shrubs.3 


o.  XXXII.— Eustace’s  Classical  Tour. 

The  extreme  disappointment  experienced  by  choosing  the 
Classical  Tourist  as  a guide  in  Italy  must  be  allowed  to  find  vent 
in  a few  observations,  which,  it  is  asserted  without  fear  of  contra- 
diction, will  be  confirmed  by  every  one  who  has  selected  the  sam  . 
conductor  through  the  same  country.  This  author  is  in  fact  one 
of  the  most  inaccurate,  unsatisfactory  writers  that  have  in  our 
times  attained  a temporary  reputation,  and  is  very  seldom  to  be 
trusted  even  when  he  speaks  of  objects  which  he  must  be  presumed 
to  have  seen.  His  errors,  from  the  simple  exaggeration  to  the 
downright  mis-statement,  are  so  frequent  as  to  induce  a suspicion 
that  he  had  either  never  visited  the  spots  described,  or  had  trusted 
to  the  fidelity  of  former  writers.  Indeed,  the  Classical  Tour  has 
every  characteristic  of  a mere  compilation  of  former  notices,  strung 
together  upon  a very  slender  thread  of  personal  observation,  and 
swelled  out  by  those  decorations  which  are  so  easily  supplied  by  a 
systematic  adoption  of  all  the  common-places  of  praise,  applied  to 
every  thing,  and  therefore  signifying  nothing. 

The  style  which  one  person  thinks  cloggy  and  cumbrous,  aim 
unsuitable,  may  be  to  the  taste  of  others,  and  such  may  experience 
some  salutary  excitement  in  ploughing  through  the  periods  of  the 
Classical  Tour.  It  must  be  said,  however,  that  polish  and  weight 
are  apt  to  beget  an  expectation  of  value.  It  is  amongst  the  pains 
of  the  damned  to  toil  up  a climax  with  a huge  round  stone. 


(3‘  “ Under  our  windows,  and  bordering  on  the  beach,  is  the  roval  garden, 
laid  out  in  parterres,  and  walks  shaded  by  rows  of  orange  trees  ” Classical 
Tour,  &c.  chap,  xi  vol.  ii.  oct.  365. 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS 


784 


The  touiist  had  the  choice  of  his  words,  but  there  was  no  such 
latitude  allowed  to  that  of  his  sentiments.  The  love  of  virtue  and 
of  liberty,  which  must  have  distinguished  the  character,  certainly 
adorns  the  pages  of  Mr.  Eustace;  and  the  gentlemanly  spirit,  so 
recommendatory  either  in  an  author  or  his  productions,  is  very- 
conspicuous  throughout  the  Classical  Tour.  But  these  generous 
qualities  are  the  foliage  of  such  a performance,  and  may  be  spread 
about  it  so  prominently  and  profusely  as  to  embarrass  those  who 
wish  to  see  and  find  the  fruit  at  hand.  The  unction  of  the  divine, 
and  the  exhortations  of  the  moralist,  may  have  made  this  work 
something  more  and  better  than  a book  of  travels,  but  they  have 
not  made  it  a book  of  travels  ; and  this  observation  applies  more 
especially  to  that  enticing  method  of  instruction  conveyed  by  the 
perpetual  introduction  of  the  same  Gallic  Helot  to  reel  and  bluster 
before  the  rising  generation,  and  terrify  it  into  decency  by  the 
display  of  all  the  excesses  of  the  revolution.  An  animosity  against 
atheists  and  regicides  in  general,  and  Frenchmen  specifically,  may 
be  honourable,  and  may  be  useful  as  a record ; but  tthat  antidote 
should  either  be  administered  in  any  work  rather  than  a tour, 
or,  at  least  should  be  served  up  apart,  and  not  so  mixed  with 
the  whole  mass  of  information  and  reflection,  as  to  give  a bitter- 
ness to  every  page : for  who  would  choose  to'  have  the  antipathies 
of  any  man,  however  just,  for  his  travelling  companions  ? A 
tourist,  unless  he  aspires  to  the  credit  of  prophecy,  is  not  answer- 
able  for  the  changes  which  may  take  place  in  the  country  which 
he  describes ; but  his  reader  may  very  fairly  esteem  all  his  political 
portraits  and  deductions  as  so  much  waste  paper,  the  moment  they 
cease  to  assist,  and  more  particularly  if  they  obstruct,  his  actual 
survey-. 

Neither  encomium  nor  accusation  of  any  government,  or  gover- 
nors, is  meant  to  be  here  offered ; but  it  is  stated  as  an  incontro- 
vertible fact,  that  the  change  operated,  either  by  the  address  of  the 
late  imperial  system,  or  by  the  disappointment  of  every  expectation 
by  those  who  have  succeeded  to  the  Italian  thrones,  has  been  so 
considerable,  and  is  so  apparent,  as  not  only  to  put  Mr.  Eustace’s 
antigallican  philippics  entirely  out  of  date,  but  even  to  throw  some 
suspicion  upon  the  competency  and  candour  of  the  author  himself. 
A remarkable  example  may  be  found  in  the  instance  of  Bologna, 
over  whose  papal  attachments,  and  consequent  desolation,  the 
tourist  pours  forth  such  strains  of  condolence  and  revenge,  made 
louder  by  the  borrowed  trumpet  of  Mr.  Burke.  Now  Bologna  is 
at  this  moment,  and  has  been  for  some  years,  notorious  amongst 
the  states  of  Italy  for  its  attachment  to  revolutionary  principles, 
and  was  almost  the  only  city  which  made  any  demonstrations  in 
favour  of  the  unfortunate  Murat.  This  change  may,  however, 
have  been  made  since  Mr.  Eustace  visited  this  country ; but  the 
traveller  whom  he  has  thrilled  with  horror  at  the  projected  stripping 
of  the  copper  from  the  cupola  of  St.  Peter’s,  must  be  much  relieved 
to  find  that  sacrilege  out  of  the  power  of  the  French,  or  any  other 
plunderers,  the  cupola  being  covered  with  lead I.1 

If  the  conspiring  voice  of  otherwise  rival  critics  had  not  given 
considerable  currency  to  the  Classical  Tour,  it  would  have  been 
unnecessary  to  warn  the  reader,  that  however  it  may  adorn  his 
library,  it  will  be  of  little  or  no  service  to  him  m his  carriage;  and 
if  the  judgment  of  those  critics  had  hitherto  been  suspended,  no 
attempt  would  have  been  made  to  anticipate  their  decision.  As  it 
is,  those  who  stand  in  the  relation  of  posterity  to  Mr.  Eustace  may 
be  permitted  to  appeal  from  cotemporary  praises,  and  are  perhaps 
more  likely  to  be  just  in  proportion  as  the  causes  of  love  and  hatred 
are  the  farther  removed.  This  appeal  had,  in  some  measure,  been 
made  before  the  above  remarks  were  written  : for  one  of  the  most 
respectable  of  the  Florentine  publishers,  who  had  been  persuaded 
by  the  repeated  inquiries  of  those  on  their  journey  southwards  to 
reprint  a cheap  edition  of  the  Classical  Tour,  was,  by  the  concur- 
ring advice  of  returning  travellers,  induced  to  abandon  his  design, 
although  he  had  already  arranged  his  types  and  paper,  and  had 
struck  off  one  or  two  of  the  first  sheets. 

The  writer  of  these  notes  would  wish  to  part  (like  Mr.  Gibbon) 
on  good  terms  with  the  Pope  and  the  Cardinals,  but  he  does  not 
think  it  necessary  to  extend  the  same  discreet  silence  to  their 
humble  partisans. 


(1)  “ What,  then,  will  be  the  astonishment,  or  rather  the  horror,  of  my 

reader,  when  I inform  him tile  French  Committee  turned  its 

attention  to  Saint  Peter’s,  and  employed  a company  of  Jews  to  estimate  and 
purchase  the  gold,  silver,  and  bronze  that  adorn  the  inside  of  the  edifice,  as 
well  as  the  copper  that  covers  the  vaults  and  dome  on  the  outside,”  Classical 
Tour,  chap  iv.  p.  130,  vol.  ii.  The  story  about  the  Jews  is  positively  denied  at 
Rome. 

(2;  Mr.  Francis  Cohen,  now  Sir  Francs  Palgrave,  K.  H.,  the  learned 
author  of  the  “ Rise  and  Pro.' rest  of  the  EnglLn  Constitution,”  ‘‘  History  of 
the  Anglo-Saxons,  ’ &e  4c.] 


Jttarmo  jfaltero. 


Note  [A].  See  p.  224. 

[I  am  obliged  for  the  following  excellent  translation  of  the  old 
Chronicle  to  Mr.  F.  Cohen, 2 to  whom  the  reader  will  find  himsell 
indebted  for  a version  that  I could  not  myself— though  after  many 
years’  intercourse  with  Italian — have  given  by  any  means  so 
purely  and  so  faithfully .3] 

STORY  OF  MARINO  FALIERO,  DOGE  XLIX.  MCCCLIV. 

On  the  11th  day  of  September,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1 354, 
Marino  Faliero  was  elected  and  chosen  to  be  the'Duke  of  the 
Commonwealth  of  Venice.  He  was  Count  of  Valdemarino,  in  the 
marches  of  Treviso,  and  a knight,  and  a wealthy  man  to  boot.  As 
soon  as  the  election  was  completed,  it  was  resolved  in  the  Great 
Council,  that  a deputation  of  twelve  should  be  despatched  to 
Marino  Faliero  the  Duke,  who  was  then  on  his  way  from  Rome  ; 
for  when  he  was  chosen,  he  was  ambassador  at  the  court  of  the 
Holy  Father,  at  Rome, — the  Holy  Father  himself  held  his  court  at 
Avignon.  When  Messer  Marino  Faliero  the  Duke  was  about  to 
land  in  this  city,  on  the  5th  day  of  October,  1354,  a thick  haze 
came  on,  and  darkened  the  air  : and  he  was  enforced  to  land  on 
the  place  of  St.  Mark,  between  the  two  columns,  on  the  spot 
where  evil-doers  are  put  to  death ; and  all  thought  that  this  was 
the  worst  of  tokens. — Nor  must  I forget  to  write  that  which  I have 
read  in  a chronicle.  When  Messer  Marino  Faliero  was  Podesta 
and  Captain  of  Treviso,  the  Bishop  delayed  coming  in  with  the 
holy  sacrament,  on  a day  when  a procession  was  to  take  place. 
Now,  the  said  Marino  Faliero  was  so  very  proud  and  wrathful, 
that  he  buffeted  the  Bishop,  and  almost  struck  him  to  the  ground  . 
and,  therefore,  Heaven  allowed  Marino  Faliero  to  go  out  of  his 
right  senses,  in  order  that  he  might  bring  himself  to  an  evil  death. 

When  this  Duke  had  held  the  dukedom  during  nine  months  and 
six  days,  he,  being  wicked  and  ambitious,  sought  to  make  himself 
Lord  of  Venice,  in  the  manner  which  I have  read  in  an  ancient 
chronicle.  When  the  Thursday  ai rived  upon  which  they  were 
wont  to  hunt  the  bull,  the  bull  hunt  took  place  as  usual;  and, 
according  to  the  usage  of  those  times,  after  the  bull  hunt  had 
ended,  they  all  proceeded  unto  the  palace  of  the  Duke,  and 
assembled  together  in  one  of  his  halls  ; and  they  disported  them- 
selves with  the  women.  And  until  the  first  bell  tolled  they  danced, 
and  then  a banquet  was  served  up.  My  Lord  the  Duke  paid  the 
expenses  thereof,  provided  he  had  a Duchess,  and  after  the 
banquet  they  all  returned  to  their  homes. 

Now  to  this  feast  there  came  a certain  Ser  Michele  Sfeno,  a 
gentleman  of  poor  estate,  and  very  young,  but  crafty  and  daring, 
and  who  loved  one  of  the  damsels  of  the  Duchess.  Ser  Michele 
stood  amongst  the  women  upon  the  solajo ; and  he  behaved  indis- 
creetly, so  that  my  Lord  the  Duke  ordered  that  he  should  be  kicked 
off  the  solajo;  and  the  esquires  of  the  Duke  flung  him  down  from 
the  solajo  accordingly.  Ser  Michele  thought  that  such  an  affront 
was  beyond  all  bearing ; and  when  the  feast  was  over,  and  all  other 
persons  had  left  the  palace,  he,  continuing  heated  with  anger, 
went  to  the  hall  of  audience,  and  wrote  certain  unseemly  words 
relating  to  the  Duke  and  the  Duchess  upon  the  chair  in  which  the 
Duke  was  used  to  sit ; for  in  those  days  the  Duke  did  not  cover 
his  chair  with  cloth  of  sendal,  but  he  sat  in  a chair  of  wood.  Ser 
Michele  wrote  thereon — “ Marin  Falier,  the  husband  of  the  fair 
wife;  others  kiss  her,  but  he  keeps  her .”  In  the  morning  the 
words  were  seen,  and  the  matter  was  considered  to  be  very  scanda- 
lous ; and  the  Senate  commanded  the  Avogadori  of  the  Common- 
wealth to  proceed  therein  with  the  greatest  diligence.  A largess  of 
great  amount  was  immediately  proffered  by  the  Avogadori,  iv 
order  to  discover  who  had  written  these  words.  And  at  length  xt 
was  known  that  Michele  Steno  had  written  them.  It  was  resolved 
in  the  Council  of  Forty  that  he  should  be  arrested;  and  he  then 
confessed  that  in  the  fit  of  vexation  and  spite,  occasioned  by  his 


(3)  [In  a letter  to  Mr.  Murray,  dared  Ravenna,  July  30,  1821,  Lord  B. 
gavs  : — “ Enclosed  is  the  best  account  of  the  Doge  Faliero,  which  was  only 
sent  to  me,  from  an  old  MS  , the  other  day  Get  it  translated,  ana  app*"»d  .< 
as  a note  to  the  next  edition.  You  will,  perhaps,  be  pleased  to  see  tnat  my 
conceptions  of  his  character  were  correct ; though  I regret  not  having  met  with 
the  extract  before.  You  will  perceive  that  he  himsejf  said  exactly  w hat  he  is 
made  to  say  about  the  Bishop  of  Treviso.  You  will  see  also  that  lie  spoke 
little,  and  those  only  words  of  rage  and  disdain,  after  his  arrest ; which  is  the 
case  in  the  play,  except  when  he  breaks  out  at  the  closp  of  act  lift1!.  • But  his 
speech  to  the  conspirators  is  better  in  the  MS.  than  in  the  play.  I wi6h  I had 
met  with  it  in  time.”] 


APPENDIX. 


785 


being  thrust  off  the  solajo  in  the  presence  of  his  mistress,  he  had 
written  the  words.  Therefore  the  Council  debated  thereon.  And 
the  Council  took  his  youth  into  consideration,  and  that  he  was  a 
lover;  and  therefore  they  adjudged  that  he  should  be  kept  in  close 
confinement  during  two  months,  and  that  afterwards  he  should  be 
banished  from  Venice  and  the  state  during  one  year.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  mercifhl  sentence  the  Duke  became  exceedingly 
wroth,  it  appearing  to  him  that  the  Council  had  not  acted  in  such 
a ma  iner  as  was  required  by  the  respect  due  to  his  ducal  dignity ; 
and  he  said  that  they  ought  to  have  condemned  Ser  Michele  to  be 
hanged  by  the  neck,  or  at  least  to  be  banished  for  life. 

Now  it  was  fated  that  my  Lord  Duke  Marino  was  to  have  his 
head  cut  off.  And  as  it  is  necessary  when  any  effect  is  to  be 
brought  about  that  the  cause  of  such  effect  must  happen,  it  there- 
fore came  to  pass  that  on  the  very  day  after  sentence  had  been 
pronounced  on  Ser  Michele  Steno,  being  the  first  day  of  Lent,  a 
gentleman  of  the  house  of  Barbaro,  a choleric  gentleman,  went  to 
the  arsenal,  and  required  certain  things  of  the  masters  of  the 
galleys.  This  he  did  in  the  presence  of  the  Admiral  of  the 
arsenal,  and  he,  hearing  the  request,  answered, — No,  it  cannot  be 
done.  High  words  arose  between  the  gentleman  and  the  Admiral, 
and  the  gentleman  struck  him  with  his  fist  just  above  the  eye ; and 
as  he  happened  to  have  a ring  on  his  finger,  the  ring  cut  the 
Admiral  and  drew  blood.  The  Admiral,  all  bruised  and  bloody, 
ran  straight  to  the  Duke  to  complain,  and  with  the  intent  of 
praying  him  to  inflict  some  heavy  punishment  upon  the  gentleman 
of  Cit  Barbaro. — “What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  for  thee?” 
answered  the  Duke: — “ think  upon  the  shameful  gibe  which  hath 
been  written  concerning  me ! and  think  on  the  manner  in  which 
they  have  punished  that  ribald  Michele  Steno,  who  wrote  it;  and 
see  how  the  Council  of  Forty  respect  our  person.” — 'Upon  this  the 
Admiral  answered, — “ My  Lord  Duke,  if  you  would  wish  to  make 
yourself  a prince,  and  to  cut  all  those  cuckoldy  gentlemen  to 
pieces,  I have  the  heart,  if  you  do  but  help  me,  to  make  you  prince 
of  all  this  state;  and  then  you  may  punish  them  all.” — Hearing 
this,  the  Duke  said, — “ How  can  such  a matter  be  brought  about?  ” 
— and  so  they  discoursed  thereon. 

The  Duke  called  for  his  nephew,  Ser  Bertuccio  Faliero,  who 
lived  with  him  in  the  palace,  and  they  communed  about  this  plot. 
And  without  leaving  the  place,  they  sent  for  Philip  Calendaro,  a 
seaman  of  great  repute,  and  for  Bertuccio  Israello,  who  was 
exceedingly  wily  and  cunning.  Then  taking  counsel  amongst 
themselves,  they  agreed  to  call  in  some  others  ; and  so,  for  several 
nights  successively,  they  met  with  the  Duke  at  home  in  his  palace. 
And  the  following  men  were  called  in  singly;  to  wit; — Niccolo 
Fagiuolo,  Giovanni  da  Corfu,  Stefano  Fagiono,  Niccolo  dalle 
Bende,  Niccolo  Biondo,  and  Stefano  Trivisano. — It  was  concerted 
that  sixteen  or  seventeen  leaders  should  be  stationed  in  various 
parts  of  the  city,  each  being  at  the  head  of  forty  men,  armed  and 
prepared ; but  the  followers  were  not  to  know  their  destination. 
On  the  appointed  day  they  were  to  make  affrays  amongst  themselves 
here  and  there,  in  order  that  the  Duke  might  have  a pretence  for 
tolling  the  bells  of  San  Marco ; these  bells  are  never  rung  but  by 
the  order  of  the  Duke.  And  at  the  sound  of  the  bells,  these  six- 
teen or  seventeen,  with  their  followers,  were  to  come  to  San  Marco, 
through  the  streets  which  open  upon  the  Piazza.  And  when  the 
noble  and  leading  citizens  should  come  into  the  Piazza,  to  know 
the  cause  of  the  riot,  then  the  conspirators  were  to  cut  them  in 
pieces ; and  this  work  being  finished,  my  Lord  Marino  Faliero  the 
Duke  was  to  be  proclaimed  the  Lord  of  Venice.  Things  having 
been  thus  settled,  they  agreed  to  fullil  their  intent  on  Wednesday, 
the  15th  day  of  April,  in  the  year  1355.  So  covertly  did  they  plot, 
that  no  one  ever  dreamt  of  their  machinations. 

Bet  the  Lord,  who  hath  always  helped  this  most  glorious  city, 
and  who,  loving  its  righteousness  and  holiness,  hath  never  forsaken 
it,  inspired  one  Beltramo  Bergamasco  to  be  the  cause  of  bringing 
the  plot  to  light,  in  the  following  manner.  This  Beltramo,  who 
belonged  to  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni  of  Santo  Stefano,  had  heard  a word 
or  two  of  what  was  to  take  place  ; and  so,  in  the  before-mentioned 
month  of  April,  he  went  to  the  house  of  the  aforesaid  Ser  Niccolo 
Lioni,  and  told  him  all  the  particulars  of  the  plot.  Ser  Niccolo, 
vhen  he  heard  all  these  things,  was  struck  dead,  as  it  were,  with 
affright.  He  heard  all  the  particulars : and  Beltramo  prayed  him 
to  keep  it  all  secret;  and  if  he  told  Ser  Niccolo,  it  was  in  order 
that  Ser  Niccolo  might  stop  at  home  on  the  15th  of  April,  and  thus 
save  his  life.  Beltramo  was  going,  but  Ser  Niocolo  ordered  his 
servants  to  lay  hands  upon  him,  and  lock  him  up.  Ser  Niccolo 
then  went  to  the  house  of  Messer  Giovanni  Gradenigo  Nasoni,  who 
afterwards  became  Duke,  and  who  also  lived  at  Santo  Stefano,  and 
told  him  all.  The  matter  seemed  to  him  to  be  of  the  very  greatest 


importance,  as  indeed  it  was;  and  they  t«vo  went  to  the  house  of 
Ser  Marco  Cornaro,  who  lived  at  San  Felice ; and  having  spoken 
with  him,  they  art  three  then  determined  to  go  back  to  the  house 
of  Ser  Niccolo  Lioni,  to  examine  the  said  Beltramo;  and  having 
questioned  him,  and  heard  all  that  he  had  to  say,  they  left  him  in 
confinement.  And  then  they  all  three  went  into  the  sacristy  of 
San  Salvatore,  and  sent  their  men  to  summon  the  councillors,  the 
Avogadori,  the  Capi  de’  Dieci,  and  those  of  the  Great  Council. 

When  all  were  assembled,  the  whole  story  was  told  to  them. 
They  were  struck  dead,  as  it  were,  with  affright.  They  determined 
to  send  for  Beltramo.  He  was  brought  in  before  them.  They 
examined  him,  and  ascertained  that  the  matter  was  true;  and, 
although  they  were  exceedingly  troubled,  yet  they  determined  upon 
their  measures.  And  they  sent  for  the  Capi  de’  Quarante,  the 
Signori  di  Notte,  the  Capi  de’  Sestieri,  and  the  Cinque  della  Pace; 
and  they  were  ordered  to  associate  to  their  men  other  good  men 
ai>d  true,  who  were  to  proceed  to  the  houses  of  the  ringleader?  of 
the  conspiracy,  and  secure  them.  And  they  secured  the  foreman 
of  the  arsenal,  in  order  that  the  conspirators  might  not  do  mischief. 
Towards  nightfall  they  assembled  in  the  palace.  When  they  were 
assembled  in  the  palace,  they  caused  the  gates  of  the  quadrangle  of 
the  palace  to  be  shut.  And  they  sent  to  the  keeper  of  the  bell- 
tower,  and  forbade  the  tolling  of  the  bells.  All  this  was  carried 
into  effect.  The  before-mentioned  conspirators  were  secured,  and 
they  were  brought  to  the  palace;  and,  as  the  Council  of  Ten  saw 
that  the  Duke  was  in  the  plot,  they  resolved  that  twenty  of  the 
leading  men  of  the  state  should  be  associated  to  them,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  consultation  and  deliberation,  but  that  they  should  not  be 
allowed  to  ballot. 

The  councillors  were  the  following : — Ser  Giovanni  Mocenigo,  of 
the  Sestiero  of  San  Marco  ; Ser  Almoro  Veniero  da  Santa  Marina, 
of  the  Sestiero  of  Castello ; Ser  Tomaso  Viadro,  of  the  Sestiero  of 
Canaregio ; Ser  Giovanni  Sanudo,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Santa  Croce ; 
Ser  Pietro  Trivisano,  of  the  Sestiero  of  San  Paolo  ; Ser  Pantalione 
Barbo  il  Grando,  of  the  Sestiero  of  Ossoduro.  The  Avogadori  of 
the  Commonwealth  were  Zufredo  Morosini,  and  Ser  Orio  Pasqua- 
ligo:  and  these  did  not  ballot.  Those  of  the  Council  of  Ten  were 
Ser  Giovanni  Marcello,  Ser  Tomaso  Sanudo,  and  Ser  Micheletto 
Dolfino,  the  heads  of  the  aforesaid  Council  of  Ten.  Ser  Luca  da 
Legge,  and  Ser  Pietro  da  Mosto,  inquisitors  of  the  aforesaid 
Council.  And  Ser  Marco  Polani,  Ser  Marino  Veniero,  Ser  Lando 
Lombardo,  and  Ser  Nicoletto  Trivisano,  of  Sant’  Angelo. 

Late  in  the  night,  just  before  the  dawning,  they  chose  a junta  of 
twenty  noblemen  of  Venice  from  amongst  the  wisest,  and  the 
worthiest,  and  the  oldest.  They  were  to  give  counsel,  but  not  tc 
ballot.  And  they  would  not  admit  any  one  of  C4  Faliero.  Anr 
Niccolo  Faliero,  and  another  Niccolo  Faliero,  of  San  Tomaso, 
were  expelled  from  the  Council,  because  they  belonged  to  the 
family  of  the  Doge.  And  this  resolution  of  creating  the  junta  of 
twenty  was  much  praised  throughout  the  state.  The  following 
were  the  members  of  the  junta  of  twenty: — Ser  Marco  Giustiniani, 
Procuratore,  Ser  Andrea  Erizzo,  Procuratore,  Ser  Lionardo  Gius- 
tiniani, Procuratore,  Ser  Andrea  Contarini,  Ser  Simone  Dandolo, 
Ser  Niccolo  Volpe,  Ser  Giovanni  Loiedano,  Ser  Marco  Diedo,  Ser 
Giovanni  Gradenigo,  Ser  Andrea  Cornaro,  Cavaliere,  Ser  Marco 
Soranzo,  Ser  Rinieri  du  Mosto,  Ser  Gazano  Marcello,  Ser  Marino 
Morosini,  Ser  Stefano  Belegno,  Ser  Niceolo  Lioni,  Ser  Filippo 
Orio,  Ser  Marco  Trivisano,  Ser  Jacopo  Bragadino,  Ser  Giovanni 
Foscarini. 

These  twenty  were  accordingly  called  in  to  the  Council  of  Ten ; 
and  they  sent  for  my  Lord  Marino  Faliero  the  Duke : and  my  Lord 
Marino  was  then  consorting  in  the  palace  with  people  of  great 
estate,  gentlemen,  and  other  good  men,  none  of  whom  knew  yet 
how  the  fact  stood. 

At  the  same  time  Bertuccio  Israello,  who,  as  one  of  the  ring- 
leaders, was  to  head  the  conspirators  in  Santa  Croce,  was  arrested 
and  bound,  and  brought  before  the  Council.  Zanello  del  Brin, 
Nicoletto  di  Rosa,  Nicoletto  Alberto,  and  the  Guardiaga,  were  also 
taken,  together  with  several  seamen,  and  people  of  various  ranks. 
These  were  examined,  and  the  truth  of  the  plot  was  ascertained. 

On  the  16th  of  April  judgment  was  given  in  the  Council  of  Ten, 
that  Filippo  Calendaro  and  Bertuccio  Israello  should  be  hanged 
upon  the  red  pillars  of  the  balcony  of  the  palace  from  which  the 
Duke  is  wont  to  look  at  the  bull  hunt:  and  they  were  hanged  with 
gags  in  their  mouths. 

The  next  day  the  following  were  condemned : — Niccolo  Zuccuolo, 
Nicoletto  Biondo,  Nicoletto  Doro,  Marco  Giuda,  Jacomello  Dago- 
lino,  Nicoletto  Fidele,  the  son  of  Filippo  Calendaro,  Marce 
Torello,  called  Israello,  Stefano  Trivisano,  the  money  changer  of 
Santa  Margberita,  and  Antonio  dalle  Bende.  The?e  were  ail 

5 H 


786 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


taken  at  Chiozza,  for  they  were  endeavouring  to  escape.  After- 
wards, by  virtue  of  the  sentence  which  was  passed  upon  them  in 
the  Council  of  Ten,  they  were  hanged  on  successive  days;  some 
singly  and  some  in  couples,  upon  the  columns  of  the  palace, 
beginning  from  the  red  columns,  and  so  going  onwards  towards  the 
canal.  And  other  prisoners  were  discharged,  because,  although 
they  had  been  involved  in  the  conspiracy,  yet  they  had  not  assisted 
in  it : for  they  were  given  to  understand  by  some  of  the  heads  of 
the  plot,  that  they  were  to  come  armed  and  prepared  for  the  ser- 
vice of  the  state,  and  in  order  to  secure  certain  criminals ; and 
they  knew  nothing  else.  Nicoletto  Alberto,  the  Guardiaga,  and 
Bartolommeo  Ciricolo  and  his  son,  and  several  others,  who  were 
not  guilty,  were  discharged. 

On  Friday,  the  16th  day  of  April,  judgment  was  also  given  in 
the  aforesaid  Council  of  Ten,  that  my  Lord  Marino  Faliero,  the 
Duke,  should  have  his  head  cut  ofl';  and  that  the  execution  should 
be  done  on  the  landing-place  of  the  sfone  staircase,  where  the 
Dukes  take  their  oath  when  they  first  enter  the  palace.  On  the 
following  day,  the  17  th  of  April,  the  doors  of  the  palace  being  shut, 
the  Duke  had  his  head  cut  off,  about  the  hour  of  noon.  And  the 
cap  of  estate  was  taken  from  the  Duke’s  head  before  he  came 
down  stairs.  When  the  execution  was  over,  it  i3  said  that  one  of 
the  Council  of  Ten  went  to  the  columns  of  the  palace  over  against 
the  place  of  St.  Mark,  and  that  he  showed  the  bloody  sword  unto 
the  people,  crying  out  with  a loud  voice — “ The  terrible  doom 
hath  fallen  upon  the  traitor ! ” — and  the  doors  were  opened,  and 
the  people  all  rushed  in,  to  see  the  corpse  of  the  Duke,  who  had 
been  beheaded. 

It  must  be  known  that  Ser  Giovanni  Sanudo,  the  councillor,  was 
not  present  when  the  aforesaid  sentence  was  pronounced ; because 
he  was  unwell,  and  remained  at  home.  So  that  only  fourteen 
balloted ; that  is  to  say,  five  councillors,  and  nine  of  the  Council  of 
Ten.  And  it  was  adjudged,  that  all  the  lands  and  chattels  of  the 
Duke,  as  well  as  of  the  other  traitors,  should  be  forfeited  to  the 
state.  And,  as  a grace  to  the  Duke,  it  was  resolved  in  the  Council 
of  Ten  that  he  shoirtd  be  allowed  to  dispose  of  two  thousand  ducats 
out  of  his  own  property.  And  it  was  resolved,  that  all  the  coun- 
cillors and  all  the  Avogadori  of  the  Commonwealth,  those  of  the 
Council  of  Ten,  and  the  members  of  the  junta,  who  had  assisted  in 
passing  sentence  on  the  Duke  and  the  other  traitors,  should  have 
the  privilege  of  carrying  arms  both  by  day  and  by  night  in  Venice, 
and  from  Grado  to  Cavazere.  And  they  were  also  to  be  allowed 
two  footmen  carrying  arms,  the  aforesaid  footmen  living  and 
boarding  with  them  In  their  own  houses.  And  he  who  did  not 
keep  two  footmen  might  transfer  the  privilege  to  his  sons  or  his 
brothers,  but  only  to  two.  Permission  of  carrying  arms  was  also 
granted  to  the  four  notaries  of  the  chancery,  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
Supreme  Court,  who  took  the  depositions:  and  they  were,  Amedio, 
Nicoletto  di  Lorino,  Steffanello,  and  Pietro  de  Compostelli,  the 
secretaries  of  the  Signori  di  Notte. 

After  the  traitors  had  been  hanged,  and  the  Duke  had  had  his 
head  cut  off,  the  state  remained  in  great  tranquillity  and  peace. 
And,  as  I have  read  in  a chronicle,  the  corpse  of  the  Duke  was 
removed  in  a barge,  with  eight  torches,  to  his  tomb  in  the  church 
of  San  Giovanni  e Paolo,  where  it  was  buried.  The  tomb  is  now 
in  that  aisle  in  the  middle  of  the  little  church  of  Santa  Maria  della 
Pace,  which  was  built  by  Bishop  Gabriel  of  Bergamo.  It  is  a 
coffin  of  stone,  with  these  words  engraven  thereon  : “ Heic  jacet 
Dominus  Marinas  Faletro  Dux.” — And  they  did  not  paint  his  por- 
trait in  the  hall  of  the  Great  Council ; but  in  the  place  where  it 
ought  to  have  been,  you  see  these  words:  “ Hie  est  locus  Marini 
Faletro , decapitati  pro  criminibus." — And  it  is  thought  that  his 
house  was  granted  to  the  church  of  Sant’  Apostolo;  it  was  that 
great  one  near  the  bridge.  Yet  this  could  not  be  the  case,  or  else 
the  family  bought  it  back  from  the  church ; for  it  still  belongs  to 
Cd  Faliero.  I must  not  refrain  from  noting  that  some  wished  to 
write  the  following  words  in  the  place  where  his  portrait  ought  to 
have  been,  as  aforesaid:  — “Marinus  Faletro  Dux,  temerita*  me 
cepit.  Paenas  lui,  decapitatus  pro  criminibus .” — Others,  also, 
indited  a couplet,  worthy  of  being  inscribed  upon  his  tomb. 

“ Dux  Venelum  jacet  heic,  patriam  qui  prodere  lentans, 
Scco'ra.  deem,  centum  verdidit.  ataue  caput.” 


Note  [B]. — Petrarch  on  the  Conspiracy  of 
Marino  Faliero.1 

“ Al  giovane  Doge  Andrea  Dandolo  succedette  un  vecchio,  fl 
quale  tardi  si  pose  al  timone  della  repubblica,  ma  sempre  prima  di 
quel,  che  facea  d’  uopo  a lui,  ed  alia  patria:  egli  d Marino  Faliero, 
personaggio  a me  noto  per  antica  dimestichezza.  Falsa  era  1' 
opinione  intorno  a lui,  giacche  egli  si  mostrb  fornito  piu  di  cor- 
raggio,  che  di  senno.  Non  pago  della  prima  dignity,  entro  con 
sinistro  piede  nel  pubblico  Palazzo : imperciocche  questo  Doge  de 
Veneti,  magistrato  sacro  in  tutti  i secoli,  che  dagli  antichi  fd 
sempre  venerato  qual  nume  in  quella  citta,  1’  altr’  jeri  fd  decollato 
nel  vestibolo  dell’  istesso  Palazzo.  Discorrerei  fin  dal  principio  le 
cause  di  un  tale  evvento,  e cosi  vario,  ed  ambiguo  non  ne  fosse  il 
grido.  Nessuno  perd  lo  scusa,  tutti  affermano,  che  egli  abbia 
voluto  cangiar  qualche  cosa  nell’  ordine  della  repubblica  a lui  tra- 
mandato  dai  maggiori.  Che  desiderava  egli  di  piu?  Io  son  d’ 
avviso,  che  egli  abbia  ottenuto  cib,  che  non  si  concedette  a nessun 
altro : mentre  adempiva  gli  ufficj  di  legato  presso  il  Pontefice,  e 
sulle  rive  del  Rodano  trattava  la  pace,  che  io  prima  di  lui  avevo 
indarno  tentato  di  conchiudere,  gli  f il  conferito  1’  on  ore  del  Ducato, 
che  ne  chiedeva,  ne  s’  aspettava.  Tomato  in  patria,  pensd  a quello, 
cui  nessuno  non  pose  mente  giammai,  e soffrl  quello,  che  a niuno 
accadde  mai  di  soffrire  ; giacche  in  quel  luogo  celeberrimo,  e chia- 
rissimo,  e bellissimo  infra  tutti  quelli,  che  io  vidi,  ove  i suoi 
antenati  avevajio  ricevuti  grandissimi  onori  in  mezzo  alle  pompi 
trionfali,  ivi  egli  fu  trascinato  in  modo  servile,  e spogiiato  dells 
insegne  ducali,  perdette  la  testa,  e macchib  col  proprio  sangue  le 
soglie  del  tempio,  1’  atrio  del  Palazzo,  e le  scale  marmoree  rendute 
spesse  volte  illustri  o dalle  solenni  festivity,  o dalle  ostili  spoglie. 
Ho  notato  il  luogo,  ora  noto  il  tempo:  d 1’ an  nodel  Natale  di 
Cristo  1355,  fd  il  giorno  18  d’  Aprile.  Si  alto  d il  grido  sparso,  che 
se  alcuno  esaminerd  la  disciplina,  e le  costumanze  di  quella  cittd, 
e quanto  mutamento  di  cose  venga  minacciato  dalla  morte  di  un 
sol  uomo  (quantunque  molti  altri,  come  narrano,  essendo  complici, 

0 subirono  ]’ istesso  suppiicio,  o lo  aspettano)  si  accor- 
gera,  che  nulla  di  piu  grande  avvenne  ai  nostri  tempi  nella 
Italia.  Tu  forse  qui  attend  il  mio  giudizio  : assolvo  il  pop- 
olo,  se  credere  alia  fama,  benche.  abbia  potuto  e castig- 
are  piu  mitemente,  e con  maggior  dolcezza  vendicare 
il  suo  dolore  : ma  non  cosi  facilmente;  si  modera 
un’  ira  giusta  insieme,  e grande  in  un  numeroso  popolo  principal- 
mente,  nel  quale  il  precipitoso,  ed  instabile  volgo  aguzza  gli 
stimoli  dell’ irracoadia  con  rapidi,  e sconsigliati  clamori.  Com- 
patisco,  e nell’  istesso  tempo  mi  adiro  con  quell’  infelice  uomo,  il 
quale  adorno  di  un’  insolito  onore,  non  so,  che  cosa  si  volesse  negli 
estremi  anni  della  sua  vita : la  calamita  di  lui  diviene  sempre  pid 
gTave,  percbe  dalla  sentenza  contra  di  esso  promulgata  aperira,  che 
egli  fd  non  solo  misero,  ma  insano,  e demente,  e che  con  vane  arti 
si  usurpd  per  tanti  anni  una  falsa  fama  di  sapienza.  Ammonisco 

1 Dogi,  i quali  gli  succederano,  che  questo  e un’  esempio  posto 
inanzi  ai  loro  occhj,  quale  specchio,  nel  quale  veggano  d’  essero 
non  Signori,  ma  Duci,  anzi  nemmeno  Duci,  ma  onorati  servi  della 
Repubblica.  Tu  sta  sano ; e giacchd  fluttuano  le  pubbliche  cose, 
sforsiamosi  di  govemar  modestissimamente  i privati  nostri  affari.” — 
Levati,  Viaggi  di  Petrarca,  vol.  iv.  p.  323. 

The  above  Italian  translation  from  the  Latin  epistles  of  Petrarch 
proves — lstly,  That  Marino  Faliero  was  a personal  friend  of 
Petrarch’s;  “antica  dimestichezza,’’  old  intimacy,  is  the  phrase  of 
the  poet.  2dly,  That  Petrarch  thought  that  he  had  more  courage 
than  conduct,  “ pid  di  corraggio  che  di  senno.”  3dly,  That  there 
was  some  jealousy  on  the  part  of  Petrarch  ; for  he  says  that  Marine 
Faliero  was  treating  of  the  peace  which  he  himself  had  “vainly 
attempted  to  conclude.”  4thly,  That  the  honour  of  the  dukedom 
was  conferred  upon  him,  which  he  neither  sought  nor  expected, 
“ che  nd  chiedeva  nd  aspettava,”  and  which  had  never  been  granted 
to  any  other  in  like  circumstances,  “ cid  che  non  si  concedette  a 
nessun  altro,”  a proof  of  the  high  esteem  in  which  he  must  have 
been  held.  5thly,  That  he  had  a reputation  for  wisdom,  only 
forfeited  by  the  last  enterprise  of  his  life,  “ si  usurpd  per  tanti  anni 
una  falsa  fama  di  sapienza.”— “ He  had  usurped  for  so  many  years 
a false  fame  of  wisdom,”  rather  a difficult  task,  I should  think. 
People  are  generally  found  out  before  eighty  years  of  age,  at  least 
in  a republic.  -From  these,  and  the  other  historical  notes  wc.-ch  I 
have  collected,  it  n.ay  be  inferred  that  Marino  Faliero  possessed 
many  of  the  qualities,  but  not  the  success  of  a hero;  and  that  his 


(1)  [•'  Had  a copy  taken  of  an  extract  from  Petrarch’s  Letters,  w ith  reference 
to  the  conspiracy  of  the  D o _t*  Marino  F diero,  containing  the  poet’s  opinion  el 
the  matter.” — Dyron  Diary,  Feb.  11  1821.] 


APPENDIX. 


passions  were  too  violent.  The  paltry  and  ignorant  account  of  Dr. 
Moore  falls  to  the  ground.  Petrarch  says,  “ that  there  had  been 
no  greater  event  in  his  times”  ( our  times  literally),  “nostri  tempi,’’ 
in  Italy.  He  also  differs  from  the  historian  in  saying  that  Faliero 
was  “on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone,"  instead  of  at  Rome,  when 
elected:  the  other  accounts  say,  that  the  deputation  of  the  Vene- 
tian se.idte  met  him  at  Ravenna.  How  this  may  have  been,  it  is 
not  for  me  to  decide,  and  is  of  no  great  importance.  Had  the  man 
succeeded,  he  would  have  changed  the  face  of  Venice,  and  perhaps 
of  Italy.  As  it  is,  what  are  they  both  ? 


Note  [C].— Venetian  Society  and  Manners. 

“ Vice  without  splendour,  sin  without  relief 
Even  from  the  gloss  of  love  to  smooth  it  o'er  ; 

But,  in  its  stead,  coarse  lusts  of  habitude ,”  &c. 

(See  p.  231.) 

“ To  these  attacks  so  frequently  pointed  by  the  government 
against  the  clergy, — to  the  continual  struggles  between  the  diffe- 
rent constituted  bodies, — to  these  enterprises  carried  on  by  the 
mass  of  the  nobles  against  the  depositaries  of  power, — to  all  those 
projects  of  innovation,  which  always  ended  by  a stroke  of  state 
policy;  we  must  add  a cause  not  less  fitted  to  spread  contempt  for 
ancient  doctrines ; this  was  the  excess  of  corruption. 

“ That  freedom  of  manners,  which  had  been  long  boasted  of  as 
the  principal  charm  of  Venetian  society,  had  degenerated  into 
scandalous  licentiousness:  the  tie  of  marriage  was  less  sacred  in 
that  Catholic  country,  than  among  those  nations  where  the  laws 
and  religion  admit  of  its  being  dissolved.  Because  they  could  not 
break  the  contract,  they  feigned  that  it  had  not  existed ; and  the 
ground  of  nullity,  immodestly  alleged  by  the  married  pair,  was 
admitted  with  equal  facility  by  priests  and  magistrates,  alike  cor- 
rupt. These  divorces,  veiled  under  another  name,  became  so 
frequent,  that  the  most  important  act  of  civil  society  was  discovered 
to  be  amenable  to  a tribunal  of  exceptions;  and  to  restrain  the 
open  scandal  of  such  proceedings  became  the  office  of  the  police. 
In  1782,  the  Council  of  Ten  decreed,  that  every  woman  who  should 
sue  for  a dissolution  of  her  marriage  should  be  compelled  to  await 
the  decision  of  the  judges  in  some  convent,  to  be  named  by  the 
court.  1 Soon  afterwards  the  same  council  summoned  all  causes  of 
that  nature  before  itself.2  This  infringement  on  ecclesiastical 
jurisdiction  having  occasioned  some  remonstrance  from  Rome,  the 
council  retained  only  the  right  of  rejecting  the  petition  of  the 
married  persons,  and  consented  to  refer  such  causes  to  the  holy 
office  as  it  should  not  previously  have  rejected.3 * 

“ There  was  a moment  in  which,  doubtless,  the  destruction  of 
private  fortunes,  the  ruin  of  youth,  the  domestic  discord  occasioned 
by  these  abuses,  determined  the  government  to  depart  from  its 
established  maxims  concerning  the  freedom  of  manners  allowed 
the  subject.  All  the  courtesans  were  banished  from  Venice;  but 
their  absence  was  not  enough  to  reclaim  and  bring  back  good 
morals  to  a whole  people  brought  up  in  the  most  scandalous  licen- 
tiousness. Depravity  reached  the  very  bosoms  of  private  families, 
and  even  into  the  cloister;  and  they  found  themselves  obliged  to 
recall,  and  even  to  indemnify i women  who  sometimes  gained 
possession  of  important  secrets,  and  who  might  be  usefully  em- 
ployed in  the  ruin  of  men  whose  fortunes  might  have  rendered 
them  dangerous.  Since  that  time  licentiousness  has  gone  on  in- 
creasing ; and  we  have  seen  mothers,  not  only  selling  the  innocence 
of  their  daughters,  but  selling  it  by  a contract,  authenticated  by 
the  signature  of  a public  officer,  and  the  performance  of  which  was 
secured  by  the  protection  of  the  laws.5 

'*  The  parlours  of  the  convents  of  noble  ladies,  and  the  houses  of 
the  courtesans,  though  the  police  carefully  kept  up  a number  of 
spies  about  them,  were  the  only  assemblies  for  society  in  Venice; 
and  in  these  two  places,  so  different  from  each  other,  there  was 
equal  freedom.  Music,  collations,  gallantry,  were  not  more 
forbidden  in  the  parlours  than  at  the  casinos.  There  were  a 
number  of  casinos  for  the  purpose  of  public  assemblies,  where 
gaming  was  the  principal  pursuit  of  the  company.  It  was  a strange 
sight  to  see  persons  of  either  sex  masked,  or  grave  in  their  magis- 
terial robes,  round  a table,  invoking  chance,  and  giving  way  at  one 


(1)  Correspondence  of  M.  Schlick,  French  chanr<  d’affaires.  Despatah  of 
84th  August,  1782.  (2)  Ibid.  Despatch,  31st  August. 

(3,  Ibid.  Despatch  of  3d  September,  1785. 

?<)  The  decree  for  their  recall  designates  them  as  nostre  benenurrtts  mere  tried- 


787 

instant  to  the  agonies  of  despair,  at  the  next  to  the  illusions  oi 
hope,  and  that  without  uttering  a single  word. 

“ The  rich  had  private  casinos,  but  they  lived  incognito  in  them 
and  the  wives  whom  they  abandoned  found  compensation  in  the, 
liberty  they  enjoyed.  The  corruption  of  morals  had  deprived  them 
of  their  empire.  We  have  just  reviewed  the  whole  history  oi 
Venice,  and  we  have  not  once  seen  them  exercise  the  slightest 
influence.” — Daru  : Hist,  de  la  Repub.  de  Venice,  vol.  v.  p.  95. 


®oo  jposcarf. 


Note  [A].  See  p.  2 77. 

The  best  English  account  of  the  incidents  on  which  this  play  is 

founded,  is  given  in  the  second  volume  of  the  Reverend  Mr. 

Smedley's  “ Sketches  of  Venetian  History,”  and  is  as  follows  : 

“ The  reign  of  Francesco  Foscari  had  now  been  prolonged  to 
the  unusual  period  of  thirty-four  years,  and  these  years  were 
marked  by  almost  continual  warfare;  during  which,  however,  the 
courage,  the  firmness,  and  the  sagacity  of  the  illustrious  Doge  had 
won  four  rich  provinces  for  his  country,  and  increased  her  glory 
not  less  than  her  dominion.  Ardent,  enterprising,  and  ambitious 
of  the  glory  of  conquest,  it  was  not  without  much  opposition  that 
Foscari  had  obtained  the  Dogeship;  and  he  soon  discovered  that 
the  throne  which  he  had  coveted  with  so  great  earnestness  was  far 
from  being  a seat  of  repose.  Accordingly,  at  the  peace  of  Ferrara, 
which  in  1433  succeeded  a calamitous  war,  foreseeing  the  approach 
of  fresh  and  still  greater  troubles,  and  wearied  by  the  factions 
which  ascribed  all  disasters  to  the  Prince,  he  tendered  his  abdica- 
tion to  the  senate,  and  was  refused.  A like  offer  was  renewed  by 
him  when  nine  years’  further  experience  of  sovereignty  had  con- 
firmed his  former  estimate  of  its  career;  and  the  Council,  on  this 
second  occasion,  much  more  from  adher,£nce  to  existing  institutions 
than  from  any  attachment  to  the  persort  of  the  Doge,  accompanied 
their  negative  with  the  exaction  of  an  oath  that  he  would  retain  his 
burdensome  dignity  for  life.  Too  early,  alas!  was  he  to  be  taught 
that  life,  on  such  conditions,  was  the  heaviest  of  curses  J Three 
out  of  his  four  sons  were  already  dead : to  Giacopo,  the  survivor, 
he  looked  for  the  continuation  of  his  name  and  the  support  of  his 
declining  age ; and,  from  that  youth’s  intermarriage  with  the  illus- 
trious house  of  Contarini,  and  the  popular  joy  with  which  his 
nuptials  were  celebrated,  the  Doge  drew  favourable  auspices  for 
future  happiness.  Four  years,  however,  had  scarcely  elapsed  from 
the  conclusion  of  that  well-omened  marriage,  when  a series  of 
calamities  began,  from  which  death  alone  was  to  relieve  either  the 
son  or  his  yet  more  wretched  father.  In  1445,  Giacopo  Foscari  was 
denounced  to  the  Ten,  as  having  received  presents  from  foreign 
potentates,  and  especially  from  Filippo-Maria  Visconti.  The 
offence,  according  to  the  law,  was  one  of  the  most  heinous  which  a 
noble  could  commit.  Even  if  Giacopo  were  guiltless  of  infringing 
that  law,  it  was  not  easy  to  establish  innocence  before  a Venetian 
tribunal.  Under  the  eyes  of  his  own  father,  compelled  to  preside 
at  the  unnatural  examination,  a confession  was  extorted  from  the 
prisoner,  on  the  rack ; and  from  the  lips  of  that  father,  he  received 
the  sentence  which  banished  him  for  life  to  Napoli  di  Romania. 
On  his  passage,  severe  illness  delayed  him  at  Trieste ; and,  at  the 
especial  prayer  of  the  Doge,  a less  remote  district  was  assigned  for 
his  punishment:  he  was  permitted  to  reside  at  Treviso,  and  his 
wife  was  allowed  to  participate  his  exile. 

“ It  was  in  the  commencement  of  the  winter  of  1450,  while 
Giacopo  Foscari  rested,  in  comparative  tranquillity,  within  the 
bounds  to  which  he  was  restricted,  that  an  assassination  occurred 
in  the  streets  of  Venice.  Hermolao  Donato,  a Chief  of  the  Ten, 
was  murdered  on  his  return  from  a sitting  of  that  council,  at  his 
own  door,  by  unknown  hands.  The  magnitude  of  the  offence  and 
the  violation  of  the  high  dignity  of  the  Ten  demanded  a victim  ; 
and  the  coadjutors  of  the  slain  magistrate  caught  with  eager  grasp 
at  the  slightest  clue  which  suspicion  could  afford.  A domestic  in 
the  service  of  Giacopo  Foscari  had  been  seen  in  Venice  on  tb* 


a fund  and  some  houses,  called  Case  rampane,  were  assigned  to  them : hence 

the  opprobrious  appellation  of  Carampans. 

(5)  Mayer,  Description  of  Venice,  vol.  ii.  ; and  M.  Archt-nholz,  Picture  oi 
Italy,  vol  i.  ch.  2 


788 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


evening  of  the  murder ; and  on  the  following  morning,  when  met 
in  a boat  off  Mestre  by  a Chief  of  the  Ten,  and  asked,  ‘ What 
news?’  he  had  answered  by  reporting  the  assassination,  several 
hours  before  it  was  generally  known.  It  might  seem  that  such 
frankness  of  itself  disproved  all  participation  in  the  crime;  for  the 
author  of  it  was  not  likely  thus  unseasonably  and  prematurely  to 
disclose  its  committal.  But  the  Ten  thought  differently,  and 
matters  which  to  others  bore  conviction  of  innocence,  to  them 
savoured  strongly  of  guilt.  The  servant  was  arrested,  examined, 
and  barbarously  tortured;  but  even  the  eightieth  application  of 
the  strappado  failed  to  elicit  one  syllable  which  might  justify  con- 
demnation. That  Giacopo  Foscari  had  experienced  the  severity  of 
the  Council’s  judgment,  and  that  its  jealous  watchfulness  was 
daily  imposing  some  new  restraint  upon  his  father’s  authority, 
powerfully  operated  to  convince  the  Ten  that  they  must  themselves 
in  return  be  objects  of  his  deadly  enmity.  Who  else,  they  said, 
could  be  more  likely  to  arm  the  hand  of  an  assassin  against  a 
Chief  of  the  Ten,  than  one  whom  the  Ten  have  visited  with  punish- 
ment ? On  this  unjust  and  unsupported  surmise,  the  young  Foscari 
was  recalled  from  Treviso,  placed  on  the  rack  which  his  servant 
had  just  vacated,  tortured  again  in  his  father’s  presence,  and  not 
absolved  even  after  he  resolutely  persisted  in  denial  unto  the  end. 

“ The  wrongs,  however,  which  Giacopo  Foscari  endured  had  by 
no  means  chilled  the  passionate  love  with  which  he  continued  to 
regard  his  ungrateful  country.  He  was  now  excluded  from  all 
communication  with  his  family,  torn  from  the  wife  of  his  affections, 
debarred  from  the  society  of  his  children,  hopeless  of  again  em- 
bracing those  parents  who  had  already  far  outstripped  the  natural 
term  of  human  existence;  and  to  his  imagination,  for  ever 
centering  itself  upon  the  single  desire  of  return,  life  presented  no 
other  object  deserving  pursuit ; till,  for  the  attainment  of  this 
wish,  life  itself  at  length  appeared  to  be  scarcely  more  than  an 
adequate  sacrifice.  Preyed  upon  by  this  fever  of  the  heart,  after 
six  years’  unavailing  suit  for  a remission  of  punishment,  in  the 
summer  of  1456,  he  addressed  a letter  to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  im- 
ploring his  good  offices  with  the  senate.  That  letter,  purposely 
left  open  in  a place  obvious  to  the  spies  by  whom,  even  in  his 
exile,  he  was  surrounded,  and  afterwards  intrusted  to  an  equally 
treacherous  hand  for  delivery  to  Sforza,  was  conveyed,  as  the 
writer  intended,  to  the  Council  of  Ten ; and  the  result,  which 
equally  fulfilled  his  expectation,  was  a hasty  summons  to  Venice  to 
answer  for  the  heavy  crime  of  soliciting  foreign  intercession  with 
his  native  government. 

“ For  a third  time,  Francesco  Foscari  listened  to  the  accusation 
of  his  son ; for  the  first  time  he  heard  him  only  avow  the  charge  of 
his  accusers,  and  calmly  state  that  his  offence,  such  as  it  was,  had 
been  committed  designedly  and  afore-thought,  with  the  sole  object 
of  detection,  in  order  that  he  might  be  brought  back,  even  as  a 
malefactor,  to  Venice.  This  prompt  and  voluntary  declaration, 
however,  was  not  sufficient  to  decide  the  nice  hesitation  of  his 
judges.  Guilt,  they  said,  might  be  too  easily  admitted,  as  well  as 
too  pertinaciously  denied;  and  the  same  process  therefore  by 
which,  at  other  times,  confession  was  wrested  from  the  hardened 
criminal  might  now  compel  a too  facile  self-accuser  to  retract  his 
acknowledgment.  The  father  again  looked  on  while  his  son  was 
raised  on  the  accursed  cord  no  less  than  thirty  times,  in  order  that, 
under  his  agony,  he  might  be  induced  to  utter  a lying  declaration 
of  innocence.  But  this  cruelty  was  exercised  in  vain ; and,  when 
nature  gave  way,  the  sufferer  was  carried  to  the  apartments  of  the 
Doge,  torn,  bleeding,  senseless,  and  dislocated,  but  firm  in  his 
original  purpose.  Nor  had  his  persecutors  relaxed  in  theirs  ; they 
renewed  his  sentence  of  exile,  and  added  that  its  first  year  should 
be  passed  in  prison.  Before  he  embarked,  one  interview  was  per- 
mitted with  his  family.  The  Doge,  as  Sanuto,  perhaps  uncon- 
scious of  the  pathos  of  his  simplicity,  has  narrated,  was  an  aged 
and  decrepit  man,  who  walked  with  the  support  of  a crutch,  and 
when  he  came  into  the  chamber,  he  spake  with  great  firmness,  so 
that  it  might  seem  it  was  not  his  son  whom  he  was  addressing,  but 
it  was  his  son — his  only  son.  * Go,  Giacopo,’  was  his  reply,  when 
prayed  for  the  last  time  to  solicit  mercy ; ‘ Go,  Giacopo,  submit  to 
the  will  of  your  country,  and  seek  nothing  farther.’  This  effort  of 
self-restraint  was  beyond  the  powers,  not  of  the  old  man’s  enduring 
spirit,  but  of  his  exhausted  frame;  and  when  he  retired,  he 
swooned  in  the  arms  of  his  attendants.  Giacopo  reached  his 
Candian  prison,  and  was  shortly  afterwards  released  by  death. 

“ Francesco  Foscari,  far  less  happy  in  his  survival,  continued  to 
live  on,  but  it  was  in  sorrow  and  feebleness,  which  prevented  atten- 
tion to  the  duties  of  his  high  office:  he  remained  secluded  in  his 
chamber,  never  went  abroad,  and  absented  himself  even  from  the 
sittings  of  the  council.  No  practical  inconvenience  could  result 


from  this  want  of  activity  in  the  chief  magistrate ; for  the  constlta* 
tion  sufficiently  provided  against  any  accidental  suspension  of  hil 
personal  functions,  and  his  place  in  council,  and  on  state  occasions, 
was  supplied  by  an  authorized  deputy.  Some  indulgence,  more- 
over, might  be  thought  due  to  the  extreme  age  and  domestic  griefs 
of  Foscari ; since  they  appeared  to  promise  that  any  favour  which 
might  be  granted  would  be  claimed  but  for  a short  period.  But  yet 
farther  trials  were  in  store.  Giacopo  Loredano,  who  in  1467  was 
appointed  one  of  the  Chiefs  of  the.  Ten,  belonged  to  a family  be- 
tween which  and  that  of  Foscari  an  hereditary  feud  had  long  existed. 
His  uncle  Pietro,  after  gaining  high  distinction  in  active  service, 
as  Admiral  of  Venice,  on  his  return  to  the  capital  headed  the  poli- 
tical faction  which  opposed  the  warlike  projects  of  the  Doge  ; 
divided  applause  with  him  by  his  eloquence  in  the  councils ; and  so 
far  extended  his  influence  as  frequently  to  obtain  majorities  in  their 
divisions.  In  an  evil  moment  of  impatience,  Foscari  once  publicly 
avowed  in  the  senate,  that  so  long  as  Pietro JLoredano  lived  he 
should  never  feel  himself  really  to  be  Doge.  Not  long  afterwards, 
the  Admiral,  engaged  as  Piovveditore  with  one  of  the  armies 
opposed  to  Filippo-Maria,  died  suddenly  at  a military  banquet 
given  during  a short  suspension  of  arms ; and  the  evil-omened 
words  of  Foscari  were  connected  with  his  decease.  It  was  remarked, 
also,  that  his  brother  Marco  Loredano,  one  of  the  Avvogadori,  died, 
in  a somewhat  similar  manner,  while  engaged  in  instituting  a legal 
process  against  a son-in-law  of  the  Doge,  for  peculation  upon  the 
state.  The  foul  rumours  partially  excited  by  these  untoward 
coincidences,  for  they  appear  in  truth  to  have  been  no  more,  met 
with  little  acceptation,  and  were  rejected  or  forgotten  except  by  i 
single  bosom.  Giacopo,  the  son  of  one,  the  nephew  of  the  other 
deceased  Loredano,  gave  full  credit  to  the  accusation,  inscribed  on 
his  father’s  tomb  at  Sta.  Elena  that  he  died  by  poison,  bound  him- 
self by  a solemn  vow  to  the  most  deadly  and  unrelenting  pursuit  of 
revenge,  and  fulfilled  that  vow  to  the  uttermost. 

“ During  the  lifetime  of  Pietro  Loredano,  Foscari,  wiliing  to 
terminate  the  feud  by  a domestic  alliance,  had  tendered  the  hand 
of  his  daughter  to  one  of  his  rival’s  sons.  The  youth  saw  his  prof- 
fered bride,  openly  expressed  dislike  of  her  person,  and  rejected  her 
with  marked  discourtesy ; so  that,  in  the  quarrel  thus  heightened, 
Foscari  might  now  conceive  himself  to  be  the  most  injured  party. 
Not  such  was  the  impression  of  Giacopo  Loredano  : year  after  year 
he  grimly  awaited  the  season  most  fitted  for  his  unbending  purpose ; 
and  it  arrived  at  length  when  he  found  himself  in  authority  among 
the  Ten.  Relying  upon  the  ascendancy  belonging  to  that  high 
station,  he  hazarded  a proposal  for  the  deposition  of  the  aged  Doge, 
which  was  at  first,  however,  received  with  coldness;  for  those  who 
had  twice  before  refused  a voluntary  abdication,  shrank  from  the 
strange  contradiction  of  now  demanding  one  on  compulsion.  A 
junta  was  required  to  assist  in  their  deliberations,  and  among  the 
assessors  elected  by  the  Great  Council,  in  complete  ignorance  of  the 
purpose  for  which  they  were  needed,  was  Marco  Foscari,  a Pro- 
curator of  St.  Mark,  and  brother  of  the  Doge  himself.  The  Ten 
perceived  that  to  reject  his  assistance  might  excite  suspicion,  while 
to  procure  his  apparent  approbation  would  give  a show  of  imparti- 
ality to  their  process  : his  nomination,  therefore,  was  accepted ; but 
he  was  removed  to  a separate  apartment,  excluded  from  the  debate, 
sworn  to  keep  that  exclusion  secret,  and  yet  compelled  to  assent  to 
the  final  decree  in  the  discussion  of  which  he  had  not  been  allowed 
to  participate.  The  Council  sat  during  eight  days,  and  nearly  as 
many  nights;  and,  at  the  close  of  their  protracted  meetings,  a 
committee  was  deputed  to  request  the  abdication  of  the  Doge.  The 
old  man  received  them  with  surprise,  but  with  composure,  and 
replied  that  he  had  sworn  not  to  abdicate,  and  therefore  must 
maintain  his  faith.  It  was  not  possible  that  he  could  resign;  but 
if  it  appeared  fit  to  their  wisdom  that  he  should  cease  to  be  Doge, 
they  had  it  in  their  power  to  make  a proposal  to  that  effect  to  the 
Great  Council.  It  was  far,  however,  from  the  intention  of  the  Ten 
to  subject  themselves  to  the  chances  of  debate  in  that  larger  body  ; 
and,  assuming  to  their  own  magistracy  a prerogative  not  attributed 
to  it  by  the  constitution,  they  discharged  Foscari  from  his  oath, 
declared  his  office  vacam,  assigned  to  him  a pension  of  two  thou- 
sand ducats,  and  enjoined  him  to  quit  the  palace  within  three 
days,  on  pain  of  confiscation  of  all  his  property.  Loredano,  to 
whom  the  right  belonged,  according  to  the  weekly  routine  of  offic  e, 
enjoyed  the  barbarous  satisfaction  of  presenting  this  decree  with 
his  own  hand.  ‘Who  are  you,  Signor?’  inquired  the  Doge  of 
another  Chief  of  the  Ten  who  accompanied  him,  and  whose  person 
he  did  not  immediately  recognise.  ‘ I am  a son  of  Marco  Memmo.’ 
‘ Ah,  your  father,’  replied  Foscari,  ‘ is  my  friend.’  Then  declaring 
that  he  yielded  willing  obedience  to  the  most  excellent  Council  of 
Ten,  and  laying  aside  the  ducal  bonnet  and  robes,  he  surrendered 


APPENDIX. 


his  ring  »rf  office,  which  was  broken  in  his  presence.  On  the 
morrow,  when  he  prepared  to  leave  the  palace,  it  was  suggested  to 
him  that  he  should  retire  by  a private  staircase,  and  thus  avoid  the 
concourse  assembled  in  the  court-yard  below.  With  calm  dignity 
he  refused  the  proposition : he  would  descend,  he  said,  by  no  other 
than  the  self-same  steps  by  which  he  had  mounted  thirty  years 
before.  Accordingly,  supported  by  his  brother,  he  slowly  traversed 
the  Giant’s  Stairs,  and,  at  their  foot,  leaning  on  his  staff  and 
turning  round  to  the  palace,  hse  accompanied  his  last  look  to  it 
with  these  parting  words,  * My  services  established  me  within  your 
walls ; it  is  the  malice  of  my  enemies  which  tears  me  from 
them ! * 

“ It  was  to  the  oligarchy  alone  that  Foscari  was  obnoxious ; by 
the  populace  he  had  always  been  beloved,  and  strange  indeed 
would  it  have  been  had  he  now  failed  to  excite  their  sympathy. 
But  even  the  regrets  of  the  people  of  Venice  were  fettered  by  their 
tyrants ; and  whatever  pity  they  might  secretly  continue  to  cherish 
for  their  wronged  and  humiliated  prince,  all  expression  of  it  was 
silenced  by  a peremptory  decree  of  the  Council,  forbidding  any 
mention  of  his  name,  and  annexing  death  as  a penalty  to  dis- 
obedience. On  the  fifth  day  after  Foscari’s  deposition,  Pascale 
Malipieri  was  elected  Doge.  The  dethroned  prince  heard  the 
announcement  of  his  successor  by  the  bell  of  the  campanile,  sup- 
pressed his  agitation,  but  ruptured  a blood-vessel  in  the  exertion, 
and  died  in  a few  hours.” 


REMARKS 

ON  THE  ROMAIC  OR  MODERN  GREEK  LANGUAGE, 
WITH  SPECIMENS  AND  TRANSLATIONS. 

These  “ Remarks ” were  written  in  the  spring  of  1811,  while  Lord 
Byron  was  residing  in  the  Capuchin  Convent  at  Athens.  See 
p.  547. 

Amongst  an  enslaved  people,  obliged  to  have  recourse  to 
foreign  presses  even  for  their  books  of  religion,  it  is  less  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  we  find  so  few  publications  on  general  subjects,  than 
that  we  find  any  at  all.  The  whole  number  of  the  Greeks, 
scattered  up  and  down  the  Turkish  empire  and  elsewhere,  may 
amount,  at  most,  to  three  millions ; and  yet,  for  so  scanty  a num- 
ber, it  is  impossible  to  discover  any  nation  with  so  great  a propor- 
tion of  books  and  their  authors,  as  the  Greeks  of  the  present 
century.  “ Ay,  but,”  say  the  generous  advocates  of  oppression, 
who,  while  they  assert  the  ignorance  of  the  Greeks,  wish  to  prevent 
them  from  dispelling  it,  “ay,  but  these  are  mostly,  if  not  all, 
ecclesiastical  tracts,  and  consequently  good  for  nothing.”  Well, 
and  pray  what  else  can  they  write  about?  It  is  pleasant  enough 
to  hear  a Frank,  particularly  an  Englishman,  who  may  abuse  the 
government  of  his  own  country  ; or  a Frenchman,  who  may  abuse 
every  government  except  his  own,  and  who  may  range  at  will  over 
every  philosophical,  religious,  scientific,  sceptical,  or  moral  subject; 
sneering  at  the  Greek  legends.  A Greek  must  not  write  on 
politics,  and  cannot  touch  on  science  for  want  of  instruction ; if  he 
doubts,  he  is  excommunicated  and  damned;  therefore  his  country- 
men are  not  poisoned  with  modern  philosophy ; and  as  to  morals, 
thanks  to  the  Turks ! there  are  no  such  things  What  then  is  left 
him,  if  he  has  a turn  for  scribbling?  Religion,  and  holy  bio- 
graphy : and  it  is  natural  enough  that  those  who  have  so  little  in 
this  life  should  look  to  the  next.  It  is  no  great  wonder,  then,  that 
in  a catalogue  now  before  me  of  fifty-five  Greek  writers,  many  of 
whom  were  lately  living,  not  above  fifteen  should  have  touched  on 
any  thing  but  religion.  The  catalogue  alluded  to  is  contained  in 
the  twenty-sixth  chapter  of  the  fourth  volume  of  Meletius’s  Eccle- 
siastical History.  From  this  I subjoin  an  extract  of  those  who 
have  written  on  general  subjects ; which  will  be  followed  by  some 
'pecimens  of  the  Romaic. 


LIST  OF  ROMAIC  AUTHORS.! 

Neophitus,  Diakonos  (the  deacon)  of  the  Morea,  has  published 
an  extensive  grammar,  and  also  some  political  regulations,  which 
last  were  left  unfinished  at  his  death. 


(1)  It is  tobe  observed  that  the  names  (riven  are  not  in  chronological  order, 
Bin  consist  of  some  selected  at  a venture  from  amongst  those  who  flourished 
T'MU  the  taking  of  Constantinople  to  the  time  of  Meletius. 


789 

Prokopius,  of  Moscopolis  (a  town  in  Epirus),  has  written  and 
published  a catalogue  of  the  learned  Greeks. 

Seraphin,  of  Periclea,  is  the  author  of  many  works  in  the 
Turkish  language,  but  Greek  character;  for  the  Christians  of 
Caramania,  who  do  not  speak  Romaic,  but  read  the  character. 

Eustathius  Psalidas,  of  Bucharest,  a physician,  made  the  tour 
of  England  for  the  purpose  of  study  {\dpiv  pa6gaeu>r) : but  though 
his  name  is  enumerated,  it  is  not  stated  that  he  has  written  any 
thing. 

Kallinikus  Torgeraus,  Patriarch  of  Constantinople  : many  poems 
of  his  are  extant,  and  also  prose  tracts,  and  a catalogue  of 
patriarchs  since  the  last  taking  of  Constantinople. 

Anastasius  Macedon,  of  Naxos,  member  of  the  royal  academy 
of  Warsaw.  A church  biographer. 

Demetrius  Pamperes,  a Moscopolite,  has  written  many  works, 
particularly  “ A Commentary  on  Hesiod’s  Shield  of  Hercules,” 
and  two  hundred  tales  (of  what  is  not  specified),  and  has  published 
his  correspondence  with  the  celebrated  George  of  Trebizond,  his 
contemporary. 

Meletius,  a celebrated  geographer;  and  author  of  the  book  from 
whence  these  notices  are  taken. 

Dorotheus,  of  Mitylene,  an  Aristotelian  philosopher:  his 

Hellenic  works  are  in  great  repute,  and  he  is  esteemed  by  the 
moderns  (I  quote  the  words  of  Meletius)  perti  t 6v  OouKvdtdn v 
kci«  ZZevorpwvTa  apHTTor  ’EWr/vtav.  I add  further,  on  the  autho- 
rity of  a well-informed  Greek,  that  he  was  so  famous  amongst 
his  countrymen,  that  they  were  accustomed  to  say,  if  Thucydides 
and  Xenophon  were  wanting,  he  was  capable  of  repairing  the 
loss. 

Marinus  Count  Tharboures,  of  Cephalonia,  professor  of  chemis- 
try in  the  academy  of  Padua,  and  member  of  that  academy,  and 
those  of  Stockholm  and  Upsal.  He  has  published,  at  Venice,  an 
account  of  some  marine  animal,  and  a treatise  on  the  properties 
of  iron. 

Marcus,  brother  to  the  former,  famous  in  mechanics.  He 
removed  to  St.  Petersburg  the  immense  rock  on  which  the  statue 
of  Peter  the  Great  was  fixed  in  1769.  See  the  dissertation  which 
he  published  in  Paris,  1777. 

George  Constantine  has  published  a four-tongued  lexicon. 

George  Ventote;  a lexicon  in  French.  Italian,  and  Romaic. 

There  exist  several  other  dictionaries  in  Latin  and  Romaic. 
French,  &c. ; besides  grammars,  in  every  modern  language  except 
English. 

Amongst  the  living  authors  the  following  are  most  cele 
brated  2 ; — 

Athanasius  Parios  has  written  a treatise  on  rhetoric  in  Hel- 
lenic. 

Christodoulos,  an  Acarnanian,  has  published,  in  Vienna,  some 
physical  treatises  in  Hellenic. 

Panagiotes  Kodrikas,  an  Athenian,  the  Romaic  translator  of 
Fontenelle’s  “ Plurality  of  Worlds”  (a  favourite  work  amongst  the 
Greeks),  is  stated  to  be  a teacher  of  the  Hellenic  and  Arabic  lan- 
guages in  Paris  ; in  both  of  which  he  is  an  adept. 

Athanasius,  the  Parian,  author  of  a treatise  on  rhetoric. 

Vicenzo  Damodos,  of  Cephalonia,  has  written  “ elr  to  pe- 
cro/3dp/3apov.”  on  logic  and  physics. 

John  Kamarases,  a Byzantine,  has  translated  into  French 
Ocellus  on  the  Universe.  He  is  said  to  be  an  excellent  Hellenist 
and  Latin  scholar. 

Gregorio  Demetrius  published,  in  Vienna,  a geographical  work . 
he  has  also  translated  several  Italian  authors,  and  printed  his 
versions  at  Venice. 

Of  Coray  and  Psalida  some  account  has  been  already  given. 


GREEK  WAR  SONG.3 

AEY'TE,  trcuSey  tu>v  *E\A rpiuv  : 
6 KaTpor  rrjr  So? nr  n\0ev, 
ar  <pavu>pev  a^ioi  eiteiv uiv 
7r ov  par  Suxrav  rgv  up\r]v’ 

"Ar  iraTycropev  a vdpeio>r 
r ov  tvyov  Tnr  Tvpavvido*. 

*E Kdiurjauipev  naTpidor 
KaO'  ovei&or  alo-xpov. 


(2)  These  names  are  not  taken  from  any  publication. 

(3;  A translation  of  this  song  will  '~e  found  among  the  Occasional  Pieces,  at 


790 


APPENDIX. 


Td  onAa  at  Aaftauev 

naTdet  'EAAf^viov  ayoaixev" 
noTa/jLi&wv  ex^pwv  to  alpia 
at  rpeljri  into  7 xodtiov* 

eO 9ev  eiaOe  tSv  *EXXrjvwv 
KOKKaXa  uvdpeto/xeva, 

«>eu'/uaTa  eoKopniiTfieva, 
rui pa  \a/3ere  nvoijv. 

Vt’  t]v  <pu)vi]v  t rjt  aaAniyyot  flow; 

<rvvaxO*ITe  oXa  o/jlov. 

T rjv  eirr aAoipov  friTelre, 

Kal  vinare  npd  navTov. 

Ta_o7rXa  a?  X«/3a>juev,  & C. 

'S.napra,  S-rapra,  ti  Koi/jiaaOe 
vnvov  ArjOapyov  /3a0uv  \ 
Zuwvri<rovtKpd$e  'AOrjvat, 
a-uu/J-axov  navTOTeivijv. 
’EvOujueiOtiTe  Aeovvidov 

tjpiOOf  TO’J  faKOliffTOV, 
row  dvdpot  enaive/aevov 
<f>o/3epou  Kal  Tpo/iepov. 

T a onAa  at  Ad/3u>fiev,  fCC. 

"Onov  els  rar  QepnonvAas 
noAe/Jiov  avToy  Kporet. 

Kal  rowr  IJepcrat  d<pavi£et 
Kal  ai/Tuiv  Kara  Kparet’ 

Me  TpiaKotrlovt  avdpat 
elt  to  KevTpov  npoxo>ptt, 

Kal  uat  Xewv  Ovfiibpievot , 
elt  to  aljua  t u>v  /3ouTet, 

T a 07rXa  ay  Aci/3<»nev,  & C. 


ROMAIC  EXTRACTS. 


The  Romaic  in  this  composition  is  bo  easy  as  to  render  a version 
an  insult  to  a scholar ; but  these  who  do  not  understand  the  original 
will  excuse  the  following  bad  translation  of  what  is  in  itself 
indifferent. 

I 


TRANSLATION. 


A Russian,  Englishman,  and  Frenchman,  making  the  tour  of 
Greece,  and  observing  the  miserable  state  of  the  country,  in- 
terrogate, in  turn,  a Greek  Patriot,  to  learn  the  cause  ,•  after- 
wards an  Archbishop,  then  a Vlackbey, 1 a Merchant,  and 
Cogia  Bachi  or  Primate. 


Thou  friend  of  thy  country  ! to  strangers  record, 
Why  bear  ye  the  yoke  of  the  Ottoman  Lord  ? 

Why  bear  ye  these  fetters  thus  tamely  display’d, 

The  wrongs  of  the  matron,  the  stripling,  and  maid  I 
The  descendants  of  Hellas’s  race  are  not  ye ! 

The  patriot  sons  of  the  sage  and  the  free, 

Thus  sprung  from  the  blood  of  the  noble  and  brave, 
To  vilely  exist  as  the  Mussulman  slave  ! 

Not  such  were  the  fathers  your  annals  can  boast, 
Who  conquered  and  died  for  the  freedom  you  lost; 
Not  such  was  your  land  in  her  earlier  hour, 

The  daystar  of  nations  in  wisdom  and  power  ! 

And  still  will  you  thus  unresisting  increase, 

Oh  shameful  dishonour ! the  darkness  of  Greece  f 

Then  tell  us,  beloved  Achaean  ! reveal 

The  cause  of  the  woes  which  you  cannot  conceal 


The  reply  of  the  Philellenist  I have  not  translated,  as  it  is  no 
better  than  the  question  of  the  travelling  triumvirate ; and  the 
above  will  sufficiently  show  with  what  kind  of  composition  the 
Greeks  are  now  satisfied.  I trust  I have  not  much  injured  the 
original  in  the  few  lines  given  as  faithfully,  and  as  near  the  “ Oh, 
Miss  Bailey ! unfortunate  Miss  Bailey ! ” measure  of  the  Romaic, 
as  I could  make  them.  Almost  all  their  pieces,  above  a song, 
which  aspire  to  the  name  of  poetry,  contain  exactly  the  quantity  of 
feet  of 

" A captain  bold  of  Halifax,  who  lived  in  country  quarter*,” 


Poiffo-oy,  "A T'xXor,  Kal  TaAAot  Ka/nvov tcs  tijv  nepir/yn<riv  t nr  ’EX- 
Xadoy,  Kal  /3AenovTet  t tjv  dOAlav  Ttjv  KaTaaTaaiv , elpwrrjo-av 
Karauxat  eva  TpaiKov  <ptAeAAr]va  did  vd  /idOovv  tJjv  a'lTiav , fie t 
avTov  ei ia  finrponoAiTriv,  el Wa  eva  (3Aaxf*neiv,  Gnena  eva 
wpayfiaTeuTtjv,  Kal  eva  npoeoTvlna. 


which  is  in  fact  the  present  heroic  couplet  of  the  Romaic. 


Et7r6  fxatt  <3  <piAeAAt]va,  n Got  (pep eit  Tt/v  <tk Aa/3lav 
Kai  t tjv  uirapiyoptjTov  tCov  TovpKcvv  rvpavviav ; 
nuit  TaHt  fvXaiy  Kal  v/3pnrfioiit  Kai  <ridiipodecrfiiav 
nai  ion/,  napOeviav,  yvvaiKuiv  dvrfKovOTOv  <J>6opeiav. 

Aev  eurOat  kffelt  dndyovoi  eKet'vwv  tu>v  ’EXX^vtov 
tu>v  eAeuOep a>v  Kal  aoipwv  Kal  tuiv  iptAonaTptduiv’ 

Kal  nuit  eKeivoi  dneOvricKov  did  ti/v  eAevOep lav, 

Kal  Ttiipa  effeiy  vnovKeiirOat  eir  tstoiov  t vpavviav, 

Kai  noiov  yevot  iit  ecreTt  eerrdffrj  ipaiTiirfievov 
elt  Trjv  aotplav,  duvafiriv,  elt  K ’ oXa  ^aKovtTfievov. 
nuit  vvv  6KaTa(TTt]<TaTe  t tjv  <pu>Tivt]v  ‘EXXdAa 
/3a/3a ! «5>y  eva  aKeAeOpov,  &>t  trKoretvljv  AapLiradav. 

'QfiiAeii  cpiAraTC  rpajxe,  etwe  /aat  tijv  alrlav. 

fxl]  KpuTTTTJt  TlTTOTTlt  Thv  dltOplaV. 

’O  <t>IAE'AAHN02. 

’P (otra-ayKAo-yaAAoi,  ’EXXay,  Kai  3x«  dAAoi, 

fiTov,  o>t  Aere,  tooov  /jl eyaAri, 

vvv  Se  uOAta,  Kai  avafia 

d</>’  <poi>  dpxla’ev  rj  a /aaOia. 

ba t tifiiropovcav  v«  Trjv  ^vnvrjar} 

rovr’  elt  to  x€~pov  Tt]v  o&riyovffi 

avTti  <TT«v«£ei  T(«  reKva  Kp a£et, 

cto  vd  TrpoKoiTTovv  oXa  irpocrTaCet 

Kai  rore  eAiri£ei  oti  Kepdt^ei. 

ewpeTv,  oirou  '\ei  vvv  t r]v  (j)Aoyl^ei. 

M«'  o<r Tit  ToX/uijffnt  vd  t ijv  (uir vfjirri 
k uyei  <tt6v  ddr]v  XWP,?  v«va  Kpitriv. 

The  above  is  the  commencement  of  a long  dramatic  satire  on  the 
Greek  priesthood,  princes,  and  gentry;  it  is  contemptible  as  a 
composition,  but  perhaps  curious  as  a specimen  of  their  rhyme. 
I have  the  **hole  in  MS.,  but  this  extract  will  be  found  sufficient. 


SCENE  FROJVI  'O  KA4>ENE2. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  GOLDONI,  BY  SPIRIDIOK 
VLANTI. 

2KH.NH  KT'. 

IIAATZtAA  elf  t»jv  7ropTav  tov  xavl°v>  KO‘  dvwflev. 

IIAA.  nQ  0ee  ! a7ro  to  irapaOvpi  /aov  eipdvr)  vd  uKovata  Tqv  <pavrjv 
tov  uvdpot  fxou ’ av  aurbt  eivai  hdu>,  €(/j0aaa  <re  Kaipov  vd  tov 
fevTpoTrtdffa).  [Evyatvet  evat  dovAot  uno  to  epyaa-Ttjpt.]  UaAiKapif 
net  /aov  ire  nap aKaAui  noiot  eivai  eKei  elt  eKeivovt  t ovt  bvTadet ! 

AOYA.  Tpely  xP^fftMot  avdpey.  "Evay  o Kvp  Euyeviot,  6 aAAot 
6 Kiip  MdpTtoy  Nea7ToX<Tdvor,  Kai  6 TpiTot  o Kiip  Kovtc  Aeavdpoc 
’ApdevTns. 

IIAA.  (’A vd/iecra  elf  avTovy  dev  eivai  6 QAafxiviot,  av  burnt  dev 
dXXafev  ovofxa .) 

AEA.  Na  fi)  r]  KaAt]  tvxO  tov  Kvp  Eiiyeviou.  [nivtovTay.] 

"OAOl.  Nd  Cp,  vd  fp. 

IIAA.  (AvToy  eivai  6 avdpat  /iov  xwP*f  aXXo.)  KaXe  dv^pwwe, 
k<« fxe  /iov  tI]v  XaPlv  v°l  ffWTpo^evffrjy  airavw  cly  avToiit  Tovt 
uipevTadet,  onov  0eA a>  vd  TOvt  nai^ia  fi tav.  [Bpdr  tov  dovXov.] 

AOY.  'Opiofidt  ffay.  (arvvr\6t<rfievov  bffxp’iKiov  t 5>v  dowXevTajv.) 
[Ti;v  efinu£ei  and  to  epyaoTr/pi  tov  naiyvidiov .] 

IMA.  Kapdid,  Kapdid,  Ka/j-CTe  KaArjv  Kapdidv,  dev  tivee.  rinoTet 
[Ilpdy  t i/v  BtTTopiav.] 

BIT.  ’E-yco  aioOdvofiai  nuit  dneOaive).  [SvvepxeTa*  eiy  tov 
eavTov  thv*] 

[’Awo  rd  napdOvpa  twv  bvTaduv  <t>atvovTai  0A01,  onov 
ffrjKoi  wvTaj  dno  to  rpanefr  avyxtnixevoi,  did  tov  fa^viff 
fidv  tov  Aedvdpov  /?Xe»rwvTay  t tjv  nXaTf<da,  K«i  d«aTi 
avToy  dei'xvei.  nuit  OeAei  vd  t»/v  ^>ovevffrj.] 


(1)  Vlackbey,  prince  of  Wallachia. 


APPENDIX. 


791 


’EYI\  r0x«»  <rraflr)T6. 

MAP.  Mqv  Kapvere.  . . 

AEA.  Uku),  ipevye  an'  ebw. 

riAA.  B of]Oeia,  (3ol]9eia.  [tpeu^ci  iiiro  Ttjv  o-KaXav,  6 A eavSpo? 
9e\.«t  vd  Ttjv  aKoAovOrjur]  pe  to  eriraOi , Kat  6 Euy.  tov  /Jaa-ra.] 

TPA.  [Ale  eva  mdro  pe  ipayl  els  piav  nerC^ra  nribiji  un 6 to 
wapaOupt,  Kal  tpeuyei  et?  tov  Ka$eve.] 

I1AA.  [Evyatvet  ano  to  epyauTrjpi  too  nutyvibiov  Tpex^vTas,  Kat 
Qevyei  els  to  x«vt.] 

’EYr.  [Me  a,  juara  elr  to  x^pi  npot  biatpevTevtriv  Tq?  nXdT^tSa?, 
IvavTtov  too  Aeavbpov,  onu>  t/jv  tea TaTpe'xet*] 

MAP.  [Ev^atvet  Kal  auTOS  aiya  triyd  ano  to  epyatrTfjpt,  Kat  tpevyet 
Xe^aivTa?.]  Rumores  fage.  ['Pov/xope?  ^evye.]  1 2 

Ot  AouAoi.  [’Atto  to  epya<iTt]pi  anepvovv  els  to  \dvL,  Kai  KXetovv 
rtjv  jropTav.] 

BIT.  [Mevet  et?  tov  Katpeve  /3or\9ripevr\  ano  tov  'Pt3oX0ov.] 

AEA.  Aoae t€  ronov * OeAta  vd  ep/3u>  vd  epfim  et?  hKeivo  to  X(*v{ 
[Me  to  onaOi  els  to  x*Pl  evavrlov  tov  Ev^evtov.] 

’EYr.  "O x«,  /u»;  ^evotTO  7TOTe’  et’eat  eva?  c-XrjpoKapdo?  evavWov  Tq? 
701'aiKor  trov,  Kat  eyu)  OeAei  tijv  dta$>evTevcra>  tor  ei?  to  vaTepov 
at  pa. 

AEA.  2ov  Kapvu>  opKov  7ru>?  9eAet  to  /xeTavotdxrp?.  [KtvtJY^i  tov 
Ev7eviov  /ae  to  anaOt.] 

’EYT.  Aev  tre  <po/3ovpat.  [KaTaTpexet  tov  Aeavdpov,  Kat  tov 
/9td£et  va  irvpOrj  bnitrii)  t baov,  bnov  euptcrKtovTas  avotKTov  to  trjr^Tt 
T»jr  x°Pei£TOias>  epfiatvei  els  auTO,  Kal  acvveTai.] 


TRANSLATION. 

Platzida,  from  the  Door  of  the  Hotel,  and  others. 

Pla.  Ob  God[!  from  the  window  it  seemed  that  I heard  my 
husband’s  voice.  If  he  is  here,  I have  arrived  in  time  to  make  him 
ashamed.  [A  servant  enters  from  the  Shop.]  Boy,  tell  me,  pray, 
who  are  in  those  chambers. 

Serv.  Three  gentlemen:  one,  Signor  Eugenio;  the  other,  Signor 
Martio,  the  Neapolitan;  and  the  third,  my  Lord,  the  Count  Leander 
Ardenti. 

Pla.  Flaminio  is  not  amongst  these,  unless  he  has  changed  his 
name. 

Leander.  [ Within  Drinking.]  Long  live  the  good  fortune  of 
Signor  Eugenio. 

[The  whole  company,  Long  live,  &c.]  (Literally,  Nd  fp,  va  £q, 
May  he  live.) 

Pla.  Without  doubt  that  is  my  husband.  [To  the  Serv.]  My  good 
man,  do  me  the  favour  to  accompany  me  above  to  those  gentlemen : 
I have  some  business. 

Serv.  At  your  commands.  [Aside.]  The  old  office  of  us  waiters 
[He  goes  out  of  the  Gaming-House.] 

Ridolpho.  [To  Victoria  on  another  part  of  the  Stage.]  Courage, 
courage,  be  of  good  cheer,  it  is  nothing. 

Victoria.  I feel  as  if  about  to  die.  [Leaning  on  him  as  if 
fainting.] 

[From  the  windows  above,  all  within  are  seen  rising  from  table 
in  confusion : Leander  starts  at  the  sight  of  Platzida,  and 
appears  by  his  gestures  to  threaten  her  life.] 

Eugenio.  No,  stop 

Martio.  Don’t  attempt 

Leander.  Away,  fly  from  hence  ! 

Pla.  Help  ! help!  [Flies  down  the  stairs,  Leander  attempting  to 
follow  with  his  sword.  Eugenio  hinders  him.] 

[Trapolo,  with  a plate  of  meat,  leaps  over  the  balcony  from  the 
vindow,  and  runs  into  the  Coffee-House.] 

[Platzida  runs  out  of  the  Gaming-House,  and  takes  shelter  in  the 
Hotel.] 

[Martio  steals  softly  out  of  the  Gaming-House,  and  goes  off, 
exclaiming  “ Rumores  fuge.”  The  Servants  from  the  Gaming- 
House  enter  the-Hotel,  and  shut  the  door.] 

[Victoria  remains  in  the  Coffee-House  assisted  by  Ridolpho.] 
[Leander,  sword  in  hand,  opposite  Eugenio,  exclaims,  Give  way — 
I will  enter  that  Hotel.] 


Eugenio.  No,  that  shall  never  be.  You  are  a scoundrel  to  your 
wife,  and  I will  defend  her  to  the  last  drop  of  my  blood. 

Leander.  I will  give  you  cause  to  repent  this.  [Menacing  with 
his  sword.] 

Eugenio.  I fear  you  not.  [He  attacks  Leander,  and  makes  him 
give  buck  so  much,  that,  finding  the  door  of  the  dancing  girl's  house 
open,  Leander  escapes  through,  and  so  finishes.]  (21 


AIA'AOTOI  ’OIK1AKOI. 
Atd  vd  £V)Tq<r»j?  eva  npdypa. 
2a?  7rapaKaXS,  boae tc  pe  av 
optfeTC. 

<J>epeTe  pe. 

Aaveicrere  pe. 

H>iyaiveT€  va  {nrrjcreTe. 

Taipa  ei/Ovs. 

’’£2  aKpifle  pov  Kvpte,  Kapere  pe 
ttjv  xapiv. 

’E7W  tra?  napaKaAui. 

’£701  tra?  efopKtfas. 

’E7a»  tra?  to  frjTtJj  bid  xaptv. 
,Yjroxpea>‘reTe  pe  et?  t o<rov. 


FAMILIAR  DIALOGUES. 
To  ask  for  any  thing. 

I pray  you,  give  me  if  you 
please. 

Bring  me. 

Lend  me. 

Go  to  seek. 

Now  directly. 

My  dear  Sir,  do  me  th!a 
favour. 

I entreat  you- 
I conjure  you. 

I ask  it  of  you  as  a favour 
Oblige  me  so  much. 


av  tJjv 


Aoyia  epmTiKa,  tj  dyanys. 

Z toy  pov. 

’ AKptfly  pov 

’AyanijTe  pov,  iiKpifle  pov. 

Kap5tT£d  pov. 

'Aydnn  pov. 

Aid  vd  evxapi(rT>)(rw , va  Kapt t?  7rept- 
noit]<res,  Kal  (piAiKais  be^iivues. 

’£70)  eras  eoxapioToi). 

2a?  7va>pt£io  x«piv. 

2a?  eipai  vttoxpsos  Kara  1 roXXa. 

’£70)  dfc'Xto  to  Kapei  pern  x<*pd?. 

Me  oXijfv  pov  t'»]V  Kapblav. 

Me  kvlAtjv  pov  Kapblav. 

2d?  eipai  vnoxpeos . 

Eipai  0X0?  ebiKos  <ras. 

Eipai  bovAos  <ras. 

TaneivoraTOS  bovAos • 

EttrTe  Kara  noAAcPevyevuibs. 
n#XXd  neipd^ecrOe. 

To  e'xto  bid  xapdv  pov  vd  to?  doXevcrto. 

eJctc  eu7ev(Ko?  Kat  evirpoo-yyopos. 
Auto  eivai  irpenov. 

Tt  fltXeTe ; ti  opt'fcTe  ; 

2d?  irapaKaAu}  vd  pe  peTaxeipi^euOe 
eAevOep a. 

Xwpt?  7rept7TOtf]<re?. 

2d?  ayairio  ef  oXfj?  pov  Kapbtas. 

Kat  eyib  opo’i a)?. 

Tt/x^iTCTe  pe  Ta7?  npocrayais  <ras. 

"Exctc  TtVoTe?  vd  pe  irpoo-TafeTe  ) 

IlpoTTafeTe  tov  bovAov  tras. 

Upoapevu)  t dr  wpoffayd?  aas. 

Me  Kapvere  peydAnv  t ipr\v. 

^fidvovv  n 7rept7roi»ia'er  <ras  •xapaKaAio. 

IIpoo-Kvv^o-eTe  eKpepovs pov  tov  apxovTa 
ri  TOV  Kvpiov* 

Bt/3auv<reTe  tov  irwt  tov  evGvpovpai. 
Be/3atu><rere  tov  nuis  tov  ayanS>. 


Affectionate  expres'iins. 
My  life. 

My  dear  soul. 

My  dear. 

My  heart. 

My  love. 

To  thank,  pay  compliments 
and  testify  regards. 

I thank  you. 

I return  you  thanks. 

I am  much  obliged  to  you. 

I will  do  it  with  pleasure. 
With  all  my  heart. 

Most  cordially. 

I am  obliged  to  you. 

I am  wholly  yours. 

I an  your  servant. 

Your  most  humble  servant. 
You  are  too  obliging. 

You  take  too  much  trouble. 
I have  a pleasure  in  serving 
you. 

You  are  obliging  and  kind. 
That  is  right. 

What  is  your  pleasure  ? 
What  are  your  commands? 

I beg  you  will  treat  me 
freely. 

Without  ceremony. 

I love  you  with  all  my  heart. 
And  I the  same. 

Honour  me  with  your  com- 
mands. 

Have  you  any  commands 
for  me  ? 

Command  j'our  servant. 

T wait  your  commands. 

You  do  me  great  honour. 
Not  so  much  ceremony,  j 
beg. 

, Present  my  respects  to  the 
gentleman,  or  his  lordship. 
Assure  him  of  my  remem- 
brance. 

Assure  him  of  my  friendship. 


(1)  Aoyos  Xot ivisbs,  bnov  OeAei  vd  e'nrrj  <pev ye  t ais  trvyxiaes. 

(2)  2fiveTai — “ finishes”— awkw  rdly  enough,  but  it  is  the  literal  trans- 
lation of  the  Romaic.  The  original  of  this  comedy  of  Goldoni’s  I never  read, 
but  it  does  not  appear  one  of  his  best,  “ 11  Bugiardo”  is  one  of  the  most  lively; 
but  I do  not  think  it  has  been  translated  into  Romaic  : It  is  much  more 
amusing  than  our  on  n “ Liar,”  by  Foote.  The  character  of  Lelio  is  better 
trains  than  Young  Wilding.  Goldoni’s  comedies  amount  to  fifty;  some 


perhaps  the  best  in  Europe,  and  others  the  worst.  His  life  is  also  one  of  the 
best  specimens  of  autobiography,  and,  as  Gibbon  has  observed,  “ more  dra- 
matic than  any  of  his  plays.”  The  above  scene  was  selected  as  containing  some 
of  the  most  familiar  Romaic  idioms ; not  for  any  wit  which  it  displays,  since 
there  is  more  done  than  said,  the  greater  part  consisting  of  stage  directions 
Txe  original  is  one  of  the  few  comedies  by  Goldoni,  which  is  without  tbt 
buffoonery  of  the  speaking  Harlequin 


792 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Aev  tfeAaj  \el\!/ei  vd  tov  to  elww.  I will  not  fail  to  tell  him  of  it. 

V\pooKvvrjpara  elf  ti/v  apxbvTttroav.  My  compliments  to  her 

ladyship. 

Ilr/yaiveTe  kpirpotrOd  k at  truf  cikoXovOw  Go  before,  and  I will  follow 

you. 

’Hfeiipo)  *a\i t to  xpeor  /uov.  I well  know  my  duty. 

'Hfevpai  to  eivat  pov.  I know  my  situation. 

Ml  Klip tveTe  i in  evrpei rwpat  pe  raTt  to-  You  confound  me  with  so 
trait  tptXotppotrvva  tt  <ra 9.  much  civility. 

QeKere  Xotirdv  va  Kaput  pu'av  dpxeio-  Would  you  have  me  then  be 
tutci  ; guilty  of  an  ineivility  ? 

Y7rdya)  k/jmpotrOa  did  va  traf  viraKovtru).  I go  before  to  obey  you. 

Aid  va  Kaput  t r,v  irpotrrayriv  oaf.  To  comply  with  your  com- 
mand. 

Aev  uy  air  ut  Toaait  ireptiroititret ■ I do  not.  like  so  much  cere- 

mony. 

Aev  eipat  areXelu)!  irepnroti/TtKof.  I am  not  at  all  ceremonious. 
auto  elvai  to  KaXtVepov.  This  is  better. 

Tdcrov  to  KaXirepov.  So  much  the  better. 

'Ex«Te  Xoyov,  exfiTe  diKatov.  You  are  in  the  right. 


Aid  va  ftefiauixrrit,  va  apvri&rit,  .d 
trvyKaravevorjt,  Kat  rf. 

Eivat  dXrjfftvov,  eivat  aAnOeararov. 
Aid  vd  oaf  elnu)  r r/v  dXt/Oetav. 

*OvT»f,  6t £17  eivat. 
riotof  dptptftdXXet ; 

Aev  eivat  irotrutt  dptpt/3oXta. 

To  irttnevw.  dev  to  irterevut. 

A ey co  to  vat. 

Aeyu>  to  o\i. 

Ba'XXio  tntxnpa  °T<  etvai. 

Ba'XXti)  OTixnpta  on  dev  eivat  ?t£ii. 

Nai,  /act  ti/v  irianv  pov. 

Elc  ti/v  evveidr\clv  pov. 

Md  Trjv  gtorjv  fjtov. 

Nai,  oaf  bpviito. 

2af  bpvuu)  tlitrdv  repnpevot  dvdpwirot. 

ouw/u«  ijrdvat  elf  ti/v  t tpyv  /uou. 
moTeuoeTe  /ue. 

Hpvopw  va  oaf  t 6 flefiatwtrw. 

’H#eXa  fiaXr]  o rixnpa,  oti  OeXere  did 

TOVTO. 

M)j  rvxrj  Kai  uot eifeade  (xopaaei'e re)  ; 
OpiiXelre  /ul  ra  oXa  oar ; 

Eyto  oaf  opiXut  /ue  ra  oXa  /uou,  Kai  oav 
Xeyu>  ti/v  dXrjOetav. 

Eyw  oar  to  /3e/3itttbvu). 

Td  ^7rpo^nTeuoeTe. 

Td  eirtrevxere. 

Ear  itttnevu). 

ripe7rei  vd  oiif  irtarevata. 

Auto  Aev  eivat  dduvarov. 

Td  Xoirrov  at  eivat  /ue  KaX'tjv  u,pav. 
KaXd,  xaXa. 

Aev  eivat  dXi/thvov . 

Eivat  tf/ejde f. 

Aev  eivat  riiroret  and  avrd. 

Eivat  ha  ypevdot  pta  diraVij. 

E yd  doTCtfo/touu  (exopoTeua.) 

’Eydi  to  e?7ra  Aid  vd  •yeXdoto. 

Tpf  aXriOeitf.. 

Md  upeoet  tcaT a woXXd. 

XvyKaravevto  elf  touto. 

Atdui  t r/v  xpritpov  /uou. 

Alv  dvrurreKopat  elf  touto. 

Et/u at  trvptptovot,  Ik  crvptpdvov. 

’E-yiii  dev  OeXu). 

’E yui  evavTitiivo/xai  eit  tovto. 


To  affirm,  deny,  consent, 
&c. 

Tt  is  true,  it  is  very  true. 

To  tell  you  the  truth. 
Really,  it  is  so. 

Who  doubts  it? 

There  is  no  doubt. 

I believe  it,  I do  not  be- 
lieve it. 

I say  yes. 

I say  no. 

I wager  it  is. 

I wager  it  is  not  so. 

Yes,  by  my  faith. 

In  conscience. 

By  my  life. 

Yes,  I swear  it  to  you. 

I swear  to  you  as  an  honest 
man. 

I swear  to  you  on  my  honour. 
Believe  me. 

I can  assure  you  of  it. 

I would  lay  what  bet  you 
please  on  this, 

Y ou  jest  chance  ? 

Do  you  speak  seriously? 

I speak  seriously  to  you,  and 
tell  you  the  truth. 

I assure  you  of  it. 

You  have  guessed  it. 

You  have  hit  upon  it. 

I believe  you. 

I must  believe  you. 

This  is  not  impossible. 

Then  it  is  very  well. 

Well,  well, 

It  is  not  true. 

It  is  false. 

There  is  nothing  of  this. 

It  is  a falsehood,  an  impos- 
ture. 

I was  in  joke. 

I said  it  to  laugh. 

Indeed. 

It  pleases  me  much. 

I agree  with  you. 

I give  my  assent. 

I do  not  oppose  this. 

I agree. 

I will  not. 

I object  to  this. 


Aid  vd  avufiovXevOns,  vd  trToxatrOnt,  n To  consult,  consider,  or 
vd  diraQaaionV'  resolve. 


Tt  7rpe7ret  va  Kanu>/xev  J 
Tt  0d  KafXtonev  ; 

Tt  /id  w^fiovXevere  vd  Kauai; 


What  ought  we  to  do? 

What  shall  we  do  ? 

What  do  you  advise  me  to  do? 


'Onotov  Tporrov  OeXoptev  /ueraxetpttrflij  What  part  shal  we  take? 


n/iett ; 

Ar  xa/iiv/. lev 

Eivat  KaXirepov  eyu>  vd— 
ZTa0»7Te  oXiyov. 

Adv  ntleXev  etva.  KaXirepov  vd 

’Eytii  ayairovra  KaXtrepa. 

OeXere  Kaftet  KaXtrepa  av  ■ 
'Atprjtrere  pte. 

Av  17/uo vv  etr  tov  toitov  trat  eyda 
Eivat  to  idtov. 


Let  us  do  this. 

It  is  better  that  1 

Wait  a little. 

Would  it  not  be  bettei 
that 

I wish  it  were  better. 

You  will  do  better  if 

Let  me  go. 

If  I were  in  your  place  I 

It  is  the  same. 


The  reader  by  the  specimens  below  will  be  enabled  to  compare 
the  modern  with  the  ancient  tongue. 

PARALLEL  PASSAGES  FROM  ST.  JOHN’S  GOSPEL. 


Ndov. 

K etpaX.  d. 

1 1.  ’ET2  t t]v  upxyv  nrov  o 
Xoyot ’ Kai  6 Xoyot  nrov  pera 
Geou’  Kai  0edf  ijtov  6 Xoyot ‘ 

2.  ’ET0VT09  n rov  etf  ti/v  dpxyv 
perd  Oeov. 

3.  "OXa  [ra  rrpdy/uaTa]  did 
petrov  tov  [Xdyov]  lyt'vijKav,  Kat 
Xaiptf  avTov  dev  eytve  Kavdva  etTt 
eytve. 

4.  Etf  aurov  i/to v fail/*  Kat  i] 
t]rov  fit  tpu> f Twv  dvOpwnoov. 

5.  Kat  to  tpw f etf  ti/v  aKoreiav 
tpSyyet,  Kat  ri  trKoreia  dev  to 
KaraXafle . 

6.  "Eytvev  evar  av0pto7ror  uTre.tr- 
raXpevot  into  tov  Oeov,  to  ovopa 
rov  ’Icoavvi/f. 


A vffevTtKov. 

KetpdX.  d. 

1.  ’EN  dpxp  nv  o Xoyot,  Kat  6 
Xdyot  i/v  wpdf  tov  0eov,  Kat  0eof 
^v  6 Xoyot. 

2.  Ovtos  nv  Iv  dpxrj  Trpdf  tov 
©eov. 

3.  IldvTa  dt ’ avrov  eyevero"  sat 
Xaiptf  avTov  lyeveTO  oi/de  6v,  3 
yeyovev. 

4.  ’Ev  aoTto  i/v,  Kat  n 
ijv  to  tpw t twv  uv0pct>7ra>v. 

5.  Kat  TO  (putt  6V  T fj  tTKOTty 
tpaivet,  Kat  h (TKOria  avrd  ov 
KareXa/3ev. 

6.  'Eyevero  avOptorror  dire • 
trraXpevot  irapd  Oeov,  ovopa 
uuTtZ  ’Itoavvi/f. 


THE  INSCRIPTIONS  AT  ORCHOMENUS  FROM 
MELETIUS. 

OPXOMENO  2,  Kotvtitt  2 Kptirov , IldAtc  irore  rrXovtrttoTctrr)  koi 
KrxvputTtxTt],  irporepov  KaXovpevn  BottpriKai  ’A Orjvat,  elt  ti/v  dirotav 
rjrov  6 Naof  tSv  XaptTtuv,  elr  tov  oirotov  eirXrjptovov  reXri  ol  0n/3atot, 
ot/rtvof  to  edatpot  dveaKcttpde  irore  bird  twv  'AtnraXdyKwv.  *E iravt)- 
yvpt£ov  etf  avT i/v  ti/v  IldXty  Ta  Xaptryata,  tov  ditoiov  ' Aywvot  evpov 
kiriypatpdt  ev  trTrjXatt  (fvdov  rov  KTtaOevTOt  NaoD  eir’  ovopart  Tnf 
OeoroKou,  biro  rov  IlptiiTOtriraOapiov  Aeovrot,  eiri  rwv  h aatXewv 
B atrtXetov,  Aeovrof,  Kat  KwvtrTavTtvov,  exovaat  ovrwt.  ’Ev  piv  rp 

pitjl  KOIVU If. 

4<  Otde  kviKoov  tov  dywva  twv  xaptTi/trttov. 

“ ^aXirtOTrjt. 

“ Mijvtt  ' AiroXXwviov  ' AvTtoxevt  biro  MatavApov. 

“ Ki/puf. 

“ ZttfiXof  ZtotXov  nd^tof. 

“ 'Eatj/tpdo 9. 

“ tiovprjvtot  'Sovpnviov  ’ A0r)vaTot. 

“ lloti/Ti/f  eirwv. 

“ ’ Apnviat  At ipoKXeovt  0i//3atof. 

“ AvXi/T^f. 

“ 'AiroXXodorot  'AiroXXodorov  Kpi/f. 

“ AvXwdot. 

“ 'Pobtirirot  'Podtirirov  'Apyrjot. 

“ KtOapitnyt. 

“ Qtaviat'ApoXXodoTOv  tov  <t>aviov  AtoXevr  airl  Kiy/t*e» 

“ Kt^aptiiAof. 

“ Anprjrpiot  TlappevtcKov  K aXxKbdvtot. 

“ TpayaiAof. 

“ 'IiriroKparnt  'Apurropevovr  ’Podtor. 

“ Kw/iwdor. 

“ KaXXttrrpaTOf  ’E^aKetrrov  Qnfiatot. 

“ riott/Ti/r  2aTi»pwv. 

“ ’A/ui/vtar  AnpoKXeovt  0if/9atot. 

“ 'Y7rOKPtTI/9 


APPENDIX. 


793 


m Axsp60eoc  Ai tpoOeov  Tapavrivot . 

“ notrjTij?  TpayxxotAw. 

44  2o<poK\rir  2oipoic\eovt  ’\6rivaiot. 

“ Yjro/cptr^r. 

4 lia/3 ipixot  ©eodiopow  QrjfiaTov. 

44  Hoir/Tr/t  Koo/uudiSv. 

44  *AXefaw3por  'Apiarutvot  ’A tf/jwatos. 

“ 'YTTOKpntJt. 

44  "AttoA or  ’AttoAoi/  ’A0rjwa7or. 

“ C*3«  Iwi/tuw  row  vtjfxrjTOv  avS/xa  tAv  6/J  ciJcxtK 
44  IIa73ar  awAriOTa?. 

M Ato/cX/jr  KaAAtfitjdov  0 typaZot. 

44  ITatAar  /jye/xowaf. 

44  Srporrwor  Ewwt/cow  0>j/3a7or. 

“ "Awdpar  AwXtiTar. 

44  Ato/cX/jr  KaXXt/x^3ow  0r|/5a7or. 

" "Awdpar  f)7«/uowc-j. 

•‘-'FodiTvrot  'PoS/ttwou  ’Apye7or. 

44  TpaytoSor. 

“ 'Iccro/cpaT/jr  ’AptoTo/xewowr  *P odtor. 

44  Kw/xcador. 

**  KaXAtoTpaTor  ’Efa/cecrTow  Qri/3aics, 

“ Ta  entv'iKia. 

44  Ka»/xca3tAw  Tlocrirrft. 

1 AX2fawdpor  ' AptaTiuivot  ’AOrjvaTor.” 

44  ’Ew  32  rrj  Irep^T  dooptKw?. 

44  Mwaotw**  dpxowror  dycawofleTiowTor  tow 
44  XaptTeiVtow,  tiapioa-roj  navTiav  oi  Twtde  Inrebcav  rd 
44  xaP1Te‘T,a. 

“ SaXTriy/CTctr. 

H /HA/wor  4>iAt'wco  ’A^dwetoc. 

“ Kdpowf. 

“ Eipwdar  Sta/cpanor  Qel/3eiot. 

" noetTar. 

44  M fjvroip  M tjaropov  <Pw<aievc, 

44  ’Pax^ewdar. 

44  Kparcav  KXicawor  ©et/Jetor. 

44  AuAetTar. 

44  Ileptyeveir  'Hpa/c\ei3ao  Kow£t/cn»  dr. 

44  AwXaewdor. 

4i  Aa/xnwdTor  rAaw/cta  "Apyior. 

“ Kidaptarar. 

44  Aa/xarpor  *A /xaAwca  AloXewr  a»d  Mow/iYa*. 

“ Tpayaewdor. 

44  ’Aa/cAairiddiepor  Flou^edo  Tapawnwor. 

“ Kce/xaewdor. 

44  Nt/cooTpaTor  <t>tXoo-TpaT«  0* t/9ccor. 

44  Td  iwtvimta  Ku/xaei  3 or. 

" Ewapxot  'HpodoTta  Kopcawewr.” 

’Ew  a\\<f  Ai0ff. 

44  Mjpi%ot  IIoXwepaTowr  'I apceww/xor  dtoyinawor  awdpee  at  yopayei- 
amvret  wt/caoaw Ter  dtowwtrow  uve'0n/caw  Ti/xtayot  dpxo »Tor  awXiowTor 
eXeorydowTor  uA/ci<r0ewcor.’4 

’Ew  2repp  AiQip. 

14  9vvdp\t»  dpxowTor,  /xetwdr  0c iAov9io>,  apx«  ......  tct  Ev/SceXi 

44  dpxeda/x m <pu>KcTa or  uvedta/ca  dwo  rat  <roi/77pa^>w  fre3a 

44  r5w  >roX«/oidpx»v,  »c>;  t5w /caToirraMw,  dveXoptewor  Tar  aouyyf  a$u)t 

44  Taj  Kt/xevar  wap  ev<ppova , kt;  <ptilav  Krj  naaiKAetv xt; 

44  Ti/Liojue«3ov  <po)Kclat,  Kt]  dafxoreAt’iv  AvaidafjLtt,  Kt]  di ovvaov  Kaipi- 
44  ro3iciu  x^paiweTa  koit’  to  >l/a<pi<r(ia  r to  idfitt. 


v^7^rET>ID 


9vwapx«  SpxovTor,  /xetv6s  aXaXKo/iewtw  F dpvZv  toAinAttos 
rapiiat  dtreduKe  euftuXv  dpxed apua  ipvKeli  a to  rat  aovyypa^S 
t6  KaraAvirov  tear  t3  ^d^uo/xa  t»  idfiut,  dwcXofiswor  Tat 
<row~ ypa^>a>r  Tar  K«/newar  trap  truxpiAov,  Krj  ev<ppuva  tuiceat.  Ktj 
7rap  3iwvu<riov  Ka<pi<xo&wp<*  x»l^w»'*a»  *»J  Xi taidafxow  iapiortAiot 
weia  tww  *,oXeM<»PX<,>v»  Kh  tSv  naTOJTTaww. 

HjVE)E/Et>MllOH 

A Kpxovrot  ev  hpxofievd  Ovvapx^t  M«w or  ’A XaXKo^ievfo,  ew  3i  /■ 
lAariti  Mrwoirao  ’ApxeXaw  pictvot  »pdr«.  'OfxoAoyd  EuflotAv  F 
eAariri,  6 Krj  rp  voAi  epxo/xew/«w.  ’Enttd'r]  KeKOfxiarp  EvfluAot  »aj 
”»jr  ■■dXiot  t3  3dv«iow  airaw  kot’  Tar  o/xoXo7«a r Tar  reOitra r 
<rwwapx«  apxowTor,  juccwor  6eiAov6toa,  Kt]  ov t ocpeiAirt)  avrut  Sri 
oi0C¥  crap  T(iw  TroXtWf  aXX’  aVex*  irdwTa  Trepi  irawTdr,  Kt] 
dw*itddav0i  -rp  voAt  to  ?x0,,Ter  Tar  c/XT\o7«ar,  el  /iew  »ot» 


44  3e3o/ix£wow  XP®1'01'  E5/3toXu  €»r<  wo/itar  ^ ?r<  aTTCTTapa  fioveefft 
44  ooi/w  t7rjrwr  3id  KaTiffr  /■«  /can  npofiarus  aovv  riyuc  xei^rl ? dpx* 
44  tS  xpdwa)  o ewcai/Tor  o pera  0wwapxow  dpxovTa  epxo^evtvt  ano- 
44  7 pa<f  eaOt)  3e  Ew/?u>Xow  /car’  ewiawrow  e/ca-o-TOw  jrdp  tow  t apu’aw  k»j 
44  tow  woputfw  dw  Tare  Kawpara  t5w  7rpo/SdT(i)w,  /c/j  tSw  TJ7fflw,  /cr;  tSw 
44  fievav,  Kt]  T 5»w  t7T*-<oit,  /c//  Kanwa  aVapa/uf  &'/c»j  to  vXec^or  fxe< 
44  dnoypoKpeao  mie  trAiova  r S>v  7 opappewuw  ew  rrj  <roi/7xa)pe*<J,« 

44  n 3e/carcr q to  ewwo/x/ow  Ew/3a)Xow  oipeiAet Xtr  tmw 

44  ipxo/xew<aiw  dpyovpiut TeTTapd/cowTa  Eu/3wAv  naO’  ^KaoTov 

44  iw/awrdw,  kw/  to/cow  <pepirui  3pax/xar Tar  /xwar  ^KaoTar 

44  /caTa  pierwa tow  k/j  ^pnrpa/cror  ?<rr»  row  epxo/x^w/ow  . . , . . 

44  /cat  Ta  Tlf»)r.” 

’Ew  aXXotr  AiOoic. 

44  ’Awo3d»pa  oww^iopow  xa*pe.”  NOKYE2.  44  KaXXcwtrow  dpupd- 
pcX°r  »ca<  dXXac.  Ew  ovdcfiitf.  'ETriypacprj  tiov  t owow,  »j  xwewua,  a 
3e  q/xecr  vToypdtponcv,  ol  xaXaiox  npoaeypafpov.  Kai  to  »j?»ir. 


The  following  is  the  Prospectus  of  a translation  of  Anach arsis 
into  Romaic,  by  my  Romaic  master,  Marmarotouri,  who  wished  to 
publish  it  in  England. 

EIAH'2I2  TYnorPA<l>IKH'. 

Ilpor  Toi/r  ew  0cXo7«ve»s  *cai  0iXeXX»jwar. 

*OIOI  elr  ySi/3X»a  Trawrodatra  ^wTpi/^So-cw,  »> fedpoww  wocrow  etvai  t3 
XP7«,c/x°*'  Tnr  ’Io-Toptar,  3*’  awT/jr  7ap  htevpiaKerai  t)  TrXeow  pee* 
/uaKpw<T/xew»)  TraXacoTr)r«  Kai  0€(t)poZvrat  wc  ew  KaTOTTptf)  ijfft], 
xpdfe cr  «ai  dioiKrjoeir  1 roXXSw  /cal  &ia<pop(ov  'EOvuiv  k at  Tewaiw  Aw 
Ttjv  ]ivt]/jLt)v  diearitto-aro  /cal  diaaun rcc  b 'IcrropiKt]  A/^yna/r  elr  alSwa 
tow  ajrawra. 

Mia  riroia  'EirtaTt]Ht;  eiwai  euairo/cniTor,  /cal  Jw  rawry  wtpeA:^, 
r 1 KpeiTTov  eiireTv  dway/cala*  3 carl  -Xocjtow  T)/xe7r  /xowoi  wa  ti/w 
i/o-repow/xe^a,  pi/;  nfewpowrer  owre  Tar  upxar  t5w  npoyowww  /aar, 
ro<*ew  tore  /cal  7rffir  ewpeO/jcraw  etr  Tcit  ITarpiAar  M°f»  owtb  to  fjtfit, 
Ta  Karop6u)]iaTa  Kai  rrjv  dioiKtjtrlv  rtov ; "Aw  Jpa/T^rcopiew  towc 
’AXAc/yeweTr,  nfei5poi/w  va  /xar  3A<roww  bxtfAOvov  taropcKutt  r't]v  apxh* 
Kai  t/;w  TTpoodow  tSw  irpoybviav  /xar,  dXXu  #cai  ToiroypacpiKwt  /xat 
3 etxvovv  Tar  0e<reir  tSw  IlaTpi3a)w  /xaf/  *a‘  olowel  x£cPaT“T°* 
7ivo/xewoi  /xe  Towr  yeuypa<piKOvt  rutv  IIiwaKar,  /xar  Xeyoww,  J3A  etwai 
al  ' A0 rival,  e3u>  n STrdprn*  ^»ce‘  al  0?j/3ai,  Tocra  ardbia  t]  /xi'Xca 
U7rexei  b /x/a  ’ETrapxia  a7ro  t»/w  aXX/jw.  Touror  y’/co3o/xii<Te  t^w 
/xtaw  ttoXiw,  1/ceTwor  t/;w  aXXtjw  /cal  t£.  npocrerc  Sw  epa>T//(red/X6w 
awToi/r  Toi/r  /x/7  ’EXX/jwar  xe‘Pa7a/70,/r  Mar»  iro0ev  eirapaKivt]Oricrav  wa 
efepeuw^aoi/w  apxdf  tooow  TraXaiar*  awwirocrToXcor  /xar  a7ro/cpi'wowTa» 
/xe  auTovr  Towr  Xo7oi/r.  44  Kadcor  o e«  2/ct/0iar  ’Awaxapocr.  dw  3ew 
44  knepeipxSTO  rd  navevippotrvva  e/cefwa  KXi/xara  T/jr  'EXXa3or,  dw 
44  3ew  e/jitpopetTO  ra  dfcco/xara,  Ta  *cal  Toi>r  No/xowrTSw  ’EXX/zwa/w, 
44  rj^eXe  /xecwf7  2zcw0»ir  /cal  to  owo/xa  /cai  to  wpay/xa*  owtco  /cal  o 
44  bueTepov  ’larpot,  dw  3ew  kfxavdave  ra  rov  ' InrroKpdrovt , 3ew  e3uwaTo 
44  wd  7t poxwp^erp  elr  t/jw  Texw/;w  tow.  "Aw  o Jw  n/x7w  No/xo0eT»jr  3ew 
44  ^ferafe  rd  tow  26Xa>wor>  Aw/cowpyow,  /cal  IliTTazcc/w,  3ew  hivvaro  wd 
44  pi’9fit]<rt]  Kai  wd  /caXiep7^/rj7  rd  n0zi  tww  'O/xoyewAw  tow*  dw  o 
44  'P^Twp  3ew  dTrnwflifeTo  Tar  ew^pa3eiar  /cal  Towr  xapccvTccr/xov r tow 
44  An/xocr^ewowr,  3^w  ewepyowaew  elr  Tar  i//wxdr  tSw  d/cpoarAw  tow. 
44  *Aw  o Neor  ’Awaxapair,  d Kwpcor  ’A/3/3ar  Bap0oXo/xa7or  3ew 
4*  uweyiww <TKt  /xe  /xe7aXrjw  hni]iovt]v  Kai  aKe\j/iv  rove  tt Xeow  JyKpiTowr 
44  crw77pa^)€7r  tAw  4EXX^www,  JfepewwAw  awrowr  Kara  /9d0or  C7rl 
44  Tpta/cowTa  3w«  2th,  dew  IjPeXew  k^vipavp  towt/jw  t/;w  irepi  'EXX^wcaw 
44  ’IcTopiaw  tow,  TjTir  nepi^y/jacr  tow  Neow  ’Awaxapaecer  rap’  awTow 
44  rpovcttwo/xaofn,  /cai  «lr  oXar  Tar  Ewpa>Tra»/cdr  AcaXe/CTowr  /xeTe- 
44  yXcoTTia^n.”  Kai  i w 2wi  Xdyw,  ol  NeArepot,  dw  3ew  27repwaw  3/a 
o3/|70w»  Towr  Ilpo7dwowr  Mat>  n^eXaw  icrwt  irepi^/epcewTai  /xaraccor 
/xexpc  tow  www.  Awni  3ew  etwai  Adyta  2w0owo,iao,/xewow  3td  t3  ipiAo- 
yewer  Tpai/coS,  etwai  3e  iptAaAbOovt  repfxavov,  ban r e/xera^pacre 
tow  Neow  ’Awaxaptrtw  a»o  tow  TaXXi/cow  elr  to  rep/xaw/Kow. 

"Aw  Xotwow  Kai  n/xe7r  0eX«/xew  wd  /xe^efco/xew  T/jr  ywAtree/r  tAw 
X«/x7rpAw  KaTop^co/xaTtaw  owow  2/ca/xaw  ol  0aw/xa<7Toi  2/ce7woi  ITpo- 
7rdroper  b/J-wv,  dw  iw/6u/x®/xew  wd  /xddw/xew  t/;w  irpdodow  Kai  avftiait 
tAw  elr  Tar  Tex^at  /cai  ’Eirte'T^/xar  /cai  elr  /cd0e  dXXo  etdor  ]iaOt]fftu,t, 
dw  exw/xew  weptepyeiaw  wd  yweoptcrw/xew  iroOev  KarayontOa,  /cal 
d7roiowr  Oavfxaarovt  Kai  /xeyaXowr  dwdpar,  el  /cai  vpoyowowr  bn**Vt 
<peu,  nMe*f  dew  ywoptfo/xew,  eit  zcatpow  ottow  oi  ’AXXoyeweir  tfaw- 
/xafowtrtw  awrowr,  /cai  Ar  srarepar  wawTotacroww  fxaOtjaet* r re/Sovrat, 
dr  awwdpd/xw/xew  dwawTer  irpo0w/xcar  elr  r'tjv  ?/c3otnw  tow  lav/xariev 
towtob  trr77pd/x/xaTor  tow  Neow  ’Awaxape'cwt. 

5 I 


794 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS, 


'H/ueir  o5v  oi  viroyeypa/u/mevot  BeXo/sev  iKreXeott  irpoOvijnot’Tijv 
uerdtppaoiv  tov  Bi/SXiov  /ue  rrjv  Kara  to  Ai»>/utAi/  fijutv  KaXijv  <ppaoiv 
rnt  vvv  KaO'  finds  oniXlas,  Kal  eniovrer  tovto  eis  tvhov,  6e\o/j.e v to 
KaXXmn  foet  /jiA  tow c Ve(t>ypa<ptKovr  llivanat  /ue  anXds  'Pa>juatK«v 
Xefeir  kyKtx^payn^vovi  «lv  h&tKana-f  ypannafat  npooTtOevTes  on 
SAXo  xpk<rifAOV  *a*  apfxoiiov  etr  tJjw  'loToptaw. 

"OAov  to  ovyypanna  OeXet  ytvei  els  To/uous  Au> Ae«a  Kara  n‘Mn<rtv 
rnv  ’IraXiKrjr  ixdot rewc.  'H  ti/u»j  oXov  tov  2uyypdunarot  ctvat 

< ptopivia  deKael-rj  tTis  Biewriv  A<a  tijv  irpo&0rjKrlv  twi'  yeu>ypa<piKu>v 
mvaKu) v.  'O  tptXoyevijs  ovv  Ivvdponn Ti/r  rrpenei  vu  irAripidoy'  tir 
Ka0 e To/xov  < piopivi  eva  Kal  Kapavravta  eiKocri  Ttjs  Bievvrtr,  Kai  tovto 
£<vpi t ko/j ifilay  npodooiv,  a A A’  evOvs  oirov  OeXei  T^t  napadoOjj  6 
T ofxos  Tuirw/iewot  Kai  Ae/ueeor. 

’Eppton^vot  Kal  €v&ai/j.ovtt  diafhwotre  ’EAA^vmv  TlarAer. 

Tri?  ufjLere par  dyanns  IfppTTj/aevox. 

’[(odi'wcr  Map/uapoTOopr|r. 

A»iM>7Tpcof  llevuepnr. 

Zirupidtoii  npefieror. 

Ev  Tpit<TTiif>,  tt)  7rp(t>rri  ’Okt ocfipiov,  1790. 


THE  LORD’S  PRAYER  IN  ROMAIC. 

'O  IIATE'PAMAX  o fol  eioai  elv  touv  ovpavovs,  as  dytaaOrj  to 
ovopLa  (Too.  "As  ?X0r/  k (laotXela  oov.  "Ar  yivy  to  fleArj^ta  <rov, 
KaOtiis  elr  tAv  ovpavov,  %T{n  Kai  elc  ttjw  yf/v . To  \ 1/utnip.as  to 
(ca^rj/iepa/oo,  66s  par  to  ofjptepov.  Kai  <7-u7x<«*p7|<r^  Ma^  tA  XP**1Maf> 
KaOws  Kal  ipieTs  ovyxoopovnev  t owe  KpeotpetXeras  pear.  Kal  nhv  f*dt 
tpepeit  Treipaoiiow,  uAAa  e\ev6epwo4  pas  and  tov  rovripdv.  “ Ort 
ediKtj  oov  elvat  fj  (JaoiXeia  id,  rj  ivvafitSt  Kai  t)  Aofa , «lf  roi/s 
alwvar.  'Apiyv. 

IN  GREEK. 

TIA'TEP  »i/uu)v  A iv  Talr  ovpavots,  ayiao$(j t»  t A dvoixd  oov. 
' EXOeru)  fj  /SaoiXeta  (row*  7€V7j^'7tu  tA  6iXtyj.d  oov,  lit  oupawjl, 
«ai  £rri  T»ir  7»ir.  TAw  apTov  ij/uSv  tAw  Imovoiov  66s  hpdv  o^nepov. 
Kai  atpes  kpdv  T“  oQeiXtifiaTa  rj/UGow,  ws  Kai  Tj^ietc  a<pi«ixfv  rots 
oipttXeTait  iipuiv.  Kai  fxh  tloeveyKtis  Tjyaav  etc  veipaopiov,  dXXd 
pZoai  finds  and  tov  novtipov.  “On  oov  honv  ft  flaoiXtia,  Kai  k 
ivvants,  Kai  k 6o(a  etc  root  at5i/ac.  'A/lit/v. 


13on  3«an. 


Note  [A]. — Letter  to  the  Editor  op  " My 
Grandmother’s  Review.”  1 

[See  " Testimonies  of  Authors,”  ante,  p.  581.] 

My  Dear  Robert*, 

As  a believer  in  the  church  of  England — to  say  nothing  of 
the  State— I have  been  an  occasional  reader  and  great  admirer  of, 
though  not  a subscriber  to,  your  Review,  which  is  rather  expensive. 
But  I do  not  know  that  any  part  of  its  contents  ever  gave  me  much 
surprise  till  the  eleventh  article  of  your  twenty-seventh  number 
made  its  appearance.  You  have  there  most  vigorously  refuted  a 
calumnious  accusation  of  bribery  and  corruption,  the  credence  of 
which  in  the  public  mind  might  not'only  have  damaged  your 
reputation  as  a clergyman  2 and  an  editor,  but,  what  would  have 
been  still  worse,  have  injured  the  circulation  of  your  journal ; 
which,  I regret  to  hear,  is  not  so  extensive  as  the  “ purity”  (as  you 
we’.i  observe)  “of  its,  &c.  &c.”  and  the  present  taste  for  propriety, 
would  induce  us  to  expect.  The  charge  itself  is  of  a solemn 
nature,  and,  although  in  verse,  is  couched  in  terms  of  such  circum- 
stantial gravity,  as  to  induce  a belief  little  short  of  that  generally 
accorded  to  the  thirty-nine  articles,  to  which  you  so  frankly  sub- 


(1) [“  Bologna,  Aug.  23,  1819.  I send  you  a letter  to  Roberts,  signed 
' Wortley  Clutterbuck,’  which  you  may  publish  in  what  form  you  please,  in 
aaswer  to  his  article.  I have  had  many  proofs  of  men’s  absurdity,  but  he  beats 
all  in  folly.  Why,  the  wolf  in  sheep’s  clothing  has  tumbled  into  the  very 

1 ” — Lord  Byron  to  Mr.  Murray .] 

(2)  [Mr.  Roberts  is  not,  as  Lord  Ryron  stems  to  have  supposed,  a clergy- 

man, but  a barrister  at  law.  In  1792,  he  established  a paper  called  “ The 


scribed  on  taking  your  degrees.  It  is  a charge  the  most  revolting 
to  the  heart  of  man  from  its  frequent  occurrence  ; to  the  mind  of  a 
statesman,  from  its  occasional  truth ; and  to  the  soul  of  an  editor, 
from  its  moral  impossibility.  You  are  charged  then  in  the  last 
line  of  one  octave  stanza,  and  the  whole  eight  lines  of  the  next,  viz. 
209th  and  210th  of  the  first  canto  of  that  “pestilent  poem”  Don 
Juan,  with  receiving,  and  still  more  foolishly  acknowledging  the 
receipt  of,  certain  monies,  to  eulogise  the  unknown  author,  who  by 
this  account  must  be  known  to  you,  if  to  nobody  else.  An  im- 
peachment of  this  nature  so  seriously  made,  there  is  but  one  way 
of  refuting;  and  it  is  my  firm  persuasion,  that  whether  you  did  or 
did  not  (and  I believe  that  you  did  not)  receive  the  said  monies,  of 
which  1 wish  that  he  had  specified  the  sum,  you  are  quite  right  in  ‘ 
denying  all  knowledge  of  the  transaction.  If  charges  of  this 
nefarious  description  are  to  go  forth,  sanctioned  by  all  the  solemnity 
of  circumstance,  and  guaranteed  by  the  veracity  of  verse  (as 
Counsellor  Phillips3  would  say),  what  is  to  become  of  readers 
hitherto  implicitly  confident  in  the  not  less  veracious  prose  of  our 
critical  journals!  what  is  to  become  of  the  reviews!  And,  if  the 
reviews  fail,  what  is  to  become  of  the  editors?  It  is  common 
cause,  and  you  have  done  well  to  sound  the  alarm.  I myself,  in 
my  humble  sphere,  will  be  one  of  your  echoes.  In  the  words  of  the 
tragedian,  Liston,  “I  love  a row,”  and  you  seem  justly  determined 
to  make  one. 

It  is  barely  possible,  certainly  improbable,  that  the  writer  might 
have  been  in  jest ; but  this  only  aggravates  his  crime.  A joke,  the 
proverb  says,  “ breaks  no  bones ; ” but  it  may  break  a bookseller, 
or  it  may  be  the  cause  of  bones  being  broken.  The  jest  is  but  a 
bad  one  at  the  best  for  the  author,  and  might  have  been  a still 
worse  one  for  you,  if  your  copious  contradiction  did  not  certify  to 
all  whom  it  may  concern  your  own  indignant  innocence,  and  the 
immaculate  purity  of  the  British  Review.  I do  not  doubt  your 
word,  my  dear  Roberts ; yet  I cannot  help  wishing  that,  in  a case 
of  such  vital  importance,  it  had  assumed  the  more  substantial  shape 
of  an  affidavit  sworn  before  the  Lord  Mayor  Atkins,  who  readily 
receives  any  deposition;  and  doubtless  would  have  brought  it  in 
some  way  as  evidence  of  the  designs  of  the  Reformers  to  set  fire  to 
London,  at  the  same  time  that  he  himself  meditates  the  same  good 
office  towards  the  river  Thames. 

I am  sure,  my  dear  Roberts,  that  you  will  take  these  observations 
of  mine  in  good  part : they  are  written  in  a spirit  of  friendship  not 
less  pure  than  your  own  editorial  integrity.  I have  always  admired 
you ; and,  not  knowing  any  shape  which  friendship  and  admiration 
can  assume  more  agreeable  and  useful  than  that  of  good  advice,  I 
shall  continue  my  lucubrations,  mixed  with  here  and  there  a 
monitory  hint  as  to  what  I conceive  to  be  the  line  you  should  pur- 
sue, in  case  you  should  ever  again  be  assailed  with  bribes,  or 
accused  of  taking  them.  By  the  way,  you  don’t  say  much  about 
the  poem,  except  that  it  is  “flagitious.”  This  is  a pity — you  should 
have  cut  it  up;  because,  to  say  the  truth,  in  not  doing  so,  you 
somewhat  assist  any  notions  which  the  malignant  might  entertain 
on  the  score  of  the  anonymous  asseveration  which  has  made  you 
so  angry. 

You  say  no  bookseller  “ was  willing  to  take  upon  himself  the  * 
publication,  though  most  of  them  disgrace  themselves  by  selling  it  ” i 
Now,  my  dear  friend,  though  we  all  know  that  those  fellows  will 
do  any  thing  for  money,  methinks  the  disgrace  is  more  with  the  t 
purchasers  : and  some  sueh,  doubtless,  there  are ; for  there  can  be  ' 
no  very  extensive  selling  (as  you  will  perceive  by  that  of  the  British  } 
Review)  without  buying.  You  then  add,  “What  can  the  critic 
say  ! ” I am  sure  I don’t  know ; at  present  he  says  very  little_an  1 i 
that  not  much  to  the  purpose.  Then  comes  “ for  praise  as  far  aj 
regards  the  poetry,  many  passages  might  be  exhibited : for  condem- 
nation, as  far  as  regards  the  morality,  all.”  Now,  my  dear  good 
Mr.  Roberts,  I feel  for  you,  and  for  your  reputation : *my  heart 
bleeds  for  both;  and  I do  ask  you,  whether  or  not  such  language 
does  not  come  positively  under  the  description  of  “the  puff  0 
collusive,”  for  which  see  Sheridan’s  farce  of  “ The  Critic,”  (by  thv 
way,  a little  more  facetious  than  your  own  farce  under  the  same 
title,)  towards  the  close  of  scene  second,  act  the  first. 

The  poem  is,  it  seems,  sold  as  the  work  of  Lord  Byron  ; but  you 
feel  yourself  “ at  liberty  to  suppose  it  not  Lord  B.’s  composition.”  i 
Why  did  you  ever  suppose  that  it  was ! I approve  of  your  indig- 
nation— I applaud  it — I feel  as  angry  as  you  can;  but  perhaps 


Looker-on,”  which  has  since  been  admitted  into  the  collection  o f British 
Essayists  ; and  he  is  known,  in  his  profession,  for  a treatise  on  the  Law  pi 
Fraudulent  Bankruptcy.  In  1834,  he  also  published  the  Memoirs  of  Hannah 
More.] 

(3)  [Charles  Phillips,  Barrister,  was  in  those  days  celebrated  for  ultra- Irist 
eloquence.  See  the  hdinbuigh  Review,  Wo.  lvii.] 


APPENDIX. 


795 


your  virtuous  wrafh  carries  you  a little  too  far,  when  you  say  that 
•*  no  misdemeanour,  not  even  that  of  sending  into  the  world 
obse*ne  and  blasphemous  poetry,  the  product  of  studious  lewdness 
and  laboured  impiety,  appears  to  you  in  so  detestable  a light  as  the 
acceptance  of  a present  by  the  editor  of  a review,  as  the  condition 
of  praising  an  author.”  The  devil  it  doesn’t! — Think  a little. 
This  is  being  critical  overmuch.  In  point  of  Gentile  benevolence 
or  Christian  charity,  it  were  surely  less  criminal  to  praise  for  a 
bribe,  than  to  abuse  a fellow-creature  for  nothing;  and  as  to  the 
assertion  of  the  comparative  innocence  of  blasphemy  and  obscenity, 
confronted  with  an  editor’s  “acceptance  of  a present,”  I shall 
merely  observe,  that  as  an  editor  you  say  very  well,  but,  as  a 
Christian  divine,  I would  not  recommend  you  to  transpose  this 
sentence  into  a sermon. 

And  yet  you  say,  “ the  miserable  man  (for  miserable  he  is,  as 
having  a soul  of  which  he  cannot  get  rid).” — But  here  I must 
pause  again,  and  iuquire  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  parenthesis! 
We  have  heard  of  “ little  soul,”  or  of  “ no  soul  at  all,”  but  never 
till  now  of  " the  misery  of  having  a soul  of  which  we  cannot  get 
rid ; ” a misery  under  which  you  are  possibly  no  great  sufferer, 
having  got  rid  apparently  of  some  of  the  intellectual  part  of  your 
own  when  you  penned  this  pretty  piece  of  eloquence. 

But  to  continue.  You  call  upon  Lord  Byron,  always  supposing 
him  not  the  author,  to  disclaim  “with  all  gentlemanly  haste,”  &c.  & c. 
I am  told  that  Lord  B.  is  in  a foreign  country,  some  thousand 
miles  off  it  may  be;  so  that  it  will  be  difficult  for  him  to  hurry  to 
your  wishes.  In  the  meantime,  perhaps  you  yourself  have  set  an 
example  of  more  haste  than  gentility ; but  “ the  more  haste  the 
worse  speed.” 

Let  us  now  look  at  the  charge  itself,  my  dear  Roberts,  which 
appears  to  me  to  be  in  some  degree  not  quite  explicitly  worded : 

“ I bribed  my  Grandmother’*  Review,  the  British." 

I recollect  hearing,  soon  after  the  publication,  this  subject  dis- 
cussed at  the  tea-table  of  Mr.  Sotheby  the  poet,  who  expressed 
himself,  I remember,  a good  deal  surprised  that  you  had  never 
reviewed  his  epic  poem  of  “ Saul,”  nor  any  of  his  six  tragedies ; of 
which,  in  one  instance,  the  bad  taste  of  the  pit,  and,  in  all  the  rest, 
the  barbarous  repugnance  of  the  principal  actors,  prevented  the 
performance.  Mrs.  and  the  Misses  S.  being  in  a corner  of  the 
room,  perusing  the  proof  sheets  of  Mr.  S.’s  poems  in  Italy,  or  on 
Italy,  as  he  says,  (I  wish,  by  the  by,  Mrs.  S.  would  make  the  tea  a 
little  stronger,)  the  male  part  of  the  conversazione  were  at  liberty 
to  make  a few  observations  on  the  poem  and  passage  in  question ; 
and  there  was  a difference  of  opinion.  Some  thought  the  allusion 
was  to  the  “ British  Critic:”1  others,  that  by  the  expression,  “ My 
Grandmother’s  Review,”  it  was  intimated  that  “ my  grandmother  ” 
was  not  the  reader  of  the  review,  but  actually  the  writer ; thereby 
insinuating,  my  dear  Roberts,  that  you  were  an  old  woman ; 
because,  as  people  often  say,  “Jeffrey’s  Review,”  “Gifford’s 
Review,”  in  lieu  of  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly:  so  “my  Grand- 
mother’s Review”  and  Roberts’s  might  be  almost  synonymous. 
Now,  whatever  colour  this  insinuation  might  derive  from  the 
circumstance  of  your  wearing  a gown,  as  well  as  from  your  time  of 
life,  your  general  style,  and  various  passages  of  your  writings — I 
will  take  upon  myself  to  exculpate  you  from  all  suspicion  of  the 
kind,  and  assert,  without  calling  Mrs.  Roberts  in  testimony,  that  if 
ever  you  should  be  chosen  Pope,  you  will  pass  through  all  the 
previous  ceremonies  with  as  much  credit  as  any  pontiff  since  the 
parturition  of  Joan.  It  is  very  unfair  to  judge  of  sex  from  writings, 
particularly  from  those  of  the  British  Review.  We  are  all  liable  to 
be  deceived ; and  it  is  an  indisputable  fact,  that  many  of  the  best 
articles  in  your  journal,  which  were  attributed  to  a veteran  female, 
were  actually  written  by  you  yourself ; and  yet  to  this  day  there 
are  people  who  could  never  find  out  the  difference.  But  let  us 
return  to  the  more  immediate  question. 

I agree  with  you,  that  it  is  impossible  Lord  Byron  should  be  the 
author,  not  only  because,  as  a British  peer  and  a British  poet,  it 
would  be  impracticable  for  him  to  have  recourse  to  such  facetious 
fiction,  but  for  some  other  reasons  which  you  have  omitted  to  state. 
In  the  first  place,  his  Lordship  has  no  grandmother.  Now,  the 
author — and  we  may  believe  him  in  this — doth  expressly  state  that 
the  “ British  ” is  his  “ Grandmother’s  Review ; ” and  if,  as  I think 
I have  distinctly  proved,  this  was  not  a mere  figurative  allusion  to 
your  supposed  intellectual  age  and  sex,  my  dear  friend,  it  follows, 
whether  you  be  she  or  no,  that  there  is  such  an  elderly  lady  still 


(1)  “[Whether  It  be  the  British  Critic,  or  the  British  Review,  against 
which  the  noble  lord  prefers  so  grave  a charge,  or  rather  so  facetious  an 
Kcusa'.lon,  we  are  at  a loss  to  determine.  The  Witter  has  thought  it  worth 


extant.  And  I can  the  more  readily  credit  this,  having  s 
sexagenary  aunt  of  my  own,  who  perused  you  constantly,  till  unfor- 
tunately falling  asleep  over  the  leading  article  of  your  last  number, 
her  spectacles  fell  off  and  were  broken  against  the  fender,  after  a 
faithful  service  of  fifteen  years,  and  she  has  never  been  able  to  fit 
her  eyes  since  ; so  that  I have  been  forced  to  read  you  aloud  to  har : 
and  this  is  in  fact  the  way  in  which  I became  acquainted  with  the 
subject  of  my  present  letter,  and  thus  determined  to  become  your 
public  correspondent. 

In  the  next  place,  Lord  B.’s  destiny  seems  in  some  sort  like  that 
of  Hercules  of  old,  who  became  the  author  of  all  unappropriated 
prodigies.  Lord  B.  has  been  supposed  the  author  of  the  “Vam- 
pire,” of  a “ Pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem,”  “ To  the  Dead  Sea,”  of 
“ Death  upon  the  Pale  Horse,”  of  odes  to  “ La  Valette,”  to  “Saint 
Helena,”  to  the  “ Land  of  the  Gaul,”  and  to  a sucking  child. 
Now,  he  turned  out  to  have  written  none  of  these  things.  Besides, 
you  say,  he  knows  in  what  a spirit  of,  &c.  you  criticise : — Are  you 
sure  he  knows  all  this!  that  he  has  read  you  like  my  poor  dear 
aunt  ! They  tell  me  he  is  a queer  sort  of  a man  ; and  I would  not 
be  too  sure,  if  I were  you,  either  of  what  he  has  read  or  of  what  ha 
has  written.  I thought  his  style  had  been  the  serious  and  terrible. 
As  to  his  sending  you  money,  this  is  the  first  time  that  ever  I 
heard  of  his  paying  his  reviewers  in  that  coin;  I thought  it  was 
rather  in  their  own,  to  judge  from  some  of  his  earlier  productions. 
Besides,  though  he  may  not  be  profuse  in  his  expenditure,  I should 
conjecture  that  his  reviewer’s  bill  is  not  so  long  as  his  tailor’s. 

Shall  I give  you  what  I think  a prudent  opinion!  I don’t  mean 
to  insinuate,  God  forbid  ! but  if,  by  any  accident,  there  should  have 
been  such  a correspondence  between  you  and  the  unknown  author, 
whoever  he  may  be,  send  him  back  his  money  : I dare  say  he  will 
be  very  glad  to  have  it  again;  it  can’t  be  much,  considering  the 
value  of  the  article  and  the  circulation  of  the  journal;  and  you  are 
too  modest  to  rate  your  praise  beyond  its  real  worth. — Don’t  be 
angry, — I know  you  won’t, — at  this  appraisement  of  your  powers 
of  eulogy ; for  on  the  other  hand,  my  dear  friend,  depend  upon  it 
your  abuse  is  worth,  not  its  own  weight,  — that’s  a feather, — but 
your  weight  in  gold.  So  don’t  spare  it : if  he  has  bargained  for 
that,  give  it  handsomely,  and  depend  upon  your  doing  him  a 
friendly  office. 

But  I only  speak  in  case  of  possibility ; for,  as  I said  before,  I 
cannot  believe,  in  the  first  instance,  that  you  would  receive  a bribe 
to  praise  any  person  whatever;  and  still  less  can  I believe  that 
your  praise  could  ever  produce  such  an  offer.  You  are  a good 
creature,  my  dear  Roberts,  and  a clever  fellow ; else  I could  almost 
suspect  that  you  had  fallen  into  the  very  trap  set  for  you  in  verse 
by  this  anonymous  wag,  who  will  certainly  be  but  too  happy  to  see 
you  saving  him  the  trouble  of  making  you  ridiculous.  The  fact  is, 
that  the  solemnity  of  your  eleventh  article  does  make  you  look  a 
little  more  absurd  than  you  ever  yet  looked,  in  all  probability,  and 
at  the  same  time  does  no  good ; for  if  any  body  believed  before  in 
the  octave  stanzas,  they  will  believe  still,  and  you  will  find  it  not 
less  difficult  to  prove  your  negative,  than  the  learned  Partridge 
found  it  to  demonstrate  his  not  being  dead,  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  readers  of  almanacs. 

What  the  motives  of  this  writer  may  have  been  for  (as  you 
magnificently  translate  his  quizzing  you)  “stating,  with  the  par- 
ticularity which  belongs  to  fact,  the  forgery  of  a groundless  fiction,” 
(do  pray,  my  dear  R.,  talk  a little  less  “ in  King  Cambyses’  vein,”) 
I cannot  pretend  to  say;  perhaps  to  laugh  at  you,  but  that  is  no 
reason  for  your  benevolently  making  all  the  world  laugh  also.  I 
approve  of  your  being  angry ; I tell  you  I am  angry  too ; but  you 
should  not  have  shown  it  so  outrageously.  Your  solemn  “ If 
somebody  personating  the  Editor  of  the,  &c.  &c.  has  received  from 
Lord  B.,  or  from  any  other  person,”  reminds  me  of  Charley  Incle- 
don’s  usual  exordium  when  people  came  into  the  tavern  to  hear  him 
sing  without  paying  their  share  of  the  reckoning — “ if  a maun,  or 
ony  maun,  or  ony  other  maun,”  &c.  &c. ; you  have  both  the  same 
redundant  eloquence.  But  why  should  you  think  any  body  would 
personate  you!  Nobody  would  dream  of  such  a prank  who  ever 
read  your  compositions,  and  perhaps  not  many  who  have  heard 
your  conversation.  But  I have  been  inoculated  with  a little  o! 
your  prolixity.  The  fact  is,  my  dear  Roberts,  that  somebody  has 
tried  to  make  a fool  of  you,  and  what  he  did  not  succeed  in  doing, 
you  have  done  for  him  and  for  yourself. 

With  regard  to  the  poem  itself,  or  the  author,  whom  I cannot 
find  out,  (can  you!)  I have  nothing  to  say;  my  business  is  with 
you.  I am  sure  that  you  will,  upon  second  thoughts,  be  really 


its  while,  in  a publie  paper,  to  make  a serious  reply.  As  we  are  not  sa 
seriously  inclined,  we  sbali  leave  our  share  of  this  accusation  fc  its  Cato.”— 
BrU,  GViWci) 


796 


LORE  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


obliged  to  me  for  the  intention  of  this  letter,  however  far  short  my 
expressions  may  have  fallen  of  the  sincere  good  will,  admiration, 
and  thorough  esteem,  with  which  I am  ever,  my  dear  Roberts, 

• Most  truly  yours, 

WOETtSI  Clutterbuck. 

Sept.  *th,  1819 
Little  Pidhngton. 

P.S.  My  letter  is  too  long  to  revise,  and  the  post  is  going.  I 
forget  whether  or  not  I asked  you  the  meaning  of  your  last  words, 
“ the  forgery  of  a groundless  fiction.”  Now,  as  all  forgery  is  fiction, 
and  all  fiction  a kind  of  forgery,  is  not  this  tautological?  The 
sentence  would  have  ended  more  strongly  with  “ forgery ; ” only, 
it  hath  an  awful  Bank  of  England  sound,  and  would  have  ended 
like  an  indictment,  besides  sparing  you  several  words,  and  con- 
ferring some  meaning  upon  the  remainder.  But  this  is  mere 
verbal  criticism.  Good-bye — once  more,  yours  truly,  W.  C. 

P.S.  2d. — Is  it  true  that  the  Saints  make  up  the  loss  of  the 
Review?— It  is  very  handsome  in  them  to  be  at  so  great  an  ex- 
pense. Twice  more,  yours,  W . C. 


Note  [B]. — Some  Observations  upon  an  Article 
in  Blackwood’s  Magazine,  No.  XXIX.,  August, 
1819. 

“ Why,  how  now,  Hecate  ? you  look  angrily.” — Macbeth. 

[See  “Testimonies  of  Authors,”  No.  XVII.  anti , p.  582.] 


TO 

J.  D’ISRAELI,  ESQ. 

THE  AMIABLE  AND  INGENIOUS  AUTHOR  OP 
“THE  CALAMITIES”  AND  “ QUARRELS  OF  AUTHOR*}” 

THIS  ADDITIONAL  QUARREL  AND  CALAMITY 
18  INSCRIBED  BY 

ONE  OF  THE  NUMBER. 

Ravenna,  March  15,  1820. 

“The  life  of  a writer”  has  been  said,  by  Pope,  I believe,  to  be 
“ a warfare  upon  earth."  As  far  as  my  own  experience  has  gone, 

I have  nothing  to  say  against  the  proposition : and,  like  the  rest, 
having  once  plunged  into  this  state  of  hostility,  must,  however  re- 
luctantly, carry  it  on.  An  article  has  appeared  in  a periodical 
work,  entitled  “ Remarks  on  Don  Juan,”  which  has  been  so  full  of 
this  spirit  on  the  part  of  the  writer,  as  to  require  some  observations 
on  mine. 

In  the  first  place,  I am  not  aware  by  what  right  the  writer 
assumes  this  work,  which  is  anonymous,  to  be  my  production.  He 
will  answer,  that  there  is  internal  evidence;  that  is  to  say,  that 
there  are  passages  which  appear  to  be  written  in  my  name,  or  in 
my  manner.  But  might  not  this  have  been  done  on  purpose  by 
mother?  He  will  say,  why  not  then  deny  it?  To  this  I eould 
answer,  that  of  all  the  things  attributed  to  me  within  the  last  five 
years, — Pilgrimages  to  Jerusalem,  Deaths  upoitPale  Horses,  Odes 
to  the  Land  of  the  Gaul,  Adieus  to  England,  Songs  to  Madame  La 
Valette,  Odes  to  St.  Helena,  Vampires,  and  what  not, — of  which, 
God  knows,  I never  composed  nor  read  a syllable  beyond  their 
titles  in  advertisements, — I never  thought  it  worth  while  to  disavow 
any,  except  one  which  came  linked  with  an  account  of  my  “resi- 
dence in  the  Isle  of  Mitylene,”  where  I never  resided,  and 
appeared  to  be  carrying  the  amusement  of  those  persons,  who 
think  my  name  can  be  of  any  use  to  them,  a little  too  far. 

I should  hardly,  therefore,  if  I did  not  take  the  trouble  to  disavow 
these  things  published  in  my  name,  and  yet  not  mine,  go  out  of 
my  way  to  deny  an  anonymous  work ; which  might  appear  an  act 
of  supererogation.  Witli  regard  to  Don  Juan,  I neither  deny  nor 
admit  it  to  be  mine — every  body  may  form  their  own  opinion ; but, 
if  there  be  any  who  now,  or  in  the  progress  of  that  poem,  if  it  is  to 


(1)  [In  Sheridan’s  comedy  of  “The  Rivals.”] 

(2)  [lee  Blackwood,  vol.  iii.  p.  329.  Lord  B.,  as  it  appears  from  one  of  his 
letters,  ascribed  (though  unjustly)  this  paper  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Chalmers  !] 

(3)  [•’  As  the  passage  was  curtailed  in  the  press,  I take  this  opportunity  of 
restoring  it.  In  the  Quarterly  Review  fvol.  xxi  p.  366),  speaking  incidentally 


be  continued,  feel,  or  should  feel  themselves  so  aggrieved  as  ta 
require  a more  explicit  answer,  privately  and  personally,  they 
shall  have  it. 

I have  never  shrunk  from  the  responsibility  of  what  I have 
written,  and  have  more  than  once  incurred  obloquy  by  neglecting 
to  disavow  what  was  attributed  to  my  pen  without  foundation. 

The  greater  part,  however,  of  the  “Remarks  on  Don  Juan* 
contain  but  little  on  the  work  itself,  which  receives  an  extraordinary 
portion  of  praise  as  a composition.  With  the  exception  of  some 
quotations,  and  a few  incidental  remarks,  the  rest  of  the  article  is 
neither  mor?  nor  less  than  a personal  attack  upon  the  imputed 
author.  It  is  not  the  first  in  the  same  publication : for  I recollect 
to  have  read,  some  time  ago,  similar  remarks  upon  “Beppo”  (said 
to  have  been  written  by  a celebrated  northern  preacher);  in  which 
the  conclusion  drawn  was,  that  “ Childe  Harold,  Byron,  and  the 
Count  in  Beppo,  were  one  and  the  same  person  ; ” thereby  making 
me  turn  out  to  be,  as  Mrs.  Malaprop1 2  says,  *4  like  Cerberus,  three 
gentlemen  at  once''  That  article  was  signed  “ Presbyter  Angli- 
canus;”  which,  I presume,  being  interpreted,  means  Scotch 
Presbyterian. 2 I must  here  observe, — and  it  is  at  once  ludicrous 
and  vexatious  to  be  compelled  so  frequently  to  repeat  the  same 
thing, — that  my  case,  as  an  author,  is  peculiarly  hard,  in  being 
everlastingly  taken,  or  mistaken,  for  my  own  protagonist.  It  is 
unjust  and  particular.  I never  heard  that  my  friend  Moore  was 
set  down  for  a fire-worshipper  on  account  of  his  Guebre ; that  Scott 
was  identified  with  Roderick  Dhu,  or  with  Balfour  of  Burley ; or 
that,  notwithstanding  all  the  magicians  in  Thalaba,  any  body  has 
ever  taken  Mr.  Southey  for  a conjuror ; whereas  I have  had  some 
difficulty  in  extricating  me  even  from  Manfred,  who,  as  Mr. 
Southey  slily  observes  in  one  of  his  articles  in  the  Quarterly,  “ met 
the  devil  on  the  Jungfrau,  and  bullied  him :”  3 and  I answer  Mr. 
Southey,  who  has  apparently,  in  his  political  life,  not  been  so  suc- 
cessful against  the  great  enemy,  that,  in  this,  Manfred  exactly 
followed  the  sacred  precept, — “ Resist  the  devil,  and  he  will  flee 
from  you.” — I shall  have  more  to  say  on  the  subject  of  this  person 
— not  the  devil,  but  his  most  humble  servant  Mr.  Southey — before 
I conclude  ; but,  for  the  present,  I must  return  to  the  article  in  the 
Edinburgh  Magazine. 

In  the  course  of  this  article,  amidst  some  extraordinary  observa- 
tions, there  occur  the  following  words: — “It  appears,  in  short,  as 
if  this  miserable  man,  having  exhausted  every  species  of  sensual 
gratification, — having  drained  the  cup  of  sin  even  to  its  bitterest 
dregs,  were  resolved  to  show  us  that  he  is  no  longer  a human  being 
even  in  his  frailties,— but  a cool,  unconcerned  fiend,  laughing  with 
a detestable  glee  over  the  whole  of  the  better  and  worse  elements 
of  which  human  life  is  composed.”  In  another  place  there 
appears,  “ the  lurking-place  of  his  selfish  and  polluted  exile.” — 
“By  my  troth,  these  be  bitter  words  1” — With  regard  to  the  first 
sentence,  I shall  content  myself  with  observing,  that  it  appears  to 
have  been  composed  for  Sardanapalus,  Tiberius,  the  Regent  Duke 
of  Orleans,  or  Louis  XV. ; and  that  I have  copied  it  with  as  much 
indifference  as  I would  a passage  from  Suetonius,  or  from  any  of 
the  private  memoirs  of  the  regency,  conceiving  it  to  be  amply 
refuted  by  the  terms  in  which  it  is  expressed,  and  to  be  utterly  in- 
applicable to  any  (private  individual.  On  the  words,  “lurking- 
place,”  and  “ selfish  and  polluted  exile,”  I have  something  more  to 
say. — How  far  the  capital  city  of  a government,  which  survived  the 
vicissitudes  of  thirteen  hundred  years,  and  might  still  have  existed 
but  for  the  treachery  of  Buonaparte,  and  the  iniquity  of  his  imi- 
tators,— a city,  which  was  the  emporium  of  Europe  when  London 
and  Edinburgh  were  dens  of  barbarians, — may  be  termed  a 
“lurking-place,”  I leave  to  those  who  have  seen  or  heard  of  Venice 
to  decide.  How  far  my  exile  may  have  been  “ polluted,”  it  is  not 
for  me  to  say,  because  the  word  is  a wide  one,  and,  with  some  of  its 
branshes,  may  chance  to  overshadow  the  actions  of  most  men ; but 
that  it  has  been  “ selfish  ” I deny.  If,  to  the  extent  of  my  means 
and  my  power,  and  my  information  of  their  calamities,  to  have 
assisted  many  miserable  beings,  reduced  by  the  decay  of  the  place 
of  their  birth,  and  their  consequent  loss  of  substance— if  to  have 
never  rejected  an  application  which  appeared  founded  on  truth — if 
to  have  expended  in  this  manner  sums  far  out  of  proportion  to  my 
fortune,  there  and  elsewhere,  be  selfish,  then  have  I been  selfish. 
To  have  done  such  things  I do  not  deem  much ; but  it  is  hard 
indeed  to  be  compelled  to  recapitulate  them  in  my  own  defence, 
by  such  accusations  as  that  before  me,  like  a panel  before  a jury 


of  the  Jungfrau,  l said,  * It  was  the  scene  where  Lord  Byron’s  Manfred  met 
tlie  devil,  and  bullied  him— though  the  devil  must  have  won  his  cause  before 
any  tribunal  in  this  world,  or  the  next,  if  he  had  not  pleaded  more  feebly  for 
himself  than  his  advocate,  in  a cause  of  canonisation,  ever  pleaded  for  him.’* 
— Soothby.] 


APPENDIX. 


797 


palling  testimonies  to  his  character,  or  a soldier  recording  his  ser- 
vices to  obtain  his  discharge.  If  the  person  who  has  made  the 
charge  of  “selfishness”  wishes  to  inform  himself  further  on  the 
subject,  he  may  acquire,  not  what  he  would  wish  to  find,  but  what 
will  silence  and  shame  him,  by  applying  to  the  Consul-General  of 
our  nation,  resident  in  the  place,  who  will  be  in  the  case  either  to 
confirm  or  deny  what  I have  asserted. l 

I neither  make,  nor  have  ever  made,  pretensions  to  sanctity  of 
demeanour,  nor  regularity  of  conduct;  but  my  means  have  been 
expended  principally  ou  my  own  gratification,  neither  now  nor 
heretofore,  neither  in  England  nor  out  of  it;  and  it  wants  but  a 
word  from  me,  if  I thought  that  word  decent  or  necessary,  to  call 
forth  the  most  willing  witnesses,  and  at  once  witnesses  and  proofs, 
in  England  itself,  to  show  that  there  are  those  who  have  derived 
not  the  mere  temporary  relief  of  a wretched  boon,  but  the  means 
which  led  them  to  immediate  happiness  and  ultimate  independence, 
by  my  want  of  that  very  “ selfishness,”  as  grossly  as  falsely  now 
imputed  to  my  conduct. 

Had  I been  a selfish  man — had  I been  a grasping  man — had  I 
been,  in  the  worldly  sense  of  the  word,  even  a prudent  man, — I 
should  not  be  where  I now  am;  I should  not  have  taken  the  step 
which  was  the  first  that  led  to  the  events  which  have  sunk  and 
swoln  a gulf  between  me  and  mine ; but  in  this  respect  the  truth 
will  one  day  be  made  known:  in  the  meantime,  as  Durandearte 
says,  in  the  Cave  of  Montesinos,  “ Patience,  and  shuffle  the  cards.” 

I bitterly  feel  the  ostentation  of  this  statement,  the  first  of  the 
kind  I have  ever  made : I feel  the  degradation  of  being  compelled 
to  make  it;  but  I also  feel  its  truth , and  I trust  to  feel  it  on  my 
death-bed,  should  it  be  my  lot  to  die  there.  I am  not  less  sensible 
of  the  egotism  of  all  this;  but,  alas!  who  have  made  me  thus 
egotistical  in  my  own  defence,  if  not  they,  who,  by  perversely  per- 
sisting in  referring  fiction  to  truth,  and  tracing  poetry  to  life,  and 
regarding  characters  of  imagination  as  creatures  of  existence,  have 
made  me  personally  responsible  for  almost  every  poetical  delinea- 
tion which  fancy,  and  a particular  bias  of  thought,  may  have  tended 
to  produce  f 

The  writer  continues : — “ Those  who  are  acquainted,  as  who  is 
not  ? with  the  main  incidents  of  the  private  life  of  Lord  B.”  & c. 
Assuredly,  whoever  may  be  acquainted  with  these  “main  in- 
cidents,” the  writer  of  the  “Remarks  on  Don  Juan”  is  not,  or  he 
would  use  a very  different  language.  That  which  I believe  he 
alludes  to  as  a “ main  incident,”  happened  to  be  a very  subordinate 
one,  and  the  natural  and  almost  inevitable  consequence  of  events 
and  circumstances  long  prior  to  the  period  at  which  it  occurred. 
It  is  the  last  drop  which  makes  the  cup  run  over,  and  mine  was 
already  full. — But,  to  return  to  this  man’s  charge : he  accuses  Lord 
B.  of  “an  elaborate  satire  on  the  character  and  manners  of  his 
wife.  ’ From  what  parts  of  Don  Juan  the  writer  has  inferred  this, 
he  himself  best  knows.  As  far  as  I recollect,  of  the  female  charac- 
ters in  that  production,  there  is  but  one  who  is  depicted  in 
ridiculous  colours,  or  that  could  be  interpreted  as  a satire  upon  any 
body.  But  here  my  poetical  sins  are  again  revisited  upon  me, 
supposing  that  the  poem  be  mine.  If  I depict  a corsair,  a misan- 
thrope, a libertine,  a chief  ©f  insurgents,  or  an  infidel,  he  is  set 
down  to  the  author ; and  if,  in  a poem  by  no  means  ascertained  to 
be  my  production,  there  appears  a disagreeable,  casuistical,  and  by 
no  means  respectable  female  pedant,  it  is  set  down  for  my  wife. 
Is  there  any  resemblance  ? If  there  be,  it  is  in  those  who  make  it : 

I can  see  none.  In  my  writings  I have  rarely  described  any 
character  under  a fictitious  name : those  of  whom  I have  spoken 
have  had  their  own — in  many  cases  a stronger  satire  in  itself  than 
any  which  could  be  appended  to  it.  But  of  real  circumstances  I 
have  availed  myself  plentifully,  both  in  the  serious  and  the  ludi- 
crous— they  are  to  poetry  what  landscapes  are  to  the  painter ; but 
my  figures  are  not  portraits.  It  may  even  have  happened,  that  I 
have  seized  on  some  events  that  have  occurred  under  my  own 
observation,  or  in  my  own  family,  as  I would  paint  a view  from  my 
grounds,  did  it  harmonize  with  my  picture ; but  I never  would 
introduce  the  likenesses  of  its  living  members,  unless  their  features 
could  be  made  as  favourable  to  themselves  as  to  the  effect;  which, 
in  the  above  instance,  would  be  extremely  difficult. 

My  learned  brother  proceeds  to  observe,  that  “ it  is  in  vain  for 
Lord  B.  to  attempt  in  any  way  to  justify  his  own  behaviour  in  that 
affair;  and  now  that  he  has  so  openly  and  audaciously  invited 
inquiry  and  reproach,  we  do  not  see  any  good  reason  why  be 
should  not  be  plainly  told  so  by  the  voice  of  his  countrymen.” 
How  far  the  “openness”  of  an  anonymous  poem,  and  the 


“audacity”  of  an  imaginary  character,  which  the  writer  supposes 
to  be  meant  for  Lady  B.,  may  be  deemed  to  merit  this  formidable 
denunciation  from  their  “most  sweet  voices,”  I neither  know  nor 
care;  but  when  he  tells  me  that  I cannot  “ in  any  way  justify  my 
own  behaviour  in  that  affair,”  I acquiesce,  because  no  man  car. 
“ justify ” himself  until  he  knows  of  what  he  is  accused;  and  I 
have  never  had — and,  God  knows,  my  whole  desire  has  ever  been 
to  obtain  it — any  specific  charge,  in  a tangible  shape,  submitted  to 
me  by  the  adversary,  nor  by  others,  unless  the  atrocities  of  public 
rumour  and  the  mysterious  silence  of  the  lady’s  legal  advisers  may 
be  deemed  such.  But  is  not  the  writer  content  with  what  has  been 
already  said  and  done  ? Has  not  “ the  general  voice  of  his 
countrymen”  long  ago  pronounced  upon  the  subject — sentence 
without  trial,  and  condemnation  without  a charge?  H.ive  I not 
been  exiled  by  ostracism,  except  that  the  shells  which  proscribed 
me  were  anonymous  ? Is  the  writer  ignorant  of  the  public  opinion 
and  the  public  conduct  upon  that  occasion  ? If  he  is,  I am  not : 
the  public  will  forget  both,  long  before  I shall  cease  to  remember 
either. 

The  man  who  is  exiled  by  a faction  has  the  consolation  of 
thinking  that  he  is  a martyr,  he  is  upheld  by  hope  and  the  dignity 
of  his  cause,  real  or  imaginary:  he  who  withdraws  from  the 
pressure  of  debt  may  indulge  in  the  thought  that  time  and  prudence 
will  retrieve  his  circumstances : he  who  is  condemned  by  the  law 
has  a term  to  his  banishment,  or  a dream  of  its  abbreviation ; or, 
it  may  be,  the  knowledge  or  the  belief  of  some  injustice  of  the  law, 
or  of  its  administration  in  his  own  particular ; but  he  who  is  out- 
lawed by  general  opinion,  without  the  intervention  of  hostile 
politics,  illegal  judgment,  or  embarrassed  circumstances,  whether 
he  be  innocent  or  guilty,  must  undergo  all  the  bitterness  of  exile, 
without  hope,  without  pride,  without  alleviation.  This  case  was 
mine.  Upon  what  grounds  the  public  founded  their  opinion,  I am 
not  aware ; but  it  was  general,  and  it  was  decisive.  Of  me  or  of 
mine  they  knew  little,  except  that  I had  written  what  is  called 
poetry,  was  a nobleman,  had  married,  became  a father,  and  was 
involved  in  differences  with  my  wife  and  her  relatives,  no  one  knew 
why,  because  the  persons  complaining  refused  to  state  their 
grievances.  The  fashionable  world  was  divided  into  parties,  mine 
consisting  of  a very  small  minority:  the  reasonable  world  was 
naturally  on  the  stronger  side,  which  happened  to  be  the  lady’s,  as 
was  most  proper  and  polite.  The  press  was  active  and  scurrilous  ; 
and  such  was  the  rage  of  the  day,  that  the  unfortunate  publication 
of  two  copies  of  verses,  rather  complimentary  than  otherwise  to 
the  subjects  of  both,  was  tortured  into  a species  of  crime,  or  con- 
structive petty  treason.  I was  accused  of  every  monstrous  vice  by 
public  rumour  and  private  rancour : my  name,  which  had  been  a 
knightly  or  a noble  one  since  my  fathers  helped  to  conquer  the 
kingdom  for  William  the  Norman,  was  tainted.  I felt  that,  if 
what  was  whispered,  and  muttered,  and  murmured  was  true,  I was 
unfit  for  England;  if  false,  England  was  unfit  for  me.  I withdrew: 
but  this  was  not  enough.  In  other  countries,  in  Switzerland,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  Alps,  and  by  the  blue  depth  of  the  lakes,  I was 
pursued  and  breathed  upon  by  the  same  blight.  I crossed  the 
mountains,  but  it  was  the  same ; so  I went  a little  farther,  and 
settled  myself  by  the  waves  of  the  Adriatic,  like  the  stag  at  bay, 
who  betakes  him  to  the  waters. 

If  I may  judge  by  the  statements  of  the  few  friends  who  gathered 
round  me,  the  outcry  of  the  period  to  which  I allude  was  beyond 
all  precedent,  all  parallel,  even  in  those  cases  where  political 
motives  have  sharpened  slander  and  doubled  enmity.  I was 
advised  not  to  go  to  the  theatres,  lest  I should  be  hissed,  nor  to  my 
duty  in  parliament,  lest  I should  be  insulted  by  the  way  ; even  on 
the  day  of  my  departure,  my  most  intimate  friend  told  me  after- 
wards, that  he  was  under  apprehensions  of  violence  from  the  people 
who  might  be  assembled  at  the  door  of  the  carriage.  However,  I 
was  not  deterred  by  these  counsels  from  seeing  Kean  in  his  best 
characters,  nor  from  voting  according  to  my  principles ; and  with 
regard  to  the  third  and  last  apprehension  of  my  friends,  I could 
not  share  in  them,  not  being  made  acquainted  with  their 
! extent  till  some  time  after  I had  crossed  the  Channel.  Even 
| if  I had  been  so,  I am  not  of  a nature  to  be  much  affected  by  men’s 
anger,  though  I may  feel  hurt  by  their  aversion.  Against  all 
individual  outrage,  I could  protect  or  redress  myself : and  against 
that  of  a crowd,  I should  probably  have  been  enabled  to  defend 
myself,  with  the  assistance  of  others,  as  has  been  done  on  similar 
occasions. 

I retired  from  the  country,  perceiving  that  I was  the  object  of 


(1)  [“  Lord  Byron  was  ever  ready  to  assist  the  distressed,  and  he  was  most 
unostentatious  in  his  charities  ; fo-,  besides  considerable  sums  which  he  gave 
away  to  applicants  at  his  own  house*  ha  contributed  largely,  by  weekly  and 


monthly  allowances,  to  persons  whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  who,  as  th* 
money  reached  them  by  other  hands,  did  not  even  know  who  was  their  bene- 
factor. Hot  r n a r . ] 


798 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


general  obloquy  ; I did  not  indeed  imagine,  like  Jean  Jacques 
Rousseau,  that  all  mankind  was  in  a conspiracy  against  me,  though 
I had  perhaps  as  good  grounds  for  such  a chimera  as  ever  he  had : 
but  I perceived  that  I had  to  a great  extent  become  personally 
obnoxious  in  England,  perhaps  through  my  own  fault,  but  the  fact 
was  indisputable  : the  public  in  general  would  hardly  have  been  so 
much  excited  against  a more  popular  character,  without  at  least  an 
accusation  or  a charge  of  some  kind  actually  expressed  or  sub- 
stantiated, for  I can  hardly  conceive  that  the  common  and  every- 
day occurrence  of  a separation  between  man  and  wife  could  in  itself 
produce  so  great  a ferment.  I shall  say  nothing  of  the  usual  com- 
plaints of  “ being  prejudged,”  “ condemned  unheard,”  “ unfairness," 
‘•partiality,”  and  so  forth,  the  usual  changes  rung  by  parties  who 
have  had,  or  are  to  have,  a trial ; but  I was  a little  surprised  to  find 
myself  condemned  without  being  favoured  with  the  act  of  accusa- 
tion, and  to  perceive  in  the  absence  of  this  portentous  charge  or 
charges,  whatever  it  or  they  were  to  be,  that  every  possible  or  im- 
possible crime  was  rumoured  to  supply  its  place,  and  taken  for 
granted.  This  could  only  occur  in  the  case  of  a person  very  much 
disliked;  and  I knew  no  remedy,  having  already  used  to  their  ex- 
tent whatever  little  powers  1 might  possess  of  pleasing  in  society. 
I had  no  party  in  fashion,  though  I was  afterwards  told  that  there 
was  one — but  it  was  not  of  my  formation,  nor  did  I then  know  of 
its  existence — none  in  literature;  and  in  politics  I had  voted  with 
the  Whigs,  with  precisely  that  importance  which  a Whig  vote 
possesses  in  these  Tory  days,  and  with  such  personal  acquaintance 
with  the  leaders  in  both  houses  as  the  society  in  which  I lived 
sanctioned,  but  without  claim  or  expectation  of  any  thing  like 
friendship  from  any  one,  except  a few  young  men  of  my  own  age 
and  standing,  and  a few  others  more  advanced  in  life,  which  last  it 
had  been  myfortune  to  serve  in  circumstances  of  difficulty.  This 
was,  in  fact,  to  stand  alone:  and  I recollect,  some  time  after, 
Madame  de  Stael  said  to  me  in  Switzerland,  “ You  should  not  have 
warred  with  the  world — it  will  not  do — it  is  too  strong  always  for 
any  individual : I myself  once  tried  it  in  early  life,  but  it  will  not 
do."  I perfectly  acquiesce  in  the  truth  of  this  remark;  but  the 
world  had  done  me  the  honour  to  begin  the  war;  and  assuredly,  if 
peace  is  only  to  be  obtained  by  courting  and  paying  tribute  to  it,  I 
am  not  qualified  to  obtain  its  countenance  I thought,  in  the 
words  of  Campbell, 

“ Then  w'ed  thee  to  an  exiled  lot, 

And  if  the  world  hath  loved  thee  not, 

Its  absence  may  be  borne.” 

I recollect,  however,  that,  having  been  much  hurt  by  Romilly’s 
conduct,  (he,  having  a general  retainer  for  me,  had  acted  as  adviser 
to  the  adversary,  alleging,  on  being  reminded  of  his  retainer,  that 
he  had  forgotten  it,  as  his  clerk  had  so  many,)  I observed  that  some 
of  those  who  were  now  eagerly  laying  the  axe  to  my  roof-tree,  might 
see  their  own  shaken,  and  feel  a portion  of  what  they  had  inflicted. 
— His  fell,  and  crushed  him. 

I have  heard  of,  and  believe,  that  there  are  human  beings  so 
constituted  as  to  be  insensible  to  injuries;  but  I belie*ve  that  the 
best  mode  to  avoid  taking  vengeance  is  to  get  out  of  the  way  of 
temptation.  I hope  that  I may  never  have  the  opportunity,  for  I 
am  not  quite  sure  that  I could  resist  it,  having  derived  from  my 
mother  something  of  the  “ perfervldum  ingenium  Scotorum.”  I 
have  not  sought,  and  shall  not  seek  it,  and  perhaps  it  may  never 
come  in  my  path.  I do  not  in  this  allude  to  the  party,  who 
might  be  right  or  wrong : but  to  many  who  made  her  cause 
the  pretext  of  their  own  bitterness.  She,  indeed,  must  have 
long  avenged  me  in  her  own  feelings ; for  whatever  her  reasons 
may  have  been  (and  she  never  adduced  them  to  me  at  least),  she 
probably  neither  contemplated  nor  conceived  to  what  she  became 
the  means  of  conducting  the  father  of  her  child,  and  the  husband 
of  her  choice. 

So  much  for  “ the  general  voice  of  his  countrymen : ” I will  now 
speak  of  some  in  particular. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1817,  an  article  appeared  in  the 
Quarterly  Review,  written,  I believe,  by  Walter  Scott,1  doing  great 
honour  to  him,  and  no  disgrace  to  me,  though  both  poetically  and 
personally  more  than  sufficiently  favourable  to  the  work  and  the 
author  of  whom  it  treated.  It  was  written  at  a time  when  a selfish 
man  would  not,  and  a timid  one  dared  not,  have  said  a word  in 
favour  of  either;  it  was  written  by  one  to  whom  temporary  public 
opinion  had  elevated  me  to  the  rank  of  a rival — a proud  distinction, 


and  unmerited;  but  which  has  not  prevented  me  from  feeling  as  a 
friend,  nor  him  from  more  than  corresponding  to  that  sentiment. 
The  article  in  question  was  written  upon  the  Third  Canto  of  Child* 
Harold;  and  after  many  observations,  which  it  would  as  ill  become 
me  to  repeat  as  to  forget,  concluded  with  “ a hope  that  I might  yet 
return  to  England.”  How  this  expression  was  received  in  England 
itself  I am  not  acquainted,  but  it  gave  great  offence  at  Rome  to  the 
respectable  ten  or  twenty  thousand  English  travellers  then  and 
there  assembled.  I did  not  visit  Rome  till  some  time  after,  so  that 
I had  no  opportunity  of  knowing  the  fact:  but  I was  informed, 
long  afterwards,  that  the  greatest  indignation  had  been  manifested 
in  the  enlightened  Anglo-circle  of  that  year,  which  happened  to 
comprise  within  it — amidst  a considerable  leaven  of  Welbeck 
Street  and  Devonshire  Place,  broken  loose  upon  their  travels — 
several  really  well-born  and  well-bred  families,  who  did  not  the 
less  participate  in  the  feeling  of  the  hour.  “ Why  should  he  return 
to  England?”  was  the  general  exclamation — I answer  why?  It  is 
a question  I have  occasionally  asked  myself,  and  I never  yet  could 
give  it  a satisfactory  reply.  I had  then  no  thoughts  of  returning, 
and  if  I have  any  now,  they  are  of  business,  and  not  of  pleasure. 
Amidst  the  ties  that  have  been  dashed  to  pieces,  there  are  links 
yet  entire,  though  the  chain  itself  be  broken.  There  are  duties, 
and  connexions,  which  may  one  day  require  my  presence — and  I 
am  a father.  I have  still  some  friends  whom  I wish  to  meet  again, 
and,  it  may  be,  an  enemy.  These  things,  and  those  minuter  details 
of  business,  which  time  accumulates  during  absence,  in  every  man’s 
affairs  and  property,  may,  and  probably  will,  recall  me  to  England  ; 
but  I shall  return  with  the  same  feelings  with  which  I left  it,  in 
respect  to  itself,  though  altered  with  regard  to  individuals,  as  I 
have  been  more  or  less  informed  of  their  conduct  since  my 
departure ; for  it  was  only  a considerable  time  after  it  that  I was 
made  acquainted  with  the  real  facts  and  full  extent  of  some  of  their 
proceedings  and  language.  My  friends,  like  other  friends,  from 
conciliatory  motives,  withheld  from  me  much  that  they  could,  and 
some  things  which  they  should,  have  unfolded : however,  that 
which  is  deferred  is  not  lost — but  it  has  been  no  fault  of  mine  that 
it  has  been  deferred  at  all. 

I have  alluded  to  what  is  said  to  have  passed  at  Rome  merely 
to  show  that  the  sentiment  which  I have  described  was  not  con- 
fined to  the  English  in  England,  and  as  forming  part  of  my 
answer  to  the  reproach  cast  upon  what  has  been  called  my 
“selfish  exile,”  and  my  “voluntary  exile.”  “Voluntary”  it  has 
been;  for  who  would  dwell  among  a people  entertaining  strong 
hostility  against  him  ? How  far  it  has  been  “ selfish”  has  been 
already  explained. 

I have  now  arrived  at  a passage  describing  me  as  having  vented 
my  “ spleen  against  the  lofty-minded  and  virtuous  men,”  men 
“whose  virtues  few  indeed  can  equal;”  meaning,  I humbly  pre 
surae,  the  notorious  triumvirate  known  by  the  name  of  “-Lake 
Poets”  in  their  aggregate  capacity,  and  by  Southey,  Wordsworth, 
and  Coleridge,  when  taken  singly.  I wish  to  say  a word  or  two 
upon  the  virtues  of  one  of  those  persons,  public  and  private,  for 
reasons  which  will  soon  appear. 

When  1 left  England  in  April,  1816,  ill  in  mind,  in  body,  apd  in 
circumstances,  I took  up  my  residence  at  Coligny,  by  the  lake  of 
Geneva.  The  sole  companion  of  my  journey  was  a young  physician,2 
who  had  to  make  his  way  in  the  world,  and  having  seen  very  little 
of  it,  was  naturally  and  laudably  desirous  of  seeing  more  society 
than  suited  my  present  habits  or  my  past  experience.  I therefore 
presented  him  to  those  gentlemen  of  Geneva  for  whom  I had  letters 
of  introduction ; and  having  thus  seen  him  in  a situation  to  make 
his  own  way,  retired  for  my  own  part  entirely  from  society,  with 
the  exception  of  one  English  family,  living  at  about  a quarter  of  a 
mile’s  distance  from  Diodati,  and  with  the  further  exception  of 
some  occasional  intercourse  with  Coppet  at  the  wish  of  Madame  de 
Stael.  The  English  family  to  which  I allude  consisted  of  two 
ladies,  a gentleman  and  his  son,  a boy  of  a year  old.3 

One  of  “ these  lofty-minded  and  virtuous  men,"  in  the  words  of 
the  Edinburgh  Magazine,  made,  1 understand,  about  this  time,  ot 
soon  after,  a tour  in  Switzerland.  On  his  return  to  England,  he 
circulated — and,  for  any  thing  I know,  invented— a report,  that  the 
gentleman  to  whom  I have  alluded  and  myself  were  living  in  pro- 
miscuous intercourse  with  two  sisters,  “ having  formed  a league  of 
incest”  (I  quote  the  words  as  they  were  stated  to  me) ; and  indulged 
himself  on  the  natural  comments  upon  such  a conjunction,  which 
are  said  to  have  been  repeated  publicly,  with  great  complacency, 
by  another  of  that  poetical  fraternity,  of  whom  I shall  say  oulyj 


(I)  (See  Quarterly  Review,  vo,  avi.  p.  17‘L] 

iSL)  (Dr.  Rolidori— author  of  the  “ Vampii  e,”] 


(3)  [Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shelley,  Miss  Clermont,  and  Master  Shelley.] 


APPENDIX. 


that  even  had  the  story  been  true,  he  should  not  have  repeated  it, 
as  far  as  it  regarded  myself,  except  in  sorrow.  The  tale  itself 
requires  but  a word  in  answer — the  ladies  were  not  sisters,  nor  in 
any  degree  connected,  except  by  the  second  marriage  of  their 
respective  parents,  a widower  with  a widow,  both  being  the  offspring 
of  former  marriages  ; neither  of  them  were,  in  1816,  nineteen  years 
old.  “ Promiscuous  intercourse”  could  hardly  have  disgusted  the 
great  patron  of  pantisocracy,  (does  Air.  Southey  remember  such  a 
schemer)  but  there  was  none. 

How  far  this  man,  who,  as  author  of  Wat  Tyler,  has  been  pro- 
claimed by  the  Lord  Chancellor  guilty  of  a treasonable  and 
blasphemous  libel,  and  denounced  in  the  House  of  Commons,  by 
the  upright  and  able  member  for  Norwich,  as  a “rancorous 
renegado,”  be  fit  for  sitting  as  a judge  upon  others,  let  others 
judge.  He  has  said  that  for  this  expression  “he  brands  William 
Smith  on  the  forehead  as  a calumniator,”  and  that  “the  mark 
will  outlast  his  epitaph.”  How  long  William  Smith’s  epitaph 
will  last,  and  in  what  words  it  will  be  written,  1 know  not,  but 
William  Smith’s  words  form  the  epitaph  itself  of  Robert  Southey. 
He  has  written  Wat  Tyler,  and  taken  the  office  of  poet  laureate 
— he  has,  in  the  Life  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  denominated  re- 
viewing “ the  ungentle  craft,”  and  has  become  a reviewer — he  was 
one  of  the  projectors  of  a scheme,  called  “pantisocracy,”  for 
having  all  things,  including  women,  in  common,  (query,  common 
women?)  and  he  sets  up  as  a moralist — he  denounced  the  battle 
of  Blenheim,  and  he  praised  the  battle  of  Waterloo — he  loved 
Mary  Wollstoncraft,  and  he  tried  to  blast  the  character  of  her 
daughter  (one  of  the  young  females  mentioned) — he  wrote  treason, 
and  serves  the  king — he  was  the  butt  of  the  Antijacobin,  and  he 
is  the  prop  of  the  Quarterly  Review;  licking  the  hands  that  smote 
him,  eating  the  bread  of  his  enemies,  and  internally  writhing 
beneath  his  own  contempt,  —he  would  fain  conceal,  under  anony- 
mous bluster,  and  a vain  endeavour  to  obtain  the  esteem  of  others, 
after  having  for  ever  lost  his  own,  his  leprous  sense  of  his  own 
degradation.  What  is  there  in  such  a man  to  “envy?”  Who 
ever  envied  the  envious  ? Is  it  his  birth,  his  name,  his  fame, 
or  his  virtues,  that  I am  to  “ envy  ? ” I was  born  of  the  aristo- 
cracy, which  he  abhorred;  and  am  sprung,  by  my  mother, 
from  the  kings  who  preceded  those  whom  he  has  hired  himself 
to  sing.  It  cannot,  then,  be  his  birth.  As  a poet,  I have,  for  the 
past  eight  years,  had  nothing  to  apprehend  from  a competition; 
and  for  the  future,  “ that  life  to  come  in  every  poet’s  creed,” 
it  is  open  to  all.  I will  only  remind  Mr.  Southey,  in  the  word* 
of  a critic,  who,  if  still  living,  would  have  annihilated  Southey’s 
literary  existence  now  and  hereafter,  as  the  sworn  foe  of  charla- 
tans and  impostors,  from  Macpherson  downwards,  that  “those 
dreams  were  Settle’s  once  and  Ogilby’s ; ” and,  for  my  own  part, 

I assure  him,  that  whenever  he  and  his  sect  are  remembered,  I 
shall  be  proud  to  be  “ forgot.”  That  he  is  not  content  with 
his  success  as  a poet,  may  reasonably  be  believed— he  has  been 
the  nine-pin  of  reviews ; the  Edinburgh  knocked  him  down, 
and  the  Quarterly  set  him  up ; the  government  found  him  useful 
in  the  periodical  line,  and  made  a point  of  recommending  his 
works  to  purchasers,  so  that  he  is  occasionally  bought,  (I  mean 
his  books,  as  well  as  the  author,)  and  may  be  found  on  the  same 
shelf,  if  not  upon  the  table,  of  most  of  the  gentlemen  employed 
in  the  different  offices.  With  regard  to  his  private  virtues,  I 
know  nothing— of  his  principles,  I have  heard  enough.  As  far  as 
having  been,  to  the  best  of  my  power,  benevolent  to  others,  I do  not 
fear  the  comparison ; and  for  the  errors  of  the  passions,  was  Mr. 
Southey  always  so  tranquil  and  stainless?  Did  he  never  covet  his 
neighbour’s  wife  ? Did  he  never  calumniate  his  neighbour’s  wife’s 
daughter,  the  offspring  of  her  he  coveted?  So  much  for  the  apostle 
of  pantisocracy. 

Of  the  “ lofty-miuded,  virtuous”  Wordsworth,  one  anecdote  will 

suffice  to  speak  his  sincerity.  In  a conversation  with  Mr. 

upon  poetry,  he  concluded  with,  “ After  all,  I would  not  give  five 
shillings  for  all  that  Southey  has  ever  written.”  Perhaps  this 
calculation  might  rather  show  his  esteem  for  five  shillings  than  his 
low  estimate  of  Dr.  Southey;  but  considering  that  when  he  was 
in  his  need,  and  Southey  had  a shilling,  Wordsworth  is  said  to 
have  had  generally  sixpence  out  of  it,  it  has  an  awkward  sound 
in  the  way  of  valuation.  This  anecdote  was  told  me  by  persons 
who,  if  quoted  by  name,  would  prove  that  its  genealogy  is  poetical 
as  well  as  true.  I can  give  my  authority  for  this ; and  am  ready  to 


(1)  [See  Notices  of  Lord  Byron’s  Life.] 

(2)  [Tassnni  was  almost  the  only  Italian  poet  of  the  era  In  which  he 
Sourished,  who  withstood  the  general  corruption  of  taste  introduced  by  Marino 

sad  his  followers,  and  by  the  “ imitated  imitators”  of  Lope  de  Vega  ; and  he 


709 

adduce  it  also  for  Mr.  Southey’s  circulation  of  the  falsehood  bsfors 
mentioned. 

Of  Coler'dge,  I shall  say  nothing — why,  he  may  divine.1 2 

I have  said  more  of  these  people  than  I intended  in  this  place, 
being  somewhat  stirred  by  the  remarks  which  induced  me  tc  tom- 
mence  upon  the  topic.  I see  nothing  in  these  men,  as  poets,  or  a* 
individuals — little  in  their  talents,  and  less  in  their  characters,  to 
prevent  honest  men  from  expressing  for  them  considerable  con- 
tempt, in  prose  or  rhyme,  as  it  may  happen.  Mr.  Southey  has  the 
Quarterly  for  his  field  of  rejoinder,  and  Mr  Wordsworth  his  post- 
scripts to  “Lyrical  Ballads,”  where  the  two  great  instances  of  the 
sublime  are  taken  from  himself  and  Milton.  “Over  her  own 
sweet  voice  the  stockdove  broods;”  that  is  to  say,  she  has  the 
pleasure  of  listening  to  herself,  in  common  with  Mr.  Wordsworth 
upon  most  of  his  public  appearances.  “ What  divinity  doth 
hedge”  these  persons,  that  we  should  respect  them?  Is  it  Apollo? 
Are  they  not  of  those  who  called  Dryden’s  Ode  “ a drunken  song?” 
who  have  discovered  that  Gray’s  Elegy  is  full  of  faults,  (see  Cole- 
ridge’s Life,  vol.  i.  note,  for  Wordsworth’s  kindness  in  pointing 
this  out  to  him,)  and  have  published  what  is  allowed  to  be  the  very 
worst  prose  that  ever  was  written  to  prove  that  Pope  was  no  poet, 
and  that  William  Wordsworth  is  ? 

In  other  points,  are  they  respectable,  or  respected?  Is  it  on  the 
open  avowal  of  apostasy,  on  the  patronage  of  government,  that 
their  claim  is  founded  ? Who  is  there  v’ho  esteems  those  parricides 
of  their  own  principles  ? They  are,  in  fact,  well  aware  that  the 
reward  of  their  change  has  been  any  thing  but  honour.  The  times 
have  preserved  a respect  for  political  consistency,  and,  even 
though  changeable,  honour  the  unchanged.  Look  at  Moore : it 
will  be  long  ere  Southey  meets  with  such  a triumph  in  London  as 
Moore  met  with  in  Dublin,  even  if  the  government  subscribe  for  it, 
and  set  the  money  down  to  secret  service.  It  was  not  less  to  the 
man  than  to  the  poet,  to  the  tempted  but  unshaken  patriot,  to  the 
not  opulent  but  incorruptible  fellow-citizen,  that  the  warm-hearted 
Irish  paid  the  proudest  of  tributes.  Mr.  Southey  may  applaud 
himself  to  the  world,  but  he  has  his  own  heartiest  contempt;  and 
the  fury  with  which  he  foams  against  all  who  stand  in  the  phalanx 
which  he  forsook,  is,  as  William  Smith  described  it,  “ the  rancour 
of  the  renegade,”  the  bad  language  of  the  prostitute  who  stands  at 
the  corner  of  the  street,  and  showers  her  slang  upon  all,  except 
those  who  may  have  bestowed  upon  her  her  “little  shilling.” 

Hence  his  quarterly  overflowings,  political  and  literary,  in  what 
he  has  himself  termed  “ the  ungentle  craft,”  and  his  especial  wrath 
against  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  notwithstanding  that  Hunt  has  done 
more  for  Wordsworth’s  reputation,  as  a poet  (such  as  it  is),  than  all 
the  Lakers  could  in  their  interchange  of  self-praises  for  the  last 
twenty-five  years. 

And  here  I wish  to  say  a few  words  on  the  present  state  of 
English  poetry.  That  this  is  the  age  of  the  decline  of  English 
poetry  will  be  doubted  by  few  who  have  calmly  considered  the 
subject.  That  there  are  men  of  genius  among  the  present  poets 
makes  little  against  the  fact,  because  it  has  been  well  said,  that 
“next  to  him  who  forms  the  taste  of  his  country,  the  greatest 
genius  is  he  who  corrupts  it.”  No  one  has  ever  denied  genius  to 
Marino, * who  corrupted  not  merely  the  taste  of  Italy,  but  that  of 
all  Europe  for  nearly  a century.  The  great  cause  of  the  present 
deplorable  state  of  English  poetry  is  to  be  attributed  to  that  absurd 
and  systematic  depreciation  of  Pope,  in  which,  for  the  last  few 
years,  there  has  been  a kind  of  epidemical  concurrence.  Men  of 
the  most  opposite  opinions  have  united  upon  this  topic.  Warton 
and  Churchill  began  it,  having  borrowed  the  hint  probably  from 
the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad,  and  their  own  internal  conviction  that 
their  proper  reputation  can  be  as  nothing  till  the  most  perfect  and 
harmonious  of  poets — he  who,  having  no  fault,  has  had  rxasoh 
made  his  reproach— was  reduced  to  what  they  conceived  to  be  his 
level ; but  even  they  dared  not  degrade  him  below  Dryden.  Gold- 
smith, and  Rogers,  and  Campbell,  his  most  successful  disciples ; 
and  Hayley,  who,  however  feeble,  has  left  one  poem  “ that  will  not 
be  willingly  let  die  ” (the  Triumphs  of  Temper),  kept  up  the  repu- 
tation of  that  pure  and  perfect  style  ; and  Crabbe,  the  first  of  living 
poets,  has  almost  equalled  the  master.  Then  came  Darwin,  who 
was  put  down  by  a single  poem  in  the  Antijacobin ; 3 and  the 
Cruscans,  from  Merry  to  Jerninghain,  who  were  annihilated  (i/ 
Nothing  can  be  said  to  be  annihilated)  by  Gifford,  the  last  of  the 
wholesome  satirists. 


opened  a new  pnth,  in  which  a crowd  of  pretenders  have  vainly  endeavoured  te 
follow  him. — Foscolo.] 

(3)  [“  The  Loves  of  the  Triangles,"  th*r  joint  jroduction  of  Mea  rs.  CoKr  ty 
e.nd  Frere.] 


800 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


At  the  same  time  Mr.  Southey  was  favouring  the  public  with 
Wat  Tyler  and  Joan  of  Arc,  to  the  great  glory  of  the  Drama  and 
Epos.  I beg  pardon,  Wat  Tyler,  with  Peter  Bell,  was  still  in  MS. ; 
and  it  was  not  till  after  Mr.  Southey  had  received  his  Malmsey 
butt,  and  Mr.  Wordsworth1 * * *  became  qualified  to  guage  it,  that  the 
great  revolutionary  tragedy  came  before  the  public  and  the  Court 
of  Chancery.  Wordsworth  was  peddling  his  lyrical  ballads,  and 
brooding  a preface,  to  be  succeeded  in  due  course  by  a postscript ; 
both  couched  in  such  prose  as  must  give  peculiar  delight  to  those 
who  have  read  the  prefaces  of  Pope  and  Dryden;  scarcely  less 
celebrated  for  the  beauty  of  their  prose,  than  for  the  charms  of 
their  verse.  Wordsworth  is  the  reverse  of  Moliere’s  gentleman  who 
had  been  “talking  prose  all  his  life,  without  knowing  it;”  for  be 
thinks  that  he  has  been  all  his  life  writing  both  prose  and  verse, 
and  neither  of  what  he  conceives  to  be  such  can  be  properly  said  to 
be  either  one  or  the  other.  Mr.  Coleridge,  the  future  vaiss,  poet 
and  seer  of  the  Morning  Post,  (an  honour  also  claimed  by  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,  of  the  “Rejected  Addresses, ”2)  who  ultimately  prophe- 
sied the  downfall  of  Buonaparte,  to  which  he  himself  mainly 
contributed,  by  giving  him  the  nickname  of  “ the  Corsican ,”  was 
then  employed  in  predicating  the  damnation  of  Mr.  Pitt,  and  the 
desolation  of  England,  in  the  two  very  best  copies  of  verses  he  ever 
wrote;  to  wit,  the  infernal  eclogue  of  “Fire,  Famine,  and 
Slaughter,”  and  the  “ Ode  to  the  departing  Year.” 

These  three  personages,  Southey,  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge, 
had  all  of  them  a very  natural  antipathy  to  Pope;  and  I respect 
them  for  it,  as  the  only  original  feeling  or  principle  which  they 
have  contrived  to  preserve.  But  they  have  been  joined  in  it  by 
those  who  have  joined  them  in  nothing  else : by  the  Edinburgh 
Reviewers,  by  the  whole  heterogeneous  mass  of  living  English 
poets,  excepting  Crabbe,  Rogers,  Gifford,  and  Campbell,  who,  both 
by  precept  and  practice,  have  proved  their  adherence  ; and  by  me, 
who  have  shamefully  deviated  in  practice,  but  have  ever  loved  and 
honoured  Pope’s  poetry  with  fny  whole  soul,  and  hope  to  do  so  till 
my  (Tying  day.  I would  rather  see  all  I have  ever  written  lining 
the  same  trunk  in  which  I actually  read  the  eleventh  book  of  a 
modern  epic  poem  3 at  Malta,  in  1811,  (I  opened  it  to  take  out  a 
change  after  the  paroxysm  of  a tertian,  in  the  absence  of  my  ser- 
vant, and  found  it  lined  with  the  name  of  the  maker,  Eyre,  Cock- 
spur  Street,  and  with  the  epic  poetry  alluded  to,)  than  sacrifice 
what  1 firmly  believe  in  as  the  Christianity  of  English  poetry,  the 
poetry  of  Pope. 

But  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers,  and  the  Lakers,  and  Hunt  and 
his  school,  and  every  body  else  with  their  school,  and  even  Moore 
without  a school,  and  dilettanti  lecturers  at  institutions,  and  elderly 
gentlemen  who  translate  and  imitate,  and  young  ladies  who  listen 
and  repeat,  baronets  who  draw  indifferent  frontispieces  for  bad 
poets,  and  noblemen  who  let  them  dine  with  them  in  the  country, 
the  small  body  of  the  wits  and  the  great  body  of  the  blues,  have 
latterly  united  in  a depreciation,  of  which  their  fathers  would  have 
been  as  much  ashamed  as  their  children  will  be.  In  the  meantime, 
what  have  we  got  instead  ? The  Lake  school,  which  began  with  an 
epic  poem,  “written  in  six  weeks,”  (so  Joan  of  Arc  proclaimed 
herself,)  and  finished  with  a ballad  composed  in  twenty  years,  as 
“ Peter  Bell’s”  creator  takes  care  to  inform  the  few  who  will 
inquire.  What  have  we  got  instead?  A deluge  of  flimsy  and 
unintelligible  romances,  imitated  from  Scott  and  myself,  who  have 
both  made  the  best  of  our  bad  materials  and  erroneous  system. 
What  have  we  got  instead  ? Madoc,  which  is  neither  an  epic  nor 
any  thing  else?  Tlialaba,  Kehama,  Gebir,  and  such  gibberish, 
written  in  all  metres  and  in  no  language.  Hunt,  who  had  powers 
to  have  made  “ the  Story  of  Rimini”  as  perfect  as  a fable  of 
Dryden,  has  thought  fit  to  sacrifice  his  genius  and  his  taste  to  some 
unintelligible  notions  of  Wordsworth,  which  I defy  him  to  explain. 
Moore  has——  But  why  continue? — All,  with  the  exception  of 
Crabbe,  Rogers,  and  Campbell,  who  may  be  considered  as  having 
taken  their  station,  will,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  survive  their  own 
reputation,  without  attaining  any  very  extraordinary  period  of 
longevity.  Of  course  there  must  be  a still  further  exception  in 
favour  of  those  who,  having  never  obtained  any  reputation  at  all, 
unless  it  be  among  provincial  literati,  and  their  own  families,  have 


none  to  lose ; and  of  Moore,  who,  as  the  Burns  of  Irelan<\ 
possesses  a fame  which  cannot  be  lost. 

The  greater  part  of  the  poets  mentioned,  however,  have  oeen 
able  to  gather  together  a few  followers.  A paper  of  the  Connoisseur 
says,  that  “ it  is  observed  by  the  French,  that  a cat,  a priest,  and  an 
old  woman,  are  sufficient  to  constitute  a religious  sect  in  England.” 
The  same  number  of  animate,  with  some  difference  in  kind,  will 
suffice  for  a poetical  one.  If  we  take  Sir  George  Beaumont  instead 
of  the  priest,  and  Mr.  Wordsworth  for  the  old  woman,  we  shall 
nearly  complete  the  quota  required ; but  I fear  that  Mr.  Southey 
will  but  indifferently  represent  the  cat,  having  shown  himself  but 
too  distinctly  to  be  of  a species  to  which  that  noble  creature  is 
peculiarly  hostile. 

Nevertheless,  I will  not  go  so  far  as  Wordsworth  in  his  postscript, 
who  pretends  that  no  great  poet  ever  had  immediate  fame  ; which 
being  interpreted,  means  that  William  Wordsworth  is  not  quite  so 
much  read  by  his  cotemporaries  as  might  be  desirable.  This 
assertion  is  as  false  as  it  is  foolish.  Homer’s  glory  depended  upon 
his  present  popularity : he  recited, — and  without  the  strongest  im- 
pression of  the  moment,  who  would  have  gotten  the  Iliad  by  heart, 
and  given  it  to  tradition  ? Ennius,  Terence,  Plautus,  Lucretius, 
Horace,  Virgil,  iEschylus,  Sophocles,  Euripides,  Sappho,  Anacreon, 
Theocritus,  all  the  great  poets  of  antiquity,  were  the  delight  of  their 
cotemporaries.  The  very  existence  of  a poet,  previous  to  the  in- 
vention of  printing,  depended  upon  his  present  popularity;  and 
how  often  has  it  impaired  his  future  fame  ? Hardly  ever.  History 
informs  us,  that  the  best  have  come  down  to  us.  The  reason  is 
evident;  the  most  popular  found  the  greatest  number  of  tran- 
scribers for  their  MSS. ; and  that  the  taste  of  their  cotemporaries 
was  corrupt  can  hardly  be  avouched  by  the  moderns,  the  mightiest 
of  whom  have  but  barely  approached  them.  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Ariosto,  and  Tasso,  were  all  the  darlings  of  the  cotemporary 
reader.  Dante’s  poem  was  celebrated  long  before  his  death  ; and, 
not  long  after  it,  States  negotiated  for  his  ashes,  and  disputed  for 
the  sites  of  the  composition  of  the  Divina  Commedia.  Petrarch 
was  crowned  in  the  Capitol.  Ariosto  was  permitted  to  pass  free  by 
the  public  robber  who  had  read  the  Orlando  Furioso.  I would 
not  recommend  Mr.  Wordsworth  to  try  the  same  experiment  with 
his  Smugglers.  Tasso,  notwithstanding  the  criticisms  of  the 
Cruscanti,  would  have  been  crowned  in  the  Capitol,  but  for  his 
death. 

It  is  easy  to  prove  the  immediate  popularity  of  the  chief  poets  of 
the  only  modem  nation  in  Europe  that  has  a poetical  language,  the 
Italian.  In  our  own,  Shakspeare,  Spenser,  Jonson,  Waller,  Dryden, 
Congreve,  Pope,  Young,  Shenstone,  Thomson,  Johnson,  Gold- 
smith, Gray,  were  all  as  popular  in  their  lives  as  since.  Gray’s 
Elegy  pleased  instantly,  and  eternally.  His  Odes  did  not,  nor  yet 
do  they,  please  like  his  Elegy.  Milton’s  politics  kept  him  down. 
But  the  Epigram  of  Dryden,*  and  the  very  sale  of  his  work,  in 
proportion  to  the  less  reading  time  of  its  publication,  prove  him  to 
have  been  honoured  by  his  cotemporaries.  I will  venture  to  assert, 
that  the  sale  of  the  Paradise  Lost  was  greater  in  the  first  four  years 
after  its  publication,  than  that  of  “The  Excursion”  in  the  same 
number,  with  the  difference  of  nearly  a century  and  a half  between 
them  of  time,  and  of  thousands  in  point  of  general  readers.  Not- 
withstanding Mr.  Wordsworth’s  having  pressed  Milton  into  his 
service  as  one  of  those  not  presently  popular,  to  favour  his  own 
purpose  of  proving  that  our  grandchildren  will  read  him  (the  said 
William  Wordsworth),  I would  recommend  him  to  begin  first  with 
our  grandmothers.  But  he  need  not  be  alarmed ; he  may  yet  live 
to  see  all  the  envies  pass  away,  as  Darwin  and  Seward,  and  Hoole, 
and  Hole,5  and  Hoyle6  have  passed  away;  but  their  declension 
will  not  be  his  ascension;  he  is  essentially  a bad  writer,  and  all  the 
failures  of  others  can  never  strengthen  him.  He  may  have  a sect, 
but  he  will  never  have  a public ; and  his  “ audience  ” will  always 
be  “/eta,”  without  being  "fit,”— except  for  Bedlam. 

It  may  be  asked,  why,  having  this  opinion  of  the  present  state  of 
poetry  in  England,  and  having  had  it  long,  as  my  friends  and 
others  well  knew— possessing,  or  having  possessed,  too,  as  a writer, 
the  ear  of  the  public  for  the  time  being— I have  not  adopted  a 
different  plan  in  my  own  compositions,  and  endeavoured  to  correct 


(1)  Goldsmith  has  anticipated  the  definition  of  the  lake  poetry,  as  far  as 

tueh  things  can  be  defined.  “Gentlemen,  the  present  piece  is  not  of  your 

rom/non  epic  poemt , which  come  from  the  press  like  paper  kites  in  suinmei  ; 

there  are  none  of  vour  Turmises  or  Didos  in  it ; it  it  an  historical  description  of 
nature.  I only  beg  you’ll  endeavour  to  make  your  souls  in  unison  with  mine, 
arut  hear  with  the  same  enthusiasm  with  which  I have  written."  Would  not  this 
have  made  a proper  proem  to  the  Excursion,  and  the  poet  and  his  pedlar  ? It 

would  have  answered  perfectly  for  that  purpose,  had  it  uot  unfortunately  been 

written  in  good  English. 


(2)  [See  ante,  p.  421.] 

(3)  [Sir  James  Bland  Burgess’s  “ Richard  I.”  See  ante,  p.  448.J 


(4)  [The  well  known  lines  under  Milton’s  picture, — 

“ Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  bom,”  &c.] 

(5)  [The  Rev.  Richard  Hole.  He  published  in  early  life  a 
of  Fingal,  and  in  1789,  “ Arthur,  a Poetical  Romance.”  He  died  i 


(6)  [Charles  Hoyle,  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  author  of  “ Eaodus,”  as 
epic  in  thirteen  books.] 


APPENDIX. 


801 


rathe*  than  encourage  the  taste  of  the  day.  To  this  I would 
answer,  that  it  is  easier  to  perceive  the  wrong  than  to  pursue  the 
right,  and  that  1 have  never  contemplated  the  prospect  “ of  filling” 
(with  Peter  Bell, l see  its  preface)  “permanently  a station  in  the 
literature  of  the  country.”  Those  who  know  me  best  know  this, 
and  that  I have  been  considerably  astonished  at  the  temporary 
success  of  my  works,  having  flattered  no  person  and  no  party,  and 
expressed  opinions  which  gre  not  those  of  the  general  reader. 
Could  I have  anticipated  the  degree  of  attention  which  has  been 
accorded  me,  assuredly  I would  have  studied  more  to  deserve  it. 
But  1 have  lived  in  far  countries  abroad,  or  in  the  agitating  world 
at  home,  which  was  not  favourable  to  study  or  reflection  ; so  that 
almost  all  I have  written  has  been  mere  passion,— passion,  it  is 
true,  of  different  kinds,  but  always  passion  ; for  in  me  (if  it  be  not 
an  Irishism  to  say  so)  my  indifference  was  a kind  of  passion,  the 
result  of  experience,  and  not  the  philosophy  of  nature.  Writing 
grows  a habit,  like  a woman’s  gallantry ; there  are  women  who 
have  had  no  intrigue,  but  few  who  have  had  but  one  only;  so 
there  are  millions  of  men  who  have  never  written  a book,  but  few 
who  have  written  only  one.  And  thus,  having  written  once,  I 
wrote  on ; encouraged  no  doubt  by  the  success  of  the  moment,  yet 
by  no  means  anticipating  its  duration,  and,  1 will  venture  to  say, 
scarcely  even  wishing  it.  But  then  I did  other  things  besides 
write,  which  by  no  means  contributed  either  to  improve  my 
writings  or  my  prosperity. 

I have  thus  expressed  publicly  upon  the  poetry  of  the  day  the 
opinion  I have  long  entertained  and  expressed  of  it  to  all  who  have 
asked  it,  and  to  some  who  would  rather  not  have  heard  it : as  I told 
Moore  not  very  long  ago,  “ We  are  all  wrong  except  Rogers, 
Crabbe,  and  Campbell.” 1  2 * Without  being  old  in  years,  I am  old  in 
days,  and  do  not  feel  the  adequate  spirit  within  me  to  attempt  a 
work  which  should  show  what  I think  right  in  poetry,  and  must 
content  myself  with  having  denounced  what  is  wrong.  There 
are,  I trust,  younger  spirits  rising  up  in  England,  who,  escaping 
the  contagion  which  has  swept  away  poetry  from  our  litera- 
ture, will  recall  it  to  their  country,  such  as  it  once  was  and  may 
still  be. 

In  the  meantime,  the  best  sign  of  amendment  will  be  repentance, 
and  new  and  frequent  editions  of  Pope  and  Dryden. 

There  will  b6  found  as  comfortable  metaphysics,  and  ten  times 
more  poetry,  in  the  “Essay  on  Man,”  than  in  the  “Excursion.” 
If  you  search  for  passion,  where  is  it  to  be  found  stronger  than  in 
the  epistle  from  Eloisa  to  Abelard,  or  in  Palamon  and  Arcite  ? Do 
you  wish  for  invention,  imagination,  sublimity,  character?  seek 
them  in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  the  Fables  of  Dryden,  the  Ode  of 
Saint  Cecilia’s  Day,  and  Absalom  and  Achitophel : you  will  dis- 
cover in  these  two  poets  only,  all  for  which  you  must  ransack 
innumerable  metres,  and  God  only  knows  how  many  writers  of  the 
day,  without  finding  a tittle  of  the  same  qualities, — with  the 
addition,  too,  of  wit,  of  which  the  latter  have  none.  I have  not, 
however,  forgotten  Thomas  Brown  the  Younger,  nor  the  Fudge 
Family, 3 nor  Whistlecraft ; but  that  is  not  wit — it  is  humour.  I 
will  say  noting  of  the  harmony  of  Pope  and  Dryden  in  com- 
parison, for  there  is  not  a living  poet  (except  Rogers,  Gifford, 
Campbell,  and  Crabbe,)  who  can  write  an  heroic  couplet.  The  fact 
is,  that  the  exquisite  beauty  of  their  versification  has  withdrawn 
the  public  attention  from  their  other  excellences,  as  the  vulgar  eye 
will  rest  more  upon  the  splendour  of  the  uniform  than  the  quality 
of  the  troops.  It  is  this  very  harmony,  particularly  in  Pope,  which 
has  raised  the  vulgar  and  atrocious  cant  against  him  : — because  his 


(1)  [“  Peter  Bell  first  saw  the  light  in  1798.  During  this  long  interval,  pains 
have  been  taken  at  different  times  to  make  the  production  less  unworthy 
of  a favourable  reception  ; or  rather,  to  fit  it  for  filling  permanently  a station, 
however  humble,  in  the  literature  of  my  country.” — Wordsworth,  1819.] 

(2)  [“  I certainly  ventured  to  differ  from  the  judgment  of  my  noble  friend,  no 
less  in  his  attempts  to  depreciate  that  peculiar  Walk  of  the  art  in  which  he 
himself  so  grandly  trod,  than  in  the  inconsistency  of  which  I thought  him 
guilty,  in  condemning  all  those  who  stood  up  for  particular  ‘schools’  of 
poetry,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  maintaining  so  exclusive  a theory  of  the  art 
himself.  How  little,  however,  he  attended  to  either  the  grounds  or  degrees  of 
my  dissent  from  him,  will  appear  by  the  following  wholesale  report  of  my 
opinion  in  ‘ Detached  Thoughts:’ — ‘One  of  my'notions  different  from  those 
of  ray  contemporaries,  is,  that  the  present  is  nui  a high  age  of  English  poetry. 
There  are  more  poets  fsoi-disant)  than  ever  there  were,  and  proportionally  less 
poetry.  This  thesis  1 have  maintained  for  some  years,  but,  strange  to  say, 
it  meetet-h  not  with  favour  from  my  brethren  of  the  shell.  Even  Moo-e  shakes 
his  head,  aad  firmly  believes  that  it  is  the  grand  age  of  British  poesy.’”— 
Moure.] 

(3;  (In  la12,  Mr.  Moore  published  “ The  Two-penny  Post-bag  ; by  Thomas 
Brown  the  Younger  and  in  1818  The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris.’’] 

£4)  [“  Let  Sporus  tremble A.  What?  that  thing  of  silk, 

Sporus.  that  mere  white  curd  of  ass’s  milk  ? 

Satire  or  sense,  alas  ! can  Sporus  feel  ? 

Who  breaks  a butterfly  upon  a wheel  ? 

P.  "Yet  let  me  flap  this  bug  with  gilded  wings. 

This  painted  child  of  dirt,  that  stinks  and  sings  ; 


versification  is  perfect,  it  is  assumed  that  it  is  his  only  twtfoeUon- 
because  his  truths  are  so  clear,  it  is  asserted  that  he  has  r.'*  inven- 
tion ; and  because  he  is  always  intelligible,  it  is  taken  for  granted 
that  he  has  no  genius.  We  are  sneeringly  told  that  he  is  the 
“ Poet  of  Reason,”  as  if  this  was  a reason  for  his  being  no  poet 
Taking  passage  for  passage,  I will  undertake  to  cite  more  lines 
teeming  with  imagination  from  Pope  than  from  any  two  living 
poets,  be  they  who  they  may.  To  take  an  instance  at  random 
from  a species  of  composition  not  very  favourable  to  imagi- 
nation— Satire : set  down  the  character  of  Sporus,4  with  all  the 
wonderful  play  of  fancy  which  is  scattered  over  it,  and  place 
by  its  side  an  equal  number  of  verses,  from  any  two  existing 
poets,  of  the  same  power  and  the  same  variety — where  will  you  find 
them  ? 

I merely  mention  one  instance  of  many,  in  reply  to  the  injustice 
done  to  the  memory  of  him  who  harmonized  our  poetical  language. 
The  attorneys’  clerks,  and  other  self-educated  genii,  found  it 
easier  to  distort  themselves  to  the  new  models  than  to  toil  after  the 
symmetry  of  him  who  had  enchanted  their  fathers.  They  were 
besides  smitten  by  being  told  that  the  new  school  were  to  revive 
the  language  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  true  English ; as  every  body 
in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  wrote  no  better  tha-n  French,  by  a 
species  of  literary  treason. 

Blank  verse,  which,  unless  in  the  drama,  no  one  except  Milton 
ever  wrote  who  could  rhyme,  became  the  order  of  the  day, — or  else 
such  rhyme  as  looked  still  blanker  than  the  verse  without  it.  I am 
aware  that  Johnson  has  said,  after  some  hesitation,  that  he  could 
not  “ prevail  upon  himself  to  wish  that  Milton  had  been  a rhymer.” 
The  opinions  of  that  truly  great  man,  whom  it  is  also  the  present 
fashion  to  decry,  will  ever  be  received  by  me  with  that  deference 
which  time  will  restore  to  him  from  all-;  but,  with  all  humility,  I 
am  not  persuaded  that  the  Paradise  Lost  would  not  have  been 
more  nobly  conveyed  to  posterity,  not  perhaps  in  heroic  couplets, 
although  even  they  could  sustain  the  subject  if  well  balanced,  but 
in  the  stanza  of  Spenser  or  of  Tasso,  or  in  the  terza  rima  of  Dante, 
which  the  powers  of  Milton  could  easily  have  grafted  on  our 
language.  The  Seasons  of  Thomson  would  have  been  better  in 
rhyme,  although  inferior  to  his  Castle  of  Indolenae;  and  Mr. 
Southey’s  Joan  of  Arc  no  worse,  although  it  might  have  taken  up 
six  months  instead  of  weeks  in  the  composition.  I recommend 
also  to  the  lovers  of  lyrics  the  perusal  of  the  present  laureate’s  Odes 
by  the  side  of  Dryden’s  on  Saint  Cecilia,  but  let  him  be  sure  to 
read  first  those  of  Mr.  Southey. 

To  the  heaven-born  genii  and  inspired  young  scriveners  of  the 
day  much  of  this  will  appear  paradox : it  will  appear  so  even  to 
the  higher  order  of  our  critics ; but  it  was  a truism  twenty  years 
ago,  and  it  will  be  a re- acknowledged  truth  in  ten  more.  In  the 
meantime,  I will  conclude  with  two  quotations,  both  intended  for 
some  of  my  old  classical  friends  who  have  still  enough  of  Cam- 
bridge about  them  to  think  themselves  honoured  by  having  had 
John  Dryden  as  a predecessor  in  their  college,  and  to  recollect  that 
their  earliest  English  poetical  pleasures  were  drawn  from  the 
“little  nightingale”  of  Twickenham.  The  first  is  from  the  notes 
to  the  Poem  of  the  “Friends."0 

“ It  is  only  within  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years  that  those 
notable  discoveries  in  criticism  have  been  made  which  have  taught 
our  recent  versifiers  to  undervalue  this  energeuc,  melodious,  and 
moral  poet.  The  consequences  of  this  want  of  due  esteem  for  a 
writer  whom  the  good  sense  of  our  predecessors  had  raised  to  his 
proper  station  have  been  numerous  and  degrading  enough. 


Whose  buzz  the  witty  and  the  fair  annoys. 

Yet  wit  ne’er  tastes,  and  beauty  ne’er  enjoys; 

So  well-bred  spaniels  civilly  delight 
In  mumbling  of  the  game  they  dare  not  bite. 

Eternal  smiles  his  emptiness  betray, 

As  shallow  streams  run  dimpling  all  the  way. 

Whether  in  florid  impotence  he  speaks. 

And,  as  the  nrompter  bre-thes,  the  puppet  squeaks  ; 

Or  at  the  ear  of  Eve,  familiar  toad, 

Half  froth,  half  venom,  spits  himself  abroad. 

In  puns,  or  politics,  or  tales,  or  lies, 

Or  spite,  or  smut,  or  rhymes,  or  blasphemies, 

His  wit  »T.  see-saw,  between  that  and  this. 

Now  high,  now  low,  now  master  up,  now  miss, 

And  he  himself  one  vile  antithesis. 

Amphibious  thing  I that  acting  either  part, 

The  trifling  head,  or  the  corrupted  heart. 

Fop  at  the  toilet,  flatterer  at  the  ifoard. 

Now  trips  a lady,  and  now  struts  a lord 
Eve’s  tempter  thus  the  Rabbins  have  express’d, 

A cherub’s  faee,  a reptile  all  the  rest. 

Beauty  that  shocks  you,  parts  that  none  will  trust, 

Wit  that  can  creep,  and  pride  that  licks  the  dust.” 

Prol  to  Sot 

(5)  [Written  by  Lord  Byron’s  early  friend,  the  Rev.  Francis  Hodgson  ] 

§ s 


802 


LOR®  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


This  is  not  the  place  to  enter  into  the  subject,  even  as  far  as  it 
ufert*  our  poetical  numbers  alone , and  there  is  matter  of  more 
importance  that  requires  present  reflection.” 

2 he  second  is  from  the  volume  of  a young  person  learning  to 
w.:ite  poetry,  and  beginning  by  teaching  the  art.  Hear  him : 1 * * * 

“ But  ye  were  dead 

To  things  ye  knew  not  of — were  closely  wed 
To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 
And  compass  vile ; so  that  ye  taught  a school  2 
Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  chip,  and  fit, 

Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob’s  wit, 

Their  verses  tallied.  Easy  was  the  task : 

A thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 
Of  poesy.  Ill-fated,  impious  race, 

That  blasphemed  the  bright  lyrist  to  hi*  fuctA 
And  did  not  know  it ; no,  they  went  about 
Holding  a poor  decrepit  standard  out 
Mark’d  with  most  flimsy  mottos,  and  in  large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau  I ” 

A little  before,  the  manner  of  Pope  is  termed, 

“ A seism, 3 

Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 

Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land.”  * 

I thought  “ foppery ” was  a consequence  of  refinement ! but 
u’importe. 

The  above  will  suffice  to  show  the  notions  entertained  by  the 
new  performers  on  the  English  lyre  of  him  who  made  it  most 
tuneable,  and  the  great  improvements  of  their  own  “ varia- 
zioni.” 

The  writer  of  this  is  a tadpole  of  the  Lakes,  a young  disciple  of 
the  six  or  seven  new  schools,  in  which  he  has  learnt  to  write  such 
lines  and  such  sentiments  as  the  above.  He  says  “easy  was  the 
task”  of  imitating  Pope,  or  it  may  be  of  equalling  him,  I presume. 

I recommend  him  to  try  before  he  is  so  positive  on  the  subject, 
and  then  compare  what  he  will  have  then  written  and  what  he  has 
now  written  with  the  humblest  and  earliest  compositions  of  Pope, 
produced  in  years  still  more  youthful  than  those  of  Mr.  Keats 
when  he  invented  his  new  “ Essay  on  Criticism,”  entitled  “ Sleep 
and  Poetry”  (an  ominous  title),  from  whence  the  above  canons  are 
taken.  Pope’s  was  written  at  nineteen,  and  published  at  twenty- 
two. 


(1)  fin  a manuscript  note  on  thi*  passage  of  the  pamphlet,  dated  Nov.  12, 
1821,  Lord  Byron  says, — “ Mr.  Keats  died  at  Rome  about  a year  after  this  was 
written,  of  a decline  produced  by  his  having  burst  a blood-vessel  on  reading 
the  article  on  his  * Endymion  ’ in  the  Quarterly  Review.  I have  read  the 
article  before  and  since  ; and  although  it  is  bitter,  I do  not  think  that  a 
man  should  permit  himself  to  be  killed  by  it.  But  a young  man  little 
dreams  what  he  must  inevitably  encounter  in  the  course  of  a life  ambitious  of 
public  notice.  My  indignation  at  Mr.  Keats’s  depreciation  of  Pope  has 
hardly  permitted  me  to  do  justice  to  his  own  genius,  which,  malgrt  all  the 
fantastic  fopp  ries  of  his  style,  was  undoubtedly  of  great  promise.  His 
fragment  of  ‘ Hyperion  ’ seems  actually  inspired  by  the  Titans,  and  is  as 
sublime  as  ASschylus.  He  is  a loss  to  our  literature  ; and  the  more  so,  as  he 
himself,  before  his  death,  is  said  to  have  been  persuaded  that  he  had  m>t  taken 
the  right  line,  and  was  re-forming  his  style  upon  the  more  classical  models  of 
the  language.] 

(2)  ’t  was  at  least  a grammar  “ school.” 

(8)  So  spelt  by  the  author. 

(*)  As  a balance  to  these  lines,  and  to  the  sense  and  sentiment  of  the  new 
1 will  put  down  a passage  or  two  from  Pope’s  earliest  poems,  taken  at 

random : — 

“ Envy  her  own  snakes  shall  feel, 

And  Persecution  mourn  her  broken  wheel. 

There  Faction  roar,  Rebellion  bite  her  chain. 

And  gasping  Furies  thirst  for  blood  in  vain.” 

••  Ah  ! what  avails  his  glossy  varying  dyes. 

His  purple  crest,  and  scarlet-circled  eyes  j 
The  vivid  green  his  shining  plumes  unfold. 

His  painted  wings,  and  breast  that  flames  with  gold.” 

“ Round  broken  columns  clasping  ivy  twined. 

O’er  heaps  of  ruin  stalk’d  the  stately  hind  ; 

The  fox  obscene  to  gaping  tombs  retires, 

And  savage  howlings  All  the  sacred  quires.” 

'*  Hail,  bards  triumphant  1 born  in  happier  days; 

Immortal  heirs  of  universal  praise  1 
Whose  honours  with  increase  of  ages  grow, 

As  streams  roll  down,  enlarging  as  they  flow  ; 

Nations  unborn  your  mighty  names  shall  sound. 

And  worlds  applaud  that  must  not  yet  be  found  I 
Oh  may  some  spark  of  your  celestial  fire. 

The  last,  the  meanest  of  your  sons  inspire, 

(That  on  weak  wings,  from  far  pursues  your  flights  ; 

Glows  while  he  reads,  but  trembles  as  he  writes). 

To  teach  vain  wsts  a science  little  known, 

T*  admire  superior  sense,  and  doubt  their  own  ! * 

••  Amphion  there  the  loud  creating  lyre 
Strikes,  and  behold  a sudden  Thebes  aspire 
Clthieron's  redoes  answer  to  his  call, 

And  half  the  mountain  rolls  into  a wall.’' 


Such  are  the  triumphs  of  the  new  schools,  and  such  thetz 
scholars.  The  disciples  of  Pope  were  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Rogers, 
Campbell,  Crabbe,  Gifford,  Matthias,5 6 7 8  Hayley,  and  the  author  c< 
the  Paradise  of  Coquettes;0  to  whom  may  be  added  Richards 
Heber,  Wrangham,  Bland,  Hodgson,  Merivale,  and  otners  wi.o 
have  not  had  their  full  fame,  because  “ the  race  is  not  air  tvs  to 
the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,”  and  because  there?  is  a 
fortune  in  fame  as  in  all  other  things.  Now,  of  all  the  new  schools 
— I say  all,  for,  “like  Legion,  they  are  many” — has  there  appeared 
a single  scholar  who  has  not  made  his  master  ashamed  of  him  1 
unless  it  be  Sotheby,  who  has  imitated  every  body,  and  occasionally 
surpassed  his  models.  Scott  found  peculiar  favour  and  imitation 
among  the  fair  sex:  there  was  Miss  HolfordJ  and  Miss  Mitford,8 
aad  Miss  Francis ; 9 but,  with  the  greatest  respect  be  it  spoken, 
none  of  his  imitators  did  much  honour  to  the  original,  except  Hogg, 
the  Ettrick  shepherd,  until  the  appearance  of  “ The  Bridal  of 
Triermain,”  and  “ Harold  the  Dauntless,”  which  in  the  opinion  of 
some  equalled  if  not  surpassed  him ; and  lo  1 after  three  or  four 
years  they  turned  out  to  be  the  Master’s  own  compositions.  Have 
Southey,  or  Coleridge,  or ’t  other  fellow,  made  a follower  of  re- 
nown ? Wilson  never  did  well  till  he  set  up  for  himself  in  the 
“ City  of  the  Plague.”  Has  Moore,  or  any  other  living  writer  of 
reputation,  had  a tolerable  imitator,  or  rather  disciple?  Now,  it  is 
remarkable,  that  almost  all  the  followers  of  Pope,  whom  I have 
named,  have  produced  beautiful  and  standard  works ; and  it  was 
not  the  number  of  his  imitators  who  finally  hurt  his  fame,  but  the 
despair  of  imitation,  and  the  ease  of  not  imitating  him  sufficiently. 
This,  and  the  same  reason  which  induced  the  Athenian  burgher  to 
vote  for  the  banishment  of  Aristides,  “ because  he  was  tired  of  always 
hearing  him  called  the  Just,"  have  produced  the  temporary  exile 
of  Pope  from  the  State  of  Literature.  But  the  term  of  his  ostracism 
will  expire,  and  the  sooner  the  better,  not  for  him,  but  for  those 
who  banished  him,  and  for  the  coining  generation,  who 

“ Will  blush  to  find  their  fathers  were  his  foes.” 

I will  now  return  to  the  writer  of  the  article  which  has  drawn 
forth  these  remarks,  whom  I honestly  take  to  be  John  Wilson,  a 
man  of  great  powers  and  acquirements,  well  known  to  the  public 
as  the  author  of  the  “ City  of  the  Plague,”  “ Isle  of  Palms,”  and 
other  productions.  I take  the  liberty  of  naming  him,  by  the  same 
species  of  courtesy  which  has  induced  him  to  designate  me  as  the 
author  of  Don  Juan.  Upon  the  score  of  the  Lake  Poets,  he  may 
perhaps  recall  to  mind  that  I merely  express  an  opinion  long  ago 


“ So  Zembla’s  rocks,  the  beauteous  work  of  frost, 
Rise  white  in  air,  and  glitter  o’er  the  Boast ; 

Pale  suns,  unfelt,  at  distance  roll  away, 

And  on  th’  impassive  ice  the  lightnings  play  : 
Eternal  snows  the  growing  mass  supply, 

Till  the  bright  mountains  prop  the  incumbent  6ky, 
As  Atlas  fix’d,  each  hoary  pile  appears, 

The  gather’d  winter  of  a thousand  years. 

“ Thus,  when  we  view  some  well-proportion’d  dome, 
The  world’s  just  wonder,  and  even  thine,  O Rome  1 
No  single  parts  unequally  surprise. 

All  comes  united  to  the  admiring  eyes  : 

No  monstrous  height,  or  breadth,  or  length  appear  ; 
The  whole  at  once  is  bold  and  regular.” 


A thousand  similar  passages  crowd  upon  me,  all  composed  by  Pope  before 
his  two-and-twentieth  year  ; and  yet  it  is  contended  that  he  is  no  poet,  and  we 
are  told  so  in  such  lines  as  l beg  the  reader  to  compare  with  these  youthful 
verses  of  the  “ no  poet.”  Must  we  repeat  the  question  of  Johnson,  “ If  Pope  it 
not  a poet,  where  is  poetry  to  be  found*’'  Even  in  descriptive  poetry,  the  lowest 
department  of  the  art,  he  will  be  found,  on  a fair  examination,  to  surpass  any 
living  writer. 

(5)  [Thomas  James  Matthias,  Esq.,  the  well-known  author  of  the  Pursuits  of 
Literature,  Imperial  Epistle  to  Kien  Long,  &c.  In  1814,  Mr.  M.  edited  an 
edition  of  Gray’s  Works,  which  the  University  of  Cambridge  published  at  its 
own  expense.  Lord  Byron  did  not  admire  this  venerable  poet  the  less  for  such 
criticism  as  the  following  “ After  we  have  paid  our  primal  homage  to  the 
bards  of  Greece  and  of  ancient  Latium,  we  are  invited  to  contemplate  the 
literary  and  poetical  dignity  of  modern  Italy.  If  the  influence  of  their  persua- 
sion and  of  their  example  should  prevail,  a strong  and  steady  light  may  be 
relumined  and  diffused  amongst  us,  a light  which  may  once  again  conduct  the 
powers  or  our  rising  poets  from  wild  whirling  words,  from  crude,  rapid,  and 
uncorreeted  productions,  from  an  overweening  presumption,  and  from  the 
delusive  conceit  of  a pre-established  reputation,  to  the  labour  of  thought,  tc 
patient  and  repeated  revision  of  what  they  write,  to  a reverence  for  themselves 
and  for  an  enlightened  public,  and  to  the  fixed  unbending  principles  of  legiti- 
mate composition." — Preface  to  Gray.] 

(6)  [Dr.  Thomas  Brown,  professor  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  University  o, 
Edinburgh,  who  died  in  1820.] 

(7)  [Author  of  “ Wallace,  or  the  Tight  of  Falkirk,”  “ Margaret  of  Anjou,* 
and  other  poems.] 

(8)  [Miss  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  author  ol  “Christina,  or  the  Maid  of  the 
South  Seas,”  “ Wallington  Hall,”  “ Our  Village,”  & c.  &c.] 

(9)  [Miss  Elira  Framis  published,  in  1815,  “Sir  Willibertde  Waverley  ; cs 
the  Bridal  Eve.”] 


APPENDIX. 


803 


•ntertained  and  specified  in  a letter  to  Mr.  James  Hogg.l  which  he, 
the  said  Janies  Hogg,  somewhat  contrary  to  the  law  of  pens,  showed 
to  Mr.  John  Wilson,  in  the  year  1814,  as  he  himself  informed  me 

In  his  answer,  telling  me  by  way  of  apology  that  “ he 'd  be  d d 

-f  he  could  help  it;”  and  I am  not  conscious  of  anything  like 
“envy”  or  “exacerbation”  at  this  moment  which  induces  me  to 
think  better  or  worse  of  Southey,  Wordsworth,  and  Coleridge  as 
poets  than  I do  now,  although  I do  know  one  or  two  things 
more  which  have  added  to  my  contempt  for  them  as  indi- 
viduals. 

And,  in  return  for  Mr.  Wilson's  invective,2  I shall  content  myself 
with  asking  one  question : Did  he  never  compose,  recite,  or  sing 
any  parody  or  parodies  upon  ihe  Psalms  (of  what  nature  this 
deponent  saith  not),  in  certain  jovial  meetings  of  the  youth  of 
Edinburgh  ? 3 It  is  not  that  I think  any  great  harm  if  he  did ; 
because  it  seems  to  me  that  all  depends  upon  the  intention  of  such 
a parody.  If  it  be  meant  to  throw  ridicule  on  the  sacred  original, 
it  is  a sin  ; if  it  be  intended  to  burlesque  the  profane  subject,  or  to 
inculcate  a moral  truth,  it  is  none.  If  it  were,  the  Unbelievers’  Creed, 
the  many  political  parodies  of  various  parts  of  the  Scriptures  and 
liturgy,  particularly  a celebrated  one  of  the  Lord’s  Prayer,  and  the 
beautiful  moral  parable  in  favour  of  toleration  by  Franklin,  which 
has  often  been  taken  for  a real  extract  from  Genesis,  would  all  be 
sins  of  a damning  nature.  But  I wish  to  know  if  Mr.  Wilson  ever 
has  done  this,  and  if  he  has,  why  he  should  be  so  very  angry  with 
similar  portions  of  Don  Juan? — Did  no  “parody  profane”  appear 
in  any  of  the  earlier  numbers  of  Blackwood’s  Magazine  ? 

I will  now  conclude  this  long  answer  to  a short  article,  repenting 
of  having  said  so  much  in  my  own  defence,  and  so  little  on  the 
“crying,  left-hand  fallings  off  and  national  defections”  of  the 
poetry  of  the  present  day.  Having  said  this,  I can  hardly  be 
expected  to  defend  Don  Juan,  or  any  other  “ living  ” poetry,  and 
shall  not  make  the  attempt.  And  although  I do  not  think  that 
Mr.  John  Wilson  has  in  this  instance  treated  me  with  candour  or 
consideration,  I trust  that  the  tone  I have  used  in  speaking  of  him 
personally  will  prove  that  I bear  him  as  little  malice  as  I really 
believe  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  bears  towards  me ; but  the 
duties  of  an  editor,  like  those  of  a tax-gatherer,  are  paramount  and 
peremptory.  I have  done. 

BYRON. 


Note  [C]. — Lord  Bacon’s  Apophthegms.  See 
p.  665.4 


bacon’s  apophthegms. 


OBSERVATIONS. 


91. 

Michael  Angelo,  the  famous  painter, 
painting  in  the  pope’s  chapel  the  por- 
traiture of  hell  and  damned  souls, 
made  one  of  the  damned  souls  so  like 
a cardinal  that  was  his  enemy,  as 
every  body  at  first  sight  knew  it; 
whereupon  the  cardinal  complained  to 
Pope  Clement,  humbly  praying  it 
might  be  defaced.  The  pope  said  to 
him,  Why  you  know  very  well  I have 
power  to  deliver  a soul  out  of  purga- 
tory, but  not  out  of  hell. 


This  was  not  the  portrait 
of  a cardinal,  but  of  the 
pope’s  master  of  the  cere- 
monies. 


155. 

Alexander,  after  the  battle  of  Gra- 
nicum,  had  very  great  offers  made 


It  was  after  the  battle  of' 
Issus  and  during  the  siege 


him  by  Darius.  Consulting  with  his 
captains  concerning  them,  Parmenio 
| said,  Sure,  I would  accept  of  these 
| offers,  if  I were  as  Alexander.  Alex- 
ander answered,  So  would  I,  if  I were 
as  Parmenio. 


158. 

Antigonus,  when  it  was  told  him 
that  the  enemy  had  such  volleys  of 
arrows,  that  they  did  hide  the  sun, 
said,  That  falls  out  well,  for  it  is  hot 
weather,  and  so  we  shall  fight  in  the 
shade. 

162. 

There  was  a philosopher  that  dis- 
puted with  Adrian  the  Emperor,  and 
did  it  but  weakly.  One  of  his  friends 
that  stood  by,  afterwards  said  unto 
him,  Methinks  you  were  not  like  your- 
self last  day,  in  argument  with  the 
Emperor : I could  have  answered  bet- 
ter myself.  Why,  said  the  philoso- 
pher, would  you  have  me  centend  with 
him  that  commands  thirty  legions? 

164. 

There  was  one  that  found  a great 
mass  of  money  digging  under  ground  in 
his  grandfather’s  house,  and  being 
somewhat  doubtful  of  the  case,  signi- 
fied it  to  the  emperor  that  he  had 
found  such  treasure.  The  emperor 
made  a rescript  thus : Use  it.  He 
writ  back  again,  that  the  sum  was 
greater  than  his  state  or  condition 
could  use.  The  emperor  writ  a new 
rescript,  thus  : Abuse  it. 

178. 

One  of  the  seven  was  wont  to  say, 
that  Jaws  were  like  cobwebs : where 
the  small  flies  were  caught,  and  the 
great  break  through. 

209. 

An  orator  of  Athens  said  to  Demos- 
thenes, The  Athenians  will  kill  you  if 
they  wax  mad.  Demosthenes  replied, 
And  they  will  kill  you  if  they  be  in 
good  sense. 

221. 

There  was  a philosopher  about 
Tiberius  that*  looking  into  the  nature 
of  Caius,  said  of  him,  That  he  was 
mire  mingled  with  blood. 


97. 

There  was  a king  of  Hungary  took 
a bishop  in  battle,  and  kept  him  pri- 
soner; whereupon  the  pope  writ  a 
monitory  to  him,  for  that  he  had 
broken  the  privilege  of  holy  church 
and  taken  his  son ; the  king  sent  an 
embassage  to  him,  and  sent  withal  the 
armour  wherein  the  bishop  was  taken, 
and  this  only  in  writing — Vide  num 
hcec  sit  vestis  filii  tuii  Know  now 
whether  this  be  thy  son’s  coat? 


of  Tyre,  and  not  iimneai- 
ately  after  the  passage  of  the 
Granicus,  that  this  is  said 
to  have  occurred. 


This  was  mt  said  by 
Antigonus,  but  by  a Spar- 
tan, previously  to  the  bat- 
tle of  Thermopylae. 


This  happened  under 
Augustus  Caesar,  and  not 
during  the  reign  of  Adrian. 


This  happened  to  th» 
father  of  H erodes  Atticus, 
and  the  answer  was  made 
by  the  Emperor  Nerva,  who 
deserved  that  his  name 
should  have  been  stated 
by  the  “greatest,  wisest, 
meanest  of  mankind.”3 


This  was  said  by  Ana- 
charsis  the  Scythian,  and 
not  by  a Greek. 


This  was  not  said  oy  De. 
mosthenes,  but  to  Demos 
thenes  by  Phocion. 


This  was  not  said  of 
Caius,  (Caligula,  I presume, 
is  intended  by  Caius,)  but 
of  Tiberius  himself. 


This  reply  was  not  mads 
by  a King  of  H ungary,  but 
sent  by  Richard  the  First, 
Cceur  de  Lion,  of  England,, 
to  the  Pope,  with  the  breast- 
plate of  the  bishop  of  Beau 
vais. 


(1)  [“  Oh  ! I have  had  the  most  amusing;  letter  from  Hogg,  the  Ettrick 
minstrel  and  shepherd.  He  wants  me  to  recommend  him  to  Murray  ; and, 
•peaking  of  his  present  bookseller,  whose  ‘bills’  are  never  ‘lifted,’  he  adds, 
tetidem  verbii , ‘ God  d — n him,  and  them  both.’  I laughed,  and  so  would 
you  too,  at  the  way  in  which  this  execration  is  introduced.  The  said  Hogg 
is  a strange  being,  but  of  great,  though  uncouth,  powers.  I think  very 
highly  of  him  as  a poet;  Out  he,  ana  half  of  these  Scotch  and  Lake  trou- 
badours are  spoilt  by  living  iu  little  circles  and  petty  societies.” — Byron 
LtUen.] 

(2)  [This  is  one  of  the  many  mistakes  into  which  his  distance  from  the  scene 
of  1‘terary  operations  led  him.  The  gentleman,  to  whom  the  hostile  article  in 
the  Magazine  is  here  attributed,  has  never,  either  then  or  since,  written  upon 
the  subject  of  the  noble  poet's  character  or  genius,  without  giving  vent  to  a 
feeling  of  admiration  as  enthusiastic  as  it  is  aways  eloquently  and  powerfully 
expressed  ” - Moons.] 


(3)  [The  allusion  here  is  to  some  now  forgotten  calumnies  which  had 
been  circulated  by  the  radical  press,  at  the  time  when  Mr.  Wilson  was  a 
candidate  for  the  Chair  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh.] 

(4)  “ Ordered  Fletcher  (at  four  o’clock  this  afternoon)  to  copy  out  seven 
or  eight  apophthegms  of  Bacon  in  which  I have  detected  such  blunders  as 
a schoolboy  might  detect,  rather  than  commit.  Such  are  the  s&aes  1 What 
must  they  be,  when  such  as  I can  stumble  on  their  mistakes  or  mis-state- 
ments ? I will  go  to  bed,  for  1 tind  that  I grow  cynical.”— Byron  Ihary 
Jan.  5,  1821. 

(5)  [“  If  parts  allure  thee,  think  how  Bar>on  shined. 

The  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  jaankind.”— Pop*.] 


804 


LORD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


267. 

Demetrius,  king  of  Macedon,  had  a This  did  not  happen  to 
petition  offered  him  divers  times  by  an  Demetrius,  but  to  Philip, 
•Id  woman,  and  answered  he  had  no  king  of  Macedon. 
leisure;  whereupon  the  woman  said 
aloud,  Why  then  give  over  to  be 

VOLTAIRE. 

Having  stated  that  Bacon  was  frequently  incorrect  in  his  citations 
from  history,  I have  thought  it  necessary  in  what  regards  so  great  a 
name,  (however  trifling,)  to  support  the  assertion  by  such  facts  as 
more  immediately  occur  to  me.  They  are  but  trifles,  and  yet  for 
such  trifles  a schoolboy  would  be  whipped,  (if  still  in  the  fourth 
form ;)  and  Voltaire  for  half  a dozen  similar  errors  has  been  treated 
as  a superficial  writer,  notwithstanding  the  testimony  of  the  learned 
Wharton: — “Voltaire,  a writer  of  much  deeper  research  than  is  im- 
agined, and  theirs/  who  has  displayed  the  literature  and  customs 
of  the  dark  ages  with  any  degree  of  penetration  and  comprehen- 
sion.”! For  another  distinguished  testimony  to  Voltaire’s  merits 
in  literary  research,  see  also  Lord  Holland’s  excellent  Account 
of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Lope  de  Vega,  vol.  i.  page  215,  edition 
of  181 7.2 

Voltaire  has  even  been  termed  “ a shallow  fellow,”  by  some  of 
the  same  school  who  called  Dryden’s  Ode  “a  drunken  song;” — a 
school,  (as  it  is  called,  I presume,  from  their  education  being  still 
incomplete,)  the  whole  of  whose  filthy  trash  of  Epics,  Excursions, 
fcc.  &c.  &c.  is  not  worth  the  two  words  in  Zaire,  “ Vous  pleurez,”  3 or 
a single  speech  of  Tancred; — a school,  the  apostat/  lives  of  whose 
renegadoes,  with  their  tea-drinking  neutrality  of  morals,  and  their 
convenient  treachery  in  politics — in  the  record  of  their  accumulated 
pretences  to  virtue— can  produce  no  actions  (were  all  their  good 
deeds  drawn  up  in  array)  to  equal  or  approach  the  sole  defence  of 
the  family  of  Calas,  by  that  great  and  unequalled  genius — the 
universal  Voltaire. 

I have  ventured  to  remark  on  these  little  inaccuracies  of  “ the 
greatest  genius  that  England  or  perhaps  any  other  country  ever  pro- 
duced,” * merely  to  show  our  national  injustice  in  condemning  gene- 
rally the  greatest  genius  of  France  for  such  inadvertencies  as  these, 
of  which  the  highest  of  England  has  been  no  less  guilty.  Query,  was 
Bacon  a greater  intellect  than  Newton  1 

CAMPBELL.* * 3 4 5 

Being  in  the  humour  of  criticism,  I shall  proceed,  after  having 
ventured  upon  the  slips  of  Bacon,  to  touch  upon  one  or  two  as 
trifling  in  their  edition  of  the  British  Poets,  by  -he  justly  celebrated 
Campbell.  But  I do  this  in  good  will,  and  trust  it  will  be  so  taken. 
If  any  thing  could  add  to  my  opinion  of  the  talents  and  true  feel- 
ing of  that  gentleman,  it  would  be  his  classical,  honest,  and  tri- 
umphant defence  of  Pope,  against  the  vulgar  cant  of  the  day,  and 
its  existing  Grub-street. 

The  inadvertencies  to  which  I allude  are, — 

Firstly,  in  speaking  of  Anstey,  whom  he  accuses  of  having  taken 
“his  leading  characters  from  Smollett.”  Anstey’s  Bath  Guide  was 
published  in  1766.  Smollett’s  Humphry  Clinker  (the  only  work  of 
Smollett’s  from  which  Tabitha,  &c.  &c.  could  have  been  taken)  was 
written  during  Smollett's  last  residence  at  Leghorn  in  1770. — 
“ Argal ,”  if  there  has  been  any  borrowing,  Anstey  must  be  the 
creditor,  and  not  the  debtor.  I refer  Mr.  Campbell  to  his  own  data 
in  his  lives  of  Smollett  and  Anstey. 

Secondly,  Mr.  Campbell  says  in  the  life  of  Cowper  (note  to  page 
358,  vol.  7)  that  he  knows  not  to  whom  Cowper  alludes  in  these 
lines : — 

“ Nor  he  who,  for  the  bane  of  thousands  born, 

Built  God  a church,  and  laugh’d  his  word  to  scorn.” 

The  Calvinist  meant  Voltaire,  and  the  church  of  Ferney,  with  its 
inscription,  “ Deo  erexit  Voltaire.” 


(1)  Dissertation  I. 

(I)  [Till  Voltaire  appeared,  there  was  no  nation  more  ignorant  of  its 
ntighboui  s’  literature  than  the  French.  He  first  exposed,  and  then  cor- 
rected, this  neglect  in  his  countrymen.  There  is  no  writer  to  whom  the 
authors  of  other  nations,  especially  of  England,  are  so  indebted  for  the 
extension  of  their  fame  in  France,  and,  through  France,  in  Europe.  There 
is  no  critic  who  has  employed  more  time,  wit,  ingenuity,  and  diligence  in 
promoting  the  literary  intercourse  between  country  and  country,  and  in 
eeiebrating  in  one  language  the  triumphs  of  another.  Yet,  by  a strange 
fatality,  he  is  constantly  represented  as  the  enemy  of  all  literature  but  his 
own  ; and  Spaniards,  Englishmen,  and  Italians  vie  with  each  other  in  in- 
veighing against  his  occasional  exaggeration  of  faulty  passages  ; the  authors 
of  which,  till  he  pointed  out  their  beauties,  were  hardly  known  beyond  the 
country  in  which  their  language  was  spoken.  Those  wno  feel  such  indig- 
nation at  his  misrepresentations  and  oversights,  would  find  it  difficult  to 
produce  a critic  in  any  modern  language,  who,  in  speaking  of  foreign  liter- 


Thirdly,  in  the  life  of  Burns,  Mr.  Campbell  quot««  Shakipmvw 
thus : — 

“ To  gild  refii.ed  gold,  to  paint  the  rose. 

Or  add  fresh  perfume  to  the  violet.” 

This  version  by  no  means  improves  the  original,  whieh  is  as 
follows  : — 

“ To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 

To  throw  a perfume  on  the  violet,”  & c. 

King  John. 

A great  poet  quoting  another  should  be  correct ; he  should  also 
be  accurate,  when  he  accuses  a Parnassian  brother  of  that  dan- 
gerous charge  “borrowing:”  a poet  had  better  borrow  any  thing 
(excepting  money)  than  the  thoughts  of  another — they  are  always 
sure  to  be  reclaimed ; but  it  is  very  hard,  having  been  the  lender, 
to  be  denounced  as  the  debtor,  as  is  the  case  of  Anstey  versus 
Smollett. 

As  there  is  “ honour  amongst  thieves,”  let  there  be  some  amongst 
poets,  and  give  each  his  due, — none  can  afford  to  give  it  more  than 
Mr.  Campbell  himself,  who  with  a high  reputation  for  originality, 
and  a fame  which  cannot  be  shaken,  is  the  only  poet  of  the  timas 
(except  Rogers)  who  can  be  reproached  (and  in  him  it  is  indeed  a 
reproach)  with  having  written  too  little. 

Ravenna,  Jan.  5,  1821. 

♦ 

Conversations  of  Lord  Byron,  as  related  by 
Thomas  Med  win,  Esq.,  compared  with  a Por- 
tion of  his  Lordship’s  Correspondence. 

The  volume  of  “Lord  Byron’s  Conversations”  with  Mr.  Medwin 
contain  several  statements  relative  to  Mr.  Murray,  his  lordship’s 
publisher,  against  which,  however  exceptionable  they  might  be,  he 
was  willing  to  trust  his  defence  to  the  private  testimony  of  persons 
acquainted  with  the  real  particulars,  and  to  his  general  character, 
rather  than  resort  to  any  kind  of  public  appeal,  to  which  he  has 
ever  been  exceedingly  averse.  But  friends,  to  whose  judgment 
Mr.  Murray  is  bound  to  defer,  having  decided  that  such  an 
appeal  upon  the  occasion  is  become  a positive  duty  on  his  part, 
he  hopes  that  he  shall  not  be  thought  too  obtrusive  in  opposing 
to  those  personal  allegations  extracts  from  Lord  Byron’s  own 
letters,  with  the  addition  of  a few  brief  notes  of  necessary  ex- 
planation. 

Capt.  Medwin,  p.  167. 

“ Murray  offered  me,  of  his  own  accord,  1,000/.  a canto  for  Den 
Juan,  and  afterwards  reduced  it  to  5001.  on  the  plea  of  piracy, 
and  complained  of  my  dividing  one  canto  into  two,  because  I 
happened  to  say  something  at  the  end  of  the  third  canto  of  having 
done  so.” 

Lord  Byron’s  Letter. 

“ Ravenna,  February  7,  1820. 

“ Dear  Murray, 

“/  have  copied  and  cut  the  third  canto  of  Don  Juan 
into  two,  because  it  was  too  long,  and  I tell  you  this  f fo.  ehand, 
because,  in  case  of  any  reckoning  between  you  and  me,  these  two  ere 
only  to  go  for  one,  as  this  was  the  original  form ; and  in  fact  the 
two  together  are  not  longer  than  one  of  the  first ; so  remember,  that 
I have  not  made  this  division  to  double  upon  you,  but  merely  tc 
suppress  some  tediousness  in  the  aspect  of  the  thing.  I should  have 
served  you  a pretty  trick  if  I had  sent  you , for  example,  cantos  oj 
fifty  stanzas  each.” 


at  ure,  is  better  informed  or  more  candid  than  Voltaire ; and  they  certainly 

never  would  be  atde  to  discover  one  who  to  those  qualities  unites  so  much 
sagacity  and  liveliness  His  enemies  would  fain  persuade  us  that  such 
exuberance  of  wit  implies  a want  of  information  ; but  they  only  succ'e-d  in 
showing  that  a want  of  wit  by  no  means  implies  an  exuberance  of  information, 
— I.okd  Holland.] 

(3)  “ II  est  trop  vrai  que  l’honneur  me  l’ordonne, 

Que  je  vous  adorai,  que  je  vous  abandonne, 

Que  je  renonce  A vous,  que  vous  If  dfesire*. 

Que  sous  une  autre  loi  . . . Zaire  vous  plburez  ?” 

Zaire,  acte  iv.  sc.  ii. 

(4)  Pope,  in  Spence’s  Anecdotes,  p.  158.  Malone’s  edition. 

(5)  [“  Read  Campbell’s  Poets  Corrected  Tom’s  slips  of  the  pen  A good 
work,  though— style  affected-  but  his  defence  of  Pope  is  glorious.  To  be  suie, 
it  is  his  own  cause  too, — but  no  matter,  if  is  very  good,  and  does -him  gresS 
credit.”— Byron  Diary  Jan.  10,  1821.} 


APPENDIX. 


Capt.  Medwin,  p.  169. 

* I don’t  wish  to  quarrel  with  Murray,  but  it  seems  inevitable. 
I had  no  reason  to  be  pleased  with  him  the  other  day.  Galignani 
wrote  to  me,  offering  to  purchase  the  copyright  of  my  works,  in 
order  to  obtain  an  exclusive  privilege  of  printing  them  in  France. 
I might  have  made  my  own  terms,  and  put  the  money  in  my  own 
pocket ; instead  of  which,  I enclosed  Galignani’s  letter  to  Murray, 
in  order  that  he  might  conclude  the  matter  as  he  pleased.  He 
did  so,  very  advantageously  for  his  own  interest;  but  never  had 
die  complaisance,  the  common  politeness,  to  thank  me,  or  acknow- 
ledge my  letter.” 

Lord  Byron’s  Letter. 

“ Ravenna , 9bre  4,  1820. 

“ I have  received  from  Mr.  Galignani  the  enclosed  letters, 
duplicates,  and  receipts,  which  will  explain  themselves.  As  the 
peems  are  your  property  by  purchase,  right,  and  justice,  all 

WATTERS  OF  PUBLICATION,  SfC.  8fC.  ARE  FOR  YOU  TO  DECIDE 

upon.  I lenow  not  how  far  my  compliance  with  Mr.  G.’s  request 
might  be  legal,  and  I doubt  that  it  would  not  be  honest.  In  case 
you  choose  to  arrange  with  him,  I enclose  the  permits  to  you,  and 
in  so  doing  I wash  my  hands  of  the  business  altogether.  I sign 
them  merely  to  enable  you  to  exert  the  power  you  justly  possess 
more  properly.  I will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  further,  except  in 
my  answer  to  Mr.  Galignani,  to  state  that  the  letters,  $c.  fyc.  are 
sent  to  you,  and  the  causes  thereof.  If  ynu  can  check  these  foreign 
pirates,  do ; if  not,  put  the  permissive  papers  in  the  fire.  I can 
have  no  view  nor  object  whatever  but  to  secure  to  you  your 
property." 

Not* — Mr.  Murray  derived  no  advantage  from  the  proposed 
agreement,  which  was  by  no  means  of  the  importance  here 
ascribed  to  it,  and  therefore  was  never  attempted  to  be  carried 
into  effect : the  documents  alluded  to  are  still  in  his  possession. 


Capt.  Medwin,  pp.  169—171. 

“ Murray  has  long  prevented  the  * Quarterly  ’ from  abusing  me. 
Some  of  their  bullies  have  had  their  fingers  itching  to  be  at  me  ; 
but  they  would  get  the  worst  of  it  in  a set-to. 

“ Murray  and  I have  dissolved  all  connection  : he  had  the 
choice  of  giving  up  me  or  the  Navy  List.  There  was  no  hesi- 
tation which  way  he  should  decide : the  Admiralty  carried  the 
day.  Now  for  the  Quarterly:  their  batteries  will  be  opened; 
but  I can  fire  broadsides  too.  They  have  been  letting  off  lots 
of  squibs  and  crackers  against  me,  but  they  only  make  a noise 
and  * * 

“ ‘Werner’  was  the  last  book  Murray  published  for  me,  and 
three  months  after  came  out  the  Quarterly’s  article  on  my  Plays, 
when  ‘ Marino  Faliero  ’ was  noticed  for  the  first  time.” 

Lord  Byron’s  Letter. 

“ Genoa,  10 bre 25, 1822. 

“ I had  sent  you  back  the  Quarterly  without  perusal,  having 
resolved  to  read  no  more  reviews,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent ; but  who 
can  control  his  fate  T 1 Galignani,'  to  whom  my  English  studies  are 
confined,  has  forwarded  a copy  of  at  least  one  half  of  it  in  his  inde- 
fatigableweekly compilation,  and  as,  ‘ like  honour,  it  came  unlooked 
for,’  I have  looked  through  it.  I must  say  that  upon  the  whole — 
that  is,  the  whole  of  the  half  which  I have  read  ( for  the  other  half 
is  to  be  the  segment  of  Gal.’s  next  week’s  circular) — it  is  certainly 
handsome,  and  any  thing  but  unkind  or  unfair." 

Not*. — The  passage  about  the  Admiralty  is  unfounded  in  fact, 
and  no  otherwise  deserving  of  notice  than  to  mark  its  absurdity ; 
and  with  regard  to  the  “ Quarterly  Review,"  his  lordship  well 
knew  that  it  wa*  established,  and  constantly  conducted,  on 
principles  which  absolutely  excluded  Mr.  Murray  from  all  such 
Interference  and  influence  as  is  implied  in  the  “ Conversations.” 


805 

hinted  at  some  lines  in  ‘ English  Bards  ’ that  were  certainly  to  the 
point.  But  I have  altered  my  mind  considerably  upon  that  subject : 
as  I once  hinted  to  him,  I see  no  reason  why  a man  should  not 
profit  by  the  sweat  of  his  brain  as  well  as  that  of  his  brow,  &c. , 
besides,  I was  poor  at  that  time,  and  have  no  idea  of  aggrandizing 
booksellers.” 


Lord  Byron’s  Letter. 

“ January  2,  1S16. 

“ Bear  Sir, 

“ Your  offer  is  liberal  in  the  extreme,  and  much  more  than 
the  two  poems  can  possibly  be  worth — but  I cannot  accept  it,  nor 
will  not.  You  are  most  welcome  to  them,  as  additions  to  the 
collected  volumes,  without  any  demand  or  expectation  on  my  part 
whatever. 

“ BYRON. 

“ P.  S. — I have  enclosed  your  draft  TORN,  for  fear  of  accidents 
by  the  way. — I wish  you  would  not  throw  temptation  in  mine ; it 
is  not  from  a disdain  of  the  universal  idol — not  from  a present 
superfluity  of  his  treasures — I can  assure  you,  that  I refuse  tc 
worship  him— but  what  is  right  is  right,  and  must  not  yield  to 
circumstances. 

“ To  J.  Murray,  Esq." 

Note. — The  above  letter  relates  to  a draft  for  1,000  guineas, 
offered  by  Mr.  Murray  for  two  poems,  the  Siege  of  Corinth  and 
Parisina,  which  his  lordship  had  previously,  at  a short  interval, 

presented  to  Mr.  Murray  as  donations.  Lord  Byron  was 

afterwards  induced  by  Mr.  Murray’s  earnest  persuasion,  to  accept 
the  1,000  guineas,  and  Mr.  Murray  has  his  lordship's  assignment 
of  the  copyright  of  the  two  pieces  accordingly. 


Capt.  Medwin,  p.  166. 

“ Murray  pretends  to  have  lost  money  by  my  writings,  and 
pleads  poverty ; but  if  he  is  poor,  which  is  somewhat  problematical 
to  me,  pray  who  is  to  blame  ? 

“ Mr.  Murray  is  tender  of  my  fame.  How  kind  in  him  ! He  is 
afraid  of  my  writing  too  fast.  Why?  because  he  has  a tender 
regard  for  his  own  pocket,  and  does  not  like  the  look  of  any  new 
acquaintance  in  the  shape  of  a book  of  mine,  till  he  has  seen 
his  old  friends  in  a variety  of  new  faces;  id  est,  disposed  of  a 
vast  many  editions  of  the  former  works.  I don’t-  know  what 
would  become  of  me  without  Douglas  Kinnaird,  who  has  always 
been  my  best  and  kindest  friend.  It  is  not  easy  to  deal  with 
Mr.  Murray.” 

Note. — In  the  numerous  letters  received  by  Mr.  Murray  yearly 
from  Lord  Byron  (who,  in  writing  them,  was  not  accustomed  to 
restrain  the  expression  of  his  feelings),  not  one  has  any  tendency 
towards  the  imputations  here  thrown  out : the  incongruity  of  which 
will  be  evident  from  the  fact  of  Mr.  Murray  having  paid  at  various 
times,  for  the  copyright  of  his  lordship’s  poems,  sums  amounting 
to  upwards  of  15,000/.,  viz. 


Childe  Harold,  I.  II. £ 600 

Ill 1,575 

IV 2,100 

Giaour 525 

Bride  of  Abydos 525 

Corsair 525 

Lara 700 

Siege  of  Corinth 525 

Parisina 525 

Lament  of  Tasso 315 

Manfred 315 

Beppo 525 

Don  Juan,  I.  II.  . . 1,525 

III.  IV.  V 1,525 

Doge  of  Venice 1,050 

Sardanapalus,  Cain,  and  Foseari  ....  1,100 

Mazeppa 525 

Chillon 525 

Sundries 450 


£ 15,455 


Capt.  Medwin,  p.  168. 

“ Because  I gave  Mr.  Murray  one  of  my  poems,  he  wanted  to  make 
ne  believe  that  1 had  made  him  a present  of  two  others,  and 


806 


(OBD  BYRON’S  WORKS. 


Capt.  Medwin.  p.  170. 

“ My  differences  with  Murray  are  not  over.  When  he  purchased 
‘Cain,’  ‘The  Two  Foscari,’  and  ‘ Sardanapalus,’  he  sent  me  a deed, 
which  you  may  remember  witnessing.  Well ; after  its  return  to 
England  it  was  discovered  that 

******* 

******* 

But  I shall  take  no  notice  of  it.” — 

Note. — Mr.  Murray  of  course  cannot  answer  a statement 
which  he  does  not  see ; but  pledges  himself  to  disprove  any  in- 
culpation the  suppressed  passage  may  contain,  whenever  disclosed. 
He  has  written  twice  to  Captain  Medwin’s  publisher,  desiring,  as 
an  act  of  justice,  to  have  the  passage  printed  entire  in  any  new 
edition  of  the  book,  and  in  the  mean  time  to  be  favoured  with  a 
copy  of  it.  As  this  has  not  yet  been  obtained,  and  as  the  context 
seems  to  imply  that  it  accuses  him  of  endeavouring  to  take  some 
pecuniary  advantage  of  Lord  Byron,  he  thinks  that  he  shall  be 
forgiven  for  stating  the  following  circumstances. 

Mr.  Murray  having  accidentally  heard  that  Lord  Byron  was  in 
pecuniary  difficulties,  immediately  forwarded  1,6007.  to  him,  with 
an  assurance  that  another  such  sum  should  be  at  his  service  in  a 
few  months ; and  that,  if  such  assistance  should  not  be  sufficient, 
Mr.  Murray  would  be  ready  to  sell  the  copyright  of  all  his 
lordship’s  works  for  his  use. 

The  following  is  Lord  Byron’s  acknowledgment  of  this  offer  : — 

“ November  1 4th,  1815. 

*•  Dear  Sir, 

“ I return  %ou  your  bills  not  accepted,  but  certainly  not 
unhonoured.  Tour  present  offer  is  a favour  udiich  I would 
accept  from  you  if  I accepted  such  from  any  man.  Had  such  been 
my  intention,  I can  assure  you  I would  have  asked  you  fairly  and 
as  freely  as  you  would  give ; and  I cannot  say  more  of  my  con- 
fidence or  your  conduct.  The  circumstances  which  induce  me  to 
part  with  my  books,  though  sufficiently  are  not  immediately 
pressing.  I have  made  up  my  mind  to  them,  and  there  is  an  end. 
Had  I been  disposed  to  trespass  on  your  kindness  in  this  way,  it 
would  have  been  before  now ; but  I am  not  sorry  to  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  declining  it,  as  it  sets  my  opinion  of  you,  and  indeed  of 
human  nature,  in  a different  light  from  that  in  which  I have  been 
accustomed  to  consider  it. 

“ Believe  me.  very  truly, 

“ Your  obliged  and  faithful  servant, 

“ BYRON. 

“ To  John  Murray , Esq.” 

Note. — That  nothing  had  occurred  to  subvert  these  friendly 
sentiments  will  appear  from  the  three  letters  subjoined,  the 
second  of  them  written  by  Lord  Byron  a few  weeks  before  his 
death,  and  the  last  addressed  by  his  lordship’s  valet  to  Mr.  Murray 
as  one  of  his  deceased  master’s  most  confidential  friends. 


Lord  Byron’s  Letters. 

“ May  Sth.  1819. 

“ 1 have  a great  respect  for  your  good  and  gentlemanly 
qxo,lities,  and  return  your  personal  friendship  towards  me. 
»***»*.  You  deserve  and  possess  the  esteem  of  those  whose 
esteem  is  worth  having , and  of  none  more  ( however  useless  it  may 
be)  than 

Yours,  very  truly, 

•‘BYRON” 

“ Missolonghi,  Feb.  25,  1824. 

“ I have  heard  from  Mr.  Douglas  Kinnaird  that  you  state 
a report  of  a satire  on  Mr.  Oifford  having  arrived  from  Italy,  said 
to  be  written  by  me,  but  that  you  do  not  believe  it ; I dare  say  you 
do  not , nor  any  body  else,  I should  think.  Whoever  asserts  that 
I am  the  author  or  abettor  of  any  thing  of  the  kind  or.  Gifford,  lies 
in  his  throat ; I always  regarded  him  as  my  literary  father,  and 
myself  as  his  prodigal  son.  If  any  such  composition  exists,  it  is 
none  of  mine.  You  know,  as  well  as  any  body,  upon  whom  I have 
or  have  not  written,  and  you  also  know  whether  they  do  or  did  not 
deserve  the  same — and  so  much  for  such  matters. 

“ You  will,  perhaps,  be  anxious  to  hear  some  news  from  this 
part  of  Greece  ( which  is  most  liable  to  invasion),  but  you  will  hear 
enough  through  public  and  private  channels,  on  that  head.  I will, 


however,  give  you  the  events  of  a week,  mingling  my  sum  private 
peculiar  with  the  public,  for  we  are  here  jumbled  a tittle  together 
at  present. 

“ On  Sunday  ( the  \bth,  I believe),  I had  a strong  and  sudden 
convulsive  attack  which  left  me  speechless,  though  not  motionless, 
for  some  strong  men  could  not  hold  me ; but  whether  it  was  epilepsy, 
catalepsy,  cachexy,  apoplexy,  or  what  other  exy  or  epsy,  the  doctors 
have  not  decided,  or  whether  it  was  spasmodic  or  nervous,  fyc.,  but  \t 
was  very  unpleasant,  and  nearly  carried  me  off,  and  all  that 
On  Monday  they  put  leeches  to  my  temples,  no  difficult  matter,  but 
the  blood  could  not  be  stopped  till  eleven  at  night  ( they  had  gone 
too  near  the  temporal  artery  for  my  temporal  safety),  and  neither 
stypic  nor  caustic  would  cauterize  the  orifice  till  after  a hundred 
attempts. 

“ On  Tuesday,  a Turkish  brig  of  war  ran  on  shore.  On  Wed- 
nesday, great  preparations  being  made  to  attack  her,  though 
protected  by  her  consorts,  the  Turks  burned  her,  and  retired  to 
Patras.  On  Thursday,  a quarrel  ensued  between  the  Suliotes  and 
the  Frank  guard  at  the  arsenal ; a Swedish  officer  was  killed,  and 
a Suliote  severely  wounded,  and  a general  fight  expected,  and  with 
some  difficulty  prevented.  On  Friday,  the  officer  buried,  and 
Captain  Parry’s  English  artificers  mutinied,  under  pretence  that 
their  lives  were  in  danger,  and  are  for  quilting  the  country — they 
may.  On  Saturday,  we  had  the  smartest  shock  of  an  earthquake 
which  I remember  ( and  I have  felt  thirty,  slight  or  smart,  at 
different  periods  ; they  are  common  in  the  Mediterranean),  and  the 
whole  army  discharged  their  arms,  upon  the  same  principle  that 
savages  beat  drums  or  howl,  during  an  eclipse  of  the  moon  : it  wan 
a rare  scene  altogether.  If  you  had  but  seen  the  English  Johnnies, 
who  had  never  been  out  of  a Cockney  workshop  before,  nor  will 
again  if  they  can  help  it!  And  on  Sunday  we  heard  that  the 
Vizier  is  come  down  to  Larissa  with  one  hundred  and  odd  thousand 
men. 

“ In  coming  here  I had  two  escapes,  from  the  Turks  ( one  of  my 
vessels  was  taken,  but  afterwards  released),  and  the  other  from 
shipwreck ; we  drove  twice  on  the  rocks  near  the  Scrophes  (islands 
near  the  coast). 

“ I have  obtained  from  the  Greeks  the  release  of  eight  and  twenty 
Turkish  prisoners,  men,  women,  and  children,  and  sent  them  to 
Patras  and  Prevesa  at  my  own  charges.  One  little  girl  of  nine 
years  old,  who  proposes  remaining  with  me,  I shall  (if  I live)  send 
with  her  mother,  probably,  to  Italy,  or  to  England,  and  adopt  her. 
Her  name  is  Hato  Halagee  ; she  is  a very  pretty  lively  child.  All 
her  brothers  were  killed  by  the  Greeks,  and  she  herself  and  her 
mother  were  spared  by  special  favour,  and  owing  to  her  extreme 
youth,  she  being  then  but  five  or  six  years  old. 

“ My  health  is  rather  better,  and  I can  ride  about  again.  My 
office  here  is  no  sinecure — so  many  parties  and  difficulties  of  every 
kind;  but  I will  do  what  I can.  Prince  Mavrocordati  is  an 
excellent  person,  and  does  all  in  his  power ; but  his  situation 
is  perplexing  in  the  extreme : still  we  have  great  hopes  of  the 
success  of  the  contest.  You  will  hear,  however,  more  of  public 
news  from  plenty  of  quarters , for  I have  little  time  to  write. 
Believe  me, 

• “ Yours,  S[c.  8fc. 

“ N.  B. 

“ To  John  Murray,  Esq.” 


Letter  of  Lord  Byron’s  Valet. 

“ Missolonghi,  April  21,  1824. 

“ Sir, 

“ Forgive  me  for  this  intrusion  which  I now  am  under  the  \ 
painful  necessity  of  writing  to  you,  to  inform  you  of  the  melancholy  • 
news  of  my  Lord  Byron,  who  is  no  more.  He  departed  this  j 
miserable  life  on  the  197A  of  April,  after  an  illness  of  only  ten 
days.  His  lordship  began  by  a nervous  fever,  and  terminated  with 
an  inflammation  on  the  brain,  for  want  of  being  bled  in  time,  ( 
which  his  lordship  refused  till  it  was  too  late.  I have  sent  the 
Hon.  Mrs.  Leigh’s  letter  inclosed  in  yours,  which  I think  would 
be  better  for  you  to  open  and  explain  to  Mrs.  Leigh,  for  I fear  thi 
contents  of  the  letter  will  be  too  much  for  her.  And  you  will 
please  to  inform  Lady  Byron  and  the  Honourable  Miss  Byron, 
whom  1 am  wished  to  see  when  I return  with  my  lord’s  effects,  and 
his  dear  and  noble  remains : Sir,  you  will  please  manage  in  ths 
mildest  way  possible,  or  I am  much  afraid  of  the  consequences. 


APPENDIX. 


S07 


Sir,  you  wilt,  please  give  my  duty  to  Lady  Byron ; hoping  she  will 
allow  me  to  see  her,  by  my  tord's  particular  wish,  and  Miss  Byron 
likewise.  Please  to  excuse  all  defects,  for  I scarcely  know  what  I 
either  say  or  do,  for  after  twenty  years’  service  with  my  lord,  he 
wis  more  to  me  than  a father , and  I am  too  much  distressed  to 
no*,  give  a correct  account  of  every  particular . which  I hope  to  do 
at  my  a~rival  in  England. — Sir,  you  will  likewise  have  the 
goodness  t.  forward  the  letter  to  the  Honourable  Captain  George 
Byron,  who,  as  the  representative  of  the  family  and  title,  I thought 
it  my  duty  to  send  him  a line.  But  you,  Sir,  will  please  to  explain 
to  him  all  particulars,  as  I have  not  time,  as  the  express  is  now 
ready  to  make  his  voyage  day  and  night  till  he  arrives  in  London. 
— a must.  Sir,  praying  forgiveness,  and  hoping  at  the  same  time  that 
you  will  so  far  oblige  me  as  to  execute  all  my  wishes,  which  I am 
well  convinced  you  will  not  refuse. 

“ I remain.  Sir, 

*•  Your  most  obedient  and  very  humble  servant, 
“ W.  FLETCHER, 

“ Valet  to  the  late  L.B.  for  twenty  years. 

**  P.  S. — I mention  my  name  and  capacity  that  you  may  remem- 
ber and  forgive  this,  when  you  remember  the  quantity  of  times  I 
have  been  at  your  house  in  Albemarle-street. 

“ To  John  Murray,  Esq.” 

Note  — Other  letters  from  Lord  Byron,  of  the  same  tenor  and 
force  with  these  now  produced,  might  have  been  added.  But  it 
is  presumed  that  these  are  sufficient  to  demonstrate  in  the  present 
ease,  what  has  been  demonstrated  in  many  others,  that  desultory, 


ex-parte  conversations,  even  if  accurately  reporto: . will  yften 
convey  imperfect  and  erroneous  notions  of  the  speaker’s  real 
sentiments. 

JOHN  MURRAY. 

Albemarle  Street, 

30th  Oct.  1824. 


Capt.  Medwin,  p.  170. 

“ My  differences  with  Murray  are  not  over.  When  he  purchased 
* Cain,’  ‘ The  Two  Foscari,’  and  ‘ Sardanapalus,’  he  sent  me  a deed, 
which  you  may  remember  witnessing.  Well ; after  its  return  to 
England,  it  was  discovered  that  it  contained  a clause  which  had 
been  introduced  without  my  knowledge,  a clause  by  which  I bound 
| myself  to  offer  Mr.  Murray  all  my  future  compositions.  But  I 
I shall  take  no  notice  of  it." 

Note. — The  words  in  italic  are  those  which  were  suppressed 
| in  the  two  first  editions  of  Captain  Medwin’s  book,  and  which 
Mr.  Murray  has  received  from  the  publisher  after  the  foregoing 
statement  was  printed.  He  has  only  to  observe  upon  the  subject, 
that  on  referring  to  the  deed  in  question,  no  such  clause  is  to 
be  found ; that  this  instrument  was  signed  in  London  by  the  Hon. 
Douglas  Kinnaird,  as  Lord  Byron’s  procurator,  and  witnessed 
by  Richard  Williams,  Esq.,  one  of  the  partners  in  Mr.  ^innaird’s 
banking-house;  and  that  tho  signature  of  Ccptnin  Medwin  i*  not 
affixed. 

J.  to 

2rd  -Vo®. 


INDEX 


A. 

Abelard,  173. 

Abencerrage,  529,  567. 

Aberdeen,  town  of,  705. 

Aberdeen  (George  Hamilton  Gordon), 
fourth  earl  of,  17,  428,  435. 

Abernelhy,  John,  surgeon,  707. 

Abruzzi,  484. 

Absalom  and  Achitophel,  639,  801. 
Absence,  results  of,  fi!l. 

Absent  friend,  pleasure  of  defending,  759. 
Abydos,  Bride  of.  77,  651. 

Acarnania,  24. 

Achelous,  river,  24. 

Acheron,  lake,  21. 

Acherusia,  lake,  21. 

Achilles,  his  person,  303,  741.  Tomb  of, 
648,  650. 

Achitophel,  801. 

Achmet  III.,  122. 

A eroceraunian  mountains,  50. 

Acropolis  of  Athens,  16,  712,  761. 

Actium,  20,  21.  Sea-fight  of.  21,  668. 

Ada.  See  Byron,  Augusta-Ada. 

Adams,  John,  a carrier,  who  died  of 
drunkenness,  epitaph  on,  537. 

Addison,  713.  Hisaccount  of  a remarkable 
dream,  643.  His  ‘faint  praise,’  759. 

‘ Address,  spoken  at  the  opening  of  Drury 
Lane  Theatre,’  553. 

‘Address  intended  to  be  recited  at  the 
Caledonian  Meeting,’  559. 

•Adieu,  the  ; written  under  the  impression 
that  the  author  would  soon  die,’  534. 
‘Adieu,  adieu  ! my  native  shore,’  4. 
Admiration,  629,661. 

' Adrian’s  Address  to  his  Soul  when  dying,’ 
translation  of,  379. 

Adriatic,  the,  43. 

Adversity,  723,  739. 

Advice.  606,  745. 
uEgean  sea,  101,  452. 

Aigina,  46,  101. 

iEschylus,  his  1 Prometheus,’  192.  His 
‘ Seven  before  Thebes,’  192.  Translation 
from  his  ‘ Prometheus  Vinctus,’  880. 
His  ‘ Persians’  quoted,  637. 

Aisietes,  tomb  of,  82. 
iEsop, 530. 

JEtna,  56. 

.Etoiia,  24. 

Africa  and  Africans,  described,  645- 
Agamemnon,  591. 

Age,  28,  217. 

‘ Age  of  Bronze ; or,  Carmen  Seculare  et 
Annus  haud  Mirabilis,’  526. 

Age  of  Gold,  672. 

Ages,  changes  produced  bv  the  lapse  of, 
641. 

igesilaus,  169. 

Agis,  King  of  Sparta,  230. 

Agilulf,  Duke  of  Turin,  774. 

Agliecti,  Dr.,  42,  230. 

Agostini,  Leonard,  774. 

Agrarian  law,  706. 

Ajax.  16.  Sepulchre  of,  S3,  648. 

Alamanni  231. 

Al&ric,  IS,  -)53. 


Alban  Hill,  description  of  the,  60,  783. 

Albania,  20,  762. 

Albanian  dialect  of  the  Illyric,  specimens 
of,  763. 

Albanians,  their  character  and  manners, 
22,  23,  763.  Their  resemblance  to  the 
Highlanders  of  Scotland,  762. 

Albano,  60. 

Albano,  Francesco,  732. 

Albion,  sensations  at  the  first  sight  of  her 
chalky  belt,  709. 

Albrizzi,  Countess,  230,  569. 

Albuera,  battle  of,  9,  15. 

Alcibiades,  beauty  of  his  person,  303. 
General  charm  of  his  name,  303.  His 
character,  315,  744. 

Alexander  the  Great,  his  visit  to  the  tomb 
of  Ajax,  82,  647.  His  sarcophagus,  526. 
His  chastity,  625,  655.  His  reply  to 
Parmenio  after  the  battle  of  Issus,  803. 

Alexander,  Emperor  of  Russia,  531,  675, 
742. 

Alexander  III.,  submission  of  Barbarossa 
to,  770. 

Alfieri,  Vittorio,  his  life  quoted,  42.  His 
tomb  in  the  church  of  Santa  Croce,  48. 
His  memory  dear  to  the  Italians.  775. 

Alfonso  III.,  45,  46,  107,  478,  479.  His 
wife  Isabella,  107. 

Algiers,  601,  775. 

Alhama,  567. 

Ali  Pacha  of  Yanina,  portrait  of,  21,  23. 
His  letter  in  Latin  to  Lord  Byron,  23. 
His  assassination,  23.  His  murder  of 
Giaffar,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  84.  The 
original  of  Lambro,  644. 

‘ All  is  vanity,  saith  the  Preacher,’  465. 

Alla  Hul  7C,  685. 

Allegra  (Lord  Byron’s  natural  daughter), 
418. 

Alliance,  the  Holy,  530,  668. 

Alphaeus,  river,  22. 

Alpinula,  Julia,  her  death,  35.  Her  af- 
fecting epitaph,  35.  n. 

Alps,  the,  35,  50. 

Alterkirchen,  34. 

Alypius,  782. 

Amber,  susceptible  of  a perfume,  82. 

Ambition,  32,  33,  52,  188,  304,  702. 

Ambracian  Gulf,  Stanzas  written  in  passing 
the,  545.  Reflections  on  the  past  and 
present  state  of,  21. 

Ambrosian  library  at  Milan,  772. 

America,  52,  480,  746. 

‘ Amide  est  l’Amour  sans  Ailes,’  412. 

Amulets,  the  belief  in,  universal  in  the 
East,  83. 

Anacreon,  his  ‘ ©eXw  Xe-yen/  Arpe<<3ar’  trans- 
lated, 380.  His  Metrovuintais  no6’  oofjaa 
translated,  380.  His  morals  worse  than 
those  of  Ovid,  595. 

Anastasius  Macedon,  789. 

Anastasius,  Hope’s,  437. 

Ancestry,  675. 

‘ And  wilt  thou  weep  when  I am  low?’  541. 

‘ And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair,’  551. 

‘ And  thou  wert  sad !’  471. 

Andalusian  nobleman,  adventures  of,  594. 

Andernach,  34 


Andrews,  Bishcp.  a punster,  4?9. 

Andrews,  Miles  Peter,  esq.,  his  pro.ogus* 
431.  Some  account  of,  431.  n. 
Andromache,  534. 

Anent,  715. 

Angelo,  Michael,  his  tomb  in  the  church  of 
Santa  Croce,  48.  His  statue  of  Moses, 
502.  His  Last  Judgment,  502.  His  copy 
of  Dante,  502.  Treatment  of,  by  Julius 
II.,  298.  Neglect  of,  by  Leo  X.,  502. 
Anecdote  of,  803. 

Angelo,  St.,  Castle  of,  58,  313. 

Angiolini,  dancer.  430. 

Anger,  65,  97,  607. 

Angling,  * the  crudest  and  stupidest  of 
sports,’  735. 

Anne,  Lines  to,  533. 

Annesley,  hill  near,  474. 

Annuitants,  alleged  longevity  of,  616. 
Anstey’s  Bath  Guide,  755,  804. 

Anteros,  182. 

Anthony,  St.,  his  recipe  for  hot  blood,  597. 
Antigonus,  803. 

Anti-Jacobin,  513. 

Antilochus,  tomb  of,  82,  648. 

Antinous,  his  heroic  death.  16. 

Antoninus  Pius,  781. 

Antony,  21.  His  person  described  303. 

The  slave  of  love,  628,  668. 

Apelles,  502. 

Apennines,  50,  498. 

Apicius,  538. 

Apollo,  641. 

Apollo  Belvidere,  59. 

Appearances,  ‘ the  joint  on  which  good 
society  hinges,’  733., 

Appetite,  657. 

Applause,  popular,  636. 

Arabs,  life  of  the,  86. 

Ararat,  Mount,  232. 

Arcadia,  764. 

Arcliidamus,  169. 

Archimedes,  742. 

Archipelago,  36,  172. 

Ardennes,  forest  of,  31. 

Aretino,  Pietro,  777. 

Aretino,  Leonardo,  498. 

Argos,  120. 

Argus,  Ulysses’  dog,  631. 

Argyle  Institution,  430. 

Argyro- Castro,  84. 

Ariosto,  his  portrait  by  Titian,  146.  Hia 
bust,  46,  773.  Contrasted  with  Tasso, 
501.  His  person  respected  by  the  public 
robber,  800. 

Aristides,  802. 

Aristippus,  628. 

Aristophanes,  625. 

Aristotle,  601,  745. 

Arithmetic,  poets  of,  759. 

1 Armageddon,'  Townshend’s,  440. 

Army,  685. 

Army  tailor.  70. 

Arnaouts,  cr  Aibanese,  762.  Their  reseaa 
blance  to  the  Highlanders  of  Scotian* 
762. 

Arno,  river,  47,  704. 

Arquci,  45,  774. 

‘ Art  of  Happiness,’  Horace’s  729. 

5 i. 


810 


INDEX, 


A spirit  f ass’i  before  me,’  407. 

As  o’er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone,’  544. 
Asdrubal,  165. 

Askalov,  378. 

Asplialtes.  '.ike,  32. 

Asturias,  8. 

‘ Atalantis,’  Account  of  Mrs.  Manley's,  7 18. 
Athanasian  creed,  0 70. 

1 Atheista  Fulminato,’  the  old  religious 
play  of,  590,  591. 

Athenaeus,  625. 

Athenians,  character  of  the,  764. 

Athens,  apostrophe  to,  16.  Reflections  on 
the  past  and  present  condition  of,  16. 
I,£s  situation  and  climate,  16,  763.  On 
the  plunder  of  the  works  of  art  at,  17. 
Athens,  Maid  of,  546. 

Atbos,  Mount,  19,  56.  Project  for  hewing 
it  into  a statue  of  Alexander,  726. 

Atlas,  50 
‘ Attic  Bee,’  754. 

Atticus,  451. 

Attila,  his  harangue  to  his  army  previous 
to  the  battle  of  Chalons,  459. 

Augury,  642. 

•"Augusta,  Stanzas  to,’  469.  ‘ Epistle  to,’ 
469. 

Augustin,  St.,  his  confessions,  53S,  751. 
Augustus  Caesar,  461,  782. 

Auld  lang  syne,  707. 

Aurora  Borealis,  517..  ‘ Don  Juan,’  a ver- 
sified, 677. 

Austerlitz,  battle  of,  457. 

Authors,  151,  422,  657. 

Autocrat,  699. 

Autumn,  an  English,  described,  732. 
Avarice,  ‘ a good  old  gentlemanly  vice,’ 
609,  Panegyric  on,  7,  19. 

Ave  Maria ! 639. 

Avenches,  35. 

Aventicum,  35. 

Avignon,  772. 

• Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  woe,’  550. 

* Away,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of 

roses  !’  401. 

A vear  ago  you  swore,’  &c.  564. 


B. 


Babel,  tower  of,  658. 

Babylon,  ruins  of,  658. 

Bacchus,  625,  758.  Tempie  of,  781. 

Back-woodsmen,  Kentuckian,  690. 

Bacon,  Friar,  his  brazen  head,  610.  The 
discoverer  of  gunpowder,  687. 

Bacon,  I.ord,  638,  744.  Essay  on  Empire, 
665.  Inaccuracies  in  his  Apophthegms, 
803.  Saying  of,  736. 

Baillie,  Joanna,  196.  Her  ‘ Family  Legend,’ 
496. 

Baillie,  Dr.  Matthew,  707.  His  visit  to 
Lord  Byron,  593.  Remarkable  for 
plainness  of  speech,  707. 

Balgownie,  brig  of,  705. 

Baltic,  454. 

Bandusian  Fountain,  783. 

Banks,  Sir  Joseph,  2. 

Bankes,  William,  esq.  629. 

Banshie,  superstition  of  the,  754. 

Barbarossa,  Frederic,  his  submission  to 
Pope  Alexander  the  Third,  43,  770. 

Barings,  the,  719 

3arnave,  Pierre- Joseph,  591. 

Barometer,  marine,  its  great  value.  651. 

Barossa,  battle  of,  454. 

Barrataria,  account  of  *he  buccaneer  es- 
tablishment at,  107. 

Barrey,  Ludovick,  457. 

Barrow,  Dr.  Isaac,  his  sermons,  625. 

Barrow,  Sir  John,  his  ‘Life  of  Peter  the 
Great,’  161.  His  ‘Eventful  History  of 
the  Mutiny  of  the  Bounty,’  161.  His  tes- 
timony to  the  accuracy  of  Lord  Byron’s 
description  of  a shipwreck,  615.  His  ac- 
count of  the  eyanometer,  65 1 . And  of  the 
marine  barometer,  651. 

Barthelimi,  M.,  766. 

Basili,  Lord  Byron  s Athenian  servant,  762. 

Bashfulness,  79. 

Bath  Guide,  Anstey’s,  756,  804. 

Bathurst,  Captain,  545. 

Battle,  30,  98,  127,  128,  684.  385. 


Baviad  and  Mseviad,  extinguishment  of  the 
Della  Cruscans  by  the.  432. 

Baxter,  Richard,  443.  His  Shove,  443. 

Bay  of  Biscay,  5. 

Bayard,  Chevalier,  311. 

Bayes,  his  expedient,  415. 

Beatrice  of  Dante,  497,  630. 

Beattie,  Dr.,  his  reflections  on  dreams,  643. 

Beauharnais,  Eugene,  his  testimony  to  the 
correctness  of  Lord  Byron’s  delineation 
of  Napoleon  Buonaparte,  591. 

Beaumont,  Sir  George,  510,  800. 

Beauty,  10,  67,  68,  78,  79,  597,  635,  727, 
747. 

Becher,  Rev.  John,  •'  Answer  to  hi,  com- 
plaint that  one  of  Lord  Byron’s  descrip- 
tions was  rather  too  warmly  drawn,’  402. 
‘ Lines  addressed  to,  on  bis  advising 
Lord  Byron  to  mix  more  with  society,’ 
410. 

Becket,  Thomas  a,  his  tomb,  in  Canterbury 
Cathedral.  710. 

Becktord,  William,  esq.,  his  residence  at 
Cintra,  described,  6.  Character  of  his 
‘ Vathek,’  6.  Some  account  of,  6. 

Bed  of  Ware,  669. 

Bedlam,  7 i 4. 

Beggar’s  Opera,  Gay’s,  443,  473. 

Behmen,  Jacob,  his  reveries,  668. 

Belisarius,  784.  ‘ A hero,  conqueror,  and 

cuckold,  628. 

Belshazzar,  vision  of,  465,  635. 

Belshazzar,  lines  to,  560. 

Benbow,  William,  317. 

Bender,  obstinacy  of  Charles  XII.  at,  694. 

Bentley,  Dr.  Richard,  397. 

Benzoni,  Countess,  230. 

Benzoni,  Vittor,  230. 

‘ Beppo,  a Venetian  Story,’  142. 

Beranger,  M.,  697. 

Bergami,  Princess  of  Wales’s  courier  and 
chamberlain,  658. 

Berkeley,  Bishop,  his  scepticism  concern- 
ing the  existence  of  matter,  711. 

Berlin,  528,  709. 

Bernard,  St.,  monks  of,  768. 

Bernese  Alps,  36. 

Berni,  the  father  of  the  Beppo  style  of 
writing,  143,  481. 

Bernis,  Abbe  de,  195. 

Bertram,  Mathurin’s  tragedy  of,  196. 

Bettv,  William  Henry  West,  (the  young 
Roscius,)  429. 

Bigamy,  691:. 

Bigotry,  6,  174. 

Bile,  energetic,  described,  664. 

Biscay,  Bay  of,  5. 

Birds,  belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  in- 
habit the  forms  of,  89. 

Biren,  John  Ernest,  Duke  of  Courland, 
709, 

Black  Friar  of  Newstead  Abbey,  7 53,  754. 

Blackburn,  Archbishop,  107. 

Blackett,  Joseph,  the  poetical  cobbler,  150. 
432,  548. 

Blackmore,  Sir  Richard,  424. 

Blackwood’s  Magazine,  its  Remarks  on  Don 
Juan,  582,  583.  ‘Some  Observations 
upon  its  Remarks  on  Don  Juan,’  796. 

Critical  notes  from,  passim. 

Blair,  Dr.,  his  Sermons,  625. 

Blake,  fashionable  tonsor,  445. 

Bland,  Rev.  Robert,  nis  ‘ Collections  from 
the  Greek  Anthology,  433,  802. 

Blank-verse,  excellence  of  rhyme  over,  in 
English  poetry,  438,  608,  801. 

Blasphemy,  and  blasphemers,  667,  734. 

Blatant  Beast.  7. 

Blessington,  Countess  or,  Impromptu  on 
her  taking  a villa  called.  ‘ 11  Paradiso,’ 
578.  Lines  written  at  the  request  of,  578. 

Bligh,  Captain,  his  Narrative  of  the  Mutiny 
of  the  Bounty,  161. 

Blood  ‘ only  serves  to  wash  ambition’s 
hands,’  702. 

Bloomfield,  Robert,  432,  449. 

Bloomfield,  Nathaniel,  432,  449. 

Bluclier,  Marshal,  689. 

Blue,  instrument  for  measuring  the  intensity 
of.  651. 

Blue  Devils,  743.  ' 

Blue-Stocking,  149,  507. 

‘ Blue-Stocking  Club,'  origin  of,  506. 

‘ Blues,  The  ; a Literary  Eclogue,’  506. 

Blues.  149,  151,  506,  651,  715. 

Boabdil,  596. 


* Boatswain,’  Lord  Byron’s  favourite  don 

540.  ‘ Inscription  on  his  monument, 

540. 

Boccaccio,  treatment  of  his  ashes,  45 
Defence  of,  776. 

Boeotia,  12,  763. 

Boehm,  Mrs.,  149. 

Boileau,  his  depreciation  of  Tasso,  46,  773 

Bolero,  738. 

Boleyn,  Anne,  her  remark  on  the  scaffold 

100. 

Bolingbroke,  Lord,  hires  Mallet  to  traduce 
Pope,  420,  426. 

Bolivar,  Simon,  529. 

Bonn,  7ii9. 

Bonne  fortune,  740. 

Bonnivard,  Francois  de,  account  of,  138. 

Booby,  Lady,  663. 

Boon,  Daniel,  the  Kentuckian  back- 
woodsman, 690. 

Bores,  734. 

‘ Born  in  a garret,  in  the  kitchen  bred, 
468. 

Borysthenes,  the,  155. 

Bosean,  Almogav&,  599. 

Bosphorus,  the,  653. 

Bosquet  de  Julie,  38. 

Boswell,  James,  esq.,  451. 

Botany  Bay,  638. 

Bourbon,  Duke  of,  Constable  of  France, 
308,  311,  312,  499. 

Bouts-rimes,  755. 

Bowies,  E.ev.  William  Lisle,  ‘ The  mauuiin 
prince  of  mournful  sonneteers,’  426. 
His  ‘ Spirit  of  Discovery,’  426.  ‘ Lines 

on  his  edition  of  Pope,’  426. 

Boxing,  448. 

Braemar,  401. 

Braliam,  John,  singer,  462. 

Brandy  for  heroes  1 162. 

Brasidas,  16. 

Brass,  Corinthian,  674. 

Brave,  picture  of  the  truly,  693. 

Bread  fruit,  164. 

Brennus,  499. 

Brenta,  45. 

Brewster,  Sir  David,  his  ‘ Natural  Magic, 
302,  His  ‘ Life  of  Newton,’  677,  704. 
His  description  of  Bishop  Berkeley's 
theory,  711. 

Briareus,  670. 

‘ Bride  of  Abvdos,’  77,  651. 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  42,  768. 

‘ Brig  of  Balgownie,’  705. 

‘ Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul !’  53t 

Brighton,  Pavilion  at,  742. 

Brissot  de  Warvilie,  591. 

Bristol,  427. 

‘ British  Critic,’  581,  795. 

Bri  ish  Review,  the  ‘ Old  Girl’s  Review, 
508.  ‘ My  Grandmother’s  Review,’  581. 

609.  Lord  Byron’s  ‘ Letter  to  the  editor 

• of,’  794. 

Brocken,  superstition  of  the,  302.  , 

Bronze  wolf  of  Rome,  51,  780. 

Brougham,  Henry, esq  (now  Lord  Brough- 
am and  Vaux),  418,  428. 

Broughton,  the  regicide,  his  monument  at 
Vevay,  38. 

Brown,  Dr.  Thomas,  his  ParadUe  of 
Coquettes,  802. 

Browne,  Sir  TLemas,  his  : Religio  Medici, 
79.  His  encomium  on  sleep,  643. 

Bruce,  Abyssinian,  his  description  of  6 
simoom,  65. 

Brummell,  William,  150,  718. 

Brunck,  Professor,  397. 

Brunswick,  Duke  of,  his  death  at  Quatre- 
Bras,  30. 

Brussels,  30. 

Brutus,  747. 

Bryant,  Jacob,  on  the  existence  of  Troy, 
648. 

Brydges,  Sir  Egerton,  his  ‘ Letters  on  the 
Character  and  Poetical  Genius  of  Byron, 
587.  Critical  notes  by,  passim. 

Bucentaur,  43. 

Budgell,  Eustace;  his  ‘ leap  into  the 
Thames,’  451. 

Bull  fight,  description  of  a;  12,  13,  782. 

Buonaparte,  Jacopo,  his  ‘ Sacco  di  Roma, 
313,  499. 

Buonaparte,  Lucien,  his  ‘ Charlemagne, 
435. 

Buonaparte,  Napoleon,  459,  .526,  562,  698, 
742.  ‘ The  Triptolemus  of  the  British 


INDEX. 


811 


former,  .132.  His  exclarriation  on  the 
loss  of  his  old  guard,  709.  His  char- 
acter, 32,  591.  ‘ Ope’  to.  459.  ‘ Lines, 

on  hi*  escape  from  Elba,’  561. 

tJurdett,  Sir  Francis,  his  style  of  eloquence, 
521. 

Burgage  tenures  and  tithes,  ‘ discord’s 
torches,’  756. 

Burgess,  Sir  James  Bland,  his  epic  of 
‘ Richard  the  First’  sold  to  line  trunks, 

44s,  800. 

Burgoyne,  General,  590. 

Burke,  Edmund,  2,  162. 

Burlesque,  641. 

Burney, Dr.,  his  character  of  Jewish  music, 
462. 

Burns,  Robert,  ‘ What  w ould  he  have  been, 
if  apartrician?’ 432.  His  youthful  pranks, 
638. 

Burun,  Ralph  de,  378. 

Busby,  Thomas,  Mus.  Doct.,his  monologue 
on  the  opening  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
456.  Parody  on  his  monologue,  554. 

Bute,  Lord,  521. 

Butler,  Dr.  (head  master  at  Harrow),  383. 
405,  406.  * Lines  on  his  being  appointed 

head-master  at  Harrow,’  383. 

* By  the  rivers  of  Babylon,’  466. 

Byng,  Admiral,  his  court-martial,  7. 

Byron,  Sir  John,  the  Little,  with  the  great 
beard,  378. 

Byron,  two  of  the  family  of,  at  the  siege 
of  Calais,  and  battle  of  Cressy,  378. 

Byron,  Sir  John,  created  il643)  Baron 
Byron  of  Rochdale ; some  account  of, 
378. 

Byron,  Sir  Nicholas,  his  character  by 
Lord  Clarendon,  378. 

Byron,  Sir  Richard,  tribute  to  his  valour 
and  fidelity,  378. 

Byron,  Admiral  John  (grandfather  of  the 
Poet),  his  proverbial  ill  luck  at  sea,  470. 
His  shipwreck  and  sufferings,  61 7.  ‘ My 

grand-dad’s  Narrative,’  623. 

Byron,  William,  fifth  Lord  (grand-uncle 
of  the  Poet),  404. 

Byron,  Captain  John  (father  of  the  Poet), 
407. 

Byron,  Mrs  (mother  of  the  Poet),  300. 

Byron,  Honourable  Augusta  (sister  of  the 
Poet).  See  Leigh,  Honourable  Augusta. 

Byron,  Lady,  432,  467,  471,  574,  592,  630. 
797.  ' Lines  on  hearing  that  she  was 

ill,’  471.  Lines  on  reading  in  the  news- 
papers that  she  had  been  patroness  of  a 
charity  ball,’  574. 

Byron,  Honourable  Augusta  Ada  (daugh- 
ter of  the  Poet),  28,  41,  468. 

Byzantium,  43 


C. 

Cabot,  Sebastian,  500. 

Cadiz,  11,592,611. 

* Cadiz,  The  Girl  of,’  14. 

Caesar,  Augustus,  his  character,  461. 

Caesar,  Julius.  52,  307.  His  character, 
687,  781.  His  laurel  wreath,  56,  307. 
‘ The  suitor  of  love,’  167,  628. 

‘ Cain,  a Mystery,’  316. 

Cairn  Gorme,  700. 

Calderon,  592. 

‘Caledonian  Meeting.  Address  intended  to 
be  recited  at,’  559. 

Calenture,  288,  755. 

Caligula,  122.  His  wish,  679. 

Calm  at  Sea,  110,  626. 

‘ Cai.mar  and  Orla,  Death  of,’  411. 

Calpe,  18. 

Calvin.  443. 

Calypso,  isles  of,  19. 

Cambridge  University,  397,  435,  437. 

Cambyses,  528. 

Camilla,  738. 

Camoens,  425.  ‘Stanzas  to  a lady,  with 
the  poems  of,’  382. 

Campbell,  Thomas,  esq.,  432.  His  ‘ Plea- 
sures of  Hope,’  432.  Inadvertencies  in 
his  ‘ Lives  of  the  Poets,’  804.  His  ‘ Ger- 
trude of  Wyoming,’  44*  Critical  notes 
by,  passim. 

Can  Grande,  530. 

Candla.  43.  620. 

Cannae,  battle  of,  35 


Canning,  Right  Hon.  George,  his  opinion 
of  the  ‘ Bride  of  Abydos  ’ 86.  His  in- 
scription for  Mrs.  Brownrigg,  the  ‘ Pren- 
tieide,’514.  His  defence  of  publicscliools 
and  universities,  596.  His  character, 
532,  6. >7. 

Canova,  48,  230.  ‘ Lines  on  his  bust  of 

Helen.’  569. 

Cant,  ‘ The  crying  sin  of  the  times,’  667. 

Cantamir,  Demetrius,  his  history  of  the 
Ottoman  Empire,  665,  670. 

Canterbury  cathedral,  710. 

Capitol,  the,  780. 

Capitoline  Hill,  47. 

Capo  d’l stria,  194. 

Capo  d’lstrias,  Count,  533. 

Capo  di  Bove,  52. 

Capuchin  Convent  at  Athens,  436,  452. 

Caracalla,  782. 

Caractacus,  731,  765. 

Caravaggio,  732. 

Carbonari,  531. 

Care,  707. 

Carlile,  Richard,  668. 

Carlisle  (Frederick  Howard),  fiftn  Earl  of, 
431,  434.  Character  of  his  poems.  376. 
Dedication  of  ‘ Hours  of  Idleness’  to, 
375. 

Carlisle  (Isabella  Byron),  Countess  of,  375. 

Carlo  Dolce.  243,  732. 

Carnage,  685,  692. 

Carnival,  145,  570 

‘ Caroline,  Lines  to,’  381,  382. 

Caroline,  Queen  of  England,  575,  658,  670, 
718. 

Carr,  Sir  John,  14,  390,  435. 

Carrer,  lmprovvisatore,  230. 

Carthage,  690. 

Carv,  Rev.  Henry  Francis,  his  translation 
of  Dante,  497,  498,  504,  505. 

Carysfort  (John  Joshua  Proby),  first  Earl 
of,  his  ‘ Poems  and  Tragedies,’  450. 

Cash,  potency  of,  720. 

Casimir,  John,  King  of  Poland,  154. 

Castalian  dews,  3,  764. 

Castelnau,  his  ‘ Histoire  de  la  Nouvelle 
Russie,’  666. 

Castlereagh,  Viscount  (Robert  Stewart, 
Marquis  of  Londonderry),  532,  575,  589, 
701,  709.  ‘Epigrams  on,’ 575.  ‘ Epi- 

taph on,’  575. 

Castri,  village  of,  3. 

Catalani,  Madame,  430. 

Catharine  I.  of  Russia,  531. 

Catharine  II.  of  Russia,  675,  701,  707,  708. 

Cathay,  720. 

Catiline,  676. 

Cato,  lends  his  wife  to  Hortensius,  668. 

Catullus,  the  scholar  of  ‘Love,’  628.  His 
‘ Ad  Lesbiam,’  translated,  379.  His 
‘Lugete.  Veneres,  Cupidinesque,’  trans- 
lated, 379. 

Caucasus,  Mount,  435. 

Cavalier  Servente,  148,  701. 

Cecilia  Metella,  tomb  of,  52. 

Cecrops,  453. 

Cellini,  Benvenuto,  312. 

Centlivre,  Mrs.,  character  of  her  comedies, 
194.  Drove  Congreve  from  the  stage, 
194. 

Cephalonia,  20. 

Cephisus,  river  of,  101,  452. 

Ceres,  720 

Certosa  cemetery,  378. 

Cervantes,  677.  Character  of  his  ‘ Don 
Quixote,’  727. 

Chseronea,  31. 

Chalons,  battle  of,  459. 

Chamouni,  36. 

Chandler,  Dr.,  18,  764. 

Change,  718. 

Chantrey,  Francis,  R.  A.,  610. 

* Charity  Ball,  Lines  on  reading  that  Lady 
Byron  was  patroness  of  a,’  574. 

Charlemagne,  533. 

Charlemont,  Mrs.,  468. 

Charles  I.,  231,  731. 

Charles  V.  of  Spain,  460 

Charles  XII.  of  Sweden,  his  obstinacy  at 
Bender,  694. 

Charlotte,  Princess  of  Wales,  Lines  to, 
553.  Reflections  on  her  death.  5 If. 

‘ Stanzas  on  her  death,’  59. 

Charlotte,  Queen,  576. 

Chase,  the  English,  733. 

Chateaubriand,  Viscount,  53?. 


Chatham,  first  Earl  of,  726. 

Chatterton.  Thomas,  726. 

Chaucer,  444. 

Chaworth,  Mary  Anne  (afterwards  Mrs. 
Musters),  384  ‘Fragment  wiitte* 
shortly  after  her  marriage.  :-*K4.  ‘Stan 
zas  to,  Oh  ! had  my  fate,’  4ia.  ‘Fare- 
well to,’  536.  ‘ Stanzas  to,  on  tho 

author’s  leaving  England,’  542. 

Cheltenham,  166. 

Cheops,  King,  his  pyramid,  610. 

Chesterfield,  Earl  of,  his  speech  on  tha 
play-house  bill,  443:  His  remark  on 

hunting.  138. 

‘ Childe  Harold’s  Pilgrimage,’  1. 

Childe  Buron,  3. 

‘ Childish  Recollections,’  404. 

Children,  333,  334,  634. 

‘ Chill  and  mirk  is  the  nightly  blast,’  544. 

* Chillon,  Prisoner  of.’  138. 

Chillon,  Sonnet  on,  138. 

Chimari,  50. 

Chimariot  Mountains,  21. 

Chioza,  war  of,  771. 

Chivalry,  2,  641. 

Christ.  ‘ Pure  Creed  of,  made  sanction  ol 
all  ill,’  7a4. 

Christabel,  126,  467. 

Christianity,  744. 

Chrysostom.  St.,  596. 

Churches,  658. 

‘ Churchill’s  Grave,’  565. 

Cicero,  a punster,  438. 

Cicesbeo,  148. 

Cid.  528,  530. 

Cigars,  168. 

Cincinnatus,  53  ’. 

Cintra,  6.  Convention  of,  7. 

Circassians,  671. 

Circus  at  Rome,  56.  Maximus,  782. 

Citliaeron,  Mount,  763. 

Cities,  overthrow  of  great,  690. 

Civilisation,  690. 

Clare  (John,  Fitzgibbon),  E&rl  of,  406. 

‘ Lin  es  on,’  406.  * Stanzas  to,’  413. 

Clarens,  39,  767. 

Clarke,  Dr.  Edward  Daniel,  17,  27,  648, 

650. 

Clarke,  Hewson,  434,  436.  | 

Classics,  too  early  study  of,  50. 

Claudian,  his  ‘ Old  Man  of  Verona.’  530 
Cleonice,  and  Pausanias,  story  of,  183. 
Cleopatra,  748. 

Clergy,  736. 

Clitumnus,  the  river,  49.  Temple  of,  49. 
Clootz,  Anacharsis,  5 91. 

Clytemnestre,  703. 

Cobbett,  '\yilliam,  7,  667.  ‘ Epigram  on 

his  digging  up  Tom  Paine’s  bor.es,’  574. 
Coblentz,  34. 

Cocker,  759. 

Cogniac,  apostrophized,  645. 

Cohen,  Mr.  Francis  (now  Sir  FrancU 
Palgrave),  784. 

Colchis,  634. 

Coleridge, Samuel  Taylor,  esq.,  424,  5 88, 59 1 , 

599,  608,  638,  800. 

Coligny,  38. 

Coliseum,  55,  57,  190. 

College  education,  advantages  of  a,  596. 

‘ College  Examination,  Thoughts  sug- 
gested by,’  397. 

Collini,  Signora,  430. 

Colman,  Gearge,  jun.,  429. 

Cologne,  709. 

Colonna,  Cape,  26,  761. 

Colton.  Rev.  Caleb,  ;84. 

Columbia,  52. 

Columbus,  500,  745,  751. 

Comboloio,  or  Turkish  rosary,  83,  102. 

Comedy,  the  day  of,  gone  by,  734. 

Common  Lot.  answer  to  a beautiful  poeiT 
entitled  the,  409. 

Commonwealth,  213,  480. 

Condorcet,  Marquis  de,  591 
Congreve,  194. 

Congreve  rockets,  602. 

‘Conuuests,  the,’  a fragment, 

Conscience,  67,  163,  178,  187,  599,  <ktj. 

628. 

Constantinople,  25  Slave  market  at,  de* 
cribed,  652. 

Conversationists,  734. 

Cookery,  science  of,  748. 

Copyright,  sums  paid  by  Mr.  Murray 
Lord  Byron  lor,  423,  895. 


812- 


index. 


Coquette,  724. 

Coray,  765. 

‘ Corinne,’  quoted,  607, 

Corinth,  -16. 

‘ Cokinth,  Siege  of,’  120. 

Corinthian  brass,  672. 

4 Cornelian,’  the,  698. 

Cornelian  heart  which  was  broken,  4 Lines 
on,’  552. 

Cornwall,  Barry  (Bryan  Walter  Proctor) 
716. 

Coron,  bay  of,  96. 

‘ Corsair,  the,  a Tale,’  89. 

4 Cortejo,’  148,  604. 

Cottle,  Joseph,  his  ‘ Alfred,’  and  4 Fall  of 
Cambria,’  427.  His  ‘ Expostulatory 
Epistle  to  Lord  Byron,’  583. 

‘Could  I remount  the  river  of  my  years,’ 
566. 

‘ Could  love  for  ever,’  573. 

Coumourgi,  Ali,  122. 

Country  and  town,  discrepancies  between, 
753. 

Courage,  48,  229. 

Cowley,  his  imitation  of  Claudian’s  4 Old 
Man  of  Verona,’  530. 

Covvper,  432. 

Coxcomb,  648. 

Coxe,  Archdeacon,  his  4 Life  of  Marl- 
borough,’ 638,  655.  His  4 Life  of  Sir 
Robert  Walpole,’  655. 

Crabbe,  Rev.  George,  4 though  Nature’s 
sternest  painter,  yet  the  best,’  433 ; 

4 the  first  in  point  of  power  and  genius,’ 
433  ; 4 the  first  of  living  poets,’  801. 

Craning,  738. 

Crashaw,  Richard,  636.  Cowley’s  lines  on, 
636. 

Creation,  326. 

Cribb,  Tom,  pugilist,  454. 

Critic,  Sheridan’s,  too  good  for  a farce, 
473. 

Croker,  Crofton,  his  4 Fairy  Legends,’  754. 

Croker,  Right  Hon.  John  Wilson,  his 
query  concerning  the  4 Bride  of  Abydos,' 
77. 

Croly,  Rev.  Dr.  George,  716.  His  4 Letter 
of  Cato  to  Lord  Byron,’  585. 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  4 the  sagest  of  usurpers,’ 
51. 

Crowe,  Rev.  William,  his  strictures  on 
4 English  Bards,  and  Scotch  Reviewers,’ 
427. 

Cruscan  school  of  poetry,  annihilated  by 
Gifford,  801. 

Cnlloaen,  battle  of,  401. 

Cumberland,  Duke  of,  hero  of  Culloden, 
590. 

Cumberland,  Richard,  429. 

Curran,  Right  Hon.  John  Philpot,  718. 

Currie,  Dr.,  his  Life  of  Burns,  638. 

4 Cursf.  of  Minerva,’  452. 

Curtis,  Sir  William,  534,  711. 

Cuvier,  Baron,  318,  700. 

(Jyanometer,  described,  651 

Cyclades,  622,  647. 

Cypress  tree,  66. 

Cyrus,  620. 


D. 

Dallaway,  Rev.  James,  his  4 Constanti- 
nople’ quoted,  63. 

Dalrymple,  Sir  Hew,  his  Convention,  7. 

4 Damsetas,’  a character,  388. 

Damus,  Count  de,  680. 

Damme,  the  British.  715. 

Dance,  Pyrrhic,  632,  637. 

Dance  of  Death,  Holbein’s,  746.  Hollar’s, 
746. 

Dancing,  30,  648,  746. 

Dandies,  Dynasty  of  the,  150. 

Dandolo,  Henry,  the  octogenarian  chief, 
43,  771. 

Dandy,  described,  149. 

Dante,  44,  48,  497,  504,  777,  776.  His  Bea- 
trice, 63  ).  Imitation  of,  639.  His  4 half- 
way house’  of  life,  639.  4 Prophecy 

of,’  496. 

Danton,  591. 

Dardanelles,  619. 

Darkness,’  564. 

Daru,  M.,  his  picture  of  Venetian  society 
and  manners,  787. 


Darwin,  Erasmus,  his  ‘pompous  chime, 
433.  His  4 Botanic  Garden,’  434.  Put 
down  by  a poem  in  the  Anti-Jacobin, 
799. 

Dates,  4 a sort  of  post-house  where  the 
Fates  change  horses,’  600. 

David,  King,  605.  His  harp,  462.  His 
hymns  characterised.  462. 

David,  Sir  Humphry,  510,  602. 

Dead,  features  of  the,  63.  Belief  that  the 
souls  of,  inhabit  ttie  forms  of  birds,  89. 

4 Dear  Doctor,  I have  read  your  play,’ 
570. 

4 Dear  object  of  defeated  care,’  547. 

Death,  27,  38,  55,  73,  328,480.  566,  639,  641, 
647,  650,  656,  658,  698,  705.  Shuns  the 
wretched,  607.  Advantages  of  an  early, 
641,701.  4 The  sovereign’s  sovereign,’  706. 
A reformer,  706.  4 Dunnest  of  all  duns,’ 

744.  A gaunt  gourmand,’  744. 

Death  and  the  Lady,  630. 

4 Death  of  Calmar  and  Orla,’  41. 

Dee,  the,  416. 

De  Foix,  Gaston,  his  tomb  at  Ravenna, 
650. 

4 Deformed  Transformed  ; a Drama,’ 
300. 

Deformity,  an  incentive  to  distinction,  304. 

D'Herbalot,  70. 

Dekker,  Thomas,  his  4 Wonder  of  a King- 
dom,’ 539. 

Delawarr,  (George  John  West),  fifth  Earl, 
377.  4 Verses  to,’  377.  4 Lines  on,’ 417. 

Delphi,  fountain  of,  3. 

Deluge,  233,  242. 

Democracy,  461. 

Demetrius  Poliorce4es  described,  303. 

Demosthenes,  530,  531. 

Denham,  his  Cowper’s  Hill,  710. 

Denman  (Lord  Chief  Justice),  his  transla- 
tion of  the  Greek  song  on  Harmodius  and 
Aristogeiton,  30. 

Dennis,  John,  critic,  442.  His  tract  against 
operas,  442. 

De  Pauw,  his  writings  characterised,  765. 

De  Quincey,  Mr.,  his  Confessions  of  an 
Opium  Eater,  642. 

De  Retz,  Cardinal,  his  account  of  a ship- 
wreck in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons,  615. 

Dervish  Tahiri,  Lord  Bvron’s  Arnaout 
Guide,  73,  121. 

Desai?.,  General,  591. 

Despair,  29,  75,  103,  616,  689. 

Despotism,  662. 

Destiny,  51. 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  466. 

De  Tott,  Baron,  his  4 History  of  the  Turks,’ 
714. 

4 Devil’s  Drive;  an  unfinished  Rhap- 
sody,’ 558. 

Devotion,  319,  639,  670. 

Dibdin,  Thomas,  success  of  his  4 Mother 
Goose,’  429. 

4 Dictionnaire  de  Trevoux,’  its  definition  of 
an  epic,  608. 

4 Difficile  est  proprifc,’  &c.,  of  Horace, 
disputes  on  the  meaning  of,  439. 

Dinner,  a man’s  happiness  dependent  on, 
754. 

Dinner-bell,  4 the  tocsin  of  the  soul,’  657. 

Diogenes,  719,  754. 

Dirce,  fountain  of,  764. 

Discontents,  progress  of  popular,  689. 

Disdar  Aga,  763. 

D’Israeli,  J.,  esq.,  Dedication  to  him  of 
Observations  upon  an  Article  in  Black- 
wood’s Magazine,’  796. 

Dives,  Lines  to,’  549. 

Dolce,  Carlo,  243,  732. 

Don,  Brig  of,  705. 

4 Don  Juan,’  579.  Preface,  579.  Testi- 
monies of  Authors,  579.  Letter  to  the 
Editor  of  4 My  Grandmother’s  Review,’ 
794.  4 Observations  upon  an  Article  in 

Blackwood’s  Magazine, *796.  Dedication 
of  • Don  Juan  ’ to  Robert  Southey,  esq., 
588.  Preface  to  Cantos  VI.  \ II.  VIII., 
66 6. 

Don  Quixote,  4 a too  true  tale,’  727. 
Delight  of  reading,  in  the  original,  743. 

Doorns-day  book,  707. 

Dorotlieus  of  Mitylene,  789. 

Dorset  (Thomas  Sackville),  Earl  of,  ‘called 
the  drama  forth,’  384. 

Dorset  (Charles  Sackville),  Earl  of,  his 
character,  3S4. 


Dorset  (George  John  Frederick),  nurfa 
Duke  of,  384.  * Lin  i.s  occasioned  by  tht 

death  of,’  56 1. 

Doubt,  698,  711 

Dover,  4 dear,’  710. 

Drachenfels,  34,  709. 

Drapery  Misses,  715. 

Drawcansir,  439. 

4 Dream,  The,’  473.  Account  ol  a re- 
markable one,  643. 

Dreams,  266,  603. 

Dresden,  709. 

Drummond,  Sir  William,  196.  His  4 Aca- 
demical Questions,’  quoted,  55. 

Drury,  Rev.  Dr.  Joseph,  50.  ‘Links  on  hi* 
retiring  from  the  head-mastership  of 
Harrow,’  383. 

Drury  Lane  Theatre,  4 Address,  spoken  at 
the  opening  of,’  553. 

Dryden,  his  4 Ode,’  801.  His  epigram 
under  Milton’s  picture,  800,  801.  His 
‘Palaxnon  and  Arcite,'  801.  His  Ab- 
salom and  Achitopliel,’  639.  His  The- 
odore and  Honoria,’  639. 

Dubois,  Edward,  esq.,  his  Satire,  entitled 
4 My  Pocket  Book,’  435. 

Dubost,  M , painter,  his  4 Beauty  and  the 
Beast,’  437. 

Duelling,  644. 

4 Duet  between  Campbell  and  Bowles  ’ 
575 

Duff,  Miss  Mary  (afterwards  Mrs.  Robert 
Cockburn),  Lord  Byron’s  boyish  attach- 
ment for,  416. 

Dumourier,  591. 

Duppa.  Richard,  esq.,  his  4 Life  of  Michael 
Angelo,’  502,  503. 

Dwarts,  660. 

4 Dying  Gladiator,’  56. 


E. 


E , Lines  to,  377. 

Early  death,  641,  705. 

Early  hours,  714. 

Early  rising,  623. 

Eating,  655. 

Eblis,  Oriental  Prince  of  Darkness,  70. 

Eclectic,  635. 

Eclectic  Review,  48.  Its  character  of  4 Don 
Juan,’  581. 

Economy,  707. 

Eddleston(Cambridgechorister),398.  ‘Lines 
on  a cornelian  given  to  Lord  Byron  by,’ 
398. 

Edgeworth,  Maria,  592. 

Edinburgh  Review,  418.  Its  critique  on 
4 Hours  of  Idleness,’ 418.  Strictures  on 
its  remarks  on  the  Literature  of  modern 
Greece,  765. 

Edward  the  Black  Prince,  his  tomb,  710. 

Egeria.  54,  781.  Fountain  of,  54.  Grotto  of, 
54,  781. 

Egripo  (the  Negropont),  81. 

Ehrenbreitstein,  34. 

Ekenhead,  Mr.,  129,  545,  620. 

Elba,  Isle  of,  461,528. 

Eldon,  Earl  of,  his  judgment  in  the  case  of 
4 Cain,’  317.  His  impartiality,  750. 

4 Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey’  402. 

Elgin,  Lord,  17,  435,  452,  454. 

Elgin  marbles,  453,  454. 

Eliza,  Lines  to,’  400. 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  her  avarice,  704 

4 Ellen,  Lines  to,’  imitated  from  Catullus 
379. 

Ellis,  George,  esq..  65. 

Eloisa,  173. 

4 Eloisa  and  Abelard,’  Pope’s,  801. 

Eloquence,  power  of,  744. 

4 Emma,  Lines  to,’  3S1. 

Endor,  witch  of,  183,  464. 

4 Endorsement  to  Deed  of  Separation,’  564. 

4 English  Bards  and  Scoich  Review- 
ers.’ 420. 

English  look,  653. 

English  women,  725. 

Ennui,  4 the  best  of  friends  and  opiate 
draughts,’  638.  4 A growth  of  tngii.sk 

root,’  734. 

Enthusiasm,  a moral  inebriety,  729. 

Envy,  662. 

Epaminondas,  his  disinterestedness  SOD. 


INDEX. 


Epic  poem,  definition  of  an,  603. 

Epigram  on  Moore’s  Operatic  Farce,  or 
Farcical  Opera,  549.  From  the  French  of 
Rulhieres,  552,  573.  On  my  Wedding 
Day,  574.  On  Cobbett’s  digging  up  Tom 
Paine’s  bones,  574.  ‘ The  world  is  a 

bundle  of  hay,’  574.  On  my  Wedding, 
575.  On  the  Braziers’  Company  having 
resolved  to  present  an  address  to  Queen 
Caroline,  575.  On  Lord  Castlereagh, 575. 

Epistle,  a female  descr  bed,  735. 

Epistle  to  a friend,  in  answer  to  some  Lines, 
exhorting  the  author  to  banish  care,  549. 

* Epistle  to  Augusta,’  470. 

Epitaph  on  a friend.  377.  On  Virgil  and 
Tibullus,  by  Demetrius  Marsus,  trans- 
lated, 379.  On  John  Adams  of  Southwell, 
a carrier,  who  died  of  drunkenness,  537. 
Substitute  for  an,  547.  My  own,  547. 
For  Joseph  Blackett,  late  poet  and  shoe- 
maker. 544.  For  William  Pitt,  578  For 
Lord  Castlereagh.  575. 

Etasmus,  his  Naufragium,  614. 

Eratostratus,  454. 

Eros  and  Anteros,  182. 

Erse  language,  687. 

ErsKine,  Lord,  734. 

Etiquette,  661,  664. 

Etna,  56,  620. 

Eugene  of  Savoy.  500. 

Euphues  (Barry  Cornwall),  685.  716. 

Euripides,  translation  from  his  Medea, 

‘ ’Epiorer  f/irep.’  396. 

Eustace’s ‘Classical  Tour  in  Italy,’  strictures 
on.  783. 

' Euthanasia,  When  Time,  or  soon  or 
late,’  551. 

Eutropius,  the  eunuch,  and  Minister  of 
Arcadius,  character  of,  590. 

Euxine,  or  Black  Sea,  description  of,  653. 

Evening  described,  45,  132,  639. 

Evil,  332.  Origin  of,  332. 

Exile,  4.  28,  289,  612. 

Expectation,  108,  602. 

Experience,  723.  The  chief  philosopher, 
744. 

£733,  597,  749. 


F. 

Faintr.ess,  sensation  of,  621.  The  last 
mortal  birth  of  pain,  481. 

Fairy,  181. 

Faliero,  Marino,  Doge  of  Venice,  193. 
Faliero  Family.  190.  784. 

Falkland  (Lucius  Cary),  Viscount,  403,  430. 
Fall  of  Terni,  49. 

Fame,  26,  29,  31,  35,  40.  128,  577,  609,  651, 
652,  769,  6S0,  686,  725,  802. 

Family,  a fine,  634. 

Fancy,  641. 

* F are  tiiee  well,  and  if  for  ever,’  467. 

‘ Farewell  to  the  Muse,’  536. 

Farewell ! if  ever  fondest  prayer,’  537. 

‘ Farewell  to  Malta.’  548. 

Farmers,  700. 

Fashionable  world,  715,  736. 

Fate,  32,  654,  727. 

‘ Father  of  Light!  great  God  of  Heaven,’ 

413. 

Fauvel,  M.,  French  consul  at  Athens,  761, 
764. 

Faux  pas,  in  England,  740. 

Fazzioli.the  Venetian,  629. 

Fear,  752.  760. 

Features,  06O. 

Feelings,  innate,  642. 

Feinagle,  Professor,  his  Mnemonics,  592. 
Felicaja,  his  ‘ O Italia,  Italia,’  translated, 
46. 

Female  fickleness,  743. 

Female  friendship,  742. 

Fenelon,  677. 

Ferdinand,  Duke  of  Brunswick,  590. 
Ferney,  39. 

Ferrara,  Lord  Byron’s  visit  to,  45. 

* Few  years  have  pass’d  since  thou  and  I,’ 
538. 

Fickleness  of  woman,  743. 

Fiction  less  striking  than  truth,  743. 
Fielding,  650.  The  prose  Homer  of  human 
nature,  610. 

* Fill  the  goblet  again,’  542. 

" First  Kiss  of  Love,’  383. 

First  love,  602,  627. 


Fitzgerald,  Lord  Edward,  ‘ Sonnet  on  the 
repeal  of  his  forfeiture,’  573. 

Fitzgerald.  William  Thomas  Doetaster  421 
451. 

Fletcher,  William  (Lord  Byron’s  faithful 
valet),  5.  543. 

Florence,  47,  498. 

‘ Florence  ’ (Mrs.  Spencer  Smith),  19, 
Stanzas  to,  544. 

Foppery,  802. 

Forsyth,  Joseph,  esq.,  his  ‘Italy,’  57. 
Fortitude,  32,  44,  98,  100,  742. 

Fortune,  32,  51.  150,  225,  645,  654. 
Forty-parson  power,  707. 

‘Foscari.  the  Two;  an  Historical  Tragedy, 
277. 

Foscari  family,  787. 

Foscolo,  Ugo,  478.  His  account  of  Pulci' s 
‘ Morgan te,’  481 

Fox.  Right  Hon.  Charles  James.  473,  532. 

‘ Lines  on  the  death  of,’  399.  Saying 
of,  526.  His  grave,  526. 

Fox-hunt,  an  English,  738. 

‘ Fragment,’  378. 

‘Fragment,  written  shortly  after  the  mar- 
riage of  Miss  Chaworth,’  384. 

France,  528. 

‘Francesca  of  Rimini;’  from  the  In- 
ferno of  Dante,  504. 

Francis,  Sir  Philip,  the  probable  author  of 
‘ Junius,’  522. 

Franciscan  Convent  at  Athens,  547,  764, 765. 
Frankfort,  457. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  522,  529,  530, 623. 
Frascati,  785. 

Frazer,  Mrs.,  54  8. 

Frederick  the  Second,  74,  409.  His  flight 
from  Molwitz,  686. 

* Free  to  confess,’  the  phrase,  757. 

Freedom,  52,  709. 

Free  will,  32. 

Frere,  Right  Hon.  John  Hookham,  432. 
His  1 Whistlecraft.,’  142,  583.  Writes 
half  the  ‘ Needy  Knife-grinder,’  15. 
Friends,  705,  739,  742. 

Friendship,  742. 

Friuli,  44. 

Frizzi’s  History  of  Ferrara,  132. 

Fry,  Mrs.,  711. 

‘ Fudge  Family,’  the  humour  of,  not  wit, 
806. 

Funds,  the  public,  718. 

Fuseli,  646. 

Future  State,  318. 

G. 

Gail,  M.,  765. 

Galileo,  776.  His  tomb  in  Santa  Croce,  43. 
Galiongee,  83. 

Galt,  John,  esq.,  his  character  of  Don  Juan, 
587. 

Gamba.  Count  Pietro,  639. 

Game  of  Goose,  724. 

Gamesters,  736,  739. 

Gaming,  7!  9.  736. 

Gandia,  Duke  of,  interesting  particulars  of 
his  death,  118. 

Garcilasso  de  la  Vega,  599. 

Garrick,  429,  553. 

Gay,  his  Beggar's  Opera,  443. 

Gayton,  dancer,  430. 

Gazelle,  the,  2.  67. 

Gell,  Sir  William,  435. 

Gemma,  the  wife  of  Dante,  498. 

Geneva,  Lake  of,  35,  36,  131,  138,  768. 
Genevra,  Sonnets  to,  558. 

Genlis,  Madame  de,  458. 

Gentleman  farmers.  700. 

George  the  Third,  457,  515.  718. 

George  the  Fourth,  558,  559,  577,  583,  695, 
700,  71 8,  726.  ‘ Sonnet  to,’  on  the  repeal  of 
Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald’s  forfeiture,  573. 
Georgia,  67 ! . 

Georgians,  beauty  of  the,  671. 

Geramb,  Baron,  513. 

‘ Gertrude  of  Wyoming,’  Campbell’s,  447. 
Gesner.  his  ‘Death  of  Abel,’  318. 

Ghihelines,  497,  498,  778. 

Ghost,  the  Newstead,  753. 

Ghosts,  750,  751,  753,  760. 

Giaffar,  Pacha  of  Argyro  Castro,  his  fate, 
84. 

Giant’s  Gra^e,  visit  to,  653. 

* Giaour,  The;  a Fragment  of  a Turkish 
Tale,’  62. 


8-13 

Gibbon,  Edward,  esq.,  his  character,  40 
His  opinion  on  the  advantages  of  a 
public  education,  596. 

Gibraltar,  Straits  of,  '8 

Gifrard,  Lees,  esq.  LL.D.,  580. 

Gifford,  William,  esq.,  421,  433,  450,  459 
8 »2,  806. 

Gin,  709. 

Gingo,  St.  768. 

Giorgione,  146. 

‘ Girl  of  Cadiz,’  14. 

Glaciers,  50. 

Gladiator,  the  dying,  stanzas  on,  56,  645. 

Gladiators,  782. 

Glenbervie  (Sylvester  Douglas),  first  Lord, 
501. 

Glory,  638,  673,  710. 

Godoy.  Don  Manuel,  9. 

Goethe,  his,  * Kennst  du  das  Land,’  &c.  imi- 
tated, 77.  His  1 Faust,’  191  His  remarks 
on  ‘ Manfred,’ 191.  Dedication  of  ‘ Ma- 
rino Faliero’  to,  197.  His  ‘Werther,’ 
197.  Lord  Byron’s  letter  to.  197.  His 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  Byron.  244. 
Dedication  of  ‘ Sardanapalus  ’ to,  244. 
His  character  of  ‘ Don  Juan,’  588.  His 
‘ Mephistopheles,’  727. 

Gold,  719. 

Golden  Fleece,  634. 

Goldoni’s  comedies,  791. 

Goldsmith,  his  anticipated  definition  of 
the  Lake  school  of  poetry,  SOO. 

Gondola  described,  146. 

Gondoliers,  songs  of  the  Venetian,  42,  602, 
768. 

Good  Night,  the,  4,  Lord  Maxwell's,  1. 

Goose,  royal  game  of,  724. 

Gordon.  Lord  George,  456. 

Gordons  of  Gight,  401. 

Goza,  19. 

Gracchus,  Tiberius,  706. 

Grafton,  Duke  of,  521. 

Graham,  Edward,  esq.,  648. 

Graliame,  James,  his  ‘ Sabbath  Walks’  and 
‘ Biblical  Pictures,’  425. 

Granby,  Marquis  of,  590. 

‘ Grant  a ; a Medley,’  385. 

Granville,  Dr.,  his  recipe  to  escape  sea- 
sickness, 611. 

Grattan,  Right  Hon.  Henry,  532,  576,  577, 
667,  718. 

Gray,  639,  805. 

‘ Greatest  living  poets,’  716. 

Greece,  past  and  present  condition  of,  11, 
18,  25.  26,  62,  63,  77,  107,  125,  166,  446, 
529,  637. 

Greek  war  song,  ‘ Acutc  ncudes,’  516. 
Translation  of,  547. 

Greeks,  some  account  of  the  literature  ol 
the  modern,  765. 

Grenvilles,  the,  718. 

Greville,  Colonel,  430. 

Grey,  Charles  (afterwards  Earl  Grey),  532, 
726. 

Grief,  704. 

Grillparzer,  his  tragedy  of  Sappho,  244. 

Grindenwald,  the,  36. 

Gritti,  Count,  his  sketch  of  a Venetian 
noble,  230. 

Gropius,  the  Sieur,  762. 

Grosvenor,  Earl,  (now  Marquis  of  West 
minster),  442. 

Guadalquiver,  620. 

Guadiana,  8. 

Guariglia.  Signor,  648. 

Guelfs,  497,  499,  778. 

Guesclin,  Du.  Constable  of  France,  527. 

Guiccioli  (Teresa  Gamba),  Countess,  161, 
244,  496,  571,  578,  603,  652.  Dedication 
of  the  Prophecy  of  Dante  to,  496. 

Guido,  his  Aurora.  738. 

Gunpowder,  169,  687. 

Gurney,  Hudson,  esq.,  his  ‘ Cupid  and 
Psyche,’  635. 

Gurney,  William  Brodie,  short-hand  writer, 
607. 

Gustavus,  Adolphus,  his  death  at  Lutzea, 
524 

Gyncfcracy,  755. 

H. 

Habesci,  Louis,  635. 

Hades,  329. 

Hafiz,  23. 

Hall,  Captain  Basil,  his  interview  with 
Napoleon,  527. 


814 


INDEX. 


Hallam,  Henry,  esq.,  his  review  of  Payne 
Knight's  ‘ Taste,’  428,  436.  His  ‘ Middle 
Ages,’  722. 

Hamburgh,  4>7. 

Hands,  small,  a distinction  of  birth,  644, 
562. 

Hannibal,  165. 

Happiness,  ‘was  born  a twin,’  626. 
Horace’s  art  of,  661.  ‘An  art  on  which 
the  artists  greatly  vary,’  729. 

Hardinge,  George,  esq  , 73.3. 

Harley,  Lady  Charlotte  (the  ‘ Ianthe’  to 
whom  the  . first  and  second  cantos  of 
‘ Childe  Harold’  are  dedicated),  2. 

Harmodius,  30. 

Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton,  song  on,  30, 
529. 

Harmony,  German  eolony  in  America  so 
called,  746. 

Harpe,  La,  531. 

Harrow,  ‘ Lines  on  a change  of  masters 
at,’  383.  ‘On  a distant  view  ot  the 
village  and  school  of.’  386.  ‘ Written 

beneath  an  elm  in  the  church  yard  of,’ 
418.  ‘On  revisiting,’  537. 

Hater,  an  honest,  727. 

Hatred,  727. 

Havard,  story  of  his  tragedy,  447. 

Hawke,  Admiral  Lord,  590. 

Hawke  (Edward  Harvey),  third  Lord,  385. 

Hayley,  William,  esq.,  advice  to,  425,  755, 
802. 

Hazlitt,  William,  his  charge  of  inconsist- 
ency against  Lord  Byron,  591.  His  char- 
acter of  ‘ Don  Juan,’  585. 

Health,  625,  690. 

Hearer,  a good  one,  738. 

Hearing,  second,  superstition  of,  73. 

* Heaven  and  Earih  ; a Mystery,’  232. 

Hebe,  755. 

Heber,  Reginald  (Bishop  of  Calcutta) 
Jritical  notes  by.  passim. 

‘ Hebrew  Melodies,’  462. 

Hecla,  528,  750. 

Hector,  696. 

Helen,  ‘ the  Greek  Eve,’  741.  * Lines  on 

Canova’s  bust  of,’  569. 

Helena,  St.,  527,  533. 

Hell,  ‘paved  with  good  intentions,’  518, 
687. 

Hellespont,  81,  545,  620,  648. 

Hells,  St.  James’s,  441,  714. 

Henry,  Patrick,  ‘ the  forest-bom  Demos- 
thenes,’ 530. 

Herbert,  kev.  William.  428. 

Hercules,  454. 

Hero  and  Leander,  82. 

‘ Herod’s  Lament  for  Mariamne,’  466. 

Herodias,  457. 

Hesperus,  659. 

Heterodoxy,  668. 

Highgate,  burlesque  oath  administered  at, 
12. 

Highland  welcome,  669. 

Hill,  Tho.n«.s,  esq.,  the  patron  of  Kirke 
White  and  Bloomfield,  432,  580. 

‘Hills  of  Annesley,  bleak  and  barren,’ 
384. 

‘Hints  from  Horace,’ 436. 

History,  33.  685. 

Historians,  638. 

Hoare,  Rev.  Charles  James,  434. 

Hobbes,  Thomas,  168.  His  fear  of  ghosts, 
750. 

Hobhouse,  Right  Hon.  Sir  John  Cam, 
Bart.,  16,  20,  22,  442,  452,  453,  665. 
His  ‘ Epistle  to  a young  nobleman  in 
love,  541.  Dedication  to  him  of  the 
fourth  canto  of  ‘ Childe  Harold.’  41. 
His  ‘ Historical  Notes  to  the  fourth 
canto  of  Childe  Harold,’  768. 

Hoche,  General,  34,  591. 

1 Hock  and  soda  water,’  590,  613. 

Hodgson,  Rev.  Francis,  435,  801.  ‘Lines 
to,  written  on  board  the  Lisbon  packet,’ 
542.  ‘Epistle  to,  in  answer  to  some 
lines  exhorting  Lord  Byron  to  “ banish 
care,”  ’ 549. 

Hogg,  James,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  803. 

Holbein,  his  ‘ Dance  of  Death,’  7i6. 

Hole,  Rev.  Richard,  fcOO. 

Holford,  Miss,  802. 

Holland,  Lo,  d,  429.  Dediealion  of  the 
Bride  of  Abydos  to,  77.  His  character 
Tf  Voltaire,  824. 

Holland,  Lady,  \29,  436. 


Holland,  Dr.,  23. 

Hollar,  his  ‘ Dance  of  Death,’  746. 

Home,  27,  106,  602.  Sight  of,  after  ab- 
sence, 631.  ‘ Without  hearts,  tucre  is 

no,’  634. 

Homer,  geography  of,  648,  650,  684.  Iliad, 
800.  Odyssey,  631.  His  catalogue  of 
' ships,  732. 

Honorius,  6. 

Hook,  Theodore,  esq.,  429. 

Hope.  Thomas,  esq.,  17,  437. 

Hoppner,  John  William  Rizzo,  ‘ Lines 
on  t.ie  birth  of,’  572. 

Horace,  Lord  Byron’s  early  dislike  to,  50. 
His  ‘ Justum  et  tenaeem’  translated,  380. 
‘The  scholar  of  love,’  628.  His  ‘Nil 
admirari,’  658,  661,  729,  741.  Quoted, 
658,  733,  737,  741. 

Horton,  Right  Hon.  Robert  Wilmot  (now 
Sir  Robert),  594. 

Horton,  Mrs.  (now  Lady)  Wilmot,  462. 

Hotspur,  688. 

Houris,  11,  68,  694. 

‘Hours  of  Idleness,’  375.  Critique  of 
the  Edinburgh  Review  upon,  418. 

Howson,  Mrs.,  ‘ Lines  addressed  to,’  388. 

Howard,  Hon.  Frederick,  31,  431. 

Howe,  Admiral  Lord,  590. 

Hoyle,  games  of,  434,  638. 

Hoyle,  Rev.  Charles,  800. 

Hudibras,  444. 

Humane  Society,  602. 

Humboldt,  651. 

Hunger,  617,  624. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  525,  585.  Mr.  Moore’s  verses 
on  his  ‘ Byron  and  his  Contemporaries, ’ 
526. 

Hunting,  738. 

Hydra,  isle  of,  452. 

Hymen,  631. 

Hymettus,  26,  452,  749. 

Hypocrisy,  707,  718. 


Ianthe  (Lady  Charlotte  Harley),  dedication 
of  ‘ Childe  Harold’  to,  2. 

Ibrahim  Pacha, 762. 

Ida,  mount,  50,  764. 

‘ I enter  thy  garden  of  roses,’  547. 

‘ If  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men,’  552. 

‘ If  that  high  world,’  462. 

Ilion,  647,  648. 

Illyria,  21. 

Imagination,  55,  641. 

Immortality  of  the  soul,  318. 
Imprisonment,  solitary,  its  effects,  288, 
lmprovvisatore,  775. 

Incantation,  178. 
lncledon,  Charles,  singer,  795. 

Inconstancy,  629. 

Indifference,  729. 

Indigestion,  656,  698. 

‘ Inez,’  Stanzas  to,  13. 

Infidelity,  female,  630,  725. 

‘ In  law  an  infant,  and  in  years  a boy,’  389. 
Innocence,  334,  672,  740. 

Innovation,  progress  of,  757. 

‘ Inscription  on  the  monumentof  a New- 
foundland dog,’  540. 

Intoxication,  614,  626. 

Ionia.  276. 

Iris,  the,  50,  181. 

‘ Irish  Avatar,’  576. 

Irish  language,  687. 

Iron  mask,  522. 

‘ I saw  thee  weep,’  464. 

‘Island,  the;  or,  Christian  and  his 
Comrades,’  161. 

‘ Islands  of  the  blest,’  637. 

Ismail,  oiege  of,  666,  678.  695. 

• I speak  not,  I trace  not,’  559. 

Italian  language,  482. 

Italian  sky.  45. 

Italy.  44,  153,  499.  Present  degraded  con- 
dition of,  590. 

Ithaca,  20. 

‘ I would  I were  a careless  child,’  415. 


Jackal,  131,  699. 

Jackson,  John,  professor  of  pugilism,  448, 
492,  713. 


Jamblicus,  story  of  his  raising  Err. a 
Anteros,  182.  • 

Jealousy,  597  600. 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  esq.,  422,  428,  4 9,  44“ 
583,  705,  720.  Critical  notes  by,  passim. 

Jena,  battle  of,  528. 

Jenner.  Dr.,  602. 

‘ Jephtha’s  Daughter,’  463. 

Jerdan,  William,  esq.,  580. 

Jerningham,  Mr.,  436. 

Jerome,  St.,  596. 

Jerreed,  80. 

Jersey,  Countess  of,  560.  ‘ Consolatory 

Address  to,  on  the  Prince  Regent  ieiun> 
ing  her  picture,’  560. 

Jerusalem,  497.  ‘On  the  day  of  the  de 
struction  of,  bv  Titus,’  466. 

Jesus  Christ,  667,  767. 

Jews,  533,  6l(i,  658. 

Joannini,  22,  764. 

Job,  689,  739. 

John  Bull,  his  ‘ Letter  to  Lord  Byron,’  586, 
608. 

Johnson, Dr., his  ‘ Vanityof  Human  Wishes,' 
640.  His  opinion  of  blank  verse,  4.S8. 
His  ‘Irene,’ 441.  His  remark  on  gooc 
intentions,  518.  A good  hater,  727.  llu 
‘ Life  of  Milton,’  638.  His  belief  in 
ghosts.  751. 

Jonson,  Ben,  anecdote  of,  589. 

Joubert,  General,  591. 

‘ Journal  de  Trevoux,’  508. 

Julian  the  Apostate,  59u. 

Julian,  Count,  8. 

Juliet’s  tomb,  530. 

Julius  Caesar*  liis  character,  52,  307,  687, 
781.  His  laurel  wrc*i.hf  Z>,  The  suitoi 
of  love,  167,  628. 

Jungfrau,  the,  50,  179. 

Junius’s  Letters,  522. 

Junot,  General,  7. 

Jupiter  Olympius,  temple  of,  17,  453. 

Jura  mountains,  37. 

Juvenal,  his  alleged  independence,  595. 
His  pure  and  sublime  morality,  595. 


K. 

Kaff.  435. 

Kalamas,  21. 

Kaleidoscope,  619. 

Kalkbrenner,  bis  remark  on  Jewish  musifl, 
462. 

Kamtschatka,  457. 

Kean,  Edward,  tragedian,  196,  429. 

Keats.  John,  716,  802.  Account  of,  802. 
Elegy  on,  575. 

Kemble,  John  Philip,  esq.,  196,  429. 
Kenny,  James,  dramatist,  429. 

Keppel,  Admiral,  590. 

Kibitka,  699. 

Kings,  689,  699. 

Kinnaird,  Lord,  697. 

Kinnaird,  Hon.  Douglas,  197,462,  513,  576 
‘ Kiss  of  Love,  First,’  383. 

Kitchener,  Dr.,  his  remedy  for  sea-sicknea 
611. 

Knight-errantry,  727. 

Knight,  Payne.  428. 

Knowledge,  330,  716. 

Knowlles,  Richard,  his  ‘ History  of  tl*a 
Turks,’  62,  665. 

Koran,  68. 

Kosciusko,  General,  528,  709. 

Kotzebue,  458. 

Koutousow,  General  (afterwards  Prince  «j» 
Smolensko),  708. 


L. 

Labedoy&re,  562. 

Lacedemon,  26. 

‘ Laehin-y-gair,’  166,  401. 

Ladies,  learned,  593. 

La  Fayette,  521. 

Latitte,  719. 

La  Fitte,  pirate,  107. 

La  Harpe,  531. 

Lake  Leman,  35,  37,  139,  566. 

Lake  School  of  Poetry,  588,  798.  Gold 
smith’s  anticipated  definition  ot,  800. 
‘Lakers,’  the,  445,  608,  793. 


INDEX. 


815 


Laqab,  Hon.  George,  422,  428. 

Lamb,  Lady  Caroline,  628. 

Lambe,  Charles,  esq.,  434. 

Lamberti  Venetian  poet,  230. 

Lambro  Lanzari,  Greek  patriot,  85. 

• Lament  of  Tasso,’  475. 

Lancelot  of  the  Lake,  505. 

‘Landed  Interest.’  532. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  esq.,  167,  512,  514, 
716.  His  ‘ Gebir,’ 514. 

Langeron,  Count  de.  680. 

Lannes,  Duke  of  Montebello,  591. 

Lansdowne  (Henry  Fitzmaurice  Petty), 
fourth  Marquis  of,  385,  397,  429. 

Lanskoi,  the  grande  passion  of  Catherine  II. 
701. 

Laocoon,  the,  59,  646. 

Laos,  the  river,  22. 

‘ Lara  ; a Tale,’  108. 

Lascy,  Major  General,  687. 

Laugier,  Abbe,  his  character  of  Marino 
Faliero,  195 

Laura,  630,  772. 

Lausanne,  39. 

Lawsuits,  756. 

Lawyers,  604,  705. 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  423. 

Leander  and  Hero,  82. 

Learned  ladies  593. 

Learned  languages,  results  of  the  too  early 
study  f'f,  59. 

Lee,  Harriet,  her  ‘ German’s  Tale,’  341. 

‘Legion  of  Honour,  Lines  on  the  Star  of,’ 
563. 

Legitimacy,  663,  697 

Leigh,  Hon.  Augusta  (Lord  Byron’s  sister), 
34.  ‘Stanzas  to,’ 469.  ‘Epistle  to,’ 
469. 

Lely,  Sir  Peter,  drapery  of  his  beauties, 
732. 

Leipsic,  457,  528. 

Leman,  Lake,  35,  37,731,742.  ‘Sonnet 
to.’  566. 

L’Enclos,  Ninon  de.  661. 

Lenzoni,  Marchioness,  her  rescue  of  the 
bones  of  Boccaccio,  777. 

Lit)  X.,  502. 

Leoben,  34. 

Leone,  Port,  64. 

Leonidas,  648. 

Leonora,  Tasso’s.  477.  478. 

Leopold,  Prince  of  Saxe  Coburg  (afterwards 
King  of  the  Belgians),  59. 

Lepanto,  Gulf  of,  14,  20. 

‘ Lesbia,  lines  to,’  38/. 

Lethe,  641. 

‘LETTfR  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  “ Mr 

Grandmother’s  Review,”’  794. 

Leucadia,  20.  628. 

Leuctra,  31. 

Levant,  22.  106. 

Lewis,  Matthew  Gregory,  esq.,  150,  196, 
425,  442. 

Liakura,  Mount,  26. 

Liberty,  138,  162,  684.* 

Licensing  act,  443. 

Lies,  714. 

Life,  32,  46,  55,  56,  85,  183,  265,  285,  611, 
627,  641,  668,  698,  7iS,  751. 

Life  of  a young  noDle,  717. 

Lightning,  superstitions  respecting,  46,  774. 

Ligne,  Prince  de,  680,  685,  708. 

* Lines  on  the  Death  of  a Young  Lady,’ 
376.  To  E.,  377.  To  D.,  377.  On  leaving 
Newstead  Abbey,  377.  Written  in  Rous- 
seau’s ‘ Letters  of  an  Italian  Nun,’  379. 
On  a change  of  masters  at  a great  school, 
383.  On  a distant  view  of  the  village  and 
school  of  Harrow,  386.  To  M.,  386.  To 
M.  S.  G.,  387.  To  Woman,  387.  To 
Mary,  on  receiving  her  picture,  387.  To 
Lesbia,  387.  Addressed  to  a Young  Lady, 
388.  To  Marion,  389.  To  a Lady  who 
presented  to  the  author  a lock  of  hair, 
&c.,  389.  To  a beautiful  Quaker,  397. 
On  the  death  of  Mr.  Fox,  399.  To  the 
sighing  Strephon,  400.  To  Eliza,  400. 
To  Romance,  401.  To  a Lady  who  pre- 
sented the  author  with  the  velvet  band 
which  bound  her  tresses.  410.  To  the 
Rev.  J.  T.  Becher,  on  his  advising  the 
author  to  mix- more  with  society,  410.  To 
Edward  Noel  Long,  esq.,  414.  To  a Lady 
—‘Oh!  had  my  fate,’  &c.,  415.  To 
George  Earl  Delawarr,  417.  To  the  Earl 
of  Clare,  417.  Written  beneath  an  elm  in 


| the  churchyard  of  Harrow,  413.  To  a 
vain  Lady,  535.  To  Anne.  535.  To  the 
author  of  a Sonnet,  beginning,  ‘ Sad  is  the 
verse,’  &c.,  536.  On  finding  a Fan,  536. 
To  an  Oak  at  Newstead,  537.  On  re- 
visiting Harrow,  537.  To  my  Son,  537. 
To  a youthful  Friend,  538.  E scribed 
upon  a cup  formed  from  a skull,  539.  To 
a Ladjr  on  being  asked  my  reason  for 
quitting  England,  540.  To  Mr.  Hodgson, 
written  on  board  the  Lisbon  packet,  5)3. 
Written  in  an  album  at  Malta,  544. 
Written  after  swimming  from  Sestos  to 
Abydos,  545.  Written  beneath  a picture, 
547.  In  the  Travellers’  Book  at  Orcho- 
inenus,  546.  On  parting,  548.  To  Dives, 
549.  Or.  Moore’s  operatic  farce,  549.  To 
Thyrza,  550.  On  a Cornelian  heart,  which 
was  broken,  552.  To  a Lady  weeping, 
553.  Written  on  a blank  leaf  of  the 
‘ Pleasures  of  Memory,’  553.  To  Time, 
555.  On  Lord  Thurlow’s  .poems,  556. 
To  Lord  Thurlow,  557.  To  Thomas 
Moore,  on  visiting  Leigh  Hunt  in  prison, 
557.  On  hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was 
ill,  471.  To  Belshazzar,  560.  On  Mapo- 
leon’s  escape  from  Elba,  562.  To  Thomas 
Moore,  569.  On  the  bust  of  Helen  by 
Canova.  569.  To  Thomas  Moore,  570. 
To  Mr.  Murray,  570.  From  Mr.  Murray 
to  Dr.  Poiidori,  570.  To  Mr.  Murray, 
571.  On  the  birth-day  of  J.  W.  R. 
Hoppner,  572.  On  reading  that  Lady 
Byron  had  been  patroness  of  a charity 
ball,  574.  On  my  thirty-third  birthday, 
575.  To  Mr.  Murray,  576.  To  Lady 
Blessington,  578.  Inscribed,  ‘On  this 
day  I complete  my  thirty-sixth  year,’ 
578. 

Lisbon,  5. 

Lisbon  packet,  Lines  written  on  board  the, 
543. 

Liston,  John,  comedian,  794. 

Literary  men,  marriage  of,  498. 

Little’s  Poems,  417,  425. 

Livadia,  764. 

Liver,  629. 

Livy,  740. 

Lloyd,  Charles,  esq.,  434,  589. 

Loan  contractors,  7 19. 

Locke,  his  treatise  on  education,  446,  744. 

Lockhart,  J.  G.,  esq.,  his  ‘ Ancient  Spanish 
Ballads,’  13.  His  preface  to  ‘ Don 
Quixote,’  727.  Critical  Notes  by, passim. 

Lodi,  303. 

Lofft,  Capel,  esq.,  432,  445. 

London,  a Sunday  in,  12.  The  Devil’s 
drawing-room,  718.  The  approaches  to, 
712.  Never  understood  by  foreigner-, 
721  * One  superb  menagerie,’  721. 

Londonderry  (Robert  Stewart),  second  Mar- 
quis of,  667,  678,  701.  See  also  Castle- 
reagh. 

London  Review,  440. 

Loneliness,  36,  188,  746. 

Long,  Edward  Noel,  esq.,  414.  ‘Lines 
to,’  414. 

Longinus,  595,  608,  745. 

Longmans,  Messrs.,  446,  506. 

‘ Longueurs,’  6 !8. 

Lope  de  Vega,  592. 

Loredano,  family  of,  278. 

Lorenzo  de’  Medici,  77 9. 

Lorraine,  Ciaude,  530,  732. 

Love,  best  tokens  of,  669.  First,  602,  627. 

‘ His  own  avenger,’  647.  Language  of, 
642.  Man’s,  607,  629.  Platonic.  298, 
601,  703.  Woman’s,  628,  629.  See  also, 
630,  642,  645,  663,  677,  702,  719,  720, 
742. 

Love,  first  kiss  of,  383. 

Love  of  gain,  693,  734. 

Love  of  glory,  650. 

Love  of  offspring,  664. 

‘ Love’s  last  adieu,’  388. 

Lovers,  625,  641. 

Lover’s  Leap,  20,  608. 

Loves  of  the  Triangles,  804. 

Lowe,  Sir  Hudson,  527,  716. 

Luc,  Jean  Andre  de,  138. 

Lucca,  749. 

Lucretia,  195. 

Lucretius,  595. 

Lucullus,  dishes  k la,  748.  Cherries  trars- 
planted  into  Europe  by,  748. 

* Luddites,  Song  for  the,’  570. 


Ludlow,  Genera.),  the  regicide,  his  mono* 
meiit,  38. 

Lugo,  649. 

Lushington,  Dr.,  594. 

Lusieri,  Signor,  his  devastations  at  Athens, 
761. 

Luther,  Martin,  677. 

Lutzen,  528. 

Lying,  606. 

Lykanthropy,  699. 

Lyons,  Gulf  of,  614. 

Lyttleton,  George  Lord,  89. 


M. 

M . . . . Lin  ks  to.  386. 

M.  S.  G.,  Lines  to,  386. 

Macassar  Oil,  593. 

‘ Mac  Flecknoe,’  origin  of  Dryden’s,  438. 
Machiavelli,  677,  710,  775.  His  tomb  in 
Santa  Croce,  48. 

Mackintosh,  Sir  James,  522. 

Macneil,  Hector,  esq.,  his  poems,  432. 
Maepherson’s  Ossian,  412. 

Madness,  50,  646. 

Madrid.  528,  706. 

Mafra,  7. 

Maginn,  Dr.,  his  parody  on  ‘ Yarrow  Un- 
visited,’ 588. 

Magnesia,  79. 

Mahomet,  628,  661,  679. 

Maid  of  Athens,  546. 

‘ Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part,’  546. 

Maid  of  Saragoza,  10. 

Majorian,  his  visit  to  Carthage,  96. 

Malice,  597. 

Mallet,  David.  426. 

Malta,  19. 

‘ Malta,  farewell  to,’  548. 

Malthus,  Rev.  T.,  h's  anti -..upiial  system, 
720.  Does  the  thing  ’gainst  which  h« 
writes,  721.  His  book  the  eleventh  com- 
mandment, 746. 

Malvern  Hills,  166. 

Man,  602,  603,  640,  702. 

Mandeville,  424. 

‘Manfred;  a Dramatic  Poem,’  135. 

Goethe’s  remarks  on,  191. 

Manfrini  palace,  146. 

Manicheism,  317,  318. 

Manley,  Mrs.,  her  Atalantis,  718. 

Mann,  the  engineer,  his  pumps,  613. 
Mansel,  Dr.,  Bishop  of  Bristol,  397. 
Mansion  House,  the,  714. 

Mantinea,  31,  303. 

Marat,  591. 

Marathon,  26,  31,  35,  303,  637.  Plain  of, 
offered  to  Lord  Byron  for  sale,  26. 
Mareeau,  General,  34,  591. 

Marchetti,  Count,  496. 

Marengo,  303. 

Maria  Louisa,  Empress,  460,  533. 

Marie  Antoinette,  2.  Effect  of  grief  on,  138 
Marine  barometer,  179,  651. 

Mariner,  his  account  of  the  Tonga  Islands. 

161,  172. 

Marinet,  697. 

Marino,  a corrupter  of  the  taste  of  Europe. 
799. 

‘Marino  Faliero,  Doge  of  Venice, 
an  Historical  Tragedy,’  193.  Dedication 
to  Goethe,  197.  Story  of,  784. 

‘ Marion,’  Lines  to,  389. 

Marischalchi  Gallery,  Bologna,  146. 

Marius  at  Carthage,  498,  725. 

Markland,  J.  H.,  esq.,  his  character  o* 
‘ Hours  of  Idleness,’  745. 

Markow,  General,  686. 

Marlborough,  Coxe’s  Life  of,  195,  638. 
Marlow,  his  ‘ Faustus,’  192. 

‘ Marmion,’  135,  424. 

Marriage,  630,  720. 

Marriage  of  literary  men,  498. 

Marriage  state,  ‘ the  best  or  worst  of  any, 
742.  ‘ The  best  for  morals,’  745. 

Mars,  682. 

Martial,  his  epigrams,  595,  745.  Lib.  l 
ep.  1,  imitated,  574. 

Martin,  the  regicide,  513. 

Marvell,  Andrew,  his  J'ties  on  the  execution 
of  Charles  I.,  231. 

‘ Mary,’  384,  658  ‘ Lines  to,  on  receiving 

her  picture,  o8.\ 

Mary,  Queen  of  Soots,  .79.  Her  person 
described,  CGI,  703. 


816 


llSl  DEX. 


Massinger,  429. 

Matapan,  Cape,  631 
Match-making,  745. 

Matrimony,  720. 

Matter,  76.  Bishop  Berkeley’s  denial  of  the 
existence  of,  711. 

Matthias,  Thomas  James,  esq.,  27.  His 
‘ Pursuits  of  Literature,’  802.  His  edition 
of  Gray’s  works,  802. 

Matthews,  Charles  Skinner,  esq.,  15. 
Matthews,  Henry,  esq.,  15.  His  ‘ Diary  of 
an  Invalid,’  190. 

Maturin,  Rev.  Charles,  196. 

Maurice,  Rev.  Thomas,  his  ‘ Richmond 
Iiill,’  427. 

Mauritania,  18 
‘ Mazeppa,’  153. 

Mecca,  25,  70,  86. 

Medici,  family  of  the,  778.  Mausoleum  of 
the,  48,  778. 

Medina,  25. 

Meditation,  18. 

Mediterranean,  61.  A noble  subject  for  a 
poem,  61. 

Medwin,  Mr.,  585. 

Megara,  45,  128. 

Megaspeliou,  monastery  of,  764. 

Meknop,  General,  691. 

Meillerie,  767. 

Melancthon,  699. 

Melbourne  House,  436. 

Melody,  Suwarrow’s  polar,  696.  J 

Melton  Mowbray,  head  quarters  of  :ht  i 
English  chase,  733. 

Memnon,  statue  of,  731. 

Memory,  17. 

Mendeli,  Mount,  26. 

Mephistopheles,  464,  727.  * 

Merci,  Count,  his  epitaph,  26. 

Merivale,  J.  H.,  esq.,  433  His  ‘ Ron- 
cesvalles,’  482. 

Metapnysics,  725. 

Metella,  Cecilia,  tomb  of,  53. 

Methodism,  cause  of  the  progress  of,  767. 
Metternich,  Prince,  533. 

Michelli,  Signora,  translator  of  Shakspeare, 

. 230. 

Midas,  533. 

‘ Middle  Age’  of  Man,  described,  719. 

Milan,  state  of  society  at,  629. 

Milbar.ke,  Sir  Ralph,  593. 

Milbanke,  Lady,  593. 

Milbanke,  Miss  (afterwards  Lady  Byron), 
432. 

Miller,  William,  bookseller,  423. 

Milman,  Rev.  Henry  Hart,  his  ‘Historv  of 
the  Jews,’  462,  463,  464,  466.  His  ‘Fall 
of  Jerusalem,’  196.  His  character  of 
‘ Heaven  and  Earth,’  243.  Critical  notes 
by.  passim . 

Milo,  460. 

Miltiades,  27. 

Milton,  90,  438,  525,  630,  638. 

Minerva,  26,  453. 

‘ Minerva,  Curse  of,’  452. 

Minotaur,  table  of  the,  624. 

Minturna'.  4‘t8. 

Mirabeau,  591. 

Miser,  602.  Happy  life  of  the,  719.  720. 
Missolonghi,  73,  578. 

Mitford,  Miss.  802. 

Mitford,  William,  esq.,  his  abuse  of  Plu- 
tarch’s Lives,  721.  Great  merit  of  his 
History  of  Greece,  721. 

Mitylene,  isle  of,  796. 

Mob, ,689. 

‘ Mobility,’  759.  Defined,  759. 

Mocha's  berry,  633. 

Modesty,  744. 

Moli&re,  734. 

Momus,  682. 

Money,  power  of,  720.  Pleasure  of  hoard- 
ing, 719,  720. 

Monev,  love  of,  ‘ the  only  pleasure  that 
requites,’  754. 

' Monk,’  Lewis’s  novel  of  the,  425. 

Monkir  and  Nekir,  70. 

Monks,  741. 

Monmouth,  Geoffrey  of,  his  Chronicle,  751. 
Monsoon,  688. 

Mont  Blanc,  35,  50. 

Montague,  Lady  Mary  Wortley,  632,  647, 
653,  661. 

Montaigne,  his  motto,  698. 

Montecucco,  500. 

Montgomery.  James,  Answer  to  his  poem 


I entitled  ‘The  Common  Lot,'  409.  His 
‘ Wanderer  of  Switzerland,’  427. 

Monthly  Review,  its  critique  on  ‘ Hours  of 
Idleness,’  420. 

Montmartre,  528. 

Mont  St.  John,  31,  716. 

Montmorenci  Laval,  Duke  de,  533. 

Moon,  600,  629.  * Of  amatory  egotism  the 
Tuism,’  752. 

Moonlight,  190,  217,  600. 

Moore,  I'homas,  esq.,  417,  422,  427,  600, 
608,  716,  801.  ‘ Lines  on  his  last  Operatic 
Farce,  or  Farcical  Opera,’  549.  ‘ Lines 

to,  on  visiting  Leigh  Hunt  in  prison,’  557. 
‘Fragment  of  an  epistle  to,’  560.  ‘ Lines 
to,'  569,  570.  His  verses  on  Leigh  Hunt’s 
‘ Lord  Byron  and  his  Contemporaries,’ 
526.  His  ‘ Fudge  Family,’  801.  His 
‘ Twopenny  Post-bag,’  801  Critical  notes 
by,  passim. 

Moore,  Dr.,  his  ‘Zelucco,’  2 His  account 
of  Marino  Faliero  false  and  flippant,  195. 

Morat, ''field  of,  35. 

More,  Hannah,  506.  Her  ‘Ccelebs  in 
search  of  a Wife,’  593. 

Morea,  62. 

Moreau,  General,  591. 

Morelli,  Abbate,  230. 

Morena,  10. 

Morgan,  Lady,  288. 

‘Morgante  Maggiore  of  Pulci,’  trans- 
lation of  canto  the  first,  481. 

Morning  Post,  579,  638,  718,  730. 

Morocco,  645. 

Morosini,  Venetian  poet,  230. 

Mosaic  chronology',  318,  329. 

Moscow,  conflagration  of,  457,  528.  706. 

Moses,  699.  Michael  Angelos  statue  of, 
502.  Sonnet  on,  501 

Moskwa,  303. 

Mossop,  actor,  386 

Motraye,  M.,  his  description  of  the  Grand 
Seignior’s  palace,  675. 

Mountains,  36,  166. 

Mozart,  755. 

Muezzin,  22,  70,  697. 

Munda,  303. 

Murat,  Joachim,  death  of,  784.  His  ‘snow 
white  plume,'  562. 

Murray,  John,  esq.,  sums  paid  by  him  to 
Lord  Byron  for  copyright,  423.  ‘ My 

dear  Mr.  Murray,  you’re  in  a damn’d 
hurry,’  571.  ‘ Strauan,  Tonson,  Lintot 
of  the  times,’  571.  * To  hook  the  reader, 
you,  .John  Murray,’570.  ‘ Epistle  from, 
to  Dr.  Polidori,’  570  ‘Lines  to,’  576. 
His  notes  on  Medwin’s  Conversations, 
804. 

Murray,  John,  jun.  esq.,  197. 

Music.  79,  743,  755. 

Mussulwomen,  151. 

‘ Must  thou  go,  my  glorious  chief,’  563. 

Musters,  Mrs.  See  C La  worth. 

Mutiny,  162. 

‘ My  boat  is  on  the  shore,’  569. 

1 My  dear  Mr.  Murray,’  571. 

‘ My  Grandmother’s  Review,’  the  British, 
581,  609.  ‘Letter  to  the  Editor  oV 
794. 

‘ My  sister!  my  sweet  sister!’  469. 

‘ My  Soul  is  dark,’  463. 

Mysteries  and  Moralities,  442. 


N. 


Nadir  Shah,  700. 

Naldi,  singer,  430. 

Napier,  Colonel,  his  detection  of  an  error 
in  ‘ Childe  Harold,’  7. 

Napoleon.  See  Buonaparte. 

Napoleon’s  ‘Farewell,’  564 
Napoleon,  Franpois-Charles  Joseph,  Duke 
of  Reichstadt,  533,  756. 

‘ Napoleon  the  First,’  756. 

Napoli  di  Romania,  120. 

National  debt,  700. 

Native  land,  sensation  on  leaving,  611. 
Nature,  17,  20,  40,  663,  743,  747. 

Nature,  * Prayer  of.’  413. 

‘ Nay,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow,’  13. 

‘ Needy  knife-grinder,’  15. 

Nebuchadonoser,  658. 

Negropont,  81. 

Neippcrg.  Count,  ‘160,  533. 

Nekir.  «C 


Nelson,  Lord,  591. 

Nemesis,  Roman,  56,  782. 

Nemi,  60. 

Neptune,  168,  626. 

Nero,  639. 

Nero,  consul,  165. 

Nero,  emperor,  639. 

Nessus,  robe  of,  717,  752. 

Newfoundland  dog,  ‘Inscription  on  in« 
monument  of  a,’  540. 

Newstead  Abbey,  ‘Lines  written  on  leav 
ing,’  378.  * Elegy  on,’  402. 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  677.  Memorable  senU- 
ment  of,  677.  Anecdote  of  the  falling 
apple,  704. 

Ney,  Marshal,  697. 

Nicopolis,  ruins  of,  21. 

Night,  217,  607. 

Nightingale,  its  attachment  to  the  rose,  63, 
80.  Its  love  of  solitude,  643. 

* Nil  admirari,’  happiness  of  the,  66 1 , 729. 
Nile,  528. 

Nimrod,  658. 

Niobe,  50. 

* N isus  and  EuRYALUs.’a  paraphrase  Iron; 
the  iEneid,  393. 

Noble,  life  of  a young,  described,  717. 
North-west  passage,  729. 

Norton,  Hon.  Mrs.,  429. 

Novels,  642. 

Novelties,  please  less  than  they  impress, 
724. 

Numa  Pompilius,  594. 


O. 

Oak,  ‘ Lines  to  an,  at  Newstead,’  537. 
Oath,  British,  715. 

Oath,  Continental,  715. 

‘ Observations  upon  an  Artic.s  -x.  K.ack- 
wood’s  Magazina  ’’9*' 

Obstinacy,  ,4L 
Ocean,  61. 

‘ Ocean  Stream,’  65? 

Ocellus  Lucanus,  76i 
O’Connell,  576. 

Odalisques,  670. 

‘ Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte,’  459. 

‘ Ode  on  Venice/  479. 

Odessa,  666. 

Offspring,  care  of,  664. 

* Oh,  Anne  1 your  offences,’  535. 

‘ Oh  1 say  not,  sweet  Anne,’  536. 

* Oh  ! banish  care,’  549. 

‘ Oh  ! had  my  fate  been  joined  with  thine 
415. 

‘ Oh  lady!  when  I left  the  shore,’  544. 

‘ Oh  1 my  lonely,  lonely,  lonely  pillow,’  578. 
‘ Oh  ! never  talk  to  me  again,’  14. 

‘Oh!  snatch’d  away  in  beauty’s  bloom, 
463. 

* On  ! talk  not  to  me  of  a name  great  il 
story,’  577. 

‘ Oh  1 weep  for  thosu},’  463. 

Old  age,  634. 

Olympus,  50. 

O’Meara,  Barry,  527.  Causes  of  his  die 
missal  from  the  navy,  527. 

Omens,  642. 

‘ On  Jordan’s  banks,’  464. 

‘One  struggle  more,  and  I am  free,’  551. 
O’Neil,  Miss,  actress,  196. 

Opera,  430. 

Orator,  531. 

Orchomenus,  546.  ‘Lines  written  in  the 
travellers’  book  at,’  546. 

O'Reilly,  General  Count,  604. 

‘ Origin  of  Love,’  lines  on  being  asked  what 
was  the,  556. 

Orpheus,  449,  636. 

Orthodoxy,  668. 

' Oscar  of  Alva  ;’  a tale,  390. 

Ossian,  Macpherson’s,  412. 

Otho,  his  last  moments,  187.  His  mirror, 
261. 

Otway,  193,429. 

Ouchv,  138. 

‘ Our  goodman  came  hame  at  e’en,  Scot- 
tish ballad,  quoted,  606. 

Ovid,  595,  625. 

Owenson,  Miss,  her  ‘ Ida  of  Athens,’  763. 
See  Morgan,  Ladv. 

Oxenstiern.  Chancellor,  his  remark  to  iu« 
son,  740. 

Oysters,  626,  741. 


INDEX. 


817 


p. 

Pain,  27b , . 

Painting,  ‘ Of  a.,  trts  the  most  superficial 
and  unnatural,  17. 

Palafox,  General,  his  heroic  conduct  at 
Saragossa,  14. 

Palamon  and  Arcite,  SOI. 

Palatine,  Mount,  53,  499. 

Palgrave,  Sir  Francis,  784. 

Palmerston,  Viscount,  SS5. 

Pan,  626. 

Pantheon  at  Rome,  57. 

Pantisocracy,  63S,  799. 

Paper,  638. 

Paper-money,  719. 

Paradise  Lost,  801. 

Parcte,  653. 

1 Parenthetical  Address,  bt  Dr. 
Plagiary,’  5114. 

Paris,  528. 

' Parisina,’  131. 

* Parker.  Sir  Peter,  Elegiac  Stanzas  on  the 
finarh  of.’  Sol. 

* Parker,  Margaret,  Lines  on  her  death,’ 376. 
Parks  of  London,  717. 

Parma,  533. 

Parnassus,  11.  21.  50,  44  7. 

Parr,  Dr.,  his  opinion  of  Sardanapalus,’  276. 
Parthenon,  16,  1 7,  454,  455. 

Parting,  612,  681. 

‘ Parting.  Lines  on,’  548. 

Pasipliae,  624. 

Pasqualigo,  Signor,  230. 

Passion,  20,  24,  371,  598,  801. 

Passions,  646,  651.  Effect  of  violent  and 
conflicting,  646. 

Paswan  Oglou,  84. 

Paternoster  row,  the ' bazaar  of  booksellers,’ 
506. 

Patience,  180. 

Patroclus,  tomb  of,  648. 

Pausanias  and  Cleonice,  story  of,  183. 
Peacock  the  ‘royal  bird,  whose  tail’s  a dia- 
dem,' 683. 

Pelagius,  8. 

Pelayo,  529.  ^ 

Pentelicus  (now  Mount  Mendcli),  26. 
Pericles,  453. 

Peri,  2, 

Persians,  751.  Their  doctrine  of  the  two 
principles,  729. 

Pertinacity,  742. 

Pescara,  500 

Peter  Bell,  Wordsworth’s,  809. 

Peter  the  Third,  of  Russia,  703. 

Peter  the  Great,  531. 

Peter  Pindar,  523. 

Petersburg!],  700. 

Petion,  591. 

Petrarch,  17,  45.  TIis  laureat  crown,  48, 
501,  772,  778.  On  the  conspiracy  of 
Marino  Faliero,  786.  Crowned  in  the 
Capitol,  800.  ‘ The  Platonic  pimp  of  all 

posterity,’  652. 

Petticoat,  ‘garment  of  a mystical  sublimity,' 
737. 

Petticoat  government.  755. 

Petticoat  influence,  737. 

Petty,  Lord  Henry  (now  Marquis  of  Lans- 
dowr.e),  385,  3 -7,  429. 

Phtedra  and  Hippolilus,  663. 

PN  irsalia,  303. 

Plutiias,  502. 

Philanthropy,  23. 

Pnillips,  Ambrose,  his  pastorals,  4-44. 
Phillips,  Charles,  esq.,  barrister,  794. 
Philoprogenitiveness.  721. 

Philosophy,  610,  629. 

Phyle,  Fort,  25.  453. 

Physicians,  707. 

Pibroch,  390. 

Pickersgill,  Joshua  his  Three  Brothers, 
300. 

Picture,  a,  ‘ is  the  past,’  752. 

P’Ctures,  75 6. 

Pigot,  Miss,  * Lines  to,’  400. 

Pigot,  Dr.,  ‘ Reply  to  some  Verses  of,  on 
the  cruelty  of  his  mistress  ’ 400. 

Pillans,  James.  429. 

P ndar,  12,  636. 

Hindemonte,  Ippolito,  530 
Pindus,  Mount,  21. 

Piraeus,  46. 

Pirates,  91. 

Pisse-vache,  49 


riatol,  644. 

Pitt,  Right  Hon.  William,  his  additions  to 
our  parliamentary  tongue,  43S.  His 
grave  next  that  of  Fox,  526.  His  disin- 
terestedness. 698.  ‘ Epitaph  for,’  574. 

Pitti  Palace,  4.’. 

Pizarro,  15,  529. 

Plagiarism,  134,288,  612,  613. 

Plato,  his  lines  on  the  tomb  of  Themistocles, 
62.  His  system  of  love,  601.  His  Dia- 
logues, 750.  His  reply  to  Diogenes,  754. 

Platonic  love,  598,  601,  703. 

Playhouse-bill,  origin  of,  413.  Propriety  of 
repealing  it.  443. 

Pleasure,  601,  602,  6 10.  A stern  moralist, 
635. 

Pleasures  of  Hope,  432. 

Pleasures  of  Memory,  432.  ‘ Lines  written 
on  a blank  leaf  of,’  553. 

Pliinley,  Peter  (Rev  Sidney  Smith),  liis 
‘ Letters,’  757. 

Plutarch’s  ‘ Lives,’  687.  Mitford’s  abuse  of, 
721. 

‘ Po,  Stanzas  to  the,’  572. 

Poetry,  present  state  of  English,  799. 
Nothing  in,  so  difficult  as  a beginning, 
640.  1 Is  a passion.’  651. 

Poets,  501,  650.  Amatory,  652.  Duties  of, 
692.  The  greatest  livine,  7 6. 

Poggio,  his  exclamation  on  looking  down 
on  Rome,  47. 

Poland,  528,  709. 

Polenta,  Guido  da,  504. 

Polenta,  Francesca  da,  504. 

Polidori,  Dr.,  798.  ‘ Epistle  from  Mr. 

Murray  to,’  570. 

Polocrates,  637. 

Polygamy,  665.  669,  693. 

Pompey,  a hero,  conqueror,  and  cuckold, 
628.  His  statue,  51,  779. 

Pope,  422.  His  Pastorals,  444.  His  Rape 
of  the  Lock,  801.  Harmony  of  his  ver- 
sification, 801.  His  imagination,  801. 
His  character  of  Sporus,  801.  List  of 
his  disciples,  802.  Systematic  depreci- 
ation of,  799. 

Popular  applause,  636. 

Popular  discontents,  progress  of,  689. 

Popularity,  662. 

Porphyry,  14 

Porson,  Professor,  397,  558. 

Portland  (William  Henry  Cavendish), 
third  Duke  of,  435. 

Portugal,  1,  9. 

Portuguese,  the,  characterized,  8. 

Possession,  642. 

Posterity,  721. 

Potemkin,  Prince,  6S0.  His  character,  680. 
Ilis  instructions  to  Suwarrow  before  the 
siege  of  Ismail,  681. 

Potiphar’s  wife,  663. 

Pouqueville,  M.  de,  21,  655.  Character  of 
his  writings,  21. 

Poussin,  his  picture  of  the  deluge,  242. 

Pratt,  Samuel,  426.  His  ‘ Sympathy,’  426. 

Prayer,  319. 

‘ Prayer  of  Nature,’ 413. 

Presle,  dancer,  430. 

Pretension,  absence  of,  744. 

Previsa,  24. 

Priam,  303. 

Pride,  640,  728. 

Prince  Regent,  ‘ A finished  gentleman  from 
.op  to  toe.’  726.  ‘ Sonnet  to,  on  the 

repeal  of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald's  For- 
feiture,’ 573.  ‘ Lines  to,’  on  his  standing 
between  the  coffins  of  Henry  VIII.  and 
Charles  I..  559. 

Principles,  the  two,  332. 

‘ Prisoner  of  Chillon,’  138. 

‘ Prologue  delivered  previously  to  the 
performance  of  the  Wheel  of  Fortune,  at 
a private  theatre,’  398. 

* Prometheus,’  565. 

Prometheus  of  .TEschylus,  602. 

‘Prophecy  of  Dante, ’ 496.  Dedication 
to  Countess  Guiccioli,  496. 

Prophets,  739. 

Protesilaus,  648. 

Prutn,  the  river,  531. 

Psyche,  701. 

Public  schools,  596,  618.  Advantages  of, 
596.  Best  adapted  to  the  genius  and 
constitution  of  the  English,  596. 

l'ttlci,  his  ‘ Morgante  Maggiore,’  481.  Sire 
of  the  half-serious  rhyme,  641 


Pultowa,  battle  of,  154,  161. 

Puns,  439. 

Pye,  Henry  James,  esq.,  122,  5 2b, 
Pygmalion,  statue  of,  671,  701. 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  658. 

Pyrrhic  dance,  632,  637. 

Pyrrho,  the  doubting  philosopher,  693. 
Pyrrhus,  534. 


Q. 

‘ Quaker,  Lines  td  a oeautiful,’  397. 
Quaker,  tenets  of  the,  16. 

Quarrels  of  Authors,  D’ Israeli’s,  796, 
Quarterly  Review,  609.  Critical  note* 
from,  passim. 

Queens,  generally  prosperous  in  their  reigns, 
7<J8. 

Quirini,  Alvise,  230. 

‘ Quite  refreshing,’  692. 


£U 

Rage,  woman’s,  664. 

Rainbow.  602.  Description  of  a,  61 T. 

‘ Ram  Alley,’  Barry’s  comedy  of,  457. 

Ramazan,  feast  of,  22,  65. 

Ranz  des  Vaches,  288. 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  SOI. 

Raphael,  his  death,  149.  His  ‘ Transfigu- 
ration,’ 744. 

Rapp,  American  harmonist,  746. 

Ravenna,  48.  Its  pine  forest,  639.  Battle 
of,  650.  Dante’s  tomb  at,  650. 

Ravenstone,  187. 

Ready  money,  ‘ is  Aladdin’s  lamp,’  720. 

Reason,  333.  ‘ Ne’er  was  hand  in  giove 

with  rhyme,’  703. 

Red  Sea,  623. 

Reformadoes,  705. 

Refreshing,  origin  of  the  phrase,  507. 

Reichstadt  (Napoleon  Franyois  Charles 
Joseph),  Duke  of,  533,  756. 

Reinagle,  R.  R.,  his  chained  eagle,  30. 

‘ Kejected  Addresses,’  its  happy  imitation 
of  Fitzgerald,  the  small-beer  poet.  421. 

Religious  opinions,  folly  of  prosecutions 
for,  667. 

‘Remarks  on  the  Romaic,  or  Modern 
Greek  language,  with  Specimens  and 
Translations.’  789. 

Rembrandt,  732. 

‘ Remember  him,  whom  passion’s  power,’ 
556. 

‘ Remembrance,’  410. 

‘ Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not,’  540. 

Remorse,  67,  366. 

Renown,  680. 

Rents,  532 

Repletion,  655. 

Revenge.  498,  594. 

Revolution,  689. 

Reynolds,  Frederick,  dramatist  429. 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  his  sensations  on 
visiting  the  Vatican,  58.  His  character 
of  Michael  Angelo,  502. 

Rhine,  ’<3,  34,  709. 

Rhodes,  620. 

Rhone,  ‘ the  arrowy,’  36  Its  colour,  136, 
742. 

Rlivme,  it*  excellence  over  blank  verse, 
4$8,  801. 

Rialto,  146. 

Ribas,  Russian  admiral,  680. 

Ribaupierre,  General,  691. 

Rich,  Claudius,  esq.,  his  Memoirs  on  the 
Ruins  of  Babylon,  658. 

Richards,  Rev.  Dr.,  his  ‘ Aboriginal 
Britons,’  435. 

Rickardson,  ‘ the  vainest  and  luckiest  oi 
authors,’  610. 

Richelieu,  Duke  of,  his  humanity  at  th* 
siege  of  Ismail,  666,  686,  692. 

Richmond  Hill,  12. 

Ridotto,  description  of,  150. 

Rieazi,  54. 

Riga,  the  Greek  patriot,  85.  His  Greek 
war  song,  ‘ AcutY  waTtier,’  and  trans- 
lation, 547. 

Ring,  the  matrimonial,  703. 

‘ River  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  wails, 
571 . 

Roberts,  Mr.  (editor  of  the  British  Review! 
581,  COS,  794. 

5 M 


818 


INDEX. 


Rochefoucault,  40,  677. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  esq.,  his  ‘ I*,  sasures  of 
Memory,’  62,  38,  4.32.  His  ‘ Columbus,’ 
62.  Dedication  of  the ‘ Giaour’  to,  62. 
His  ‘ Italy  ’ 280,  281,  292,  296,  297,  299. 
His  iranslation  of  Zappi’s  sonnet  on  the 
statue  of  Moses,  502. 

Romaic,  or  Modern  Greek  language, 
remarks  on,  with  specimens  and  transla- 
tions,’ 789. 

Romaic  war  song,  547. 

Romaic  love  song,  5 1 7,  555. 

‘ Romance  muy  do!oroso  del  Sitio  y Toma 
de  Alhama,’  translated,  567. 

‘ Romance,  Lines  to,’  401. 

Roman  daughter,  story  of  the.  57. 

Romanclli.  physician,  547,  762. 

Rome  described.  47.  ‘ The  city  of  the  soul,' 
50.  The  ‘ Niobe  of  Nations,’  50.  Sack- 
age  of,  499. 

Romilly,  Sir  Samuel,  592,  718,  798. 

Romulus,  temple  of,  780. 

Roncesvalles,  484,  711. 

Rooms,  large  onos  comfortless,  657. 

Rosa  Matilda,  431. 

Roscoe’s  ‘ Leo  the  Tenth,’  118. 

Rose,  William  Stewart,  esq.,  his  ‘ Sonnet 
to  Constantinople,’  25.  His  ‘ Essay  on 
Whistlecraft,’  144.  His  character  of 
Pindomonte,  530. 

Rossini,  755. 

Rothschild,  Baron,  533,  719. 

Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,  his  ‘ Heloise,’  36, 
39,  677,  741.  His  ‘ Confessions,’  36,  39. 

Rubicon,  528. 

Rumour,  ‘ a live  gazette,’  744. 

Rushton,  Robert  (the  ‘ little  page’  in  Childe 
Harold),  4. 

Russia,  529. 


S. 

Sabbath  in  London,  12. 

8aballicus,  his  description  of  Venice,  42. 
Sadness,  27. 

Safety  lamp,  Sir  Humphrey  Davy’s,  602. 

St.  Angelo,  castle  of,  58,  313. 

St.  Bartholomew  flayed  alive,  656. 

St.  Francis,  his  recipe  for  cnastity,  669. 

&t.  Helena,  528. 

St.  Peter’s  at  Rome,  5S,  502. 

St  Sophia  at  Constantinople,  not  to  be 
compared  with  St.  Paul’s  Cathedral,  653. 
Sainte  Palaye,  M.  de,  2. 

Salamis,  64,  529,  637. 

Sallust,  676. 

Salvator  Rosa,  732. 

Santa  Croce,  48. 

Santa  Maura,  20. 

Sappho,  20,  595,  628. 

Saragoza,  sieges  of,  10. 

Saragoza,  Maid  of,  10,  530. 

‘ Sardanapalus,  a Tragedy,’  244. 

Satanic  school,  512,  513. 

* Saul,  Song  of,  before  his  last  Battle,’  464. 
Scaligers,  tomb  of  the,  530. 

Scamander,  648. 

Scandal,  597,  607. 

Schaffhausen,  fall  of,  49. 

Schiller’s  ‘ Wallenstein,’  591. 

Schroepfer,  760. 

Scimitars,  Turkish,  characters  on,  84. 
Scipio  Africauus,  310. 

Scipios,  tomb  of  the,  50,  776. 

Scorpion,  67. 

Scotland,  705. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  316,  317,  423,  434,  444, 
526,  705.  720.  His  ‘ Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel,’  423,  434,  720,  748.  His  ‘ Mar- 
mion,’  135.  His  opinion  of  ‘ Don  Juan,’ 
587.  His  * Demonology,’  729.  Critical 
notes  by,  passim. 

Scriptures,  734. 

Sea-attorney,  630. 

Sea-coal  fires,  732. 

Sea-sickness,  remedies  for,  611. 

Seale,  Dr.  John,  his  ‘ Gseek  Metres,’  385. 
Sea-walls  between  the  Adriatic  and  Venice, 
inscription  on,  756. 

Seasons,  Thomson’s,  would  have  been 
better  in  thyme,  801.  Inferior  to  his 
‘ Castle  of  Indolence,’  801. 

Wffur,  Count,  his  character  of  Prince 
Potemkin,  680. 


Self-love,  669,  702. 

Semiramis,  248,  658. 

‘ Sennachekib,  Destruction  of,’  466. 
Senses,  duty  of  not  trusting  the.  735. 
Seraglio,  interior  of,  675. 

Serassi,  his  ‘ Life  of  Tasso,’  476. 

Sesostris,  527. 

‘ Sestos,  Lines  after  swimming  from,’  545. 
Seven  Towers,  prison  of  the,  666. 

Seville,  9,  ’1,  592. 

Sforza,  Francesco,  281. 

Sforza,  Ludovico,  138. 

Sgricci,  Count,  775. 

Shadwell,  Sir  Lancelot,  317. 

Shadwell,  Thomas,  438. 

Shakspeare,  his  obligations  to  North’s 
Plutarch,  613.  His  infelicitous  marriage, 
630. 

Shaving,  miseries  of,  737. 

' She  walks  in  beauty,’  462. 

She-epistle  described.  735. 

Shee,  Sir  Martin  (president  of  the  Royal 
Academy),  his  * Rhymes  on  Art,’  433. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  esq.,  300,  512. 
Shelley,  Mrs.,  300. 

Sheridan,  Right  Hon.  Richard  Brinslev, 
472,  473,  718.  His  ‘ Critic,’  794.  * Mon- 
ody on  the  Death  of,'  4 72.  His  Lines  on 
Waltzing,  458. 

Sheridan,  Thomas,  esq.,  429. 

Sheridan,  Mrs.  Thomas,  her  ‘ Carwell,’  429. 
Shipwreck,  description  of  a,  612 — 620. 
Shooter’s  Hill,  7 11. 

Shreckhorn,  36. 

Siddons,  Mrs.,  196,  429,  554. 

4 Siege  of  Corinth,’  120. 

Sierra  Morena,  10. 

Sigeum,  t ape,  647. 

Silenus,  30C. 

Simeon,  Rev.  Charles,  443. 

Simond,  M.,  521. 

Simoom,  65,  646. 

Simplon,  the,  702. 

Sinecures,  757. 

Singing,  merit  of  simplicity  in,  649,  754. 
Sinking  fund,  759.  ' 

Sisyphus,  742. 

Skeffington,  Sir  Lumley,  430. 

4 Sketch.  A,’  4i>8. 

' Skull,  Lines  inscribed  upon  a cup  formed 
from  a,’  539. 

Slaughter,  33. 

Slave  market  at  Constantinople,  652,  653. 
Slavery  of  the  gi-at,  654,  655. 

Sleep,  623,  643,  756.  Sir  T.  Browne’s  en- 
comium on,  643. 

Sinedley,  Rev.  Mr.,  his  4 History  of  the 
Two  Foscari,’  790. 

Smith,  Rev.  Sidney,  the  reputed  author  of 
‘ feter  Plimley’s  Letters,’  428.  His 
‘ twelve-parson  power,’  707.  See  4 Peter 
Pith,’  757. 

Smith,  Mrs.  Spencer,  544.  See  ‘ Florence.’ 
Smoking,  168. 

4 So  we  ’ll  go  no  more  a roving,’  570. 
Society,  654,  724,  725,  733,  737,  742. 
Socrates,  303,  452,  667,  677,  750. 

Soignies,  wood  of  (remnant  of  the  forest  of 
Ardennes),  31. 

Solano,  governor  of  Calais,  his  treachery, 
14. 

Solitary  confinement,  effects  of,  288. 
Solitude,  19,  38,  45,  60,  288,  599,  657,  690. 
Solitudes,  social,  643. 

Solomon,  677,  729. 

Solyman,  Sultan,  665. 

4 Song  lor  the  Luddites,'  570. 

4 Song  of  Saul  before  his  last  battle,’  464. 
Songs  of  the  Venetian  gondoliers,  42,  769. 

4 Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise  1’  547. 

Sonnet  to  Genevra,  558.  On  Chilion,  138. 
To  Lake  Leman,  56  >.  From  Vittorelli, 
569.  To  George  the  Fourth,  on  the  re- 
peal of  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald’s  for- 
feiture, 573. 

Sonnets,  4 the  most  puling,  petrifying,  stu- 
pidly platonic  compositions,’  558. 

Soracte,  50. 

Sorrow,  14.  27,  294,  298. 

Sotheby,  William,  es-  , 432,  508,  509,  795. 
Soul,  318,  741. 

South,  Dr.,  his  sermons,  625. 

Southcote,  Joanna,  517,  638. 

Southey,  Robert,  esq.,  LL.D.,  his  person 
and  manners,  424.  His  prose  and  poetry, 
424.  His  4 Roderick,’  424.  His  4 Tiia- 


laba,’  424.  His  4 Old  Woman  of  Berkley, 
424.  His  4 Curse  of  Kehama,’  149.  ilia 
4 Joan  of  Arc,’  4 18.  His  4 Inscription  for 
Henry  Martin  the  regicide,’  513.  Hia 
4 Pantisocracy,’638.  Dedication  of  Don 
Juan  to,  588 

Spagnoletti,  732. 

Spartan’s  epitaph,  43. 

Spencer,  William,  esq  , 508. 

Spenser,  his  measure,  1,  90. 

Spinola,  500. 

Sporus,  Pope’s  character  of,  801. 

Stael,  Madame  de,  78,  636,  798.  Tribute  to 
her  memory,  774.  Her 4 Corinne  ’ quoted, 
607. 

Stainboul  (Constantinople).  25. 

4 Stanzas  to  a Lady  on  leaving  England, 
540.  To  a lady  with  the  poems  of  Ca 
moens,  382.  To  Florence,  544.  Composed 
during  a thunder-storm,  544.  Written 
on  passing  the  Ambracian  Gulf,  545.  To 
Inez,  13.  4 Tainbourgi  1 Tambourgi! 

thy  ’larum  afar,’  24.  4 Away,  away,  ye 

notes  of  woe,’ 550.  4 One  struggle  more, 

and  I am  free,’  551.  4 And  thou  art 

dead,’  &c.,  551.  4 If  sometimes  in  the 

haunts  of  men,’ 552.  4 Thou  art  not  false, 
but  thou  art  fickle,’  556.  On  being  asked 
what  was  4 the  origin  of  love,’  556.  4 Re- 
member him,’  &e.,  556.  4 To  Augusta,’ 

469.  4 Elegiac,  on  the  death  of  Sir  Peter 

Parker,’  561.  4 When  a man  hath  no 

freedom,’  574.  To  the  Po,  572.  Written 
on  the  road  between  Florence  and  Pisa, 
577.  4 Could  love  for  ever,’  573.  On 

completing  my  thirty-sixth  year,  578.  To 
a Hindoo  air,  578. 

4 Star  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  On  the,’ 
563. 

Statesmen,  757. 

Steam-engines,  704. 

Stoddart,  Sir  John,  580. 

Stoics,  654. 

Stonehenge,  714. 

Stott,  (Hafiz  of  the  4 Morning  Post,’)  423 

4 Strahan,  Tonson,  Lintot  of  the  times, 
571. 

Str?  ngford,  Lord,  his  ‘Camoens,’  382,  425 

Styles,  Rev.  Dr.,  his  sermon  against  Lord 
Byron,  585. 

Styx,  641. 

Suetonius,  639. 

Suicide,  667,  736. 

Suli.  20,  23,  637. 

Suliotes,  their  hospitality,  23. 

Sulpicius,  Servius,  his  letter  to  Cicero  oa 
the  death  of  his  daughter,  46. 

Suuium,637. 

4 Sun  of  the  Sleepless,'  465. 

Sunday  in  London,  12. 

Sunday  School,  611. 

Sunrise,  623. 

Sunset,  627,  642. 

Superstition,  21. 

Suspense,  32. 

Suspicion,  37. 

Suwarrow,  Field  Marshal,  677,  678,  681 
682,  683.  His  ‘ polar  melody,’  on  the 
capture  of  Ismail,  696.  His  character, 
696.  Brevity  of  his  style,  702. 

Swift,  Dr.  Jonathan,  444,  599,  677. 

Swoon,  621. 

Sylla,  51,  150,  460,  690. 

Sympathy,  625,  671. 

Symplegades,  60,  546,  65S. 

Syracuse,  44. 


T. 


Tact,  606. 

Tagus,  6. 

Tahiri,  Dervish,  762. 

Talavera,  9.  Battle  of,  761. 

Talleyrand,  Prince  de,  533. 

4 Tambourgi  1 Tambourgi !’  24. 

Tarpeian  rock,  54. 

Tasso,  45,  46,  475,  476,477,  501,  764,  773 
800.  4 Lament  of,’  475. 

Tassoni,  799. 

Tattersall,  Rev.  John  Cecil,  407. 

Tavell,  Ilev.  G.  F.  (Lord  Byron’s  collage 
tutor),  441. 

Tea,  prophetic  powers  of.  645. 

• Teak,  The,’  399 


INDEX. 


819 


Tears,  662,  704. 

Tempe,  21. 

Teniers,  732 

Tepaleen,  22 

Terni,  Falls  of,  4£ 

Terrot,  Rev.  Mr.,  his  • C »mmon  Sense' 
quoted,  582. 

Thames,  12,  71? 

‘ The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels,'  34. 

4 The  chain  1 pave  was  fair  to  view,’  553. 

* The  harp  the  monarch  minstrel  swept,’ 
462 

* The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece,’ 

636 

* The  'world  is  a bundle  of  hay.’  574. 

* The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown, 
545. 

* The  Wild  Gazelle,’  463. 

Themistocles,  Tomb  of,  62.  Lines  by  Plato 

upon,  62. 

•There  be  none  of  Beauty’s  daughters,’ 
562. 

* There  was  a tima  I need  not  name,’  541. 

‘There’s  not  a joy  the  world  can  give,’ 

561. 

Thermopylae,  64,  499,  637. 

Theseus,  temple  of,  452. 

4 They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness,’  569. 

4 This  day,  of  all  our  days,’  57  '. 

Thomson,  his  4 Seasons  ’ would  have  been 
better  in  rhyme,  801. 

Thornton,  Thomas,  esq.,  character  of  his 
4 State  of  the  Ottoman  Empire,’  765. 

4 Thou  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  fickle,’ 
556. 

4 Though  the  day  of  my  destiny’s  over!’ 
469. 

4 Thoughts  suggested  by  a college  exam- 
ination,' 397. 

Thrasimene,  lake  of,  50,  303.  Battle  of.  50, 
778. 

Through  cloudless  skies,  in  silvery  sheen,’ 
545. 

Through  life’s  dull  road,  so  dim  and 
dirty,’  575. 

Th hough  thy  battlements,  Newstead,’ 
378. 

Thurlow  i Thomas  Hovell  Thurlow),  second 
Lord,  Lines  on  his  4 Poems,’  567.  Verses 
to,  55/. 

Thunder  stores  en  the  Lake  of  Geneva  de- 
scribed, 38. 

Thunder-storm  near  Z'itza,  Stanzas  com- 
posed during,  544. 

4 Thy  days  are  done,’  464. 

Thyrza,  4 Stanzas  to,’  550,  551,  552. 

Tiberius,  747. 

Tibullus,  his  4 Sulpicia  ad  Cerinthum,’ 
translated,  379. 

Tillotson,  Archbishop,  625,  677. 

Timbuctoo,  women  of,  725. 

Time,  28,  44,  638,  64®,  641,  739.  4 Likes 
to,’  555. 

Timoleon,  121. 

Timon,  2. 

Timour,  304,  696. 

Tiresias,  741. 

4 ’Tis  done  ; and  shivering  in  the  gale,’ 
542. 

' ’Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved,’ 
578. 

Titans,  700. 

Tithes.  756. 

Titian,  732. 

Tittle-tattle,  722. 

Titus,  628.  4 1 he  master  r.f  love,’  628. 

Titus,  On  the  day  of  the  destruction  of 
Jerusalem  by,’  466. 

Tobacco,  168. 

Tomb,  746. 

Tombs,  folly  of  erecting  large  ones,  658. 

Tomerit,  Mount,  22. 

Tom  Jones,  4 an  accomplished  blackguard,’ 
735. 

Tonson,  Jacob,  bookseller,  746. 

Tooke,  John  Horne,  522,  753. 

Torture,  44. 

Tournefort,  652,  657. 

Tower  of  Babel,  658. 

Town  and  country,  758. 

Town  li  e,  717. 

Townsend,  Rev.  George,  440.  His  4 Arma- 
geddon,’ 440. 

Trafalgar,  20. 

Trajan,  54.  His  column,  54. 

Translation  from  Catullus, 4 adLesbiam,’ 


379.  Of  the  Epitaph  on  Virgfi  and  Ti- 
bullus, by  Domitius  Maraus,  379.  Of 
Tibullus,  4 Sulpicia  ad  Cerinthum,’  376. 
From  Catullus,  4 Lugete,  Veneres,  Cr- 
pidinesque,’  379.  Of  Horace’s  4 Justum 
et  Tenacem,’  380.  Of  Anacreon’s  Mtcro- 
wKTia it  ttoO’  wpait,  380.  Of  Anacreon’s 
©«A<o  Aeyeiv  Arpetdar,  380.  From  the 
Prometheus  Vinctus  of  ASschylus  ^0. 
From  the  Medea  of  Euripides,  ’Epiorer 
virep,  396.  Of  the  Greek  war  song,  Aei»re 
7r aides,  547.  Of  the  Romaic  song,  * Mwevu 
uer,’  547.  Of  a Romaic  love  song,  555. 
From  the  Portuguese,  4 Tu  mi  chamas,’ 
558.  Of  the  4 Romance  muy  doloroso 
del  Sitio  y Toma  de  Alhama,'  567.  From 
Vittorelli,  4 Di  due  vaghe  donzelle,’  569. 

Trebea,  303. 

Trecentisti,  the,  636. 

Tree  of  knowledge,  602. 

Tree  of  life,  321. 

Trenck,  baron,  288. 

Trimmer,  Mrs.,  593. 

Tripoli,  631. 

Triptolemus,  532: 

Troad,  the,  648. 

Troy,  638,  648,  650. 

Truth,  stranger  than  fiction,  743,  750. 

Tuily’s  4 Tripoli,’  634. 

‘ Tu  mi  chamas,’ translated,  558. 

Turkey,  state  of  manners  in,  766. 

Turkey,  women  of,  666.  Their  life  in  the 
harems,  151. 

Turnpike-road,  710. 

Turpin.  751. 

Tweddell,  John,  his  account  of  Suwarrow, 
696. 

Twilight,  639 

Twiss,  Horace,  esq.,  150. 

Tyranny,  480. 

Tyre,  43,  690. 

Tyrian  purple,  752. 


Ugolino,  499,  618. 

Ulissjpont,  5. 

Ulysses’ dog  Argus,  631. 

Ulysses’  whistle.  735. 

Uncertainty,  68. 

Unities,  244,  245,  601. 

University  education,  advantages  of,  596. 
Usurers,  616 
Utraikey,  24 


V. 


Vacancy,  43. 

Vaccination,  602. 

Valentia,  Lord  (now  F.arl  of  Mountnorris), 
435. 

4 Vampire  ; a Fragment,’  70. 

4 Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,’ Johnson’s,  640. 
4 Vathek,’  76,  127. 

Vatican,  58. 

Vauban,  678. 

Velino,  49. 

Venality,  725. 

Venetian  dialect,  611 
Venetian  fazzioli,  611. 

Venetian  society  and  manners,  330,  787. 
Venetian  noble,  sketched  by  Gritti,  230. 
Venice,  42,  768.  St.  Mark’s,  43,  770.  Car- 
nival, 145.  Rialto,  146.  Maufrini  palace, 
146.  Bridge  of  Sighs,  42,  768  State 
dungeons  of,  150,  768.  Ridotto,  150. 
Prophecy  respecting,  231. 

4 Venice,  Ode  on,' 479. 

Venus,  625,  758. 

Venus  of  Medicis,  47,  145,  774. 

Vernet,  646. 

Vernon,  General,  590,  732. 

Verona,  amphitheatre  of,  530.  Juliet’s 
tomb  at,  530.  Tombs  of  the  Scaligers, 
530.  Claudian's  OW  Man  of,  530.  Con- 
gress at,  533,  718. 

Versatility,  759. 

4 Versicles, ’ 570. 

Vespasius,  Americus,  500. 

Vesuvius,  528. 

Vicar  of  Wakefield,  755 
Vice,  652. 

Victory,  29,  693. 

Vineyards,  the  best,  732^ 


Vintage,  602. 

Virgil,  595. 

Virgin  Mary,  portraits  of,  624,  639. 

Virtues,  the,  652. 

Vision  of  Belshazzar,  4 The  King  w*,} 
on  his  Throne,’  465. 

4 Vision  ok  Jui  gment,’  511. 

Vittorelli,  Sonetto  di,  569. 

Voice,  fascination  of  a sweet,  624,  74->. 
Voltaire,  his  character  by  Lord  Byron,  3f . 
By  Dr.  Warton,  804.  And  by  Lord  HoJ 
land,  804.  His  ■ Vous  pleurez,’  804.  H&< 
■defence  of  the  Calas  family,  804. 


W. 

Wagram,  303. 

Walpole,  Sir  Robert,  his  political  axiom, 
655. 

Walsn,  Rev.  Dr  R.,  his  account  of  A3. 
Pacha’s  assassination,  23. 

Walton,  Izaak,  4 a quaint  old  cruel  cox 
comb,’  735.  Defence  of,  735. 

4 Waltz,  The  ; an  /tpostrophic  Hymn, 
455. 

Waltzing,  Sheridan’s  lines  on.  4r,w 

War,  681,  685,  695,  697. 

Warriors,  650. 

warton,  Dr.  Thomas,  Lis  character  of  v o. 
taire,  804. 

Washington,  George,  521,  522,  68/,  698. 

4 Wat  Tyler,’  Southey’s,  51  1,  799. 

Watch-dog,  602. 

Waterloo,  battle  of,  30,  35,  528,  532,  6S9, 
697,  718. 

Watson,  Bishop,  his  reply  to  the  moderator 
in  the  schools  of  Cambridge,  318. 

Watts,  Alaric  A.,  esq.,  580. 

Way,  William,  esq.,  430. 

Weber  (German  hack  writer),  438. 

* Weep,  daughter  of  a royal  line,’  553. 

4 Well,  thou  art  happy,  and  1 feel,'  539. 

Wellesley,  Marquis,  456. 

Wellesley,  Sir  Arthur,  7.  See  Wellington. 

Wellesley,  Hon  William  Long  Pole,  718. 

Wellington,  Duke  of,  8,  30,  456,  689,  695, 
697,  718,  721. 

Wengen  Alps,  36. 

4 Were  my  bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem'st 
it  to  be,’  466. 

‘Werner;  or,  The  Inhfritance;  a 
Tragedy,’  341. 

4 Werther.’  Goethe’s.  197. 

Wesley,  Rev.  John,  677. 

West,  Mr  , Ameriean  artist,  his  conversa- 
tions with  Lord  By  ion,  585. 

West,  Benjamin,  esq.,  4 Europe’s  worst 
dauber,’  454. 

Westminster  Abbey,  713. 

4 What  matter  the  pangs  of  a husband  and 
father,’  574. 

4 When  a m>an  hath  no  freedom  to  fight 
for  at  home,’  574. 

‘ When  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark," 
4C9. 

4 When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay,’ 
465. 

4 When  from  the  heart  where  sorrow  sits,* 
557 

4 When  1 roved  a young  Highlander,’  416. 

4 When  man,  expell’d  from  Eden’s  bowers, 
540. 

4 When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to 
earth!’  540. 

4 When  Time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring, 
551. 

4 When  to  their  airy  hall,’  378. 

4 When  Thurlow  this  damn’d  nonsense 
sent,’  557. 

‘ When  we  two  parted,’  538. 

Whigs,  718. 

Whist,  638. 

• Whistlecraft,’  143,  144,  482,  801. 

Whitbread,  Samuel,  esq.,  718.  4 The  De- 

mosthenes of  bad  taste,’  532. 

White,  Henry  Kirke,  433. 

White,  Lydia,  510. 

White,  Rev  Blanco,  18. 

4 Who  killed  John  Keats  ?’  575. 

4 Why,  how  now,  saucy  Tom?’  575. 

Wilberforce,  William,  652.  4 The  A ash- 

ngton  of  Africa,’  741. 
ikes,  John,  esq.,  520 

William  the  Conqueror  707. 


820 


INDEX. 


Williams,  H.  W.  esq.,  his  * Travels  in 
Greece,’  11,  49,  454,  54(5. 

Willis,  Dr.,  anecdote  of,  443. 

Will  o’  the  wisp,  (581. 

Wilson,  Professor,  196,  802.  Critical  notes 
by,  passim. 

Windsor  Poetics,’  559. 

Wine,  625,  642. 

Wingfield,  Hon.  John,  15,  407. 

Wisdom,  33,  673. 

Witch  of  Endor,  183,  464. 

‘ Without  a stone  to  mark  the  spot,’  550. 
Wives,  631. 

Wolfe,  General,  590. 

Wolistoncraft,  Marv,  799. 

Woman,  19,  628,  642,  664,  702. 

Woman’s  love,  628,  642,  664. 

Women,  their  unnatural  situation.  628. 
English,  described,  725.  Their  lose  of 
match-making,  745. 

Wooden  spoons,  640. 

Wards.  63». 


‘ Excursion,’  167,  271,  589,  638.  His 
early  poems,  424.  His  ‘ Lyrical  Ballads,’ 
800.  His  * Yarrow  Unvisited,’  588.  His 
• Peter  Bell,’  441,  608,  639,  800.  His 
‘ Waggoners,’  639,  S00.  His  speer  at 
Dryden,  639  His  ‘ Laodamia,’  643.  His 
description  of  carnage,  685. 

World,  the  fashionable,  717,  736.  It3  vicis- 
situdes, 645.  Relics  of  a former,  700. 
‘A  glorious  blunder,’  712.  ‘The  great, 
described,’  715,  717,  736. 

Wright,  Ichabod,  esq.,  his  translation  of 
Dante,  618. 

Wright,  Walter  Rodwell,  esq.,  his  ‘ Horae 
Ionic®,’  433. 

Wrinkles,  706. 

Writer,  life  of  a,  796. 

Writing,  802. 


2L 


Wards  a or  th,  WiHuuu,  ebo..,  570,  t&l.  Ills  j XautJppe,  -jUS. 


Xeres,  531. 

Xerxes,  499,  601,  626,  m 


Yanint>,  22. 

‘ Yarrow  Unvisited  ’ 58 A 
Young,  Dr.  E.,  71" 
Youth,  217,  610,  641. 


Z 

Zanga,  386,  409. 

Zappi,  Giov.  Battista.  502, 
Zara,  185,  196,  213 
Zegri,  529. 

Zcluco,  2. 

Zinghis  Kh«m,  6;»8 
Ziska,  John,  349,  52S. 
Ziua.  21- 
Zorcastm.  JS®. 


<■ 


